9So some fella came and dropped a huge chunk of wood on my desk, so big I couldn't budge it to get to my notebook and pencils underneath. Now that's what I call writer's block...
Okay, lame jokes aside, sorry for the long delay, y'all! Dana and I have been hashing out ideas for the next few chapters, and I think everyone's going to be pleased. Well, not Dana, but she's a pushy dame and I was getting quite annoyed with her. Payback's a bitch, ain't it? *sigh* And how sad is it that I feel the need to take revenge on my own fictional creations...?
Orwell wasn't having a good day. Even though she knew it wasn't real, the Door constantly dogged her, dodging in and out of the corner of her eye. She resolutely ignored it, but the effort made her snappish and inclined to grumble. Like Dad, she thought, and then shoved the memories away. No. She would not think about her father. Orwell had no father; that was Jaime, and Jaime had no place in Orwell's world.
It's not Orwell that's going crazy, though, is it? the door seemed to whisper.
"Shut up," she said aloud. "You are just a construct of my imagination, and inanimate objects don't have voices."
You're talking to yourself.
"Plenty of people do. Leave me alone."
Never, Jaime. You will never be alone again. Just walk through the door, and see all the wonders behind it. When Orwell refused to answer, the voice chuckled. It's alright; I can wait. I have all the time in the world; your whole life, in fact. How long can you withstand temptation?
The buzzing of her phone precluded the need to answer, and Orwell jumped on it in relief. It was Vince's number. Thank God; he'd give her something else to think about. Like a wedding... "Shut up."
She thumbed the screen and answered, "Hey, what's up?" He'd give her something to do. Maybe something for just the two of them to do, together...
"I think we've got the answer to our Ark problem."
Or it could be that.
"What, you've found Noah?" she joked, and she heard Vince smile on the other end. She grinned in response, not that he could see.
"Actually..." But Vince's tone was serious. Orwell's smile slid off her face; something was very, very wrong. "He kidnapped my son."
"Oh my God." Her mind ratcheted over several possible responses from How did that happen, to Where are you now, and finishing up with, "How does that solve our Ark problem?"
"He as much as admitted he was Chess when I traded myself for Trip - he's fine, by the way, don't worry. But we got video of the hostage exchange. It's pretty damning footage, and Raia got several close-ups of his face. Fleming is going down."
Orwell sucked in her breath. "Vince, this is fantastic news!" she cheered, even as there was a slight thrill in her belly. Is this it? Is Dad going down? But the hesitation on the other end of the line spoke volumes to her. "Vince? What aren't you telling me?"
A cough, a clearing of a throat. Then, "I couldn't get out of the bindings in time," he admitted. "Fleming pulled my mask. He knows who I am. And," he added before Orwell could start to think along dangerous lines, "Dana was there too." His voice got dim, as though his face was turned away from the mouthpiece. "Is here, now, that is." Orwell got another impression of a smile, and this time, it was not directed at her. "We're on our way back to the Park. I think this could be the biggest coup of Orwell Is Watching's history."
"Yeah," Orwell agreed, faintly. "I'll meet you there," she said, and hung up mechanically.
I never even had a chance with him, she reminded herself. I should have left teenage crushes behind with my teenage years. She could hold out hope that Dana would make a fuss about Vince's career in the last year, could cross her fingers that the year apart would have made husband and wife strangers to one another. But if that smile that she'd heard was for Dana, if his wife wanted to make another go of it... I never even had a chance, she told herself, firmly. Her fantasy was just that, a fantasy. Her heart would just have to take her head's word for it, and her eyes could stop being damp, thank you very much.
Her eye drifted to the door... and her jaw clenched. No. You will not have me today. Not today, not ever.
It felt like a party when Orwell stepped out into the Big Top. The exuberant extroverts were tumbling and cavorting, celebrating like mad. Vince was out of his cape and armor, and his mask was nowhere to be seen. The smile that lit his face was like nothing Orwell had ever seen there before, and her heart clenched. Oh. So that's what he looks like when he's happy. And the person his eyes rested on as he wore that look of relief and love and absolute cherishment... was not Jaime. Dana had a blitzed look in her eyes too, every time she looked at her restored husband. Orwell did what she did best: she watched. It was obvious to her that Dana had a few misgivings, but it was equally obvious that Vince had nothing to fear; his wife wanted him, wanted him back. Love like that... what was a few lies compared to that?
Trip was the interesting variable. He ignored his parents so studiously that Orwell knew he was completely tuned into them, so that he would never accidentally look in their direction. That is one ticked-off little kid. Even Raia's antics couldn't completely distract him from his determined disgruntlement, though he smiled and laughed with the blonde acrobat.
"Orwell!" Vince had spotted her, and she stepped out of the shadows. She couldn't smile, though she did her best.
"It's good to see you again, Dana," she said, offering her hand, "Though I regret the circumstances."
Dana smiled at her as they shook. "I don't," she replied. "I'm glad to know that my husband has had such good friends watching out for him." Was it just in Orwell's imagination that Dana put a slight emphasis on the words 'husband' and 'friends'? Vince didn't seem to notice...
Orwell chose to nod and said, "The Cape is the hero that Palm City needed most. I'm just glad to be able to do my part."
