Categories > Games > Castlevania > The Seeds We've Sown
The Seeds We've Sown
Chapter 3
Untitled
She'd read it, from cover to cover. Front to back, even teasing the edges for a time.
Nothing was forthcoming. For the first time in her life none of the content of the book stuck. Still, despite its wear and tear –brittle, it was brittle and yellow, judiciously anointed with a crusty brownish red that was better not to be dwelled upon- there was an almost scientific charm to the contents.
A peculiar order.
Name, habitat and the like were lists. Time of activity –a crescent or sunburst declared which, a quaint yet artistic aside- was filled in. All in all it was a well thought out endeavor. And if it weren't for the insanity inherit…
"Bloody bones born of a side of a futile last stand.. indestructible…"
She'd of found the whole a wonderful read. It harkened back to the age old natural science logs. She'd loved nature, nature programs and the like. Granddad had too…
Except, somewhere he'd tagged a "super" to the nature of science, and she'd lost him that day as surely as when he thought he'd wrangled with werewolves and came out second best.
There were no such things as werewolves.
And that was a fact.
Allure, charm, or otherwise, there were no such things as monsters. Only the deranged, the dangerous, and the misunderstood. All were to be treated like the victim of the tragic illness' that they were, their minds tended (if possible) and then like the half wild things they were, they were tamed, released into society with their more dangerous eccentricies smoothed away for easier integration.
All about here were the comforts of her self-declared truth. They had many names, many faces, psychology was her favored facet, chemistry a passing fancy, biology a touch and go love, as for physics… she loved to hate it.
But loved it despite.
Pinned against her wall (her crucifix of sorts) framed in somber black, printed on pure white was her diploma. Set just so, to keep the crazy at bay and to stay in the corner of her eye, no matter how she was twisted about in some other corner of the room.
Such wards and comfort about her, she was learning were a pale comfort when confronted with her Grandfather's madness. Leather bound, blood anointed, it's baptismal is the dismal working of the degrading mind, she'd pursued it amongst this front of sanity and found herself feeling sick.
Grandfather had fallen.
As had her father, save his bane was work, distance, and distraction.
Traitorous treasonous, thought: How alike we really are. Realized then suppressed. She slammed Grandfather's book shut, shoved it into the depths of her cabinet for good measure and locked the whole away.
Mr. "Slogra's" file awaited her attentions, coaster to her family’s apparent insanity. The higher-ups wanted a decision, keep or release… Strange eccentric or potential maniac? The decision was hers. And they'd damn her for it each way. Chose release and they'd keep, slandering her name and reputation for making such a "womanly" overly humane, unprofessional, decision. Chose keep and they'd keep him within that cage 'till he rotted.
And they'd blame her for his cost of keep, a more subtle slander and longer lasting.
It would last until he died.
Or worst of the worse, they'd release him just for spite….
And in actuality, she didn't know which was worse. Only that his release at her hands would ruin her and his being kept at her word would destroy her.
Speaking of useless decisions, she had another before her. As to where they were going to "transfer" her. See, Joe wasn't the only one in hot water.
They all were, one way or another. All those who'd interacted with Death's right hand were being "released from service" in one way or another.
Call it fired, there was more honesty to the whole.
They all were being fired.
"Vindictive bastard."
The last was for the head director of the institute… The man who'd cheerfully informed her of the camera in her office, that secret one that'd been installed all the better to spy on her. What's-his-name had ordered it, and bastard was the kindest nominative she was going to give him. He hadn't left a big enough of an impact to really deserve his name to be recalled beyond that. So, while it was petty, she indulged in a lukewarm vengeance of a kind.
A slander all her own.
And though it was futile and it wasn't going to change anything, she'd added layers upon layers. One contact (oh the joys of social networking) and some rather disturbing information had come to her hands. And information like that was meant to be shared.
She stood, snapping up the papers, and left it at that for now.
XX
A few hours later and he'd wolf whistled at her coming. It was a tame greeting, since her latest breakdown in Joe's arms he'd treated her grief with an honest respect and a careful avoidance that she'd appreciated.
