Vevila
***
OOH. MALE PRONOUN IN THE TITLE. WHAT CAN IT MEAN?!!?!??!?!??!?!?! READ AND FIND OUT!
Sorry for never updating and being an all around horrible MCCer. ;U; Anyways, here’s Vevila’s background on how she was put into XL’s experiments. Sorry I'm so behind. ""orz There’s also a bit of a throwback to the first chapter I wrote about her. So if you forgot what happened there just read the first couple paragraphs of that or something. YAEH1
I meant to type “YEAH!” but it came out like that, so… I’ll just keep it there.
:^D
By the way, sometimes I slip into a kind of insulting tone, so don’t think I’m insulting any of your characters personally.
Oh, and I started this back in like... September... so sorry if it's super inconsistent. "orz
Mood Music: Spies by Coldplay
***
The file folder landed softly on the underground room’s bed, papers fluttering out of its open pockets. Vevila had skimmed each paper carefully on multiple occasions since leaving Germany, and each time she could not help but scoff at the absurdity of the situation. What surprised her more than the information in the documents was the manner in which every other member of the club responded: initial caution, gradual slippage into sincere panic, followed by acceptance of their “past life.”
But Vevila was not so imbecilic that she would fall for bluffs as the rest of the world did. No, of course not; Vevila was not only beautiful in body, but beautiful in mind. She was simply brilliant, and only a simply brilliant mind could understand that humans love to lie, love to feel empowered, love to be in control. Toying with the few peculiar creatures in a silly club acted as a form of entertainment for the nitwitted scientists of Xenogenisis Laboratories.
Certainly, only intelligent Vevila knew the truth. The thirty-nine other members of the club merely reasoned incorrectly. Her final conclusion regarding the issue followed as such: the documents regarding her “past experimentation” told nothing but falsities.
While Vevila never made mistakes and certainly understood the situation to a higher degree than the rest of the club, the ideas the documents suggested initially sparked a certain curiosity in the back of her mind. The woman sat herself on the sheets next to the scattered papers on the bed. Using a long bony finger, she shuffled through the papers to find one of interest, until she settled on one titled “Test Subject Profile”:
Information is based on time of admittance
Name: Vevila Martello (Maiden name Vevila Vanora)
Project: Alp luachra (Fairy)
Age: 25
Height: 5’4
Weight: 80 lbs/36 kg
Spouse: Vittorio Martello
Vittorio Martello: the name did not strike her as familiar in the slightest. Unconcerned, she continued:
Physical Condition: Poor; extremely thin and frail from malnutrition; haggard in appearance from malnutrition; despite all, shows potential for refinement
Mental Condition: Severe mental instability; signs of narcissistic personality disorder; occasionally reluctant to acknowledge the existence of others
Potential Uses: Spy, informant.
“Such easily refutable lies. All of them,” Vevila said aloud, eyes glazed down condescendingly at the sheet of paper. “My name has always been Vevila Vanora, now and for the past 200 years. Never in my lifetime would I lower myself to such a degree to marry a human. Moreover, I’m not mentally unstable, nor have I ever been. Mental instability? Narcissism? Couldn’t those scientists conjure a more believable lie?”
She flipped the sheet of paper over to find attached by a paperclip a photo of a young woman with ragged platinum blonde hair that fell recklessly from root to tip. The woman posed herself with pallid head in her frail, dainty hands. Her condition appeared so poor that her cheeks sunk into her face, causing her eyes to appear larger than they really were. Her eyelids hung half open, acting as a curtain for the blue eyes that gazed out. They glinted with a look of egoism and self-pride, despite her wretched appearance. Vevila flipped the photo to its backside, which labeled the woman as “Vevila Martello.”
“Another mistake,” she deducted with a smirk. “Obviously, my hair is silver and my eyes are golden. How could they get something as simple as that incorrect?” Vevila glanced at herself in the mirror, admiring the silky silver strands that poured from her head. She stared until her eyes wandered toward the knotty bunches accumulating at the ends of her hair. Jerking her head away, she glanced back at the woman in the photo. Her tangled hair seemed to illuminate into lighter and lighter shades of blonde, until it appeared as silver as Vevila’s own hair.
In a fit, she tore the photograph in half, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it across the room.
The papers and documents once scattered across the top of Vevila’s bed fluttered into the air as Vevila flopped herself face down onter her sheets. She had read and reread the documents countless times since receiving them that they failed to even produce amused chuckles from her anymore. The documents all mirrored each other, parroting the same nonsense: testing times, and experimental trials; cell mutation and weekly health reports; permanent eye, hair, and skin dying; silicone implants and pheromone injections. She did not want to read the science anymore.