Max chose that moment to come over to the trio, his booming voice and big personality overshadowing them. "Vince! Ruvi tells me that the canapes are a must-try. Do me a favor and go rescue a few before Rollo makes off with them all, will you?" He shunted the Cape off towards the buffet table with a little push. "And Dana," he said with a grin, "your husband eats like a horse. Go along with him and save a few for me, will you?" The lawyer gave the big circus man a genuine smile, following Vince willingly.
"And Orwell, if you'll come with me..." Max placed his large hand on the small of her back and guided her away from the bustle of noise and activity that was the center tent.
"You can't kill Dana just because she got there first," he murmured as they left the lights and sounds and exited into the chilly silence of the night. The shadows stretched above their heads, and far, far overhead, a few stars were visible in the jagged crack of sky allowed by the dilapidated buildings around them. Orwell shivered in spite of herself, and suddenly found a heavy drape of material slung over her shoulders. Max, now bare-shouldered, gave her a grin that showed white in the darkness. Orwell smiled back and drew the cloak-like coat further around herself, glad of the warmth.
"I know," she finally said, replying to Max's first comment. "And I know I never had a chance with him. But..."
"But you hoped." There was so much empathy in his voice that Orwell had to swallow back the tears that she didn't know had been gathering. "It's hard to hope, knowing that there is no hope. Harder still when those hopes are dashed. But better that than gradually losing hope altogether, stealing time from other hopes."
He wasn't looking at her, busying himself with a door that Orwell knew perfectly well was not locked. She was trying to figure out a reply when he turned the knob and popped the door open, inviting her to enter first.
Ah. The control room. Orwell's own private paradise on the Trolley Park grounds. She ran her hand over the big forty-two inch monitor by the door; it was a combination of habit, superstitious good-luck gesture, and surreptitious reassurance of belonging. Whatever it was, it helped settle her and she slid into her swivel chair with a calmer heart. "Alright. Let's see what we've got." She loaded the video footage Max silently handed her and started to watch.
She couldn't help but notice Max's looming presence at her back; she couldn't help but be grateful for his gentle hand on her shoulder when Ark soldiers surrounded Vince and started to beat him. She knew he came out of it alright, that his protective armoring meant that he hadn't felt half the force of the blows directed at him, but still... She looked away. Orwell couldn't watch this, not yet.
Max squeezed her shoulder lightly. "You have a gentle heart," he murmured, so softly that she could almost believe she imagined it. "Treasure that." His strength lent strength to her and she looked back at the vid.
Just in time to see her father emerge from the shadows and take Dana - Mrs. Faraday - up to his throne.
Her body tensed. She knew it, and she knew that Max had to have felt it, and Orwell knew that no matter what name she called herself, she was still Jaime Fleming underneath it all, and Peter Fleming would always have the power to captivate his little girl.
He was older than the last time she'd seen him, though he had avoided the stoutness that plagued men of a certain age. His expression was harsh, but every so often it would slip into an intense focus that wrung her heart with its familiarity. This was why she'd avoided looking at Fleming over much in all her years of playing Orwell. She despised him for what he'd done, for what he was doing. He was the enemy, the single, sole reason that Palm City was effectively a city-state controlled by a tyrant. She could hate him with a fervor and intensity that no one else could match, not Max, not Dana, not even Vince, who had lost so much at the hands of this monster. But if she ever came to him, face to face... in her secret heart-of-hearts, she knew that her father could call her to his side, and she would come.
Aw, look who's missing Daddy. Come through the door, and you and your father will never be estranged...
"Back off," she muttered, and then almost whimpered when Max took his steadying hand away. To cover her gaff, she rewound the vid a short way, paying attention to what was said and looking for ways to use it to their advantage.
It was going to be ridiculously easy. Even if no one believed her father's implicit admission that he was, in fact, the psychotic killer he'd tricked the public into believing was Vince, there was no denying that he was a kidnapper, a thug, and that he had serious mental issues. That little scene with the dais and chair that must have played so well for him in that setting would look like a king's throne to the average viewer, and she knew that Americans raised to believe in freedom, patriotism, and the inherent nobility of the common man would bristle over the display. Add to that the kidnapping of a child and his treatment of Dana, and the public would be eating out of her hand. If anyone knew how to manipulate the media, it was Orwell.
"This is going to destroy him," she said in a low voice.
Max's hand was back on her shoulder. "It's not easy."
She snorted. "Of course it will be. Fleming wrote his own execution order with this." The name, as always, felt odd in her mouth.
"Which is why it won't be easy," he answered. "It should be hard to destroy your own father."
Orwell turned, eyes wide. "...how...?"
Max shrugged. "You know computers. I know people. You're very good, but there were clues."
"Does Vince...?"
"Nobody knows but me," he reassurred her. "There's one thing I don't know, though."
He wants to know why. Why a daughter would turn against her father. What makes her such a monster? Why, why, why... the door laughed at her.
"What's that?" said Orwell, tightly, mentally marshalling her arguments and reasons.
"What's your name?"
It was so unexpected that she actually felt her spine uncoil in relief. Perhaps that was why she blurted out the truth. "Jaime. My name is Jaime. Jaime Fleming."
Max extended his hand and shook hers, solemnly. "It's good to meet you, Jaime Fleming."
It's good to meet me, too. She smiled, and the door retreated.