The last Spam gift drabble. Equilibrium: First Impressions
Title: “First Impressions”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: G
Summary: Jurgen knows that the first impression is always the most important. R&R!
Disclaimer: Equilibrium doesn’t belong to Kishimoto Masashi; weird, huh? belongs to Kurt Wimmer and Dimension Films.
Dedication: to my dear nii-san dune_master for being the top of the awesome! (It’s Jurgen! Go read it NAO!)
FIRST IMPRESSIONS
These days the city that has laid its greyish streets out before him is nothing but a maze of concrete and glass. Everywhere he goes it’s the same: plants, factories, tarmac slightly darker against the pearl-grey earth - and crowds of people in plain, austere clothes.
Life has become boring for lack of a better term.
Vehicles trudge by as he walks to his place of work. They go noiselessly, completely un-alive like this entire state. He forces himself to look straight ahead. A person on Prozium would hardly show any interest in the surroundings, especially those he has already seen a thousand times before. Jurgen pities these poor souls. Life without details is truly a cursed one.
He still remembers (or thinks that he remembers because he isn’t sure which of his dreams he can trust) that once upon a time (Jurgen smirks inwardly: Now that’s a cheesy line he’s been waiting for!) the sidewalks alternated with blooming trees that stood like clouds of rainbow-coloured ice-cream upon their coarse trunks. Every once in a while a kitten would climb up and mewl plaintively because it didn’t know how to get down.
Nowadays there are no trees and no animals in Libria. There are almost no sounds either. Yesterday a man was arrested at his working place for humming. He didn’t even notice he was doing it until it was too late. Jurgen is far too precautious to get caught like that, but after that incident he can’t get the damn tune out of his head and he has to mind himself lest he starts humming too.
He thinks he remembers where he might have heard it. There was an ice-cream truck down in the Nether a long time ago, perhaps even before Jurgen has ceased his interval.
A car stops by the sidewalk. Jurgen snaps out of his dismal musings and spots a familiar face. He passes by; Cleric Partridge’s wary eyes slide over him for an instant, and then he turns to his partner. Jurgen looks back over the shoulder to take a better look at that man.
Partridge rarely mentions his work; only when the Resistance needs to know something.
This man, Partridge’s partner, captures Jurgen’s attention promptly and holds it for a long time. And not just because he is the deadliest of the Tetragrammaton.
There is something underneath the underneath; the Cleric himself might not know how deep he goes. It sleeps, waiting for its turn. And while it does, it comes off of him in waves, alerting Jurgen to the fact that very soon the man might start feeling. And when he does, he will come to Jurgen.
Later when Partridge comes to the Underground at night, Jurgen is waiting. He intercepts Partridge by the recent acquisitions’ stand; the Cleric is engrossed in studying some ancient textbook of a now non-existent language.
“Your partner,” Jurgen says. “What’s his name?”
He knows his name and Partridge probably knows that he knows it. Nevertheless, it is important to begin the conversation like this. Partridge answers without looking up from the book:
“Preston, John.”
“You like him?”
This time he lifts his head, genuinely puzzled. A thin line of wrinkles creases his forehead.
“I, uh… I don’t know. I suppose I would have if I had been actually able to like anything while on Prozium.” He meets Jurgen inquiring gaze head-on and collects his thoughts. A page rustles. “See, Preston, he’s a notorious role-model. The Academy, the Tetragrammaton, everywhere - he is the top. If he makes Council one day, I shan’t be surprised.”
“What is he like?”
Partridge walks around the stand. Other members of the Resistance are conversing quietly in the vast halls of the Underground. His Cleric overcoat doesn’t scare anyone away anymore. Here, beneath the floors of Libria, everyone is equal.
Jurgen watches Partridge as he picks a pair of beautiful topaz ear-rings and surveys them with a mixed look of regret and some inexplicable envy. Oldtime women used to wear these a lot. Jurgen knows full well who Partridge wants to give them to, but she wouldn’t wear them in public, and it aggravates him.
“Errol,” Jurgen prods gently.
“He’s a murderer.”
Not a very bright characterization but it’s sufficient for Jurgen. He only hopes Preston is the kind of a murderer he is looking for: the one who will not only kill the right men, but his own feelings too when the time comes.
Jurgen’s feelings rarely fail him. He has trained himself well. And he knows the first impressions are always the most important.
It is the right man.
For the first time in years Jurgen allows himself a small smile.