Speaking of appreciation he kicked up his "lusty" act another level and howled in that low voice of his. No hisses today. And none of his lapses were recorded. The uppers had tweaked the system three months ago, and the cameras in certain cells didn't play twenty four seven like they should have. No, in certain cells (of the not so dangerous) they were turned off for days at a time.
Corporate's excuse was "to save on the electric bill".
Her response, had been a wry "bull shit".
She hadn't made any friends this day.
But that wasn't the point.
She nursed a killer headache and a healthy dose of contempt for her supervisor this morning. The man with his Death fixation had a roaming eyes, two actually. His regard raked her up and down with just a touch of leer that warned he probably was undressing her in his head. Taking in the lack of "professional attire" he scooted his chair as close to the glass as the table would allow, smiling all the while.
"Green's definitely your color! So who's the lucky fellow?"
His chatter obscured the fact that he tried to scoot closer still, those pesky things such as matter got in the way but that hadn't stopped his effort until it failed.
"Please… No poetry today."
She took her seat with a careless thump a direct contrast to her studious gown of green and pinned up hair. Normally she'd left it down, something he'd always approved of. And considering there was glass between them, and he wasn't overtly hostile she'd indulged his little whim from the start.
Despite her small defiance to his previous expected norm he didn't seem irritated by it, not in the slightest.
I've gained the approval of a mad man, lucky me.
Oblivious to the slant of her thoughts he nodded. "Fair enough." His blue eyes slid over again, his smooth face creasing in through and he clearly came to some unpleasant conclusions if the follow up frown said anything.
"Bloodiest layer of hell, you too?"
"Me too." She affirmed with a little sigh. Pulling open the flap, he heard that and thoughtfully pushed his tray though. "I just came out of my "your fired meeting" this is my last stop on the nutter tour."
"I could be insulted… Probably should be. Allergic to nuts and all…"
"You miss out then."
Click, snap, a shove, and the tray was on his side.
"You supposed to be here?"
"No."
He nodded, then pulled up. The flap relented soundlessly and the pagers of a report she wasn't supposed to know even exist were in front of hm. He flipped though them idly, all previous gregariousness failed him all at once. He actually paled as he read on.
Like any sane, rational being would have.
Certainly she had.
Before him was his new treatment regimen. A list really, of medicines, their doses, and the like. It was as a whole, designed to subdue, sedate, and would eventually cause the recipient of the program to fall into a coma.
Under the med list were the following strictures.
Patient interaction policy:
No Socialization with stafff (all checkups are to be performed in a straightjacket)
No excessive intellectual stimulation (patient excitable)
Bi annual status assessment by certified psychologist (Per Patient history of encouraging fraternization this should be a temp. each time)
"You really shouldn't have ragged the director about his wife."
"I'm seeing that." He whispered as he set the papers down on his side of the table. Curious that, not the flap. "What are they going to do to you?" He wave a hand, as if to say "for all of this" or "for what you just did."
"It doesn't matter."
"Hell it doesn't!"
She closed her eyes, sighed. "Assessment." She opened her eyes, and there he was looking so damned concerned. "They found the note, the book. Did an inspection yesterday, forced open the drawer and found... everything…"
They're holding your granddad's… illness... against you?"
"He was delusional." She explained, quoting the company's representative verbatim. "Sometimes it's genetic."
"Bullshit."
She cracked a small grin, sometimes just sometimes…
"That's what I said."
"Really?"
"It's on tape."
Another whistle, this one appreciative for all the right reasons. "I'd say I'm a bad influence but I'm not feeling guilty at the moment."
"Don't, ever, you've got nothing more than a taste for the oddest food against you. Most people hate hospital chow."
He snorted, tried to smile, but looked too sick for it to genuine.
"There's an outside panel meeting about your case tomorrow. They'll do blood work, that means this is the one test you get to be clean for," he knew her policy against pill popping, and nodded, "and it's an impartial outside audience."
No emphasis needed, he looked thoughtful, his face scrunching up just so.
"I hope," she stood. "That you take it seriously."
Like all the others, he hadn't.
"Belmont." She paused at the sound of her last name bereft of its title. "One question; why you doing this? It's curtains for your job, they'll catch you, you know."
