![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
Title: Imprint (1/3)
Fandom: Sunshine (2007)/28 Weeks Later
Pairing: Tammy/Cassie
Rating: M, L/S
Author: Harper
Word count: 19736
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. I make no profit.
A/N: This story started off as something else, but along the way it changed. I don’t know what happened. It doesn’t necessarily have a purpose and it was maybe supposed to mean something more, to be a metaphor for something greater, but I think I lost my way. It's in a tense I've been using lately for reasons beyond my understanding, so I apologize if it reads a bit strangely. Regardless, a quick note about the source material. I drew from two movies: Sunshine and 28 Weeks Later. If you haven’t seen them, prepare to be spoiled. Also, they technically don’t co-exist at the same time (there’s a 50 year span between them), but I ignored that. Just bump 28 back and push Sunshine forward and pretend that it doesn’t matter. It’s a crazily nonsensical crossover anyway, so I suppose you can suspend that bit of disbelief if you’re willing to read it. Also, to any UK readers, I apologize for your unfortunate and untimely demise.
The story doesn't carry through to the ending of Sunshine, but, when the lines meet in infinity, the ending remains the same as in the film.
On to the next part: http://harper-m.livejournal.com/10840.ht
Fandom: Sunshine (2007)/28 Weeks Later
Pairing: Tammy/Cassie
Rating: M, L/S
Author: Harper
Word count: 19736
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. I make no profit.
A/N: This story started off as something else, but along the way it changed. I don’t know what happened. It doesn’t necessarily have a purpose and it was maybe supposed to mean something more, to be a metaphor for something greater, but I think I lost my way. It's in a tense I've been using lately for reasons beyond my understanding, so I apologize if it reads a bit strangely. Regardless, a quick note about the source material. I drew from two movies: Sunshine and 28 Weeks Later. If you haven’t seen them, prepare to be spoiled. Also, they technically don’t co-exist at the same time (there’s a 50 year span between them), but I ignored that. Just bump 28 back and push Sunshine forward and pretend that it doesn’t matter. It’s a crazily nonsensical crossover anyway, so I suppose you can suspend that bit of disbelief if you’re willing to read it. Also, to any UK readers, I apologize for your unfortunate and untimely demise.
The story doesn't carry through to the ending of Sunshine, but, when the lines meet in infinity, the ending remains the same as in the film.
XXXXXXXXXX
America is the land of opportunity. The land of dreams. Or, it was, Tammy thinks, because even though she looks, she doesn’t see much opportunity. Then again, maybe that was all a lot of hype, or maybe it was the land of dreams way back when, when the world watched television in black and white and people didn’t talk about building a giant fence to keep out those seeking to improve their fortunes. People who apparently kept forgetting they were immigrants themselves, once, or at least that their ancestors were, she thinks, though she’s come to realize that America is a country with a very short memory – shorter, much shorter, than her very short (recognized) history.
Then again, her personal opportunity is a great big fat check from the US government, enough to pay the mortgage on a posh flat in Hell’s Kitchen and to make the notion of a job a whimsical one, so maybe she shouldn’t complain.
Guilt money. Hush money. A bribe.
She used to like to say that she’s already seen Hell’s Kitchen, that it was located in a suburb of London in a pizza parlor, but the joke was never really funny and no one else got it but her. Regardless, the irony that only she could see was enough to prompt her to sign on the dotted line and take possession of the keys, lurid tales of past misdeeds committed in her new flat’s general vicinity notwithstanding. She likes that it is a ‘neighborhood in transition’, likes the thought of always being in transition, though she eschews the other name people have for it.
Gentrification.
Because really, were the gentry ever really good for anyone? Or, maybe that’s the point. And, maybe now she’s contributed to it.
Ah, irony everywhere.
The location is not particularly close but yet not particularly far from the secret research facility where her brother lives. It is the secret research facility where he will continue to live for the foreseeable future, and she thinks about that sometimes when the wind is brisk against her face and an iced coffee is dripping beads of condensation down over the back of her hand, little rivulets of cold desolation.
No, not desolation. They are a sign of things to come.
No. They’re all stupid. Stupid, empty phrases and stupid, empty feelings.
She’s been going to poetry slams. She’s got nothing to do with her life except live it, and she likes to watch the people with their near-to-boiling passion. She has no talent of her own, obviously – really, rivulets of cold desolation… this is what she produces when left to her own devices? – but she likes the way their eyes burn and their bodies strain as if they can’t keep the power of their words leashed.
