[Fan Fiction] A Dancer's Trust

Zayne 11-13-2006 02:31 PM

The day was sinking away into night as I watched through my window in my room. I considered why I was there, in the brothel where I grew up. My blonde hair was in a ponytail, ready to hit the mattress, but my attention was focused on my reflection in the window pane. My left eye was bruised and swollen, a side-effect of rubbing it so hard and so often. My right eye was blood-shot; I had been crying. I always wondered about my eyes; why were they black as pitch when my mother had green eyes? I supposed my father had given me these eyes, but no one knew who my father was. My mother had died before I was born; I was delivered via emergency C-section. The over-seerer of the "comfort women", as they preferred to be called, took me in, being my mother's best friend. Her name is Michelle, and she's a pretty brunette with blue eyes.
I'm called Allison Brooks, but in this line of work, I've been dubbed "Dancer". I hate the implications of my other name. That's why I begged Michelle to let me "work" only three days a week. I worked hard in my High School courses and found myself in an ironic position: a member of the school's dance team. I didn't hate that at all. In fact, I prided myself in being a leader.
Still, as I stared out my window, I asked myself, "Where did I get these eyes? Who sired me? Is he still alive?" Those words swimming in my mind, I lay down to sleep. "Micah," I said to the cat on the dresser, "light please."
The black cat reached out a silken paw and batted the switch, plunging my room into darkness. I felt the creature leap to the pillow beside me, yellow eyes gleaming in the light through the window, and he curled up. He was a rarity in Paradigm, and that was why I never let him outside and always locked my bedroom door.
"Good night, Micah," I said and let myself drift off. I didn't dream, but that was as I expected. The only dreams that ever invaded my mind were nightmares. Horrible scenes of death and destruction. It was nothing I had ever known. Not in this lifetime anyway.

Chapter 1: Society Rejects (part 1)

Roger had come to detest the annual carnival. It wasn't that the event wasn't for a good cause; it was more the accidents, abductions, and molestation that ensued. A stickler for women's and children's rights, the Negotiator couldn't help getting a little angry when kidnapping cases were stacked on top of him the following days. Normally, he avoided the congregation at all costs. However, this year Dorothy insisted on joining to see just what happened in the crowds. So the pair found themselves walking along a road blocked to traffic and lines with stalls on both sides.
The chatter was beginning to make the man's head throb when the shops became scant, and a stage appeared in front of them. Upon it stood five teenagers, two girls and three boys. One of the boys was setting up drums in a dirty white T-shirt and baggy khaki shorts, long brown hair in a ponytail. The other two were tuning guitars and warming up, dressed similarly to the drummer. The girls, a blonde and a light brunette, were talking as they adjusted mike stands.
As Roger and Dorothy neared, they could hear the blonde girl saying, "A Woman's Work might scare them a little, Nicole. I still say we don't do it."
"Oh, and One Step Closer won't? C'mon, girl! We're supposed to spark interest." Nicole turned to the boys. "All right, guys! Allison doesn't want to do A Woman's Work. All with her?"
"Aye," said Allison.
"Aye," said the drummer, now turning with a small metal tool in hand.
"All opposed? Neigh." Nicole gave a thumbs-down.
"Neigh," said one of the guitarists, combing his fingers over his shaven scalp.
"Thanks, Zell," Allison shot at him sarcastically. "You're the tie-breaker, Dante. Speak up."
The other guitarist, tucking his shoulder-length rusty brown hair into a ponytail, took on a classic thinker's pose, considering the blonde. Roger could tell by his posture that the look was just a show; he'd probably already made his choice. "Sorry, Al." Dante said at length. "I'm with Nicole and Zell."
The drummer snapped his fingers, and Allison smiled at him. "Thanks anyway, Thomas." She ruffled the top of his head. "All right. Dante, Zell, you and Thomas go change. Nicole and I will do the same after you return."
Once the boys were gone, Nicole turned to see the android and human couple. "Oh hi. Sorry, but we don't start for about half an hour."
"Not a problem," Roger responded easily. "I don't think I've seen you around the city before."
"Well, your identity's no secret," was the comment from Allison as she wrapped her blonde hair into a bun. "Paradigm's Negotiator, Roger Smith." In a single fluid move, she had knelt at the edge of the stage, shifted her weight onto her arms, and swung down from the platform. She held out her hand. "I'm Allison Brooks. My band-mate is Nicole Gaines."
Nicole grinned. "We're Society Rejects. Nice to meetcha!"
Roger shook Allison's offered hand and turned to his companion. "This is R. Dorothy Wayneright."
Allison nodded and looked back up at the stage. "That's the other half of Society Rejects. Our drummer is Thomas Fields. Lead guitar is Dante Adams, and bass guitar is Zell Perry."
"Zell?" Roger let the question slip before he realized he had.
"His real name is Caleb, but he asked us to call him Zell."
Dante Adams gave a nod. His rusty-brown hair was now brushed and down. The hair surrounding his face had been cut to prevent it from interfering with his vision. His eyes were gray with a pattern of spider webs; contacts. His attire now consisted of a red muscle shirt, a red bandana around his left bicep, black dress boots, and black leather jeans. As Roger discreetly scrutinized him, Dante produced a red wide-brimmed hat and put it on, pulling the brim down to cover his eyes.
Thomas Fields wore the same boots and jeans, but for the red Dante wore, he had dark green. He had a camouflage kerchief around his head, bands of black leather around both wrists, and a dog tag at his neck. Zell Perry replaced dark blue with black.
"Excuse us," Allison told Roger and Dorothy. "Nicole and I have to change. It was nice to meet you two. Are you going to stick around for the concert?"
"Yes, we will," Dorothy said before the Negotiator could open his mouth, earning herself an irritated look.
"Great! See you in a while!" Allison easily hoisted herself back onto the stage and ran back behind the curtain; her over-sized T-shirt and jeans seemed to hide a strong, almost cat-like body.
"Why the change of pace, Mr. Smith?" Dante asked, taking a seat at the edge of the platform. "Isn't this the first year you've joined us?"
The manner in which Dante peered at him from under that wide brim reminded Roger of Alan Gabriel. Repressing a shudder, he jerked his head at Dorothy. "Dorothy got curious about what happens down here."
"You can't say in complete honesty that you yourself were never curious, Roger," Dorothy rebuked.
The red-clad guitarist smirked. "Miss Dorothy, you sound like Allison when she's in a debating mood which, of late, is quite often." Dante looked at Roger, examining him. Something about the Negotiator bore a striking resemblance to Allison. What it was exactly, he couldn't place. Aha! The eyes! Roger Smith's eyes were the same ebony as Allison's, with the same steely glint of determination.
Dorothy looked back at him, suspicion in her eyes. He reminded her a little too much of the psychotic cyborg who had gone after her and Roger. To his credit, Dante seemed to have a soft spot for the lithe Allison. "You are quite eloquent for a human," she said flatly.
Dante grinned. "I thank you."
"How old are you?" Roger asked, now curious about the articulate guitarist.
"I'm 18," was the answer. "I just graduated from Paradigm City High School. Allison is the youngest of our group at fifteen. Thomas and Nicole are seventeen, and Zell is sixteen. A child of the Advent," Dante added dramatically, swiping his hat from his head and looking grave. "As was dear Allison."
"Cut the sob story, Dante," Nicole shot at him. "They don't wanna hear it."
The graduate turned and grinned widely. "Ah! The leader of our miniscule band! The mistress of the microphone! The – "
"Yeah, yeah, shut up. Who are you? Michael Seebach?" Allison asked, crossing her arms. Like her fellows, she wore black shoes and leather jeans, and like Dante, she wore a red kerchief around her arm and a red top. However, as with Nicole (though the elder girl's was dark blue), it was a tube top with red mesh over her shoulders, forming an indirect strap and mesh covering her torso. Her shoulder length blonde hair lacked restraint and hung straight, her bangs positioned more to the left side. The ebony pencil that lined the ridge of her eyelid and the silver dusting of shadow brought out the stark black of her eyes. Not for the first time, the others of Society Rejects wondered who had sired their lead singer.
Roger was right: her clothing did hide a lithe and amazingly strong body. She was too thin to be an athlete, which meant she was probably a dancer. She carried herself with the confidence of one who had never lost a fight and wore her sharply cut features like a soldier would battle scars. He could literally see the strength in the tone of her muscles as she turned and walked back to center stage.
"So what first?"
Zayne 11-14-2006 11:49 AM
Roger was surprised with the teenagers. They had genuine, raw talent. Allison was in fact a dancer, as was demonstrated while Dante took the mike for a song called One Step Closer. Even as the crowd thinned out at the close of the concert, he waited. His interest had been piqued by this quintet of independent teens.
"I vote we do Cool Rider next time," Allison said as she unplugged various pieces of equipment and put them away. "I always have fun with that song."
"And you give all the teenage boys listening nosebleeds," Nicole teased. "I've gotta go, guys. My grounding for my grades starts today. I'll see you in three weeks."
"See ya!" chorused the four remaining, and Nicole vanished into the streets.
"I'm impressed," Roger said, approaching the stage.
"Well hey," Allison said, smiling. "I didn't think you'd actually stick around."
"I'm a man of my word."
She rolled her eyes. "Well, Mr. Negotiator, I leave you to my band-mates. I have to go home." She waved to the boys. "Room 45 will be free tomorrow, guys. We can work there." That said, she leapt down, nodded to Roger, and left.
"You're curious about our little Allison," Zell said, plopping down on the edge of the stage beside Roger. "Ask away."
"Who are her parents?" Roger asked, considering the retreating form of the fifteen-year-old singer.
"Her mother was a hooker," was the prompt reply. "No one knows who her father is, but she doesn't let it weigh her down. If anything, it drives her to prove she's as good as anyone with both parents. Next."
"Where does she live?"
"Chained. It's a brothel near the entrance to West Dome #5."
"She lives in a brothel?" Roger couldn't believe that fact; a teenager working the streets just wasn't right.
"Yeah. After her mother died, the over-seer Michelle took care of her. Those women are actually really intelligent women. It's just they didn't make some of the best decisions. Allison's one of the luckier ones; she's going to school and is planning to get out of this city when she can. Gonna take Dante with her. Wel'p!" Zell got to his feet. "I got work to do. Nice talkin' with ya."
The Negotiator stood there for a moment longer before shaking his head free of a memory. It wasn't one he was proud of and chose to forget. Still, he thought there might have been a connection to that event in his past and the society reject chained to Paradigm.

Chapter 2: Chained

To Roger's disappointment, he didn't see hide nor hair of Allison Brookes for the next few days. It was discovered, however, that Thomas Fields lived not far from the Smith high-rise, and thus the Negotiator was able to learn the address of Chained. Just what a brothel was doing in West Dome #5, Roger didn't think he wanted to know.
The place looked simple enough, a high-rise that blended into the surroundings, but the pair of people sitting out on the steps made it different by showing signs of life. A brunette with bright blue eyes sat on the top step of the stoop, a book on her knees, chatting with the blonde two steps below her. Roger half-smiled at seeing the familiar leanly strong frame of Allison Brookes. A black T-shirt, dark blue jeans, and dirty white sneakers accounted for her attire today, and the brunette, looking irritated, wore a long tan skirt and green tank top.
"For the last time, Allison, do you want a promotion or not?" the brunette groaned, pen in hand.
"No. I'm perfectly happy not working full time." Allison leaned back. "I'm a student, not a toy. If it weren't for the fact that I needed money, I'd quit."
"Allison Brookes, you are the most stubborn person I have here!"
"Proud to be!" Allison looked up as she caught movement in her peripheral vision. "It's you," she said, eyes widening in disbelief.
Roger smirked slightly as the blonde scrambled to her feet, her jeans rising and falling as her sneakers slid on the surface of the concrete. "I was wondering when I would see you again, Allison."
"Diddo!" She turned to the woman, who sat with pen poised over the notepad on her knees. "Michelle, this is Roger Smith. He was at the concert the other day." She shifted her attention again, this time to the Negotiator. "Mr. Smith, this is Michelle Keavy, organizer and manager of Chained."
Michelle held out her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Smith. You made quite the impression on our dear Allison." She was a tall woman in comparison to the others Roger had met, and the impression was not lost when Allison (approximately three inches shorter than the woman) passed alongside the pair and up to the front door of Chained.
"The pleasure is mine," Roger replied smoothly, kissing her hand. He mentally rolled his eyes when the sound of Allison's gag of disgust reached his ears.
"Well, why wait on the step?" Allison asked, looking bored. "It's supposed to rain today, so come inside. I'll see if the parlor's free." Without waiting for the Negotiator to accept or decline the invitation, the blonde vanished.
Michelle's pretty face fell slightly. "Please forgive Allison," she said, looking up at Roger with calm sapphire eyes. "She's the most strong-willed of our ladies, and she's been the most trouble."
"Because of her mother's absence," he said, nodding in understanding.
She nodded in return, walking up the stairs and into the building. "Yes. Aurora died in a shooting incident."
"How old was Allison?" was the inquisitive inquiry.
"Whether you can believe it or not," Michelle began, sitting in the empty parlor, "Aurora was still pregnant with Allison. It was too late to save the mother, but Allison was delivered quickly enough to save her life, thank whatever power is watching over us anymore." She gestured for him to sit across from her.
Roger complied, looking around as he did. It was a large room, with high windows positioned to his left and Michelle's right. The chairs were of dark red leather and very roomy. The coffee table – a firm, wooden piece that had a glass top and long legs ending in a club foot – stood between them. The curtains were of a dark green velvet, which were drawn back with gold ties. A translucent additive of white lace hung down over the glass, the large rose-like patches obscuring some of the street below. To his right, a fire crackled happily in its fireplace. The white-washed molding was of ivy vines, crawling down over the face of the mantle.
"You seem surprised," Michelle noted, crossing her legs and leaning her elbow on her knee. "We make good money by playing off our strengths. The life of a comfort woman is not as simple a matter as sex."
Roger looked shocked that she would speak so frankly. "I never expected that anything like this still existed, or at least that it was fairly commonplace."
There was a sad smile on the brunette's face. "That's the common thought, isn't it?"
"I'm told you knew Allison's mother," Roger said, changing the subject.
"Aurora was my best friend. When she told me she was pregnant, I knew her career here was over. She didn't believe in abortion; none of us did. I tried to ask her who the father was, but she wouldn't say. She only said that he had been her last client, and she knew his face and not his name."
"Do you have a photo of her?" Roger was beginning to get curious about this mystery bearer that produced the spirited Allison.
"It's on the mantle." With a surprising grace, Michelle rose and took a photograph from beside the clock that sat there. "Here."
The woman was blonde, like Allison, but with green eyes and a thinner build. She was dressed in a white maternity shirt and brown pants, her arm around her stomach (possibly seven or eight months along) as she read a book. At seeing the face, Roger froze upright in his seat. He knew this woman. The unpleasant memory flashed through his mind again.
"When was Allison born?" he inquired carefully.
"September 4," Michelle answered.
Mentally calculating, the color drained from Roger's face. That meant Allison had been conceived roughly January 4. A bad week, pent-up frustration, and dire need to let it out.... Roger swallowed hard.
"I know who her father is."
paul1290 11-14-2006 01:22 PM
Really good.

If this forum had a clapping smilie I'd use it right now, but this happy one will have to do: Happy
Zayne 02-06-2007 09:43 AM
Chapter 3: Transfer

Michelle sat back on the sofa, staring at Roger as if he had just admitted to mass murder. She put a hand to her forehead and sighed. "But... how... why...?"
Roger looked slightly forlorn, trapped in the memory of the past. "It had been a bad week. I make no excuse for it."
"Allison should know..."
"Maybe... Would you tell her?" Roger ran his fingers through his hair. "I still have to mentally digest this... It's not everyday I get this sort of news."
Michelle nodded. "I'll tell her..."
Upon his return home, Roger ran a hand through his black hair and sighed. This was not likely to sit well with Dorothy. Then he remembered she was an android. Then again... "I'm thinking too much," Roger muttered, shaking his head. "This is ridiculous."
"What is ridiculous, Roger?"
The android's voice caused him to jump significantly, and he raised his head to see her standing in the doorway at the top of the catwalks. "Dorothy, is it your lot in life to scare me to death?"
"I'm starting to believe it is."
He sighed. "We have to talk, Dorothy. It's about Allison Brookes."
"I haven't seen or heard from her." Dorothy accompanied him to the living room and sat across from him. "What of her?"
Roger swallowed hard, as if a pill was caught in the back of his throat. "Allison is my daughter. She was born after.... Well, you know."
Dorothy then did something she hadn't before: she chuckled. Aside from startling him, it made Roger go a bit red. "What?"
"I thought as much," she replied. "She is quite like you."
"You mean you thought that might have been true?"
"Yes. It is rare to see a person with black eyes," Dorothy said pointedly.
Roger smiled slightly. "I guess you're right. So you wouldn't mind if she came to live here?"
"Of course not. Even if I did, it wouldn't matter."
Feeling relieved, he straightened up in his seat. “Thank you, Dorothy."
"For what?" she inquired, standing up. "I'll make up a guest room for her."
"And I'll go find Thomas," Roger replied. "Her friends should be told." As he went to the door, he came face-to-face with his daughter. Allison was standing by the wall, leaning back with her arms crossed. The expression on her face was not easily read.
"So, you're my father." The statement was blunt and apathetic, almost accusing.
Roger breathed a sigh. "Yes, I am."
Allison slid down the wall, staring up at him. It was difficult for Roger to meet his own blank stare coming from the face of a teenage girl. "So.... I don't have to stay in Chained?" she asked, slightly hopeful.
He shook his head. "No. You don't."
That was all that was said between them directly for the rest of the night. In the wee hours of the morning when only the insomniac Roger was awake, he heard a voice in the hall along his office. He peeked his head out to listen. It was Allison.
"Nobody knows who I really am.
I never felt this empty before,
And if I ever need someone to come along,
Who's gonna comfort me, and keep me strong?
We are all rowing the boat of fate.
The waves keep on coming and we can't escape.
But if we ever get lost on our way,
The waves would guide you through another day.*"
The song made Roger think. Maybe he should get to know this girl better. He had, after all, caused her creation.

* Life is Like a Boat – BLEACH ending theme, Rie Fu
Revan 02-06-2007 01:23 PM
A great story and very well written!

Maybe just improve the formatting of text/paragraphs so it doesn't look like a big block of writing on screen.
Other than that, keep up the good work! Big Grin