Family Values, Part One
December 8th 2006 15:24
Family Values, Part One
Sunday, November 22nd, 2054. 0703
Bedroom of General Jean-Paul and Hannah Kinomoto
When he awoke, he breathed deeply as he could. He was trained to do so, trained to remain calm when he wakened. He had trained himself to be in control at all times, and not to let others know more information that necessary. This training, this concept, was an integral part of him.
Nonetheless, within less than a minute, he felt a soft, distinctly female hand run across his side, and then tug at his military issue boxers. She pulled the waistband away from his rich chocolate skin and released it with a snap.
“How do you know, that I'm awake?” He said softly.
“Why do you ask?” A woman's voice challenged him.
He gave a half smile and turned on his back.
“It's important.” He said. “Please.” He asked.
“I don't actually. I've also never seen you sleep in past seven thirty on a Sunday.
He nodded up and down.
“If you had, I would have been worried.” She said.
He turned on his right side and looked at her face. Her eyes still closed, as often they were. Softly he brushed a sty from her eye.
She smiled, and shivered a touch. He smiled to himself and thought, “I've still got it.” Gently he kissed her left temple.
“Mmmh...” She said. Her left hand reached for his face and her perfectly chiseled nails scratched at the rough stubble of his chin.
“A promise,” he said, “is a promise.”
“It really does look good on you.” She said, sitting on an elbow. Her sightless eyes looked at him squarely. They were milky white cataracts, which were in contrast to his black pupils and irises. His eyes naturally looked like slices of the night sky, even if he wasn't using his mutation. Only under close, direct examination could a trained person detect the irises, pupil and other defining remarks of the eye.
They kissed softly hands holding tightly. Her hands roughed, calloused, her fingertips were sensitive, but toughened by years of using her fingers as eyes, and to do so many things that others took for granted.
She sat up softly, her wispy white blonde hair drifted loosely around her shoulders, and draped around her enormous milky white breasts. Her pale aureoles were barely pink. He turned and held a breast in each hand until the nipples became firm and hard.
She smiled as his fingers drifted past scars on each side of the nipple from her multiple, now removed piercings.
He nursed softly at each breast, arousing them both. She played with his shortly cropped hair and pressed his mouth into her, grunting in a manner reminiscent of a buck in heat.
While he was no Casanova, he certainly knew her well enough to arouse her.
Softly, gently he played her body. After twenty-seven years, he knew every spot to play on her. Every soft kiss of her neck, ever brush of her hair, every pulse of her being.
Some would say that made for boredom. He felt it made for safety. He was safe with her. It felt good to him that he could have that safety, that he didn’t intimidate her.
Softly, tenderly, and with much passion and care, they drug their lovemaking out for a good forty-five minutes, and only when he felt the deep stirrings of her own body come very close to climax did he then allow himself to relax, just enough to let his hot seed enter her dampness.
She lay on him tenderly and whispered an in-joke. “That's number four.”
“I hope not. Three's enough. I'm too old for number four.”
She smiled at him. She had been accurately able to pinpoint the very session of lovemaking that each of their children had been conceived in. He often wondered if she, too was a mutant of some kind, but she refused to be tested, and rarely, if ever saw any sort of doctor, and completely forbid them to take any DNA sample whatsoever, having legal documents drawn up to this effect.
He stood, and she made a pouting sound. He was late.
“Church.” He said softly. She knew better than to snort, for it was important to him, and she didn't want to hurt him. She had no stomach for church.
“I'm sure Chelsea wants to go.” She said.
“I'll knock on her door.” He said.
“Even money says she wants to drive.” She smiled and stood, stretching. She was still nude; her inner thigh stained with a mixture of their fluids. She did not care, and wore it as someone else would were a shirt or pants.
She reached for a kimono, a short one that barely came down to her mid-thigh, and wrapped it around her. She left with him, counting down the stairs, and flipped on the coffee maker.
He tapped on his youngest child's door, just as it opened.
“Chel? You coming to church, aren't you?” He asked.
“You bet. I've got to teach the kids Sunday school. Can we go a bit early?” In her hand, she held a voluminous bible with several packets on top of it, and give-away size boxes of crayons.
Beyond her, her room was a tidy, well kept, un-teenager like model of organization. The bed was perfectly made, and not by robot. She claimed a droid couldn't make a bed like her. She was her father's daughter, tried, and true.
