doors.
“Can I?” Lana gazed at the shelves in awe. “Aren’t they, like, ancient? And valuable?”
Bruce shrugged. “There’s no value in books that can’t be enjoyed.”
“True.” She scrambled to her feet again to do as she was told and check out his collection of old paper books. Surprisingly enough, the top shelf seemed to contain lots of poetry. A poem-reading pirate? Whatever next? Or maybe they belonged to Chester. He struck her more as the verse-loving type. His presence in the Randall mansion actually threw her for a loop – apart from being good at breaking into computer systems, Chester came across as relatively harmless.
When Lana made her way back to the couch, Bruce looked up from the pad he was typing away on, sitting in an easy chair close to the TV. “What did you pick?” he asked unexpectedly.
“Uhm – this.” Lana held up the little book that had piqued her interest. It was called Leaves of Grass by a poet called Walt Whitman.
Bruce smiled. For the first time ever, it felt like his smile was entirely genuine. “You know him?”
“No, but it looks interesting.”
He got a faraway look in his eyes. “I celebrate myself, and what I assume you shall assume, for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you,” he quoted. “First few lines.”
So it was his book, then. “That’s beautiful,” Lana said, cracking the book open carefully. Yellowed, brittle pages stared back at her. “You know the poems by heart?”
“Some of them. The ones that touched my heart when I still had one.”
His remark made him sound so strangely vulnerable and inapproachable at the same time that she didn’t know what to say. Instead of speaking, she sank into the cushions and held the book in her lap, furtively glancing at the giant man who claimed he no longer had a heart. Lana tried to focus on the words on the page as Chester, John, Shou, and Hikaru joined the two of them in the living room, all of them absorbed in some form of communication on their pads. At some point, Chester turned on the TV to watch the news. It wasn’t a local channel – the events in the bulletin were from all over the globe. No way to find out anything new about her location, unfortunately.
“Plague outbreak strikes Oceanian countryside,” the newscaster declared in a dry voice. “Thousands of casualties as Japanese authorities rush to have everyone inoculated.”
“Everyone?” Hikaru muttered under his breath. “Even the unemployed drifters? Fat chance.”
Shifting uncomfortably, Lana attempted to block out the story on the news. She was aware Earth wasn’t paradise – it was a harsh environment for most people. It was difficult even for those Elitists residing in old capitals instead of new colonies in the solar system. However, Earth was beautiful in that it was the only place that stirred truly strong emotions of longing in her. She didn’t know what it was, exactly, that she longed for. Being on Earth was like reading poetry – it made her heart ache, and she didn’t know why.
Her eyes skimmed the lines on the page in front of her. “You shall possess the good of the Earth and sun,” she whispered very quietly. “You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.” Inadvertently, her gaze drifted to Bruce once more, who was talking to John. His sharp features and dark-blond hair peppered with strands of gold didn’t look so intimidating if she ignored his enormous, athletic body and menacing, gray eyes – eyes that looked tortured sometimes, blazing up whenever he clenched his fists or grabbed her by the arm to instill fear in her.
Lana froze when Bruce unexpectedly turned his head to look at her. Had he felt the weight of her stare? Why had she even risked staring at him like that? Immediately glancing away, she fixed her eyes on the book, using it to hide her flustered face behind, her heart tapping nervously against her ribs. When she fretfully eyed Bruce over the edge of the
“Can I?” Lana gazed at the shelves in awe. “Aren’t they, like, ancient? And valuable?”
Bruce shrugged. “There’s no value in books that can’t be enjoyed.”
“True.” She scrambled to her feet again to do as she was told and check out his collection of old paper books. Surprisingly enough, the top shelf seemed to contain lots of poetry. A poem-reading pirate? Whatever next? Or maybe they belonged to Chester. He struck her more as the verse-loving type. His presence in the Randall mansion actually threw her for a loop – apart from being good at breaking into computer systems, Chester came across as relatively harmless.
When Lana made her way back to the couch, Bruce looked up from the pad he was typing away on, sitting in an easy chair close to the TV. “What did you pick?” he asked unexpectedly.
“Uhm – this.” Lana held up the little book that had piqued her interest. It was called Leaves of Grass by a poet called Walt Whitman.
Bruce smiled. For the first time ever, it felt like his smile was entirely genuine. “You know him?”
“No, but it looks interesting.”
He got a faraway look in his eyes. “I celebrate myself, and what I assume you shall assume, for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you,” he quoted. “First few lines.”
So it was his book, then. “That’s beautiful,” Lana said, cracking the book open carefully. Yellowed, brittle pages stared back at her. “You know the poems by heart?”
“Some of them. The ones that touched my heart when I still had one.”
His remark made him sound so strangely vulnerable and inapproachable at the same time that she didn’t know what to say. Instead of speaking, she sank into the cushions and held the book in her lap, furtively glancing at the giant man who claimed he no longer had a heart. Lana tried to focus on the words on the page as Chester, John, Shou, and Hikaru joined the two of them in the living room, all of them absorbed in some form of communication on their pads. At some point, Chester turned on the TV to watch the news. It wasn’t a local channel – the events in the bulletin were from all over the globe. No way to find out anything new about her location, unfortunately.
“Plague outbreak strikes Oceanian countryside,” the newscaster declared in a dry voice. “Thousands of casualties as Japanese authorities rush to have everyone inoculated.”
“Everyone?” Hikaru muttered under his breath. “Even the unemployed drifters? Fat chance.”
Shifting uncomfortably, Lana attempted to block out the story on the news. She was aware Earth wasn’t paradise – it was a harsh environment for most people. It was difficult even for those Elitists residing in old capitals instead of new colonies in the solar system. However, Earth was beautiful in that it was the only place that stirred truly strong emotions of longing in her. She didn’t know what it was, exactly, that she longed for. Being on Earth was like reading poetry – it made her heart ache, and she didn’t know why.
Her eyes skimmed the lines on the page in front of her. “You shall possess the good of the Earth and sun,” she whispered very quietly. “You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.” Inadvertently, her gaze drifted to Bruce once more, who was talking to John. His sharp features and dark-blond hair peppered with strands of gold didn’t look so intimidating if she ignored his enormous, athletic body and menacing, gray eyes – eyes that looked tortured sometimes, blazing up whenever he clenched his fists or grabbed her by the arm to instill fear in her.
Lana froze when Bruce unexpectedly turned his head to look at her. Had he felt the weight of her stare? Why had she even risked staring at him like that? Immediately glancing away, she fixed her eyes on the book, using it to hide her flustered face behind, her heart tapping nervously against her ribs. When she fretfully eyed Bruce over the edge of the
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