| Subject: That's strange. I pasted the whole chapter but it didn't post. |
Author:
Arlis
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Date Posted: Wednesday, September 27, 09:59:50am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Chapter 252 - Part 1 (16 and above)" on Wednesday, September 27, 09:57:33am
Extra warning: There are some mild curse words as well as some anti-French slurs in this part. I'll rate it 16 and above, just to be safe.
Dreams in the Dark (252/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
It was January 1st, a new year, a new decade. Gone were the 1930s, with the hunger and fears of the Depression, when the pain of the world had only grown. But not much had really changed, beyond a date on a calendar. And, given the war which was steadily reaching out, bloodily enmeshing every country it came in contact with, happiness and prosperity weren't likely to reach anyone but the armament makers anytime soon.
This fact rang somewhere in the back of Michael's mind, as he stood at attention, listening to yet another harangue from the commander in charge of this base; he had long ago grown accustomed to being able to both take in orders and think privately, giving him his mental space. But this trait didn't aid him much, just now, everything around him reinforcing his fears, telling him that this new era would bring nothing good to any who needed the change; he managed not to sigh, knowing not to draw attention that way. Especially given his current situation, the strange new turn his life had taken, he wasn't at liberty to question such truths.
He couldn't help thinking back, remembering how he had gotten here--while doing his very best not to pine over the last week. The time after Christmas had done its usual, unpleasant trick when he wanted something to last and had sped up so much that, before he had fully realized what was happening, it had been the last day of the year, and he had been standing beside a plane ready to take him to this terrible new life. His heart ached. It didn't help any to remember that he wasn't the only one who had nearly broken down.
He would have sighed, had he been at liberty, but he was already quite accomplished at taking orders, at keeping up appearances; he made his living from it. He and Nikita had made love the night before he left, alternating between furious passion and tearful gentleness. Every time he had thought about the truth, about the fact that he would soon be leaving her, that she would have to face both life and Madeline's attacks against her and their child all on her own, he had nearly broken. It was only his wife who was capable of picking up the pieces.
He did his damnedest, a second later, to keep the tears from fogging his eyes, not wanting to draw any more attention than necessary; he had to change mental paths, or he wouldn't be able to. If the last day had taught him anything, it was just how dependent he was on his wife, how much his sense of well-being grew from knowing she was well and happy; all the years he had lived alone before her, all the years of looking after almost no one but himself, meant nothing. He knew that Nikita felt that she was the one who couldn't stand on her own, but she was wrong. She could get through a thousand lifetimes without him. He was the one who simply didn't have the strength to face a single day away from her.
Commander Van Vactor made another sharp turn in front of them and proceeded back down the, rather limited, ranks, forcing Michael to focus again, any hint of sadness quickly draining from his eyes. He had long experience in channeling his energy and emotions into characters, in hiding behind masks. The man currently standing at attention in his airman uniform, the one who had joined to protect a France which had supposedly given him birth, was a creation, like all the others. Even without a script, this particular Michael Samuelle would forge ahead alone.
He faced down this future through this figment's eyes, forced himself to pretend. In many ways, everyone on earth wore masks, were dozens of different people during one day, depending on their company and surroundings; his portrayals were only different because they were, typically, projected on a screen. That this one would only exist outside the celluloid world was the sole difference he could see.
He worked very hard to create this new image, would make certain that no man here saw his pain. He was good at that. Only Nikita knew the person who lived within him; only she could coax him out. Once he survived this, once this war was over--however far in the future that might be--he would return to her. And then she and their child would get to know him again.
It was difficult not to focus on this need, on the call his wife had for him--on all his fears for her safety; his next breath was deeper, nearly drawing his commander's attention, but Michael's blank eyes managed to draw him away from any possible detection. The focus involved in such a feat allowed him to think, as well-- needing the distraction, seeing his surroundings more clearly. He wasn't even entirely certain where he was, beyond the fact that he was in Manitoba; it wasn't a part of his home country he knew well enough to judge. The plane the studio had chartered had brought him here, leaving him as the last of his new unit to arrive. That in itself had drawn attention, had made the others take notice; he nearly sighed. He only wished that they hadn't.
