Part III: Excerpt from "Song of the Blood"

 It had been two days. With her hands bound before her, the other end of that short leash always held by one of the two of them, she had little choice but to walk. Her only other option was to be dragged, and she had the feeling that at least the smaller one would enjoy that.

The shorter man, compact but barely a few inches taller than she, had a loud mouth—at least when it came to her. He said little to his companion, and those few phrases had been respectful compared to the abuse he heaped on Sera. For her, he seemed to hold a special hatred. She got the impression it was because she worked so hard to deny him the sadistic pleasure of watching her kick and scream.

It amused her, that he was so invested in her reactions. He was like a schoolyard bully, only happy when he upset someone else. It would be pointless for her to cry and beg, and would only feed his sadism, so she concentrated on her plan and ignored him.

Her plan, if it could be called that, hadn’t made much progress over the two days she’d been with her captors. For while the first man was comically easy to bother, there was the matter of the second.

The taller man, larger built and with long, dark hair, posed a serious problem to any plan Sera might contrive to escape. He spoke little, but his grey eyes seemed to notice everything. Even now, as the shorter man jerked on the rope that bound her hands, she had barely stumbled before he was there. His hand closed around her arm—she hadn’t realized how much larger he was, that his fingers touched around her bicep—and he roughly kept her on her feet. While one might mistake his silence for stupidity, she could sense the power between her two captors. The large man was unmistakably in charge.

---

The girl’s silence was starting to grate on him. At first, Geoff had been glad not to have to hear the usual, “Who are you? Where are you taking me?” After two days of walking, though, it was becoming unnerving. They had removed her gag when they were far enough into the woods, but the girl still hadn’t said a word. She just walked obediently between him and Hunter, hands bound in front of her and eyes on the ground. If he wasn’t careful, he almost forgot she was there.

Geoff refused to think that she was so quiet because she dreaded their destination. Instead, he vilified her, convincing himself that she was trying to guilt them into releasing her. As time went on, he began to resent her more, telling himself that she was just pouting, that he shouldn’t give in to her childish behavior. He refused to start feeling bad for her.

In moments, however, when he was less careful about his thoughts, he began to see that she had known someone was coming for her. She knew what they were bringing her to, and looked upon her fate with resigned dread. But he wouldn’t admit that he was taking her to torment and most likely to death. He preferred to think that she was manipulating them, and made himself angry with her for it.

To that end, he began to abuse her. During the day, he set the pace. Hunter’s silence when the pace became punishing encouraged him, and he would insult her when she fell behind him.

“Move that ass, slut,” he hissed on the third morning as she struggled to rise past the protesting muscles in her legs. She didn’t even look at him, and so he went on, refusing to admit to himself that all he wanted was a reaction from this unflappable girl. “What, bitch, you think you’re better than me? Well let me tell you, I’ll be there when the warlord knocks your little pedestal out from under you, and I’ll laugh. Oh, yeah, I’ll laugh my ass off.” She was finally on her feet, eyes on the ground, and he turned away, grinding his teeth. He missed the single tear that hit the pine needles at her feet.

Part I: Harry Potter Fic "Magical Dursley"

**A Note before we begin: I understand that JK Rowling has announced that although she considered giving Dudley a magical child, she decided against it based on the principle that no magical gene could get past Vernon's DNA. That being said, however, consider this an alternate universe setting if you must, but I like to pretend, for sake of this piece, that she never said that.**

Dudley Dursley, Hogwarts, and all other characters, settings, and content from the "Harry Potter" series are the property of the J.K. Rowling estate and their respective copyright holders; don't mind me, I'm just playing with her toys.


Mr. Dursley, of number 9 Forsythia Place, was enjoying a quiet drink after work while he watched the news. In the kitchen, his wife puttered away, contentedly wiping down every appliance she had used for dinner before she prepared for bed. She talked while she worked, ostensibly to her husband, but truth be told, more often than not Mr. Dursley only half listened.

