Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's sandbox and all the toys belong to some other copyrighted kids. I'm just here for the sandcastle contest.
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NIGHT FALLS
By Etcetera Kit
Chapter Five: A Find
"I hate the FBI," Cortland fumed, storming into Mimi's office and slamming the door behind him. The glass rattled ominously and the blinds swung wildly. "Bunch of puppets for the minister and guess where that's got them? Nothing more than a brute squad!"
Mimi glanced up mildly from her paperwork. Pam's search for the facility locations had gone well—their only problem now was finding out details, such as prisoner lists. And Pam couldn't use government sanctioned equipment or programs, since those would leave a trail back to her. No, what they needed was probable cause to go looking for the facilities. Then they could get around the government firewalls and other security measures to the prisoner records. An organization like the Patriots would push a mass prison break.
Despite it all, Mimi wasn't sure that a mass prison break was the answer right now. Yes, she wanted her friends to be safe. Joanne was—or at least, had been—alive. She wanted to break them out and get them to Canada or England. But a mass prison break? Not only would mass pandemonium occur, but when the government troops went up against unarmed and starved prisoners. Well, the phrase 'brutal massacre' didn't come close to her mental depictions of the horrific situation. Something else had to happen before the prison break would be effective. She didn't know what, but hoped that the situation might reveal itself.
"Sit down, shut-up and have a donut," Mimi snapped, motioning to the box on the corner of her desk.
"It's frustrating," Cortland groused. "They've shut down too many of our cases."
"I know," she replied as Cortland pulled a chair to her desk and fished a powered, jelly-filled donut out of the box. The sugar on and in all the donuts is fake, some kind of artificial something or other. Mimi stopped caring years ago, only being reminded of real sugar when Roger and Mark started filching things off delivery trucks.
After a few moments of silence, Cortland stood up. He stretched his arms over his head. "I'm going to get some coffee. Want some?"
"Sure."
"The house brew or—"
"You know I never drink the house brew. Get me the alternate—and don't put anything in it."
Cortland saluted smartly and headed out of the office.
Mimi took a deep breath, rubbing her eyes. Last night had been sleepless and she felt like the little sleep she did get had been facedown in sand. Roger came to be shortly before four, telling her that they had found the locations for the facilities, but hacking records and getting a person on the inside would be much more difficult. They'd worry about that in the morning, he'd said. The room was hot and sticky, and Roger only slept until six before he got up and got ready for work.
She opened her desk drawer and took out her copy of the FBI's jurisdiction. Benjamin Coffin the third seemed to be written every other line. She fought the urge to take a letter opener and stab the paper everywhere she saw his name. Christ, he had caused so many problems, and he still wasn't done being a little snitch, who ran to his father-in-law for everything.
Cortland wandered back in with the coffee. "Too bad about our jurisdiction being cut," he said as he handed her the non-house brew coffee. "I figured we could go to the IRS."
"The IRS?" Mimi perked up at that idea. Roger and Mark had a similar idea before Benny had screwed up everything.
"You know, they never delete anything. Huge facility like that—had to have supply records, tax records for their employees and the doctors, stuff like that."
"I do know." She tossed the copy of the paper at Cortland. "But we can't do anything unless we get someone to reverse this order."
Cortland made a face and took the paper, studying the words.
Mimi leaned back in her chair. The days were long gone when they could just write letters and protest in the streets. Collins would have been all for picketing. He would protest anything—all a body had to do was give him a substantial reason. She smiled inwardly, remembering one of the fashion shows early on in Angel and Collins' relationship. Angel had a piece in the show, and Mimi came along for the open bar. Angel had made Collins promise not to raise a fuss, especially since she didn't want to get fired. They needed the money.
That protest over caviar and tuna ended up inspiring a summer fashion line.
The warm feeling that accompanied those memories faded. They had to keep all this information from the Patriots. If a mass prison break occurred… well, what normally happened when people without guns went against people with guns would happen.
"Hey, did you read the legal jargon at the beginning of this?"
"No." Mimi sat forward, pinning Cortland with a glare.
"I'm not sure, but it doesn't look like our authority was ever cut."
"What?"
Mimi snatched the paper from Cortland and skimmed the opening paragraphs. The normal 'cease and desist' crap was not there. The paper just asked them to hand over the case to the FBI, but didn't require them to do so.