When the government tells her they’re moving her brother, she knows that the foreseeable future has turned into the rest of his future and she almost thinks of staying where she is. She likes how her new city is always so busy. She likes being surrounded by people. She hates the look of defeat in her brother’s eyes when she goes to visit him.
“They’re never going to let me out,” he said the last time she saw him. She’s known this from the beginning and so has he. She thinks that maybe it has just been too horrible to contemplate, the prospect of a future with no future at all, and so he’s simply refused to believe it for as long as he can. He will never be free, never have children, never have sex, never pop down to the grocery on the whim of some beautiful girl who has him wrapped around her little finger. He will forever be surrounded by scientists and more scientists, by white coats and biohazard suits. He will live alone in his cell – because no matter how nicely they dress it up, it will always be a cell – until he dies.
How is she supposed to look at him with the knowledge of that in his eyes as well as hers?
She can’t abandon him. Most of the time she can’t even hug him, hold his hand, kiss him on the cheek, or offer any sort of comfort. The majority of their meetings are conducted through a plexiglas window that is two inches thick. On those occasions when she enters his cell, she gets one of her own for at least a week. They take her blood and put her in quarantine until they’re satisfied that she’s not carrying the virus herself, and she’s terrified that one day they’ll decide to just keep her regardless so she has stopped doing it. There would be no one to miss her, to complain about high-handed governments and conspiracies. She, like her brother, would just disappear.
So, she moves to Atlanta and Andy comes into the permanent care of the CDC. He lives in a BSL-4 laboratory built especially for him; government agencies, she has learned, have an overwhelming affinity for acronyms. His surroundings are nicer here, tucked away from the city’s center and, instead, installed in a small, tightly secured house on permanent lockdown on the grounds of a laboratory facility which, in other buildings, houses row upon row of little vials of death. She has already been through security clearance but finds herself going through it again, the process taking long months during which she’s only allowed to see her brother twice and both under the auspices of a stern, frowning administrator.
She can’t bear to give up her place in Hell’s Kitchen so she rents it out to an aspiring Broadway star who thinks she’s found a steal. Her new flat, though she isn’t entirely sure whether she lives in the Midtown or Virginia Highland district of Atlanta, is quite lovely, but she misses the irony.
Atlanta is not New York. It’s a busy town, a bustling town, a growing town, but it’s not New York. She isn’t sure whether that is good or bad, though she likes the way the people talk and the way things move just slightly slower than fast. She doesn’t like the lack of good public transportation and she doesn’t like the way it rains here. In New York, she had snow. In Atlanta, she is subjected to a freezing deluge of near flood-like rain on a semi-regular basis. Here trees, devoid of their leaves, aren’t then redressed with a light coating of snow. Instead, they loom overhead like nightmare illustrations from a book of Grimm’s fairy tales, naked and dead and menacing. It adds a hint of gothic mystery to the crooked, poorly planned streets wholly at odds with the cheery dispositions of the town’s residents.
Her neighbor has a dog, a little Jack Russell terrier named Rufus that she takes to the Piedmont Park dog park in the center of the city every Saturday, and one day, after a month of graciously extended invitations, Tammy goes with her. They park on a side street under the sketchy shade of an enormous oak tree whose leaves are brown and brittle under their feet.
It is mid-July in Georgia and 55 degrees.
They are on the opposite side of the park from the little fenced in dog park, but she doesn’t mind the walk. It’s early morning and so colder than it will be in a few hours, but the chill is bracing. It reminds her a little of home and of the fall and of her mother smiling brightly, standing over the stove and stirring a pot of cocoa she’s decided to make as a treat.
Tammy has forgotten her gloves and so, instead, tucks her hands into her pockets, shoulders hunched.
“I know you won’t believe me,” her neighbor confides, leaning close with a conspiratorial grin, “but I remember ten, fifteen years ago it’d be 90 degrees by breakfast.”
Tammy hasn’t completely mastered Fahrenheit, but she knows that’s hot.
She finds the dog park overwhelming. An overly friendly black lab puts his paws on her shoulders and licks the side of her face before she can protect herself from the onslaught, the admonishment of his owner doing nothing to wipe the grin of doggy glee from his face, and Tammy accepts the man’s apologies with a tight smile. A collie and a cocker spaniel are chasing each other’s tails in circles around her legs, creating something like a panic deep within her, and she excuses herself from the melee with a strained, clipped, “I’m going to explore the park.”
