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This is apparently the first thing I've finished since the beginning of the year. Pretentious titles, ahoy.
Title: Some Rights of Memory
Pairings/Characters: Amber
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Catching her red reflection in the mirror, she blinked until her eyes were the right color. Her own eyes, her father's eyes, looked back at her, narrowing in disapproval.
Word Count: 1043
Warnings: Body count of 3 - this is immediately post-opera.
For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune:
I have some rights of memory in this kingdom,
Which now to claim my vantage doth invite me.
- Hamlet, Act V
Amber forced herself to stare into the mirror. Looking head-on at her reflection was something she tried to avoid in general; all she ever noticed were the flaws, which led to the surgery, which led to more flaws. First her nose was slightly too big, adjusting that made her cheeks too full, altering her cheeks meant her eyes were too round, changing that meant her nose was off again, and on and on ad nauseum. Tonight was different, and she examined herself, memorizing every raw ridge of her faceless expression, until she'd be able to call it up in perfect detail when she closed her eyes.
She left a message for her personal surGEN – the whole mess had started because he hadn't been available to do the emergency work before the Opera – and pulled on the dress she'd been wearing when she arrived. The costume and the robe weren't fit to be seen again; perhaps she'd have them burned.
Pavi was in his dressing room, but he wasn't alone. When was he ever alone, really? She rolled her eyes and kept going. He wasn't who she was looking for, anyway.
Luigi was next door in his own dressing room, slumped in the makeup chair, silver flask dangling loosely from his fingers. “Lu?” she called, leaning against the doorframe.
He looked up at her, and she tried not to flinch at his face. He looked – old was the first word that provided itself – terrible. “Wha' you want, bitch?” he demanded, stumbling over the words like they were marbles shoved in his mouth.
“Nothing from you,” she snapped, turning away, heading back the way she came. There would be no help from that quarter. She frowned, stopping at the door to Mag's dressing room. Like her own, it was bursting with flowers from well-wishers. Catching her red reflection in the mirror, she blinked until her eyes were the right color. Her own eyes, her father's eyes, looked back at her, narrowing in disapproval. Amber scowled at herself, admired the effect it made on the ruined features, “If you must frown, Carmela dear, make sure it's a pretty one,” had been one of the lessons from an early governess she'd taken to heart, and headed toward the stage.
Someone had thoughtfully pulled the curtains closed, probably when they were clearing the auditorium, and the only light was the pair of blue-gelled striplights providing simulated moonlight for Mag's final performance.
The stage setting made dealing with the whole thing a little easier; the drying pools of blood looked fake on the fake snow, the boards of the stage; the three bodies were just the discarded props from some badly-staged horror scene. Mag, however, looked increasingly more real the closer she got. “Take her down,” she'd howled to Nathan, in a Zydrate-fueled passion, but she hadn't meant like this. It was supposed to be in an alley somewhere, out of sight, out of her mind, just her rival, out of the picture. Not like this.
Amber didn't realize she was crying until her cheeks started stinging. Closing her eyes, she pressed her palms to her face, taking deep breaths and focusing on the pain. She counted silently to ten in English, French, and Italian, and by the time she pulled her hands away she was calm again.
Nathan was center stage. Ignoring him as best she could, she headed downstage left instead.
Her father was worse than Mag. She could smell him, the fresh corpse smell that reminded her of Luigi, somehow attached to her father – her father's body. He had rejected her in his final moments, calling her disgusting, not his daughter, but he hadn't been well. Obviously he hadn't been well. She knelt beside him, touching the will still clutched tight in his hand, his sleeve, not quite daring to touch him directly. Bodies were cold and stiff, and somehow the idea of her father being like that, just another body, another collection of organs and bones and muscles to be recycled and reclaimed, was too much to handle.
It was at that moment that she realized she wasn't alone. One of his bodyguards was just offstage, sitting slumped against the wall with her pistol drawn. It wasn't quite pointed at her, just loosely held in a collapsed grip, as if she'd forgotten she was holding it. “Elizabeth?” Amber asked, not fully realizing that she could distinguish between them, or that knew the woman's name, until she said it. Elizabeth's partner's name was Andrea, she knew that too. Andrea was taller; Elizabeth's boots had heels to make them the same height.
“He's dead.” The words, flat and stark and uninflected, lay on the boards.
She looked down at the body, her father's body, and nodded. “Yes. It's not your fault, though.”
“There was nothing I could do.” Her voice was edged with hysteria, and the words ran together. “Eight years, every single holiday for eight years and there was nothing I could do.”
“He wasn't well.” It seemed inadequate, a wild understatement at best.
“I couldn't protect him from himself.” Her voice held defeat, and her shoulders caved in, like someone had removed the strut that held them perfectly erect. “God knows I would have if I could.”
“I know.” She couldn't imagine being this woman, living her life to guard someone else, giving up everything to keep them safe. What had she said? Every single holiday for eight years. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
“C-can I have the gun?” Amber held out her hand, coaxing. She didn't feel threatened, quite, but the gun frightened her all the same.
Elizabeth looked down at it. “I'm not going to do anything with it,” she said. “I thought about it, but it seems like a bad idea now.” She did something to it and slid it back into its holster on her thigh. “There are cultures where that would be expected but this isn't one of them.”
“No. No, now we look to the future.”
“And what's the future?”
Amber looked down at her father, then over at Mag and Nathan. She thought about Luigi, drunk in his dressing room, and Pavi, getting a blow job in his. She thought about Graverobber's long fingers against her thigh. “I am.”
