(Follows Veritas, Libertas)
Esther stared into the mirror. She didn't particular hate what she saw anymore, but she wasn't satisfied.
The mirror was old, full-length, and heavy. It was a box of old polished oak, showing her another world. Another universe. Another Esther. The other Esther was staring at her. Her eyes were sharp, focused, a shade of blue bright enough to hurt her eyes. Esther couldn't look away, not yet.
Her own eyes were a soft almost-green, the color of water in a deep pool. Esther once would have asked who was on the other side of the mirror. Now, Esther knew. A faint frown came to her lips.
A fainter smile came to another Esther's face. Her hand reached out and whether Esther's hand followed, or whether the other Esther answered her movement, she'd never know. Their fingertips touched, and she felt a great heat.
“Esther, need you to drive me to Dwight's!” David walked by, clean-shaved but with bedraggled hair, pressed shirt and tie with a dirty, old coat and sneakers. The other Esther smiled wider. Her teeth were sharp. A stud more like a spike danced between them on her tongue. “Esther, you coming?”
She snapped out of it. “Y-yes, sir. Right away. Doesn't Glenn normally drive you?” Her accent wasn't as thick as it once was – she'd been practicing. She was an assistant now – she had to assist. She finally had the part she'd always dressed for – simple and conservative, sweaters and long skirts. Her high, black boots were her one bit of rebellion – something David didn't seem to mind. If anything, he always seemed to smile when he noticed them.
Esther smiled to herself before looking back at the mirror. Her own reflection, calm and sweet, was smiling back at her.
“Glenn's my lawyer, not my PA. And technically, he's not even a lawyer yet. Really, I'm just freeloading here. You, however, are my assistant. So please – assist. Drive?” He grabs two pieces of toast that Glenn is already holding out to him. “See? Freeloading. How else would I eat every day?”
Esther shook her head. She enjoyed being David's assistant – it was nice to feel so needed.
Maybe one day she'd even pay him back.
The other Esther, the one on the mirror's other side, watched them leave. Glenn moved to the couch, newspaper in hand. “Aren't you following them?” The mirror was empty by the time he looked back.
Glenn sighed and took a bite of his toast. “Sometimes, there's not enough room for the four of us...” His coffee started bubbled hot in response. “Indeed,” he mused, and sipped it.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Dead Eye Shot
I sighted her down. She saw the glint of my iron.
The hunt was on.
Dancing, weaving, striding bold through a wave of lying obstacles. Names. Hobbies. Noise. Bar lies. Easy words. We rushed through them, eye on eye, nose to ground, hunter and stag. I saw. She dodged and played. I pursued.
The first kiss was caustic, bitter like a sudden shot. First blood, one bullet and one horn, one sound in the great roar of noise. The rest of the world became secondary - follow the blood. Follow the mark of that clash, up my shirt, up her jeans, up our eyes. I had her in my sights.
She arched, majestic, eyes on mine as she rose and lifted her arms. There was a stark, defiant pride. I was the outsider. This was her little, quiet realm. I was the intruder, the civilized man. But first blood was marked. I could not be cruel.
I took the shot. One round. One release of breath. Dead on. Sound and vibration and wet, sudden contact. The wild was gone. Our skin was gone. We were one. We were linked and she was penetrated. I was whole.
It was over too achingly soon. The shot was not so true, too fleeting, a glance. She fled into the night. Full of pride, I said ill and easy things. It was dark. Those points were not so fine.
I was not in love with the shot. I would find another.
But every time I strode into that wild place, I smelled her in my gunpowder.
The hunt was on.
Dancing, weaving, striding bold through a wave of lying obstacles. Names. Hobbies. Noise. Bar lies. Easy words. We rushed through them, eye on eye, nose to ground, hunter and stag. I saw. She dodged and played. I pursued.
The first kiss was caustic, bitter like a sudden shot. First blood, one bullet and one horn, one sound in the great roar of noise. The rest of the world became secondary - follow the blood. Follow the mark of that clash, up my shirt, up her jeans, up our eyes. I had her in my sights.
She arched, majestic, eyes on mine as she rose and lifted her arms. There was a stark, defiant pride. I was the outsider. This was her little, quiet realm. I was the intruder, the civilized man. But first blood was marked. I could not be cruel.
