*
"Don't even think about it, Sullivan."
Watching her, very closely, he says this. The girl had escaped four times from police custody, half of those while under federal suveillance. Right now she was a restless pair of eyes, restricted to the confines of a commerical air liner, miles above and away from dry land.
But she was thinking about it. He knew by the way her eyes were narrowing, as if drawing some sort of conclusion of escape.
"Even if you do escape," he says, eyeing slowly, "you wont go far for the next 8 hours we're over ocean. I hope you can swim."
"Don't worry," she says, turning to him. "I can fly."
There's something strange about the way she says it, and it's like
that
when a strange pull in his stomach drops as the plane does.
"Just turbulence." He says, fastening his fugitive's seat belt.
But it happens again. And again. The plane a rattle in the sky.Passengers scramble in their seats, rearranged like marbles rolling into impossible holes.
It's when he feels the plane fall forward does he pull himself out of his seat to make his way to the cockpit. "Don't move!" He yells over the panic, at her, and its the flash of golden hair he last sees before he's pushed further down the aisle.
There's a mangled line of bodies between him and the cockpit, and he helps them one by one back into their seats, waving his police badge at them to shut up. He tells every blabbering face to stay calm, but its like throwing dirt into the wind. He punches the last guy in the jaw to keep him quiet.
Finally, he reaches the small latched door, surprised when there's no resistance to open it. He flips the hairs from his eyes, peering inside the cockpit once the door is dragged open.
It's empty.
"Sonnofa--" His voice drawls, pulling himself inside. There's two empty pilot seats, staring at a horizontal window.
"You gotta be kiddin' me!" He lunges forward, eyes darting to every thinkable crevase in the cockpit, looking for any explanation.
But there isn't one. Just the beeping of the controls, intruments spiraling in chaos.
"Sh*t." Realization dawns on him. He cracks his knuckles, falling into the chair behind the control panel. He grabs onto the forked shaped handle, squeezing, hands white.
He pulls up, the anger of the plane responding. It shudders, worse than before, pissed off that someone was interfering with its suicidal dive.
Violent, white fists pound at the glass, clouds so thick that it seems like their falling into a eternity of abyss.
There's a loud sound from the back of the plane, and then it pops. The vessel is lighter, spiraling now, and he feels his body yanked up towards the roof, grabbing hold of the controls until the plane ping pongs him from one side to the other.
Its when he crawls to his knees that he sees.
The clouds break away.
Water.
"Sonnofab*tch!"
*
He was flying.
Down.
He was flying down. Feet first.
A hollow pit in his stomach as he fell, the dark water eager to greet with a cold, hard sting.
But he wasn't anticipating that.
No, he was anticipating the regret.
"Why are you telling me this?" She had asked wearily, eyes so full of hope that it made every relived moment so much more painful.
His rough hands cradled her face, calloused thumbs tracing the splatter of dark flecks against her skin. It was the last moment before he whispered... and kissed her, goodbye.
And then he jumped.
A free fall from the heliocopter to the ocean below.
He did it to save them, because no one else was brave enough to make the
sacrifce... No, that was a lie.
He did it because he was a coward.
"Sawyer!"
It stung worse to hear her say that name one last time. Her voice following behind him as he plunged through the rushing of wind, his eyes closing before he hit.
The cold slap of the water stung the sense back into him, the surface breaking with an explosion, his long body plummeting down. And as he dropped through the water, it was like entering a different world. Like waking up from a dream, or stepping out of a long hot shower that coaxed the last wound up muscle in your body. His head bobbed up, gasping for air, wading out.
He could still hear her. The chopper flying free.
He smiled, knowing he had done something right in his life. Something less selfish than good, for once. And now they were free. Saved.
Going home.
It was only a speck inthe horizon now, the metal bird gliding furtherout of reach.
Sawyer turned, and started swimming back withthe current. The inevitable force that pulled him back to the island.
The swim was long, his shoulders sore and worn when he reached the shore. But he felt oddly alive, revived. Like he had shed a trodden skin back in the water.
He shed his name.
He wasn't Sawyer anymore.
He dragged himself from the waist deepshore, eyes lighting up when he spotted a woman, drinking on the beach.
She was blonde.
"Where did you come from?"she said once he was close enough, her eyes sad and molten.
He spat ocean water between his teeth, reaching for the charming smile he always wore. "Decided to take a little dip.." He said, excusing his exhaustion.
The blonde smiled, a sad type, bringing the bottle to her lips. He noticed it said 'rum' in one of those funny, bland labels he'd grown bored of.
"Whatcha celebrating?" He said, collasping on the sand beside her. He was dead tired, but never felt more satisfied in his life. Everyone was going home, that was plenty enough to be happy.
"Not celebrating."
He frowned, turning around towards the shore, the horizon, the column ofblack smoke wafing in the wind. "That our ship?"
The blonde laughed sadly, taking another swig. "Well, it was."
And then he felt it, delayed regret. He blinked over and over at that horizon, his conscious eventually accepting that everyone on that heliocopter, everyone who ever mattered was...
No one would have survived that crash. They were all dead.
"Don't worry, James"
The name stuck him in the side like a knife and he looked up, pieces of damp hair stuck to the sides of his beard.
She smiled at him, passing the bottle. "I'm sure they made it."