She smiled at her mother as she came in, and her mother smiled back. “Morning sweetie,” she kissed at her from across the dining hall.
“Morning mom.” Chelsea kissed back.
Jean Paul poured out a coffee for his wife and daughter. Chelsea took hers black, like her dad.
Chelsea savored the first sip, in a manner like her mother, reverent of the bean. Her mother taught her that her senses could be blinded by sight, and Chelsea learned that this was very true at times. Nonetheless, after the first sip, she asked.
“Dad, can I drive?”
“I suppose.” He said. He was proud of her, though, the only fifteen year old she had a three-point six grade point average, and has passed driver's education with a double A rating. He was damned, however if he was going to let her grow up without teaching her how to drive properly.
She smiled, pleased.
“Do be careful. That's a new car.” Her mother said.
“Mother” She exclaimed with her daily dose of teenage anxt. “That thing is twenty years old.”
“Hopefully it'll serve us for another twenty years, if we keep good care of it.” Jean-Paul spoke. “Cars don't grow on trees.”
She had good reason to be excited, other than her brother the pariah; her older sister got a car as a graduation present from high school. She was banking that her good grades would help along this concept and demonstrate her responsibility.
After the second cup of coffee, the grandfather clock chimed at eight thirty, and he handed her a small plastic card. It was the ignition key to their 2034 Nova.
He put on his dark glasses with the side blinders on them, and they went out to the garage after each kissing Hannah. Hannah knew they wouldn't be back for a good four hours.
She slowly backed the car out. It was sort of hard for her to see, because the windows were treated with a dark film. He took his glasses off and gently began to exert his power. He reached out to every mind he could find, and urged them to be careful, for his daughter was at the helm.
“You're doing it, aren't you?” She said, flatly.
“A bit. I saw an accident along this road the other day.” He lied.
“Uh-huh.” She said.
He'd always wondered why his power never affected her, but suspected that because his child was the reason. Only his son was a mutant.
She could hear his thoughts. He often thought about Robert, and when he did, he felt sad. She heard him often pray for Robert. Her dad, she thought, was a very simple man. Do what he wanted, and he'd pretty much leave you alone. Not at all like her mom. Her mom, she found, she couldn't manipulate at all, and she often wondered whether or not Chelsea was a mutant, and had almost deduced she was a telepath.
Chelsea knew that she should, in all seriousness, tell him. He'd be proud and suspicious all at once, and immediately try to draft her. She didn't want to be a hero. She had some clues what she wanted to be in life, and being a hero was the farthest thing from her mind. She'd done a lot of work digging deeply into the mutant underground. If she were to vanish, he wouldn't rest until every rock was upturned.
If she never used her power, in a manner that could be detected, however, no one would ever know. She could do a reasonably menial job, perhaps as a droid programmer or maybe a sales person. He'd always feel that she was under-rating herself, but that was okay.
Honestly, she wanted a plain, quiet life, away from the military. She'd take just enough college to please him. School was boring, she thought, when she could read the mind of the smartest two or three kids in class and write down the answer. She could have had a four point oh if she wanted.
Her only real calling in life, she felt was her god. She felt wonderful whenever she was in church. She'd often wondered, if this was her calling. Maybe, she pondered, she should seek a religious position. The bible, she found, she could read over, and over.
As they neared the Pentecostal Church, he put his glasses back on. They entered, and prayed. She really loved church.
* * *
Hannah, sat, having finished the dregs of coffee in the pot and pondered what to do with her day. She's resigned herself to perhaps a weekend in the pottery shed, but realized that he was taking a week off, and perhaps that he'd want to do something.
She laughed at herself. Jean Paul, while a very good and honest soul had not one whit of imagination. She was his utter and complete opposite there again.
She stood, and peeled the kimono off. Naked, she walked out the back door, and into her pottery shed. She grabbed at a pound of clay and dropped it with a slamming sound on the wheel. Her foot kicked at a switch and the wheel came to life.
In the Zen sound of the wheel whirring, she lost herself, in a complete white noise sort of experience. Unfortunately, her subconscious spoke volumes as she inadvertently sculpted a rather phallic like pot.
