SG: Aurora #46 - The Life Effect

[Frobozz]

    Peterson hated his mother's home. There was really so much to hate 
about it that he could hardly compile a comprehensive list on demand, but 
the very top -- or perhaps within the top five -- reason for this loathing 
would have to be that the place was not just old, it had somehow absorbed 
the very essence of age into itself. From the street, the small house just 
outright looked as though its salad days were many, many courses behind 
it; and getting closer did absolutely nothing to dispel that impression. 
Despite his best efforts to keep it trimmed, the front lawn somehow 
managed to grow faster than Peterson could get time off to mow. The 
remains of a front garden sprawled like a dying carcass at the 
intersection of house and grass, and what little life remained to it was 
now nothing more than a tangle of sickly weeds trying to out-compete one 
another.
    Stepping over the spider-webbing of cracks in the sidewalk which led 
from road to stoop, the view became even more offensive to Peterson. The 
front door had become a peeling wreck even though he'd applied a fresh 
coat of paint only the year before. Bits of unidentifiable and 
uncatagorizable filth littered the  low front porch, making Al wish -- not 
for the first time -- that the place counted amongst its assets a very 
high-pressure hose.
    But worst of all -- at least in Peterson's opinion -- was the moment 
when one came face-to-face with the front door. There was a screen door 
that ostensibly existed to keep insects from flying into the house during 
the summer, but the pathetically ragged holes in the mesh had stopped 
their last insect years ago. And from this close, one could get the 
faintest whiff of what waited within. It wasn't a rank smell, really; in 
fact, Al was fairly sure that he could have dealt with an evil odour. No, 
the smell was an oddly cloying one that struck him as being redolent of 
curried dryer sheets and sauteed mothballs, mixed with a just hint of dust 
and just a -twist- of marinated pet dander. Peterson was sure that if time 
itself had a smell, it wasn't too far off from this one.
    Peterson knocked on the front door, hammered loudly enough for his 
mother to hear him over the sound of the Family Feud. There was a light 
thump against the door, which he knew to be Patches the cat, rushing 
hopefully to be let out. Why the cat tried this every single time was 
beyond the trooper; the merest sight of the outdoors caused the feline to 
beat a quick retreat back into the house. Peterson had decided that either 
the cat was beyond fathoming, or had some goldfish lurking deep in her 
ancestry. After waiting a few moments -- the knock was to alert his mother 
that he was coming in and not to panic -- he fished out his door key and 
let himself inside.
    "G'wan you," said Peterson, grinning faintly as Patches dove for the 
out of doors before describing a quick about-face and racing for the 
safety of the known. Ordinarily, Peterson would have snatched up the cat 
to play with for a moment or three, but crutches tended to make 
cat-napping difficult. Leaving his prey to escape this one time, Al moved 
towards the front room where his mother sat in rapt study of her overloud 
television. As a concession to him she flicked the volume down a few 
notches, but Peterson could barely tell the difference between before and 
after. Still, life was all about the little challenges, now wasn't it?
    "Oh Al," his mother sighed, as she stared at his struggles to sit down. 
"You've hurt yourself..."
    "It's healing, mom," replied Peterson, finally managing to seat himself 
in some facsimile of comfort. "The doc says I'll be all right in just a 
few months. You'll see."
    "You have such a dangerous job, Al," sighed his mother, shaking her 
head. "I worry so. I worry so much every time you go back..."
    "I'll be fine, mom. Really." Peterson gave her his best smile, trying 
to look much calmer than he felt. "But we should be worrying more about 
you."
    "No Al," she sighed, lolling her head back and forth. "No, you're not 
to worry about me, you're forbidden from worrying about me. You have your 