She is no longer comfortable in crowds.
Her neighbor nods apologetically, holding her hand up to the side of her head, thumb and little finger extended in the pantomime of a phone. “I’ll call you,” she mouths, digging a treat out of her pocket to offer to her own little bundle of canine energy, and Tammy slips through the fence and into the vast, brittle brown expanse of the park. She finds a water fountain and does her best to rinse her face, scrubbing particularly hard at the cheek which bore the brunt of the attack, then flicks the water from her fingers in agitation. Her cheek and fingers are numb now, the water like ice.
Maybe she hates Atlanta after all.
In the center of the park, people have arranged themselves in groups. Four friends are engaged in a vigorous game of Frisbee while another group kicks around a soccer ball behind them. One mother chases after a child, kite dragging along behind them before a sudden gust of wind catches it and catapults it into the sky. She sees, off to the left and in the very corner of her eye, what looks suspiciously like an incipient parade, though a second glance clarifies that it is only one lone girl with a baton.
And then her breath catches in her chest and her heart stops.
It’s not her. It’s not, can’t be her, because she’s dead. Tammy has been sure of it, has known it deep inside as a certainty since the day it happened.
Or, maybe she’s wrong. She’s watched the movies. Any American soldier who survives will be rescued. They’re almost pathological about it, the armed forces, with their philosophy of leaving no one behind no matter what the odds. And Major Ross was resourceful and brave. Of course she made it out alive, probably surviving on leaves and rats until she was rescued.
It’s true, then, the blind patriotism and unselfish bravery she’s always found cloying when watching it onscreen. It’s not simply for dramatic effect.
“Major Ross,” she calls out, her voice weaker than she’d intended. And then, more desperately, “Scarlet!”
The dark head doesn’t turn her way, though the Frisbee does drop to the ground as all four friends turn as one to look at her, their faces a mixture of confusion and hope that something amusingly crazy is about to happen.
She begins to run, heart now about to beat out of her chest as she eats up the ground between them, calling once again, “Scarlet!”
This time, the head does turn, and Tammy skids to a stop in front of where the woman is sitting, backpack to her side and book open in her lap. She drops her hands to her knees, chest heaving as she pants. “It’s you,” she says thickly, then falls to her knees and throws her arms around her one time savior.
It takes her a moment to realize that Major Ross isn’t hugging her back.
She pulls away in confusion, a tortured, “Why? Why did you leave us? Why did you not seek us out?” and “How? How did you survive?” on the tip of her tongue when she sees the blank stare of incomprehension on the woman’s face. And then she notices it, notices how young she is. Scarlet had been probably, at the least, 10 to 15 years older than her then.
This girl is maybe only a few years older than she is now.
She is so stunned, so completely and overwhelmingly disappointed, that she nearly collapses. Where she had been crouching before, balanced on her knees in the grass, she is now sitting heavily, a light coating of residual water from an earlier rain seeping into the fabric of her jeans.
“I’m sorry,” she stutters, tears immediately streaking down her face. She’s only had the snippet of hope for a second, but now that it’s gone, its loss is crushing. “I thought you were someone else.”
She expects the girl to gather up her books and run away, or at the very least to scoff, but instead she smiles kindly. “Obviously,” she says, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “But you were so excited to see me that it was almost like a pleasant surprise.”
This is when Tammy begins to cry in earnest. She doesn’t have the fortitude to try and hide it, so instead she drops her face into her hands and sobs.
******
“I’m so sorry.”
She’s said it maybe 50 times now and knows that she shouldn’t say it again but she can’t help herself. It’s the only thing she can think to say to this woman who isn’t Chief Medical Officer Major Scarlet Ross, this woman who wrapped her in a hug and patted her back as if they were old friends while Tammy cried until she ran out of tears.
Now her face is red. She sniffles every few seconds and her eyes are gritty and raw. There’s a dull ache behind them, intensified by the increasing wind, and Tammy knows that she has been more miserable but she can’t remember when.
The woman’s smile is gentle and soothing, qualities that extend to her voice as she says, “It isn’t every day that I reduce a girl to tears before I even really meet her.”
