Stories of Siv Spencer Theophane
Who are you?
This man in front of me – he jokes, Siv thought to himself as the male voice spoke to him. Siv had a remembered circuitry of the corridor patrol. This man was not meant to be here. Siv knew the basic parameters of the building despite its structure being so foreign to him. As Siv turned around to look him in the eye, he caught sight of the man writing something down inside a white folder.
“Are you Siv Clements?” the man asked, his frown was decaying, but a force was run through the veins in his face, clearly trying to keep it there. The man had the face of a vinyl - typically highly reactive, easily polymerized, and used as basic materials for plastics. No doubt he was waffling on his papers describing his encounter with Seventeen. After all, they had not met before. Siv had no association with any man capable of writing nothing more than comparative gibberish within misprint, in fact he had no association with any man period.
These men had no literary talent – they would distress a terrible artist. Siv was an artist, he wrote his art and he produced it inside technology. But he would soon be leaving his computer and his novels behind. Though Siv was sure all artists had to suffer in order to improve – he would simply write more once he had found his promised land. Siv felt trapped in a sworn desert, but he would find the evergreen. Siv violated an archaic agony to remain quiet. “No. I am not.” he replied with obsolete expression, his flesh was turning cold. The man emulated his stare, “Then who are you?” he asked, perceiving insanity and seemingly wondering whether his ploy would progress or Siv would break down and confess to lying. “Siv Theophane” he replied, and the man seemed to think Siv had given him consent to look up the name in his folder with an impatient, rampant look on his face. Siv could see him turn stiff at the naked discovery that his name wasn't there. “There is nobody listed here under that name” he snarled and Siv gave him a blank look to congratulate him on this obvious realization. Anger at his incompetence wrinkled in the man's face.
Siv's conscience told him nothing. It always seemed to abandon him in moments that could mean doom for his plans. At the very least it could give him a signal, but he had grown convinced over the years that he had no conscience, despite worldly evidence to the contrary – and so Siv felt compelled to his ignorance. He would've rather been in a conventional church than where he was standing – and Siv feared religion. There was a transparent barrier inside the man in front of him – he was doing what he felt obliged to do. “In that case I shouldn't be here” Siv countered. In the moment those words passed his lips it appeared that he was no longer the victim. The man had clearly never been spoken to with such wit before and his face winced in a spectrum of emotions, his mind obviously unable to think of something to say back at him. “Your barking bananas if you think your leaving” the man told him after a minute, and Siv held in a chuckle at the disrupted collocation, giving the man the same sarcastic look he would give to his disobedient desktop when sat in his room alone.
This man was mad, it was crucial that he made a photocopy of this report. He looked at Seventeen with an intense gaze, he had been caught trying to escape and had not broken into ruins. He had written down notes to remind him to transmit this man's original contract. The entire organisation was at risk of being discovered if he let this troublemaker go. There was something else about this man, he wasn't as pale as snow like everyone else, he had a ghostlike look, and there was still colour in his cheeks. He reminded him greatly of his beloved, she had skin much like his. Yellow skin – rather than white. Subconsciously this was likely to be the reason he had taken an instant dislike to this man, other than the fact he was fifty-one years old and had no patience with the ungrateful youth. He had trouble understanding the trouble he had with abiding by their rules. Every room, every floor in this home was a safe house, a heavily guarded castle, a place that hid away the evils of the real world that was filled with conspiracy, dominance and hate where judgement was a required aspect. This organization was a convienent loophole, and this was why there was no possible way of relating to a slacking skill-less stray that he wasn't able to release if he had wanted to. They didn't need another constituent and they certainly didn't need him. Before his mind could start it's engine, Seventeen had spat on the floor. A signal of disrespect perhaps? He could read this man like a cover blurb, he was thinking that on a frustrated whim he would let him go. Not on his watch.
Siv had chosen to spit on the ground, not that anybody would be concerned with the dire cleaning. He just wanted something between them, something small and insignificant yet something that Siv felt would make the man more distant. Instead it seemed to make his gaze more insistant. The man had grey in every follicle, and the beard of a goat. Yet, Siv found something oddly familiar between them, maybe he had seen this man before briefly in the past as a child, he certainly looked old enough.