own life and it's a dangerous one and you need to worry about -you-. I 
need you to promise me..."
    "I've got enough worry for the two of us, mom," replied Peterson, 
mildly rueful as the usual ritual began to play itself out. "Don'tcha 
worry. We just... need to talk about a few things, okay mom?"
    "I saw you on the news, Al. You were there, talking to that nice lady 
reporter. You were telling her that everything was okay, but you looked so 
broken. You said there was an invasion... an invasion... is -that- how you 
got so hurt? You -know- how much invasions worry me! Your father -died- in 
an invasion, you know!"
    "Mom, cathedral-sized chunks of rock aren't an invasion... but the 
point is, mom, yes. My job is dangerous. But I also have ways to keep 
myself safe. Ways that dad never had."
    "If you would just ask that nice Mr Treis for a desk job, I'm sure he'd 
find one for you. I'm sure -he- knows what it's like to worry about your 
child..."
    "Mom, he's not even in charge any more."
    "You should still -ask-! You'll never get one if you don't -ask-! 
You're just like when you were in grade school, always too shy and polite 
to ask for anything, even a bathroom break... and did I get an -earful- at 
the next parent-teacher meeting..."
    "Mom... listen to me, please? I don't want a desk job. I'm doing a lot 
of good where I am right now. I'm making a difference, mostly..."
    "Please, Al... please Al, I worry so much about you... please let 
someone else make the difference... you're too important to me to lose..."
    "Geez," Peterson swore softly under his breath. "We need to talk, mom. 
We need to discuss options for the future."
    "Why..." sighed Peterson's mother, shrinking in on herself as she often 
did when the future was mentioned. "What's -changing-?"
    "I'm going to be... a little bit busy soon, mom. I'm going to want to 
come back to take care of you when I've got time off, but I'm not going to 
be able to all the time..."
    "I won't go into a home, Al... I won't, you can't make me go there..."
    "No! Mom! No, I'd never do that to you, okay? I'd never..."
    "Then you'll take care of me, Al? You're such a good boy. Always taking 
care of your mother. You'll take care of me?"
    "I can't, mom. Mom... I'm hiring a part-time nurse. To check in on you. 
And I'm hiring a handyman to stop by a couple times a month to make sure 
the house is taken care o--"
    "No, Al! No, I... I can't have you spending all that money on me... 
that's wasteful and these are things that we take care of together. As a 
-family-. A family, Al. Do you understand me?"
    "Yeah, sadly," replied Peterson, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as 
he recognized where this was going. "I do, mom. But you need some help--"
    "You're a -good- boy! A good son. A -dutiful- son. You'll help me, 
won't you? You've never let me down before..."
    "Oh God, mom, I want to. Look... I'm not going to need my apartment any 
more. The money I'm saving is more'n enough to pay for everything you 
need. And I'm getting a raise,  so I'll be okay... I just want -you- to be 
okay..."
    "Al... Al... are you in trouble? Are you going away?"
    "What? No! I mean, well yes I -am- going away, but it's not 'cause I'm 
in trouble... and I'll be back whenever I can, but..."
    "Al... where... where are you going, Al...?"
    Peterson reached up to rub his brow before answering. His voice was a 
whisper, though it carried well enough to be heard over the sound of the 
television set's commercial for HeadOn.
    As did his mother's scream. As did his mother's pleading for him to 
stay. As did her threats, her emotional manipulation and her appeals to 
his better nature. Peterson listened to it for as long as he could before 
levering himself up on his crutches. The invective followed him all the 
way to the door, where Patches -- oblivious to the one-sided fight going 
on around her -- waited to be let out for her usual split second of fresh 
air.
    "Seeya, Patches," whispered Peterson to the cat, his voice barely 
audible over the sound of his mother's cries. With a last look back into 
the house, Peterson hobbled his way out, closing the door firmly behind 
himself.

