{"id":2158,"date":"2012-11-10T01:40:40","date_gmt":"2012-11-10T01:40:40","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/azar.ink-and-quill.com\/?p=2158"},"modified":"2012-11-10T01:40:40","modified_gmt":"2012-11-10T01:40:40","slug":"fic-the-childs-cry-ts-gen","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/azar.ink-and-quill.com\/?p=2158","title":{"rendered":"Fic: The Child’s Cry (TS, gen)"},"content":{"rendered":"

Author’s Note:<\/strong> There is no graphic violence in the story, but there are some non-graphic mentions of torture. Just in case that’s a trigger for anyone thinking of reading this. Oh, and the title is from a poem by Sylvia Plath. I can’t remember at the moment which one.<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

Blair’s always said that, if I wanted to, I could probably make my mind remember anything that happened to me since the day I was born. He told me a story about how he once put Jim in a mildly hypnotic state and he’d remembered hearing a message on his answering machine almost five years after it had been left. But more often than not, I’ll change the subject. Partly because I hate how haunted he looks when he talks about Jim, but more because I don’t want to remember.<\/p>\n

Yeah, I wish I could remember my parents. I wish I could remember my last name. But if I remembered that, I might have to remember the tanks.<\/p>\n

I remember quite enough about them in my nightmares. I remember the fear, the absolute nothingness.<\/p>\n

I remember crying when I found out it was all because our own government wanted to push us over the edge, to sharpen us like knife blades against the rock of total sensory deprivation. To hone their new weapon.<\/p>\n

You see, my name’s Shane, and I’m a Sentinel.<\/p>\n

I don’t know where I was born, or who my parents were. If pressed for a last name, I’ll give Sandburg–it’s only fitting, since Blair’s the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had–but I don’t know the name I was born with. I don’t know how or why I got the given name of Shane, or if that even was the name my parents gave me. It’s just what I’ve put together from the nickname I answered to as a child–Shaney. I have no memories of frilly party dresses and hair ribbons and Barbies…of any of the things most women associate with their childhoods. If I ever had any of these things, they were taken away from me long ago.<\/p>\n

I spent most–if not all–of the first five years of my life in a laboratory. My world was tests, genetic tests, sensory tests, endurance tests, and of course, the tanks. I’ve spent every day since then on the run.<\/p>\n

My first clear memory is the day the tank was opened for the last time, and I saw Blair Sandburg’s face hanging over me for the first time. I remember with precision clarity the horror in his eyes, the devastation that dug lines into his face that would never go away. I remember those first whispered words.<\/p>\n

“Oh, God, Jim, what have I done?”<\/p>\n

I remember Jim too, although that memory is fuzzier. We lost him so long ago. I remember how his eyes would twinkle, even when he was trying to be stern with us. I remember how he jokingly called us his “kittens.” And I remember how he gave himself to protect us.<\/p>\n

Blair says a Sentinel has a genetic imperative to protect, and that instinct is never so strong as when faced with another Sentinel. What he never told us, but I learned as one by one of the older kids chose tribes and Guides of their own, is that the genetic imperative to protect that Guide is just as strong. Jim didn’t just sacrifice himself for us, he did it to keep Blair safe.<\/p>\n

So I’ve repaid him the only way I can.<\/p>\n

Jim, can you hear me? The kittens are all grown, and this one is taking care of the wolf for you. I promise, I won’t leave him until we find you again.<\/p>\n

I have to find you. It’s the only thing I can do to repay Blair.<\/p>\n

\n

End Note:<\/strong> Before you ask, no, I never wrote the sequel wherein Blair and Shaney finally find Jim. Nor am I ever likely to. But rest assured that it happened, even if I don’t remember anymore how or when.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Author’s Note: There is no graphic violence in the story, but there are some non-graphic mentions of torture. Just in case that’s a trigger for anyone thinking of reading this. Oh, and the title is from a poem by Sylvia … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[159,66],"tags":[113,153,716,228,112,434,123,736,429],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/azar.ink-and-quill.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2158"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/azar.ink-and-quill.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/azar.ink-and-quill.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/azar.ink-and-quill.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/azar.ink-and-quill.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2158"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/azar.ink-and-quill.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2158\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2159,"href":"http:\/\/azar.ink-and-quill.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2158\/revisions\/2159"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/azar.ink-and-quill.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2158"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/azar.ink-and-quill.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2158"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/azar.ink-and-quill.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2158"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}