He tried smiling, but it ended up more of a grimace as the alcohol burned all the way down. When he looked to the side, he found her watching him, her eyes blue and soft as if she had known her words were as empty at the bottle between them.
In the distance the smoke rose higher and higher until the last piece of wreckage had sunken below the water.
*
No one would have survived the crash. It wasn't possible.
But here he was, alive. The pain from his head confirming it. When he wakes completely, he's suspended, floating. In a cloud of mucky dark water tinted red. Blood.
He closes his eyes, feeling his limbs weak and breath running low. He swallows more water. Maybe this too was dream, and this time, he doesn't want to wake up.
He shuts his eyes, waiting for the drift of sleep to seep in, but a warm sensation stirred him, a ticklish curiosity dragging open his eye lids.
There’s warm light around him, and slowly, it dissipates, a woman appearing, golden hair floating around them like a floating halo. Her small hand cups his cheek, the other against his chest. The cold metal of her handcuff shocking him awake. Wide awake.
He shakes his head as he comes to, fianlly realizing that he's underwater. There's aisles of seats on the roof, and they're empty. All of them.
Either the plane was upside down or he was, wading through the junk that floats into him. He's expecting to find bodies, but he doesn't. It's just him and her.
And she's making her escape, through the galley and towards the hatch.
He follows her, kicking his feet vigorously to catch up, dragging himself past the aisle with his arms to reach her.
She doesn't get far, struggling with opening the exit hatch. It's jammed.
He reaches her, pushing her aside. He kicks at the lever over and over, the water resistance frustrating and deadly.
Air bubbles escape his lips and hers. They were losing air.
There's a broken piece of metal being shoved into his hands, she's handing it to him.
It's long, and skinny, shaped like a crow bar. He looks at her before he shoves it inbetween the groves of the hatch, prying it open.
There's a pop, and the door flies away.
Her body goes through the opening first, him following after. He can see the sun shine through the surface, rippled and glowing against the layers of dark water that surrounded them. Chloe's swimming infront, her hair reflecting the light back down to him. Him, he's chasing after it.
He takes his eyes off of her for a second, looking back down at the wreckage at the bottom. He could barely see it now, the light not filtering down that far.
His legs kick harder, propelling him faster towards the light and then, it breaks.
He gasps over and over. Coughing, and gagging up water that was swallowed.
He looks around the horizon, but he doesn't see her.
"Chloe!"
He turns around and around in the water, searching. Finally, he sees her, way off in the distance.
"Hey!" He starts that way, "Hey, stop!"
He watches her turn around, her shorter legs kicking furiously away.
So she was trying to escape.
He kicked after her, more irritated that she would run now after all that.
It’s only a few meters before he catches up with her. She isn’t a strong swimmer. His long arms reaches out grabs her by the waist as she struggles.
"Just let me go!"
"Calm down!" He tries to sooth her but ends up with a elbow to the gut. It hurts, but he wouldn’t admit it. "I'm not here to hurt you!"
He pulls her around to face him. Her hair is soaked, clotted around her cheeks. She brings her hands up to wipe a strand away from her eyes, but she can't. They're cuffed together.
He brushes them away for her. "Look, you'll drown out here alone like that." He fists the metal links. "Now, where's everyone else? We have to find the rest of the passengers--"
"There isn't anyone else!" She screams, water spitting from her mouth.
He stares at her, hand over her wrist. "What are you talking about?"
"When I woke up, I was still in my seat." Her eyes shut, droplets of water, or maybe tears falling there. "And there wasn't anyone else on that plane. Just me," she looked at him skeptically, " and you."
He blinked, not wanting to believe her, but then again, when he had opened the cockpit, there were no pilots, nothing. Like they'd disappeared.
"That's not possible. There has to be others, they can't just disappear!"
"Can’t you see?" her head bobbed down, water coming to her chin. "It’s all just another one of their experiments!"
"What?" He's coughing up water. "What are you talking about!"
"They’ve been following me-- testing my abilities!" She stops struggling, her hands grabbing onto his shirt collar to steady herself. She looks directly at him."They knew I would survive the crash." And this she says to his lips, "And they knew I wouldn’t let you die."
His eyes look at hers and then down to the swollen bridge of her lips. "What in the hell are you talking about? Who are they?"
"The Dharma Initiative."
Heliocopters.
They both heard them.
"Oh god," she trembled, body backing away, "it's them."
"No," he grabbed her shirt, keeping her with him, "it's the rescue team. We're saved."
"No!" she struggled, kicking away with her heel against his chest. "No, it's the same people who put us on that plane only to crash it and see if we would survive!"
He stared at her, at her desperation. "Listen, no one forced you onto that plane, I watched you watch onto it."
Her eyes changed. "Tell me why you followed me? Explain to me why you waited until we were both on that plane to arrest me, huh?"
His eyes flickered.
The heliocopters were closer, almost upon them now.
"They told you to wait, didn't they?" she was wading towards him again, closer to the truth, "it was part of the experiment."
He shook his head, his memory sifting through the long narratives he had read in her criminal history. She was supposedly hospitalized for long amounts of time in her childhood, and admitted in a psych ward before she had even turned eighteen. She was a crazy. He was sure of it. He had read all about her theories and escapades in her earlier life, all of them surrounding around a certain theory... Well, a theory that he wasn't exactly clear on. Most of her files had been blacked out. And nearly all of her medical history.