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                Chris Angelini/Frobozz Magic Productions

                              -and-

                        Mademoiselle Muse Inc

                        -in association with-

            'We Didn't Mean To Colour The Sky Pink, Honest!'
                Industrial Special Effects and Magic

                               -and-

        The Overworked and Underpaid Lisa MacDougall (producer)

                             -present-

                             AURORA #46

                          "The Life Effect"


%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%


sorry for wasting your time
five long months on the telephone line
hours of asking if you were fine
and saying i was fine too

sorry but i've got to go
the birth was quick but the death is slow
there was so much i didn't know
and so much i never knew about you

and so we disconnect, the room grows quiet around us
its called the life effect, will it always surround us?

--Stars, The Life Effect

***

Author's Notes: As seems to be an emerging tradition, I want to thank Gary 
for posting an incredibly cool issue, one that made me get off my duff and 
finish up the three (closely linked) chapters I'd been letting languish 
for far too long. I think I let these issues intimidate me more than a 
little, but who's intimidated now, hm? The chapters? Darned right.
    Please enjoy. And just two chapters to go before Aurora concludes, and 
a new series emerges from where it leaves off!

***

    Peterson stared into the depths of his bottle, trying to spy either 
answers or a genie somewhere within. Either would do, though the genie 
would be so much better; after all, who couldn't do with three whole 
wishes? He had his list prepared, had in fact since he was ten, so there'd 
be no hesitation or wishing for the perfect pair of underpants when the 
situation presented itself. It was a BMX Bike, world peace and... hrm. He 
might need to update that list sometime soon.
    "I got your call," said John Clark, sliding onto the stool next to 
Peterson. He glanced over at the bottle in his friend's hand and frowned. 
"Hey, are you -already- onto the hard stuff?"
    Peterson shrugged. "So what if I am? I need it right now."
    "Al, you know how it works. The middle of the day is still too early to 
even think about Vernors. C'mon, let me get you a 7-Up."
    "I'm happy with what I've got," muttered Peterson, sipping his harsh 
ginger pop. "Anyway, I just needed to ask you something. Not get etiquette 
advice from Trooper Worth."
    "Sheesh, Al. Snippy much?"
    "Sorry. Damn it, John... sorry. You know how I get when I've had more 
than one Vernors."
    "Oh I know, Al. I know. How many -have- you had?"
    "One, but it was a double." He sighed and set his soft drink aside, 
then turned to look at his oldest friend. "John, I need you."
    "Hey, while I'm flattered, you know I'm in a loving and committed 
relationship with a woman who could crush me into powder..."
    "Oh shut it," replied Peterson, but not without a hint of a grin. 
"Look... final crew selection for the Trent closes in a month. I've got 
almost my entire roster picked out, but... look, John. My number two spot 
is still open. I've been keeping it open for you. I don't want anyone else 
there; I know you, I know you can handle yourself in space, and I know 
that you may just get on my nerves slightly less than anybody else on this 
mudball. So here's my pitch to you, John... sign on. We'll see the 
universe. -And- you'll get to boss around a lot of highly trained and 
really smart people. How cool is that?"
    "Al..." began Clark, tracing a circle in the moisture on the bar. "If 
it was five years ago, I'd say yes in a second. Hell(tm), if it was two 
years ago I probably would've said yes in about four hours, six minutes 
and five seconds. But..."
    "John, how often does an offer like this come along? Once, maybe twice 
in a *century*? This is outer freaking -space-, Clark. This is not just 
going out there to blow things up and come back home... this is 
-exploration-. This is -science-. This is... is... all the neat stuff you 
used to pretend to do when you were eight and running around in your mom's 
backyard!"
    "I'm sorry Al. Really am, but--"
    "What the Hell(tm) -else- could you be doing with your life that's as 
important as -this-?" Peterson demanded, slamming his glass down on the 
table, ignoring the sprinkle of ginger pop that sloshed over the rim and 
onto his hand.
    "Karen and I've talked about making it permanent," Clark said, in a 
soft, mild tone. "We've been together long enough that we're pretty sure 
we're good to make a go of it. And we already have enough trouble with me 
in Windsor and her in Ottawa; I'm pretty sure adding light-years into the 
equation won't exactly make that easier."
    "Then... then bring her with! I can make room for a security chief... 
she'd be -great- in that role! The Trent's meta compliment is still on the 
low side, there'd be plenty for her to do..."
    "She has friends here, Al. Heck(sm), so do I. I can't ask her to uproot 
herself just because I want to go traipsing off into space. That's not 
fair, not to her and not to us."
    "John..."
    "No." Clark rose from his stool. "Listen to me. I can't make it work. 
I'd love to make it work, but I can't. You've got your dream and I'm 
really happy for you. Damn happy for you. But I've found my dream, and 
it's not the same as yours. Try to be happy for me too, okay?"
    "Fine," muttered Peterson, grabbing a cocktail napkin to help deal with 
the spill. "Message received."
    "I hope so," whispered Clark, putting a hand on Peterson's shoulder. 
"Look, we'll talk soon. Right now... I just need some space."
    "Sounded like that's exactly what you're saying you don't need," 
Peterson muttered, too low for the retreating Clark to hear. He glanced up 
at the bar's proprietor and raised his finger. "Hey... give me another." 
He paused. "And leave the can."

