Brokenhearts
Rank 15 (On Angie's Level)
Beware, all ye who talk 2 me
Posts: 4,934
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Post by Brokenhearts on Aug 7, 2007 12:24:41 GMT -5
(the name's a working progress, and its been kinda makin its way up in mi mind since i read orewell's 1984 about 6 or 7 months ago [need 2 read it again, bt i cnt find our copy @ home] its also sort of been more desperate 4 me 2 rite since the BNP [british national party- basically want a 'pure' britain, all whites, all protestant blah blah blah] won a seat in the last brit election, kinda freaked the hell outta me coz tht means ppl r startin 2 believe in them... so this was born... kinda...)
Her
Her oddly reddish eyes were fixed on the expressionless face before her. Loathing, disgust… putrid, unstoppable hate filled her being causing her fists to flex, pulling her muscles taunt. It was almost painful to her powerful, hard body to feel such forceful emotion and yet be unable to do a thing about it.
She would have liked to punch him. She would have loved to hurt him; kick him, scratch him, bite him, hit him. All within an inch of his life and to finally pull him close to her, so she could hear his ragged breath close to her ears, feel the rapid fearful beating of his heart on her ribs. She would have loved to whisper in that dying man’s ear “you’ve lost… you have nothing… you’ve been killed by the one thing you despise…” she would kiss him and slide the dagger in her hands between hs ribs and stop his heart once and for all.
The fingers of her left hand clenched round the bloody dagger in her possession.
She would have loved to do it… but she could not.
He was the top Power. The dictator of Britain. Of Europe! He was the disgusting ‘Big Brother’ of the nightmarish world George Orewell created. Only he was reality. He was Richard Paxman. The one and only true leader of the now failing, pathetic continent.
She sighed and turned away from the poster before she lost her mind entirely. It had recently become harder and harder to do so. Every time she so much as glanced at that face, with his large blue eyes, cropped golden blonde hair and strong, clean shaven features, she was overwhelmed with the feeling of unadulterated blood lust. A feeling that shook her very soul to the point where she feared loosing the human part of her.
Swallowing hard, she moved away and turned her back on the poster covering the large wall. She had to get away from there. There was blood everywhere. She had cleaned herself up, but the little bastard had struggled against her and managed to cut her arm. Her luck managed to keep hold though, he had only cut her arm in his moment of death. No blood of hers had spilt on the scene and she had dealt with it quickly.
She looked around the posh room. If it hadn’t been for all the congealing red, it could have been beautiful. Deep soft Mediterranean carpets smothered the floors. The furniture was beautiful carved mahogany, softened by the rich colours of velvet pillows. Ornaments decorated to large fire place opposite of Lord Richard (or Duke Dick as she so lovingly referred to him as), ornaments from England and beyond, almost hopefully trying to portray a man who travelled beyond the boarders of the known country. Pictures on the wall too gave a pathetic attempt at the same illusion, and failed miserably. The few pictures that showed people were not of family; none bore an element of resemblance to the fat, pompous, dead man at her feet.
Her research showed that the Treasurer of the Power had no family, blood related or adopted. The few friends he possessed were far more like associates than anything.
The only thing to miss him was his cat, and even that seemed to have taken a liking to the strange female in tight black clothing, smelling slightly of death.
It sniffed at it’s ex-master and trotted over to her for attention.
“Hello, gorgeous,” she smiled, picking it up, “will you come home with me then?”
The cat purred and rubbed it’s head against her cheek. The assassin was in love.
“Hold onto me tight then,” she whispered, as the cat allowed her to drape it across her shoulders, careful to avoid her blade.
She sheathed it, not caring it was blood stained. She glanced round the room one last time and left via the back door into the garden and seemingly disappeared into thin air.
Anyone watching may have even disbelieved their eyes that anyone had been there. Her clothes were so black that they were camouflaged by the darkness of the almost non-existent light of the moon smothered by clouds.
This was Hataya. Advocate for the oppressed. Embodiment of all the Power despised. Freedom fighter. Terrorist. Martyr. Murderer. Saint. Assassin.
A female who’s origins were only known of in rumours. Who’s history drew a blank to those who looked for the truth. Who’s identity was only known as this almost mythical being of Hataya. A footprint in the sands of memory.
The one person who appeared to have the audacity to bring Lord Richard to his knees and make him kiss her feet before shooting him between his eyes.
The worst part for the Power? She was well on her way to doing so.
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Post by Techy on Aug 8, 2007 14:34:59 GMT -5
Oh, I like it! I was slightly confused during the part where she went from looking at the poster to being in the room, but it all cleared up when I kept reading.
