Hullo there Sparks!
And welcome Spark number 140! Whoop, whoop! We are growing, slow and steady.
I read this week that you’ve got to celebrate your small victories, no matter how tiny. I’ve been struggling to break through to 140 for more than a month now so this one feels bigger than it really is. But I’m so, so happy for each and every one of you guys! Thanks so much for being here.
Oh and go-karting is boring, apparently, so no more worries on that front.
As for the story…
INDEX | Chapter 7 | Scenes 1 & 2 | Scenes 3 & 4 | Scene 5 | Scene 6 | Scene 7 | Next Scene → Coming soon.
Previously: When Misty runs away from Luke right into the arms of the very PG he was trying to save her from, she falls into the hands of Colonel Daniels, who uses nefarious methods to try to make her talk. What he doesn’t know is that her training included resisting torture, and her guilt over nearly killing Logan has her believing she deserves to suffer and so she accepts everything he throws at her as her just lot. But when General Morgan finds out what Daniels has been up to he intervenes to improve her circumstances, lest she disagree with her current ones and end up killing them all.
“She doesn’t want to be found that’s the thing,” I mutter to myself and rake my left hand through my short hair. I am very nicely on my way to being drunk and would be blissfully unaware of Tom’s presence in the doorway behind me if it weren’t for his incessant sighing and the unmistakable aura of concern pervading the air.
“Logan, you have to snap out of this,” Tom says after a minute, turning on the lights. I rub my eyes, half-blinded, and swivel in my gaming chair, turning away from the array of screens to look at him. Even after I stop, my head continues to spin deliciously.
“Tom? Go away. I'm busy.” I grumble and turn my back on him again after hardly a pause, smiling inwardly as I enjoy the alcohol-induced dizziness. “Black braided hair,” catches my eye on the screen and I maximize the window. Promising, oh it’s a bunch of short braids. Never mind, next.
With my right hand on the mouse wheel, scrolling, scrolling, I search endlessly for the smallest hint. I spent two weeks combing the mountains, the forest, and the countryside, myself, for any sign and found nothing. By the time my stitches came out, we’d got Elle’s face and description on every screen in the country, twice a day for two minutes. Apparently, that’s a big deal. Now all there is to do is wait, and I am waiting.
“Logan. She's been gone for over a month. You’ve done all you can. You need to get out of this room!” He sighs, exasperated, then just stands there waiting. Scroll, scroll, open, no. I feel frustration coming from somewhere behind me. Scroll, popup, ugh! A bright picture of a scantily clad pouting girl with black braided hair pops up on the leftmost screen, “Looking for a good time?” The thing says in a sultry voice. Close. Next message board. Boredom assaults me from Tom’s direction and I roll my eyes as I try to refocus on the screens. Scroll, no new messages.
“Ahem,” Tom says and I jump but don’t turn around. Anger floods my mind.
“Excuse me, brother, I’m very busy, ignoring you,” I mutter under my breath, making rude faces while I grab the bottle of warm Stroh 160 from beneath my seat and take a swig. The spicy rum burns all the way down and as the cinnamon starts to come through, I feel tranquil again, external feelings becoming less prominent.
An alert pings. I switch the window to the middle screen and open the first message board again. There’s a picture of some model wearing vintage Viking furs with braided black hair, “Who are you looking for again because I saw this girl…” I see I forgot to repost the photo today. I link the question back to it and add Elle’s description, then go back to the other board and take another swig and Tom’s growing anger fades even further into the background.
”There's nothing more we can do.” Tom reminds me for the umpteenth time, his genuine concern is just this side of nauseating. His booted feet clunk on the hardwood floor as he walks over, puts both his hands on my shoulders, and turns me around. I raise my eyebrows and frown at him as he bends down to look me in the eye to show me he means business. I clutch the bottle trying to remember if I closed it or not. I don’t care! Leave me alone!
“You need to get back in the gym, and do your rehab so you can start fighting again and get out of this rut!” I belch in his face and grin as he jerks back, and then I swivel my chair back to face the screens.
“I'm fine, all healed up.” I smile, “And I’m also not in the mood. Now go before I make you leave.” I threaten, spiking my power level up just a little to make my point.
“Come on brother! Why don't we go out to the garden, we could play chess, or have a game of one-on-one on the court. Please? Some fresh air would do you good. You've been in here-”
“Leave! Now, Tom, I'm warning you.” I cut him off, but he is undeterred.
