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This story is the bastard step-sister of ICD's Lost Inside a Soulless Mind.


the fabric of an unreal existence


They catch him (in a warehouse/a school/on a pretend/at her house, delete as applicable) and take him back to The Centre (welcome home, Jarod) and as always, they give him to Lyle. (Isn’t it nice to be back, Jarod?)

But then, it was always going to end like this, wasn’t it?

(Can’t run forever, Jarod.)

*



His cell is nice enough. The bed is softer than before, not as soft as he had outside. The walls are drab, prison cell coloured and really, that’s apt.

Jarod doesn’t worry; he’s been here before.

Lyle enters; the games begin.

(He’s always been good at this game.)

*



“How do you feel about my dear sister?”

This game is new, but really just a new spin on an old trick.

“Let me guess… she’s dead/dying/shot/in a coma/needs my help/loves her new job?”

Lyle laughs, and Jarod reflects he really is a sick fuck, but it’s probably not his fault. After all, his mother did feed invisible dogs. But then again, some are just evil. Lyle really should duke it out some other megalomaniac for a grand title. Supreme Sick Fuck of the Universe sort of thing.

“Oh no, nothing like that.”

He teases the words out, letting them hang for as long as he can. Knowledge has always been The Centre’s weapon, but they’re fool if they think they can keep that advantage.

“She’s exactly where she’s been these last 5 years, which is exactly where she’ll be the next 5, too.”

*



Jarod likes to think nothing The Centre does can surprise him. It’s not true, of course, because he was honest-to-God shocked when he realised his parents weren’t dead, that he had a brother, that he had a sister, that he had a clone, or that he had another (half) brother. So really, The Centre can shock him quite a bit. (Oh, and there was that time about the secret sub-level of happy games and brain frying. That was a hoot.)

This, though - this is pretty up there. (Not with the brain frying, of course, but c’mon, not many things are.)

He wonders how Miss Parker feels, then stops, because no one but her can successfully contain that level of anger.

“So, are you going to help?” Lyle asks.

Sort of a pointless question, really.

*



They torture him, and drug him, and torture him some more. They kill him, and revive him, and don’t let him sleep. They break him, and repair him, and Jarod thinks longingly of the outside, blue sky, PEZ, easily torn buttons, hidden sedatives, and then he thinks of days of sleep, rest, stopping the pain, and finally he thinks of nothing at all.

Maybe that’s where they win. Maybe not. It’s hard to tell when your head doesn’t feel like your own.

“Now you are mine,” Lyle says, and it’s too much energy to refute him.

(How does that joke go? Don’t forget you’re here forever.)

*



Lyle says: simulate this, do that, don’t do this, hack that, what about this, how about that?

Sydney says: Miss Parker’s not doing well.

Somewhere in between there’s a connection. Jarod’s not sure he’s smart enough (stupid enough) to make it.

*



He sees her in an elevator. The light shins through the hole the bullet that didn’t kill her mother and casts a yellow dot on her blouse, just above her heart. He thinks it’s destiny, fate, a coincidence and means nothing at all.

She looks like hell. (Think hell with nicer furniture. Who said that, again? He can’t remember...)

She stares as if she’s seen a ghost. He wonders why, doesn’t care, wonders anyway. He says: “Never trust anyone, Parker, most of all the people you admire. They will make you suffer the worst.” The words mean nothing at all.

Maybe he blames her, or maybe he wants her to blame herself.

The doors open and he leaves.

(Inside the lab Lyle says, “Good boy.” And Jarod says, “I’m not a dog.” Lyle laughs, and says, “No, you’re far better.” There’s a metaphor in there somewhere but he hasn’t the time to think about literary techniques.)

He does a simulation (it’s what they don’t pay him for, after all), and Lyle says, “Don’t worry, she’ll be better soon.”

For some reason, Jarod believes him.

*



Lyle comes to Jarod’s cell flushed and excited. “You’ll never guess what I just did,” he taunts. His lips are red and one of his buttons is missing. Jarod’s sure if he examined his back he would find marks shaped like half-crescent moons already fading.

“Your sister?” Jarod suggests.

Lyle licks his lips.

*



“She’s mine,” Lyle says.

“She’s no one’s,” Jarod counters.

Something there is a lie, but which remains to be seen.

*



Lyle rants, justifies, damns himself. All in one. It’s economical, really. “What did you ever give her? The truth? More lies? Confusion, anger, hate, suffering?”

“What did you give her? Thirty seconds before you collapsed, spent?” He could have been a comedian, really.

“Fuck you,” Lyle sneers.

“I’m brainwashed, but I’m not that far gone.”

Lyle smiles. “Oh, we’ll see.”

Jarod’s smart enough to know a promise when he sees one.

*



“There were cameras, you know. Would you like to watch? I think you’d like to watch as I fucked her. See the way she writhes and swears when I hit just the right spot.”

Jarod stares. Says, “You’re a sick man, Lyle.”

“That’s not totally a no,” Lyle says idly.

Which is true, really.

*



“We’re the next generation. She’ll be my queen, and together we will rule.”

Jarod laughs; there’s nothing funny. He laughs some more. “And what will I be? Court jester?”

Lyle’s hand traces Jarod’s arm. “Anything you want to be, Jarod.” (Lancelot to her Guinevere. Why do all the famous ones end up miserable, or dead?)

He thinks about that for a moment. So few things they haven’t taken from him, so many others he gave without knowing. “I want her to be free.”

The hand grips down. “Anything but that.”

“Yes,” he says lightly. “It’s always anything but that.”

*



Parker kisses a different Jarod; one that only exists in her mind and never in his. (Not since… Just not since.)

“Tell me we’ll escape,” she whispers.

“We’ll escape,” Jarod replies, and grazes a nipple with his teeth.

“Tell me I’ll be happy.”

Lyle kisses Jarod while he smiles. Jarod can’t tell if it’s nice or not – can’t tell anything at all, now. Nothing but this, that is.

(Is this what we wanted, what we were fighting for? Why did we fight? Did we win? Does it matter?)

Lyle fucks her slowly as Jarod fucks him, and it doesn’t matter that none of them wanted this or needed it until it was done. All that matters is skin on skin and Lyle’s voice as close as their bodies.

“I’ll make sure you’re happy,” Lyle promises.

(And that’s all they need, now.)

*



(this is your inevitable happy ending)



notes: upon betaing ICD's fic I got plot bunnied, and she kindly let me play in her universe. Well, she didn't kill me after I'd written this, anyway ;) Deliberately stylised like that, sorry. It's weird, I know. Blame the huge amounts of crack. Last line twisted from the SGA fic "This is your inevitable unhappy ending", so total mad credit to them. And remember, bastard step-sibling of Lost Inside a Soulless Mind, so read that too.










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