"I knew it," she said, right infront of him now, "I knew you couldn't be real, not even from the start."
The choppers are closer, he turns --
"Listen to me," she turned his cheek back to hers, "it's safer if you let me go. Once they find us together, they'll kill you."
He slitted his eyes.
"It's always part of the experiment. They kill everyone to see if I will bring them back. It's part of the game."
He watches her eyes water, and then shut, pushing them away.
"Just let me go," she pulls her face up to his, her lips whispering against his stubble. "James, please."
It's the way she cries his name. A pain, a gut reaction that makes his hands reach out and cradle her face.
And then, she kisses him.
It's quietly affectionate, unexpected when her linked hands cup the bottom of his jaw, angling his mouth just right over hers. This wasn't a just any kiss, but one that was meant for goodbyes. He kissed her back without knowing why, only the feeling that he had somehow known her enough to say something so potent like this. In this way...
His hand loosens on her wrist, not knowing where to go now, hovering over the water as her eyes reopen, brighter again, and focused. He had said to her that they shared the same eyes, but only now did he believe it. There's a well of emotion in them that he could barely describe, but he feels it, like his own. It scares him, lost, any direction from here foreign and strange.
Infact, the only thing that feels familiar was... her.
The sound of the heliocopter approaching feels familiar, a dreaded dejavu waxing through his body. There's a remembrance of being in this moment before, of saying goodbye in the prescence of a black bird in the sky.
He looks up and sees it in the close distance, and for some reason unknown to him, he gets the feeling that she's right.
They can't let the heliocopter find them. For some reason he knows, that if they were discovered, he would die.
*
part four
Chlark, Superman, and the freedom of fan fiction.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Blonde part 2
part 2
*
"Wheat Gold." Chloe read from the packaging. The lady in the beauty aisle said it was the best color they carried. Most expensive was more like it. She sighed, and ripped the plastic from the small box and opened it, a small toothpaste-like tube tumbling out and into the sink. The hair dye came with plastic gloves so she stretched them over her hands, dissatisfied when she realizes they’re huge and leave her fingers clumsy.
In the mirror, she studied how dark her hair had grown out. Chloe remembered when it was red, and how she liked it, liked how changed she looked. She tried every color, hoping that she’d find a more gratifying look than being blonde. She never could.
Chloe wet her hair, and applied the dye, squinching her nose when the smell finally hit her. It was strong and intoxicating, made her a little dizzy.
She opened the window in the tiny hotel bathroom and stuck her head out to breathe. The city air was just as fumy and bad, but the sounds of the cars and people on the street below were calming. It was a small concession of home. She closed her eyes.
She couldn’t remember what city she was in. She’d been everywhere, seen everything, and it hardly mattered where she was now. All that did matter was going home. She was ready now.
A muffled roar above interrupted her thoughts. She couldn't see it, but she felt the airplane cut through the sky, directly over her and then beyond into deeper blue. It was leaving for some other city she didn’t care about. Not unless it was hers.
And then she remembered.
"Sh*t!" Chloe banged her head against the window when she ducked away too fast. She ran to the small bedroom she’d rented for the past two weeks and started packing her things. She’d be late if she didn’t leave now, and she couldn’t believe she forgot. Again.
She glanced at the alarm clock on the night table next to the bed, hoping she wasn’t too late.
4:15
:
4:15
:
4:16
Blinking. Again.
It didn’t matter how many times she reset it, that damn clock never worked.
She walked past the TV, not paying attention to the photo of the woman on one of those "Most Wanted" shows. It looked a lot like her, except, her hair was red. Good thing she went gold.
She placed her laptop carefully in her bag, discarding of the collection of newspapers that piled next to it. She swept at the array of coffee cups that accumulated with her forearm, all but one falling into the waste basket next to the table. The last one was still warm, and had a few drops left. Chloe tilted her head all the way back to finish what was left, and then dropped her hand to the waste basket. She paused then, right before throwing the cup away, staring at the discarded newspaper headline...
QUEEN IS DEAD
She crinkled the cup in her fist and threw it at the words.
It had happened. It had finally happened. Now she really was alone.
She packed her bag and ran back to the bathroom to wash out her hair. The hair dryer smelled burnt, but she brushed until her hair shined, and bounced back. She walked away, satisfied. The color was bright and happy, almost made her feel the same way.
As she arranged her things and zipped up her jeans, the TV droned on behind her, her image at four corners and in every shade, even pink. It made a Warhol sort of effect, a different color, identity, disguise for every city she's ran from.
"…wanted in eight countries… many aliases and disguises, considered armed and dangerous--"
She turned the television off.
Turned off the room lights and grabbed her things, and before she closed the door behind her, she pulled the coat off the back of the door.
She still smelled the arctic air from the wool sleeve, as she buried her nose in the faux fur lining. It was eighty degrees outside, but she slings it over her elbow anyway.
Some things she couldn’t leave behind.
In the cab, the tongue the driver spoke was so thick even she couldn’t hardly understand it. She’d studied languages for years, practiced it in the field just as long since her job required it, but today she can’t focus. Her mind was hazy and tired. All she wants is to go home.
The signs were dirty in this city, and she wondered if she’d make it to the airport on time the way the cab went in circles.
