The sky is broken. Broken by buildings, distorted by crystal, and held separate by the wall sized window I currently face. The air seems thinner here, hundreds of stories above the ground. Of course, that isn�t true. Our air is if anything, more condensed and pure than the sullen, torrid atmosphere of the lower levels. But like much here, impressions determine action far more than actual substance. I hold this priceless glass, my eyes focused on the city spread beneath me and realize I know too much about appearances.
�Jhaelyn.� My back is turned, but I can see his image reflected faintly in the window glass. He bows his head slightly, a gesture of respect. Sandy tufts of hair fall carelessly over his face. In one hand he holds an envelope.
�You got it?�
�Yes.�
�And the pictures.�
�Of course.�
The air is thin. I breathe shallowly, my fingers clenched around the crystal glass. A small amount of wine swishes against the bottom. I turn to face him. Without speaking he follows me towards the center of the room where there is set up a dining table and chairs. He plays the gentleman well enough, pulling out the chair for me to sit. So long as you don�t read his eyes, the game is nearly flawless. He seats himself and pushes the envelope between us. I want to clutch it and rip it open, but years of restraint make the emotion pass before it even tempts me. Instead I take a final sip of wine before sliding my perfectly sculpted hand across the table and slowly take the envelope.
Pushing a knife beneath the seal, it opens easily and they fall out. An ancient art, photography. Almost extinct in this world of digital captures and dream images. Expensive. But I prefer the feel of paper.
Even in these still shots I can see the movement of her hair, the energy of her body. Stepping off a curb. A profile in the half light. I drink in each page. Her eyes are green, slit like a cat. They shine even in the darkest shots.
As I reach the bottom of the pile, Jhaelyn�s cheeks color slightly and he averts his eyes. Had I not requested it specifically, he would never have brought me these. It is fiendishly improper, even for me. Her body leaks sheer, animal sex. In the shadows you can see the impression of a shifting crowd. My teeth are clamped and my fingers clenched, bending the pristine photo pages. She is my greatest failure. My daughter. I destroyed her before she was born.
I close my eyes.
I had already known. This is hardly my first trade in information. But the photographs made it seem real in a way words could not convey. With the best of medicine at our disposal, we assumed ourselves able to remedy the worst of our vices before they could effect our children. Even after, we ignored it, hoping only her eyes were changed. We were wrong. I remember her as a child, pacing with perfect balance, her body trapped inside steel and glass as obviously as her soul were trapped by the social rituals that bind our existence. When she was twelve, she began the change.
Junglestorm. Taylor made for our pleasure, it was a breath of power. A breath of freedom. Place the patch on bare skin and remember what it is like to truly feel base emotion. We all used it. A small percentage of us, it altered. The next generation paid for our mistake.
We spent fortunes in worthless credits on genetic therapies that didn�t work. It hardly mattered. We had fortunes more. Then Carilane was born. She grew up a living example of everything Lyssra was not. In desperation, we tried to force Lyssra to ignore it, turn away. But she could not ignore half of herself. While her sister slept she ran the streets in panther form, until one day, she left a note saying she wasn�t coming home.