Tammy’s embarrassment knows no bounds. Her eyes are fixed on the dull brown of the grass between them, carefully examining each flattened blade. With her hair shoved back messily behind her ears and her cheeks still red, she looks as young as she was when she had last seen the woman whose memory prompted this whole mess. “I thought you were someone else,” she says, shame coloring the words. “I didn’t mean to fall apart on you.”
“I gathered that.”
When Tammy dares a quick glance upward, she sees that the soft smile is still in place. She wonders again why the other woman hasn’t gathered her things and run away from her. It is clear that neither her initial action nor her subsequent reaction was normal, but instead of panic, the girl sitting in front of her radiates calm.
Of course, everyone had told her that Southerners were very polite. They’d also said other things, many of which weren’t nearly as complimentary, but of them all, Tammy has found this one to be the most true.
Perhaps this is a demonstration of the tenet.
“Do you want to tell me about her?”
Tammy looks up so swiftly that she almost gives herself whiplash, eyes wide and scared. The woman appears genuinely interested, dark eyes soft and kind, and for a moment, Tammy considers laying out the whole story.
But no. No one deserves to be burdened with tragedy unnecessarily.
So instead, she says again, “I’m so sorry.”
The chirping of her cell phone cuts off whatever the other woman is about to say, and Tammy latches on to the interruption. Her eyes cut to the corner of the park where the dog park is situated, and she sees her neighbor standing just outside the fence, cell phone to her ear and one hand shading her eyes as she scans the area looking for Tammy.
“My friend,” Tammy offers apologetically, flicking open her phone. A terse, “I’ll meet you,” later, and she’s steeling herself to look into the woman’s eyes once again.
“My name is Cassie.” The kind smile turns rueful for a moment. “You’ll catch my attention more quickly if you use it next time.”
Tammy knows that she’s joking, that she’s gently trying to diffuse any lingering tension. And so she gives the best smile she can muster in return, voice still a bit watery as she murmurs, “I’ll remember that.”
******
She doesn’t go back to the park for three weeks. She ducks her neighbor’s invitations, claiming errands and allergies. Her neighbor doesn’t ask the fourth week, and Tammy waits until she returns from her weekly trip before slipping out the door and onto her little green Vespa. She gets lost trying to find the park, ends up near the botanical gardens, and has to stop and ask for directions. By the time she turns around so that she is finally going in the correct direction, finds the park, and manages to wedge herself into a painfully small parking place, it is nearly midday.
This time, she has remembered to bring her gloves. She takes them off and tucks them into the pocket of her jacket, a sleek white racing affair with black accents that makes her feel a little like an imposter. After months of living in Atlanta, she has become only slightly more acclimated to both the weather and the culture. She consistently underestimates or overestimates and ends up either carrying a coat too thick for the mild day or freezing in a light anorak that is far from up to the task of breaking the driving wind. In New York, it was easier. It was always cold, the wind always brisk. Here, the weather is more capricious. In the span of a week, the temperature will fluctuate by 20 degrees or more.
People are once again scattered throughout the park. Boys leisurely toss around an American football, a loosely organized game soon to start. A few enterprising couples have packed picnic baskets and sought out shelter in the scant coverage offered by the few trees ringing the perimeter, and the laughter of children pierces the air.
Tammy’s mind flashes back to London, deserted and silent.
The memories come to her unexpectedly, and she feels a sob of rising hysteria crush her throat. Overwhelmed, she sinks down onto a nearby bench, hands lying uselessly in her lap. She doesn’t move for a very long time.
It isn’t until she rouses herself from dark thoughts that she spots the deceptively familiar dark head of the woman whose name is Cassie, not Scarlet. Her eyes stop their unconscious scan, snagging and holding, and she pushes up off of the bench without giving it conscious thought. She’s closed half of the distance between them before she realizes what she’s doing. Her foot hovers for a second, body urging her to turn back even though this is the reason why she came in the first place, but it is too late. Cassie has glanced up from her book.
She offers a short, tentative wave which Tammy reluctantly returns.
“I’m not psychotic today,” she offers as she approaches cautiously, though her voice is still the slightest bit strangled. “Tear and outburst free, I promise.”
She wants to drown in the muted kindness of Cassie’s smile.
“I didn’t think you were psychotic before,” the girl says, dark eyes flashing mischievously. The kind smile morphs into a grin. “Maybe just a touch emotional,” she allows.
Tammy sits beside Cassie without invitation though she can’t imagine that the girl who treated her with such compassion before will voice any objection.
