untitledA Story by LoperForLifeHey! I need some honest criticism on this... Just an idea so far, but I hope to develop it into a story. I'm also searching for an editor to help contribute chapters and do what editors do! PM meHe
leans his head against my shoulder, and I smile and inhale his earthy, clean
distinctive scent of waterfalls, fresh cut grass, and an underscore of vanilla.
Firelight dances off his impossibly long eyelashes, and with a serene light in
his ice blue eyes and softness to his unclenched jaw, he almost seems boyish,
vulnerable. These moments are rare, and as I run my fingers through his soft,
unruly hair, I can’t help but marvel at how easily his powerful build can relax
into something so seemingly innocent. Flames flicking their fingers
around foraged logs and twigs, the crackling of fire is the only sound hanging
in the house besides our soft breathing. The rug we sit on is threadbare, and
the wooden floors beneath it well aged. The wind presses against the sides of
the house, yet its hungry reach bounces harmlessly against the solid oak
panels, dancing away into the night. *** “Are
you kidding me?” I snap, and I struggle to keep my tone from sounding
desperate, “I’m being taken out of the rotation? You know…” I’m cut off by
deep, sarcastic tones that emanate throughout my being, rumbling deep in my
eardrum. “What
do I know, Calista? That you’ve been constantly blowing our cover? Straying
from your post? Calista, we’re in a war here, and we can’t have people like you
put us in worse positions than we already are,” a pause, and the tension on the
intertenna’s line is nearly tangible before his voice, angry and tired,
resumes, “what exactly is the reason
you’re so desperate to stay on rotation? Especially at Delta 0?” I bite
the inside of my cheek, gold tipped teeth ripping into flesh, and blood flows
freely before I feel nanos scrambling to patch up the small incision. One perk
of many that the Remake us spies went through came with. “No reason, but you
know I was on a case, and,” I protest, blinking before his face pops up in the
corner of my vision. “Calista,
we both know why you insist at staying at Delta 0,” his nearly pitch black eyes
are serious, softening a bit, “but we both know he’s not going to be there,”
his chiseled jaw relaxes slightly, eyes almost apologetic. “That’s
not the only reason,” I nearly whisper, swallowing a small, choked lump in my
throat before standing up. Rolling my shoulders back, I shut off any escape
route for tears. With another blink of my eye and a twist of a ring on my
finger, his voice and face disappears instantly. I’m going to be in trouble
later. Lots of trouble. But we’re both used to it by now. Letting
a small cough out of the deep confines of my lungs, I squint against the
weather, wind whipping across my face and stinging my skin with thousands of
ice crystals, and I take a final glance around me. Nothing but abandoned
buildings and silent ally ways. It’s been the same for the eight years I’ve
been serving. I know the roof I stand on used to house thousands of Intercity
members, used to be apartments. All its inhabitatns moved as soon as the Great
War blossomed into a full-fledged fight and realized they would be the first to
be touched by the outer districts. Cowards,
the whole lot of them. But they did leave me a great post for watching the
city. Nothing
new to report today, but the sight is fantastic. A slick sheet of deadly ice
clings to every surface of the shining, rich city. Everything seems to thrive. The
lights never flicker once, thousands of people merrily go on their way, ensured
by the presence of Troopers clad in solemn white armor, helmets enclosing their
faces with a deceptively simple bullet proof visor. Impressive stun guns and
electricity laced paralyzers hang off of belts, and I can’t help but compare
our technology to theirs. The war
isn’t going so well for the Rebels. It’s been nine years since the
Outerdistricts rebelled against the Intercity’s rule, trying to deter their
ironclad grip on the slowly failing districts. The outerdistricts were used for
defense against other countries by the Intercity, and the lack of fair
treatment eventually got to us. Now, we live in one big district on a strict
itinerary, and everyone does their part. Sometimes, though, I question the
validity of the war we’re fighting. It’s been nine years and going nowhere, and
has been at an essential standstill. Our technology struggles to keep up with
theirs, and our Leading Commander, John Payne, refuses to make any advances, as
does the Capital. The result is an increased wartime, limited resources, and
lack of other countries interested in an alliance. Oftentimes, I wonder if he
really has our best interests in mind. With a
wistful glance back at the city, and still not seeing the man I’m looking for,
