Fence

Okay, so I’ve given in. For those of you who are new, or just surfing by, this started withLucretia, Forgotten Machine added his part, so too did The Princess of Irony, and then Anne did too. So I decided what the hell…

EDIT: I just used the pre tag, so if it is hard to read increase the text size on your browser. When I have time tomorrow I might go through it and stick in all the html tags. then again I may not, we’ll see.

It was hot and sticky inside the club, the air hung thick with smoke.
Overhead lights threw a sickly, seedy pink hue over everything. Mike
was stoned. Way too stoned. And now he was drunk. Very drunk. He leant
heavily against the grimy bar counter, the stench of stale urine from
the nearby public toilet hung in the air and clung to the walls,
insidiously working its way into his nostrils. He grimaced and
attempted to focus on anything in his immediate vicinity, anything
that wasn't moving. It was hard. People crushed and crowded against
him, all trying to catch the barmaid's attention. Faces became
distorted and stupid looking. He sniggered to himself at the grotesque
images around him, he hated it here, he loved it here. The noise and
heat engulfed him and for a few moments he felt almost happy,
blanketed in the common bond he shared with all the other restless,
lonely, souls. Then he remembered where he was and almost immediately,
the blackness came rushing back into his head.
	
He gave up trying to focus on the people and stared instead at the
brown bottle in his hand. Nine Inch Nails' \"Closer\" throbbed
suggestively from somewhere deeper in the club and a bunch of Goth
chicks began gyrating in time to the beat, behind him. They were all
drunk as skunks and teetering crazily all over the place. One of them
lost her balance and crashed into the bulk of Mike's slouching body,
half rolling off his leather jacket. He wasn't sure if it was
deliberate on her part, he was past caring. He turned slowly and gave
her an icy stare.
	
\"Oops, sorry!\" She blurted, giggling at herself. \"My mistake.\"
She stopped abruptly, taking in his violent gaze.
\"Chill, dude.\" She said casually.
	
She looked about eighteen, so Mike reckoned she was probably fourteen
or younger. Her face was plastered with thick white makeup; her eyes,
heavily black from the Kohl eyeliner, looked like piss holes in the
snow. She was wearing a black mesh top and no bra, her nipples poked
through the strands of black string. He sneered at her.
	
\"Fuck off.\" He said in a menacing tone. He was so sick of adolescent
girls. They were all so full of shit. Cock teasers and sluts. The last
thing he needed tonight was a potential statutory rape probability
	
\"Fuck you too, shit head!\" she spat at him and swaggered off
unsteadily back to her mates. Her friends gasped in unison when she
told them what he'd said to her. A chorus of \"arsehole!\" and
\"dickface!\" assaulted his ears; they made gestures with their middle
fingers.
	
He shrugged and went back to his beer, glowering at the faces around
him. The place was starting to close in, he felt claustrophobic.
'Fucking bitches,' he seethed inside. 'I fucking hate them all. Only
good for one thing.' He continued to drink heavily and ordered another
beer from the frazzled bar lady.
	
\"Geez, Mike,\" she said, eyeing him warily. \"You're sure as hell
putting them away tonight, hey? Slow down, dude.\"
She was fond of Mike, he was a regular patron at the club but she
hadn't ever seen him this tanked up, or as surly before.
	
\"Just give me a goddam beer, Claire and leave me the fuck alone with
the lectures, okay?!\" His voice was heavy with booze, yet even in his
inebriated state, he managed to speak clearly.
	
\"I'm not lecturing you, Mike.\" Claire said, uncapping the beer and
slamming it down hard on the counter next to his outstretched hand.
\"Just take it easy, okay?\"
She tossed his loose change close to the beer bottle.
\"Give me any shit and I'll get Bruce to throw you out.\"
She glared at him threateningly and then spun around, before he could
say anything abusive. A crowd of people on the opposite side of the
bar were clamoring for refills. She didn't have time for arguments.
	
Fatigue pulled at Mike, dragging him down. He tried to shake it off
with a few gulps of the fresh, cold beer but it wasn't helping. Bruce,
the massive bouncer, had always been friendly but Mike knew that it
wouldn't be impossible to overstretch the boundaries and get turfed
out into the street. Bruce didn't take crap from anyone – friend or
otherwise.
	