Her life was in circles. Every thing led her to this point, and then to another that ended up where she started. The only thing that changed were the people who dropped off along the way. Now that too would stay the same. There wasn't anyone left.
Finally, she arrived, and jogged into the terminal, climbing up the escalator two steps at a time. She hasn’t brought much, just her computer and the essentials. She even forgot to put on makeup.
But as she waltzed up to the arrival/departure bulletins, Chloe discovered her flight delayed.
Her laptop bag slides off her arm when her shoulders sag. She would be irritated if she had enough energy.
Coffee.
She smelled it.
She hadn’t had a cup in the last hour or so, and she knows from experience that delays take hours. She missed the days of private jets and the other travel options she used to have. But she'd lost all those, given them up in a way. Actually, when she thought about it clearer, they were taken from her. Stripped like a privledge she'd taken for granted.
She found a seat near the wall and sets up her laptop to charge while she waits. The coffee was still hot, really hot. She liked it that way, how it burnt her tongue only enough so that when she swallowed, her mouth felt numb. It’s relaxing, the way she can't feel her tongue. It reminded her to keep quiet, and covert. Only her written words could speak for her now, the rest of her just a ghost in a crowd...
She looked around.
Other people’s flights arrived and departed on time, and she tried not to think of why its always only hers that’s late. She propped open a book she’d picked up from the last city and held it in front of her eyes, forcing herself to read the silly lines… she used to enjoy reading… it was so hard to concentrate now.
The seat next to her dipped down, and her eyes dart to the side for only a second. There was a man sitting next to her . She noticed him, waiting for her to acknowledge his company, but she doesn’t. She too concentrated on reading the last line of her book.
Three, four times over. She can't remember the last--
"We must be soul mates." And that’s when she realized he’s talking. Flirting. It almost made her laugh.
And then she realized he had said it in English. It surprised her since she hadn't spoken in her native tongue in months. It alerted her. She spied him suspiciously from the side, trying to find any deception there in his face. But she couldn't get past his eyes. Lonely, and deep. Almost like hers. He spoke into hers, his accent reminding her of a cool lake and sunshine. She didn't say much in return, just listening to the smooth pronounciations that fall from his lips. He seemed to like talking to her, and she liked listening. Chloe smiled at the very least, inside.
He went on like this for a while until she remembered she’s supposed to be waiting for her flight. She’s supposed to be going home. She packed up her things and threw her empty coffee away, thinking she should board her flight now before she has to climb over the people with obnoxious suitcases in the rows.
She said something partially witty, partially rude, only enough so he’ll get the hint that she’s leaving, without him.
But then he caught her again, and it’s the way he had said it, in that sensual, rough southern voice…
"Next time, Blondie."
It made her breath hitch and her steps slow… she turned around.
Chloe watched as he stood up: tall, and a nice, thick body underneath his clothes. She couldn't help but notice he wore familiar pattern of flannel. How cruel of him to remind her of home.
She looked into his eyes, and wanders there. He almost looked familiar to her…
*
And now she knows where she’s seen him from. He’s a cop. Probably been following her for weeks.
"So, why wait until we were up in the air? Why not arrest me at the airport?" Her legs cross easily in the confined seating area. His legs are much longer and his knees touch the seat in front of him.
"I figured you can’t run far up here." Det. Ford shrugged, reading her face. "You do have a record of evading arrest, Ms. Sullivan." He thought a moment, flipping a page,
"Or is it Ms. Lane? Just how many names do you go by anyway?"
She smiles tightly, "Well, you should know. You’ve read my criminal history."
His head nods absently, and his fingers go to his chest pocket, pulling out a set of glasses. They're those dark plastic frames, and he looks different when he puts them on and turns to her. She remembers those glasses from somewhere else.
One of the stewardest pass by, and Chloe shrinks back, trying to hide the shiny silver bracelets he's given her.
"Here," he digs out her book, the one she'd left back at the terminal, "Hold this, it might help cover those." He props it in her hands, and helps her adjust it in a way that conceals her restraints from the the other passengers.
She almost says thank you, but it's his snide smile that shuts her up. "What?"
"Nothing." He shrugs, but then says, "I just can't help but think you left that book on purpose."
"Why would I do that?"
"So I'd bring it back to you. You want to be caught."
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it?"
She's quiet, because she really can't decide if she left the book intentionally or not.
"Listen, Blondie. All women want to be saved. All of you are damsels in distress, it's proven."
Chloe narrows her eyes dangerously. "You wouldn't know the first thing about saving anyone."
The detective doesn't smile nor frown. He just ignores her.
Her face flushes, chagrin. "And all that flirting, was it really necessary?"
This time he does make an expression. "I enjoyed myself, didn't you?"
She wasn't going to answer that. He was obviously a born b*llshitter, and so could she. "Just another tactic to keep catch me off guard."
"No, not really." He peers at in with his glasses turned down, like she imagines he does in the interrogation room. "You just can't accept it that men find you attractive,can you?"
She looked at him again. "That's hardly appropriate."
"Appropriate wasn't ever my style, Gorgeous." He flicks his eyes over hers, and then readjusts his glasses.