I shake the sleep out of my legs, Smartscales coiling together into a warm
insulator the color of the grey sky. Rolling my shoulders back, I take two
large bounds across the roof towards a grey and white veil of twirling, dancing
crystalline figurines. Then, I’m flying. *** “Where have you been?” My mother frets as
she meets me at the door of our small one storied flat. Wringing her hands
anxiously in her ragged apron, I’ve caused enough another few threads strain
against their companions in an ugly stretch of soft fabric. “Sorry to worry you,” I say,
cautiously brushing by her. Her green eyes follow my progress across the flat
into the kitchen, where a small mound of gathered potatoes sits, uncooked, next
to a slab of venison. Pumping a small stream of water over my hands, I set a
pot of water to boil over the well-tended fire in hearth, “where’s Dad?” “Out, again,” Mom says
evasively, aged hands efficiently twisting greens into the pot. “You mean with the Rebels.” I
state, eyes carefully settled on the potatoes I’m chopping, and my knuckles
turn white with the grip I have on the ragged knife. “Calista, your father’s going to
be,” “Home.” A gruff voice finishes
her sentence, and my father steps into the room, out of the wind, “Have you
practiced on the range today?” He asks briskly, not bothering with hello’s and
typical greetings, as is his nature. Relief washes over me. Every day he
associates with the Rebels is another nail in his coffin. “Yes, papa,” I say, voice light
and serious to hide the smallest inkling of irritation I have with my artfully
scheduled life, and relief that makes me vulnerable to criticism, “I just
missed one.” “Keep shooting,” he says
vaguely, before turning away. Mom meets my eyes, and with what’s supposed to be
a reassuring smile, turns back to fiddling with the wilting greens. I walk
into the Complex’s training center, out of the cold. I haven’t turned on my
intertenna since Payne’s allocution, and I stare straight ahead, ignoring the
amazed, irritated, and awe struck gazes shot my way. I’ve become used to it. Their
gazes intermingle with chipping paint on the once-white, now yellow floor and
weak fluorescent lights. It’s a depression combination. I try
making a beeline across the cold gym floor to the punching bags, but a heavy
hand lands on my shoulder. I tense in aggravation and yank myself from the
tight grasp. “What
do you want?” I ask belligerently, rubbing my shoulder as I whirl around to
confront Payne. His eyes are filled with sparks of agitation, nearly igniting
into an angry inferno. I see a flash of biceps flexing, before he delivers a
swift slap to my face that sends me sliding sideways to the ground, and my
vision is filled with splotches of black. “I told
you to never turn of your intertenna,” his soft voice says menacingly, the assertive
murmur seeming to echo around the now silent gym, “if you’d have been caught,
or run into trouble, you’d have put us all in trouble. Never mind you,” his
imposing stature towering over my own. I prop
myself onto my elbow, catching my breath with a deep inhale, and my vision
slowly returns to me. Ignoring the smarting on the side of my face, I push my
hair back and glare up at him, “What’s it matter,” I say bitterly, “I’m getting
taken off that rotation anyways.” He
seems to be fighting back a smartass comment, characterized by a deep sigh, and
eyes upcast towards the flickering fluorescents, “It’s just how it has to be,
and we both know,” “he’s
not there,” I finish for him, glaring at the intricate scrolling tattoo on his
neck, the pitch black ink rippling with agitation. “it’s
true, for God’s sake, Calista, it’s no use,” he’s nearly yelling now. “Is it
really so bad that I keep after my own
cause?” My tone nearly matches his, and I stand up, bristling in fury, “that I
keep hope, even after my family was killed, that one person I love is still
alive?” I step forward, anger urging my feet to move, until I’m standing less
than a foot away from him, glaring up at his tense jaw. His strong, masculine
scent washes over me, and he shakes his head in some sort of emotion before
turning away and walking through the sea of silent eyes. *** His grin is a façade of confidence, masking
a sad glint in his eyes, yet I know his mind is set as he squeezes my hand for
the last time. His fingers slide away, and his ice blue eyes are set with
determination and never leave mine. “I love you,” he says softly,
just within my hearing. He shifts his green canvas knapsack up his SmartScale
clad back, and turns slowly, walking with his shoulders thrown back and chin
up, towards the waiting train. The smoke from the train mingles with the icy
sleet pattering wickedly against the ground, yet I feel nothing. He disappears
into the metal beast, and I’m still overcome by numbness as it pulls away. © 2013 LoperForLifeAuthor's Note
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