***

    Time and tide wait for no man, though it may often seem they're more 
than happy to go on permanent pause when one is on crutches. 'Just' a 
couple more weeks and he'd be able to get off them, Peterson grumbled 
under his breath. There was absolutely nothing 'just' about the situation. 
Sooner or later though, he'd be off of these... these... wooden prison 
bars for the -soul- and be able to walk on two legs in the afternoon 
again. He hobbled his way out of the Beanstalk's medbay, turning towards 
the nearest bank of elevators.
    He froze at what he saw there.
    Chambers... beautiful, graceful and seemingly dead to him Chambers... 
had been coming down the hallway towards him. But now she stood frozen 
like a deer under the gun, clearly trying to decide which would be the 
lesser of insults: turning and walking away or striding past without a 
word.
    The second choice won. But not by a lot. She nodded as she walked past 
Peterson, glancing down and becoming suddenly fascinated by her clipboard.
    Peterson turned to watch her back. He wanted to say something... he 
wanted to say the right thing. But he had no idea what the right thing 
would be. Anything he said would come out wrong and just make everything 
that much worse. That's how it always seemed to work for him when this 
situation came up. Always. It was better to hold his tongue and let her go 
on, to deal with this herself. It was best to just say nothing. It was 
always better to say nothing. Always.
    "Why?" he asked of her back. Chambers froze again as the unwritten 
agreement to silence was broken between them. Peterson hobbled a step and 
then another towards her. "Why?" he repeated.
    "Why what..." asked Chambers, not turning to face him. Peterson closed 
the space between the two until they were no more than an arm's length 
away. There was a time -- not too long ago but all too brief -- when he 
had wanted nothing more to get this close to the woman and then get closer 
still. There was a time when he thought that maybe, just maybe, she had 
wanted that too. That had all changed in the time it took to squeeze a 
trigger. And if it all had to go away, Peterson suddenly realised that he 
wanted to know why.
    "Why are you running away from me?"
    Two elegant shoulders described a shrug. But it wasn't answer enough 
for him.
    "Whatever you think I'll do," said Peterson, slowly, his eyes fixed on 
the back of her neck. "I won't. Whatever it is that I've done, I'll 
apologize for. -With- a sworn affidavit, if that'll help you trust me. If 
it's my face, if it's too ugly for you to stand to look at, then I'll wear 
a mask. But please... please at least stand still long enough to tell me 
why."
    "You don't understand."
    "You're right! Which is why I'm making with all the asking about the 
whys! I don't -get- it, but the only thing worse than a rift between us is 
me not knowing what dug it in the first place. Was it me? Was it you? Was 
it the Windsor city planning council? I'm betting on the Windsor city 
planning council. They're always pulling crazy stuff like that."
    Out of his sight, Chambers' lips tugged towards the semblance of a 
smile; but sadly they just couldn't manage to finish the motion. Peterson 
continued.
    "Just... give me an hour. Half an hour. Fifteen minutes. I'll even take 
one minute, but you'd have to talk -really- fast, and I'm just thinking 
about your vocal cords now. If you tried for the one minute record and 
strained your voice, why, you'd just have something else to hate me for, 
right? So I'm thinking of you, not me..."
    "Al..."
    "I'll sweeten the deal, okay? I'll make the ultimate sacrifice. I'll 
buy you a Vernors in the Trooper's lounge."
    Chambers finally half-turned towards Peterson, brushing back a ring of 
hair displaced by the motion. She sighed, a not entirely defeated sound, 
then shook her head.
    "No."
    "But..."
    "It's too early in the day for Vernors. Better make it a Sprite."
    "Please. Please tell me you did -not- just request that I buy you the 
Great Pretender to the throne of all uncolas?"
    "That's my condition. A Sprite or no deal."
    "I dunno. That seems like an awful high price."
    "Take it or leave it."
    "Well... all right. I'll compromise my morals, but just this once and 
just for you. I hope this shows you how special you are..."
    Chambers turned once more, this time to lead the way to the lounge. And 
this time her lips managed - just barely - to tug into a wan smile.

