Post by Christian Moynahan on Dec 13, 2013 5:09:15 GMT -5
Please, for me, don’t you cave in
Or lose sight, otherwise they win
Please believe your creation
will breathe life in due time
Otherwise they win
-10 Years, “Sleeper”
Now that the causes of his discomfort - the government bugs - had been removed, Christian felt much more at home at Áine. He was not sure how he had been aware of their presence, as they had been well hidden. But perhaps his hyperactive mind had noticed the smallest details - a vent opened a little farther than he had left it, a book just a touch less dusty than it had been before - all things his conscious had missed, but that his subconscious had recorded and translated into anxiety.
That was gone now, and peace had returned to his sanctuary. He could sleep, he could work, he could watch as the sun faded beyond the horizon, as he was this evening.
He had many different moods, some light, some very dark. This feeling, however, was new to him. It was akin to what he had felt when his home had been watched, but that had been anxiety in the present. This was anxiety for the future.
It was the eve of his first day in court. Up to this night, he had looked forward to that day with almost a ferocity, ready to defend not only himself, but the definition of humankind. He had been ready to expose the American government for what it was. He had been ready to repay the wrongs done to him. Tenfold.
Tonight… he was less certain of himself. He still wanted to fight; the wrongs they had committed against him still stood, and he still wanted to take down the government and their apparent strict policy of opaqueness, but he was one man, backed perhaps by a couple of other men, but that made, at best, three out of three hundred million. Three hundred million, the vast majority of which were not Specials, and any number of which still harbored negative feelings toward Ark Industries - even though the trial had nothing to do with Ark and Christian had done his best to distance himself from the corporation in the matter, the association was still there. Three hundred million strangers who, for now, still knew nothing of why Christian had committed the acts he had, who had no clue of the dangers they had faced before Christian moved to act.
And he had placed his life in the hands of twelve of them.
He’d had to plead “not guilty”; there had been no other way. A plea of “guilty” or “nolo contendere” would not have given him an opportunity to explain himself, and would simply have ended with whatever sentence the government decided would have been sufficient to shut him up for good. Life in prison, he imagined; neither plea would have led to a death sentence, not without the nation’s own people questioning the government. “Not guilty,” however… that one presented a much greater risk of it.
Yet “not guilty” would put him on the stand, and give him a chance to tell and show the nation just what had been happening beyond their perceptions, and also demonstrate, through the prosecution’s own witnesses, how his home and his life had been infiltrated, and how his personal identity as a Special had been compromised. This would not come without cost; he would very much have liked that identity to remain private, but that seemed to be very much less of an option now.
“You lost your privacy when you made yourself the face of the most reviled corporation in the world.” He liked to think that Ark had lost that title now, but he still remained in the public eye, even though he no longer had to give as many interviews as he had in the beginning, and was able to control his own schedule with less interference from his public relations team or the board of directors. As for that board, he had started his tenure at Ark by removing most of its members; now, exactly zero of them remained. They had opposed him in nearly every initiative he had proposed to turn Ark around. Now he knew better; he had cut the board down to a smaller size and filled it with figurehead stockholders. As Ark was still pulling itself out of a massive slump, their bitching was unbearable, but they let him do what he wanted, because his rewrite of the bylaws had effectively rendered them powerless. When he wanted advice, he went to Lucius or Gabriel, or to some of his own scientists.
It had been some time since he had set foot on Ark’s premises. Instead, he worked from home. That was one blessing; in Washington, Dakari had immediately invoked forum non conveniens, and, since his residence was in California and there were several federal courthouses there, he had been allowed to return to Los Angeles, albeit under strict orders not to leave the state. The bond that had been posted by his friends still held at any rate, and he was not going to break it under any circumstances.
So he remained at home save for the occasional errand here and there, and for his morning runs. The gym in his home was proving suitable enough for now. As an unexpected side effect, his dietary habits had improved since his decision to keep mostly to his house, and he was now getting much closer to the figure he’d maintained before the cholera outbreak. Rather than have his hair cut short the way it had been, however, he had decided to keep it long; it gave him a different sort of identity. And beyond that, rather than fighting to keep it combed as he had before, he had realized that, given enough length, his hair was about as tameless as he was. And so he and the hair had come to an understanding.