"Talked to your mum, who said she and your dad are coming back from Spain to visit nearer the end of holidays," she was saying, perfectly aware that she had less than her dear husband’s full attention but not particularly bothered by it. "Charlie will be so pleased his gramma and grandpa will be here for his birthday. They always bring him the best presents." Though he was only partially aware of his wife's cheerful monologue, Mr. Dursley caught enough of it to chuckle appreciatively at this last statement. His Charlie did like to get the most out of his birthdays.

Mr. Dursley was so used to his wife's chatter that he barely even noticed a slight change in her tone. "Dudley?" She called out from the kitchen, sounding for the first time a little uncertain.

"Yes, Lottie?" he replied comfortably, hoping that Charlotte"s conundrum wasn't something likely to require heavy lifting, and therefore something that would require him to get off the couch.

"Charlie got a piece of mail today…" she trailed off, seeming quite unsure how to proceed. Dudley’s mind, well-trained to suppress anything out of the ordinary, skipped uneasily as he suddenly found himself dredging up decades-old memories.

"Mail?" He repeated, trying to sound nonchalant. "Not having trouble at school, I hope. I thought we'd sorted all that out."

"Well," Charlotte replied, still in her apron, as she came into the living room. "I haven't actually opened it yet. I wouldn't mention it, but it's just a little unusual…" She trailed off, and Dudley, with a thrill of foreboding, spotted an envelope in her hand. Even from here, he could tell it was addressed in emerald green ink.
Dudley's hand shook slightly as he held it out for the letter. Charlotte handed it over, and Dudley read the front:

Mr. C. Dursley
9 Forsythia Place
Little Whinging
Surrey

And on the back of the parchment envelope, as Dudley knew there would be, was a purple wax seal. Dudley, without a second’s hesitation, opened his son's letter. Charlotte read over his shoulder.

Dear Mr. Dursley,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Penelope Clearwater
Deputy Headmistress

Dudley sat very still for several long moments. Charlotte, growing more confused and discomfited by the second, fidgeted and giggled nervously before finally saying, "But Dudley, this is some sort of joke, of course!" When her husband didn't respond, she paled. "This is a joke, isn't it?"

Dudley sighed heavily and heaved himself up from the couch, the envelope and its disturbing contents clutched tight in his large fist.

"Dudley?" Charlotte asked, her voice going slightly shrill. "Where are you going?"

Without looking back at her, Dudley Dursley lumbered towards the staircase. "Got to go give Charlie his letter, don't I?"


PART II:
http://greydaymuse.blogspot.com/2013/03/part-ii-harry-potter-fic-magical-dursley.html?m=0

Bunker ACL61

A note before we begin:

Written as a prequel to my piece, "White Noise," "Bunker ACL61" takes place three generations before "White Noise." In terms of time line, this puts it fifteen years (or about one generation) after the destruction of human society as we know it.

**************

Bunker ACL61

“Shut the hatch! Shut it!” Jack yells, diving through the hatch and rolling across the hangar floor. The MPs on guard hit the controls, the hatch slams, and as the heavy locks clang into place Jack lets out a victorious whoop and a shout of laughter. “Take that, ya nasty surface rats!” Exuberant, he jumps to his feet and throws his fist into the air. The MPs join in his laughter, their own adrenaline pumping from the brush with disaster. A baby coos happily, picking up on the excitement, and the hangar echoes with exclamations of Jack’s heroism. He beams, throwing his arm around Lindsey as his eyes scan the room for Jessica.

“Sergeant Mullen!” He whirls; Top Brass. Five of the highest officers in the bunker are standing stiffly in front of the elevator. Corporal Lindsey Hayes shrinks back, disappearing into the crowd. Jack doesn’t mind; the Brass mean business this time, he can tell, and he doesn’t want her taking a fall with him. He finally spots Jessica, Lieutenant Donohue, across the hangar, away from the crowd. She’s leaning casually against her mech, Genesis, and she’s watching him. He tears his eyes away, snaps to attention, and salutes the officers on deck.

