Inamorata

Chapter Thirteen - Mr. Darcy Unbends His Pride

"Come on, let's go," he said impatiently.

Nightingale obligingly got out of the hovercraft and was immediately struck still by what she saw there.

People. So many natural-born people, all milling about, unaware of the blessing of their natural birth. Men, and women. Women! Natural-born women, who had grown in their mother's wombs, nourished by her body, who had been raised by a set of loving parents, who would age and wither before they died.

"They..." she began.

And, for once, David did not snap at her coldly, but took her hand. The warmth of it was comforting, but did little to help Nightingale.

"All these people," she murmured. "How can they stand for what is done to us? How can they tolerate it?"

"Many are unaware, many don't know enough to care, many support the industry," said David.

"How can they?" she asked as he pulled her along through the hangar. She gaped as a woman, shockingly plain in comparison to the unnaturally-beautiful Inamoratas she was used to, accidentally bumped into her and smiled apologetically.

"Sorry, miss," said the woman, and continued on.

"They think you're all mindless, soulless creatures. Or at least, that's what they tell themselves. I don't think any human actually believes that lie. But it's convenient and saves them pain to believe it," explained David.

"I should hate them," declared Nightingale, voice harsh with viciousness. By this time, they had reached what looked like an elevator and they stepped into it.

"But you don't," answered David. Nightingale's attention was momentarily distracted as he said to the open air, "David Beckett. Fiftieth floor, please."

A cool, detached female voice replied: "Confirmed. Right away, Mr. Beckett."

As the elevator zipped upwards, David explained, "That's the computer's voice recognition."

Nightingale nodded, though she wasn't really listening. As much as she wanted to hate these humans, wanted to despise them, wanted to tear their throats out with the brute strength members of their race had given her, she could not.

"I can't," she whispered. "I can't hate them. Not them all."

"Why not?" asked David, and his voice was gentle. She looked up to see the lines around his eyes soft with tenderness, those icy eyes miraculously warm.

"Because I'm one of them," she said. A tear fell onto her dress as she sniffed and wiped her eyes. "And besides, it would be wrong to hate them all for the cruelty some inflict on me."

"How very wise of you," said David. The mocking in his voice was not degrading, but somehow affectionate.

It still offended Nightingale, however, as she took a step away from him and glared. "Don't mock me, Detective," she growled.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he fired back. As he said it, the doors of the elevator opened and they were confronted with a long, white hallway, not unlike the one between the rooms of the bordello. Nightingale followed David in silence as he lead her down the hall. Though the tiles of the floor were smooth, shiny, semi-translucent material, their shoes made no sound as they moved.

Eventually, David stopped at a door of the same material and pressed his hand to it. A blue light flashed behind it and the door swung open. Nightingale was already impressed by this, but that paled in comparison to what the interior of David's home looked like.

As they stepped in - Nightingale had to be pushed a little, for she was gaping in astonishment - Nightingale took in the fabulous panoramic view offered by the place. Two of the walls were entirely glass, and the other two had an assortment of doors Nightingale imagine led off to bedrooms or other rooms.