She looked up at Cortland, grinning. "Today might be our lucky day." She waved the piece of paper at her partner. "This isn't a cease and desist form. This just allows the FBI to get involved with the case, but doesn't mean we have to stop."
Trust Benny to lie about the actual contents of the forms. She'd been too upset to peruse the paperwork well, had just fumed about giving up their case. And now… hope was still there. The others weren't amongst the deceased at Alkali Lake. The others could easily be at one of the other facilities. Now to find information that these places existed. Pam could use that information to her advantage. If she had records or names… yes! This was good.
Hang on. We're coming.
"Do we have a contact in the IRS?"
Cortland looked thoughtful for a moment. "Yes," he answered slowly. "Ali. She doesn't normally work with the police, but she'll get us what we need."
"Get her number! And get us a chopper to DC."
Cortland nodded and was out of the office like a shot.
This was so close now. For ten years, they had waited and wondered, knowing that hope was futile. Their friends were dead. Hope was such an insidious emotion. So many times in the past she had given up hope. Hope of ever being something more than stripper, hope of living much longer with AIDS, hope for finding Angel and the others… The people that thought the worst usually came out the best. When the worst happened, they expected such and weren't crushed. But still…
Without you, the seeds root…
The little seed of hope had taken root. Nothing was stopping that now.
Roger sang the kids to sleep every night. But sometimes, especially during elections, he had to work late, doing campaign parties and debates, not getting home until well after midnight. On those nights, she told them stories. Her children listened intently as she told them about Angel and Collins, Maureen and Joanne. They asked what protests were, what anarchy meant, what a drag queen was… they were learning that life had been diverse and beautiful. She hoped that they could get them to England, where this terror hadn't spread. Hell, she'd send them to China if that meant escaping the lunacy that this country had fallen to.
Cortland ran in and slapped a post-it note on her desk. "Got the chopper booked for tomorrow morning," he added.
"Good." Mimi picked up her phone, dialing the number. She just hoped that Ali could get them what they needed by tomorrow morning.
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You're not sure what dying feels like anymore. So often, in the beginning, you thought that you were dying, would see a brilliant light, only to be dragged back at the last moment. Perhaps you've been slowly dying for years. But Angel… she has a chance. You wonder why you didn't think of the plan years earlier. This is a fantastic plan. If only you can convince Angel to go through with it…
You've been talking with her, trying to convince her that she needs to try something. You're so weak that you can barely move. You wonder if you're finished. Perhaps this last virus will be the stone that breaks the camel's back. A tingle of pride goes through you. Joanne would have been proud that you used that phrase. You never really were interested in her world—high society, Ivy League, law… but you used to read her papers and help her with cases to show support.
You snort. Everything had been about showing support back then. You've been alone for so long, with no one but Angel for company… did you dream those years with Joanne? Did you dream the protests and the Key Club and Buzzline? Those times seem like a dream within a dream. This prison is your only reality now.
Harsh coughs rack your body. They hurt, like your lungs are being ripped open from the inside out. Angel had recovered from the last virus. Weakness, apathy, filth… those are constants, perhaps the only constants that this world knows.
"Angel?"
"Hmm?" Her voice is soft, hoarse. She seems to be teetering on the brink of insanity. You don't want her to go insane. You need her. And if she escapes, well, that would be a good reason to let go of your tenacious hold on life.
"Have you thought about it?"
There is no need to state was "it" is. Angel knows. You know. That is all that matters. Angel sighs deeply. You wonder how she can do so. Many of the viruses are cardio-pulmonary and most people cannot breathe without pain. You've heard the other cries, the hacking coughs, the gasping breaths…
"Yes." Her voice is clear, sane. A part of you feels relieved. "But I'm not sure that I'm strong enough. The kicks won't have much effect."
"What about twisting out of the grip and running?"
"I'm just not sure, Maureen." Another deep breath. "Where would I go if I did escape the detail that's taking me to the med center? The place has to have all kinds of security. I can't bypass that."
"But you're leaving—not coming in. It's got to be like an airport."
Airports… those had been one of the first signs of change. People were practically strip-searched before they were allowed into the terminal, let alone on a plane. Soon enough, though, all air traffic was grounded because of the outbreaks. All those outbreaks had been at schools. You remember the news footage, shots of children being carried out on stretchers, dying. The boils on their skin, their flushed faces, the blood, the screams… all a prelude to now, pain and stone walls.
"I'll stand out like a sore thumb too," Angel continues. "Give me more time. I have find out where I can run to, where I can find clothes that will marginally pass me off as a guard or doctor."
