Disclaimer: Rights to The Pretender world and all its characters belong to creators Craig Van Sickle and Steven Mitchell. NBC owns a share, as do Twentieth Century Fox and TNT. (Even though they aren't going to air anymore re-runs – the bastards.) The point is I'm borrowing someone else's creation. No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.
Admitting Hope
By Phenyx
09/18/2005
"Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come." – Anne Lamott.
A cheap clock hung on the wall over the ages old mantel. The timepiece was a bright red, plastic horror in the shape of an apple. It had been purchased no doubt, in one of those stores that boasted fantastically low prices for merchandise no reputable retailer would dare sell to the public. It did keep time and kept it well. The second hand moved with an audible clicking that was almost nostalgic.
Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock.
The man sitting on the floor seemed not to care how ugly the clock was. He didn't even glance at it as he moved. And yet, his motions were perfectly in sync with each click the timepiece made.
Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock.
Tick. He sat up. Tock. He laid back.
With metronome-like precision, the exercise continued. He wasn't counting the sit-ups but if he chose, he could calculate how many he'd done with no more than a glimpse at the time. Not that he cared. The number of repetitions wasn't the point of the exercise.
Admittedly, there was no point. It was repetitive and mindless and the physical demands left his mind blissfully blank. He simply didn't want to think.
Jarod didn't know how long he'd been doing these sit-ups. Long enough for his body to be slick with sweat and his breathing to be heavy. If he thought about it, he'd probably register pain in his abdominal muscles. But again, thinking wasn't what he wanted to do so the ache was banished to some remote part of his consciousness.
A memory flashed across the surface of Jarod's mind. Closing his eyes, he allowed his thoughts to chase the past. "I don't understand," young Jarod whispered across the years.
"Would you like me to demonstrate the action once more?" Sydney had asked. The sim lab had been cold that day, Jarod remembered.
Jarod looked at his mentor with a confused frown.
"They are called sit-ups," Sydney said. "Some people call them crunches. It is a form of callisthenic exercise. I want you to try to do as many as you can."
"Why?"
"Jarod." Sydney's voice was heavy with reproach. Jarod had been questioning Sydney's instructions with increasing frequency. As the boy went through adolescence he grew not only in height and musculature but also in confidence. The behavior would not be allowed to continue.
The disapproving tone from Sydney was all it took to get Jarod's attention. Positioning himself on chilly floor, Jarod had looked up at his tutor and asked, "What is the expected frequency?"
"Alternating per second will suffice," was the answer. "Until I tell you to stop."
Looking back, Jarod knew what the Centre had been trying to do. This was his punishment for questioning their authority. During that first session, Jarod had done sit-ups continuously for twenty minutes. When Sydney had finally told him he could stop, Jarod had dropped to the floor like a stone. He had been unable to move the next morning.
For the next two years, the mind-numbing, muscle-wracking workouts had been a favored chastisement. Any sign of disrespect or failure to perform resulted in another round of painful drills. It had been the first real torture, the initial step in Jarod's transition from emotional isolation to physical abuse.
Eventually, the calisthenics lost their ability to punish. Jarod found the fugue-like trance that enabled him to continue the repetitions for far longer than his physical endurance would have allowed. Over time, exercise had become Jarod's way of mentally escaping his cell. Sit-ups, pushups and chin lifts had all served to pass the time. A secondary benefit had been in the sculpting of Jarod's body as he became a man. Centre discipline evolved in to more creative forms of torment.
Jarod's memories slid back into the past. The clock ticked on as Jarod continued his sit-ups.
Eventually, a small part of Jarod's mind whispered to him in warning. His breath was coming in sharp gasps now. Perspiration dripped into his eyes causing them to sting. He had to stop. He had to stop before he passed out. He had to stop…now.
"Enough," Jarod yelled. With a growl, he yanked himself from the mental abyss he'd been lost within and collapsed onto the floor. He lay there staring at the ceiling as he panted. Closing his eyes, Jarod did a cursory check of his heart rate. It was fast, very fast, but not dangerously so.
More than five minutes passed before Jarod's respiration slowed enough that he could sit up without getting light-headed. He wiped his brow with the hem of his sweat-soaked shirt as he waited for his breathing to return to normal. When he finally stood up, he moved gingerly, bending from side to side to stretch his now sore muscles. A series of graceful movements, odd combinations of yoga and Tai Chi, served as Jarod's cool down.
Jarod drank a tall glass of water and then headed for the shower. He was washed and shaved, dressed in black jeans and a clean shirt, when he stood at the sink some time later. Gulping down another glass of water, Jarod gazed out the window at the brightening morning.