I took the shot. One round. One release of breath. Dead on. Sound and vibration and wet, sudden contact. The wild was gone. Our skin was gone. We were one. We were linked and she was penetrated. I was whole.
It was over too achingly soon. The shot was not so true, too fleeting, a glance. She fled into the night. Full of pride, I said ill and easy things. It was dark. Those points were not so fine.
I was not in love with the shot. I would find another.
But every time I strode into that wild place, I smelled her in my gunpowder.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Rime
(Continues from 217.)
The room was cold. In truth, he hardly felt it. He sat and rested, letting his body recover and breathe from the constriction of the armor, of the apparatus, of the mask. His breath frosted in the air, and the windows frosted at the edges – long fingers reaching and rising for each other. It was too warm for them to ever reach each other.
I, the doctor, watched him through the glass, typing away as I looked over the report. The wire transfer had been clean, prompt, and nearly impossible to trace. I traced it anyway, learning our employer's name and business. I had no intention of using it – one minor crime lord was no different to me from another, and no corporate office was much better. I learned simply because I needed to know – one trap sprung was one too many. I created my own traps and dead man's switches on the web and set my work to rest. This mission might be the last – no will and testament for the promising young doctor. I wasn't young anymore. I was out of promises. I had to make due with conditional vengeance.
I pressed the intercom button for my son's room, “How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Unharmed,” was the answer. The young man turned to look through the glass and nodded once – a habit he'd picked up from me. In the early years, he hardly moved. “There were no significant threats.”
“I see...” I took a note of it, turning my attention back to the screen. “What were your impressions of the Tiger's position skills? I'll need to consider how this impacts your rankings.”
“Class 2 General, maybe Class 3 Specialized in close combat. He was unable to visualize my direct harm, as per your projections. To rate his ability, the damage to the property was significant. He was...elevated, physically. The term?”
“Desperate, son. He was in a state of desperation, and rightly so.” My hands had paused, but the doctor in me forced himself to continue to write, to string together the recording with a fair analysis. The work was dry and distant, turning the brutal deaths into clean and efficient statistics. He was wiping away the sin and the pain of it. He was purifying the event, at least in my mind. It calmed me. “What was your impression of your performance, compared to your past missions?”
“Marginal improvement in response. Strength remains stable. Defenses remain stable. Speed marginally improved. I was cold.”
The doctor stopped and I felt myself return. “Son?” I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. I kept the fear deep down. The guilt, perhaps he would hear. It was unlikely; my son was not empathetic. “Excuse me, repeat that?”
He responded. “I was...very cold. There was a 3 to 4 degree difference from the previous mission. It caused a degree of shivering, even within the armor's insulation. Father, it was...uncomfortable. Is that the word?”
I watched him, my computer momentarily forgotten. “And...describe discomfort to me, son. Can you do that?” Hope and the bare teeth of terror were crawling up my throat.
My son tilted his head slightly. The display was almost reptilian. Cold. He was always so cold. “Discomfort is a state of physical or emotional discontent, often caused by some internal or environment factor. Common sources of discomfort include hunger, thirst, pain, and emotional distress. Is that definition acceptable?”
I let out a soul-deep sigh and slumped in my seat. The fingers of frost were reaching closer, nearing the center of the glass. “...That's a good definition, son. Thank you. I'll note it in my report.” I turned off the intercom.
“Perhaps it's time for a stronger apparatus...I'm sorry, son, but we don't have the luxury for emotional...distress.” The doctor went back to his work. He had to prepare for this next mission. They had to be ready.
My son was coming home.
My son was speaking, but the doctor did not hear him. “Doctor...does the cold ache?”
The room was cold. In truth, he hardly felt it. He sat and rested, letting his body recover and breathe from the constriction of the armor, of the apparatus, of the mask. His breath frosted in the air, and the windows frosted at the edges – long fingers reaching and rising for each other. It was too warm for them to ever reach each other.
I, the doctor, watched him through the glass, typing away as I looked over the report. The wire transfer had been clean, prompt, and nearly impossible to trace. I traced it anyway, learning our employer's name and business. I had no intention of using it – one minor crime lord was no different to me from another, and no corporate office was much better. I learned simply because I needed to know – one trap sprung was one too many. I created my own traps and dead man's switches on the web and set my work to rest. This mission might be the last – no will and testament for the promising young doctor. I wasn't young anymore. I was out of promises. I had to make due with conditional vengeance.