Mike was getting sick of the place, sick of the babies, the endless
parade of schoolgirls.
'Why the fuck do I come here?' He mulled to himself. 'It's not like I
even enjoy it anymore. Always the same bunch of losers and wannabees.
They all think they are so cool but they're just a load of posers,
trendies.'
Vivid images erupted in his head – he was striding through the crowded
club, gun in hand, taking pot shots at whoever put a face in front of
him. Graphic pictures of bloodied bodies and screaming teenagers,
flooded through his mind. He was enjoying this day dream; a deep
secret smile in his eyes, when he saw her standing across from him.
His heart almost stopped beating.
	
She'd been dead all of three years, but it was still a breathless fall
to sobriety every time he saw her. Well, not dead three years, but
died three years ago........shit, he couldn't even wrap his head
around it in the cold, clear light of day, let alone with the fog that
was currently loitering in his mind.
	
He watched her walk toward the bar, a clinical stride that didn't seem
to belong to her; or maybe it did, maybe the warmth he had always
associated with that movement was the real illusion. As always, she
was dressed plainly in a black garment that shifted unnaturally,
almost as if the touch of her skin would leave some dread taint.
	
\"Michael.\"
	
How could he bear to hear that voice speak his name, that as it had
been stripped of any notion of intimacy, so was he stripped of the
last vestiges of sanity every time he heard it.
	
\"You're looking well.\" She could have at least made an effort at
candidness, but Mike reckoned once you'd been to the other side,
sincerity was an expendable commodity.
	
Who would have guessed that science would beat Christ to the
resurrection? When they successfully brought that boy back 10 years
ago, Mike had not an inkling of the impact it would have on his life.
Why had she just not told him? He could understand the right of every
individual to request the procedure, if it were possible, yet it
angered him that she'd concealed her decision. She should've been
mangled by a train, not that fucking pussy of an aneurysm that left
her in such 'pristine' condition.
	
R.E.S.C.O.R. He couldn't even think the word without feeling the bile
rising in the back of his throat. You thinking of donating your organs
when you kick it? Fuck that! Resurrection is the way to go, provided
you have enough cash and have managed to keep yourself from
splattering all over the pavement. Why no-one seemed to be bothered
about the secrecy surrounding the procedure was beyond him. Could the
joy of being re-united with a loved one truly blind you for so long?
Surely they could see that what came back was like an image in a
mirror, that something was lost in the transition?
Perhaps that was why he hung out at the club so often; it was as close
as he could get to the sheer desolation, the intoxicating loneliness
of death. Here, he could worship at the feet of his beloved Mistress.
He was sure that She would whisper to him Her design for vengeance
against those who would dare defy Her will and encroach on Her domain.
For a moment he again saw himself, gun in hand, blowing away these
pathetic freaks. Rescor would have a bloody field day.
	
He tried to straighten up, to stare the true freak in the eyes.
	
\"Kira, my darling wife.\" The sarcasm peeled from his voice like burnt
skin. \"What do you need this time?\"
	
Kira slid onto the barstool next to him like it was a well worn
saddle. She was totally comfortable in her surroundings whatever they
may be, a characteristic that was completely foreign to Mike, in his
own life and in the life of the woman he once knew as his own. Once
she was brought back, it seemed she was made into some sort of
chameleon as well.
	
As she edged closer to him he noticed the pleasant effects of his
alcohol induced haze retreating into a mild numbness of his senses.
However, his eyesight was on alert and he noticed the standard Rescor
barcode tattooed on the inside of her right wrist when she reached for
his bottle of beer.
	
\"I'm just a bit parched my love, mind if I have a sip?\" She said as
she took his beer and downed what was left in one fluid motion. Kira
motioned for Claire to bring Mike another bottle. Claire stepped over
to the pair, aware of their history and of the potential for disaster
whenever the two were together after Kira's transformation. They were
both as volatile as gun powder next to a grease fire and Claire wanted
no part of the fireworks.
	
Claire set Mike's new bottle of beer down in front of him and
retreated quickly as Kira swiped it and took a long pull, placing it
back in front of Mike with a teeth-jarring thud.
	
