[BAD] September 034 - Erase
Sep. 24th, 2008 12:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elementof_riskIt seems wrong to burn her with that face. He's a bit numb at the thought of cremating her at all. After believing she was dead for two interminable years, their reunion felt something like a dream, a giddy realization that life is not always as unfair as it might have seemed. Not that he entertained that thought for long. "Fair" was not something on which he would ever choose to dwell for any reason. Life was not fair, nor had it ever been. It just had seemed, for a moment, a breath, a heartbeat, as if it might be less unfair, for once.
Only now she was going to be burned without her own face, trapped in a body she had given herself to, allowed them to morph her into, for her job, her cause. Her commitment to him, to Irina, to bringing about the new world they dreamed of--they, of course, really excluding him, mostly, because their dream was just a vehicle for his own advancement--but Allison...Allison had believed. She'd been raised for this, just as he had, trained from childhood into the operative she had become, and she had survived death once already.
But this time, a blade had found it's home and her heart was past starting again, and she was gone, and Sark stared at the face that was not hers and wondered where the woman he had fallen in love with had gone. She'd been dead for decades, officially, killed as a child, as far as the United States or any other official government was concerned. Allison Doren had ceased to exist officially long before they had changed her into Francie Calfo. Now, with the transformation, and with her death making it impossible to ever reverse, even the body they buried bore no mark of the woman she had ever been. It was as if Allison had never existed, subsumed utterly by her work, consumed by their world, with only the shell of another woman's body to show for it, hollowed out of everything that made her who she was.
There was a mark on the side of her neck, a small bruise left by his teeth the night before her death, and his fingers brushed over that before he nodded to the mortician and stepped back. That was hers, that was his, that was theirs. Proof she had lived, for him, proof she had been his, not this façade.
In a moment, he knows, that too will be gone, and it will be as if she never existed in the first place.
Only now she was going to be burned without her own face, trapped in a body she had given herself to, allowed them to morph her into, for her job, her cause. Her commitment to him, to Irina, to bringing about the new world they dreamed of--they, of course, really excluding him, mostly, because their dream was just a vehicle for his own advancement--but Allison...Allison had believed. She'd been raised for this, just as he had, trained from childhood into the operative she had become, and she had survived death once already.
But this time, a blade had found it's home and her heart was past starting again, and she was gone, and Sark stared at the face that was not hers and wondered where the woman he had fallen in love with had gone. She'd been dead for decades, officially, killed as a child, as far as the United States or any other official government was concerned. Allison Doren had ceased to exist officially long before they had changed her into Francie Calfo. Now, with the transformation, and with her death making it impossible to ever reverse, even the body they buried bore no mark of the woman she had ever been. It was as if Allison had never existed, subsumed utterly by her work, consumed by their world, with only the shell of another woman's body to show for it, hollowed out of everything that made her who she was.
There was a mark on the side of her neck, a small bruise left by his teeth the night before her death, and his fingers brushed over that before he nodded to the mortician and stepped back. That was hers, that was his, that was theirs. Proof she had lived, for him, proof she had been his, not this façade.
In a moment, he knows, that too will be gone, and it will be as if she never existed in the first place.