I pressed the intercom button for my son's room, “How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Unharmed,” was the answer. The young man turned to look through the glass and nodded once – a habit he'd picked up from me. In the early years, he hardly moved. “There were no significant threats.”
“I see...” I took a note of it, turning my attention back to the screen. “What were your impressions of the Tiger's position skills? I'll need to consider how this impacts your rankings.”
“Class 2 General, maybe Class 3 Specialized in close combat. He was unable to visualize my direct harm, as per your projections. To rate his ability, the damage to the property was significant. He was...elevated, physically. The term?”
“Desperate, son. He was in a state of desperation, and rightly so.” My hands had paused, but the doctor in me forced himself to continue to write, to string together the recording with a fair analysis. The work was dry and distant, turning the brutal deaths into clean and efficient statistics. He was wiping away the sin and the pain of it. He was purifying the event, at least in my mind. It calmed me. “What was your impression of your performance, compared to your past missions?”
“Marginal improvement in response. Strength remains stable. Defenses remain stable. Speed marginally improved. I was cold.”
The doctor stopped and I felt myself return. “Son?” I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. I kept the fear deep down. The guilt, perhaps he would hear. It was unlikely; my son was not empathetic. “Excuse me, repeat that?”
He responded. “I was...very cold. There was a 3 to 4 degree difference from the previous mission. It caused a degree of shivering, even within the armor's insulation. Father, it was...uncomfortable. Is that the word?”
I watched him, my computer momentarily forgotten. “And...describe discomfort to me, son. Can you do that?” Hope and the bare teeth of terror were crawling up my throat.
My son tilted his head slightly. The display was almost reptilian. Cold. He was always so cold. “Discomfort is a state of physical or emotional discontent, often caused by some internal or environment factor. Common sources of discomfort include hunger, thirst, pain, and emotional distress. Is that definition acceptable?”
I let out a soul-deep sigh and slumped in my seat. The fingers of frost were reaching closer, nearing the center of the glass. “...That's a good definition, son. Thank you. I'll note it in my report.” I turned off the intercom.
“Perhaps it's time for a stronger apparatus...I'm sorry, son, but we don't have the luxury for emotional...distress.” The doctor went back to his work. He had to prepare for this next mission. They had to be ready.
My son was coming home.
My son was speaking, but the doctor did not hear him. “Doctor...does the cold ache?”
Friday, September 10, 2010
The Alchemist
Breathing fire isn't very hard. Breathing water is practically simple. Breathing air is an underrated science. No one breathes the earth, and yet we all seem fool enough to try.
In my chest is a lab of alchemy. I've made flame and fury there, and sang songs to chill and to soothe and to heal and to hurt and to boil and to simmer. I have within me a forge, a place of construction. I consume, and within me, things are consumed. I breathe, I transform, and I exhale. I am the process and the function and the form. I am the mold.
In my belly, I burn away impurity. In my lungs, I take the life from all around me, and I breathe out something coarse and alien. Even this is breath to another, and in this way, my pollution is kind. I create waste, and I feed the earth. The waste of my lips feeds the sky and feeds the dreams of my sisters and my brothers.
I breathe fire, and I breathe it out. I eat passion whole and spit up waves of scathing thought and dream and rhetoric. Heat is the creation of motion, and I make the world move.
I breathe in water, and I breathe out something deep and soothing. I fill the empty. I quench, I heal the parched and the dried and the wounded. Liquid is something that rushes until bounded. I am the fountain and the funnel both.
I breathe in air, and I breathe out truth and lies. I whisper, and mountains shudder. I shout, and a heart whimpers. I am the liar and the priest and the god and the beggar all. Wind tells us every story we will ever know. I am the man who chooses the stories.
I will breathe the earth, as will you. It will bring the forge to rest. Until then, do not eat the earth. Do not breathe it in. Do not wish it ill, for it will be your comfort one day.
If you could not breathe the earth, one day you'd find the fire and the water and the air rushing out of the holes in you. You'd never contain a thing, and hollow, you would rust and wither. The earth keeps us whole, even as we go into a complete and flawless silence.