A buzz, boots stomping near, their privacy was over and done with. The cameras were likely on. But she'd known that already.
"It was already over, before it started."
"You didn't answer the question you know. Evasion, Doc?"
"Hardly." She snorted. "The truth-" the last one, for she'd never see him again… So why not? A little honesty never hurt. Perhaps it'd even the scale against her vengeance of the hour. He tapped his long fingers against the pages of the purloined report.
It was over, after all, nothing left to hide.
She sighed.
"Because, despite hating Sam's guts, you gave her just enough info to save her dog. She lost everything, except her dog. "She smirked at his startled look. "For being death's right hand man in those wacky dreams of yours…" The hint hung between them, he smirked back baring rotten teeth.
"Don't call me soft." He warned.
Locks clicked, the door banged open, cutting off their repartee. She never hated the sound more.
Director and guard (a new soul, steely expression, grizzled face, it was a good match) came in. Matching each other step with step. Great minds indeed… One white clad and portly the other blue clad and muscular with a perchance for hormonal injection to help it along. He looked an Orc from The Book, but she'd never tell anyone that. Both were watching her with sullen looks.
"Mrs. Belmont." The director growled. "You've given us quite a chase."
To that she smiled. "Really? In high heels?"
Guard blinked, director glowered, they were quite the matched set. So she'd give them a hand along. Baring said hand before her she flourished one finger, to better make the point.
"One: I'm not married."
"You are on tape, think of your futu-"
"Two:" Up came the second digit. "Hell will freeze over before I get a reference from you, you bastard."
The Director flushed, form the back behind his wall of glass Slogra laughed.
"Third: I quit."
Then, to ram the point home, she lowered first and third digit, just in case he didn't get the message. A thud from behind, he'd fallen over, more likely than not. Laughing so hard that something surely broke inside Slogra screeched in mirth. The Guard, expressionless despite having a mobile face, stepped forward, restrained her arms, and cut off the show.
"You're leaving premises, now Miss."
Despite the indignity of being so gripped, she grinned. "With pleasure."
Chapter 3
Untitled
She'd read it, from cover to cover. Front to back, even teasing the edges for a time.
Nothing was forthcoming. For the first time in her life none of the content of the book stuck. Still, despite its wear and tear –brittle, it was brittle and yellow, judiciously anointed with a crusty brownish red that was better not to be dwelled upon- there was an almost scientific charm to the contents.
A peculiar order.
Name, habitat and the like were lists. Time of activity –a crescent or sunburst declared which, a quaint yet artistic aside- was filled in. All in all it was a well thought out endeavor. And if it weren't for the insanity inherit…
"Bloody bones born of a side of a futile last stand.. indestructible…"
She'd of found the whole a wonderful read. It harkened back to the age old natural science logs. She'd loved nature, nature programs and the like. Granddad had too…
Except, somewhere he'd tagged a "super" to the nature of science, and she'd lost him that day as surely as when he thought he'd wrangled with werewolves and came out second best.
There were no such things as werewolves.
And that was a fact.
Allure, charm, or otherwise, there were no such things as monsters. Only the deranged, the dangerous, and the misunderstood. All were to be treated like the victim of the tragic illness' that they were, their minds tended (if possible) and then like the half wild things they were, they were tamed, released into society with their more dangerous eccentricies smoothed away for easier integration.
All about here were the comforts of her self-declared truth. They had many names, many faces, psychology was her favored facet, chemistry a passing fancy, biology a touch and go love, as for physics… she loved to hate it.
But loved it despite.
Pinned against her wall (her crucifix of sorts) framed in somber black, printed on pure white was her diploma. Set just so, to keep the crazy at bay and to stay in the corner of her eye, no matter how she was twisted about in some other corner of the room.
Such wards and comfort about her, she was learning were a pale comfort when confronted with her Grandfather's madness. Leather bound, blood anointed, it's baptismal is the dismal working of the degrading mind, she'd pursued it amongst this front of sanity and found herself feeling sick.
Grandfather had fallen.
As had her father, save his bane was work, distance, and distraction.