“Gentlemen!”

“You’re wanted in the Commander’s office, Sergeant.”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Sergeant… what are you holding?”

Jack looks down, bouncing his arm slightly. The baby coos again, content despite his sharp movements to come to attention. “This, gentlemen, is the fruit of my mission.”

*

“Damn it, Jack, you can’t keep doing this!”

“With all due respect, Sir, I do what’s right.”

“The hell you do! You do what feeds your ego most, and I’ve had enough of it in my bunker!”

“Bu—“

“Shut your mouth, and pay attention! This is your last chance, you hear me? You either conform to the regulations of this bunker or you’re out on the surface.”

“Wha--?”

“Is that clear, Sergeant?”

A stiff salute. “Yes, Sir!”

“Dismissed.”

“Sir?”

“What, Mullen?”

“What about the baby?”

The Commander sighs. “Every child is a commodity; she’ll be raised here, of course. You are to be commended for bringing her down alive.”

“Raised by whom, Sir?”

“Not you, that’s for sure. Now you’re really dismissed, Mullen. Get out of my office before you piss me off.”

*

“You know, one of these days he’s actually going to kick you out.”

Jack starts, still jumpy from his surface-fueled adrenaline high, but relaxes as Jessica falls into step beside him.

“He can’t kick me out—I’m too much fun. What would y’all do for entertainment without me?” He flashes her a charming smile, which she ignores with the ease of long practice.

Shaking her head long-sufferingly, she murmurs, “He’ll find a way to get by, I’m sure.” They reach the hatch to ascend to living quarters, and Jack hesitates before entering.

“Jessica…” He starts, suddenly serious. She watches him warily, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown. “You’re right about me—as long as I flaunt the Command this way, I’m a liability. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop; I can’t close my eyes to what’s happening up on the surface. But that girl I brought down today—she’s got a chance to learn from the best.”

Jessica leans away from him. “Don’t ask me, Jack; you know I can’t. Even if I wanted her, I’m just an Lt. It’s taboo.” And that’s the end of it, they both know she doesn’t need to add. Taboos are laws; defiance is heresy.

But she’s talking to Jack, and Jack is a born heretic. They both know, too, where it’s going to get him. “You’re going to be someone, Jess. Everyone knows it. Once you make Captain, you can take her. CO’ll give you Captain if you ask him for it.”

Jessica steps forward, pressing him back against the bulkhead. “What is this girl to you?” She asks boldly, invading his space, pushing at him.

He matches her stare for stare. “She’s hope.”

*

“Captain Donohue?” The Bunker Commander looks her over consideringly. “I have no doubt who put you up to this, Lieutenant.” He sighs, then reaches to pour himself a drink. “Still, it has a certain ring to it.” He looks up at Jessica, standing at attention in front of his desk, and his eyes narrow. “Now what I can’t figure out is why you’ll risk your career for this idiot boy.”

She just meets his eyes, silent, lips pressed tightly together to hide their sudden quiver. But he sees it in her chin, the sudden tightness around her eyes. He understands all that she can’t say. He knows that she is in love with Jack, maybe even understands how long she’s wanted him. And he knows just as certainly that as an officer, she will never be permitted to be with a sergeant, let alone breed with him. Taboos are laws; defiance is heresy.

The Commander drains his drink in a single gulp and stands up. “Lieutenant Donohue, you are hereby granted the rank of Captain, by the authority of Bunker Commander Stephen Hall of Bunker ACL61.” Jessica salutes, expecting a dismissal, but the Commander isn’t finished. “Your promotion in rank comes encumbered with increased duty and responsibility. It is now your primary charge to ensure the behavior of Sergeant Jack Mullen. So long as Sergeant Mullen conducts himself in a manner befitting an NCO of Bunker ACL61, you retain your rank, and all the privileges that come with it. Should Sergeant Mullen behave otherwise, it is your solemn duty to carry out his sentence before he can bring further harm to the Bunker.” He pauses a moment to allow his meaning to sink in. “Am I understood, Captain?”