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Brokenhearts
Rank 15 (On Angie's Level)
Beware, all ye who talk 2 me
Posts: 4,934
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Post by Brokenhearts on Aug 8, 2007 18:41:17 GMT -5
wow XD im so glad u liked it!!!! its REALLY complecated… it's got about a million threads going thru it so it needs alot of tyin up and suck to 2, but it's so much fun to rite and all the threads tie up in the end. hope u like this bit too :/ GEORGE George Smith was a journalist. Of sorts. It was so much harder to get anything printed these days. Duke Dick, as a girl he once knew and loved had so lovingly called the Lord Richard whilst grinning from ear to ear, was in charge of what was printed and who was punished as a result. Arguments against the Power were allowed, but frowned upon, and if the same author repeated this criticism remorselessly they were wiped out. Erased. It drove George mad! Only if she had been there… that girl who had first given Lord Richard that nick name that had become so popular with those who opposed him. The girl who had been his best friend, his confidante. Together they had written articles that could both get their point across and not get them into trouble at the same time. But she had gone. Disappeared. He was certain she had been erased. Otherwise he would have been too, they had been too close, and been seen in public too often together. Further more there were posters to find her. Yet she wasn’t there any more. No one had seen her since that fateful night. He could still hear her screams for the people around her to run. The gunshots going off. The stench of blood in the air, the tang of blood hung like a mist. Ever since, she had disappeared. He shook his head, pushing her image away from his mind. He still missed her. Only since his editor had sent him on the wild goose chase to find the murder of Treasurer Hanson, Chief Treasurer to the Power, had George started to remember her. And it was painful. He couldn’t even bare to say her name. The problem was that for the same reasons that it made his heart ache for her, he couldn’t stop researching, and looking for more and more clues. Though the actually story covering how the Treasurer was killed, the way, how the police were handling it and so on were sorted, as that was all was officially known. As he read it back to himself he realised he had only achieved the required space because he added things in, still relevant, but not official. In other words, the police knew nothing. The police woman who George had gotten drunk enough to tell him what was going on hadn’t told him much: the police only had suspicions rather than solid proof. From the forces of the wounds applied to the body by a blade, they thought they were looking for a man. However, there were shoes prints of small feet in the blood, so either this man was small or it was a powerful woman. The police woman told George than she personally thought it was a short man, the crime scene had been pretty much painted in blood. The annoying thing was that there was no DNA of any kind of the murderer, all the blood belonged to the murder victim, if there was any blood from the culprit it would have been far too dilute. They also seemed to have cleaned the body, then rolled it round in his own blood to avoid any DNA having gotten caught under his fingernails and so forth. This murderer was clever and thought ahead. They weren’t taking any chances. The problem was, as she was drunk, the woman let slip something else. There had been a symbol etched on the poster of Lord Richard in the room of the murder. It was a combination of a star and crescent moon of Islam (a religion iradicated by the Power and only practised under ground) and an Orthodox cross (a faction of Christianity forced underground along with Catholicism). This had made George gasp, and the woman stop talking, realising through her clouded mind that she had said far too much. She left in a hurry, George scribbling down what he had heard and then rushing home, in case the newly formed Watchers were about, but where he was there were mostly police people, which usually meant they were totally brain washed by by the Power. That combination of the once two opposing religions was the sign of a person who until recently had been seen as an urban myth. To the poorer people after the Revolution this person was known as Memory as their presence reminded the elders of stories of old, when strong men and woman would overcome the dictatorship of a land. Though they were only stories, it kept the elders going to remember such things. This person however lit the candles of rebellion in the younger generation. Of those who did not know those stories if their elders did not speak of them, or barely believed in such fantasies, this person was the one thing that made them consider what could happen if they tried to rise up. They could make a difference.
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Brokenhearts
Rank 15 (On Angie's Level)
Beware, all ye who talk 2 me
Posts: 4,934
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Post by Brokenhearts on Aug 9, 2007 5:38:30 GMT -5
GEORGE cont.
There only a few rumours flying around about Memory, a few things people had down as facts about them:
- Memory was female, which interestingly enough did nothing to dent ego’s of them who looked up to her and found her a great inspiration, even those old enough to remember times of when females were supposedly equal and there was still a long way to go, since the proclaimed Revolution- females were as powerful as men and were paid exactly the same and so forth.
-She was young, for a freedom fighter, about thirty some said. Though no one actually claimed to have seen her to be able to confirm this rumour.
-Similarly, another was the fact that she was a mixed race person. No one knew for sure what type of mix, but they knew it was a mix all the same. Or were sure it was at any rate. It was unlikely that a purely white person would take such drastic actions against the Power, but there were many who swore they would support her no matter what. Further more it seemed to give people more hope to think she was a mixed race, almost making her a matyr.
-Finally there was the mystery of her name. No one alive would claim to know the real Memory, but she was known by more than one name. Her official name was a right slap in the face for the governemnt. Hataya, a foreighn name. It was a Native American name that meant footprint in the sand, which would be a more complex way of putting ‘memory’. But the nick name Memory arose from other things.
The problem with his imformation was that he did not know for certain if they were true or not. He had them from talk in the pubs with the peoples, from whispers between school children and rebellious teenagers. Naibours and friends gathering for a quick chat. It was all bits and pieces he had picked up, but they were all very similar. The fact tht she was mixed, that she was young, that she was she, those all stayed. It was the details that blurred, yet that seemed to be very much beside the point.Further more, he reasoned that all rumours steamed from truth, in his diggings he hoped to find the root… if he could just trace people back.
Frowning to himself, George put his hard copies of his findings underneath a loose floor board that he had created away from the placed one he had found when he first moved there. It was safer to make his own.
Once done that he returned to his computer and scanned his piece once more. Not once had he mentioned Memory’s name, either one. But his hints were less than subtle to clever, analytical minds could notice that he thought it was the rebel doing such things to the Power. Political minds in the Power wouldn’t think that anyone else would notice such things. They were so pompous.
