BOOK 3 of the ORPHIC Series
CHURLISH
/ˈCHərliSH/
marked by a lack of civility.
~~~~~
Lucille 'Lucy' Opal Baker finds herself in the 21 century sporting the title of Aunt while lugging along h...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"She's clarity and confusion. Never enough. Always too much. A simple, complicated, perfectly, flawed mess."
Berlin, Germany April, 2016
COLD SWEAT TRICKLED DOWN Lucy's forehead. Her fingers tapped rapidly in a one, two, one, two, three pattern against the armrest beneath her skin, metallic scents adhering to her skin, like a scar that refused to fade. The vehicle engine whirred underneath her feet; she could still feel it through the layers of glass. Her eyes moved frantically from side to side. Left, right. Left, right. Left, right. Again, and again and again. Her knee quivered, shaking up and down in random movements. Her neck remained coiled like a snake preparing to strike, restricted by the metal that blinked at her with the eye of the devil.
Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell.
Cold sweat trickled down her forehead and dropped against the fabric of her tactical pants, the fabric flush against her skin. Her hands trembled as her fingers shook in a one, two, one, two, three pattern against the cold armest beneath her–no, warm now, from her body heat–the metallic scents adhering to her skin like a burn that refused to stop burning. The vehicle engine rumbled angrily beneath her, dragging across the now unfamiliar roads of Germany. She could almost see the modern buildings hidden behind the walls of the van. Her eyes moved frantically from left to right, scanning the vehicle over and over again. Uselessly. Her knee shook, her right one now, moving rhythmically as she tried to stop the roaring thoughts in her ears. Her neck remained taut, restricted by the metal that blinked at her with the eye of the devil.
Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell.
Cold sweat, like droplets of ice scattering across her pores, trickled down her forehead. Her fingers tapped rapidly to the rhythm of her heart as the cuff pressed into her arms, so much like the Chair, the Chair that was never used on her. Why was she sitting in the Chair? They never put it in the–
Focus, Lucy, focus.
Cold sweat trickled down her forehead. Her fingers tapped rapidly to the rhythm of a one, two, one, two, three pattern against the armrest beneath her skin, the scent of rusted metal reaching her nose, the echoes of James's terrified but gurgled cries echoing in her ears as the metallic saw whirred through what was left of his arm. The vehicle engine rumbled underneath her feet like it always did during transport, the sneers of the STRIKE team nonexistent because the Commanders didn't let them. Her eyes moved frantically from side to side to avoid the stares coming from every direction, and she couldn't look at me, you little bitch, don't look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you–