Jessica swallows hard. “Yes, Sir.”

*

Jack sprints towards the access hatch, ignoring the MPs who’ve spotted him. He knows, as always, that he can make it out before the security lockdown. As he goes, he catches sight of Jessica watching him. She’s sitting at Genesis’s feet, playing with baby Hope. He winks, flashing her his charming grin.

Jessica watches Jack make his break for the hatch. She’s been keeping him by, warning him to be careful, but she knows him. She knew it would come to this. She holds Hope close for a moment, feeling the little girl’s sweet breath stir the hair at the nape of her neck. Then, setting the baby down, she stands, taking careful aim. Jack has always made it clear that his priority is the children he saves from the surface. Jessica only has one option.

White Noise (pt I)

"We found her, Madison. We found her."

The words echo in her head. She strides through the corridor, barely registers the people—other pilots, support staff, ranking officers and enlisted personnel—who flatten themselves against the bulkheads to get out of her way. Jerome’s voice is a meaningless buzz mixing with the white noise filling up her mind. Only his first words matter.

“We found her.”

“Her.”

He’s still speaking. No coordinates, but Genesis can download those from the bunker mainframe. His words fade in and out, like tuning an old-world radio. Needless, pointless sounds. “Shouldn’t have told you… worried about you… not like you… Madison, just listen…” Layers on layers of static in her head. White noise. Red.

“Her.”

“Captain Donohue!” The Bunker Commander’s authoritative tone barely penetrates the static and haze. She keeps walking. “Captain,” he snaps again. “If you run off and murder Kara because you're having a temper tantrum, how is it any better than what she did? It's just another breach of discipline. Control yourself, or you're no different than her!” Coming from Jerome, the words cut.

Stops, spins, her lips an inch from his skin. Close enough to kiss. Snarls, “That. Is not. Kara.”

He stumbles back a step. His face is ashen. He thinks she’s crazy. He may be right.

Worth it.

“Her.”

She’s walking again. There’s a hand on her arm, restraining. Jerome hasn’t given up. She moves it away. More hands, black leather gloves: Jerome’s called up the MP’s. She moves them, too. Screaming. White noise.

The hatch is in front of her. Tunnel vision, the rest of the corridor fading to red. She turns the knob; nothing. Security lockdown. Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick. No more hatch.

Across the hangar, Genesis rising before her. Comforting, cold titanium alloy. Genesis makes sense; it would never give and then take away, never earn her trust and then use it against her. Like Jerome. She moves his hands off her again. Like Her.

 “Her.”

 The lifts are locked down like the doors. Not a problem. Climbing—she sees her hands through the red haze as she looks up. Small. Delicate. Deceptive.

Like Her.

Jerome has stopped chasing her. He won’t touch Genesis—it’s not his. Taboo. Heresy. Bunker Commander ensures and exemplifies religious devotion to military order. Taboos are laws. Defiance is heresy.

Red haze. Small, delicate hands. Covered in red. Blood.

Worth it.

Shouting. Meaningless. Genesis’ access hatch. Inside, quiet. Calm. White noise. Red haze. Light. The hangar doors open. Smooth power-up sequence cuts through the static. She sees Jerome on the ground. His hand is on Delilah’s shoulder; the girl is trying not to cry. She sees the struggle on the child’s face, remembers the feeling. Unbidden, memories come. The word she never thinks about. Abandoned.

Her commander. Their daughter.

Worth it.

She turns away. Turns past the empty dock where Revelations once stood. Turns toward the light, the open doors. She can’t see Delilah anymore. Nothing to see. Delilah is trained. Has the best genetics. Top ranked pilot, Bunker Commander. She’ll survive.