To think of putting his mouth to the same place this thing beside him
had just touched her lips to, made the acid in Mike's gut rise. He
eyed Kira warily and said with great disdain, \"Keep it sweetie.\"
	
He couldn't stand this back and forth banter she insisted on every
time they were in the same zip code. It was almost like she had some
sort of tracking device on him and she knew when he was vulnerable and
when his soul was raw from life.
	
She found him. She taunted him. She made his life hell showing him
that he could never have it the way it used to be.
	
It tore Mike's heart out to think of the love he once knew with Kira
and that it all was boiled away when the mad scientist bastards at
R.E.S.C.O.R. woke her from what should have been death.
	
Kira swung towards him on her barstool, seeming to almost float in her
supernatural way of moving, and Mike; lost in his thoughts;
inadvertently flinched. She laughed low and throaty and sprung from
her perch, rabbit punching Mike in the back of the head and leapt away
to taunt, tease and harass a group of burly bikers in a darkened
corner.
	
'Those guys have no idea what they are getting into.' Mike thought to
himself as he rubbed the back of his head. Claire stepped over to him
to ask if he was ok. \"I'm fine Claire, thanks for asking.\"
	
Claire thrust out her chin determinedly and said, \"Mike, I don't know
why you let her do that to you. It is like she hurts you on purpose
every time she sees you. Either she hurts your feelings or hurts you
physically or both. She is just a cruel woman, no… scratch that… She's
a Monster! I don't know why you don't turn her into that group of
Blade Runners that have popped up over in Dallas. I mean, man… I know
she used to be your wife and all… but dude… that thing ain't nobody's
wife!\"
	
Mike thought for a second and then replied, \"I guess I just feel a
little responsible for her Claire.\" He shook his head sadly and walked
out of the bar.
	
If only he had read the fine print on the medical release form at the hospital.
	
But he had always thought he was better than the rest of them, hadn't
he? That no one could ever screw him over because he had all bases
covered. Well, screwed him over she had, good and proper.
	
The day she... died, it had all started with a headache. He'd thought
nothing of it at first, she was tired from working all hours at the
office, and her father's heart scare had kept them on edge for a few
days. The worry had only come later. Much later. Too late. By then,
Kira was weeping from the pain, and her skin looked taut, stretched
across the cheekbones, and glistening with sweat. Very unhealthy. Very
worrying. That's when he'd realised that she needed the ER.
	
Every time he'd thought about that drive to the hospital, inevitably
the words 'movie clichés' came to his mind although, it had definitely
not felt that way at the time.
He had driven like he'd never driven before, clutching the wheel with
both hands, aware that if he took Kira's hand, he might crush it with
the sheer strength of his worry.
He lifted her gently from the passenger seat after a screeching halt
right in front of the entrance, and run to the first nurse he'd seen.
He was nearly incoherent. They'd thankfully taken over from there.
	
\"You OK, Mike?\" Claire inquired, snapping Mike out of his memories. It
took him a second to actually remember where he was – in the bar's
parking lot, absently standing in front of his car, dangling car keys
in hand – and it came crashing down. Kira was back. Again. Yet,
somehow, this time, he had a nagging suspicion that she very much
wanted to outstay her welcome.
\"Yeah, just, y'know, had a few too many, I guess\".
Claire didn't insist. She'd told him that Kira was bad news. There was
nothing else she could do. And she couldn't afford to get tangled up
in the lives of her patrons, however nice the patron. Not that Mike
would listen anyway. She threw the stub of her cigarette, and went
back in.
	
\"Sir, hi, I'm Dr. Edwardes. I'm going to have to skip the niceties,
here, time's running fast. You are aware that your wife signed up for
Rescor procedure?\"
\"Er, n... no...?\"
He'd hated the sound of his voice at that moment. Whiny, scared,
choking. He wasn't like that.
\"We found the acceptance card in her purse. Unfortunately, she was in
a coma on arrival, so we couldn't get her formal confirmation.\"
Dr. Edwardes proceeded to brief him on what exactly the resurrection
entailed. Mike hadn't even paused to consider the consequences: Kira
was dead, Kira could live again, the answer shot out of his mouth like
a hot breath.
\"Yes, go on, do it.\"
Just like that, he'd allowed his wife to live again.
She'd stayed at the hospital for a couple of days, and he took her
back home with the same kind of feeling he'd had on their wedding day.
The trouble became apparent fairly rapidly. He'd first noticed the
mood swings. And it escalated fairly rapidly; she needed more and more
time on her own, locked up in the bathroom, or out, just out, he'd
never known where. Up until the point when she'd simply vanished.
She'd even kissed him goodbye that day.
	
