Post by E. Lipsett on Jan 19, 2004 20:38:44 GMT -5
The Smiling Man watched the war within fight itself out on the Avatar's face. He waited, enjoyed his drink, people-watched through the big street window. He skated through the minds and bodies of those he saw, tasting dreams here, incurable diseases there, hates and hopes and heaven and hell, pumping hearts and weakened immune systems, beautiful universes every one of them. He loved them all, abstractly, the way he loved a good coffee, or a supernova, or the scream of a child being run down by a bus. It was all so exquisite.
This torture he was putting the Avatar through, this was equally exquisite. Quite painful for her, he knew, and dangerous for both of them, if the super-entity which had spawned her took any notice of her doubts. But that was unlikely. And the amusement, and the possibilities it opened, were worth the slight threat.
After some time, she looked up from her hands on the table, then looked away and at the other people in the shop, as if for the first time. She took a deep breath and blew it out, picked up her drink and tasted it, wrinkled her nose and said, "Ew, cold. Can I get another one?"
The Smiling Man smiled. "Sure you can. Here." He handed her the menu. "You choose."
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Curled up on a hotel-room sofa, bundled in a fluffy bathrobe, in her true shape, Agent Nancy thought about Nolan – the original Nolan, not the one who'd died in combat. She wondered, as she often did, if he was still alive, if he had gotten any better. She realized that she'd been thinking of him less and less. She felt very detached from it all now. It was just something that had happened, just like the death of Nick, and the violence of a few days before, when she had slaughtered humans and near-humans, stolen the memories and forms of a sadistic bastard, and struck a bargain with things more alien than even she could imagine. And she had watched the second Nolan die. She idly wondered again whether the code-name repetition had been a simple f**kup or somebody's cruel joke, and whether the joke had been on her or on the new guy.
But she didn't get angry over it. And she didn't feel sad, much, either. She prodded that painful memory of Nolan like a rotten tooth, only to find the pain was gone, not even numb, just gone.
She knew what this meant. The human parts of her were falling away all the time, like dead skin. Physically, she had completely changed long ago, but her psyche had clung fiercely to its remnant humanity, her identity as Debra Constance, or Jean Qualls, or whoever the hell she was. She was less able to see the point of such clinging these days.
It had disturbed her the first time she had automatically referred to herself as "Nancy" in her thoughts. Now it seemed natural and, indeed, good. She was nearing the end of a... process. She was becoming a new entity. A new name was entirely appropriate.
Nantucket brought in her meal. Nancy smiled and thanked him, and they talked about who might replace Nolan Junior. She could still project a facade of normalcy, just like the shapes she could wear. She knew he would be required to kill her if she ever seemed ready to change sides, but they talked like friends... no, like coworkers. You can't really be friends with someone you think of as future food, she thought.
She didn't think he would need to put her down. She wouldn't be changing sides, no matter how bad it got. She'd made her choice, and she would stick by it. Not out of compassion or loyalty – those emotions held no meaning for her anymore. It was mostly out of habit, with a dash of curiosity.
She waited until Nantucket had left before beginning her meal.
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"I just think it's a bizarre theory, that's all." The Avatar's words had an edge of laughter to them. She waved to the approaching stewardess.
"But it's perfectly logical," he protested, nearly laughing himself. "Avatars of avatars of avatars, from the top to the bottom, infinite in both directions. I'm sure of it!"
After a burst of laughter, she said to the stewardess in perfect French, "No more alcohol for Mr. Bateman here, but I would love another of these delightful martinis." She turned back to the Smiling Man and squeezed his hand tighter, extending more harpoon-tipped capillaries between her palm and his to increase the bandwidth of their shared chemical thoughts.
He smiled. Though their physical contact was already more intimate than any human couple could experience, she grinned and kissed him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Surgery and recovery gave Landry a lot of time to think. He watched Phenomen-X and didn't see Sonja, except when they did reruns. He looked at his phone as if it were the barrel of a gun, and he looked at his gun as if it were the road to salvation. Every time the phone rang, he jumped; but when it wasn't ringing, he was waiting for it, silently begging for it to ring. When it did, it was never them, or her. After one night of loading and unloading his gun for hours, stroking his face with the barrel and applying pressure to the trigger – never quite enough – he screamed in rage and emptied it into the wall, threw it across the room, ripped his phone cord from its socket and hurled it and all his ammo into the yard, and fell to the floor, crying. He pulled himself together in time to talk to the cops who came to check out the disturbance, and convince them to let it slide. The next day he went to the mental ward to visit Casey, who was completely catatonic now, and got scared just watching the man, doped up and frozen in one position for hours at a time. He held Casey's hand and talked to him, but he couldn't say anything, really, and he left after an hour.
At one in the morning, someone knocked on his door. He wasn't asleep – he'd just been zoning out on the sofa, TV on, no idea what was on the screen. He thought about his gun on the way to the door, but he'd locked it away, the ammo recovered from the lawn stored separately under lock and key. He opened the door without checking the spyhole. He figured he'd take whatever he had coming.
He almost didn't recognize her. Sonja's face was thinner, pale, ravaged from lack of sleep, with no makeup. She carried a six-pack of bottled Budweiser in one hand, the other reaching out to knock again. She looked surprised and a little fearful to see him. She was wearing loose-fitting jeans and a sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up, her hair in a careless ponytail, wisps of it floating free.