George resolved then and there to write a follow up to the story, telling them of his suspicions that Memory was behind it. That she was out there to free them, that the end of the dictatorship could be in sight.
The thought scared him, if anyone found it, he’d be killed. He suddenly didn’t care. He had been infect by the hope that Memory’s simple sign instigated by appearing in the poorest areas as well as the richest. George had been nursing a spark of rebellion in his soul since she had disappeared. His need to have revenge for her had created the spark, and kept him going. But it was Memory commitance of the murder, opening a window to him, that fuelled him. It was as though Memory had poured a volatile petrol over his small spark of hatred and revenge and turned it into a raging fire. He now didn’t care about his own life, if he died for the greater good than he would have done something for his fellow man.
He could feel a change. It was in the air. In the very fabric of their existence. But the out come of this was still invisible. It would either end in a war where the people would over come their fear and over throw the Power and become their own selves again. Or those who rebelled would be killed or forced underground.
Either way George would help the resistance against Duke Dick, it meant he was making an effort for freedom, and it was a way out for him, either way. He couldn’t wait.
His epiphany was interrupted by the shrill call of his girlfriend Gloria.
“GEORGE! YOU’RE NOT STILL WORKING ARE YOU?!” she shouted at him, even though it was impossible to be too far away from each other in their flat.
Another thing that maddened him.
“I’M DONE!” he shouted back, more out of irritation than anything else. He suspected Gloria only shouted give herself the illusion that she lived in a grand house rather than a dingy flat. That was what she had grown up to after all.
“THEN COME HERE! THERE ARE PEOPLE FOR YOU TO MEET!”
“COMING!” he replied, hoping against hope it wasn’t siblings or cousins or something. Friends of hers were fine, but not family, he couldn’t stand any of them.
He closed his laptop with a click and walked out only to be face with Gloria grinning at him from the door way, a woman who seemed to be identical to her on her right and a tall man behind them both looking very out of place and dishevelled.
“This is Claire,” his girlfriend announced happily, “she’s come from America to visit.”
George studied this new woman. Tall, beach blonde hair, tanned skin, not wearing all that much even though she was in england (admittedly spring, but that wasn’t much to go by). Her long legs were entirely hairless, as were her bare arms. Her shaped eye brows were brown, and her large eyes were baby blue. He didn’t like her immediately.
“Nice to meet you,” he said politely, inclining his head towards her.
“You to,” she said dismissively, looking round the room, but not at himself, “oh Gloria you must tell me what shopping is like here, it’s been far too long!”
‘She’s been here before?!’ he thought, mildly surprised, ‘she must have unimaginable connections!’
He suspected she was from some kind of nobility or something, there was no way she would sweep into a place and be so utterly rude to a person who actually lived there.
The man in the door way looked very uncomfortable. He too was tall, reaching about 6 ft 4 or so. He was solidly built, with obvious muscles beneath his baggy t-shirt. He couldn’t have been older than twenty six or seven. Not much younger than George himself. His hair was almost black, and was long in the face, and a little shorter at the back. He seemed to be rather scruffy compared to his immaculate blonde other half. His jeans were baggy and low, his old belt was falling to pieces, and tattoos laced their way on his skin. There weren’t too many that he could see on his thick, darkly tanned arms, but the way he carried himself hinted there were more.
What surprised him was how almost aristocratic his features were. His nose was large, but seemed almost refined. His mouth was full and his cheek bones and jaw chiselled. His brown eyes held many mysteries, but all walled away, like he was trying to hide them away from the world, from himself.
The even bigger surprise came when a little hand appeared at his trouser leg, at about his knee height. A large blue eye followed, with a long of corn blonde hair falling in front. The little girl peered up at him from her tiny height, dwarfed further by the man in front of her.
George would have loved to say ‘her father’, but he saw nothing of the rugged man in front in that sweet little face.
He shook himself as the man spoke.
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Brokenhearts
Rank 15 (On Angie's Level)
Beware, all ye who talk 2 me
Posts: 4,934
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Post by Brokenhearts on Aug 9, 2007 5:39:02 GMT -5
GEORGE cont.
“Sorry about that,” he sounded apologetic to, his voice was deep and musical, his accent was from all over America, tinges of the south resonated in places, East Coast and even Canadian fluctuated too. He was oddly soft spoke for such a large person, “she can be very… uh…”
“Assuming?” asked George grinning slightly, “I guessed.”
The man offered a shy smile in return, the attended to the girl who was tugging at his trouser leg. He glanced at George apologetically.
“Daddy who is he?” she asked quietly, she couldn’t have been older than five.
That stunned George, so he was this girl’s father.
“Why don’t you ask him? This is mummy’s friend’s place.”
“But you used to come to England too…”
“I was with the band, sweetie, so I don’t know to many people.”
The little girl took hold of her father’s hand and came foreword. It was apparent that she had more of her father’s influence than her mother’s. She was shyer than her obnoxious maternal parent, his attitude reflected more of the softness that her father resonated.
“Mister?” she started, she had a slight lisp, and a very New York accent.
“Yes sweetheart?” he replied kindly, leaning over to be at her height.
“What’s your name?”
“George Smith, what’s yours?”