A cloud of steam plumed over her head. She could tell that he was enjoying this, whatever this was, so she turns in her seat, as much as she could with her hands cuffed together, and shifts towards the small window overlooking the horizon. There's a entire world underneath them, she can see how the Earth curves over through time zones, and from up here, time seems irrelevant. It didn't matter where they were now or where they were going. She wasn't about to give up, and surrender to the cops now. That wasn't her.
"Don't even think about it, Sullivan." She hears beside her, and its his gruff voice that sends shivers down her arms before she feels his hand brush over the one between them. And then he says, "Even if you do escape my custody, you wont go far for the next 8 hours we're over ocean. I hope you can swim."
She smiles, sadly. And then wistfully studies the way the clouds float beneath them. "Don't worry, I can fly."
The plane moves, and Chloe thinks maybe she's disturbed it with wishful thinking.
And then again. It rocks, and shudders. The pilots comes over the intercomm, warning everyone to buckle their seatbelts.
Det. Ford reaches over and secures hers. "Just turbulence." He answers, before she can even speak. Chloe looks at the peppered stubble that ran from his chin down his neck. And then over his chest, using her eyes to scope out where exactly his pistol was stored away. She knew it had to be somewhere on his person. Only, where?
The plane shuddered again. This time violently, as if something had grabbed the plane from under it, and jerked it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
That's when Chloe felt the pit of her stomach rise into her throat, the aircraft make a violent drop. Suddenly they were all on the world's tallest, free falling rollercoaster ride.
Luggage flew from its confines, dangerously knocking passengers overhead. Chloe let her laptop slide away, carefully tucking her thick coat between her knees.
Yellow masks fell infront of them and dangled like lifelines. Before she could reach for hers, the plane makes another jump. This time she hits her head.
Det. Ford braced himself on the seat in front of him before he struggled with his seat belt.
The clouds race past her oval window, white torrents of furry whispering in her ear.
She feels him stir next to her, and he's getting up. He's going to walk down the aisle to the cockpit. He's crazy or just really stupid since his body is tilted at an angle the way the plane is flatlining down.
He looks over his shoulder, "Don't you move!" His screaming is muffled by other passengers and the screaming of the engines.
Chloe stares at him and how he stumbles away. The last she sees of him is how he waves his golden badge in the air, intrepid and firm in his stance, proceeding past eyesight.
The plane drops again, and its the terrible screeching noise that cues Chloe to shut her eyes. It wasn't going to be pretty, their landing. In fact, by the way her body shot forward, and down, it was going to be plain nasty.
And then there's a loud pop, and then suction. She feels her body pulled backward.
Her fingers strangle the coat harder, until her knuckles ache. She can feel the threads slipping as it's sucked away from her.
She opens her eyes.
*
It was cold here.
Her body wasn't telling her this since she was warm, wrapped up in her dark parka with the fuzzy fur cuddled around her cheeks. But in her memory, she remembered being here before. Chloe didn't have her coat that time, nor did she think she would turn up in the middle of the arctic one moment after being in the midwest the other.
She once huddled on the floor, in that corner, her skin so blue, and breath in desperate clouds before her lips. She remembered whispering his name, begging him to hear her...
She turned, expecting to see him there.
He wasn't.
From the look of things, no one had been here in a long time.
Chloe spread her gloved fingers across a clear, crystalized column, and admired its beauty. There wasn't a need of a reminder that these rocks were alien. Nothing like this could ever be native to Earth.
"There's only so many places on this planet that's as special as this one."
Chloe turned, nodding to a man in reading glasses, olive skin, and dark curly hair. "I know. He kept it a secret for so many years." She bit her lip, and frowned. "As it should be."
She turned to her comrade with urgency. "Dr. Hamilton. Promise me that this place will only be known to us." She pointed her eyes. "No one else."
"I promise." His dark eyes engaged hers before the chill rushed past him, causing them both to shiver. "So, this place..."
"The fortress." She corrected him, walking to where the crystals forged out of the ground.He followed her, his steps light and cautious.
"You mentioned there being an intelligence within the structure." He looked around, up and then down where a crevase had broken the floors. "I don't see any life here."
Chloe removed her glove, and layed her palm against the frozen glass surface of the ice.
And felt, nothing.
"That's because it's dead."
She followed her eyes downward where the frost swam down the deep gorge, a crater that went deeper than the light could touch. It was a black hole, the center of the fortress. With every second she peered into it, she felt the void tugging at her chest.
"It died when he did. There wasn't any purpose for it if it's son was gone." Her eyes pulled away from the hole, and to the white, crystalline console. She walked to it, stopping just short of the elevated platform. Her breath formed into a cloud before her lips, and she turned around to speak, but Emil was already there, a discerning brow lower than the other.
"You want to revive it."
Her eyes and how they concentrated on the clear ice was enough of an answer."There's a lot of knowledge in these crystals."
"It's alien technology, Chloe. Even if I am able to reconstruct it, what do you expect of it? What do you want?"
Chloe smiled, only it didn't follow to her eyes. "I have to bring him back, Emil." She turned from him, her eyes widening at the enormous hollow that was the fortress's arching structure. The spires went hundreds of feet into the air, snow falling down in fluttery flakes down to her nose. She caught one, on her lash, and she closed her eyes, her fingers gripping the cuffs of her wool sleeve...
