Chapter Text
That was the thing: he couldn't remember the time or date when he'd seen her. Just that he'd seen her before. And, when he'd seen her, the image of her had fused itself into his soul, even if the exact details hadn't.
Exact time and dates had been a problem for him for years. A common problem he'd imagine, when you had spent almost half your life locked in a box. Not that he really had anyone to chat to about his thoughts on this. Again, a problem synonymous with being imprisoned in a box.
Added to this, when he actually got to half, then he'd be dead. So, he'd kind of stopped counting anyway by that stage.
Not that he'd ever really counted in the first place. What would have been the point? He didn't have anything to count to. He didn't have anyone to count for. Just being eighteen. Adulthood. Of course, in this world and on this path that supposed milestone would just mean he was finally dead.
Sometimes, he dreamt of being dead. Of hazy nothingness from which his father would appear and reach out a hand to him.
He longed for those death-dreams and their peaceful escape because, more often, over the years, he dreamt of being violently floated through the execution doors, while his mother laughed manically as he disappeared into the abyss. In this dream, she'd taunt him over and over: "That's what you deserve. That's all you deserve. He died because of you. You're a bastard because of you. I'm dead because of you."
Then, he'd wake, sweating and shivering in the perpetual darkness. He'd never wake relieved though. Because he was still there. Waiting. Waiting for the inevitable reality of his nightmare to come true, when he turned eighteen. Even though his mother was long gone, part of him almost expected her to be there on his judgment day. The last infliction of punishment from a mother to the son she hated even as she died. She'd probably still have hated him even if she'd seen him try to avenge her and his father's deaths. Without his father, hate was the only thing she had been capable of.
These days though he barely slept, which was initially a welcome relief. It gave him more time to read in the flickering light. Over the years, he'd become a prolific reader. It wasn't as if there was much else to do. While his own already basic education had been halted at nine and he doubted he could write more than a sentence or two these days, there was at least something comforting about being able to read about a world long gone, ruined by his own people. His personal favourite - The Count of Monte Cristo - always seemed particularly apt. Although swimming to freedom might have been an almost unimaginable fantasy, the revenge elements themselves, played enticingly in his mind. And if Edmond Dantes thought he was unlucky, he would have liked to have seen him spend nine years in the Sky Box.
Anyway - It was #DayNeverEndingHellNotCountingAnymore, when he first saw her. His cell had always been right at the end of the fourth floor. A section of the SkyBox which was always sparsely occupied. Most of the new kids were held there for a day or two before they were moved down to a lower floor, or, in rare cases, up to a high one, if someone had some Alpha Station money. There had been a case of that a month or so back. Princess. He hadn't actually really seen her, just a flash of golden hair and the Guards mimicking her polished accent and constantly calling for her to, "Let down your golden hair, Princess."
In his early days in the Box, he'd given his neighbours nicknames as they came and went. He had quickly realised the way the food hatch of his cell was positioned he could peer out into the narrow hallway and see people's reflections in the security mirrors positioned on the walls to the right and in front of his cell. This usually meant he got a pretty good look at who was entering and leaving. Back then, he used to enjoy looking at them, wondering and guessing their alleged crime and which station they were from. This game got boring pretty quick though: Factory, Factory, Farm, Factory, Farm, Factory, Power thrown in once in a while, and back to Factory.
A pathetic part of him used to faintly hope one of the new arrivals would be friends with him. One boy, another John, Mgebe, about his own age, spoke to him for hours when he arrived and he hoped their paths would cross in the main prison. However, after the first three months though (he used to count back then), one of the guards made it clear his file had been stamped with a DNM (Do NOT Move) order. He realised he'd never see most of those poor bastards again; he was the youngest prisoner for a long time, so he figured they would most likely be dead before him. There was a weird, almost macabre, comfort in that and his interest in the occupants of the neighbouring cells served mainly to break the monotony. In the more recent years though, the occupants were, more often than not, younger than him as he became increasingly aware of the eighteen-year noose tightening around his neck. In recent months, they'd been a haunted shadow of a girl, whose stifled, silent sobbing he had listened to for days as the guards taunted her as 'The RatGirl'; another girl, a thief, so young and meek he had named her 'Olivia Twist', after a character in another novel he'd read; and a boy, some gangly teenager with what looked like Biggles' goggles on his head, which were a crime in themselves surely.