She chastised herself and had the computer play music from her last concert. She attempted to poke holes in it while she threw another pot. It too ended up looking much like Jean-Paul's cock, right down to the slightly bumpy circumcision scar. She sighed. Menopause had not treated her kindly, complicating the fact that her sex drive was above average. She asked the computer what time it was, and realized she had three hours before they came home.
“Last try.” She promised herself and threw more clay on the wheel. She never really worked as large as she was working these days. She fabricated a three-foot tall object d’art that was still vaguely phallic like.
* * *
When they came home, she was as dressed as she was going to get, with a long skirt, a top and a comfortable bra. She detested underwear, which had embarrassed her youngest daughter to no end. The intense hand held showerhead had taken care of her carnal desires, and she felt mellow, and sated. She was reviewing the electronic mail, and had saved, what she felt was the best, for last.
“We've got mail.” She said to them, after the second pot of coffee had been started.
“Oh?” He said. Rarely did she use the phrase we. Usually it meant some sort of couple-like decision like buying a car or their vacation cruises. “We means you, too.” She turned in the general direction of her youngest.
Chelsea looked at her suspiciously, and then got a flash in her mind of Robert.
“Computer, play vidmail number four.” She called.
The wall, which usually carried a mural of a roman countryside turned black. A rectangular, portrait oriented square lit, and a man's face displayed. It has a pair of wrap around goggles on it, and he had soft, tan skin.
“Hey mom, dad, Chelsea. Just wanted to wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving.” He gulped. “Things are okay here. I've been doing a lot of reading and some painting.” He held up a crude sketch in charcoal. Hannah smiled. She couldn't see it, but that was okay. He was creating, that was the important part.
Jean-Paul's heart sunk. His breathing was shallow, and he felt sad. He felt like a failure.
Chelsea worked hard to block his thoughts from her mind. He was so strong, though. She guessed this must be what it was like when he used his power on people. She could feel his disappointment, his sorrow. His mistake. No matter how successful Robert might be, Jean-Paul would always see him as a failure. She wept, but was not sure who for, her father, or her brother.
Hanna listened intently as Robert continued.
“I'm doing a little better in my third year here. I had my annual about a week and a half ago, and the medics say I'm doing fine. I've got a lot more control than once I did. The headaches come and go. I can't take off the blinders while I'm on camera, but uh, it seems like only my pupils are starred.” That's what he called his dad's eyes. Starred.
“After some discussions with the warden, I've chosen to stay in solitary. I know you probably find that odd, mom, but I'm getting out faster. I mean we all knew my first parole was going to be denied; I had no illusions about that. I don't think either of you did either.” He rubbed at a soft stubble of a whisper of a goatee on his face. It was a teen's goatee, the only place that facial hair would grow. Hannah couldn't see it, but she would have said he was handsome with it.
Chelsea thought he looked like a geek.
Jean-Paul was taken aback. He was supposed to be able to kid his only son about having facial hair. He was supposed to teach him how to shave. Instead, he was in the only mutant prison.
Dubbed, 'the cube', it was in the middle of Death Valley, Arizona. Only people who used their mutant abilities to break the law were incarcerated there. The guards were all mutants, the wardens were mutants, even the doctors, nurses, and other support staff were mutants. In essence, it was a self-contained mutant facility. It currently had a hundred and forty-three prisoners, and the Gteams project had put most of them there, including his son.
Crone had caught him, herself, shaking down a junkie for his dope. Robert had a problem, certainly. His heroin addiction was not only what kept his power in check, but also kept the headaches away. That or using the power. Jean-Paul knew those headaches well.
What Robert, nor any other member of the family knew is that Crone had called him first. Had made him the offer of just picking up the boy. “Kids will be kids,” Crone had said. “He needs his dad now, more than he needs jail.” Jean-Paul had replied simply. “Book him,” and cut the transmission.
Crone never brought it up to him again. He thought, she was good about it.
What he wouldn't give to take that moment back.
He'd give his life to take away the pain he'd given to his beloved wife, to give her back her son. He'd often prayed to god that if he would take his life, to let his son go free.
Robert pleaded guilty to cut the minimum sentence of twenty years for use of a mutant power in the commission of a crime to ten. Due to good behavior and allowing himself to be used for medical experimentation, he knocked two more off, with an eligibility for parole after only two.