*
Her fingers clench harder onto the whipping fabric of the sleeve. Chloe clings to the last of her coat, her fingers squinting through the blast of wind that assaulted her body. She can almost smell it, the cold whipping air. That is, if she could breath at all.
All she saw was white, pure white sailing past her.
That's when it hit her. She was in the clouds. She was flying.
Well, ofcourse she was flying. She was on a plane.
Or was she?
She looked behind her, and saw the tail section was gone. So, techinically she was on half of a plane.
Maybe she was falling.
There were many things running through her mind. The probability of survival. The probability that someone would find them crashed over an ocean. The probability that this catastrophe would only occur in her life.
But right now, all she could really think about was oxygen.
She brought her hands up to her face, the cold metal of handcuffs striking her wrists. Chloe barricaded her face with them, the wind knocking the air out of her lungs. She couldn't breathe anymore. The dangling yellow masks twisted infront of her, so she grabbed one and placed it to her mouth.
She didn't get one breath before they hit.
*
part 3
*
"Wheat Gold." Chloe read from the packaging. The lady in the beauty aisle said it was the best color they carried. Most expensive was more like it. She sighed, and ripped the plastic from the small box and opened it, a small toothpaste-like tube tumbling out and into the sink. The hair dye came with plastic gloves so she stretched them over her hands, dissatisfied when she realizes they’re huge and leave her fingers clumsy.
In the mirror, she studied how dark her hair had grown out. Chloe remembered when it was red, and how she liked it, liked how changed she looked. She tried every color, hoping that she’d find a more gratifying look than being blonde. She never could.
Chloe wet her hair, and applied the dye, squinching her nose when the smell finally hit her. It was strong and intoxicating, made her a little dizzy.
She opened the window in the tiny hotel bathroom and stuck her head out to breathe. The city air was just as fumy and bad, but the sounds of the cars and people on the street below were calming. It was a small concession of home. She closed her eyes.
She couldn’t remember what city she was in. She’d been everywhere, seen everything, and it hardly mattered where she was now. All that did matter was going home. She was ready now.
A muffled roar above interrupted her thoughts. She couldn't see it, but she felt the airplane cut through the sky, directly over her and then beyond into deeper blue. It was leaving for some other city she didn’t care about. Not unless it was hers.
And then she remembered.
"Sh*t!" Chloe banged her head against the window when she ducked away too fast. She ran to the small bedroom she’d rented for the past two weeks and started packing her things. She’d be late if she didn’t leave now, and she couldn’t believe she forgot. Again.
She glanced at the alarm clock on the night table next to the bed, hoping she wasn’t too late.
4:15
:
4:15
:
4:16
Blinking. Again.
It didn’t matter how many times she reset it, that damn clock never worked.
She walked past the TV, not paying attention to the photo of the woman on one of those "Most Wanted" shows. It looked a lot like her, except, her hair was red. Good thing she went gold.
She placed her laptop carefully in her bag, discarding of the collection of newspapers that piled next to it. She swept at the array of coffee cups that accumulated with her forearm, all but one falling into the waste basket next to the table. The last one was still warm, and had a few drops left. Chloe tilted her head all the way back to finish what was left, and then dropped her hand to the waste basket. She paused then, right before throwing the cup away, staring at the discarded newspaper headline...
QUEEN IS DEAD
She crinkled the cup in her fist and threw it at the words.
It had happened. It had finally happened. Now she really was alone.
She packed her bag and ran back to the bathroom to wash out her hair. The hair dryer smelled burnt, but she brushed until her hair shined, and bounced back. She walked away, satisfied. The color was bright and happy, almost made her feel the same way.
As she arranged her things and zipped up her jeans, the TV droned on behind her, her image at four corners and in every shade, even pink. It made a Warhol sort of effect, a different color, identity, disguise for every city she's ran from.
"…wanted in eight countries… many aliases and disguises, considered armed and dangerous--"
She turned the television off.
Turned off the room lights and grabbed her things, and before she closed the door behind her, she pulled the coat off the back of the door.
She still smelled the arctic air from the wool sleeve, as she buried her nose in the faux fur lining. It was eighty degrees outside, but she slings it over her elbow anyway.
Some things she couldn’t leave behind.
In the cab, the tongue the driver spoke was so thick even she couldn’t hardly understand it. She’d studied languages for years, practiced it in the field just as long since her job required it, but today she can’t focus. Her mind was hazy and tired. All she wants is to go home.
The signs were dirty in this city, and she wondered if she’d make it to the airport on time the way the cab went in circles.
Her life was in circles. Every thing led her to this point, and then to another that ended up where she started. The only thing that changed were the people who dropped off along the way. Now that too would stay the same. There wasn't anyone left.
Finally, she arrived, and jogged into the terminal, climbing up the escalator two steps at a time. She hasn’t brought much, just her computer and the essentials. She even forgot to put on makeup.
But as she waltzed up to the arrival/departure bulletins, Chloe discovered her flight delayed.
Her laptop bag slides off her arm when her shoulders sag. She would be irritated if she had enough energy.
Coffee.
She smelled it.
She hadn’t had a cup in the last hour or so, and she knows from experience that delays take hours. She missed the days of private jets and the other travel options she used to have. But she'd lost all those, given them up in a way. Actually, when she thought about it clearer, they were taken from her. Stripped like a privledge she'd taken for granted.
