November 12th, 2001

unkind, why, fate

The Hidden Children

They don't know we exist.

He cloned us, so our clone-parents don't know we exist. But we do, and we know we exist.

He tries to tells us we don't exist; we have no souls or hearts, and our minds and bodies belong solely to him, to use and dispose of as he wishes. He tries, and he believes we think thus.

He thinks.

We don't; his first mistake was cloning us from the originals--none of them were slouches in the attitude, fortitude, and intelligence categories. And when he gave us some of their memories, to learn their fighting style, he gave us a link to access all of their memories.

And now we know how to fight back.

It will be long, and it will be hard. But we have each other; even those who were enemies as originals get along for this. Because we aren't them.

We'll never be them.

But we will be the children, and the adults, that they wished they could have been.

We are the Hidden Children.
unkind, why, fate

(no subject)

"WHAT?!? Do you think we hate you or something?"

"Well, yes."

"*snort* We're the clones, BAKA! Technically under USA law, or something like that, we don't really exist." Hand waving, "Something about not having souls. Complete fucking bullshit, of course, you don't live like we did, feel the pain we did, and not have souls. Souls are a prerequisite for feeling, well that and a nerve center. Back to topic--WE DON'T HATE YOU! Want to really yell at you for being complete idiots about certain things... let's just say you and Magnus need to set aside about three to five hours with EJ and I later this week. 'Nuff said on that topic..."
unkind, why, fate

(no subject)

They don't seem to get it. They think of us like their children; we're not, we're their clones. If anything, we are siblings.
unkind, why, fate

No Choice (Original Fic)

No choice.

I never had a choice.

Not in my life, did I make a choice of my own destiny; it has been planned out, every second, millennia ago. Mere mortals create their own destiny, I merely face the one Fate chose for me.

I merely face it. I gather up my courage, gird my loins, thread my tattered soul back into the fight each day that dawns. I have no choice but to fight.

It isn't my fight. I am not of their people; I was not born of any of their women, fathered by any of their men. Magic was a dream I wish would be true.

Now, it's the nightmare I live.

Once I found a bottle of red latex paint, the type found in most high schools. Instead of painting on the wall or a piece of canvas, I painted instead my body. A stroke everywhere I had bled from a wound, painting several layers where I wounded more than once.

I ran out of paint before I ran out of wounds to paint.

I faced an uphill battle that I must win, to be free. What freedom that will be, I do not know. Perhaps only the choice left will be dying.

That hurts--should I die before I have the chance to live my own life? The Goddess is not intentionally cruel to her tools, but that's all I am, a tool.

Sometimes the best tools break.

No choice.
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