She hesitated and looked up at her father when he smiled at nodded she looked back at him. Then she smiled- no… she positively beamed at him! Her whole tiny face lit up, her eyes brightened, and her little mouth turned up. It was an action of her being, not just her mouth. It had been so long since George had come into contact with such an innocent little human. It shocked him so much he almost knelt, but caught himself in time.
He hag forgotten such innocence exist in his world of disaster and peril.
“I’m Lilly Farren,” she announced, “nice ta meet’cha.”
George smiled weakly, “she is adorable,” he told the man, unable to believe he was using such a word.
“I know,” he said proudly, swinging the child into his arms, “I’m Marcus Farren, but call me Mark,” he added, “and that’s Claire Dudley.”
“She didn’t change her name?”
A look passed over Mark’s face, before he answered. “We’re not married or anything,” he explained, “I just thought it would be a good idea for me to stick around. For… well… you get the idea,” he nodded at his little girl.
“Well I’m glad someone cares for the kid’s well being,” it slipped out without George even meaning for it to come. His face flushed red, and he looked away embarrassed.
“Nah,” came Mark’s forgiving voice, “it’s true. Lilly’s definitely a daddy’s girl. God only knows how she’d have turned out without me.”
George looked up to see Mark tickling Lilly gently. He may have been tall, but he was definitely a gentle giant.
“Oh dear God,” George suddenly exclaimed, remembering his manners at last, “why the hell are you still standing there! Come in come in!” He came foreword and practically yanked the two inside. George had been brought up to be a good host and to look after his guests. When he and Gloria first met, she described him as the perfect gentleman, even in more modern days that they were living in.
As Gloria and Claire occupied the corner of the flat that was the living room, complete with a two seater sofa, a single sofa and a small, cheap tv set, George lead the man and girl over the the kitchen space, where there was a table that seated four. He ushered them to sit down, and asked if they wanted anything to drink.
“May I have coke please?” Lilly asked sweetly.
“No way,” interrupted Mark, “the last time you had anything with that amount of caffeine in it you were bouncing around a week later!” George scoffed at the obvious use of exaggeration. Mark looked up at him, “I’m dead serious pal… she couldn’t keep still!”
Lilly’s fair cheeks coloured deeply, “can I have orange juice… please?” she added quickly, catching her father’s glance. Then smiled as he did.
“Well seeing as you asked so nicely. Mark you want anything?”
“Coke please?” he asked.
“Coming up.”
As George arranged the drinks he started inquiring into their being in London. Being a journalist, he was one of the most curious of people one could meet. But the quiet nature of the man did make things almost uncomfortable. The conversation was slightly robotic, but it wasn’t quiet painful.
“How long you guys staying in London then?”
“Not long,” sighed Mark, “Claire’s got a few friends she knows here, and she wants to shop. I dunno how, it’s not like we’re loaded.” He rolled his eyes.
“I know what you mean,” agreed George, “Gloria is impossible.”
“Think it’s to do with the fake blondness,” came the muttered reply.
That made George bark out a spout of laughter, leaving a grin on his face. “True say,” he agreed, he place a glass of juice in front of the little blonde girl who was too fascinated with the place mats on the table to notice their conversation, and a can of coke in front of Mark. “Where you guys staying?” he added, realising that Mark had just un-shouldered a huge rucksack from his back.
“Uh…” it was the big man’s turn to blush, “Claire seems to know… but I don’t…”
George looked across at Claire and Gloria. They were talking rapidly, with terribly over the top hand gestures. “Listen, mate,” George started, “I know we’ve just met, but your girl and mine know each other, so why don’t you stay here? At least till you know what’s happening.”
“Seriously?!”
“Yeah. I mean we only have one bedroom, but the sofa’s pretty damn comfortable, hell I should know,” they exchanged half humorous glances, “and the floor’s not that bad. I mean it would be nice to have some male company round here and intelligent conversation other than ‘does my bum look big in this’. Wha’d’ya say?”
“You su-”
“If you ask me if I’m sure I’ll make sure Lilly is the last kid you have.”
Mark’s face split into the first proper grin George had yet to see since he arrived. There was a flash of something in brown eyes. It was there for literally a moment, and George almost thought he imagined it if it hadn’t been so strong.
“Thanks buddy!” Mark beamed, “that would be awesome!”
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Brokenhearts
Rank 15 (On Angie's Level)
Beware, all ye who talk 2 me
Posts: 4,934
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Post by Brokenhearts on Aug 14, 2007 5:38:59 GMT -5
WARNING NOTICE AND TAKE HEED!!!!! AS I HAVE CONTINUED WRITIN THIS IVE REALISED THIS ISNT EXACTLY INNOCENT- WHICH MEANS IT DUS CONTAIN LANGUAGE AND SCENES OF A SEXUAL NATURE (no i do nt mean it has porn, it jst hints at it and mentions it sumtimes) BUT CONSIDER UR SELF WARNED AND IF U MISSED THIS MESSAGE U MUST B BLIND AND I WILL NOT BE HELD RESPOSIBLE!!!! bt 2 b on the safe side- if ur readin it, plz reply so i no u got the message and then ill post the nxt bit =][/size]][/color]
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Post by Chris on Aug 14, 2007 18:30:28 GMT -5
Just wanted you to know that I have read some of this, and will post a review sometime in the near future. Wanted to encourage you by letting you know someone was reading.