Angel had always been the mediator, the peace-maker. You are used to plunging into action, without a thought for the consequences. But the consequences this time… this can't be in vain. You know that Angel has to plan for more than you initially thought. If she wants to get out of here… you're not even sure where here is. Getting away from the guard, getting a gun, perhaps using the gun… Years ago, you wouldn't have been sure if you could shoot someone.
Now… now you could. You wouldn't even blink as you pumped a bullet between the eyes of one of the guards or into the head of the doctor in the med center… you still feel, but guilt, justice, a value for a human life… those are gone. Instead, you have hard, cold revenge. You want to hurt the people who hurt you and Angel.
But you know you can't, even if given the chance.
"Angel…"
"Maureen, honey, I'm trying. Believe me." Her voice sounds tired.
"I'm sorry."
"It's all right." Again, Angel is always the one comforting you. You never take a turn. You've never known how to comfort people. If problems couldn't be fixed, then you… She reaches through the mouse-hole and you brush her fingers, taking comfort from that small contact. Feeling her skin reminds you that you are not alone. Angel is real, here, and not a disembodied voice. Odd companions and odd warriors… no one would have ever imagined you two would end up comrades.
"I miss the sunlight," she says suddenly. She starts again, her voice more vehement. "Maureen, I'll try this, just for the sunlight. I want to see the sun again before I die."
A strange tightening fills your chest. You want her to do this. You want one of you to get out and tell your story to the world. But still… you're losing the only real thing in your life. Opportunities and choices… you want Angel to fly again.
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Opportunities and choices…
Mimi crossed her arms over her chest, watching Cortland pace the sidewalk near the side entrance to the White House. The real White House, the actual building, was nothing more than storage. The symbol was still used and seen in the media, but the real "president" was hidden in an underground military bunker, making outside assassination attempts a moot point. The only way to truly overthrow this government was a military coup and that plan had a snowball's chance on the sunny side of Mercury.
Ali had said she'd try to pull their files—and had paused when Mimi told her not even to bother with the electronic files, just go straight to the paper back-ups. They had an eight a.m. chopper and would be in DC by noon. They needed those files then. Ali had promised to try her best, but made no guarantees. Mimi smiled wistfully, remembering the Life Support meetings.
Pam had been there. She had received the cure as well, and was their computer gal, driving Roger to drink. Ali had been another one, but had traveled to the DC area anyways, to be near her family after getting the cure. And Sue… the final female from the group. She had finished med school after getting the cure and worked for the Patriots, in their medical facility. But Paul, Gordon, Steve… she had no idea what happened to them.
Life Support had always been… not fun, but gave her a sense of community. These were other people living with—not dying from—disease. They came from all walks of life and had acquired AIDS in a myriad of different ways. Sharing needles, unprotected sex, blood transfusions… Sharing needles, that had been her story. Clean for so many years, and there was no way to get heroin now, but sometimes… sometimes she just wanted one more hit. Sue had said that addictions never really go away, just stay in remission.
"Mimi?"
She turned towards the entrance. Ali had just pushed the door open. She looked much the same as Mimi remembered her, just older and more careworn. "Ali," she replied warmly. "This is Officer Cortland," she added, gesturing to her partner.
Cortland stopped pacing and shook Ali's hand. "M'am," he replied politely.
Ali smiled, that smile full of tension. "Let's get going," she said softly. "I found what you wanted… what did you guys need detention facility information for?"
"A case we're working on," Cortland supplied.
They followed Ali into the building. The halls were dimly lit, the only light the noon sun coming through the high windows. The place was bare of all the items that would have attracted tourists only a decade ago. Mimi had never been interested in doing tourist things. She had grown up just outside of LA, in, for all intents and purposes, a slum. Moving to New York hadn't improved her living situation, but at least she had been away from her family and the squalling babies and… the stereotypes.
Ali's office was just off the back corridor. For a second, Mimi thought they had made a mistake and walked into the janitor's closet. The room was claustrophobic, with no windows. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with books and the desk was covered high in paper. Two folding chairs had been jammed in front of the desk.
Cortland let out a low whistle. "And we thought our office was crappy."
She had to second his thoughts. Their offices were a little haphazard and placed a little too close together, but at least they had windows and some elbow room. This was… crazy. And Ali hadn't gone nuts working here yet? Did she see another human being all day?