Hannah had not approved of this, and fought it, as much as she could, pleading with him, and anyone who would listen about the long-term problems that might occur. Those cries had fell upon deaf ears, and, as Robert had related, not a whole lot had happened. Behind the scenes, Jean-Paul had made sure that the experiments had consisted of nothing more than heart and blood pressure monitoring. He couldn't tell her this, but felt somewhat better.
Chelsea of course, whenever they got an vmail, heard all of this literally screaming out of her father's head. She knew her dad's secret, and she was at first, quite upset with him. As time went on, she grew to understand her brother was a druggie, which was a moral issue. God wouldn't punish him for being a druggie, but also self-destruction was a bad thing. She prayed that her brother would be lifted from two curses, being a mutant, and being a druggie. She thought, one out of two wasn't bad.
Hannah listened as his message concluded with clear statements that he was going to miss the thanksgiving turkey even more this year. He was getting very tired of tofu and protein shakes, he said. He said he loved them all, and then the video clicked out.
There were attachments, of course. The first was the standard prison statements; progress reports, ad cetera. The second was a report card, with a 3.4 average in seven classes.
Hannah smiled as the computer read off the particular grades.
Chelsea fought tears back. He was earning his grades. Damn him.
Jean-Paul nodded. Lot of frou-frou classes, though, music, art, that sort of crap. He hoped his kid wasn't turning into a homo or something.
The third and fourth attachments were mp7's of his music. He had taken up the French horn and played it in duet and solo. He wasn't very good, but it was clear he was getting better, and getting a lot of pleasure out of it. Hannah winced at a couple of the badly hit notes, but was proud nonetheless.
The last half dozen attachments were sketches. Hannah had a special pad that had small bumps on it, which raised and lowered and allowed herself to see, and feel pictures and she used it to examine his work in detail. She had never had sight, ever, and had never let it stop her.
After an hour or so, of examining the pictures, she found herself alone. Chelsea had wandered off to her room, probably to chat with her friends. Jean-Paul was in his study. She shrugged and started a vmail back to him, telling him how proud of him she was, that she worried for his mental health and his safety. She sent him a couple of photos of the pots she's spun this morning, and hoped that their shape he wouldn't find too terribly embarrassing.
Jean-Paul sat in his study, and sipped at Glenlivit. He too was dictating a message to his son. He slurred his words, telling him how much he loved him, that he felt bad about his incarceration, and that he was trying to pull as many strings as he could to get him out earlier. Jean-Paul could only say such things while he was drunk.
Chelsea rarely, if ever vmailed her brother. She always did so in a quiet, discrete manner, usually when she saw one or the other of her parents in some sort of deep discussion she felt he should know about. She didn't know if her older sister ever contacted him.
* * *
The days leading up to the Thursday Thanksgiving holiday spent predominantly in preparation. Jean-Paul was helpless in the kitchen, and she almost always, 'accidentally' shorted out the microwave, which, 'forced' her to use the gas stove she'd made such a fuss about getting. Chelsea helped when she was allowed to, and cleaned the house for company.
Two days before the holiday, on Tuesday, Roberta, Roger and Carlee touched down at the Gteams military base on a redeye flight. Hannah, despite her misgivings, went with Jean-Paul and Chelsea to meet them on the base. Roberta was their first child, Roger, her husband, and Carlee their first grandchild.
While they vmailed often, Hannah complained it wasn't just the same. She fussed over the baby as Roger and Jean-Paul talked shop. As they passed out the gates, DarkStarr flew over as escort. Jean-Paul had caught a glimpse of her approvingly. Nothing like the personal touch, he thought.
Chelsea was always uncomfortable around her older sister. Roberta was an average student, didn't believe in god, and was, in essence, her mother's child. She has a small pottery studio, and Chelsea could not read a single one of her thoughts. She could read her husbands, easily enough. She read how they had reenlisted their membership to the ten-thousand club, and was a bit embarrassed.
Chelsea found it fascinating, the baby's thoughts. They were so calm, so utterly without clutter. She would watch her look at shapes and colors and smells. She felt her smile when she recognized her grandparents. Chelsea thought that having kids would be cool, but she wasn't real thrilled about the boys part of it.
The extended family stayed until Saturday night, and as the elder Kinomotos saw their grandchild off, DarkStarr was still monitoring them, discreetly, during their time on the base.