Oh, and yes, twas I who toned down your warning. Perhaps it would be better served if you put it in the first post, where people would see it before they started reading? Maybe? And maybe not so ... loud?
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Brokenhearts
Rank 15 (On Angie's Level)
Beware, all ye who talk 2 me
Posts: 4,934
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Post by Brokenhearts on Aug 14, 2007 19:37:04 GMT -5
i wud have put it @ the start, bt i didnt think of tht till l8r and i wud have put tht the moment i postd it bt i didnt realised hw it wud go till i rote it weird hw things turn out... bt thanks chris
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Brokenhearts
Rank 15 (On Angie's Level)
Beware, all ye who talk 2 me
Posts: 4,934
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Post by Brokenhearts on Aug 16, 2007 7:54:47 GMT -5
meh sum1 replied =]
MARK Back in London. It had been seven years, but he came back. He felt so strange coming back to the country where he’d met her. The girl that had meant everything to him. The girl who he had trusted his life and held her existance higher than his own.
If he was being honest with himself, he still did. But he had ruined it. Broke it to pieces because of his stupidity. He had been in love with her. He had been in love with her to the point where justhearing her voice made him smile, when she touched him he didn’t want her to let go, and fireworks still went off in his head when he kiss her.
Then, he moved to America. Even though she insisted they should break it up, just until he came back, and see how they felt then. But he always insisted that he was in love with her and that that would never change. Although it was only across telephone wires or computerscreens, telling someone you love them always makes it harder and harder for them to let go. Mark didn’t want to let go.
But then he got frustrated. He wanted someone to kiss, and hold, and look after, someone physically with him, nt just emotionally.
That was when he met Claire. It was entirely physical. He never liked her personality, her mannerisums… he just liked her body. She kept fit, she was pretty, and she was ready for anything. But Claire seemed to have other ideas. She stuck around with the band, claimed to be his girlfriend. He once told her to fuck off, that he was in love with someone else. She came back a week later, saying she knew it had been a joke, that Mark hadn’t meant it. They fucked again that evening.
But that was all it was to Mark.
All that time he would be thinking of her. The one he was actually in love with. Though he had never had sex with her, or even seen her in any less that her underwear. It wasn’t that she was scared, or even thatshe had the moral issue of sex before marriage, it was that she said she knew damn well she wasn’t ready, and he had moved when they had been turning nineteen.
He shook his head and looked round George’s apartment. Lily was asleep on the couch, Gloria and Claire were out, and George had just gone out to get some more dinner for that evening.
It was only ever when he was alone had he ever had those painful memories dragged up.
He remembered when he came back to England. It was only for a visit, he had only been away eighteen months. He had been twenty a while, while she had just turned that age. It was a time when the Power was tightening it’s grip, and she was starting to feel the pressure. He family had only just escaped the fishing net by having put N/A on their ethnicity as well as their religion, and their passport said they were British. But they were all scared of being found out.
Only she dared to be outragous and loud mouthed. She never left a name to her doings, and she was never caught in her speaches or vandelisum. People around her seemed infected with her undying, relentless hitting and chipping away at the Power.
During the day though, when out in public with her face showing, she kept a lower profile, not wanting to gether family into trouble. She worked as a journalist, using hints and small pieces of niggling to get at the Power. She and her news paper were far too careful to get shut down, but their point was still out there to their smart enough to spot it.
He remembered the days before he admitted to her that he had been sleeping with other women. How much they had had, not only small rebellions against the government, but just hanging out together. Talking, making music together, even when they were just quiet and leaning towards each other. They didn’t need words, they knew each other.
Or so he had hoped.
The day he told her, the day his world split apart. The last time they had spoken. It was two weeks after her twentith birthday, and a two months before he intended heading back to America.
She had been wearing baggy, loose cut jeans, that were only held up by her old studded belt. Her top was fitted and black with white decoration on the front. She wore those so called ‘ballerina pumps’ with platform heels added to the bottom. She had woren very little make up, a little lip gloss, a little eyeliner. Nothing more.
When she stood she was facing her chest, so she looked up at him. She had grinned and thrown her arms round his neck, and kissed his cheek softly. Then she seemed to blush slightly. He could still feel her small textured thumb rubbing against his cheek to remove the small, sticky mark her mouth had left.
He remembered everything. He remembered sitting her down, on her bed, taking her hands in his, trying very hard to look at her but finding it impossible.
He had started with the words “I love you”. She had just smiled and said “I love you too you moron” in her sweet gruff way that she always had. She had never been good at expressing her feeling to him.
He looked at her brown eyes, full of trust, full of feelings. It was rare especially in those times to be able to get her into such a mood. He knew telling her were shock her, upset her, but he couldn’t live with himself if he continued to lie to her.
He told her about how much he had missed her, about how much he loved her, how he couldn’t stand it if anything happened to stop them being together.
Her face slowly gathered understanding. She knew before he had said it what he was trying to admit to her. She shook her head, she took her hands away from his and put them over her head, shaking it. She didn’t want him to say it, he realised later, she could pretend nothing had happened if he didn’t state it. But he ploughed on. The more he spoke, the more she withdrew from him, till she almost seemed like she was crying.
“I couldn’t help it!” he cried out, seeing her so distraught, “I needed something… I missed you so much, you weren’t there, and I turned to the closest female thing-”
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“She was just available and she threw herself at me.”