\"Hey, Michael.\"
Kira caught up with him sitting in his car. Not surprising considering
that the old piece of shit he used for transport usually required a
few minutes warming. Fuck.
\"Kira. I've asked you before. What do you want?\"
She was bending low to his level, showing more cleavage than he cared
to see. It made his skin crawl that at some point he'd loved making
love to her. She was so alien to him now.
\"Michael, darling, don't do this. What do I want? I want my husband
back.\" She started toying with the buttons on his shirt. The way her
nails would grate the fabric against his skin used to drive him insane
with desire for her. With love. That's what it was then.
\"I want children. A home. A fa-mi-ly.\", she sing-songed.
\"Oh Kira, give me a break. You don't want a family, you want new toys.
What? That bunch of apes in there didn't perform? I have to go.\"
He gunned the car. He felt sober. He felt scared
	
A slow smile played across Kira's face as she watched Michael flee, the
tyres squealed and spun, sending dirt and dust flying into the air. She lit a
cigarette and leaned back against the wall, plenty of time to catch up
with him again. She inhaled deeply, loving the feel of the smoke and the
nicotine rush. No more worries about lung cancer, yet another reason
to thank Rescor -  to thank Michael for bringing her back. She glanced
at her reflection in the bar's darkened window. Not a hair out of place,
since Rescor she always looked pristine.
	
She thought about his earlier question. What do I want?
“Just to be happy”, Kira’s lips curled mockingly as she spoke softly to
herself, practicing her reply, saccharine sweet, for next time he asked.
And yet, in a way, it was the truth. But she knew he couldn’t understand.
No one could. Not unless they’d seen what she had. Not unless they
too had been brought back from death. As she dropped her cigarette
she noticed a frown on the Kira in the window, marring her smooth
forehead. Kira summoned a cold smile, she didn’t want to be upset by
anything anymore. Nothing was worth getting upset over. Life was for
living, she knew that now. No more wondering about what other
people wanted, what they needed from her. No more thinking she
owed anyone anything. She’d been dead. She had died. It
still sounded strange to her. 
	
“I was dead,” she whispered to the empty car park. “I know what
happens next, I’ve seen the other side.” Her voice had turned bitter,
the frown had returned.
	
Kira could still remember the feelings that had swamped her the
moment Rescor had brought her back. At first she had merely been
slightly confused, but as the hours had passed and she realised that
she hadn’t been sleeping, hadn’t even been unconscious, or in a coma,
but had been dead!
	
Yet it hadn’t been a shock. In a strange way it actually made sense to
her. If what she had experienced was true, was the “afterlife”, well,
it explained why she didn’t care that she was upsetting Michael. At
first she had tried to at least act troubled. To pretend it bothered her
that he was upset, but in the end it really didn’t matter, she decided
not to waste time on pretense. All that mattered to Kira was Kira.
	
She slipped another cigarette from its packet, her reflection flickering
as she lit it. For a moment she stared at the red glimmer, as it deepened
when she inhaled. The only thing that should matter to anyone was
themselves. She knew that now. Before Rescor, before death, she
had worried about so many insignificant details. About other people,
about their feelings, or what they thought of her. Not any more. Death
had freed her of guilt and remorse. No more shame or disgrace, no
fault or failing. Now she could divide the world into what she wanted,
and everything else.
	
And that was the reason she still trailed after Michael. Memories of
how happy he had made her. She didn’t care that she had once made
him happy, that it had been a mutual joy. The important thing was
how she felt. Besides, it amused her to see how uncomfortable she
made him. Seeing him squirm was as good a result as anything else.
If death had taught her anything it was that you only get one life.
	
She laughed at that, dropped the butt of her cigarette on the
ground, turned and headed back into the bar. Michael may not
have wanted to play tonight, but Kira knew she could always
find some entertainment.