For a moment, she wondered if Ali remembered Angel and Collins. But that was ridiculous. If she remembered Mimi, then she certainly remembered the two that were the pillars of that group, the two that went to meetings without fail. What would she do if this search turned out to be a dead end? What if the others really were dead? Roger had perused the e-mails and had come to the conclusion that the inmates of these facilities were infected, tortured and nursed back to health, only for the cycle to begin again.
Ali slipped behind her desk and motioned to several large folders on one corner. "Those are the files," she said. "You can only view them here—you can't make copies or take them with you, so take notes on what you need."
"Thanks," Mimi said sincerely. "Mind if we sit in here?"
"No," the other woman replied. "It's why I put the chairs in here."
Cortland took one folder, and handed another to Mimi. The files were huge. She flipped open her folder. Receipts, forms, subsidies… The black letters swam before her eyes. These folders were in no order. How were they supposed to go through them and still get back in time for their four o'clock chopper? Christ… she felt the beginning of a headache at the base of her skull.
"This is a disaster," Cortland commented.
Ali shrugged, as if to say she hadn't been the one that filed them.
"Was there anything odd about these?" Cortland continued. Ever the cop—look for a direct way to get the information, then go the long route.
"There were no electronic files," Ali said slowly.
"Well, we knew there wouldn't be," Mimi replied.
"There's something else." Ali paused, as if searching for the words. Her eyes looked clouded and far away. "The places never existed."
"What?" Mimi and Cortland asked at the same time.
"If files get deleted, we can see that on the system," Ali clarified. "That usually happens for records more than ten years old. We don't have the space to store more than a decade's worth of files." She paused. "But an electronic file had never been made for those detention facilities. I thought it was odd, you know, because of the size of the places."
"And?" Mimi prompted.
"There's some awful strange supplies going into detention facilities."
"Huh?" Cortland rifled through his folder.
"Just look at the orders and receipts," Ali said.
Mimi looked down at the papers in her lap, seeing and not seeing. She had heard enough of the e-mails from Roger. And she had seen the burned out facility at Alkali Lake. She wasn't sure that she wanted to know what else went on. God… Angel… if all this was true, was it heartless to hope that her best friend had died before seeing any of it? Angel had faced death once—AIDS wasn't a pleasant way to go, but it sure beat the alternatives in these facilities.
Without you…
The world didn't stop because she had lost her best friend. The world didn't stop for any of them, so small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps that is why she'd never been happy with the Patriots. They wanted a revolution. She just wanted her friends back.
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It's time. For so long, I've been afraid, kept in my shell, unable to protest or do anything. Now, I'm going to do something about this. I've never been afraid of death. I came to terms with my mortality the moment I learned I had HIV. Life is meant to be enjoyed and, if my life had just been cut short, damn if I wasn't going to enjoy it to the fullest.
Ten months. I had all I ever wanted for ten months.
I had sunlight, I had Tom, and I had freedom.
Maureen wants me to make a run for it—she really does think that I'll escape. I know that I won't. I won't make it past the detail of guards at the end of the hall.
Today is the day that I really will die.
Strangely, I'm not bothered by that fact. Sighing, I sit up and reach into the mouse-hole, extracting the paper. I read what I have written. Nothing unusual graces the page. My story is nothing out of the ordinary.
I am Angel. Just Angel. That is all anyone ever needs to know.
Briefly, my mind goes to my childhood, to the gritty streets of central Philadelphia. My mother was a waitress at a local café. My father was a janitor at Temple University. They just wanted their children to do better than them. Fashion design? That took them some time to get used to, but once the full scholarship came, they accepted it with open arms. They didn't care that I was gay, or a drag queen. They saw I was happy and that was all that mattered. And AIDS… they were devastated when I told them, but didn't judge me because of the disease.
Judgment… I guess this whole idea of escaping goes down to the fact that I am tired of being judged. I'm tired of the labels, of someone else telling me what I should be. I am Angel. And I don't want to live by their standards.
I wish I knew what happened to Collins. They got me while I was shopping. I wouldn't tell them where Collins was. He's been taken too, I know that. He couldn't have escaped the initial purges. I hope he protested. I hope he broke a limb or a nose. I hope…
I hate hope. It all ends today.
"Maureen?" I roll up the paper and slip it back into the mouse-hole. I reach through the tiny space, just brushing Maureen's fingers over the paper and the stub of a pencil.
"Angel?"