“Don’t,” she spoke a little louder.
“It didn’t mean anything, i promise you.”
“Don’t,” she begged, her voice rising and rising.
“I have to… I love you… but I… I…”
“DON’T!”
But at the same time he said it, “I slept with her, i fucked her, i had sex with her,” the words were spewing out by then, he couldn’t stop it, “I didn’t mean to! It was a mistake! The whole time I was thinking of you, I wanted it to be you. But you weren’t there… I left you here and you weren’t there…”
He looked at her. She was sitting still as a board. Her eyes off into the distance. He wandered if she had heard anything he had said. He doubted it. He could see by her emptiness that he’d done it. He’d broken what ever there had been between them. It was done.
“Pl-” he started.
“Get out,” she hissed.
“No you ca-”
“I said get out… you say you love me. You told me countless times you loved me. And yet you do not have the self control to wait for me. If you loved me you would never have done that.”
“No that’s not true, I love you-”
“And I hate you…” she spoke with such pure venom, he didn’t know what to say.
“I didn’t mean to…” was all he could muster.
She let out a small bark of a laugh. “Ha! Of coarse you didn’t. It just fell there didn’t it?” She still hadn’t looked at him. Her eyes were like stone, dead, cold and merciless. “Just get out, right now… I wish you the best of luck in your life, your love, you music… in everything. But I never want to hear from you again. There is far to much going on in my life, I can’t loose oncentration on whats happening to this country… whats happening to my family! I hate you Mark Farren, and unless you want to become forever childless, I’d advise you to leave.”
In that tone of voice there was nothing else he could do.
He left. He hoped to see her again when she was calmer. But when ever the two saw each other was when they were amoungst other friends. They never spoke, they never looked at each other.
The day he finally plucked up the courage to go and see her, he regretted it. Though the memory of his the very last time he ever saw her, it was vague and hazy, as though his mind had intentionally tried to whipe it out.
He had come into the room, he knew exactly where the spare key was kept (all her friends did, her flat was like a hide away for those on the run, from the law or their own families), he clicked open the door, and froze.
He heard sounds he hoped he’d never heard from his position. He peaked through hoping it some sort of tv program that a friend of hers was watching. But that simply made matters worse.
She was sitting astride a man, he couldn’t see the stranger’s face, and she was completely stark naked. He could only see the back of her, but he knew it was her, he recognised her short hair, her softly tanned skin and narrow body anywhere.
He left quietly, feeling as though he had been stabbed thousands of times. He suddenly realised that was how she had felt when he had told her about the other woman.
He left without a word a week later, having not seen her that evening, not wanting to see her with this new man.
He shook himself as George came back into the living area of their room, carrying the shopping. He walked over to take some of it from him. He didn’t say much, but then again Mark had never been a man of many words.
“Gotta question for ya mate,” George said, as they reached th kitchen area, so as not to wake Lilly, she was exhausted.
“Yeah?”
“Why the hell are you with Claire? I’m only with Gorlia coz it’s far more convenient! I swear you don’t have such a dictator ship in the US.”
Mark thought about it. He had no idea. She had disappeared for almost two years, but she turned up outside his house about nine or ten months before his twenty second birthday. He invited her in out of pure curtousy, he got out a few drinks and one thing lead to another.
She left again that morning. Two months later she returned again, and told him she was pregnant, with his baby, and she was certain it was his. They’d been together ever since.
“For Lilly,” sighed Mark, “otherwise I have no idea.”
George chuckled. “At least it’s more honorable than freaking money.”
That got Mark laughing, he had never understood how expensive children were. He pitied his brother who was eighteen when he had his son. Admittedly, Nick was in love with his girlfriend, and ever since they had been together. Their boy, John (but everyone called him Johnny), had just turned eleven.
“But seriously, why do you put up with her? You could just take Lilly and leave!”
“That’s not right though. Lilly’s just as much her daughter as she is mine. I mean she might act a little cold, but I guess she expected more from her life other than caring for a kid from the age of what… twenty one?!”
“We all have plans,” sighed George, “they don’t always go according to plan.”
Mark sighed. “Damn stright…” For a moment a picture of her fluttered through his mind’s eye. He almost shook him self physically to get her out of there.
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Brokenhearts
Rank 15 (On Angie's Level)
Beware, all ye who talk 2 me
Posts: 4,934
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Post by Brokenhearts on Aug 16, 2007 15:07:57 GMT -5
Mark cont.
“What do you plan on doin’ while your here? I mean Claire’s obviously goin’ on some kinda shopping spree.”
“With money I obviously don’t know about,” Mark rolled his eyes, “well I was in a band for a while, and I lived here for a year or two when I was younger. But I made some really good friends in that time. I kinda want to see how they are.”
“Where do they live?”
“This sort of area, central London and all that. I know one who became a publicist.”
“What was their name? I might know them!”
“Lucy Witstone.”
George’s mouth hung open. “You’re kidding…”
“I am not… why?”
“Lucy Witstone… thee Lucy Witstone?!”
“Yeah… Blonde hair, hightlights about five foot six, very very in your face?”
“Well fuck me… you know Lucy Witstone… That woman… Christ I’m surprised she hasn’t been erased yet! She’s a publicist one, one of the only private one left. The stuff she prints about the Power… jeez; if she doesn’t meet with an accident very soon.”