We are all these things. I simply know the names of all of these. I simply know enough to tell you how to breathe.
In my chest is a lab of alchemy. I've made flame and fury there, and sang songs to chill and to soothe and to heal and to hurt and to boil and to simmer. I have within me a forge, a place of construction. I consume, and within me, things are consumed. I breathe, I transform, and I exhale. I am the process and the function and the form. I am the mold.
In my belly, I burn away impurity. In my lungs, I take the life from all around me, and I breathe out something coarse and alien. Even this is breath to another, and in this way, my pollution is kind. I create waste, and I feed the earth. The waste of my lips feeds the sky and feeds the dreams of my sisters and my brothers.
I breathe fire, and I breathe it out. I eat passion whole and spit up waves of scathing thought and dream and rhetoric. Heat is the creation of motion, and I make the world move.
I breathe in water, and I breathe out something deep and soothing. I fill the empty. I quench, I heal the parched and the dried and the wounded. Liquid is something that rushes until bounded. I am the fountain and the funnel both.
I breathe in air, and I breathe out truth and lies. I whisper, and mountains shudder. I shout, and a heart whimpers. I am the liar and the priest and the god and the beggar all. Wind tells us every story we will ever know. I am the man who chooses the stories.
I will breathe the earth, as will you. It will bring the forge to rest. Until then, do not eat the earth. Do not breathe it in. Do not wish it ill, for it will be your comfort one day.
If you could not breathe the earth, one day you'd find the fire and the water and the air rushing out of the holes in you. You'd never contain a thing, and hollow, you would rust and wither. The earth keeps us whole, even as we go into a complete and flawless silence.
We are all these things. I simply know the names of all of these. I simply know enough to tell you how to breathe.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Count The Time
(Most basic four-four)
One, two, three, four,
One, Two, three, four,
Cut and paste my
Life before you.
Three, two, three, two,
Take me over.
Take me over,
One, two, three, breathe.
Three, two, one, two,
Come on over,
Come on over,
One, two, three, breathe.
One, two, three, four,
One, two, three, four
Cut and paste my
Life before you.
I thought I knew my song...
I thought I had it better than this...
I thought I had it figured out,
I figured out it all too late, breathe.
I thought I had a grip on me.
I thought I had a grip on...the situation.
I thought I figured out my trouble.
Out, my trouble has escaped, breathe...
One, two, three, four,
One, Two, three, four,
Cut and paste my
Life before you.
Three, two, three, two,
Take me over.
Take me over,
One, two, three, breathe.
You said that I would be much better....
You said that I would grow with out you...
You said that I was so much better.
So much better feels so bad, breathe.
You said that we would live forever...
You said that we would live forever...
You said that friendship never ends,
Well, never ends feels like three weeks, breathe!
One, two, three, four,
One, two, three, four
Cut and paste my
Life before you...
Three, two, one, two
Come back over,
Come back over,
One, two, three....
Breathe...
One, two, one, two
Breathe...
Three, four, three, four.
Breathe...
Two, one, one, two
Breathe...
Four, three, two, one.
Cut and paste my
Life before you
Cut and paste my
Life before you
One, two, three, four
One, two, three, four
Three, four, before.
Four, three, two...
One...
One, two, three, four,
One, Two, three, four,
Cut and paste my
Life before you.
Three, two, three, two,
Take me over.
Take me over,
One, two, three, breathe.
Three, two, one, two,
Come on over,
Come on over,
One, two, three, breathe.
One, two, three, four,
One, two, three, four
Cut and paste my
Life before you.
I thought I knew my song...
I thought I had it better than this...
I thought I had it figured out,
I figured out it all too late, breathe.
I thought I had a grip on me.
I thought I had a grip on...the situation.
I thought I figured out my trouble.
Out, my trouble has escaped, breathe...
One, two, three, four,
One, Two, three, four,
Cut and paste my
Life before you.
Three, two, three, two,
Take me over.
Take me over,
One, two, three, breathe.
You said that I would be much better....
You said that I would grow with out you...
You said that I was so much better.
So much better feels so bad, breathe.
You said that we would live forever...
You said that we would live forever...
You said that friendship never ends,
Well, never ends feels like three weeks, breathe!