"I'm going today."
She sighs, the breath a lament and love. "Good."
"No day but today," I whisper.
"No day but today," she echoes, sadly.
I know that I'm leaving her. That hurts. That is almost enough incentive to stay here. Almost. Not enough, never enough. I'm doing what I should have done years ago.
Minutes, hours, later, a guard opens my cell. I am ready for him. The kick to the groin is swift and silent, before he even knew what was happening. I scramble around him, and am out the door. I imagine him, doubled-over, because his voice screams, "You fucking bastard!"
The guards at the end of the hall are alerted to the noise. Quickly, I glance both directions. The cells are in a square shape, and no one is coming from the other direction. I run, my bare feet slapping against the cool stone floor. There is a rushing in my ears, so I don't hear the cries of the other prisoners, the moans, the coughs…
I collide with a solid body.
It takes me a moment to comprehend that I've just run into another guard, coming from another direction. He grabs my arm. I twist out before he can get a solid grip on me, and my elbow lands in his solar plexus. He grunts as the wind is knocked out of him. As if all the years hadn't passed, the kickboxing flows back to me. I remember the moves, the fluid actions.
Another guard tries to grab me from behind. With more force than I knew I possessed anymore, I land my foot on his instep, distracting him enough that I can use the heel of my hand to break his nose.
"What the—"
A third guard. I'm almost surrounded. Almost, not quite. There's still a chance. I dodge the new arrival's blows and scamper down the hall.
"Got'cha!"
It's the fourth and final guard from the cell. Shit, I forgot about him. It's over now—I know when I'm defeated. The guards cluster around me, like I can overcome all four of them at once. The guard from the cell has a deadly look in his eyes. One clutches his bleeding nose. Good to know that I did some damage.
"I'll give you exactly what you deserve!"
One guard backhands me across the face. The force causes me to fall to the ground. "You think you can run?" another asks in a taunting voice. "We'll fix it so you can't walk again!"
A heavy night-stick appears and—
I don't feel the bone breaking, just hear the crack echo through the stone wall and see the bone poking through my skin. Surreal… I know the pain will catch up with me, but, for now, I can't feel, only hear the sound through my head, rattling my teeth.
"What are you doing?"
White coat… a doctor.
"We have to keep this one alive! He's one of the key specimens in the current experiment!"
Hands lift me onto a stretcher. Vaguely, I am aware that they are taking me to the med center, maybe to fix the broken leg, maybe the torture me further. I don't know. I don't care. All I know is that I have failed. A huge, crushing disappointment. Why did that doctor have to intervene? The guards would have beaten me to death. I know that. No one takes kindly to a broken nose or a kick in the balls.
Times are shitty, but I pretty sure they can't get much worse.
A laugh bubbles up. Not much worse? Things have gone so far downhill…
There is a slight pinch. As I'm transferred from the stretcher to a hospital bed, the pain comes pouring back to me. Red blossoms before my vision, sharp, intense… a good pain. Not the aches and pains from viruses, but actual, honest-to-God pain. For the first time in so many years, I feel something acutely, not distantly or emotionally, but literally…
I scream. It's the only thing I can think to do. I wasn't even aware that my vocal chords would cooperate that much.
The world before me turns woozy and black dances around my vision.
Just before I succumb to the darkness, I think, I am Angel. Hear me roar.
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Mimi stared at the shorthand notes she had taken over the files. Roger and Mark would be able to make more sense of the companies and the shipping documents. But she had what she needed—addresses, network providers, suppliers… all the things that would enable Pam to nail these people to the wall with their own system.
She glanced out the window. Another hour or so before they landed in New York.
So far, none of the Patriots had asked them to officially be involved in finding out more about the facilities. That surprised her. Pam helped them out frequently, but no one higher up in the organization had set people on finding this. Or they might have. She rarely knew about the assignments handed to anyone else. Ignorance was the best way to run a group like the Patriots. If someone was caught, and couldn't spill all the information, that would protect the organization as a whole. The government had to know they existed, but what if that resistance was built into the system? Just like in that novel, the novel that Collins had liked so much…
She couldn't remember the title of the book. Of course, Collins read so much. And after he moved in with Angel, Mimi heard more and more about the novels—classics, Shakespeare, political science texts, economics, pop novels, dystopia… According to Angel, Collins would read anything that sat still long enough. Angel's apartment had already been overflowing with fabric swatches, half-completed projects, sewing supplies, flowers and herb gardens, but when one added Collins' books to the place, an explosion occurred. Art and literature, color and words… that apartment had been so beautiful.