“Give the coding and the websites a break, and come outside.” He pleads shaking his head, I turn halfway and glare at him. “Shall I go get Luke to make you do it?”
I smile and snort, tossing my head back as I say, “Luke isn’t here, he’s too busy trying to salvage what is left of his image so we don’t lose our position. And even if he were here, you wouldn't dare because you know what would happen. Now go!”
“Fine. What's the point anyway?!” He shouts at me, stamping his foot like a prissy little drama queen and I feel his concern wash over me again. I reach for the bottle, the last few swigs slosh as I fumble with the cap but he grabs it before I can get it open.
“I want you to leave! Can't you get that into your thick skull?”
“I'm leaving then. Just don't expect me to come back any time soon.” He turns and walks away with my rum.
“Good riddance!” I scream after him.
It's my fault she's gone. I can't face her again, even if we do find her. I sit with my head in my hands for a while, remembering the look of remorse in her eyes as she flew away covered in my blood. Another drink?
I stumble past my bed, over to the mini fridge in the far corner to fetch another bottle. We won't find her anyway, she's found her way back to Telera again and we're never going back there. Why don't they just leave me? Let me wallow in the guilt and the melancholy until it eats me up. I scratch through my short hair again, irritated and crack the seal before I sit down.
The memories are tinted vanilla, cinnamon and lemon zest, spiced rum. If Luke were here he would quote Proust.
I have put all my energy into finding her and nothing else matters. Luke had already tried everything he could think of to get the word out, while I was out cold in the infirmary with Tom playing nurse. When my own search petered out, I tried the internet, but it’s all trash! I’ll never find her this way.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here at my PC, gaming in between checking message boards and obscure search sites. Tom doesn’t come back. I don’t want fresh air or light. I don’t want to work out. I can’t sleep. The food the maids bring me all tastes the same. I like the taste of the rum. I like the spiciness and the burn and the way it makes me numb.
The search is steadily dying down and I am losing hope. I knew she wouldn't come back. I saw it in her shame and I felt it in her regret. She’s gone.
I make my way through the sea of clattering empty bottles to fetch a fresh one from the fridge and curse, cutting my foot on a piece of broken glass. The blood soaks into the rug. I grab a shirt from the back of my chair and wrap it around to staunch the bleeding, wondering why the maid would have put it there and not in the closet, then I remember that I dismissed the maid rather harshly a while ago. She was asking me something about something… I don’t know how many days it’s been, but looking around it must be a while already.
I hop across and pluck the fridge open to find it empty but for a bottle of Jeppson’s. I grimace and put it back, then hop back to the bed still holding my foot. The shirt is nearly soaked through. Damn.
* * *
The finality of Luke's decision to call off the search after half a year drives me to the brink of suicide. Tom catches me with a blade to my thigh just before I am able to push it in to cut the artery. He holds me as I break down and builds me back up again afterward. He doesn't even tell Luke about it until I try again.
Next Time: Misty is settling into her new life as a prisoner of the Planetary Guard with Cathy supporting her through her regret, but something is brewing, and changes are on the horizon.
Thanks so much for reading! If you like, please:
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and as always, I love hearing what you think so, feel free to:
Excellent, as always, but honestly I couldn't stop thinking about this line in your introduction: "he intervenes to improve her circumstances, lest she disagree with her current ones and end up killing them all." That, dear lady, was pure genius :)
Now we are quickly 6 months out from the breakout... all search efforts by Luke and Logan have failed, and Logan has descended to rock bottom in a haze of guilt fueled by alcohol. Clearly the PG would be aware of the frantic search, but choosing to keep 'Misty' totally under wraps from Luke and company. Has he really been completely successful?
It was a hard painful switch back to Logan's point of view and his drop into guilt and self isolation! Another hint of the shift in tone for the story into a darker gritter world I think. And we also have to wonder how successful Cathy has been at becoming Misty's best friend. Does the good cop bad cop routine actually work on our warrior?
There was one seeming throw away contact that claimed to have seen a possible candidate for Misty being spotted which came to Logan from his search! And he sent an updated response back to the contact apparently. But nothing else came of it as far as we know. Seems like something is left dangling there... just wondering as I sometimes do! So Jenny, did you ever fly fish?