smokeSCREEN: bookTHREE

"If you were in grade four – why were you on the field trip?"

He shrugs.

"My dad had paid for it when they threw me back in grade two," he says. "I wasn't supposed to have been on that bus. Freaky – that's me."

"I really did have a crush on you," I say.

"Why?"

"You were different."

He sets the book down on a bedside table and lays back, on top of the covers, staring up at the celing.

"What happens in the morning?" I ask.

"You go back to the Tower, I go back to Westwood," he says. I lay down beside him, my head resting on his shoulder.

"What happens tomorrow?"

"Westwood falls," he tells me. He has no doubt of that, and he lights a smoke in libation.

"And what will I do?" I sit up and stare down at him.

"Most likely, you'll be with the twenty or so others starting on the River Project tomorrow."

"That's not fair-"

"Westwood's gonna' be attacked on account of me," he says. "I'll be there."

He's made up his mind. I flop back down beside him and stare at his face.

"Then tell me stuff," I say.

"My father was an ex-Bhuddist monk," he says.

"'Bhuddist'?"

"This ancient eastern religion – very calm. He was also like, an eigth level black belt and he knew all kinds of swordplay and shit. He taught me how to use a sword when I was five."

"Is that where you got your sword?" I ask.

"That's not my sword," he says. "It's my father's. He lived in Hong Kong until China took over in ninety-nine, then he moved back here where me and mom were."

"What did he do there?"

"I don't remember." He turns and looks at me, smiling, cupping my cheek. "What do you remember about your family?"

"It was just me and my dad," I say. "I think my dad was like, a banker or something. He worked a lot, but he spent all his time with me on the weekends. Otherwise I had this babysitter who took care of me."

"Did you like your babysitter?"

"She was kind of stupid – always wanted to watch cartoons."

He grins at me as he strokes my hair. I can't help but smile softly back.

"Maybe she thought you wanted to watch cartoons," he says. I shake my head.

"I told her I liked NYPD Blue, but she never believed Dad let me watch it."

"You liked NYPD Blue?" he laughs.

"What was your favorite show?" I say, grinning now.

"South Park," he says. I wrinkle my nose.

"Typical man." He sits up and climbs on top of me, just like I did that night at the safehouse.

"Typical?" he says, grinning down at me. "What's typical about me?" I shake my head.

"Only South Park," I say. He leans down and lets his cheek stroke mine. I can't help but sigh. "I wish you'd just stay," I tell him. "Why do you have to be so…" He's kissing me. "…honourable? Don't you ever think about just-" He's kissing me again. I may be kissing back a little. "-just taking care of yourself?" He stops kissing my throat long enough for me to catch my breath, and for him to say;

"Ultimately, I'm going back for selfish reasons. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't go back, therefor I'm only doing it to avoid my own guilty conscience, which is at it's base selfis-" I'm kissing him, now. Kissing his throat. "…what are you doing?" he asks.

"We might never see each other again," I say, pulling off his overshirt. "And there's one or two things I want to try."

"Like what?" he says. I pull off his undershirt. The slash across his stomach is nearly healed, along with the gash on his back.

"Gimmie a second… it's a work-in-progress," I say, undoing the chunky black clasps on my cotton shirt.

"Are you sure about this?" The soft cotton falls from my shoulders and I toss it aside, crossing my arms to pull the sweater up and over my head. He's staring at my eyes – I'm staring at his.

"Sure about what?"

I want to let my eyes trail down. I want to look at him – but I won't look down until he does.

Only he doesn't look down. He leans forward and kisses me again. He lifts my sports bra off and gently pulls me down to him, and for a long while we lie like that – enjoying the sensation of our skin pressed together.

His fingers walk up my hip towards my ribcage.

"This one?" he says.

"Barbed-wire fence at the old military complex," I tell him.

"Here?"

"Hm… that one must be new. What's this one from?" I point to a scar just shy of his heart.

"Oh… when we were just kids, Jessie took one of dad's blades and was fucking around with it. He said he was gonna' stab me in the heart." He shrugs. "Not quite."

"Jessie – like the leader of Westwood Jessie?"

"Yeah."

"You were friends?

"Brothers. Well – same mother. He doesn't seem to remember shit about my dad, though."

"Wait…" My fingers slide down his chest, across one of his curious man-nipples, and down to his navel. "…technically, when the war happened… you were in grade four?"

