hana_icon.gif rebel_icon.gif

Scene Title Sparks
Synopsis Hana confronts Rebel about his observation of Abby's phone traffic. Sparks fly.
Date June 23, 2010


«…going to be coming home late just let me know so I can tell Robert to…»

The world of the wireless is an ever-expanding cloud of data free for the taking. Even secured networks are not the bastions of safety that some believe, for in the world of the Evolved there are individuals whom take the digital and analog worlds of communication and ply them like pirates on the high seas of old. Some have said that the internet is the new wild west, that its information without borders inspires an every man for himself mentality. They're not entirely full of hot-air.

«…you remember to pick up Pila from your mother's house when you come home tonight I…»

Across the telecommunications network, a phone call in Beijing can be eavesdropped on from as far away as the opposite side of the world by anyone with technical inclination and the motivation to do so. But for the angels of the modern age, these calls exist as less than ethereal things, semi-physical in nature and as easily pried upon as an unlocked window to a burglar.

«…going in to work in fifteen minutes, Peter could you stop by…»

The cellular phone of Abigail Beauchamp has been the target of investigation for the technopath trinity known as Rebel for some time now, ever since it became known to the organization Messiah that she may have access to sensitive secrets. But after so many days of observation, it isn't the voicemail of Abigail Beauchamp or outgoing and incoming calls that Rebel finds waiting for him when he follows those familiar modulations of light and sound waves.









It's a warning.

He knows well enough what it means, what the snippet of data could possibly imply, and he knows where enough to find it as well. Ghosting along the panes of solar reflectors that shift like wings, situated high above the Earth in the darkness of space, Rebel's very presence within a Sprint telecommunications satellite is akin to an angel on their cloud, watching down on the human race. But from this perch, there is a message sent out into the ether, into the net, a response to a warning.


Or, to the uninitiated, "Hana."

She had no way of knowing when her warning would be seen; when the wire would be tripped on what is a harmless trap, but a trap nonetheless.

Hana closes her eyes against the spray of water, taking time to wash soap from her face. Taking time to turn off the water, to wring out her hair and twist it up in a dripping knot, to slide the thick ivory towel from its bar and wrap it around her torso. Stepping out of the shower, she picks up a hand towel from the counter and wipes fogging condensation from the mirror. Only when the Israeli woman can clearly see the angles of her own face reflected back does she reply. He deserves the wait.


She doesn't need to attach a piggybacked transmission containing any semblance of emotional signal; doesn't bother to code data in imitation of her own voice. No — that bare, unadorned word conveys Wireless' scathing disapproval quite well to the part of Rebel which once was Richard Drucker. He knows his niece well enough. The statement that follows is emphatic enough for the other two-thirds to comprehend.

Yank the digital cotton out of your ears and listen up. I will only tell you this once.

That the lights flicker through the old Primatech Paper building implies that Rebel is here, in as much as physical presence as the trinity of technopaths can presumably be. When the radios crackle and hiss, when television screens wink off and on and Rebel as much becomes a part of the building as he is a thing on the airwaves, it implies that he's listening.

There's no response for Hana, just that silent expectance of whatever it is she's going to lob at him. Them. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

Hana braces her hands against the sink counter, leaning slightly forward. The eyes in the mirror are coldly furious, the line of her jaw sternly set. All the details that can't be seen in the ether, displayed there for her eyes alone; words will have to suffice between them.

Stay the hell away from my people.

If I find you tapping one of my phones again: I will destroy you, so help me God.

Such violence and anger has always been both your greatest weakness and your greatest strength. we will do as we please, just as you will, and we would expect no less.

Three voices together echo within Hana's mind, each one a different age and one speaking Mandarin as a confusing back masking to the youthful voice of Michah Sanders and the more astute and elderly tone of Richard Drucker. But it's that Hana made a threat which seems to have backed all three personalities into a defensive corner. Where Drucker would have side-stepped the issue entirely, Micah and the Behemoth are more headstrong.

Abigail Beauchamp is putting herself in considerable danger, but that is not surprising. Perhaps if you were more aware of where your flock were going and what they were dealing with, we would not need to do your job for you. You cannot both be remote and near at the same time, Hana. Your inaction is no one's fault but your own.

The tone he takes is accusatory, as if Rebel believes Hana to have been sitting on her hands all this while. But the disappointment in his words only seems to grow when the trinity-mind lobs a further accusation at the technopath.

Part of us once played the role of the distant ascetic. It did no good. The world crumbles around our kind and you play the reactionary role. Where is your spark, Hana Gitelman?

Hana didn't exactly expect Rebel to retreat — she and Drucker spent more time at loggerheads than not, their ideological principles mutually incompatible despite their kinship. The one time she met Behemoth… well, Rebel himself exemplifies how that went.

Hana's reflection bares its teeth at her.

You think to bait me? You who claim to have roots in a man who preached benevolence, forgiveness, tranquility, and compassion?

He can't hear the snarl that ripples through the room about her, but he can imagine it.

Be GONE, Rebel. Whatever my faults — and I acknowledge they are legion — I never descended to hypocrisy.

A twist of thought, and Hana breaks the connection, retreating to focus on her reflection in the mirror… if only to regard it with a bleak stare.

Hypocrites ask others to do as they do not.

Rebe's trinity-voice states in cacophonous resonance at the back of Hana's mind. There's a subtle dimming and flickering of the lights around the warehouse with the cadence and syllables of his speech, as if an artifact of his own technopathy.

I have changed, I have grown, I have adapted upon realization that my philosophies were in fact, flawed.

The pause is just long enough to seem expectant, but just short enough to cut off reply.

Can you say the same?

There is always time to change.

She's done talking to him. Which is why Hana refuses to pick that connection back up, to answer, folding down to brace her head in her hands.

Not even to fix his incorrect definition.

She never did take up Drucker's pleas to change, either.

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