***

    "So."
    "So."
    "Would you like to start?"
    "Well..."
    "Because I totally would, but I don't actually have anything to 
contribute to this conversation, so it would probably be a whole lot of 
nonsense babbling. Probably about curling. And I don't know anything about 
curling. So I'd be making up stuff. Stuff about curling. That I'd make you 
listen to."
    Chambers wrinkled her nose. "Anything but that."
    "Tell me about it. So you'd better start talking, missy, if you want to 
avoid that terrible fate."
    "No pressure, hunh?" she replied, sighing softly. "It's... kind of 
strange."
    "I know, but you're the one who wanted the Sprite."
    "Not that. Idiot."
    "What then?"
    "It's... just that all this time I thought that if I spoke with you, 
the world would end."
    "A common belief."
    "Shut *up*." She sighed. "And now that we're talking and it hasn't, 
I... almost don't want to talk. Because it might... "
    "Might?"
    "Ruin the fact that we're talking."
    "So... you don't want to talk because it might mean we couldn't talk?"
    "Yup."
    "Recursive."
    "No, actually it's more paradoxical."
    "Hm."
    "What? I'm pretty sure it's a paradox."
    "No, no. Well yes, yes, but I'm trying to guide us away from that. It's 
just, there's an old ice breaking technique I used to use for situations 
like these. It might help here."
    "What's... that?"
    Peterson dipped his finger into his glass of water and swirled it 
around once. Then, without warning, he flicked the drops straight into 
Chambers' face.
    "Wh--HEY! You jerk!"
    "Ah, still works like a charm." Peterson gave Chambers a faint smile. 
"Well? Better start talking now while you still hate me. Takes the curse 
off."
    "I'm not sure -duration- is going to be a problem," she grumbled, 
reaching up to wipe off her face with a sleeve. But both troopers could 
feel it: a tension had indeed been broken between the two of them. There 
was still a rift, but it had closed somewhat. And that gave Chambers the 
push she needed to talk. "It's just..."
     Peterson nodded, going quiet now, knowing that this was her show. And 
how he loved her under the spotlight...
    "I don't know. It's hard. I think that one thing was the cause and then 
the next day I think it's another. I -want- to tell you the one thing that 
made me a standoffish witch, but..."
    "But if we could get to the core that easily, we wouldn't need to sell 
our children into hock to pay for our psychiatrist bills, could we?"
    "True that. What should I do?"
    "Just... talk. I'll listen. I promise."
    Chambers nodded, spreading her hands as she considered where to begin. 
"I had to leave CAUTION. For a lot of reasons. But there's one that stands 
out in my head..."
    "I promise not to take it as your secret origin," replied Peterson, 
giving her a soft smile. "Promise I'll keep in mind the context."
    "'kay. It was... well towards the end of things. Of my association with 
that branch, I mean. I was pulling interdiction duty, working with 
CSIS..."
    "Why would CAUTION get involved with that?"
    "Oh... well, there was a metahuman component involved. There were 
rumours that someone was moving a crate of Choke across the border. We 
needed to keep it out."
    "Mmmhm?"
    "Kids were working there. Unloading it. Most of them ran, but one 
kid... he went for a gun."
    "What happened?"
    "Leg shot. He'll walk with a limp for the rest of his life, but he went 
down without a loss of life..."
    "Well... so far that sounds like a positive encounter..."
    "It was, by the book, I suppose. It's just... that's when my thoughts 
all started to crystallize. I wanted to get into STOP. You guys... you 
stood up to the big bads. You fought giant cats and alien invasions and 
demonic invasions and probably little stuffed teddy bear invasions."
    "Care Bears actually, but basically right."
    "Yes. I -was- there for that one."
    "Sorry, no, I mean the first time... oh never mind. So... you were 
hoping to fight less... morally ambiguous battles?"
    Chambers paused, then nodded. "I guess a part of me just wanted to go 
up against someone with the 'kick me, I'm evil' sign pasted on his chest 
instead of firing on kids who were given ten bucks and a zip-zap gun and 
told to kill anyone who tried to stop them.
    "Except it doesn't work that way, does it Al? Your fights are less 
cloak-and-dagger than CAUTION's, but you can't say that they're... black 
and white."
    "And this started hitting during the invasion?"
    "A little earlier, actually. Not too much, though. When the Changeling 
society marched on us. I started thinking 'oh my Elvis, these are 