As they loaded into the car, Jean-Paul, now with a very sharp looking goatee gave her a salute. She returned it, and flew over the flight, all the way to Seattle. Jean-Paul admitted to himself, that he was looking forward to getting back to work. At least, he was until his pager went off at oh-three hundred that early Monday morning.
Sunday, November 22nd, 2054. 0703
Bedroom of General Jean-Paul and Hannah Kinomoto
When he awoke, he breathed deeply as he could. He was trained to do so, trained to remain calm when he wakened. He had trained himself to be in control at all times, and not to let others know more information that necessary. This training, this concept, was an integral part of him.
Nonetheless, within less than a minute, he felt a soft, distinctly female hand run across his side, and then tug at his military issue boxers. She pulled the waistband away from his rich chocolate skin and released it with a snap.
“Why do you ask?” A woman's voice challenged him.
He gave a half smile and turned on his back.
“It's important.” He said. “Please.” He asked.
“I don't actually. I've also never seen you sleep in past seven thirty on a Sunday.
He nodded up and down.
“If you had, I would have been worried.” She said.
He turned on his right side and looked at her face. Her eyes still closed, as often they were. Softly he brushed a sty from her eye.
She smiled, and shivered a touch. He smiled to himself and thought, “I've still got it.” Gently he kissed her left temple.
“Mmmh...” She said. Her left hand reached for his face and her perfectly chiseled nails scratched at the rough stubble of his chin.
“A promise,” he said, “is a promise.”
“It really does look good on you.” She said, sitting on an elbow. Her sightless eyes looked at him squarely. They were milky white cataracts, which were in contrast to his black pupils and irises. His eyes naturally looked like slices of the night sky, even if he wasn't using his mutation. Only under close, direct examination could a trained person detect the irises, pupil and other defining remarks of the eye.
She sat up softly, her wispy white blonde hair drifted loosely around her shoulders, and draped around her enormous milky white breasts. Her pale aureoles were barely pink. He turned and held a breast in each hand until the nipples became firm and hard.
She smiled as his fingers drifted past scars on each side of the nipple from her multiple, now removed piercings.
He nursed softly at each breast, arousing them both. She played with his shortly cropped hair and pressed his mouth into her, grunting in a manner reminiscent of a buck in heat.
While he was no Casanova, he certainly knew her well enough to arouse her.
Softly, gently he played her body. After twenty-seven years, he knew every spot to play on her. Every soft kiss of her neck, ever brush of her hair, every pulse of her being.
Some would say that made for boredom. He felt it made for safety. He was safe with her. It felt good to him that he could have that safety, that he didn’t intimidate her.
Softly, tenderly, and with much passion and care, they drug their lovemaking out for a good forty-five minutes, and only when he felt the deep stirrings of her own body come very close to climax did he then allow himself to relax, just enough to let his hot seed enter her dampness.
She lay on him tenderly and whispered an in-joke. “That's number four.”
“I hope not. Three's enough. I'm too old for number four.”
She smiled at him. She had been accurately able to pinpoint the very session of lovemaking that each of their children had been conceived in. He often wondered if she, too was a mutant of some kind, but she refused to be tested, and rarely, if ever saw any sort of doctor, and completely forbid them to take any DNA sample whatsoever, having legal documents drawn up to this effect.
He stood, and she made a pouting sound. He was late.
“Church.” He said softly. She knew better than to snort, for it was important to him, and she didn't want to hurt him. She had no stomach for church.
“I'm sure Chelsea wants to go.” She said.
“I'll knock on her door.” He said.
“Even money says she wants to drive.” She smiled and stood, stretching. She was still nude; her inner thigh stained with a mixture of their fluids. She did not care, and wore it as someone else would were a shirt or pants.
She reached for a kimono, a short one that barely came down to her mid-thigh, and wrapped it around her. She left with him, counting down the stairs, and flipped on the coffee maker.
He tapped on his youngest child's door, just as it opened.
“Chel? You coming to church, aren't you?” He asked.
“You bet. I've got to teach the kids Sunday school. Can we go a bit early?” In her hand, she held a voluminous bible with several packets on top of it, and give-away size boxes of crayons.
Beyond her, her room was a tidy, well kept, un-teenager like model of organization. The bed was perfectly made, and not by robot. She claimed a droid couldn't make a bed like her. She was her father's daughter, tried, and true.
She smiled at her mother as she came in, and her mother smiled back. “Morning sweetie,” she kissed at her from across the dining hall.