Mark just looked confused.
“Siddown,” grinned George, “Lucy is a friend of mine, she was the boss of one of my good friends…” a look crossed George’s face, but it passed, “and she was one of the good eyes. I’m meeting her today actually, official business. I need to interview her on a book she allowed to be published, the writer’s met with one of those ‘accidents’, but the Power can’t take it off the shelves. They sort of slowly fazing it out, but alot of people have it. Anyway, you should come! The girls are going to be out all day, and I mean Lucy would probably love to see you again.”
Mark stared at him. “You talk to much…” he muttered.
“Seeing as you don’t talk at all, I think it’s a good thing.”
“You sure I can come?”
“Of coarse! Why shouldn’t you?”
“Dude… you…” Mark shook his head, “it’s so good to be back in England.”
George’s cocky grin slipped and he shook his head. “Nah mate… England… Europe… it’s rotten…”
But Mark hadn’t heard, he was far to be happy in the country that gave him the thirst for life. A thirst for adventure that America had never been able to give him. HATAYA
She was sitting in the lab again. Her new friend was curling himself round her ancles as she worked. She absently dangled a hand down to scratch the cat behind his ear, just where he liked it most.
She was working on a bomb. It was something she was normally very good at, but for some reason, that day it was being decidedly annoying. The wiring seemed to almost refuse to connect to her pressure pad. It was a new style of bomb.
Well, techniqually old, but it hadn’t been used for many many years. It wasn’t a case of a timer (though she added one, that was simply for show). It was more of a matter of the moment someone so much as touched it, it would explode. And in a big way. It was hard to create, but she had worked hard to recreate the old bombs that normally it was simple for her to do.
She gritted her teeth, and put the bomb down slowly. It was only a prototype, but it wouldn’t have been pretty if she let it go off. Her body was covered in enough scars as it was.
For a moment she allowed her body to gain that jitter it had had all her life. She had learned to keep it under control, but it did take some level of self control to be able to control it. Being an ADHD sufferer things like this would more often than not annoy her immensely.
There was a knock on the door, she sighed heavily.
“What is it?” she snapped coldly, her eyes flashing more red than brown as she looked towards the opening.
The door opened and admitted a tall, althletically built man. He had soft blonde hair over his forehead, covering most of his green eyes. His torso was bare, showing tanned skin pitted with scars of the past and a tatoo of a serpant winding up his left arm, the head resting on his left breast. A tattoo of a styled gun was etched into his skin at his left hip, while a celtic cross covered his right side. His skin glistened with sweat, and his heavey breathing and the heaving of his muscular body only enforced the fact that he had been excerising. His lower body was covered by combats, that hung low, showing more of his gun tattoo. There was light blonde hair creeping up his lower body from his crotch, but other than his arms and his head, there was no other hair visable.
“Yes Ben?” she asked tiredly, rolling her eyes, leaning back in her chair.
He was her right hand man. One that got her out of an arranged marriage, and kept her safe.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, looking at her, smirking.
“Making a bomb,” she rolled her eyes, “why?”
“Have you seen the news?”
“About how the police are now certain it was a male because they managed to get some DNA? And they’re saying it’s a muslim foreigner?”
“I take you have then,” said Ben mildly, coming to lean on the tablle beside her chair.
Hataya, leaned down and picked up her cat, she had named it Billie. However not in the usual sense; it meant cat in Urdu. “I don’t understand how they already assumed it was a muslim forgeiner… you can’t even determine actual race yet from DNA, let alone religion.” She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe people are falling for this.”
“Are you going to claim responsibility yet?”
“Nah… I’ve already got whispers about it being me anyway. I like my nick name to be honest…”
“Memory? Suits you,” Ben grinned wolfishly.
Hatay shot a glare at him. “That means what,” she snapped.
Ben leaned down and cupped her chin in his fingers, forcing her face upwards. “You live in the past, whenn everyone was equal, and you want that back. Memories being brought back to life…” his face came closer to hers, “you are a living memory.”
Hataya, pushed him away and stood up, holding Billie, she would have looked out the window, but bein under ground, that was impossible. Instead she gazed at a picture of the old Regents park, that she had known as a very young child, before they Power had taken hold.
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Brokenhearts
Rank 15 (On Angie's Level)
Beware, all ye who talk 2 me
Posts: 4,934
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Post by Brokenhearts on Aug 22, 2007 9:01:21 GMT -5
HATAYA cont.
“I’m glad,” she murmured, “stirring memories will stir the people. They can rebel. We can have our country back. With a monarchy. With a prime minister. Not a dictator. Not even a president.”
“Where the hell are you going to find the heir to the throne?” asked Ben, he had heard that all before, but for some reason he never stopped her saying it. “The king was killed years back, along with the immediate family in all that fighting. No one else dared take the throne after that. That was why we had the revolution remember? No royal family to keep the parliament in check? The prime Minster going loco?”
Hataya’s sigh was heavy. “I’d rather have a loco prime minister than live in the hell we got now. At least then I could say without risking my life that I’m only a semi white. Rather than having to say that I am only English. I am not!”
Ben watched her the walked towards her, put his arms round her gently and hugged her. Hataya shuddered just slightly, but she didn’t move away from him. There were times when she liked his touch, when he made her feel safe and looked after. Now was one of those times.