She found a seat near the wall and sets up her laptop to charge while she waits. The coffee was still hot, really hot. She liked it that way, how it burnt her tongue only enough so that when she swallowed, her mouth felt numb. It’s relaxing, the way she can't feel her tongue. It reminded her to keep quiet, and covert. Only her written words could speak for her now, the rest of her just a ghost in a crowd...
She looked around.
Other people’s flights arrived and departed on time, and she tried not to think of why its always only hers that’s late. She propped open a book she’d picked up from the last city and held it in front of her eyes, forcing herself to read the silly lines… she used to enjoy reading… it was so hard to concentrate now.
The seat next to her dipped down, and her eyes dart to the side for only a second. There was a man sitting next to her . She noticed him, waiting for her to acknowledge his company, but she doesn’t. She too concentrated on reading the last line of her book.
Three, four times over. She can't remember the last--
"We must be soul mates." And that’s when she realized he’s talking. Flirting. It almost made her laugh.
And then she realized he had said it in English. It surprised her since she hadn't spoken in her native tongue in months. It alerted her. She spied him suspiciously from the side, trying to find any deception there in his face. But she couldn't get past his eyes. Lonely, and deep. Almost like hers. He spoke into hers, his accent reminding her of a cool lake and sunshine. She didn't say much in return, just listening to the smooth pronounciations that fall from his lips. He seemed to like talking to her, and she liked listening. Chloe smiled at the very least, inside.
He went on like this for a while until she remembered she’s supposed to be waiting for her flight. She’s supposed to be going home. She packed up her things and threw her empty coffee away, thinking she should board her flight now before she has to climb over the people with obnoxious suitcases in the rows.
She said something partially witty, partially rude, only enough so he’ll get the hint that she’s leaving, without him.
But then he caught her again, and it’s the way he had said it, in that sensual, rough southern voice…
"Next time, Blondie."
It made her breath hitch and her steps slow… she turned around.
Chloe watched as he stood up: tall, and a nice, thick body underneath his clothes. She couldn't help but notice he wore familiar pattern of flannel. How cruel of him to remind her of home.
She looked into his eyes, and wanders there. He almost looked familiar to her…
*
And now she knows where she’s seen him from. He’s a cop. Probably been following her for weeks.
"So, why wait until we were up in the air? Why not arrest me at the airport?" Her legs cross easily in the confined seating area. His legs are much longer and his knees touch the seat in front of him.
"I figured you can’t run far up here." Det. Ford shrugged, reading her face. "You do have a record of evading arrest, Ms. Sullivan." He thought a moment, flipping a page,
"Or is it Ms. Lane? Just how many names do you go by anyway?"
She smiles tightly, "Well, you should know. You’ve read my criminal history."
His head nods absently, and his fingers go to his chest pocket, pulling out a set of glasses. They're those dark plastic frames, and he looks different when he puts them on and turns to her. She remembers those glasses from somewhere else.
One of the stewardest pass by, and Chloe shrinks back, trying to hide the shiny silver bracelets he's given her.
"Here," he digs out her book, the one she'd left back at the terminal, "Hold this, it might help cover those." He props it in her hands, and helps her adjust it in a way that conceals her restraints from the the other passengers.
She almost says thank you, but it's his snide smile that shuts her up. "What?"
"Nothing." He shrugs, but then says, "I just can't help but think you left that book on purpose."
"Why would I do that?"
"So I'd bring it back to you. You want to be caught."
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it?"
She's quiet, because she really can't decide if she left the book intentionally or not.
"Listen, Blondie. All women want to be saved. All of you are damsels in distress, it's proven."
Chloe narrows her eyes dangerously. "You wouldn't know the first thing about saving anyone."
The detective doesn't smile nor frown. He just ignores her.
Her face flushes, chagrin. "And all that flirting, was it really necessary?"
This time he does make an expression. "I enjoyed myself, didn't you?"
She wasn't going to answer that. He was obviously a born b*llshitter, and so could she. "Just another tactic to keep catch me off guard."
"No, not really." He peers at in with his glasses turned down, like she imagines he does in the interrogation room. "You just can't accept it that men find you attractive,can you?"
She looked at him again. "That's hardly appropriate."
"Appropriate wasn't ever my style, Gorgeous." He flicks his eyes over hers, and then readjusts his glasses.
A cloud of steam plumed over her head. She could tell that he was enjoying this, whatever this was, so she turns in her seat, as much as she could with her hands cuffed together, and shifts towards the small window overlooking the horizon. There's a entire world underneath them, she can see how the Earth curves over through time zones, and from up here, time seems irrelevant. It didn't matter where they were now or where they were going. She wasn't about to give up, and surrender to the cops now. That wasn't her.
"Don't even think about it, Sullivan." She hears beside her, and its his gruff voice that sends shivers down her arms before she feels his hand brush over the one between them. And then he says, "Even if you do escape my custody, you wont go far for the next 8 hours we're over ocean. I hope you can swim."
She smiles, sadly. And then wistfully studies the way the clouds float beneath them. "Don't worry, I can fly."
The plane moves, and Chloe thinks maybe she's disturbed it with wishful thinking.
And then again. It rocks, and shudders. The pilots comes over the intercomm, warning everyone to buckle their seatbelts.