Looking back, he guessed he was about ten months away from his 'release' date, maybe less. He was trying, even more than usual, not to count because the only 'release' was out of an airlock. Their final sick idea of a joke perhaps. Steal children's lives and the day they finally come of age, finish them off for good. Obviously, the cells sometimes whispered about exoneration and pardons but they certainly would never apply to him. Despite his limited education, he wasn't dumb enough to think they would.
It was then a boy, not far off manhood, but still a kid, came in. A young man, he immediately marked down as one of 'them'. From Alpha or Mecha. They were easy to spot, even though he didn't see many of them. They always carried an air of disbelief that this could happen to them, still hopeful their parents would save them. However, there was one thing he knew by that point, the Ark government were consistently brutal in the implementation of their punishments. No one, especially that tosser Jaha, gave a fuck who your daddy was once you were in the SkyBox. In some ways, this was also oddly comforting.
This kid was especially annoying though. He'd seen a flash of floppy long hair, as he entered his cell. Oh we're allowed long hair now he remembered thinking. Until recently, he and the rest of the boys had regularly had their hair cropped and shaved short. Mind, come to think of it, thinking back, they were a bit slack on that during his final months in the Box. Short staffed he'd heard a few guards moan at the time.
From day one, everything about this kid annoyed him. This kid's voice even annoyed him. It was just too damned upbeat. The kid even made the mistake of thinking his neighbour would want to engage in conversation and tried to talk to him through the void asking: "How old are you?"
"17 years and 2 months. You."
"17 and 6."
"Oh well, we can be grateful for small mercies - you'll be dead before me and I'll get some fucking peace," he'd retorted. That was the end of the chirpy conversation at least.
Then, about a week after his arrival, 17 and 6 months got a visitor. Unusual in holding and yet another sign he was some kind of Edgar-Bloody-Linton.
The guard signalled her arrival: "Oi Collins, look awake, your girlfriend's here. Enjoy it. Piece of ass like that sure isn't going to be coming around here for long."
Interest provoked, he looked out of his cell, expecting to see someone like the Princess. Instead, in the hallway, reflected in the mirror was a Siren. Okay, she obviously wasn't a Siren, but he remembered being so shocked, almost hypnotised by the sight of this Raven-haired young woman that he felt she could only have come from the pages of the mythological texts he'd read and reread. Her facial features burned into his memory: the fullness of her lips and the draw of her eyes. She turned to speak to his neighbour through the hatch of his door and he missed a large part of their early conversation because he was too busy looking at her outfit of combat pants, work boots and a tank, which marked her apart from most other women he'd met in his admittedly limited time in the outside world. Okay, he wasn't just looking at her clothes, he was looking at the way her curves filled them, as she leaned as close as possible to speak to her boyfriend. There was something stoic about her pose and the way her well toned arms held her against the wall as she leaned forward. When he picked up the conversation, her voice was cracked with an emotion he recognised but couldn't quite place, maybe anger and distress, "I can't stand this; I hate this," she was saying.
"It's only six months," he responded with only the certainty someone who'd never actually seen anyone sucked out an airlock could have.
"I know but it's my -" He cut her off:
"- six months and then we'll be together. Always."
Then, she pressed her face to the space and they both murmured quietly until the Guard returned and ushered her, and with her the light, away, leaving a gaping, echoing absence. He never knew he could miss until she was gone. The Guard caught sight of him, clearly mournfully gazing into her wake and barked out a laugh as he sauntered past: "Murphy, you pathetic piece of shit. A rich-boy like Collins sure isn't going to hang onto her hot ass while he's in here, so a skinny, nobody virgin-boy like you has got no hope."
He sat back on his narrow cot, still dazed. Something stirred deep within him. Lust? Well yes, but it wasn't just that. Desire? Yes. But it was a desire he'd never experienced before: a desire to have something, something he knew he never could or would have. Something perfect. The guard was right about that. This girl would never be his.