They sit in silence for a moment, like old friends, before Cassie prods gently, “Are you hiding away from the dog park again?”
For a moment, Tammy is surprised that the girl has remembered this small detail of their last meeting. She thinks it should have gotten lost in the clutter of everything else, fading away into insignificance in the face of her histrionics.
“No,” she says, lips curling into a pleased smile, “I’m here by myself. I came to find you.”
There is a moment when the blankness of Cassie’s expression speaks volumes.
Tammy laughs at herself, at the words she’s just said. “And of course I sound crazy,” she scoffs, shaking her head.
Cassie’s smile is tinged with a hint of uneasiness. “I wouldn’t say that,” she says slowly, in those polite tones that let Tammy know that she might not say it herself but certainly wouldn’t disagree with it once said.
Tammy ignores that. Instead she forces a bright smile. “It’s cold out.”
“It’s always cold out. We’re in the middle of a solar winter.” Cassie has quirked a brow at her, a hint of sarcasm breaking through the pleasant façade. Its presence reassures Tammy. It makes her think that this girl has depths beyond her kind and calm exterior. She doesn’t see how anyone could remain so placid and understanding, no matter the circumstances.
So she takes a deep breath and tries to look as normal and non-threatening as possible when she says blithely, “Let me buy you a cup of coffee then. You must need warming up.”
The eyes that she has thought of as kind until now take on a hint of distance. She can see a swift, calculating appraisal in them, a cutting logic that she fears she will not withstand.
“Are you asking me out?” Cassie’s voice is flat, devoid of inflection. Tammy fights the urge to laugh the words away, to cross her arms over her chest and give a cutting reply that might shield her from the incipient rejection.
Instead, she nods slowly, trying, once more, to offer a reassuring smile.
Cassie’s assessing gaze grows improbably sharper. “You have to admit that your behavior doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”
Tammy has survived moments much more harrowing than this one. Rejection from this girl who is a ghost hangs between them awkwardly, but it induces sadness, not fear. She can move past disappointment. Her smile turns rueful and she braces her palms on her thighs, tensing as she begins to rise, to apologize to this girl yet again, when the soft pressure of a hand on her forearm stops her.
She looks over to see Cassie smiling once again, but this time she detects the depth in the expression. There is a hint of amusement there, playing itself out at the corners of her mouth in a smirk. “The fact that you took that so well is somewhat reassuring,” she says, dark eyes twinkling. “Are you just offering coffee or do you think lunch would be too much of a stretch?”
******
Tammy gladly follows Cassie to a restaurant adjacent to the park. She hadn’t considered that, upon acceptance of her invitation, she wouldn’t know where to go. She is even more unfamiliar with this part of town than she is with her own and is grateful that Cassie seems to intuit the problem well enough to offer a solution before things become even more awkward.
They are dipping sweet potato chips into some sort of Gorgonzola spread, the combination much better than she’d anticipated, when Cassie looks up at her with an odd expression on her face. It looks as if she is torn between thoughtfulness and amusement, and Tammy is suddenly self-conscious. “What?” she asks, suddenly wary.
“Nothing.” Cassie blushes slightly, ducking her head as if embarrassed that she’s been caught. “It’s just… your accent. You don’t hear a British accent very often these days.”
Tammy can tell by the look on Cassie’s face that she regrets the words just as soon as she’s said them. She does not have to be psychic to know that there is an unhappy story waiting in the wings.
“Makes me exotic then,” Tammy tries to joke to lessen the sudden tension between them, though her voice is strained and flat. In her mind she sees her parents. She sees her very first teacher and the girls she had ballet with when she was 5. They wore ridiculous pink tutus, because little girls who want to be ballerinas want to wear ridiculous pink tutus, no matter if what they do looks more like absent-minded twirling across the stage than it does classical dance. She sees, oddly enough, the veterinarian who put their dog to sleep when she was 12, his eyes mostly unperturbed and efficient though there was a hint of pity there for the sniffling child holding an empty leash.
If America is a melting pot, then these days the land of her childhood is drippy, gooey fondue. There are precious few people to repatriate, even if the UK citizens who had been rescued or, like her, serendipitously out of the country when the first wave of infection hit, had wanted to return. Most didn’t. There is no allure in returning to your home to find you are the only person in the neighborhood to survive.
She will never forget the stillness of it.