Det. Ford reaches over and secures hers. "Just turbulence." He answers, before she can even speak. Chloe looks at the peppered stubble that ran from his chin down his neck. And then over his chest, using her eyes to scope out where exactly his pistol was stored away. She knew it had to be somewhere on his person. Only, where?
The plane shuddered again. This time violently, as if something had grabbed the plane from under it, and jerked it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
That's when Chloe felt the pit of her stomach rise into her throat, the aircraft make a violent drop. Suddenly they were all on the world's tallest, free falling rollercoaster ride.
Luggage flew from its confines, dangerously knocking passengers overhead. Chloe let her laptop slide away, carefully tucking her thick coat between her knees.
Yellow masks fell infront of them and dangled like lifelines. Before she could reach for hers, the plane makes another jump. This time she hits her head.
Det. Ford braced himself on the seat in front of him before he struggled with his seat belt.
The clouds race past her oval window, white torrents of furry whispering in her ear.
She feels him stir next to her, and he's getting up. He's going to walk down the aisle to the cockpit. He's crazy or just really stupid since his body is tilted at an angle the way the plane is flatlining down.
He looks over his shoulder, "Don't you move!" His screaming is muffled by other passengers and the screaming of the engines.
Chloe stares at him and how he stumbles away. The last she sees of him is how he waves his golden badge in the air, intrepid and firm in his stance, proceeding past eyesight.
The plane drops again, and its the terrible screeching noise that cues Chloe to shut her eyes. It wasn't going to be pretty, their landing. In fact, by the way her body shot forward, and down, it was going to be plain nasty.
And then there's a loud pop, and then suction. She feels her body pulled backward.
Her fingers strangle the coat harder, until her knuckles ache. She can feel the threads slipping as it's sucked away from her.
She opens her eyes.
*
It was cold here.
Her body wasn't telling her this since she was warm, wrapped up in her dark parka with the fuzzy fur cuddled around her cheeks. But in her memory, she remembered being here before. Chloe didn't have her coat that time, nor did she think she would turn up in the middle of the arctic one moment after being in the midwest the other.
She once huddled on the floor, in that corner, her skin so blue, and breath in desperate clouds before her lips. She remembered whispering his name, begging him to hear her...
She turned, expecting to see him there.
He wasn't.
From the look of things, no one had been here in a long time.
Chloe spread her gloved fingers across a clear, crystalized column, and admired its beauty. There wasn't a need of a reminder that these rocks were alien. Nothing like this could ever be native to Earth.
"There's only so many places on this planet that's as special as this one."
Chloe turned, nodding to a man in reading glasses, olive skin, and dark curly hair. "I know. He kept it a secret for so many years." She bit her lip, and frowned. "As it should be."
She turned to her comrade with urgency. "Dr. Hamilton. Promise me that this place will only be known to us." She pointed her eyes. "No one else."
"I promise." His dark eyes engaged hers before the chill rushed past him, causing them both to shiver. "So, this place..."
"The fortress." She corrected him, walking to where the crystals forged out of the ground.He followed her, his steps light and cautious.
"You mentioned there being an intelligence within the structure." He looked around, up and then down where a crevase had broken the floors. "I don't see any life here."
Chloe removed her glove, and layed her palm against the frozen glass surface of the ice.
And felt, nothing.
"That's because it's dead."
She followed her eyes downward where the frost swam down the deep gorge, a crater that went deeper than the light could touch. It was a black hole, the center of the fortress. With every second she peered into it, she felt the void tugging at her chest.
"It died when he did. There wasn't any purpose for it if it's son was gone." Her eyes pulled away from the hole, and to the white, crystalline console. She walked to it, stopping just short of the elevated platform. Her breath formed into a cloud before her lips, and she turned around to speak, but Emil was already there, a discerning brow lower than the other.
"You want to revive it."
Her eyes and how they concentrated on the clear ice was enough of an answer."There's a lot of knowledge in these crystals."
"It's alien technology, Chloe. Even if I am able to reconstruct it, what do you expect of it? What do you want?"
Chloe smiled, only it didn't follow to her eyes. "I have to bring him back, Emil." She turned from him, her eyes widening at the enormous hollow that was the fortress's arching structure. The spires went hundreds of feet into the air, snow falling down in fluttery flakes down to her nose. She caught one, on her lash, and she closed her eyes, her fingers gripping the cuffs of her wool sleeve...
*
Her fingers clench harder onto the whipping fabric of the sleeve. Chloe clings to the last of her coat, her fingers squinting through the blast of wind that assaulted her body. She can almost smell it, the cold whipping air. That is, if she could breath at all.
All she saw was white, pure white sailing past her.
That's when it hit her. She was in the clouds. She was flying.
Well, ofcourse she was flying. She was on a plane.
Or was she?
She looked behind her, and saw the tail section was gone. So, techinically she was on half of a plane.
Maybe she was falling.
There were many things running through her mind. The probability of survival. The probability that someone would find them crashed over an ocean. The probability that this catastrophe would only occur in her life.
But right now, all she could really think about was oxygen.
She brought her hands up to her face, the cold metal of handcuffs striking her wrists. Chloe barricaded her face with them, the wind knocking the air out of her lungs. She couldn't breathe anymore. The dangling yellow masks twisted infront of her, so she grabbed one and placed it to her mouth.
She didn't get one breath before they hit.
*
part 3
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)