His senses turned outward as he faintly heard the doorbell ring. Unwillingly, and uncomfortably, his mind instantly went to the last time someone had unexpectedly shown up on his doorstep. Quickly, however, his thoughts shifted away from that instance, and his powers of observation kicked in. What had he heard before that? Steps along the sidewalk and then along the concrete and up the brick steps that stopped at his front door; heeled shoes, long strides, but more out of habit than height. The last especially narrowed down the possibilities. He allowed himself a small chuckle, and remained exactly where he was, rather than answer the door.
She would hear no sounds of activity within the large house, and observe that only a lamp in the living room was turned on. Some time would pass before she received any sort of answer or indication that he was at home. Christian had intentionally left his cell phone on the back chess table; during that waiting time, he was retrieving that item. A small psionic plank pushed itself under the cell phone; it flipped the phone into the air like a lever, and, raising his hands over his head without turning to look, Christian caught the phone and tapped out a short text message.
Come around the left side.
Upon walking around the left side of the house - if she had not already started to do so already - Maurelle would find Christian sitting in his backyard. There was a swing to the right and a bench to the left of the large acacia tree that stood over the rear of the house. Christian was seated in neither. He was sitting in the grass, in front of the tree, his back to the house. The sight of him in “home” clothes - still a dress shirt and slacks, but with the shirt unbuttoned partway down and the sleeves rolled up, and the slacks a little more worn - might have been an odd one, but perhaps moreso the fact that Christian was barefoot. There was a chill in the air, and clouds hanging overhead; but then there was also the sunset that cast Áine and the tree and Christian in a soft red-orange glow.
He glanced up at her with a faint smile. The more telling feature in his expression was the exhaustion in his aquamarine eyes. It was not the same exhaustion Maurelle might have noted in him during the meeting at the Hotel Angelis, or of the dehydration immediately following his presentment in Washington, but a frustrated sort of exhaustion, and - very unusually for him - more than a shade of doubt.
“Maurelle.” He patted the spot of grass next to him. “Sit with me.”
That was gone now, and peace had returned to his sanctuary. He could sleep, he could work, he could watch as the sun faded beyond the horizon, as he was this evening.
He had many different moods, some light, some very dark. This feeling, however, was new to him. It was akin to what he had felt when his home had been watched, but that had been anxiety in the present. This was anxiety for the future.
It was the eve of his first day in court. Up to this night, he had looked forward to that day with almost a ferocity, ready to defend not only himself, but the definition of humankind. He had been ready to expose the American government for what it was. He had been ready to repay the wrongs done to him. Tenfold.
Tonight… he was less certain of himself. He still wanted to fight; the wrongs they had committed against him still stood, and he still wanted to take down the government and their apparent strict policy of opaqueness, but he was one man, backed perhaps by a couple of other men, but that made, at best, three out of three hundred million. Three hundred million, the vast majority of which were not Specials, and any number of which still harbored negative feelings toward Ark Industries - even though the trial had nothing to do with Ark and Christian had done his best to distance himself from the corporation in the matter, the association was still there. Three hundred million strangers who, for now, still knew nothing of why Christian had committed the acts he had, who had no clue of the dangers they had faced before Christian moved to act.
And he had placed his life in the hands of twelve of them.
He’d had to plead “not guilty”; there had been no other way. A plea of “guilty” or “nolo contendere” would not have given him an opportunity to explain himself, and would simply have ended with whatever sentence the government decided would have been sufficient to shut him up for good. Life in prison, he imagined; neither plea would have led to a death sentence, not without the nation’s own people questioning the government. “Not guilty,” however… that one presented a much greater risk of it.
