Rain pattered softly on the windows, a gentle breeze blowing some of the
drops through the smashed door to mingle with the salt water already on the
boy's face. The same breeze might have been the one to blow the leaf onto
the man's boot; and now the blaze of orange was the only thing that the boy
could see.
It was almost the same colour as her hair.
The leaf seemed to leach all the colour from the room, burning brighter even
than the heat pouring from the hole in his stomach and over his clenched
hands. It was the only deviation from the stark blackness of the man's
clothing and it seemed to be his only connection to the real world, the
world outside the pain—so he clung to it as the room turned grey, barely
noticing as a gunshot cut his mother off halfway through screaming his
father's name.
But she was okay, and that seemed to be the only important thing. She
wasn't theirs, not in any real sense, but she belonged much more with them
than she ever could in the laboratories and testing facilities she had come
from. And since they had taken her and moved to America, since the night of
desperate escape, he had loved his little sister more than anything... had
been willing to die for her.
So as he saw her white face appear at the kitchen door he shook his head
desperately to tell her to run, to not let them take her again—but she came
to him anyway. And from the resigned expression on her face he could see
that she knew they would take her. And inwardly he screamed at her, because
what good could it do now? But she dropped to her knees beside him, and her
face was the last thing he saw before the blackness crept in at the edges of
his vision...
And then he saw a bright light, and although he knew that he couldn't hear
her, her voice was inside his head telling him that everything would be
okay, that she would be fine. That she couldn't let him die.
And the heat in his stomach changed to a bolt of white-hot pain and he
passed out, silently screaming "Natalya!"
The room was beautiful. It was the largest room he had ever been in—the
four poster bed alone seemed bigger than his bedroom had been in the only
house they had been able to afford. The hangings and the bedclothes were
heavily embroidered, and the sheets were silk... but not for his benefit.
There was oak panelling all around the four walls, the expanse of wood
broken only by tasteful landscapes by Constable, and a large poster of the
Sex Pistols.
The poster seemed to be the only concession to individuality in the
otherwise impersonal room. Comfortable and opulent, it was still only as
welcoming as a hotel room—but he didn't care. It was as good a place as
any, and it wasn't as if he had anywhere else that he could go.
There was only thing that he wanted. Well... two, really. Four years had
passed, and he still woke screaming her name in the middle of the night; but
he thought he could bear that if he could just find the key.
There were two doors to his bedroom. One of them opened to the hallway, and
therefore to the rest of the house, to the grounds—to the only freedom he
knew. And the other door... that led to his room. The old man. His mentor,
his benefactor; in many ways, his surrogate father... in too many ways. He
had hoped that it would be over. And if he could just lock that door when he
went to bed at night then maybe he could be happy here.
But that was never going to be an option.
"Alexander?"
He stiffened slightly, and his face turned once again to the expressionless
mask that was his only defence. He hated the anglicised name. He was Alexei
Peter Krycek—named for his grandfathers. But the old man wouldn't allow him
contact with his past—he had been beaten whenever he had spoken his mother
tongue until his English was flawless.
He turned away from the window, where he had been watching a fox warily
approaching the trap that had been set for it—willing it to escape
unharmed. Just before he lost sight of it he saw it jump sideways and take
flight into the woods... and he nearly smiled.
It was almost the same colour as her hair.
The old man liked him in preppy clothes—smart and demure, with his hair
neatlly parted to the side—so the haircut had partly been directed at him.
As had the leather pants, tight black top and studded black collar he was
wearing... not that he knew about that part. Any more than he knew about
the fact that Alex was anywhere outside the house and grounds that had to
all intents and purposes held him prisoner for so long.
He never told Alex where he was going, or for how long, but Alex was
resourceful—exactly as the old man was working so hard to train him to be-
which was how he knew he was safe, at least for tonight. So he had gone back
again, to a place of darkness and anonymity—a place where no one knew your
name, where it wasn't important that you knew. Most of the men here would be
married, with 2.4 children and a walk-in closet that they couldn't walk out
of... but a couple of others were like him.
It took longer than usual—he had almost finished his beer before he was
approached. Alex hadn't seen this guy before, and he realised that most of
the regulars were deliberately avoiding his eyes. They must have heard...
but the guy had pulled a knife. And it wasn't like he'd killed him.
The alley was darker than the inside of the bar, and for that he was
grateful. It was easier to do this if he didn't have to see them, knew that
they couild barely see him. It made submitting to them that little bit
easier, made it harder for them to see the disgust in his eyes. And it
wasn't so much for them as it was for himself.
He swallowed hard to keep from gagging at the taste on the back of his
tongue, and accepted the money with the same indifference as he had accepted
the attempted caresses. He didn't need it. He watched as the man old enough
to be his father slowly walked away, then he dropped to his knees once again
and searched single-mindedly through the rubbish.
He clenched his teeth and his hand shook slightly as the glass bit deeply
into his thigh, crossing other scars old and new alike. Dark blood welled in
the path his hand had taken, and the pain was a line of ice-cold fire across
his leg; a fire that had never stopped burning in all the years she'd been
gone. And bringing the fire to the surface helped to distract him from the
other pain for a while. He pulled his pants back up, smearing the well of
blood, and wakled out onto the street.
The streetlights turned everything orange... but he could barely remember
the colour of her hair.
He pushed his face harder into the pillow, and wished that suffocation was
possible. The old man was already spent, but Alex didn't want to face him,
didn't want him to see the tear tracks on his cheeks. So he just closed his
eyes and hid in the pillow, like a child waiting for the bogeyman to
disappear.
"Where is it, Alex?" He made no reply. "I want the knife, Alex. I don't want
you to keep doing this." The Brit reached over and lightly stroked his
shoulder, but removed his hand when the young man visibly flinched. "No
matter." He rolled out of Alex's bed and padded softly across the thick
carpet towards his room—but he didn't leave, not yet. Alex sighed and
turned over, looking at him expressionlessly.
"You are a young man of singular talents, Alex. I am a member of a group
that could use someone of your abilities. You will meet with us tomorrow."
His free will was no longer an issue.
"Okay." His softly voiced reply was obviously what the man had been waiting
for, because at this he turned and left the room. And Alex waited until the
door had clicked closed before he reached under the mattress for the knife;
tears running unnoticed down his cheeks as he took his temporary escape
route.
NB I actually wrote this when I was supposed to be writing a timed English
essay. The teacher said he didn't care what we did as long as we were quiet.
Then he made us hand them in... erk! But he liked it. :)
Exercises in Futility
by Beth
He was 13 when the world ended.