Smiling sadly, she thought of their room at the compound. All their things had been left at their previous apartments, then the townhouse. But still… there was a chair in the corner of her and Roger's room. Angel's skirt and Collins' jacket were always over that chair. Sometimes she picked up the skirt, remembering the way it swished when Angel wore it. Angel had made that skirt herself. She had made a lot of her own clothes, not because of some ideological battle against sweat shops or chain stores with pre-made clothes, but because it was cheaper.
The buzz of the helicopter faded into the background. Mimi sighed, remembering sunny afternoons at Angel's apartment, sipping tea as a cool breeze came through the window, gently blowing the tulips around. She remembered going to the fashion company where Angel worked, being awed by the models and the designs, comfortable with the free expression they encouraged. She remembered lunchtimes when Angel would take an extended lunch and they would pick up deli sandwiches and race the ten blocks from Angel's company to NYU, just so Angel could surprise Collins.
"What'cha thinking about, Sarge?" Cortland asked.
"Old times," Mimi replied.
Opportunities and choices…
Maureen used to say that. There was a time, during one of her and Roger's early break-ups, that Mimi had ended up talking with Maureen. She hadn't expected much sympathy from the drama queen, but she was surprisingly insightful.
Life is opportunities and choices. You make the choice to take opportunities or leave them. What are you going to do here?
Her choice had been to make amends with Roger.
She had been dwelling on the past for so long. She wanted to let go, but couldn't. What had happened was so unfair, so unjust… something none of them could have imagined on that fateful Christmas Eve that had thrown them into each other's lives.
This family tree's got deep roots.
Deep roots… perhaps that was the reason for this unrelenting obsession to find out what had happened to them. She was exhausted and sick to her heart from what innocent people had suffered, but there was no stopping now. She would find out what happened to them, even if that search ended in a funeral.
The chopper landed with a gentle bump on the roof of the precinct building. Mimi started and glanced at her watch. She hadn't realized how much time had passed. The sunny idyllic afternoons with Angel made her ache in a way she couldn't quite identify. She didn't want the past. She just wanted Angel to have a future. They all had their futures taken from them. Perhaps there wasn't hope for any of them, but there was still hope for Tommy and Jo…
She said her goodbyes to Cortland, and hailed a cab to take her back to the compound. There was little point in staying at the office. The information needed to be given to Pam. It wouldn't do any good sitting on her desk where a good little government member could find it and indict her for so many things.
The golden sun was sinking behind the horizon as the cab sped out of the city and towards the outskirts of town. She sighed. The Alkali Lake cells had been underground, meaning that the prisoners had not seen sunlight in… years. Had that happened to Angel and Collins, Maureen and Joanne? Ten years without sunlight? It seemed unthinkable, but many things had seemed unthinkable before their current government rose.
The old china teacups Angel found at a second-hand store… Mimi didn't know why she was remembering them now. The white porcelain with a delicate pattern of pink and blue flowers. Angel loved those cups. What had happened to them? Probably gone, just like everything else. One afternoon, she had walked in. One of those cups had been perched on a paint can as Angel studied a canvas, not a real picture, just a swirl of colors, warm… comforting, just like Angel.
Her movements were on auto-pilot as she scanned her stim-card and walked into the compound, stopping at the checkpoint to scan her thumbprint.
Roger was standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot when she walked into their living quarters. Tommy and Jo were on the floor with Mark, playing a card game.
"Hi," Roger said as she walked over to him. He pressed a quick kiss to her lips. "Did you guys find anything?"
She nodded.
"What's wrong?"
"I was just thinking… they haven't seen sunlight in ten years."
Roger mirrored her nod, slowly, his blue-gray eyes distant. "Christ, we're so close," he muttered. "We just need to get the information Pam needs to her."
"I know," she replied. "I know."
She touched the ends of his hair, as it curled around his collar. For so long, all they had was each other and a distant reminder of a family.
Friendship is thicker than blood.
True… so true. Friends were the family they forged for themselves. Those ties ran deeper than the mere mistake of biology or genetics. She wouldn't have chosen her biological family if given the choice again. There was a reason she left LA and came to New York in the first place.
"Mimi?"