"Yup. Bunch of assholes in that grade, let me tell you." He's stroking my bare shoulder – little starbursts of energy tumble through my system.

"But… you were grade four?"

"Yes – why?"

"That makes you higher in rank than Michelle. Or even Phoebe." He leans down, now and kisses my stomach. It tickles – sort of.

"So what? I'm a Beta – whatever."

"Not whatever… this is…" His lips are approaching my breasts.

When I pulled off his shirt, I didn't have any plan per se, I just wanted to feel his skin. Now that he's feeling mine, I am for a moment troubled over whether to feel exposed or accepted. For a moment I'm judging myself. But now Cypress is gently sucking at my shoulder, his arms wrapping around my slender torso and holding me.

"This is important," I finish, finally. "You see thing clearly, Cypress – the guys can't, Phoebe can't. I mean, maybe Michelle can, but-" I'm kissing him. I want to stop talking. But it might be too important. "You're technically an Alpha for Floor Thirteen, you could challenge Phoebe for-" Now he's kissing me. I take a hand and press it to one of my too-small breasts, hooking a leg around his hips.

"We'll talk about this," he says, pausing to kiss my jaw and chest. "…when I get back to the Tower."

"If you get back to the Tower," I remind him. Suddenly, his face is before mine, those huge blue eyes staring down at me. Something is pulling at me.

"When I get back," he says, pressing a hand between my legs. My hand grips the flesh of his back and I reach up to kiss him again. Something is calling to me.

"How do you know to do that?" I gasp – my hips, for some reason, rise to meet the hand that presses against my skirt. Something draws me in.

"Books," he whispers in my ear before kissing my cheek. Kissing my lips – staring in my eyes. Something keeps me here. "Are you alright?" he asks. I smile. I nod. I kiss him again, and now he draws back, sits up, and grins down at me. I automatically cover my breasts.

I may even be blushing, but I can't tell.

"Cut it out," I tell him.

"Do you like how I look?" he asks. That seems like such a strange thing to say.

"Yes." He grins and puts his hands on his hips. Finally, I let my eyes scan his torso. I would say he has a swimmer's physique if I thought he spent any great amount of time in the water. Slim hips – broad shoulders – defined but not unwelcoming muscles.

I let my arms fall from my breasts, and cross them behind my head, staring up at him.

"Do you like how I look?" I say. He nods, smiling softly. His hand reaches down to cup my cheek, and he nods again.

"Yeah," he says. I reach down and cup one of my breasts.

"You don't think too small?" I say. He shakes his head.

"I can honestly say, the most beautiful breasts I've ever seen." I laugh and smack his shoulder.

"The only breasts you've ever seen." His hand trails down my throat, and he cups my other breast, stroking it softly in circles. Even in the warm air, it becomes tight. I reach my slender hand up and stroke his nipples. "Why do men have nipples?" I ask. I don't expect an answer, but of course he has one;

"All vertebrate embryos are inherently female," he says. "They simply require the right hormone at the appropriate time in development to make them male."

I burst out laughing.

"How do you know that?"

"Remember that movie Jurassic Park?"

"The dinosaurs."

"Yeah. It says so in that movie."

"That all…" I don't remember the term.

"Vertebrate embryos."

"Yeah, all start off female?" I say. He nods. "Oh, aren't we so fuckin' smart?" I grin. He shrugs.

"I remember movies."

"Tell me about the mysterious road if you're so smart," I say. He flops down onto the bed beside me, lazily stroking my shoulderblade.

"What mysterious road?"

"You said… complex things were down some road. Tell me about it." He shrugs.

"Sex," he says. But he's still staring at my eyes.

"Tell me about it," I say.

"Well… it's sort of a natural progression of having feelings," he says. "Apparantly, everyone has these feelings and when time to have sex comes, they know it and it happens." I narrow my eyes accusingly at him.

"How cryptic. You know exactly how to do it."

"I might have an idea."

"Might?"

"Maybe."

"Hmm?"

"Iffy."

"Possibly?"

"A chance."

"A good chance?" I think I may have him on this one. He just shrugs and says,

"A pretty decent chance."

"But you don't want to…"

"S'not that I don't want to, it's… is that how can you know you want to if you have no idea what it is?"

This pisses me off. I climb on top of him and pin his wrists down.

"Don't talk to me like I'm some fucking Ceta! I'm twenty years old – I just don't know anything about sex that isn't a lie. And from what I hear, it's supposed to be fun."