Dawn was an overly optimistic description of what Jarod saw outside. The blackness of night had receded, barely, leaving behind a heavy gray morning. Fog blanketed the area as though dark clouds had fallen from the sky during the night. A tree, barely fifteen yards from the house, was no more than an ominous shadow. No longer the stately pine it had been yesterday, the tree had instead become a ghostly sentinel waiting at the edge of Jarod's visibility.
The hairs on the back of Jarod's neck stood on end. The anxiety that had been crawling along his nerves all night, returned. Jarod had hoped that a good physical workout would dispel his apprehension. No such luck.
With a frown, Jarod walked to the back door and stepped out onto the porch. He listened, carefully cocking his head from one side to the other. The mist filled yard would reveal nothing. All sound seemed to be muffled. A solitary bird cawed from an unseen tree.
Jarod swallowed and a shiver ran down his spine as premonition slammed into him with a tangible force. Something was coming. Something unpleasant. "Time to go," he whispered to the fog.
Decision made, Jarod wasted no time in second-guesses. He turned on his heel and dashed into the house. Instinct had served Jarod well in the half dozen years since he'd left the Centre. He wasn't about to turn his back on it now.
In less than fifteen minutes, Jarod had packed his things and wiped away any trace that he'd ever been there. Now was not the time to leave pranks for Miss Parker. She and her entourage would never know about this place. Jarod's visceral need to go, go now, pre-empted his usual antics.
Without looking back, Jarod tossed his duffel over one shoulder and lifted his silver DSA case. His long strides carried him across the floor, past the dreadful apple-shaped clock. He yanked open the heavy oak door and had half crossed the threshold before he abruptly stopped.
At the end of the walk, not far from the curb, stood a shape. Visible only as a dark shadow in the grayness, the figure waited. Glancing quickly around him, Jarod tried to discern if there were other forms hidden in the mist and whether the fog was thick enough to lose him self in.
Adrenaline surged through Jarod as his body's fight-or-flight response kicked in. Jarod focused on the figure, waiting for his opportunity to run. For a fleeting moment, he wished he'd not wasted so much energy on pointless exercises. Jarod's body hadn't fully recovered from this morning's workout. As a result, running for any length of time would be difficult.
Just as Jarod was about to move, the ghostly figure spoke. "Time to go," the voice called. In the fog, the voice sounded flat and hollow.
"Go? Where," Jarod asked.
"Blue Cove, of course," was the reply. "Come on, big brother. We haven't much time." The shadow stepped forward, across the plane of mist, and Jarod saw who it was.
"Ethan!" Jarod closed the distance between him and his brother. Dropping his bags he wrapped Ethan in a warm hug. "It is good to see you," he said as he thumped his brother's back with delight.
Ethan's smile wasn't large, but it was the biggest grin Jarod had ever seen on the younger man's face. "You sound surprised, Brother," Ethan said.
"I am."
Ethan frowned. "I had hoped you would sense my arrival," he explained. "I've been trying to reach you."
Jarod ignored the goose bumps that rose on his arms. The thought that his little brother had been able to contact him on some psychic level was more than a little creepy. "I did feel something," Jarod admitted. "I just wasn't sure what it was."
"We need to go," Ethan repeated.
Jarod nodded, grabbed his things and followed his brother down the sidewalk. "Something is wrong, isn't it?"
"We must find Miss Parker." Ethan led Jarod to a silver car parked at the corner. In the fog the vehicle was nearly invisible. "She is in grave danger."
"Why not warn her, like you did me?" Jarod asked. The eerie sense of foreboding had worked extremely well on him. "No need to go to Blue Cove."
Ethan climbed into the car and started the engine. He answered with an indulgent smile. "She doesn't listen. My voice simply blends in with the others. She tunes us out."
"Miss Parker has an established habit of ignoring what she does not wish to hear," Jarod agreed.
"She'll listen to us," Ethan said.
Jarod sighed. "She may listen to you, little brother. But you'll probably have better luck if I'm not around to piss her off."
"There's no other way. I can't do this alone." Ethan told him. "We need your help, Jarod."
"Why?" Jarod asked again. "What's going on?"
"They are going to try to kill her," Ethan said. "If we aren't there to stop them, they will succeed."
Jarod gazed at his brother in silence for a long moment. His next question was posed softly, as if he feared the answer. "Can we stop them?"
"I think so," Ethan smiled. "Or else die trying."
"I was afraid you'd say that."
-
End part 1.