All that remained unopened and unobserved among the documents was a manila-colored envelope with words written in plain block letters in the middle of the paper:
“Mr. Martello’s letters to his wife”
And there the envelope sat on the bed, casually waiting at eye level for the bed-sprawled Vevila to reach over and investigate its messages. She did not have the capability to resist its contents any longer--or perhaps she merely grew so bored of all the other scientific documents that she fell to exploring the supposed-memories of her supposed-husband.
Vevila grabbed the envelope as if handling a dirtied object, and delicately opened it to find within a series of handwritten letters bounded by a ring. The first letter was short, assuming less than half of the sheet of paper. It was a well-written letter, however, as the author appeared to have used a calligraphy pen to transcribe the message in neat cursive. It read as such:
To my dearest, my one and only, my beloved wife Vevila,
Today begins a new time.
I’ve asked that they fix you,
and soon we will be happy again.
Love,
Vittorio
Vevila stared at the message through apathetic eyes until she grew sick of looking at the neatly crafted looping letters. She flipped the page.
My dear Vevila,
It has been roughly two months since our entrance into Xenogenisis Laboratories. I am glad that I see you every day, though I dislike the manner in which they insist I treat you. I do not believe you belong in a secluded room with a glass window for observation. Nonetheless, I do not fear; they have allowed me to be a leading scientist in the project concerning you. It seems I have a fair amount of power, you see--I shall see to it that they will not alter you so much that you no longer resemble your former self. Moreover, I will suggest proper living quarters for you. Surely the scientists here will understand a husband desiring the best for his wife.
Let us keep the faith, dear. No matter what happens, I am your love. No matter what happens, I belong to you. No matter what happens, I am your one and only loving husband. And I do love you, dear, even now, as I gaze longingly at you through the glass wall that separates us. Even now, as you look at me with such distance in your eyes. Your sickness has left you so far gone that you can barely recognize me any longer… You can still muster my name, it seems, and for that I am thankful.
Yet I believe in them, so please believe in them as well.
Ah yes, I nearly forgot to mention that I write these letters to you with the intention of giving them to you once you are fixed once again. A bit silly of me, isn’t it? I merely mean to remember all of our time together, even our time together through hardships such as these. If you are reading them now, I am sure we are together still and loving as we had done in the past. I will love you with my whole mind, as I do now, and as I always will.
Always yours,
Vittorio
She flipped the page.
My dear Vevila,
Five months since our admittance into Xenogenesis. I still believe they will restore you to yourself. And if through science and mystery you can regain your past self… then maybe I can restore myself, as well.
Help me.
I need you, Vevila. Help me… Something is happening to me, and I need you back to save me. For your sake and mine, I will believe in their ability to save you.
Good things must come our way,
Vittorio
She flipped the page.
Vevila,
Stop them. Please dear, please push them away. Don’t tempt them… I know how easily it comes to you, but please be strong. Please remember, you belong to me. You are mine. Not theirs, not any scientist’s. No other man in the world can have you except for me.
Because I love you more than my sanity.
It’s slipping.
Because I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you
The remainder of the letter consisted of incomprehensible scribbles--possibly an attempt at continuing the mantra in cursive.
She flipped the page--and nearly flinched at the letter’s clamorous opening.
FOOLS.
THEY RUINED YOU.
Your delicate fingers… now withered and grey… Vevila, I cannot trust these imbeciles any longer. I cannot forgive them for damaging my wife’s precious body in such a way.
Do not fret over retribution, though, my love. I took care of the man swiftly. In fact, I declare I would have taken his breath away completely--once and for all!--had not the surrounding doctors pulled me away.
The letter paused at this point, and instead was occupied by a series of scribbles and scrawled drawings--one of which appeared to be a young woman with her face buried in her hands. Vevila continued down the page until the writing resumed.
Vevila.
I want to leave here… I’ve changed, I’m changing… you’re changing… I should take you away from here. Let’s leave, Vevila.
Please…
She flipped the page.
Darling Vevila,
This past week, you have been granted a bit of freedom. Nothing brought me such elation as the little visits you grant me when you wander outside of your room. My cheeks hurt from delight at the sound of you calling my name. You are an angel--but the other men, they are the devil.
But not all good things are meant to last. My dear, in exchange for your mobility, they took you away from me. Why, they frankly stole you. They stole you away yesterday, and imbedded a microchip in your brain to distort your memories of me... of our wonderful time together. But what is worse is this: the chip, you see... it not only erases fond memories, but it also possesses the ability to detect your whereabouts.
And that disgusts me.
It disgusts me.
It disgusts me.
It disgusts me, the thought of those filthy scientists knowing your every movement, your every action, all without my permission. I could just vomit at the thought of it. No man should look at you in such a manner… I should be the one who knows. I want to know where you are, exactly where are, just as any loving husband should.