"That's not how it works – it's not a school lesson, it's love-" he starts.

"That's what this is," I tell him. I lean down and kiss him, softly, brushing hair out of his eyes. So blue.

"Are you scared at all?" he asks.

"Sure," I shrug. "But I trust you."

"What if I don't trust me?" He's genuinely terrified of hurting me.

"Then trust my judgement," I grin. "And I trust you." He stands up on the bed and pulls me to my feet – his strong arms wrapping around me and holding me there. For a while he just breathes softly on my bare shoulder, his lead bending down to touch mine.

And now he realizes I've undone the buckle on his belt.

He's working on the buckle on mine.

It's all so insane.

It doesn't make any sense.

But I want him to see me. All of me. I believe, for this shining moment, that I am utterly accepted. Here, alone, high above it all. I'm back on the roof access, staring up at the stars.

Maybe that's it, I think to myself as he kisses down my stomach, between my breasts, unclipping my belt. Unfastening my skirt. We were always alone. As the skirt drops from my hips, I soak in the room where Cypress spent so many nights. While I was staring alone up at those stars, he was staring alone into the depths of some mysterious book or another.

I fall back onto the bed and reach up... trailing my fingers down his chest to his old patched cargo pants.

"You were in grade four…" I grin up at him. "You were smarter than all of us."

"They don't know what I was," he tells me. "I might have been just extra, extra slow." I've never tried taking off someone else's pants before – it's becoming something of a struggle.

"No, that's another thing that sets you apart from the rest of us. Another reason you should be the one to lead us all, I mean that's so obvious-" He pushes my hands away and crouches, his eyes hovering next to mine.

"I'm not interested in leading anyone," he says calmly, but with the clear tone of never wanting to discuss this issue again. But I can't concieve of this. Surely, Cypress, with his mind built of razor steel, can see what his attributes add up to.

"But, it's so clear, Cypress…"

"It's not," he says. "You're not thinking clearly. You're thinking like someone who's trying too hard for the happy ending. There's no such thing as a happy ending. Only happy beginnings. Now forget the lies – forget the shit – take what you know to be true of the world." And now he leans forward even closer, narrowing his eyes. "Do you really believe in happy endings?"

Now I must admit to being taken aback. But I am, first and foremost, a pessimist. I have never seen our swordsman speak with such a… clearly manipulative intent. Why would he intentionally turn such a warm situation into something so dark?

My mind clicks.

To take my mind off the original question. Which poses the obvious answer.

"Why are you afraid of leading?" I ask. This hits him as if it were an actual punch, and he leans back until he has to brace himself on his arms to stop from falling fully to the bed.

"…what?" he says finally.

"I can work this out…" I whisper, leaning back and closing my eyes.

"Don't work anything out – I'm asking you to let it go." He's kissing me. My lips. And I'm thinking. Cypress was actually grade four when the war happened. That puts him, in rank, above all Tower Alphas and Westwood Thirds. He's kissing my throat – gently sucking. I've always thought of my skin as too pale, but he whispers something about how he loves the feel of it, before proceeding to my shoulders. I can work this out.

Cypress intentionally told everyone he was in grade two when the war ended – he could have automatically lead them all, but he wanted to be a Beta. Why? I hear a zipper and the shuffle of clothing, before a blanket closes over us both. His skin is soft, warm, easy against mine as he drapes an arm over me and kisses my shoulder. My eyes are still closed. I can work this out.

Therefore, the decision to never be considered for the position of leader was made when Cypress was seven years old. Probably, before the war ever happened. He pushes the hair away from my face, and I can't help but smile. Nuzzling my cheek, he squeezes me gently.

I can't work this out. And bless him, he is trying hard enough to divert my attentions. I finally open my eyes to find his just before me.

"There we are," he grins. I smile back sweetly.

"Where else would I be?" His smile softens into a look, dare I say, of love. Though I can't say I'm positive of my expression, I expect I'm looking at him the same way.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

"How did you feel the first time you killed someone?" I know this seems like a strange question in response, but Cypress sees that my A will lead to a B.

"Truth?"

"Truth," I nod.

"I was disturbingly comfortable with it." I nod.

"Me too."

"Everyone else freaks out or pukes or something – I just went home and cleaned the sword." I nod.

"Why are we different?" I ask, cocking my head to the side. He kisses me softly, closing his eyes for a moment.