One, two, three, four,
One, two, three, four
Cut and paste my
Life before you...
Three, two, one, two
Come back over,
Come back over,
One, two, three....
Breathe...
One, two, one, two
Breathe...
Three, four, three, four.
Breathe...
Two, one, one, two
Breathe...
Four, three, two, one.
Cut and paste my
Life before you
Cut and paste my
Life before you
One, two, three, four
One, two, three, four
Three, four, before.
Four, three, two...
One...
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Lightheaded
By the first shot, she was dancing.
By the second, she knew the song she was dancing to. It was a memory song, something half-remembered, something sweet and hot and light. She swayed and moved in ways that brought a blush to her lips and a shine to her eyes. No one knew her eyes shone best when she was crying. He knew.
He didn't remember like she did. The third shot brought him to her mind, the fourth put his taste on her lips. The fifth dismissed her sense of illusion. He was real. He was there. He was kind. He was true.
The whiskey told her so, and she danced a dance to warm him, to warm him in her blood. To start a heat in her, and did she burn and grind and roll and turn on the empty floor. Hollow men looked on her with hollow eyes, but her whiskey man, her memory man, he saw her true and hot and sweet and true.
She was dancing for him - for his taste, his touch, his fire eyes and wind-whisper kiss. She knew his hidden paths and his secret ways. She knew his pain. She was nude in his fingers. He was naked in her light.
The last shot brought him back. The shot after brought back the world. The shot after that painted the sky. The walls were red. The hollow eyes were silent. The dance was done. Her head was killing her. The memories were out.
No more shots to go. Her tab was rung. She was free of the smoke and the dance and the memory man. She was free of the hurt. She was done.
By the second, she knew the song she was dancing to. It was a memory song, something half-remembered, something sweet and hot and light. She swayed and moved in ways that brought a blush to her lips and a shine to her eyes. No one knew her eyes shone best when she was crying. He knew.
He didn't remember like she did. The third shot brought him to her mind, the fourth put his taste on her lips. The fifth dismissed her sense of illusion. He was real. He was there. He was kind. He was true.
The whiskey told her so, and she danced a dance to warm him, to warm him in her blood. To start a heat in her, and did she burn and grind and roll and turn on the empty floor. Hollow men looked on her with hollow eyes, but her whiskey man, her memory man, he saw her true and hot and sweet and true.
She was dancing for him - for his taste, his touch, his fire eyes and wind-whisper kiss. She knew his hidden paths and his secret ways. She knew his pain. She was nude in his fingers. He was naked in her light.
The last shot brought him back. The shot after brought back the world. The shot after that painted the sky. The walls were red. The hollow eyes were silent. The dance was done. Her head was killing her. The memories were out.
No more shots to go. Her tab was rung. She was free of the smoke and the dance and the memory man. She was free of the hurt. She was done.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Feeling the Heat
All in all, Doug thought, things could have been worse.
Then the air conditioner gave a frigid, cracking noise, and the bottom of it fell out like an ice machine with a burst trap.
Shit, he thought. “Shit,” he muttered, soon after. “Shit!” he yelled. He barely held in a demonstration as he dove to his grimoire – it was a discount grimoire, which was a bad idea to begin with. It was in Cyrillic, which was his second mistake. The Phoenician might have taken more study, but it was also far less smudged. He could have learned Phoenician. It is much clearer on the details, anyway.
His third mistake was the most basic of mistakes – pride. It cometh before the fall, and Doug was deeply interested in comething, which was his fourth mistake. The flesh suborns the mind, and Doug was downright submissive to his flesh at the particular point to which he had arrived. Doug was not fucked, which is exactly why he was. Sandra was supposed to solve this, but that leads to mistake number five.
Sandra was hard to impress. Never bother with a woman who's hard to impress. Especially never try if you're a COBOL programmer in an age beyond its time. Doug felt the need to impress, problem six, and Sandra was hard to impress. That would be the seventh error, their mix of Jack Daniels and mutual damage that brought them to this room, Doug's room, technically his mystical chamber.
