T. Oso (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
campkilkare) wrote2008-12-29 12:26 pm
campkilkare) wrote2008-12-29 12:26 pm
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"People get into this work for lots of reasons, Bailey," the lieutenant says. "What about you?"
"I want to do some good," she says.
"You had most of two years in the Ivy League." Which is true, even if the papers are faked. Even if it was in another world.
"It wasn't me," she says. "It was what my mom wanted. I think she wanted me to be like her--business, law, politics. Sometimes I think she wanted me to be president. So I left, to find something that was me. Something concrete."
There are other reasons. A dead man. And--when you've got a gift, you've got to use it. Fearlessness, ruthlessness, heightened senses, heightened reflexes, perfect aim. Lots of options.
"You think you can be a fireman?"
Unless you're hoping not to have to kill anybody. Not as a general rule. Then maybe it narrows down to one. Because the world is burning, and it's a jolly thing to share khef. Which is water.
"No sir." She grins, quick and bright. "I'm lacking a qualification. But I am a fighter."
***
"When do I get to meet your parents?"
"You don't." Too much to explain. The cars, the TV shows, the newspapers. "I never see them anymore, anyway."
"That's the deal?"
Alice nods. "That's the deal." (The names.)
Zora smiles, small and sweet and a little sad. "Okay."
That's the deal.
***
Twenty minutes to go on a dead dog shift, and the goddamn probie says, "Looks like you caught a quiet one for your anniversary, Allie."
And before they can knock wood the alarm screams.
There are bodies, some burned and some pale and unmarked and just as dead, with the cherry-red lips of carbon monoxide poisoning. Six hours later, she comes home to cold food and lips scarlet with make-up, a special night, and she can't look her in the face and she can't talk, because secrecy is genetic. It runs in families.
She can't talk.
***
Sleeping alone, the nightmare comes back. Her mother's building is on fire, the only thing that matters, the fire jumping across every inch of Manhattan and lighting it all up, and her mother squirming in the blaze.
"Come," says the lieu. "Reap."
The hoses don't do anything, because there's no balm in Gilead. The pump don't work 'cause the vandals took the handle.
***
Not every phone can make this call, but she's been watching for her luckey quarter.
"Mom?" she says.
"Rose?" The voice on the phone is old; withered in the fires of time. "Is that Rose?"
"It's me, mom," Alice says, not knowing what else to say. "It's me. Can I come home for a little while?"
"Yes," says her mother's voice, sounding stronger now, full of life and light and the promise-- "Always."
***
Later, when things are much worse, she'll remember that. The promise and the power. Everything a gunslinger should be. But her mother couldn't keep that promise.
So what chance does she have?
Where's that rock of ages when you need it most?
"I want to do some good," she says.
"You had most of two years in the Ivy League." Which is true, even if the papers are faked. Even if it was in another world.
"It wasn't me," she says. "It was what my mom wanted. I think she wanted me to be like her--business, law, politics. Sometimes I think she wanted me to be president. So I left, to find something that was me. Something concrete."
There are other reasons. A dead man. And--when you've got a gift, you've got to use it. Fearlessness, ruthlessness, heightened senses, heightened reflexes, perfect aim. Lots of options.
"You think you can be a fireman?"
Unless you're hoping not to have to kill anybody. Not as a general rule. Then maybe it narrows down to one. Because the world is burning, and it's a jolly thing to share khef. Which is water.
"No sir." She grins, quick and bright. "I'm lacking a qualification. But I am a fighter."
***
"When do I get to meet your parents?"
"You don't." Too much to explain. The cars, the TV shows, the newspapers. "I never see them anymore, anyway."
"That's the deal?"
Alice nods. "That's the deal." (The names.)
Zora smiles, small and sweet and a little sad. "Okay."
That's the deal.
***
Twenty minutes to go on a dead dog shift, and the goddamn probie says, "Looks like you caught a quiet one for your anniversary, Allie."
And before they can knock wood the alarm screams.
There are bodies, some burned and some pale and unmarked and just as dead, with the cherry-red lips of carbon monoxide poisoning. Six hours later, she comes home to cold food and lips scarlet with make-up, a special night, and she can't look her in the face and she can't talk, because secrecy is genetic. It runs in families.
She can't talk.
***
Sleeping alone, the nightmare comes back. Her mother's building is on fire, the only thing that matters, the fire jumping across every inch of Manhattan and lighting it all up, and her mother squirming in the blaze.
"Come," says the lieu. "Reap."
The hoses don't do anything, because there's no balm in Gilead. The pump don't work 'cause the vandals took the handle.
***
Not every phone can make this call, but she's been watching for her luckey quarter.
"Mom?" she says.
"Rose?" The voice on the phone is old; withered in the fires of time. "Is that Rose?"
"It's me, mom," Alice says, not knowing what else to say. "It's me. Can I come home for a little while?"
"Yes," says her mother's voice, sounding stronger now, full of life and light and the promise-- "Always."
***
Later, when things are much worse, she'll remember that. The promise and the power. Everything a gunslinger should be. But her mother couldn't keep that promise.
So what chance does she have?
Where's that rock of ages when you need it most?