“We found Her.”

Uplink to bunker mainframe. Last step. Download coordinates. Deep breath. Static peaks.

“Go.”

White Noise (pt II)

Ground rushes by. Unimportant. More white noise and red haze. The trip is long. Has been longer coming.

Worth it.

Warning beeps. Closing in on coordinates. Slow now, stealth. Distance meaningless. Topping a rise. Looking down.

Her.

A small commune—no other word for it. Mostly civilians. Revelations nowhere in sight. Minimal armaments. Moderate defenses. Assessment complete. No match.

Feels like there should be more to this moment. Genesis and Revelations. Alpha and Omega. Beginning and end. Beginning ending end. Irony, justice, revenge, something.

White noise. Her.

Crosshairs. Trigger. Squeeze. End.

Stopstopstopstopstop

She has turned. Still unaware. Kneels, arms open. A girl. Barely younger than Delilah. Mouth moves.

“Mommy!”

…Mommy?

Not Ma’am? No respect, no structure?

Heresy.

Squeeze.

An embrace. A little girl; that forgotten word: mommy.

Peace. They have peace.

Red haze. White noise.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been there. Lying just beneath the crest of the hill, watching. Genesis’ sniper position is second nature. She can’t tell if the time crawling by is made of seconds or weeks. Watching.

A small collection of surface-dwelling civilians. Not raiders; almost a community. The forbidden stuff of bedtime stories told to the youngest, the children too small still to understand. Old-world concepts, passed through the generations, of a safe life, a life without military order and the constant struggle to survive. Twisted. Idealized. Peaceful, yes. Helpless. The only reason they’ve lasted this long is—has to be—Her.

Static peaks at the thought of Her. Her.

She’s holding the little girl, the little heretic, Her daughter. No rank, no order, mommy and daughter. Abomination.

How dare She? Not only to leave, but also to betray the entire system? Is She trying to end the world again?

Not that She cares about anyone but Herself. She proved that. She left.

Red haze. White noise.

The little girl in Her arms. Mommy.

The child isn't much older than Delilah-- less than a year's disparity in their ages. She wonders for a moment who the father is. Could the child come from her own bunker? Is the child much different than Delilah? She shakes her head, minute movement. Invalid comparison. Delilah has all the tools she needs to survive. She and Jerome saw to that.

And she will come back. She will not abandon Delilah. Not like—Warning: Forbidden thought –not like she was abandoned.

Crosshairs. Squeeze.

Pulse. Red haze. White noise.

Mommy.

No more hesitation! The little one is an abomination—everyone in this mockery of a commune is! Revolution against the system. Intolerable.

And then there’s Her.

Her.

She has to die.

She murmurs under her breath, solace in the official procedure, the scripted words. “For the following crimes against the state: incompetence of command. Desertion from Bunker ACL61, and the standing army therein. The murder of Kara Hall, and subsequent impersonation of the same. Abandoning the responsibilities and duties of command.” Abandoning me.

“The accused, who styles herself Kara Hall, is hereby sentenced to death.”

No more hesitation.

They all have to die before their heresy can spread. For Delilah. For Jerome. For all that’s left of civilization. Only way to survive.

For the child she was when she was abandoned.

She has to die.

Her.

But not first.

Crosshairs. Inhale, exhale. Squeeze.

White noise.

White noise.

White noise.

White…

Part II: Excerpt from "Song of the Blood"

 Upstairs, Sera struggled to change out of her sweat-soaked clothes with hands that shook. She loved to dance, but it wasn’t safe and she knew it. How could she have let herself be so stupid? She berated herself mentally as she frantically set about packing her few belongings. She should never have stayed in the tavern when she found out there were performers that night—it didn’t matter how hungry or cold or tired she was! For when she heard music, invariably it captured her, inescapable, and she was unable to disobey until the dance had run its course. She forgot herself completely, helpless to do anything but allow the music and her bloodline to turn her body into a living, moving work of art.