Traitorous treasonous, thought: How alike we really are. Realized then suppressed. She slammed Grandfather's book shut, shoved it into the depths of her cabinet for good measure and locked the whole away.
Mr. "Slogra's" file awaited her attentions, coaster to her family’s apparent insanity. The higher-ups wanted a decision, keep or release… Strange eccentric or potential maniac? The decision was hers. And they'd damn her for it each way. Chose release and they'd keep, slandering her name and reputation for making such a "womanly" overly humane, unprofessional, decision. Chose keep and they'd keep him within that cage 'till he rotted.
And they'd blame her for his cost of keep, a more subtle slander and longer lasting.
It would last until he died.
Or worst of the worse, they'd release him just for spite….
And in actuality, she didn't know which was worse. Only that his release at her hands would ruin her and his being kept at her word would destroy her.
Speaking of useless decisions, she had another before her. As to where they were going to "transfer" her. See, Joe wasn't the only one in hot water.
They all were, one way or another. All those who'd interacted with Death's right hand were being "released from service" in one way or another.
Call it fired, there was more honesty to the whole.
They all were being fired.
"Vindictive bastard."
The last was for the head director of the institute… The man who'd cheerfully informed her of the camera in her office, that secret one that'd been installed all the better to spy on her. What's-his-name had ordered it, and bastard was the kindest nominative she was going to give him. He hadn't left a big enough of an impact to really deserve his name to be recalled beyond that. So, while it was petty, she indulged in a lukewarm vengeance of a kind.
A slander all her own.
And though it was futile and it wasn't going to change anything, she'd added layers upon layers. One contact (oh the joys of social networking) and some rather disturbing information had come to her hands. And information like that was meant to be shared.
She stood, snapping up the papers, and left it at that for now.
XX
A few hours later and he'd wolf whistled at her coming. It was a tame greeting, since her latest breakdown in Joe's arms he'd treated her grief with an honest respect and a careful avoidance that she'd appreciated.
Speaking of appreciation he kicked up his "lusty" act another level and howled in that low voice of his. No hisses today. And none of his lapses were recorded. The uppers had tweaked the system three months ago, and the cameras in certain cells didn't play twenty four seven like they should have. No, in certain cells (of the not so dangerous) they were turned off for days at a time.
Corporate's excuse was "to save on the electric bill".
Her response, had been a wry "bull shit".
She hadn't made any friends this day.
But that wasn't the point.
She nursed a killer headache and a healthy dose of contempt for her supervisor this morning. The man with his Death fixation had a roaming eyes, two actually. His regard raked her up and down with just a touch of leer that warned he probably was undressing her in his head. Taking in the lack of "professional attire" he scooted his chair as close to the glass as the table would allow, smiling all the while.
"Green's definitely your color! So who's the lucky fellow?"
His chatter obscured the fact that he tried to scoot closer still, those pesky things such as matter got in the way but that hadn't stopped his effort until it failed.
"Please… No poetry today."
She took her seat with a careless thump a direct contrast to her studious gown of green and pinned up hair. Normally she'd left it down, something he'd always approved of. And considering there was glass between them, and he wasn't overtly hostile she'd indulged his little whim from the start.
Despite her small defiance to his previous expected norm he didn't seem irritated by it, not in the slightest.
I've gained the approval of a mad man, lucky me.
Oblivious to the slant of her thoughts he nodded. "Fair enough." His blue eyes slid over again, his smooth face creasing in through and he clearly came to some unpleasant conclusions if the follow up frown said anything.
"Bloodiest layer of hell, you too?"
"Me too." She affirmed with a little sigh. Pulling open the flap, he heard that and thoughtfully pushed his tray though. "I just came out of my "your fired meeting" this is my last stop on the nutter tour."
"I could be insulted… Probably should be. Allergic to nuts and all…"
"You miss out then."
Click, snap, a shove, and the tray was on his side.
"You supposed to be here?"
"No."
He nodded, then pulled up. The flap relented soundlessly and the pagers of a report she wasn't supposed to know even exist were in front of hm. He flipped though them idly, all previous gregariousness failed him all at once. He actually paled as he read on.