His heart raced.
"You look like sh*t, Landry." Her voice was small, half defensive, half hopeful. "I just, um, thought you might want to talk, or something."
He did.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
End.
Begin again.
This torture he was putting the Avatar through, this was equally exquisite. Quite painful for her, he knew, and dangerous for both of them, if the super-entity which had spawned her took any notice of her doubts. But that was unlikely. And the amusement, and the possibilities it opened, were worth the slight threat.
After some time, she looked up from her hands on the table, then looked away and at the other people in the shop, as if for the first time. She took a deep breath and blew it out, picked up her drink and tasted it, wrinkled her nose and said, "Ew, cold. Can I get another one?"
The Smiling Man smiled. "Sure you can. Here." He handed her the menu. "You choose."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Curled up on a hotel-room sofa, bundled in a fluffy bathrobe, in her true shape, Agent Nancy thought about Nolan – the original Nolan, not the one who'd died in combat. She wondered, as she often did, if he was still alive, if he had gotten any better. She realized that she'd been thinking of him less and less. She felt very detached from it all now. It was just something that had happened, just like the death of Nick, and the violence of a few days before, when she had slaughtered humans and near-humans, stolen the memories and forms of a sadistic bastard, and struck a bargain with things more alien than even she could imagine. And she had watched the second Nolan die. She idly wondered again whether the code-name repetition had been a simple f**kup or somebody's cruel joke, and whether the joke had been on her or on the new guy.
But she didn't get angry over it. And she didn't feel sad, much, either. She prodded that painful memory of Nolan like a rotten tooth, only to find the pain was gone, not even numb, just gone.
She knew what this meant. The human parts of her were falling away all the time, like dead skin. Physically, she had completely changed long ago, but her psyche had clung fiercely to its remnant humanity, her identity as Debra Constance, or Jean Qualls, or whoever the hell she was. She was less able to see the point of such clinging these days.
It had disturbed her the first time she had automatically referred to herself as "Nancy" in her thoughts. Now it seemed natural and, indeed, good. She was nearing the end of a... process. She was becoming a new entity. A new name was entirely appropriate.
Nantucket brought in her meal. Nancy smiled and thanked him, and they talked about who might replace Nolan Junior. She could still project a facade of normalcy, just like the shapes she could wear. She knew he would be required to kill her if she ever seemed ready to change sides, but they talked like friends... no, like coworkers. You can't really be friends with someone you think of as future food, she thought.
She didn't think he would need to put her down. She wouldn't be changing sides, no matter how bad it got. She'd made her choice, and she would stick by it. Not out of compassion or loyalty – those emotions held no meaning for her anymore. It was mostly out of habit, with a dash of curiosity.
She waited until Nantucket had left before beginning her meal.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"I just think it's a bizarre theory, that's all." The Avatar's words had an edge of laughter to them. She waved to the approaching stewardess.
"But it's perfectly logical," he protested, nearly laughing himself. "Avatars of avatars of avatars, from the top to the bottom, infinite in both directions. I'm sure of it!"
After a burst of laughter, she said to the stewardess in perfect French, "No more alcohol for Mr. Bateman here, but I would love another of these delightful martinis." She turned back to the Smiling Man and squeezed his hand tighter, extending more harpoon-tipped capillaries between her palm and his to increase the bandwidth of their shared chemical thoughts.
He smiled. Though their physical contact was already more intimate than any human couple could experience, she grinned and kissed him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Surgery and recovery gave Landry a lot of time to think. He watched Phenomen-X and didn't see Sonja, except when they did reruns. He looked at his phone as if it were the barrel of a gun, and he looked at his gun as if it were the road to salvation. Every time the phone rang, he jumped; but when it wasn't ringing, he was waiting for it, silently begging for it to ring. When it did, it was never them, or her. After one night of loading and unloading his gun for hours, stroking his face with the barrel and applying pressure to the trigger – never quite enough – he screamed in rage and emptied it into the wall, threw it across the room, ripped his phone cord from its socket and hurled it and all his ammo into the yard, and fell to the floor, crying. He pulled himself together in time to talk to the cops who came to check out the disturbance, and convince them to let it slide. The next day he went to the mental ward to visit Casey, who was completely catatonic now, and got scared just watching the man, doped up and frozen in one position for hours at a time. He held Casey's hand and talked to him, but he couldn't say anything, really, and he left after an hour.
At one in the morning, someone knocked on his door. He wasn't asleep – he'd just been zoning out on the sofa, TV on, no idea what was on the screen. He thought about his gun on the way to the door, but he'd locked it away, the ammo recovered from the lawn stored separately under lock and key. He opened the door without checking the spyhole. He figured he'd take whatever he had coming.
He almost didn't recognize her. Sonja's face was thinner, pale, ravaged from lack of sleep, with no makeup. She carried a six-pack of bottled Budweiser in one hand, the other reaching out to knock again. She looked surprised and a little fearful to see him. She was wearing loose-fitting jeans and a sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up, her hair in a careless ponytail, wisps of it floating free.
His heart raced.
"You look like sh*t, Landry." Her voice was small, half defensive, half hopeful. "I just, um, thought you might want to talk, or something."
He did.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
End.
Begin again.