| Subject: Chapter 264 - Part 1 (16 and above) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Monday, November 13, 06:49:40am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark (258>?) continued" on Monday, October 23, 07:10:30am
Extra warning: There are some definite curse words here. I'm rating it 16 and above.
Dreams in the Dark (264/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
It had already been a long, difficult day, its demands never-ending. Not only was he involved in all his usual training, but the newsreel cameras were also here to record every, small moment; he managed to repress his sigh. Such constant surveillance wasn't making any part of his life any easier now.
Michael somehow appeared quite contented with his life, as the newsreel camera operators set up for another shot--never wanting to seem less than the noble and determined star they had come to document. Even when they weren't filming, it was important to keep up the front; he knew the routine well enough by now. Perhaps these people were professionals, knew all about the inner workings of Hollywood, but the show was still important. A star had to act like a star. You never knew when someone might be selling information back to some ever-interested listener.
He forced himself to smile, even with this thought, standing close by his barracks--the snow having stopped awhile ago, allowing the men the newsreel crew had commandeered to clear a perfectly-defined path out in front of the building, making it look more like a Hollywood set; the resemblance only made him think more about that town itself. He wasn't certain that Louella would be at all interested in his story, these days--still holding her grudge against all things Premier--but Hedda's ears were always listening; his gaze moved. While these men were likely to simply be the typical newsreel crew--doing their job with only a minimum of interest in most of the footage they captured, their bosses writing the narration which would cover most of it later--it was important to be careful. Just his beloved's latest scare had reminded him of this.
He was smiling, as he thought about her, warmed by the memory alone. Her latest terrors only made him long to be near her--reminding him of the purpose of his survival here, of why he had to make it through. Perhaps--as he was thinking more and more, lately--he was too old for this work, was unsuited to it, but he would manage, nonetheless. He was in better shape than most 35-year-olds, had long ago learned to shut down any deeper reaction to the actions his body took. In the worst moments, he could almost make himself believe that he was only playing a character--that the freezing weather he endured was simply soap flakes piled high, ready to be shoveled off the set whenever necessary, that the danger he encountered daily from his comrades alone was all scripted; there was a very small sigh. It would have been so much easier, if that were true.
He tried not to wish for this too much, tried to stay focused; he had seen other actors wander that path, had watched them lose themselves. Still, his approach was unaltered. Even if this wasn't the sanest way of dealing with his surroundings, it was occasionally necessary. It was what he had been taught--and he would take any paths now which would help him to survive.
He didn't question any of his own methods, knew his goal too well. He had to get through his current trials so that he could see Nikita again, so that he could be a real father to their child. He had singularly failed at the task before--having mostly run away the first time, being robbed of his infant's mother the second. If this was what he had to endure in order to be there for his soon-to-be born son, he would; something deep inside him firmed. No matter what Jones's plans, no one would ever force him away from his wife and child for long.
It was this determination which was getting him through, this which allowed him to remain mostly sane. Even the growing threats of his cohorts didn't faze him much--no matter how much angrier Ackerman was growing by the day.
He let out another, frosty sigh at this truth, disliking all it foretold. Still, he couldn't avoid it for much longer. From the day Ackerman had first seen him--and certainly from the moment when the actor had won their first, brief fight--the younger recruit had been wholly focused on hatred and revenge. And nothing which had happened since had distracted him for long.
Michael understood these facts too well, was always cautious. He had especially been watching him closely around the newsreel crews--who were currently quibbling over whether one of the shoveled pathways through the snow was rounded off perfectly enough--wondering if this were what the man had been waiting for. It was certainly for something. His nemesis wasn't controlling his anger this tightly in a simple effort to get along.
Ackerman's personality was all too clear to the actor, even if his exact plans were not. And it wasn't as though the three and a half weeks since their first fight had made things any better. While Eric had become a bit more tractable--apparently hoping for more secrets about his favorite female star--Ackerman was defining sullen. Now that they were practicing their observer skills from the air--just recently, with Sikes at the controls of the plane--Michael was, almost daily, schooling his fellow recruit in their new job, the man's dislike growing by the minute. The actor had recently even received, quite grudgingly, the praise of the base's commander--Van Vactor still no happier to have him but beginning to admit his skills. The latter fact was mildly encouraging--aided his intentions of surviving this particular hell. But the reactions of his, increasingly intractable, enemy were becoming more disturbing all the time.
This truth never waned, but the part of the man's current actions which worried him the most wasn't anything particularly obvious--no, just the opposite. Unlike the man who had done his best to taunt the actor openly for the first few weeks of their training, Ackerman was now growing ever more silent; Michael knew the signs--had learned them from Madeline, if no one else. Sometimes, when your enemies were utterly convinced of the inevitable success of their plots, they forgot to openly gloat--waiting in unfriendly glee for the day you were destroyed. And, when that particular sort of silence overcame them, it was definitely time to start watching your back.
It was for this reason that Michael was standing outside watching the newsreel crew now, was for this that he wasn't making himself--at least a bit--warmer inside their barracks. He needed to make certain that the other recruit didn't approach the crew on his own, didn't try to sway them in some way. While even the most obvious attack wouldn't make it into the newsreels--their content tightly controlled in whichever direction was the most popular, or politically expedient--he had no way of knowing who these men might later talk to. A bad report about his new path in the press could have much too damaging effects on Nikita; his eyes narrowed. He definitely had to be careful now.
It was the woman he was thinking of--as so often--as he shoved his gloved hands further into the pockets of his coat, waiting until the crews needed him to take it off. They liked to get pictures of him in his uniform. Visuals were always quite important.
Still, these facts were only in the back of his mind, his need for--his love of--his dear wife the only constant in his soul. He had done his damnedest not to worry over her these past few weeks since Adrian's letter, had been hoping fiercely that her new watchers were taking care of her properly. That he hadn't heard anything too shocking was mildly encouraging--but, given the fact that he was utterly exiled, it was difficult to wholly believe in the comfort of silence.
He was staring down at the neatly-shoveled snow, was feeling a corresponding chill, an emptiness, in his heart, when his trainer walked by--pausing to gaze over at him. Simmons looked back to the bickering newsreel crew for an instant, before calling to him softly. "They won't be ready for awhile. Come inside. I've got the mail."
This news certainly brightened Michael's day, his colonel's look promising him a letter; his smile grew. Hopefully, it would be from his beloved; a wanting sigh went deep. Just a few lines from her would make him happy now.
He followed the man inside, therefore, ready for some distraction from his surveillance--mildly relieved to see that Ackerman was still there too. He could keep watch on the man here, his heart sighing--looking back to his trainer. Maybe now he could finally find some peace.
This hope wasn't to be, of course; he couldn't really ask for it, given recent events with his wife. Still, he wasn't to know--listening to the mail call patiently. When his name came up, he took the letter with gratitude--its arrival no longer the sensation such a missive had been the first time, drawing only Elkins' hungry look; he returned to his bunk, oblivious to the world. But such comfort was doomed not to last for long.
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