"So you're saying you're very comfortable with me?" he asks. I nod.

"Do you think we are different?" I say.

"I think, if there hadn't been a war, we would have been actors."

"Actors?"

"The people in movies. People who observe and can catalyze emotions in others, so they can accurately recreate them later on to manipulate people. Now some of these people – on average one out of a hundred, actually – just don't feel emotions like others do. Often these people are very intelligent, often men, they're called sociopaths."

"Soh-see-oh-paths."

"Right."

"We're sociopaths?" he kisses my shoulder again – one of his hands cups a breast, and I'm beginning to give myself over more to the sensation.

"Well, fuck if I know – I just read all that shit in some book. I'm just sayin' maybe you and me were cut from the same cloth. Maybe that's why this is comfortable." My fingers trail up his muscled back, knotting themselves in his dark hair as his mouth, suddenly and without warning, closes around my left nipple.

"Whoah…" I breath light, quick gasps. "…that's cool…" Now one of his hands trails down my stomach, across my hips and thighs – lightly stroking my skin. Cypress must have read all kinds of books. "Tell me about you," I say as he kisses circles, tighter and tighter around my right breast. "Tell me something."

"I was born in Calgary," he says.

"Where's that?"

"West of here." He's kissing my stomach, still stroking my thighs – his lips are crossing my hipbone. In a moment he will… he's kissing my throat, and I grin.

"I got another question for you," I say, crawling on top of him and draping his face in my hair. Kissing him.

"Shoot."

"Why did you let Cat go that day?" He grins his easy grin up at me.

"Well that's the sixty-four million dollar question, isn't it?" I grin back.

"If money were still around," I say, bending down to kiss his chest. "So men do have nipples, huh?" I lower my head and gently nip one between my teeth.

"Ow!" But he laughs, too.

"Well what good are they, then?" I say, kissing his ribcage and stomach. I want to… My hand is on his legs. In my mind, I do a tapdance of rationales between sheer curiosity or gut instinct, before reaching further-

He's kissing me, and my arms drape around him as we fall back down into the sheets.

"Someone has to touch someone," I tell him. His fingers ice-skate up my back, and I shivver regardless of the warm evening.

"Alright, lay back," he says, pushing my shoulder gently.

"How come I don't get to touch you first?" I grin. He smiles smoothly back, but I can already feel his warm hand moving easily down my tummy, cupping softly between my legs.

"If madam has any complaints…" he says, and a finger softly, slowly slides up the length of my sex, daring just close enough to the top to stir something on the edge of extreme.

"No complaints," I gasp, reaching up for a headboard that isn't there. Perhaps I've been sleeping on a military issue bed too long.

How does he know how to do this? I cock my head to the side and think. And why do I trust him to?

A voice darts in; because you love him.

Now I'm moaning, clinging to his torso as two fingers stroke me. I'm raking his back – squirming. Something takes over. It's amazing.

Another voice barks at me; you just want to believe that.

But he's kissing me. I'm gasping, my hips are starting to rise of their own accord to meet his hand.

The voice barks again; you could never love anyone.

I will the voices away and grip his head firmly, kissing him deep as I slide my hips down and push up, driving his fingers into me.

I cry out. I think, but I'm not sure. I'm crushing his face to my breast, and all the while his fingers – stroking – pumping – pushing the waves higher. Faster. Stronger. Deeper.

And now I know I'm screaming.

Now I'm gasping.

Now I'm sighing.

His arms are draping around me, and I can smell my sex for a moment. We fit like a pair of forks layed together, but on their sides, and I smile as his breath teases my ear.

My brain is de-fuzzing. Everything's becoming clearer.

"That was wicked," I grin. I spin and reach an arm down. His eyes jump in surprise, but my slender hand has already found him. For a moment I just hold it, weighing it, squeezing it under the sheets.

It's softer that I'd thought. And I am struck, for a moment, with the knowledge that I am the first and only tower member to do such a thing. To risk such a thing. Cypress is just smiling at me. I stroke it once, testing – I find the tip, and observe his reaction.

Looks like pleasure. Might be pain. I stroke again – pleasure. Annnnd repeat…

I lay down beside him, my elbow on the bed, a hand propping up my jaw as I slowly stroke him. He's staring at me, smiling.

"Tell me how it feels," I say. "What's it like?"

"It's good… for one…" he says.