She shook her head, coming out of her reverie. "I'm going to give this to Pam," she said, holding up the small notebook. "Wait dinner for me, will you?" He nodded again, and she kissed his cheek. "You need to shave," she quipped.
"You don't need to tell me the obvious," he called after her, as she headed for the tech rooms where Pam spent most of her time.
"You're obviously not aware of it, if you won't do anything about it!"
"I am aware of it!"
Mimi smiled as Roger's voice faded. Sometimes she swore that the biggest kid in the entire compound was Roger.
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Millard Fillmore, Franklin Pierce.
You've been alone for several days now. No one has come to take you to the med center for tests, not since… you find it odd that no one took you to the med center after, after… well, it's just odd. Odd that only the psychiatrist came to see you. You're not sure what is going to happen, but you've never been sure about what is going to happen.
But, one of the others is alive. You keep that thought close, wrap it around yourself like a blanket. That mere thought is like a balm. Someone else knows what you've gone through. Someone else understands. You're not alone. He told you about the letter that he had yet to send. You hope that he can find a way to succeed. He promised to change the letter to tell Roger that you're still alive as well. Two… two of the others…
You're not sure how much longer you will be alive. You're never sure.
James Buchanan, Abraham Lincoln…
A wry smile cracks your parched lips. You remember reading about Lincoln as a child and being awed at his accomplishments. A better idol would have been Harriet Tubman. But Lincoln… you learned he had been a lawyer, so you decided that was what you wanted to do. A lawyer. Your parents had been ecstatic. Good old Mom and Dad, supportive to the end.
It had been their idea for you and Maureen to go to the summer house in Maine. They thought that the security and the surveillance would have been less in rural areas. How to know rural areas meant more citizen involvement, more finger-men? How to know that people started rumors, despite the fact that you and Maureen never introduced each other in public as more than family friends? Careful, too careful, hiding too much…
The door to your cell opens. You pull your knees to your chest, trying to fight the innate panic at the sight of a guard and a woman in a white coat. No choice…
"Andrew Johnson, Ulysses S. Grant."
"Joanne, we're taking you to the med center to run some tests."
You begin rocking back and forth. Ignore them, just ignore them. Focus on the presidents and the anxiety will go away. Presidents… "Rutherford B. Hayes. James Garfield."
The guard grabs your hands and begins to drag you. You've been dragged before, especially after being given a new injection. This isn't unusual. You don't feel the pain in your shoulders, not like you used to. You're used to being manhandled.
"Chester A. Arthur, Grover Cleveland."
"What's she muttering?" the guard asks.
"Presidents of the United States," the doctor replies. "I've heard her get through all of them during one trip to the med center."
"Why would she memorize them?"
"I think it's an anti-anxiety tool."
"Weird."
"Benjamin Harrison, Grover Cleveland, William McKinley."
Someone pushes you onto a bed with white sheets, sterile. The place smells of antiseptics, too clean. The doctor is explaining something, but you are beyond feeling, beyond caring. She wears a white mask over her face. Ignore what she's doing… presidents… presidents…
"Theodore Roosevelt, William H. Taft, Woodrow Wilson."
Something cold and metal is placed—no! Concentrate!
"Warren G. Harding, Calvin Coolidge, Herbert Hoover." You pause and take a ragged breath. In a distant portion of your mind, you know what this trip is about, what they are looking for. Just once… another human… someone who cares.
"Franklin D. Roosevelt, Harry S. Truman, Dwight D. Eisenhower." Another pause. "John F. Kennedy, Lyndon B. Johnson."
"Christ, that is annoying! Can we shut her up?"
A pinch and a drifty, dreamy sensation. They've given you a tranquilizer—this isn't the first time they've done that. Better an unconscious patient than one who recites the presidents on a loop.
"Richard M. Nixon… Ford…"
Your voice refuses to cooperate, but you mark the stopping point. Ford. You'll pick up with Ford when the tranquilizer wears off.
Voices, distant, tinny… "It's confirmed. Do we have a candidate for this test?"
"Yes. Do you really think this will work?"
"Of course… no need to tell her, or the man, that she's not really sterile."
To be continued…
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Author's Note: Hey all! It's been quite a while, hasn't it? I hope someone remembers this piece! Thanks for your continued reading and support. I watched the movie the other day and read my outline. I realize that this piece started with the thread for Angel, and that will probably be the motivation to finish this piece. Please be patient. I have finals and a summer job, but I'll do my best. Rest assured that this piece has not been abandoned.