Now people have settled from all over the globe, buying homes for a fraction of their cost. The money is being used to restart and reshape the infrastructure needed to support them. American troops still remain, in fewer numbers now than before, the world’s wary watchdog keeping an eye on the face of the new United Kingdom.
She is a relic of a slowly dying empire. In less than a year and at the hands of something too small to be seen by the naked eye, nearly 61 million people were winnowed down to little over 6 million. She found both sets of numbers to be incomprehensible. Even now, she cannot imagine what the totality of 6 million people must look like, much less expand that imagination to the scale needed to contemplate the 55 million graves needed for the rest of her countrymen and neighbors. There had been a moment of staggering hope, upon hearing the statistics that began to emerge in the months after the second wave of infection hit, in the knowledge that 6 million people still survived. They were still a grand civilization, she’d thought, until she’d realized that they were in the company of countries with billions. In fact, in a world with over 6 billion inhabitants, they now represent only one-tenth of one percent of all of people, a mere blip, an inconsequential notation on tables and graphs. The metropolitan area of Atlanta, her new home, boasts almost as many people as that.
Cassie shifts uncomfortably in her chair and Tammy realizes that she’s been lost in her thoughts. Her forearm is pressed against the side of the table, sweet potato chip still clutched in her fingers though it is now cold and greasy, and the dip she’d coated it with has slid down to drabble messily on the surface of the table. She looks like a curiosity frozen in a wax rendering.
“I’m sorry,” Cassie says haltingly, and now her eyes drip with the one thing Tammy hates most – pity. “You must have lost a lot.”
She places the chip on her plate slowly, wiping her fingers on her napkin with deliberate care. “Everyone lost a lot,” she says, trying to infuse her voice with a note of lightness, trying to brush away the dark thoughts crowding her mind. “At least I’m still alive and free.”
There is a moment of hesitation in which she can see the battle waging inside of Cassie. There is a tussle between restraint and curiosity, between good manners and the need to know. Finally, she asks quietly, “Did I remind you of someone you used to know?”
Tammy sits back against the hard back of her chair, arms crossed protectively over her chest. Her jaw tightens and, unbidden, something like hate flashes in her eyes.
It is answer enough.
Cassie withdraws, leaving the open wound festering between them. She remembers the news reports and footage that leaked after the first wave of infection hit, before the government placed a lock down on all images showing the infected, and she shudders at the thought of this girl, whoever she was, who looked like her but was one of them. The thought comes with a wave of hot, acid bile, and she turns away, no longer able to look at Tammy. She needs a respite, a brief one, from the awareness of that kind of horror.
Tammy sees the way Cassie looks away from her. She grows bitter with a quickness that surprises her, and when she speaks, her words aren’t soft and reverent but instead tinged with anger and hatred. “She saved my life.”
She isn’t sure whether she’s angry because this is true or because Cassie has forced her to confront a memory she prefers to avoid. She does know she’s angry that Cassie pushed for this knowledge and then turned away from it.
Cassie’s head snaps back around, eyes once again filled with pity.
“It’s my fault she’s dead,” Tammy continues, savagely. There are things she can’t tell Cassie, and not just because she doesn’t want to expose her own demons. She is bound by agreements with the government and complicity with her brother’s need to maintain some illusion that this is not their fault. He needs the protection of an outside, unpredictable force, but she knows that he knows the truth just as well as she does. Had they not snuck out past the borders of the cleared security zone, they never would have found their mother. It was the first step – or maybe the fiftieth given all of the little mistakes prior that allowed them to make this one, irrevocable one – in the orchestration of what would have been unspeakable devastation had it not paled in comparison to the first outbreak.
They couldn’t have known the implications then and she’s not entirely sure she knows them now, but she’s had six long years to think about what happened. She doesn’t know how the infection spread but she does know that she brought the vector there, to the heart of their safe and supposedly secure city. She put into motion the course of events that caught the US military unaware. She incited the panic that left almost everyone dead. She killed her mother, her father, Doyle, Scarlet and countless others. She condemned her brother to a shell of a life, lived under lock and key and in such immeasurable isolation that the guilt of knowing that she is out here when he is in there blunts any joy she might take in remaining alive.
“Before you tell me that’s not true,” she says harshly, cutting off whatever Cassie is about to say, “let me assure you that it is.”
On to the next part: http://harper-m.livejournal.com/10840.ht
- Mood:
confused - Music:28 theme x john murphy
Comments
i'm a big fan of both movies too, obviously.