“Morning mom.” Chelsea kissed back.
Jean Paul poured out a coffee for his wife and daughter. Chelsea took hers black, like her dad.
Chelsea savored the first sip, in a manner like her mother, reverent of the bean. Her mother taught her that her senses could be blinded by sight, and Chelsea learned that this was very true at times. Nonetheless, after the first sip, she asked.
“Dad, can I drive?”
“I suppose.” He said. He was proud of her, though, the only fifteen year old she had a three-point six grade point average, and has passed driver's education with a double A rating. He was damned, however if he was going to let her grow up without teaching her how to drive properly.
She smiled, pleased.
“Do be careful. That's a new car.” Her mother said.
“Mother” She exclaimed with her daily dose of teenage anxt. “That thing is twenty years old.”
“Hopefully it'll serve us for another twenty years, if we keep good care of it.” Jean-Paul spoke. “Cars don't grow on trees.”
She had good reason to be excited, other than her brother the pariah; her older sister got a car as a graduation present from high school. She was banking that her good grades would help along this concept and demonstrate her responsibility.
After the second cup of coffee, the grandfather clock chimed at eight thirty, and he handed her a small plastic card. It was the ignition key to their 2034 Nova.
He put on his dark glasses with the side blinders on them, and they went out to the garage after each kissing Hannah. Hannah knew they wouldn't be back for a good four hours.
She slowly backed the car out. It was sort of hard for her to see, because the windows were treated with a dark film. He took his glasses off and gently began to exert his power. He reached out to every mind he could find, and urged them to be careful, for his daughter was at the helm.
“You're doing it, aren't you?” She said, flatly.
“A bit. I saw an accident along this road the other day.” He lied.
“Uh-huh.” She said.
He'd always wondered why his power never affected her, but suspected that because his child was the reason. Only his son was a mutant.
She could hear his thoughts. He often thought about Robert, and when he did, he felt sad. She heard him often pray for Robert. Her dad, she thought, was a very simple man. Do what he wanted, and he'd pretty much leave you alone. Not at all like her mom. Her mom, she found, she couldn't manipulate at all, and she often wondered whether or not Chelsea was a mutant, and had almost deduced she was a telepath.
Chelsea knew that she should, in all seriousness, tell him. He'd be proud and suspicious all at once, and immediately try to draft her. She didn't want to be a hero. She had some clues what she wanted to be in life, and being a hero was the farthest thing from her mind. She'd done a lot of work digging deeply into the mutant underground. If she were to vanish, he wouldn't rest until every rock was upturned.
If she never used her power, in a manner that could be detected, however, no one would ever know. She could do a reasonably menial job, perhaps as a droid programmer or maybe a sales person. He'd always feel that she was under-rating herself, but that was okay.
Honestly, she wanted a plain, quiet life, away from the military. She'd take just enough college to please him. School was boring, she thought, when she could read the mind of the smartest two or three kids in class and write down the answer. She could have had a four point oh if she wanted.
Her only real calling in life, she felt was her god. She felt wonderful whenever she was in church. She'd often wondered, if this was her calling. Maybe, she pondered, she should seek a religious position. The bible, she found, she could read over, and over.
As they neared the Pentecostal Church, he put his glasses back on. They entered, and prayed. She really loved church.
* * *
Hannah, sat, having finished the dregs of coffee in the pot and pondered what to do with her day. She's resigned herself to perhaps a weekend in the pottery shed, but realized that he was taking a week off, and perhaps that he'd want to do something.
She laughed at herself. Jean Paul, while a very good and honest soul had not one whit of imagination. She was his utter and complete opposite there again.
She stood, and peeled the kimono off. Naked, she walked out the back door, and into her pottery shed. She grabbed at a pound of clay and dropped it with a slamming sound on the wheel. Her foot kicked at a switch and the wheel came to life.
In the Zen sound of the wheel whirring, she lost herself, in a complete white noise sort of experience. Unfortunately, her subconscious spoke volumes as she inadvertently sculpted a rather phallic like pot.
She chastised herself and had the computer play music from her last concert. She attempted to poke holes in it while she threw another pot. It too ended up looking much like Jean-Paul's cock, right down to the slightly bumpy circumcision scar. She sighed. Menopause had not treated her kindly, complicating the fact that her sex drive was above average. She asked the computer what time it was, and realized she had three hours before they came home.