Like any sane, rational being would have.
Certainly she had.
Before him was his new treatment regimen. A list really, of medicines, their doses, and the like. It was as a whole, designed to subdue, sedate, and would eventually cause the recipient of the program to fall into a coma.
Under the med list were the following strictures.
Patient interaction policy:
No Socialization with stafff (all checkups are to be performed in a straightjacket)
No excessive intellectual stimulation (patient excitable)
Bi annual status assessment by certified psychologist (Per Patient history of encouraging fraternization this should be a temp. each time)
"You really shouldn't have ragged the director about his wife."
"I'm seeing that." He whispered as he set the papers down on his side of the table. Curious that, not the flap. "What are they going to do to you?" He wave a hand, as if to say "for all of this" or "for what you just did."
"It doesn't matter."
"Hell it doesn't!"
She closed her eyes, sighed. "Assessment." She opened her eyes, and there he was looking so damned concerned. "They found the note, the book. Did an inspection yesterday, forced open the drawer and found... everything…"
They're holding your granddad's… illness... against you?"
"He was delusional." She explained, quoting the company's representative verbatim. "Sometimes it's genetic."
"Bullshit."
She cracked a small grin, sometimes just sometimes…
"That's what I said."
"Really?"
"It's on tape."
Another whistle, this one appreciative for all the right reasons. "I'd say I'm a bad influence but I'm not feeling guilty at the moment."
"Don't, ever, you've got nothing more than a taste for the oddest food against you. Most people hate hospital chow."
He snorted, tried to smile, but looked too sick for it to genuine.
"There's an outside panel meeting about your case tomorrow. They'll do blood work, that means this is the one test you get to be clean for," he knew her policy against pill popping, and nodded, "and it's an impartial outside audience."
No emphasis needed, he looked thoughtful, his face scrunching up just so.
"I hope," she stood. "That you take it seriously."
Like all the others, he hadn't.
"Belmont." She paused at the sound of her last name bereft of its title. "One question; why you doing this? It's curtains for your job, they'll catch you, you know."
A buzz, boots stomping near, their privacy was over and done with. The cameras were likely on. But she'd known that already.
"It was already over, before it started."
"You didn't answer the question you know. Evasion, Doc?"
"Hardly." She snorted. "The truth-" the last one, for she'd never see him again… So why not? A little honesty never hurt. Perhaps it'd even the scale against her vengeance of the hour. He tapped his long fingers against the pages of the purloined report.
It was over, after all, nothing left to hide.
She sighed.
"Because, despite hating Sam's guts, you gave her just enough info to save her dog. She lost everything, except her dog. "She smirked at his startled look. "For being death's right hand man in those wacky dreams of yours…" The hint hung between them, he smirked back baring rotten teeth.
"Don't call me soft." He warned.
Locks clicked, the door banged open, cutting off their repartee. She never hated the sound more.
Director and guard (a new soul, steely expression, grizzled face, it was a good match) came in. Matching each other step with step. Great minds indeed… One white clad and portly the other blue clad and muscular with a perchance for hormonal injection to help it along. He looked an Orc from The Book, but she'd never tell anyone that. Both were watching her with sullen looks.
"Mrs. Belmont." The director growled. "You've given us quite a chase."
To that she smiled. "Really? In high heels?"
Guard blinked, director glowered, they were quite the matched set. So she'd give them a hand along. Baring said hand before her she flourished one finger, to better make the point.
"One: I'm not married."
"You are on tape, think of your futu-"
"Two:" Up came the second digit. "Hell will freeze over before I get a reference from you, you bastard."
The Director flushed, form the back behind his wall of glass Slogra laughed.
"Third: I quit."
Then, to ram the point home, she lowered first and third digit, just in case he didn't get the message. A thud from behind, he'd fallen over, more likely than not. Laughing so hard that something surely broke inside Slogra screeched in mirth. The Guard, expressionless despite having a mobile face, stepped forward, restrained her arms, and cut off the show.
"You're leaving premises, now Miss."
Despite the indignity of being so gripped, she grinned. "With pleasure."
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