“Why are they watching you? Why do they need to know where you are?” I questioned. “I’m your husband, your loved one. I should be the only one to know your whereabouts,” I thought. My love, I could not bear it. I cannot bear the fact that I do not know where you are, but those fools, those imbecilic mongrels, they know. They know.
They expect me to relinquish my rights to you. They expect me to accept that they have access to such information, and expect me to see it as Correct and Moral that they have the ability to withhold this information about My Own Wife from me. No. Those bloody scientists can know where you are at any given time, so I HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO KNOW AS WELL. I NEED TO KNOW, VEVILA. I NEED TO KNOW. I NEED YOU. I NEED TO HAVE YOUR EVERY MOVEMENT, YOUR EVERY THOUGHT, YOUR EVERY ACTION CLOSE TO ME, WITHIN MY REACH.
The words ended at that point. What followed was a puddle of black ink, shattered with white streaks from a calligraphy pen’s frustrated scraping across the dried spill. She flipped the page.
Vittorio’s next message was short, written in the weakest and most pathetic cursive Vevila had ever seen:
You broke their rules.
You looked at the man’s empty carcass with not an ounce of regret in your eyes. (Yet, sweet retribution--he finally received what he deserved)
You are no longer permitted time to walk outside of your cage.
I told you not to look at other men.
I told you so… but even before, you never listened to me. Why do you never believe me when I tell you that I know what is best for you?
Listen only to me. Follow only me. Love only me. I will not allow any more mishaps…
She flipped the page.
Beloved,
I write you with melancholic news. They will not let me see you anymore. I tried to resist… but you are so irresistible, my love. The ugly men want you all to themselves. Why, love, why do you tempt them as you do…
No, I apologize. It is not your fault in the slightest. You have been changed, now, and they are the ones who twisted you into the tempting woman you have become.
And you have become quite beautiful.
You have become so beautiful.
So beautiful.
Too beautiful, that I was unable to stop myself and consequently broke the rules. I will not forget what you said to me last night, within your barred-off quarters; the way you spoke my name, the honor I felt when you told me I was the only man you trusted. But there was a sadness that remained, as well. I should not have mentioned our marriage in the aftermath. How could you laugh so easily and say we had never married? That you would never marry a human? A human?
I had to laugh, too; it was far too sad for crying.
Vevila, you may never believe me. You will never remember our past life together, so long as their mechanisms control your mind. And now, due to our little sin, I know not when I will be permitted to see you again.
But please…
Do not ever forget me. I will always be with you.
I love you,
Vittorio
She flipped the page. The final letter’s ink was so smeared from tear stains that it was nearly incomprehensible.
It had been so long since the last time we spoke, and you said it right to my face.
“Who are you?”
Which is why I am writing this, weeping at my desk, cursing the bastards who said they would fix this situation. This is not fixed.
We are broken….______
She flipped the page--and to her surprise, discovered a waist-up photograph of a man attached to the back of the final letter.
Vittorio Martello, Vevila gathered from the photo, was an attractive young man in his late thirties. From waist to head, he was sharply dressed, donning a three piece suit: black jacket and waistcoat, brown pinstriped shirt, navy colored tie. Atop the man’s acute, elongated face sat a sweep of short black hair--it looked at one point to be neatly done up and rather suave, but now remained a feathered mess. On the bridge of his long, slender, beaked nose rested a pair of large wire-rimmed glasses. Through these, he gave a distant and unamused leer, carefully scrutinizing his surroundings with clouded brown eyes. But a playfulness still shown through his frosted pale face; his thin lips curled into a marginal grin, sly and all-too-knowing. He told Vevila everything he knew and that he knew everything, all in a single look.
Vevila’s eyes widened as the fear set in--her pulse increased, her forehead dampened.
She cursed at that face she recognized, that Vittorio Martello. That man with the pointed face, the dark hair and leering eyes, the pallid skin, the business suit.
The business suit.
Vittorio Martello wore the business suit some time before now,
Outsmarted poor little Vevila,
Fooled around with her for the night,
Collected her precious silver commodity,
Rooted a tracker in her arm--and little did she realize, there was much more than that. He could see what she sees. He could hear what she hears. He could know what she knows, all by his own skillful, crafting hands.
Sounds of Vevila rushing down the underground hallway. She grabs someone by the arm--most likely the hideous blonde-haired scientist--and shakes him vigorously. her hair flits all around her face and body in a panic.
“Somebody, take it out! Get the tracker out of my arm!
There’s a man following me…
He’s going to find me… help me, help me, he’s going to find me...
He’s trying to…
Get out the tracker… TAKE OUT THAT DAMNED TRACKER…!”
Vittorio Martello is Vevila’s loving husband.
Why, all that I want is to be with her always. Is that too much to ask of a loving, caring man?
***