“Last try.” She promised herself and threw more clay on the wheel. She never really worked as large as she was working these days. She fabricated a three-foot tall object d’art that was still vaguely phallic like.
* * *
When they came home, she was as dressed as she was going to get, with a long skirt, a top and a comfortable bra. She detested underwear, which had embarrassed her youngest daughter to no end. The intense hand held showerhead had taken care of her carnal desires, and she felt mellow, and sated. She was reviewing the electronic mail, and had saved, what she felt was the best, for last.
“We've got mail.” She said to them, after the second pot of coffee had been started.
“Oh?” He said. Rarely did she use the phrase we. Usually it meant some sort of couple-like decision like buying a car or their vacation cruises. “We means you, too.” She turned in the general direction of her youngest.
Chelsea looked at her suspiciously, and then got a flash in her mind of Robert.
“Computer, play vidmail number four.” She called.
The wall, which usually carried a mural of a roman countryside turned black. A rectangular, portrait oriented square lit, and a man's face displayed. It has a pair of wrap around goggles on it, and he had soft, tan skin.
“Hey mom, dad, Chelsea. Just wanted to wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving.” He gulped. “Things are okay here. I've been doing a lot of reading and some painting.” He held up a crude sketch in charcoal. Hannah smiled. She couldn't see it, but that was okay. He was creating, that was the important part.
Jean-Paul's heart sunk. His breathing was shallow, and he felt sad. He felt like a failure.
Chelsea worked hard to block his thoughts from her mind. He was so strong, though. She guessed this must be what it was like when he used his power on people. She could feel his disappointment, his sorrow. His mistake. No matter how successful Robert might be, Jean-Paul would always see him as a failure. She wept, but was not sure who for, her father, or her brother.
Hanna listened intently as Robert continued.
“I'm doing a little better in my third year here. I had my annual about a week and a half ago, and the medics say I'm doing fine. I've got a lot more control than once I did. The headaches come and go. I can't take off the blinders while I'm on camera, but uh, it seems like only my pupils are starred.” That's what he called his dad's eyes. Starred.
“After some discussions with the warden, I've chosen to stay in solitary. I know you probably find that odd, mom, but I'm getting out faster. I mean we all knew my first parole was going to be denied; I had no illusions about that. I don't think either of you did either.” He rubbed at a soft stubble of a whisper of a goatee on his face. It was a teen's goatee, the only place that facial hair would grow. Hannah couldn't see it, but she would have said he was handsome with it.
Chelsea thought he looked like a geek.
Jean-Paul was taken aback. He was supposed to be able to kid his only son about having facial hair. He was supposed to teach him how to shave. Instead, he was in the only mutant prison.
Dubbed, 'the cube', it was in the middle of Death Valley, Arizona. Only people who used their mutant abilities to break the law were incarcerated there. The guards were all mutants, the wardens were mutants, even the doctors, nurses, and other support staff were mutants. In essence, it was a self-contained mutant facility. It currently had a hundred and forty-three prisoners, and the Gteams project had put most of them there, including his son.
Crone had caught him, herself, shaking down a junkie for his dope. Robert had a problem, certainly. His heroin addiction was not only what kept his power in check, but also kept the headaches away. That or using the power. Jean-Paul knew those headaches well.
What Robert, nor any other member of the family knew is that Crone had called him first. Had made him the offer of just picking up the boy. “Kids will be kids,” Crone had said. “He needs his dad now, more than he needs jail.” Jean-Paul had replied simply. “Book him,” and cut the transmission.
Crone never brought it up to him again. He thought, she was good about it.
What he wouldn't give to take that moment back.
He'd give his life to take away the pain he'd given to his beloved wife, to give her back her son. He'd often prayed to god that if he would take his life, to let his son go free.
Robert pleaded guilty to cut the minimum sentence of twenty years for use of a mutant power in the commission of a crime to ten. Due to good behavior and allowing himself to be used for medical experimentation, he knocked two more off, with an eligibility for parole after only two.
Hannah had not approved of this, and fought it, as much as she could, pleading with him, and anyone who would listen about the long-term problems that might occur. Those cries had fell upon deaf ears, and, as Robert had related, not a whole lot had happened. Behind the scenes, Jean-Paul had made sure that the experiments had consisted of nothing more than heart and blood pressure monitoring. He couldn't tell her this, but felt somewhat better.