July 3-25, 2008
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: G
Summary: Jurgen knows that the first impression is always the most important. R&R!
Disclaimer: Equilibrium doesn’t belong to Kishimoto Masashi; weird, huh? belongs to Kurt Wimmer and Dimension Films.
Dedication: to my dear nii-san dune_master for being the top of the awesome! (It’s Jurgen! Go read it NAO!)
FIRST IMPRESSIONS
These days the city that has laid its greyish streets out before him is nothing but a maze of concrete and glass. Everywhere he goes it’s the same: plants, factories, tarmac slightly darker against the pearl-grey earth - and crowds of people in plain, austere clothes.
Life has become boring for lack of a better term.
Vehicles trudge by as he walks to his place of work. They go noiselessly, completely un-alive like this entire state. He forces himself to look straight ahead. A person on Prozium would hardly show any interest in the surroundings, especially those he has already seen a thousand times before. Jurgen pities these poor souls. Life without details is truly a cursed one.
He still remembers (or thinks that he remembers because he isn’t sure which of his dreams he can trust) that once upon a time (Jurgen smirks inwardly: Now that’s a cheesy line he’s been waiting for!) the sidewalks alternated with blooming trees that stood like clouds of rainbow-coloured ice-cream upon their coarse trunks. Every once in a while a kitten would climb up and mewl plaintively because it didn’t know how to get down.
Nowadays there are no trees and no animals in Libria. There are almost no sounds either. Yesterday a man was arrested at his working place for humming. He didn’t even notice he was doing it until it was too late. Jurgen is far too precautious to get caught like that, but after that incident he can’t get the damn tune out of his head and he has to mind himself lest he starts humming too.
He thinks he remembers where he might have heard it. There was an ice-cream truck down in the Nether a long time ago, perhaps even before Jurgen has ceased his interval.
A car stops by the sidewalk. Jurgen snaps out of his dismal musings and spots a familiar face. He passes by; Cleric Partridge’s wary eyes slide over him for an instant, and then he turns to his partner. Jurgen looks back over the shoulder to take a better look at that man.
Partridge rarely mentions his work; only when the Resistance needs to know something.
This man, Partridge’s partner, captures Jurgen’s attention promptly and holds it for a long time. And not just because he is the deadliest of the Tetragrammaton.
There is something underneath the underneath; the Cleric himself might not know how deep he goes. It sleeps, waiting for its turn. And while it does, it comes off of him in waves, alerting Jurgen to the fact that very soon the man might start feeling. And when he does, he will come to Jurgen.
Later when Partridge comes to the Underground at night, Jurgen is waiting. He intercepts Partridge by the recent acquisitions’ stand; the Cleric is engrossed in studying some ancient textbook of a now non-existent language.
“Your partner,” Jurgen says. “What’s his name?”
He knows his name and Partridge probably knows that he knows it. Nevertheless, it is important to begin the conversation like this. Partridge answers without looking up from the book:
“Preston, John.”
“You like him?”
This time he lifts his head, genuinely puzzled. A thin line of wrinkles creases his forehead.
“I, uh… I don’t know. I suppose I would have if I had been actually able to like anything while on Prozium.” He meets Jurgen inquiring gaze head-on and collects his thoughts. A page rustles. “See, Preston, he’s a notorious role-model. The Academy, the Tetragrammaton, everywhere - he is the top. If he makes Council one day, I shan’t be surprised.”
“What is he like?”
Partridge walks around the stand. Other members of the Resistance are conversing quietly in the vast halls of the Underground. His Cleric overcoat doesn’t scare anyone away anymore. Here, beneath the floors of Libria, everyone is equal.
Jurgen watches Partridge as he picks a pair of beautiful topaz ear-rings and surveys them with a mixed look of regret and some inexplicable envy. Oldtime women used to wear these a lot. Jurgen knows full well who Partridge wants to give them to, but she wouldn’t wear them in public, and it aggravates him.
“Errol,” Jurgen prods gently.
“He’s a murderer.”
Not a very bright characterization but it’s sufficient for Jurgen. He only hopes Preston is the kind of a murderer he is looking for: the one who will not only kill the right men, but his own feelings too when the time comes.
Jurgen’s feelings rarely fail him. He has trained himself well. And he knows the first impressions are always the most important.
It is the right man.
For the first time in years Jurgen allows himself a small smile.
July 3-25, 2008