“Leaving? On the contrary, I was looking for dust”
“Are you Siv Clements?” the man asked, his frown was decaying, but a force was run through the veins in his face, clearly trying to keep it there. The man had the face of a vinyl - typically highly reactive, easily polymerized, and used as basic materials for plastics. No doubt he was waffling on his papers describing his encounter with Seventeen. After all, they had not met before. Siv had no association with any man capable of writing nothing more than comparative gibberish within misprint, in fact he had no association with any man period.
These men had no literary talent – they would distress a terrible artist. Siv was an artist, he wrote his art and he produced it inside technology. But he would soon be leaving his computer and his novels behind. Though Siv was sure all artists had to suffer in order to improve – he would simply write more once he had found his promised land. Siv felt trapped in a sworn desert, but he would find the evergreen. Siv violated an archaic agony to remain quiet. “No. I am not.” he replied with obsolete expression, his flesh was turning cold. The man emulated his stare, “Then who are you?” he asked, perceiving insanity and seemingly wondering whether his ploy would progress or Siv would break down and confess to lying. “Siv Theophane” he replied, and the man seemed to think Siv had given him consent to look up the name in his folder with an impatient, rampant look on his face. Siv could see him turn stiff at the naked discovery that his name wasn't there. “There is nobody listed here under that name” he snarled and Siv gave him a blank look to congratulate him on this obvious realization. Anger at his incompetence wrinkled in the man's face.
Siv's conscience told him nothing. It always seemed to abandon him in moments that could mean doom for his plans. At the very least it could give him a signal, but he had grown convinced over the years that he had no conscience, despite worldly evidence to the contrary – and so Siv felt compelled to his ignorance. He would've rather been in a conventional church than where he was standing – and Siv feared religion. There was a transparent barrier inside the man in front of him – he was doing what he felt obliged to do. “In that case I shouldn't be here” Siv countered. In the moment those words passed his lips it appeared that he was no longer the victim. The man had clearly never been spoken to with such wit before and his face winced in a spectrum of emotions, his mind obviously unable to think of something to say back at him. “Your barking bananas if you think your leaving” the man told him after a minute, and Siv held in a chuckle at the disrupted collocation, giving the man the same sarcastic look he would give to his disobedient desktop when sat in his room alone.
This man was mad, it was crucial that he made a photocopy of this report. He looked at Seventeen with an intense gaze, he had been caught trying to escape and had not broken into ruins. He had written down notes to remind him to transmit this man's original contract. The entire organisation was at risk of being discovered if he let this troublemaker go. There was something else about this man, he wasn't as pale as snow like everyone else, he had a ghostlike look, and there was still colour in his cheeks. He reminded him greatly of his beloved, she had skin much like his. Yellow skin – rather than white. Subconsciously this was likely to be the reason he had taken an instant dislike to this man, other than the fact he was fifty-one years old and had no patience with the ungrateful youth. He had trouble understanding the trouble he had with abiding by their rules. Every room, every floor in this home was a safe house, a heavily guarded castle, a place that hid away the evils of the real world that was filled with conspiracy, dominance and hate where judgement was a required aspect. This organization was a convienent loophole, and this was why there was no possible way of relating to a slacking skill-less stray that he wasn't able to release if he had wanted to. They didn't need another constituent and they certainly didn't need him. Before his mind could start it's engine, Seventeen had spat on the floor. A signal of disrespect perhaps? He could read this man like a cover blurb, he was thinking that on a frustrated whim he would let him go. Not on his watch.
Siv had chosen to spit on the ground, not that anybody would be concerned with the dire cleaning. He just wanted something between them, something small and insignificant yet something that Siv felt would make the man more distant. Instead it seemed to make his gaze more insistant. The man had grey in every follicle, and the beard of a goat. Yet, Siv found something oddly familiar between them, maybe he had seen this man before briefly in the past as a child, he certainly looked old enough.
“Leaving? On the contrary, I was looking for dust”