Chelsea of course, whenever they got an vmail, heard all of this literally screaming out of her father's head. She knew her dad's secret, and she was at first, quite upset with him. As time went on, she grew to understand her brother was a druggie, which was a moral issue. God wouldn't punish him for being a druggie, but also self-destruction was a bad thing. She prayed that her brother would be lifted from two curses, being a mutant, and being a druggie. She thought, one out of two wasn't bad.
Hannah listened as his message concluded with clear statements that he was going to miss the thanksgiving turkey even more this year. He was getting very tired of tofu and protein shakes, he said. He said he loved them all, and then the video clicked out.
There were attachments, of course. The first was the standard prison statements; progress reports, ad cetera. The second was a report card, with a 3.4 average in seven classes.
Hannah smiled as the computer read off the particular grades.
Chelsea fought tears back. He was earning his grades. Damn him.
Jean-Paul nodded. Lot of frou-frou classes, though, music, art, that sort of crap. He hoped his kid wasn't turning into a homo or something.
The third and fourth attachments were mp7's of his music. He had taken up the French horn and played it in duet and solo. He wasn't very good, but it was clear he was getting better, and getting a lot of pleasure out of it. Hannah winced at a couple of the badly hit notes, but was proud nonetheless.
The last half dozen attachments were sketches. Hannah had a special pad that had small bumps on it, which raised and lowered and allowed herself to see, and feel pictures and she used it to examine his work in detail. She had never had sight, ever, and had never let it stop her.
After an hour or so, of examining the pictures, she found herself alone. Chelsea had wandered off to her room, probably to chat with her friends. Jean-Paul was in his study. She shrugged and started a vmail back to him, telling him how proud of him she was, that she worried for his mental health and his safety. She sent him a couple of photos of the pots she's spun this morning, and hoped that their shape he wouldn't find too terribly embarrassing.
Jean-Paul sat in his study, and sipped at Glenlivit. He too was dictating a message to his son. He slurred his words, telling him how much he loved him, that he felt bad about his incarceration, and that he was trying to pull as many strings as he could to get him out earlier. Jean-Paul could only say such things while he was drunk.
Chelsea rarely, if ever vmailed her brother. She always did so in a quiet, discrete manner, usually when she saw one or the other of her parents in some sort of deep discussion she felt he should know about. She didn't know if her older sister ever contacted him.
* * *
The days leading up to the Thursday Thanksgiving holiday spent predominantly in preparation. Jean-Paul was helpless in the kitchen, and she almost always, 'accidentally' shorted out the microwave, which, 'forced' her to use the gas stove she'd made such a fuss about getting. Chelsea helped when she was allowed to, and cleaned the house for company.
Two days before the holiday, on Tuesday, Roberta, Roger and Carlee touched down at the Gteams military base on a redeye flight. Hannah, despite her misgivings, went with Jean-Paul and Chelsea to meet them on the base. Roberta was their first child, Roger, her husband, and Carlee their first grandchild.
While they vmailed often, Hannah complained it wasn't just the same. She fussed over the baby as Roger and Jean-Paul talked shop. As they passed out the gates, DarkStarr flew over as escort. Jean-Paul had caught a glimpse of her approvingly. Nothing like the personal touch, he thought.
Chelsea was always uncomfortable around her older sister. Roberta was an average student, didn't believe in god, and was, in essence, her mother's child. She has a small pottery studio, and Chelsea could not read a single one of her thoughts. She could read her husbands, easily enough. She read how they had reenlisted their membership to the ten-thousand club, and was a bit embarrassed.
Chelsea found it fascinating, the baby's thoughts. They were so calm, so utterly without clutter. She would watch her look at shapes and colors and smells. She felt her smile when she recognized her grandparents. Chelsea thought that having kids would be cool, but she wasn't real thrilled about the boys part of it.
The extended family stayed until Saturday night, and as the elder Kinomotos saw their grandchild off, DarkStarr was still monitoring them, discreetly, during their time on the base.
As they loaded into the car, Jean-Paul, now with a very sharp looking goatee gave her a salute. She returned it, and flew over the flight, all the way to Seattle. Jean-Paul admitted to himself, that he was looking forward to getting back to work. At least, he was until his pager went off at oh-three hundred that early Monday morning.
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