Her eyes closed, almost entirely involuntarily. Her body relaxed and she sank into the embrace, relishing it. A tiny smile tugged at her mouth, but she refused to allow it to take over entirely. It had been years since she had allowed herself a luxury of a smile. She wasn’t about to just then simply because Ben made her feel needed. She was by no means that gullible.
“Do you have any plan?” whispered Ben softly in her ear.
She shivered again, her dark eyes snapping open and pushed herself away from him, dropping the cat in her arms. Billie dropped softly, mewed distastefully at his mistress then seemed to realise she was simply in a strange mood and wrapped himself round her legs again.
“Yes,” she stated, “I have researching looking for the heir at the moment. At least the name of the rightful heir. I’ll be talking to them.”
“Him or her?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Her voice was so curt and short. Ben seemed taken aback at her sudden change in mood. Realising that she was no longer in the mood to play games along with him, he stood straighter.
“Is there a job for me?” he asked.
Hataya glanced at him over her shoulder then turned to face him, her shoulders squared, her feet shoulders’ width apart and her arms crossed. She suddenly had the appearance of someone much older, taller… more imposing than she had been when her slightly more vulnerable side had been forced upon her by Ben’s sudden gentleness.
“Yes, James is finding it hard to get a couple of the newbies to listen to him. Don’t control them, we need their spirit to succeed. If we try to control them we’re as bad as Duke Dick.”
“Gotcha,” agreed Ben, he smiled at her, but got nothing in return. “See you at dinner then.”
She nodded curtly, and watched him leave. She sighed heavily and pulled herself back to her chair and slumped.
Ben’s simple, kind touch had opened a door of many painful memories. Most of which consisted of him. The one person she could do without.
She scowled herself, and pushed him away from her. She would not allow herself to be haunted by her past. If she lost concentration on the matter before her, all her losses for the country she called home would be pointless. And she could not stand that.
She no longer had the security of her family. The comfort of almost any of her friends. Nor the simple pleasure of belonging to a single person without question. She had given all that up when she decided to take on the dictator ship of Lord Richard, Duke Dick. If she kept those contacts, she would loose everything she held dear. It was not only for her peace of mind did she sever herself so cruelly from those who loved her and she loved in return, but also for their protection.
Any connection to the usurper of Duke Dick, or contact with the orchestrator would put them in the firing line. Hataya could not and would not allow that to happen.
It hurt her to put her family through so much suffering. But, though she hated the phrase, it was indeed for the greater good. Once it was over, she could return to them, set them free and have her conscious clear of putting them in any direct danger.
That, and only that, was her only consolation of abandoning her family and her duty.
She allowed her head to hit the table as a large breath issued from her lungs.
The day she could return to her family, that she could finally hold her siblings in her arms. Feel the warmth of her parents love. The familiar scent of home. When that day came, she would finally know that all her hard work had done something. She had achieved something. She had set her family, her people, her home free.
Under her breath she started murmuring a prayer in arabic. “Kulyu allahu ah-hud,” as she spoke her voice grew louder and louder, “allah hus-sammad, lam-u-lid wa lamulad, wa lamyakulyahu kuffuvan ah-HAD!” the final words were screamed.
She barely understood what she was saying. It was the first prayer she had learned as a child, and the one that she would repeat to herself over and over if she ever felt her resolution being shook.
The prayer had nothing to do with freedom, but it was a declaration of belief. It was a declaration of her belief in a banned religion.
She raised her head from the desk, and looked at the bomb she had been trying to assemble. She took a deep breath, picked it up, then proceeded to carry it over to the protective chest that prototype bombs would be kept in.
She beckoned to Billie, who jumped into her arms immediately, and walked out of the room. She had a meeting with Lucy, one of her few friends that knew she was indeed alive, she had to get herself into central London without attracting any unwanted attraction.
Feeling her phone vibrate, she put a hand in her pocket and retrieved it.
“Hey Sandy!” came a cheerful, scottish accented voice.
Hataya smiled. Henry Woods was one of her mechanics, while his twin brother worked to train her peaceful, more political side of the operations. She got on with the two immensely, but for some reason she simply preferred the loud mouthed Henry over quieter Lewis.
“What have I told you about using that name on me?”
“Use it?”
She laughed.
“Come on Sandy, I dunno your real name and this is the closest thing I have to a nick name for ya! Hataya just sounds so… formal.”
As usual, Hataya knew he was right, but she wasn’t about to admit it. She may have been in her mid-twenties, but the stubborn streak from her teenage years had never left her. “Fine… call me Sandy- but don’t the troops hear you calling that.”
“Got’cha. Anyway, just letting you know the bike’s almost done. You wanna take a peak?”
“I’d love to Harry,” she replied, she rather call him Harry than Henry for some reason, “but I gotta see Lucy.”
“Oh yeah… forgot. Welp- you better come and see it when you get back. Catcha later gorgeous.”
“See ya motor boy.”
She hung up on Henry’s chuckling voice and made her way to the surface elevator.
She put Billie down, and told him to stay put. He looked up at her with large yellow eyes. Hataya knew he wouldn’t move again till she came back. He was a very intelligent cat.
She got into the lift, and pressed the button for the surface.
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