Fey-touched was the technical term for the enchantment, handed down through her family’s lineage for generations, but she called it a curse. The inevitability of it infuriated her, but more than that, it was dangerous. Most of the world had forgotten that the myths about the Duresk line were based in fact, but not all of it. Far too many people had been in the room—someone had to have noticed the attention she drew to herself, both with her prowess and her reluctance. The Warlord’s spies could be anywhere. She had to leave at once.

Donning her shawl, she slung her backpack over her shoulder and ran for the door.

Before she could reach it, the door flew open! It slammed against the wall; two men stormed in, and Sera gasped, letting out a shriek of alarm as they advanced on her. She backed away, but there was nowhere for her to go—the window was shut, and she’d never get it open before they reached her even if she cared to brave the three-story drop.

Losing her head completely, she dropped her bag and darted between them, fleeing for her life. Her desperate bid for freedom was to no avail; they reached out for her, too fast to avoid, each of them seizing one of her arms in a vice-like grip.

Sera opened her mouth to scream in earnest, clawing at them, and found a hard cloth ball shoved between her teeth. Working with silent efficiency and ignoring her pitiful attempts to struggle, they bound her arms behind her, her legs together, and the gag behind her head. Finally, they divested her of her few weapons, searching her writhing form thoroughly, and the larger, black-haired man threw her trussed body over his shoulder. The smaller man picked up her bag, and they ghosted from the room. Within a minute, no one in the outside world even aware, Sera’s hard-won freedom had been stripped from her, and she found herself a helpless prisoner.

Part I: Excerpt from "Song of the Blood"

The drum beat with her heart; her bare feet sounded its rhythm on the hardwood stage. She could feel the music burning through her veins; with every gasping breath her lungs seared. She spun, rolling her head and stretching her arms, then rotated her hips sinuously, sinking lower to the ground as the thick muscles in her thighs burned.

She danced. Deliberately and yet without thought, she threw her body to the air and the power of the beat, letting the tones catch her and resonate through her. It hurt: it burned, it scorched and stabbed and sliced and she didn't want it to end. It had to, though, she knew-- and even now her movements became more frenzied as she sensed the closing and pushed the last of her strength into the final movements.

Finally, blissfully, mercifully, torturously, the music ended. The last beats were stroked from the drum, the bow eased slowly across the fiddle's strings, and she rose from her deep curtsy with exhausted grace.

The room exploded in applause, and Sera gasped as identity flooded her awareness and she struggled to calm her racing heart. She had forgotten who she was, had forgotten that she wasn't alone, had forgotten that she performed: forgotten all but the music and her soul's command to respond, to dance. Her eyes darted around the crowded tavern as she recalled her surroundings, and willpower alone kept her from fleeing out into the rainy night with all haste.

Instead, she assumed her best semblance of serenity as she turned to the musicians and curtsied to them as well, bowing her head in gratitude for the dance, swept one last curtsy to the crowd as if she had meant all along to be the evening's entertainment, and accepted a hand down from the stage. Among the crowd, she dodged questions and admirers and gave in at last to her panicked impulse to run.

---

The man in the shadows, seated at the back corner of the tavern, watched her. His cold grey eyes noted the lovely girl’s frantic gaze and rapid flight with interest that was not lost to his companion. The other man, smaller, with full red hair and a neatly trimmed beard, tipped back his tankard and watched his friend over the rim as he sipped.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” He asked quietly as he set the mug down and wiped his mouth.

For a moment, he feared his partner wouldn’t answer. Finally, however, the larger man grunted what he took to be an affirmative. “What do you see?” The first man demanded, his cold eyes not leaving the stairs.

His companion obediently closed his blue eyes and focused his sharp mind on the future, pushing his energy into the Sight that was his line’s gift. The larger man waited patiently, until the seer finally opened his eyes with a sigh. “It’s time,” was all he said.