SUMMARY: my image under her thumb. Matrilineal epilogue. Read the rest here. Season two spoilers.
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to J.J. Abrams. Except for Jane, who belongs to Em.
THANKS: To Em, who liked this even while drunk. To kate, for the lovely comments.
***
It's a high quality photograph, but it's unusual.
If pressed, she would guess it was taken from several hundred yards away with a zoom lens. She's not an expert on photography, of course, but to avoid graininess and capture such detail in the dim glow of the streetlights, the photographer had probably used 1600 speed film. It had been developed on site, and she'd watched curiously as the photographer dodged the tiny white t-shirt and lightened up the rest of the picture, exposing it to the light source for quite a while to ensure no details were lost in the shadows.
It wasn't the best picture on its roll. There are others that are stunning. There are photos that capture the unconscious beauty of a woman laughing; a man looking a bit uncertain as a child squirms in his arms; a little girl in close up shoving a baby carrot into her mouth with pudgy fingers.
She has myriad pictures. Pictures that show the same three people in different outfits, different cars, different situations. Some capture anger and hurt, some capture unbelievable tenderness, some capture joyous laughter.
Still, she prefers this roll of film, these images, this photograph in particular. There's something about it that captures them.
There's a line of parked cars serving as a backdrop, and she knows the frame hides the blurred edge of a fence in the foreground. The streetlight glows brightly in the upper left corner, and a shadowy palm tree cuts a strange dark figure behind it. Aesthetically, the picture is nothing special.
But the aesthetics don't matter. None of the photograph's objective flaws distract from the camera's primary subject: Three figures in a row walking toward the camera; two tall, one tiny and bookended, her little arms upstretched, her hands held by her parents.
Her parents are clearly charmed -- caught midstep, their attention is focused on the small child. They're both grinning, their faces angled down, hers partially obscured by her loose brown hair.
Between them, their adorable little girl is laughing, dimples on display.
The little girl's face is heartbreakingly familiar, though she's only ever seen her in pictures.
She keeps track of them, makes sure that they're safe. They are under her protection, and she's already proven that she will react with displeasure toward anyone who disregards her orders. At least once a month, one of her trusted associates will make a discreet visit to Los Angeles and return with another roll of film.
The other pictures are closer, more intimate in some ways, but they all feel like surveillance photos. This picture captured a family. This is the kind of photograph a daughter might send her mother. This is the picture that tells her that they're happy.
This is the picture on Irina's nightstand.
THE END
For real this time. ::g::
Author's note: I'd like to echo what Em said in the author's notes of her prologue. Y'all have been so welcoming and so responsive to this little world we've constructed. We can't thank you enough!