Barbara Rose Rasmussen [TESLA] (howdotheywork) wrote in theinvincibles, @ 2015-07-03 22:11:00 |
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Playing the guitar used to be an escape for Barbara, especially when she was young and full of fire. When she first picked the instrument up, girls weren’t often considered guitar players - in the 60s, she saw girls in the adverts, but they were no more than decoration. She, with her verve and vigour, decided that she would make her own choices in life...and if society said that boys wanted the guitars? Well, Barbara would just have to go in there and take one off them. Her parents had bought her a Stratocaster, back in 1961: they’d spent a small fortune on it, but given that they’d also surrendered her to the government’s care without a fight, they probably felt guilty enough to rationalise it. She still had that same Strat, but she hadn’t brought it to Capers with her that night: it was tattered and patched. Some of those same instruments sold for thousands of dollars: Barbara’s wouldn’t have even tempted a collector to prise General Grant out of their wallet. With patrols and training, Barbara hadn’t had the time to really sit and play her guitar in some weeks. Still, the sheer hard work and practice she’d put in over fifty years of living in the Lock had sat her in good stead, and the notes she coaxed from the instrument as she warmed up were rich and warm. It was a Martin acoustic, and both Barbara and the guitar fell into a perfect synch within moments, a soft and indulgent smile on her lips as she relaxed. "Good evening, everyone," said said gently, her voice carrying easily but never forceful. She had a leader’s confidence, but an old woman’s disarming charm. She pushed her short white hair away from her eyes self-consciously. "I’d like to play for you tonight, but it’s been some time since I’ve had a real audience, so...be gentle with me, okay?" Barbara closed her eyes, her fingers picking over the strings with an effortless grace that belied the years of practice and bloodied fingertips that brought her to that point. She opened her mouth and, once she began to sing, everything else melted away. "Well, I’ll be damned. Here comes your ghost again..." As she sang, the world took on a warmer, wistful tone. There was a tap on her shoulder, and Barbara turned. Her long, blonde hair tumbled over one shoulder: her tight red dress had been chosen by the State Department to have the maximum desired effect on the men who would be controlling the event. Her eyes were clear and blue, her lips deep red and stark against her blondeness. She was a bombshell, and all of them knew it: out of the delegation sent to Russia, the Kremlin’s eyes were fixed on her...which was just what they wanted. "You look stunning, Miss Tesla." A young man, dark hair and lethal cheekbones was smiling disarmingly at her, but Barbara had read the dossier. She knew the weapons that the Soviet Union were prepared to deploy - and this young man, this Anton Volkov, was more dangerous than any nuclear warhead. "I knew that 1958 would bring many delights for the motherland, but your presence has to be one of the sweetest." He smiled and, despite her training, Barbara smiled back. "You’re too kind, tovarishch Volkov. And your silver tongue is well-known to us back in Boston, so don’t try your tricks." She paused, trying to dredge up the pass-phrase she’d been given. "V gostyah horosho, a doma luchshe." "Your Russian is good," said Anton with an inclined head and an indecent smile. "‘Being a guest is nice, but being at home is better.’ Wise words, and not ones the Council uses lightly. Premier Khrushchev is determined to make an alliance between us work. Will you please him -and me- by accepting a dance?" The band had struck up a waltz -Shostakovich, if Barbara wasn’t much mistake- and Anton Volkov extended a hand. He was impossibly handsome, with high cheekbones, blue eyes and surprisingly messy hair for a gentleman. When he smiled he seemed like a dreaming demon, and when the smile left it somehow seemed to remain anyway, hidden just out of sight and waiting to pounce. Barbara took his hand, and he led her out to the centre of the dance floor. They circled one another, the full moon hanging brightly above them as a snowstorm blew hard against the windows: they were both spying on each other, Barbara and Anton, for their respective countries - but they both knew it, and everyone in the room knew it, and somehow it all seemed like a jolly game. All eyes in the room were on them: envious of their beauty, covetous of their power. The dance went on forever, until the room and its inhabitants fell away, and it was only Barbara and Anton, dancing through space and time. Dancing through life, and death. "...and if you’re offering me diamonds and rust, I’ve already paid." The end of the song brought her back to the bar with a bump, her fingers slipping off the strings a fraction too soon as beloved Anton receded back into the dim recesses of her memory. Another old friend, lost too soon. Another regret of a life never lived, a happiness sacrificed to the Department of Metahuman Security. Barbara nodded her thanks to the crowd and left the stage quietly, doubting that she would sing that song again. This had been a mistake. |