innocents. These are just people who got misled, and I'm going to have to 
fire on them'. With rubber rounds and tear gas missiles, but the point was 
still the same. And then... well, this is terrible of me. But when it all 
seemed ready to turn peaceful without a shot fired, I felt... relieved. 
Like things were working out -right-. Like yes, we -were- the good guys 
and not the baddies, and everything was right in the world. And then..."
    "A shot was fired."
    "Yes. A shot was fired. A man went down. And everything went to 
Hell(tm)."
    "And then..."
    "And then I spent the whole invasion trying to convince myself that I 
was doing -only- the right thing. Not... it's not that I was worried I was 
on the wrong side. It was like... the shades of grey. They were scaring 
me. They were -terrifying- me. I didn't know where they came from and I 
didn't know how to deal with them. The counterpart thing sure didn't help. 
It was the worst part... it's like, you might see yourself and suddenly 
start wondering why you weren't more like her, and maybe -she- was right 
and you were wrong. And then you had your plan, and I thought that the 
world was going back to how it should be. Like we were going to win this 
thing by taking down the big stereotypical evil and all would be right 
again."
    Peterson glanced down at the table, then moved his hand to cover 
Chambers'. When she didn't pull away, he left it there. "And then a shot 
was fired."
    "Yes. If... damn it, why did she have to be a little girl?"
    "She wasn't. If it helps, she -wasn't-. You know that. She was a very 
evil soul, reincarnated into a little girl's body. There was no innocence 
there to shatter."
    "I know! Don't you think I know that? Don't you think everyone 
constantly -tells- me how bad she was, and how much I did the right thing, 
and they just don't get it! You don't get it!"
    "What? What don't I get?"
    "I didn't shoot a girl! I shot a symbol! I shot a metaphor! Just like 
the Ancient Mariner, and you don't shoot your... your metaphors or you go 
all adrift and... just..."
    "Easy... hey, shh. Easy. Literary epiphany can be confusing and hard on 
a soul."
    "I just wish she'd been... looked, I mean... looked ten years older. 
Then she wouldn't have been a symbol. She would've been just a bad person 
who needed to be killed. Instead, the shot that ended the war... how am I 
different than the person who fired the one that started it all..."
    "I'd say all the reasons why you are different, except I figure you've 
had about a hundred thousand people tell you already, right?"
    "Yunh hunh..."
    "And it doesn't help, because it's not as simple as that. Because 
there's a lot more buried that you can't get at, and this is all you can 
figure out. Right?"
    "Yes..."
    "And so it frustrates you when someone tries to make you feel better on 
this one, because there's a lot more underneath and no one's getting at 
-that-, not even you?"
    "Did you used to be a psych in another life...?"
    "Nope. Just... been there, myself. Had the screaming matches with 
friends who tried to help me. Then went home and felt like crap till I 
figured out why."
    "I'm... glad you're an easily irritated, intolerant jerk too."
    "We intolerant jerks of loose irritation have to stick together, don't 
we? Hey..."
    "Yes?"
    "Favour to ask you."
    "What is it?"
    "I know things are weird, and I know things are probably just going to 
get more weird as time goes on. But... I miss you. If I promise to be okay 
with the times when you're feeling weird about things, can we be friends 
again?"
    "I... yes. I'd like that. I'm sorry, I don't think I was ever really 
upset at you. But I needed someone to blame..."
    "I know. I'm one of those infinitely blamable people."
    Chambers looked up at Peterson, seeming on the cusp of saying something 
else. Peterson thought he knew what she was trying to say, and it broke 
his heart to realise that she was not likely to say it. Not now, not ever. 
As proof of his detective skills, she glanced down at her glass again and 
resumed her silence. Peterson let three heartbeats pass before breaking 
the ice once more.
    "Stop that!" Chambers squealed, though this time a smile was on her 
face.
    "Nope, never. Not when you need it."
    "Brute."
    "That's me. C'mon. Let's head to the elevators. I need to go home, and 
you probably need to go on-duty."
    "I'm already late, so yes. I'm sure I can sweet talk Graham though..."
    "He'd have to be a soulless killer robot to not respond to -that-."
    "You doubt? You haven't forgotten what he's like already, have you?"
    "I punched him in the face, remember? No metal. Just lots and lots of 
meat in that head."