Title: Some Rights of Memory
Pairings/Characters: Amber
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Catching her red reflection in the mirror, she blinked until her eyes were the right color. Her own eyes, her father's eyes, looked back at her, narrowing in disapproval.
Word Count: 1043
Warnings: Body count of 3 - this is immediately post-opera.
For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune:
I have some rights of memory in this kingdom,
Which now to claim my vantage doth invite me.
- Hamlet, Act V
Amber forced herself to stare into the mirror. Looking head-on at her reflection was something she tried to avoid in general; all she ever noticed were the flaws, which led to the surgery, which led to more flaws. First her nose was slightly too big, adjusting that made her cheeks too full, altering her cheeks meant her eyes were too round, changing that meant her nose was off again, and on and on ad nauseum. Tonight was different, and she examined herself, memorizing every raw ridge of her faceless expression, until she'd be able to call it up in perfect detail when she closed her eyes.
She left a message for her personal surGEN – the whole mess had started because he hadn't been available to do the emergency work before the Opera – and pulled on the dress she'd been wearing when she arrived. The costume and the robe weren't fit to be seen again; perhaps she'd have them burned.
Pavi was in his dressing room, but he wasn't alone. When was he ever alone, really? She rolled her eyes and kept going. He wasn't who she was looking for, anyway.
Luigi was next door in his own dressing room, slumped in the makeup chair, silver flask dangling loosely from his fingers. “Lu?” she called, leaning against the doorframe.
He looked up at her, and she tried not to flinch at his face. He looked – old was the first word that provided itself – terrible. “Wha' you want, bitch?” he demanded, stumbling over the words like they were marbles shoved in his mouth.
“Nothing from you,” she snapped, turning away, heading back the way she came. There would be no help from that quarter. She frowned, stopping at the door to Mag's dressing room. Like her own, it was bursting with flowers from well-wishers. Catching her red reflection in the mirror, she blinked until her eyes were the right color. Her own eyes, her father's eyes, looked back at her, narrowing in disapproval. Amber scowled at herself, admired the effect it made on the ruined features, “If you must frown, Carmela dear, make sure it's a pretty one,” had been one of the lessons from an early governess she'd taken to heart, and headed toward the stage.
Someone had thoughtfully pulled the curtains closed, probably when they were clearing the auditorium, and the only light was the pair of blue-gelled striplights providing simulated moonlight for Mag's final performance.
The stage setting made dealing with the whole thing a little easier; the drying pools of blood looked fake on the fake snow, the boards of the stage; the three bodies were just the discarded props from some badly-staged horror scene. Mag, however, looked increasingly more real the closer she got. “Take her down,” she'd howled to Nathan, in a Zydrate-fueled passion, but she hadn't meant like this. It was supposed to be in an alley somewhere, out of sight, out of her mind, just her rival, out of the picture. Not like this.
Amber didn't realize she was crying until her cheeks started stinging. Closing her eyes, she pressed her palms to her face, taking deep breaths and focusing on the pain. She counted silently to ten in English, French, and Italian, and by the time she pulled her hands away she was calm again.
Nathan was center stage. Ignoring him as best she could, she headed downstage left instead.
Her father was worse than Mag. She could smell him, the fresh corpse smell that reminded her of Luigi, somehow attached to her father – her father's body. He had rejected her in his final moments, calling her disgusting, not his daughter, but he hadn't been well. Obviously he hadn't been well. She knelt beside him, touching the will still clutched tight in his hand, his sleeve, not quite daring to touch him directly. Bodies were cold and stiff, and somehow the idea of her father being like that, just another body, another collection of organs and bones and muscles to be recycled and reclaimed, was too much to handle.
It was at that moment that she realized she wasn't alone. One of his bodyguards was just offstage, sitting slumped against the wall with her pistol drawn. It wasn't quite pointed at her, just loosely held in a collapsed grip, as if she'd forgotten she was holding it. “Elizabeth?” Amber asked, not fully realizing that she could distinguish between them, or that knew the woman's name, until she said it. Elizabeth's partner's name was Andrea, she knew that too. Andrea was taller; Elizabeth's boots had heels to make them the same height.
“He's dead.” The words, flat and stark and uninflected, lay on the boards.
She looked down at the body, her father's body, and nodded. “Yes. It's not your fault, though.”
“There was nothing I could do.” Her voice was edged with hysteria, and the words ran together. “Eight years, every single holiday for eight years and there was nothing I could do.”
“He wasn't well.” It seemed inadequate, a wild understatement at best.
“I couldn't protect him from himself.” Her voice held defeat, and her shoulders caved in, like someone had removed the strut that held them perfectly erect. “God knows I would have if I could.”
“I know.” She couldn't imagine being this woman, living her life to guard someone else, giving up everything to keep them safe. What had she said? Every single holiday for eight years. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
“C-can I have the gun?” Amber held out her hand, coaxing. She didn't feel threatened, quite, but the gun frightened her all the same.
Elizabeth looked down at it. “I'm not going to do anything with it,” she said. “I thought about it, but it seems like a bad idea now.” She did something to it and slid it back into its holster on her thigh. “There are cultures where that would be expected but this isn't one of them.”
“No. No, now we look to the future.”
“And what's the future?”
Amber looked down at her father, then over at Mag and Nathan. She thought about Luigi, drunk in his dressing room, and Pavi, getting a blow job in his. She thought about Graverobber's long fingers against her thigh. “I am.”
no subject
Date: 2010-03-10 08:25 pm (UTC)From: