Gen Remix
Here’s my entry for the Gen remix.
Title: Primordial
Author: SRoni2004
Fandom: Angel
URL of story that was remixed: http://darlas-mom.livejournal.com/96393.html#cutid1
Author of story that was remixed: Darla’s Mom
Illyria
I miss my world. It was beautiful last I saw it. The land and water stretched out as far as you could see (and I could see for a very far ways), colliding against each other every once in awhile. There was no absence of heat, and it didn’t get very hot. There was no light, except for the little creatures that sparkled and shimmered, floating in the sky and the sea. There was honesty that’s not here anymore.
The world is different now. It’s broken, shattered, and will never be fixed. Hollowed and hardened, softened and misshapen. The shining creatures are now tiny human beings, who stink and sweat and cry and rarely say what they mean. Light is a lie; it’s found in glass and tamed lightning. Barbaric humans tamed lightning.
I try to tell this to the human named Wesley one night, when he’s drunk and doesn’t flinch away from me as much. He sees the shell in me when he’s drunk. He mutters strange words like “evolution” “Pangea” and “genetic sexual attraction” whenever he isn’t drinking more golden poison. I want to hit him, and tell him he missed the point. But I’ve been told that hitting people who aren’t evil is wrong, and since the vampire Angel isn’t telling me that I cannot do it, I acquiesce to the suggestion. I have a fondness for Wesley. His pain touches me in a way that I haven’t been touched in a long time, even before I was locked in the prison. Possibly it’s my shell’s inadequacies again.
Possibly that is what keeps me from hitting him after all. Even if he did horribly miss the point.
***
Wesley
He couldn’t stand looking at her. Him. It. Whatever. He didn’t know what was the correct pronoun to use, and truthfully, he didn’t particularly care, either. Fred was female. That knowledge was indisputable in his memories. Illyria was a god-king, and that usually meant male. He settled on “it”. “It” dehumanized it. “It” meant that he could feel slightly superior to it, even if Illyria could toss him quite easily through the nearest wall. Or the nearest three walls. “It” helped him to not feel guilty over the fact that he didn’t care what happened to it.
Yeah, right. He cared. He cared more than he wanted to. When he was too weak, and looked at Illyria, he looked for pieces of Fred. That’s all he ever saw: pieces. Pieces that used to make up the whole.
He hated looking at it. All it did was remind him of what he’d lost. Lost twice, actually. First, he’d hung back, trying to avoid overwhelming her, to give her time to become reacquainted with the world before he made his move. Oh, that wasn’t completely true. He’d tried to play the gentleman, certainly. But he’d also been too bloody shy to approach her.
He’d loved her bravery in Pylea. Oh, she was crazy, no doubt about it. But she had still fought with whatever she had, even if it wasn’t much. He’d loved her sense of humor after she came with them to the Hyperion. He’d come in one day and found her hiding underneath the bed, and she’d cracked a joke about fighting dust bunnies one bed at a time. He could still remember her smile when he slid under the bed with her, saying that she shouldn’t wage war against dust bunnies all by herself. She then told him quite seriously to watch out for their teeth, because when they bite, they don’t let go.
Maybe it hadn’t been a joke, after all.
He reached up and wiped at wet cheeks. He glared at the amber-colored drink in his hand. It obviously wasn’t doing its job yet. He wasn’t numb yet. God, how he wanted to be numb.
He remembered Fred. Oh, God, how he remembered her. And along with the memory, came the knowledge that he’d held back for too long, and she’d started dating Gunn. He supposed he should have been prepared for that one, but it had blindsided him. Maybe he was a snob, but … He hated hearing about types, but if he had to pick a type for Fred, it would have been more … educated. Gunn was smart, no question, but it was street smarts that had been earned by blood. Fred was brilliant, and Gunn wouldn’t be able to keep up with her. Hadn’t been able to keep up with her. Wesley had had trouble keeping up with her. He’d resigned himself to looking, but not touching. Dreaming, but never having. Wishing, but never getting. And then she and Gunn had broken up, and he’d allowed himself to hope again. He tried to give her time to heal. Give her time to get over it. And again, he’d waited too long. She’d died. He remembered every one of those last moments in perfect clarity, when she’d given up hope. It still hurt to remember that. Almost as much as remembering her smiling. But what hurt most about his memories was the way he’d felt as she died. All he’d been able to do was stand there, and read to her. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t fight her demons. He hadn’t been good enough. He hadn’t been fast enough. He hadn’t been smart enough. He’d been there with her, at the end, but that was the only worthwhile thing he had been.
Every moment, he wished with all his being that their roles had been reversed. She would have been smart enough She would have figured it out in time. Even if she hadn’t, he wished it had been him and not her. Because the world wasn’t worth living in without her.
He couldn’t look at the thing that had taken over her body without being reminded of her. He hated the god-king for that. Bad enough that he had the memories of her dying, but seeing that thing walking around in a redecorated version of Fred’s body made him relive those memories every time he saw it again. It hurt. His heart had been replaced by a sharp shard of glass. Whenever he thought of her, it pricked him and drew blood anew. So he did his best to avoid Illyria. But that was easier said than done. And when he couldn’t succeed, it hurt all the more. When it became obvious that his plan was a futile attempt, he decided to just ignore the god-king. That worked slightly better than avoiding it. Didn’t work when he was hung over, though. When he was drunk, or hung over, he couldn’t handle it when she/he/it/whatever looked at him, unwaveringly, without blinking, and he wanted to hit it. He always managed to suppress the urge, because he had no particular desire to be bounced through the wall.
He looked out the window. “We’re destroying the world, even as we’re trying to save it. There’s too much pollution. I miss the countryside. It was colorful, without being overwhelming. It’s too bright here. Everything jumps out at you and grabs you. It leaves you choking.”
It blinked at him. “That’s what you humans do. It is like the scrawls that your grubs leave up on the walls of your cities. Man is driven to leave his mark on the world around him, even if that mark destroys what it touches.”
He gave an ugly laugh that tore at his throat. “And are you any different?” His voice softened and hardened at the same time. “Your very arrival wrote something alien on something beautiful, and utterly destroyed it.”
It didn’t flinch, look away, or even appear insulted. “That, too, was man’s doing.”
He wanted to hit it for that answer.
He wanted to tear Illyria apart for what it had taken from him. He wanted what he could never have again. He wanted Fred. But he’d never get her back.
And with that knowledge, he had another swallow of brandy.
End
Title: Primordial
Author: SRoni2004
Fandom: Angel
URL of story that was remixed: http://darlas-mom.livejournal.com/96393.html#cutid1
Author of story that was remixed: Darla’s Mom
Illyria
I miss my world. It was beautiful last I saw it. The land and water stretched out as far as you could see (and I could see for a very far ways), colliding against each other every once in awhile. There was no absence of heat, and it didn’t get very hot. There was no light, except for the little creatures that sparkled and shimmered, floating in the sky and the sea. There was honesty that’s not here anymore.
The world is different now. It’s broken, shattered, and will never be fixed. Hollowed and hardened, softened and misshapen. The shining creatures are now tiny human beings, who stink and sweat and cry and rarely say what they mean. Light is a lie; it’s found in glass and tamed lightning. Barbaric humans tamed lightning.
I try to tell this to the human named Wesley one night, when he’s drunk and doesn’t flinch away from me as much. He sees the shell in me when he’s drunk. He mutters strange words like “evolution” “Pangea” and “genetic sexual attraction” whenever he isn’t drinking more golden poison. I want to hit him, and tell him he missed the point. But I’ve been told that hitting people who aren’t evil is wrong, and since the vampire Angel isn’t telling me that I cannot do it, I acquiesce to the suggestion. I have a fondness for Wesley. His pain touches me in a way that I haven’t been touched in a long time, even before I was locked in the prison. Possibly it’s my shell’s inadequacies again.
Possibly that is what keeps me from hitting him after all. Even if he did horribly miss the point.
***
Wesley
He couldn’t stand looking at her. Him. It. Whatever. He didn’t know what was the correct pronoun to use, and truthfully, he didn’t particularly care, either. Fred was female. That knowledge was indisputable in his memories. Illyria was a god-king, and that usually meant male. He settled on “it”. “It” dehumanized it. “It” meant that he could feel slightly superior to it, even if Illyria could toss him quite easily through the nearest wall. Or the nearest three walls. “It” helped him to not feel guilty over the fact that he didn’t care what happened to it.
Yeah, right. He cared. He cared more than he wanted to. When he was too weak, and looked at Illyria, he looked for pieces of Fred. That’s all he ever saw: pieces. Pieces that used to make up the whole.
He hated looking at it. All it did was remind him of what he’d lost. Lost twice, actually. First, he’d hung back, trying to avoid overwhelming her, to give her time to become reacquainted with the world before he made his move. Oh, that wasn’t completely true. He’d tried to play the gentleman, certainly. But he’d also been too bloody shy to approach her.
He’d loved her bravery in Pylea. Oh, she was crazy, no doubt about it. But she had still fought with whatever she had, even if it wasn’t much. He’d loved her sense of humor after she came with them to the Hyperion. He’d come in one day and found her hiding underneath the bed, and she’d cracked a joke about fighting dust bunnies one bed at a time. He could still remember her smile when he slid under the bed with her, saying that she shouldn’t wage war against dust bunnies all by herself. She then told him quite seriously to watch out for their teeth, because when they bite, they don’t let go.
Maybe it hadn’t been a joke, after all.
He reached up and wiped at wet cheeks. He glared at the amber-colored drink in his hand. It obviously wasn’t doing its job yet. He wasn’t numb yet. God, how he wanted to be numb.
He remembered Fred. Oh, God, how he remembered her. And along with the memory, came the knowledge that he’d held back for too long, and she’d started dating Gunn. He supposed he should have been prepared for that one, but it had blindsided him. Maybe he was a snob, but … He hated hearing about types, but if he had to pick a type for Fred, it would have been more … educated. Gunn was smart, no question, but it was street smarts that had been earned by blood. Fred was brilliant, and Gunn wouldn’t be able to keep up with her. Hadn’t been able to keep up with her. Wesley had had trouble keeping up with her. He’d resigned himself to looking, but not touching. Dreaming, but never having. Wishing, but never getting. And then she and Gunn had broken up, and he’d allowed himself to hope again. He tried to give her time to heal. Give her time to get over it. And again, he’d waited too long. She’d died. He remembered every one of those last moments in perfect clarity, when she’d given up hope. It still hurt to remember that. Almost as much as remembering her smiling. But what hurt most about his memories was the way he’d felt as she died. All he’d been able to do was stand there, and read to her. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t fight her demons. He hadn’t been good enough. He hadn’t been fast enough. He hadn’t been smart enough. He’d been there with her, at the end, but that was the only worthwhile thing he had been.
Every moment, he wished with all his being that their roles had been reversed. She would have been smart enough She would have figured it out in time. Even if she hadn’t, he wished it had been him and not her. Because the world wasn’t worth living in without her.
He couldn’t look at the thing that had taken over her body without being reminded of her. He hated the god-king for that. Bad enough that he had the memories of her dying, but seeing that thing walking around in a redecorated version of Fred’s body made him relive those memories every time he saw it again. It hurt. His heart had been replaced by a sharp shard of glass. Whenever he thought of her, it pricked him and drew blood anew. So he did his best to avoid Illyria. But that was easier said than done. And when he couldn’t succeed, it hurt all the more. When it became obvious that his plan was a futile attempt, he decided to just ignore the god-king. That worked slightly better than avoiding it. Didn’t work when he was hung over, though. When he was drunk, or hung over, he couldn’t handle it when she/he/it/whatever looked at him, unwaveringly, without blinking, and he wanted to hit it. He always managed to suppress the urge, because he had no particular desire to be bounced through the wall.
He looked out the window. “We’re destroying the world, even as we’re trying to save it. There’s too much pollution. I miss the countryside. It was colorful, without being overwhelming. It’s too bright here. Everything jumps out at you and grabs you. It leaves you choking.”
It blinked at him. “That’s what you humans do. It is like the scrawls that your grubs leave up on the walls of your cities. Man is driven to leave his mark on the world around him, even if that mark destroys what it touches.”
He gave an ugly laugh that tore at his throat. “And are you any different?” His voice softened and hardened at the same time. “Your very arrival wrote something alien on something beautiful, and utterly destroyed it.”
It didn’t flinch, look away, or even appear insulted. “That, too, was man’s doing.”
He wanted to hit it for that answer.
He wanted to tear Illyria apart for what it had taken from him. He wanted what he could never have again. He wanted Fred. But he’d never get her back.
And with that knowledge, he had another swallow of brandy.
End