Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Jarod woke in the blue pre-dawn light, and lay quiet and still while the morning sun chased away shadows, and, at last, bathed the bedroom—and Parker—in warm golden hues. It would have been criminal, he believed, to fall back asleep or climb out of bed and miss this. He yearned to see Parker often, in every kind of light, for the rest of his life, and, somehow, that didn't terrify him nearly as much as it once had.
He smiled brightly when Parker stretched and yawned, and groused softly, "Better not be watching me sleep."
"Why not?" Jarod asked.
"Because I'll have to kick your ass if you are," she murmured lightly. "I love you, but them's the rules, Baby."
"Are they applicable to love making as well," Jarod asked solicitously, pushing a lock of her hair from her face. "Because I watched you the entire time last night. Both times. Either way, it's not a deal-breaker. I'll happily to submit to your terms, but you're going to be busy kicking my ass; I intend to watch you as much as I can."
"Sleep," Parker demanded groggily.
"Can't. I'd rather watch you sleep, and I have a lot of lost time to make up for."
"Should kick your ass," she groaned. "What time is it?"
"Noon."
Parker opened her eyes, and asked with a frown, "How long have you been awake?"
"Hours," Jarod guessed.
"Why didn't you wake me?"
"I'm obligated to let you sleep late if I keep you up half the night. I love you," he cooed, "but them's the rules, Baby. How did you sleep?"
"Like the fucking dead," Parker answered bluntly, "which is surprising— after barely sleeping at all for months."
"Hmm," Jarod hummed. "I'm glad you slept. Hungry?"
"Starving," she exclaimed, throwing off the blankets.
"Last one to the kitchen makes breakfast?" Jarod asked, rising.
"I like my bread well toasted," Parker informed him tartly. "No butter."
"No butter," Jarod repeated, dryly, pulling a t-shirt over his head. "Blasphemy. Pure and simple blasphemy."
"I'll show you pure and simple blasphemy tonight," Parker rebutted crisply, "and some impure and complex blasphemy, too, if you're up for it, but I want toast at the moment."
"Impure," Jarod stammered. "I-- hmm, forgot that I was starving, uh, but you want toast."
"I do," Parker purred, "and I always get what I want."
"So do I," Jarod said, "and what I want is a stack of buttermilk pancakes drowned in maple syrup and butter. With bacon. Lots of bacon."
Parker smiled wickedly, and consoled with an understanding nod of head, "No judgment here, and as long as you make the coffee before mixing up the batter I won't mind the extra wait for toast. See ya," she sang, jogging to the door.
"Hey," Jarod called. "Wait."
"Yeah, that's not going to happen, Loser," Parker said in jest, already halfway down the stairs, and still closing blouse buttons.
"You're cheating," Jarod accused.
"No, Jarod, you're just slower and older. And, no-- no, you aren't catching up," Parker shouted, glancing over her shoulder. "No, I won't let you pass me."
"We're tied, as of now," Jarod boasted cheerfully.
"Two more steps, and I win," Parker shrieked.
"Too bad," Jarod said with a deep drawl, touching the door at the precise moment Parker did, and laughing brightly when she seized his arm. "We could go in together," he suggested warmly, offering her his hand, and grinning all over himself when she pushed her fingers through his. "You make coffee, I'll make pancakes?"
"I accept your terms," Parker purred, pushing open the door, and revealing Sydney— newspaper in hand, seated at the table.
"Sydney," Parker said, "you're —home."
"As are you," Sydney agreed with a nod. "And Jarod," he added, dropping his gaze to their joined hands. "I'm pleased to see that the two of you are getting on well again."
"Why aren't you on your honeymoon?" Parker asked, releasing Jarod's fingers and turning to fill a kettle.
"Yes," Jarod said enthusiastically, glancing expectantly into the adjoining nook. "Michele isn't honeymooning, alone, in Strasbourg, is she?"
"No, no. She's visiting Nicholas. She knew I was preoccupied with-- you. With you both. I haven't been honest with either of you," Sydney confessed in brittle, contrite voice. He and Jarod both turned their gazes to Parker, and observed as she continued to prepare coffee. "I've come to rectify that. Can we please sit, the three of us?"
"Of course," Jarod said, following Sydney's lead and sitting in one of the three chairs often parked at the bistro table.
"Sydney," Parker chided gently, joining the men at the table, "what can possibly be more important than honeymooning with the love of your life?"