***

    "Well, I'm going down," Peterson said, giving Chambers a fond smile at 
the elevator annex. "Maybe we can talk again soon."
    "Maybe I'd like that," replied Chambers, as the elevator binged for 
their attention. "Maybe next time we might even let you talk."
    "Miracles could happen," said Peterson. "I--"
    "What?" asked Chambers, whirling around in the direction Peterson was 
staring. The elevator doors had slid open to reveal a red-headed engineer 
familiar to both troopers. She seemed startled to see them both standing 
there. So startled, in fact, that she had drawn a pistol and was aiming it 
at Peterson's stomach.
    Chambers spent only a moment gaping. She knew that Peterson was likely 
to try to defend himself, but she also knew that on crutches and with this 
much of a gap between himself and Colleen, gun would beat stick. But gun 
might not beat grace. She was already in motion as her moment of surprise 
came and went, hand grasping for the other woman's gun arm. Said arm was 
drawn out of her reach, the gun swinging towards the position for a 
point-blank shot on her, now...
    Training took over. An open-handed strike to the neck and then another 
to the nose caused the engineer to drop to the floor of the elevator.
    "Oh my God," whispered Chambers, staring down at the crumpled form. 
Peterson hobbled into the elevator, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I... 
I think I..."

***

    "Hi mom. Yeah, it's me... please don't hang up? Mom... thanks. Look. I 
wanted to say that I was sorry. No, no not about going away. No... *no*, 
mom... because it's the right thing for me. Because it is, okay?
    "But I'm sorry. For -running- away last week. I shouldn't have. I 
turned my back and that was wrong, mom.
    "Mom... -because- it's what I need to do. Because I can make a 
difference. Because... because I want to, mom. Please mom, let me just say 
my piece? I'm not calling to defend myself, just let me say sorry?
    "Because I ran out on you. I didn't stick and talk. Because I want you 
to be happy. What... no. No, it doesn't work like that. I want you to be 
happy but I want to be happy too. And I... can't be happy if I stay here 
and just... not do anything with my life...
    "I didn't say that! I didn't say you were nothing! I'm just trying to 
explain why I ran... I'm just trying to say sorry that I -did- run. I'm 
sorry mom. I love you. I--
    "No... no, mom, the 'if you loved me' thing doesn't work like that. 
I--"
    *click*
    "I still love you, mom," said Peterson, heaving a heavy sigh as he hung 
up his phone. "Even if I need to put a thousand light-years between us."

***

This issue is mine, mine, mine and you can't have it. Nyah and copyright
belongs to Frobozz/Chris Angelini, 2007. Mess with my legal rights and
I'll send over Gggthstx to discuss 'fair use' with you. Email to
frobozz at eyrie.org. Homepage at http://www.eyrie.org/~frobozz.



---
-Chris
frobozz at eyrie.org
http://www.eyrie.org/~frobozz

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