Yet “not guilty” would put him on the stand, and give him a chance to tell and show the nation just what had been happening beyond their perceptions, and also demonstrate, through the prosecution’s own witnesses, how his home and his life had been infiltrated, and how his personal identity as a Special had been compromised. This would not come without cost; he would very much have liked that identity to remain private, but that seemed to be very much less of an option now.
“You lost your privacy when you made yourself the face of the most reviled corporation in the world.” He liked to think that Ark had lost that title now, but he still remained in the public eye, even though he no longer had to give as many interviews as he had in the beginning, and was able to control his own schedule with less interference from his public relations team or the board of directors. As for that board, he had started his tenure at Ark by removing most of its members; now, exactly zero of them remained. They had opposed him in nearly every initiative he had proposed to turn Ark around. Now he knew better; he had cut the board down to a smaller size and filled it with figurehead stockholders. As Ark was still pulling itself out of a massive slump, their bitching was unbearable, but they let him do what he wanted, because his rewrite of the bylaws had effectively rendered them powerless. When he wanted advice, he went to Lucius or Gabriel, or to some of his own scientists.
It had been some time since he had set foot on Ark’s premises. Instead, he worked from home. That was one blessing; in Washington, Dakari had immediately invoked forum non conveniens, and, since his residence was in California and there were several federal courthouses there, he had been allowed to return to Los Angeles, albeit under strict orders not to leave the state. The bond that had been posted by his friends still held at any rate, and he was not going to break it under any circumstances.
So he remained at home save for the occasional errand here and there, and for his morning runs. The gym in his home was proving suitable enough for now. As an unexpected side effect, his dietary habits had improved since his decision to keep mostly to his house, and he was now getting much closer to the figure he’d maintained before the cholera outbreak. Rather than have his hair cut short the way it had been, however, he had decided to keep it long; it gave him a different sort of identity. And beyond that, rather than fighting to keep it combed as he had before, he had realized that, given enough length, his hair was about as tameless as he was. And so he and the hair had come to an understanding.
His senses turned outward as he faintly heard the doorbell ring. Unwillingly, and uncomfortably, his mind instantly went to the last time someone had unexpectedly shown up on his doorstep. Quickly, however, his thoughts shifted away from that instance, and his powers of observation kicked in. What had he heard before that? Steps along the sidewalk and then along the concrete and up the brick steps that stopped at his front door; heeled shoes, long strides, but more out of habit than height. The last especially narrowed down the possibilities. He allowed himself a small chuckle, and remained exactly where he was, rather than answer the door.
She would hear no sounds of activity within the large house, and observe that only a lamp in the living room was turned on. Some time would pass before she received any sort of answer or indication that he was at home. Christian had intentionally left his cell phone on the back chess table; during that waiting time, he was retrieving that item. A small psionic plank pushed itself under the cell phone; it flipped the phone into the air like a lever, and, raising his hands over his head without turning to look, Christian caught the phone and tapped out a short text message.
Come around the left side.
Upon walking around the left side of the house - if she had not already started to do so already - Maurelle would find Christian sitting in his backyard. There was a swing to the right and a bench to the left of the large acacia tree that stood over the rear of the house. Christian was seated in neither. He was sitting in the grass, in front of the tree, his back to the house. The sight of him in “home” clothes - still a dress shirt and slacks, but with the shirt unbuttoned partway down and the sleeves rolled up, and the slacks a little more worn - might have been an odd one, but perhaps moreso the fact that Christian was barefoot. There was a chill in the air, and clouds hanging overhead; but then there was also the sunset that cast Áine and the tree and Christian in a soft red-orange glow.
He glanced up at her with a faint smile. The more telling feature in his expression was the exhaustion in his aquamarine eyes. It was not the same exhaustion Maurelle might have noted in him during the meeting at the Hotel Angelis, or of the dehydration immediately following his presentment in Washington, but a frustrated sort of exhaustion, and - very unusually for him - more than a shade of doubt.
“Maurelle.” He patted the spot of grass next to him. “Sit with me.”
[Outfit, complete with hair.]
[Backyard.]