"The remorse I feel for betraying two people that I also love dearly," Sydney answered softly, and tearfully confessed, "I'm the reason Oblivion exists, Parker, although not in its current form, and I called it 009232 Ἑκατερίνη, not Oblivion. I called it that, because-"
"It's Mom's name— a version of it. You were trying to help," Parker said, reaching across the table, seizing Sydney's hand and gently squeezing it. "We know, Sydney. Raines corrupted the work you were doing to help Mom-- to help millions of people who suffered the way she did. I know. And I know the Director threatened to terminate your position and hurt Jarod if you interfered with what Raines was doing."
"And that's all you've learned, isn't it," Sydney asked, "or all that you're willing to accept? But there's more, Parker, as you and Jarod both already probably fear. When your mother left this world you began spending more time at the Centre, and asking questions. Raines, because of your resemblance to your mother, regarded you with distrust, even disdain. He voiced concerns, lodged hundreds of complaints.
Mr. Parker and I both became terribly afraid for you when Raines shared with the Director his suspicions that you and Jarod were developing a bond, that the two of you had accessed the infirmary, the morgue, and even the more restricted containment area.
Raines claimed that while you were naive and engaged in mere child's play, or perhaps even indulging a crush, Jarod had ulterior motives, that he'd befriended you and was—under the guise of friendship—using you to access intel that could threaten the Centre and national security, and, ultimately, free him."
"Raines knew we found Faith," Jarod murmured. "How?"
"It doesn't matter how," Parker asserted sharply, withdrawing her hand from Sydney's. "None of this matters now. We should go out," Parker suggested eagerly, "and have brunch."
"You knew we were eventually going to have this conversation, Parker," Sydney said. "We must."
"You and I," Parker repeated hotly in partial agreement. "Why is it necessary to punish Jarod with this?"
"It involves him, too. Raines wanted to sow dissension, divide the two of you. He fantasized about using one of you to control the other, and, several times, he used my love for both of you against me, and against the two of you; he coerced me to sacrifice one to spare the other. I made painful decisions that-"
Jarod, with a look of alarm, interrupted. "Painful decisions? Such as?"
"Raines once threatened to recruit Parker to participate in additional sexuality studies, on a permanent basis, if I refused to allow him to collaborate with you, Jarod. He rapidly escalated the threats. They became more severe, more unthinkable."
"Additional," Jarod repeated bitterly. "Because the first several sexuality simulations involving her were so successf--" Jarod's voice dissolved to silence, and his fingers, concealed by the table, curled into fists.
"As much as Jarod and I both missed you, Parker, I was relieved, when you boarded that jet. I'd feared for you, and I confess that I encouraged Mr. Parker to send you abroad. When he finally sent you to London, after hundreds of threats from Raines and dozens of reprimands from the Director, I was certain you were safe.
It was only when I discovered, years later, that you were rising quickly through the ranks of corporate that I began to question that certainty.
Later, when you were recalled from corporate to pursue Jarod," Sydney said, his voice tight and filled with anguish, "I knew. The transformation was alarming. I knew you were a victim of Oblivion. In an attempt to confirm my suspicions I made inquiries, and even confronted Raines. I'm afraid I discovered only a symptom list; it was enough, however. My fears were cemented when you collapsed in that motel, and began drinking bismuth subsalicylate straight from the bottle.
I've lied to you, Parker, for decades. The reason I've insisted that you see a doctor on a quarterly basis and have specific tests conducted has nothing to do with potential radiation and asbestos exposure."
Parker and Sydney both completely failed to notice the expression of disgust that Jarod, briefly, wore.
It's not okay- not then, not now. The Pretender couldn't inquire about the severity of the threats, how far Raines had gone, or how many simulations—in addition to innumerable other horrors—Parker had endured. He couldn't speak; he could barely breathe, and the nausea he'd been just barely outrunning for months had returned. His surroundings, as well as Parker and Sydney, were all revolving around him.
Additional research?
Painful decisions?
Christ, Sydney!
Jarod believed there should have been only one sacrificial lamb, and no painful decisions, no decision at all.
There'd been one obvious choice.
There had always been only one obvious choice.
Only one.
Me.
I had the ability to seek refuge in my mind.
I'm the Pretender.
She isn't.
You knew that, damn you, Sydney.
"I-" Jarod stammered hoarsely, adding hastily when Parker swung her gaze at him, "I'll be back. Will you be all right here?"
"Yeah," Parker answered, watching him rise and hastily jog out of sight. "I'm fine. Are you," she added, turning at the sound of the door opening. "Jarod?"
By then Jarod had descended the porch steps, and was walking swiftly into the dense trees and brush beyond the border of the property.
There, he stumbled to his knees, and vomited.