There was no stopping this truth now, however, his immediate future always predicted to be bleak. Still, the fact that this current unit was so very small--only about 30 men--had surprised him. But he had gained from various hints that this particular group was only a test, that they were the dry run before the larger training began. Already, all across several continents, Britain was recruiting, finding all those men willing to fight for her--as well as for their own countries' freedom. Perhaps their enemies were only attacking their immediate surroundings at the moment--like a wildfire which had only recently begun--but that would soon spread. If left unchecked, the devastation which the Axis represented would soon come for them all. It was an unsettling truth which was apparently bringing in more men by the day.
Michael wanted to sigh, managed to hold up the facade. He, like so many others, would have preferred that it all be a lie, uncertain how the problems of one or two countries--a few lone madmen--had started to spread across the world. Still, he supposed it was like some sort of illness, a mass hysteria--the infection growing larger by the day. It would have to be stopped before the entire world was sick.
In some ways, this was the party line, the sort of words which were always used to draw men to the cause--but, in the current case, they were also the truth. It was rare, really--recruitment propaganda not usually based entirely on facts. Certainly, it hadn't been in the Great War; something inside him fell. But the destruction the world had seen in it would undoubtedly soon be outdone.
He heard his commander's words, took them in, even as his thoughts moved on-- and he wondered suddenly just how often the lies of war were believed. The Great One--the last one, now--had been "The War to End All Wars." Like every war, it had been supposed to only last a few weeks, months at the outside. And, like every other one, it had dragged on in death, pain, and madness for years; his heart ached at the thought. When that meant that he would once again be able to return to his wife and child was very difficult to predict.
He couldn't bear this thought, needed to turn his mind away, if he had any hope of remaining sane. He listened instead to the commander, who was continuing his speech. It seemed to consist mostly of those points the actor had expected--of the need for them to shape up and get ready, of the importance of this early unit in making the right impression for the training camps in general, and of the rather obvious fact that, if they couldn't pull together and learn their jobs--fast--then they would soon encounter all the excitement of a very quick and unpleasant death. The latter wasn't something he needed reminding of, his determination to make it home safely to his wife and child still burning in him; he drew in a quiet, sustaining breath. And that was why he was prepared to put up with any amount of vitriol he had thrown at him.
It had started from his arrival, really, from the moment he had been force- marched from the airstrip to the base commander's office. It hadn't surprised the actor that the one in charge was British, old school Royal Air Force, if he had anything to judge by--which he only could from a few past acquaintances. The man had seemed none-too-pleased to be there, his office still smelling of freshly-sawed wood and paint--the base he was on in the furious process of being enlarged enough to encompass the thousands to come. Michael and his cohorts were in one of the only old barracks there, the sounds of construction surrounding them constantly. Of course, this was nothing new. He was from Hollywood. He was used to worlds which were ever in the process of being built.
It hadn't been only this impression he had been left with, however, his new commander demanding his attention. The man had looked him over like he was week-old milk which had been left on his doorstep, had made it clear that he had been forced--at the highest levels--to accept him. Although Van Vactor had been trying to intimidate him, to make him quit, perhaps, the speech had only made him wonder at Adrian's connections. She might not be British--any more than he was from France--but she certainly had the ear of someone in their government.
This fact amazed him once again, all of the woman's skills so subtly commanded. It was why Madeline never outsmarted her for long. The tutor, after all, liked to gloat--usually after the fact, though occasionally before--let you know without question when she was displeased. But Adrian could smile while fingering the knife in her pocket--the one which would soon end up in her enemy's back. It made her a far more deadly enemy--and an ally it was impossible to ignore.
He felt some sense of sanity thinking about the fact that the woman was looking after his beloved, knowing that she would be there for her granddaughter. But the thought didn't go too far. Adrian always seemed to have a plan, a thousand contingencies in wait. What might happen to you, as she moved them into line, didn't always bear thinking about.
He tried not to ponder this--his new home perfect testament to this fact--not wishing to make his time here any more painful than was necessary, his grandmother-in-law a calculatingly deadly sort of aide. He could only hope that she would find a way to protect Nikita which didn't involve the death of their child. Because, his own feelings very much to the side, he wasn't at all certain that his wife could handle such pain.
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