Doug didn't invest in central air, which made his apartment unbearable without a window unit. He did not realize this was his eighth mistake until now. The choice of sweaty lemonade to calm his mind was the ninth, as his sticky-wet fingers further smudged the cheap, Cyrillic words he'd translated with Babelfish. Yes, that would be his tenth mistake. His eleventh was failing to double-translate – it was reliable, right, if it's on the internet.
“It's okay, Sandy...I can fix this. Love conquers all!” That lie was his twelfth mistake, and nearly the fatal one. Love does, in fact, conquer all in a world of magic and mystery. Doug was very much in lust, deeply in need, overwhelmed in confusion, and dancing with the demons of ego. Doug was not in love.
“I promise.” And there it was. The grimoire burst into flames. The frozen, nude statue of his lady 'love' took down a fracture from the heart and outwards...and as he cried out, she shattered.
Thirteen mistakes is too much for even the mystical arts to tolerate. Worst of all, he'd intended to make her more beautiful.
The spell had succeeded, and succeeded still.
Then the air conditioner gave a frigid, cracking noise, and the bottom of it fell out like an ice machine with a burst trap.
Shit, he thought. “Shit,” he muttered, soon after. “Shit!” he yelled. He barely held in a demonstration as he dove to his grimoire – it was a discount grimoire, which was a bad idea to begin with. It was in Cyrillic, which was his second mistake. The Phoenician might have taken more study, but it was also far less smudged. He could have learned Phoenician. It is much clearer on the details, anyway.
His third mistake was the most basic of mistakes – pride. It cometh before the fall, and Doug was deeply interested in comething, which was his fourth mistake. The flesh suborns the mind, and Doug was downright submissive to his flesh at the particular point to which he had arrived. Doug was not fucked, which is exactly why he was. Sandra was supposed to solve this, but that leads to mistake number five.
Sandra was hard to impress. Never bother with a woman who's hard to impress. Especially never try if you're a COBOL programmer in an age beyond its time. Doug felt the need to impress, problem six, and Sandra was hard to impress. That would be the seventh error, their mix of Jack Daniels and mutual damage that brought them to this room, Doug's room, technically his mystical chamber.
Doug didn't invest in central air, which made his apartment unbearable without a window unit. He did not realize this was his eighth mistake until now. The choice of sweaty lemonade to calm his mind was the ninth, as his sticky-wet fingers further smudged the cheap, Cyrillic words he'd translated with Babelfish. Yes, that would be his tenth mistake. His eleventh was failing to double-translate – it was reliable, right, if it's on the internet.
“It's okay, Sandy...I can fix this. Love conquers all!” That lie was his twelfth mistake, and nearly the fatal one. Love does, in fact, conquer all in a world of magic and mystery. Doug was very much in lust, deeply in need, overwhelmed in confusion, and dancing with the demons of ego. Doug was not in love.
“I promise.” And there it was. The grimoire burst into flames. The frozen, nude statue of his lady 'love' took down a fracture from the heart and outwards...and as he cried out, she shattered.
Thirteen mistakes is too much for even the mystical arts to tolerate. Worst of all, he'd intended to make her more beautiful.
The spell had succeeded, and succeeded still.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Veritas, Libertas
David Calgary was having a dream. He was immediately glad that it wasn't his own.
He stood in an open doorway, staring down and out into endless rows of belts and gears, an assembly line like a wicked engine, thrumming with pistons and the vivid stink of oil. Sparks danced like chained demons, cruel and compelling all at once, the only light except for a pervasive, sourceless red. This place was industry. This place was hell. To the owner of this dream, it was both.
This hell was not empty, either. Men, if you could call them men, stood in chains before the endless, grinding belts. Some small and lean, others long and so beautiful as to bring ice tears to a loving eye – David did not have loving eyes, but he found his breath stolen nonetheless. Fat and squat, lean and thin, every step between and all of them with eyes of a vibrant, dangerous green. They did not belong in this place of black and red and steel. To the owner of this dream, it was their hell.
It was another's industry. Shapeless and looming, his shadow danced on three of the walls, the fourth lost to the darkness of offstage, of possibility. This is where David's door led him. The shadows rose, eyeglasses glinting red in reflection. David supposed he was supposed to make it right. He supposed that to the owner of this dream, he was the hero.
It was true enough. He strode forward, a sledgehammer heavy in his hands. VERITAS was burned into the iron on one side, LIBERTAS on the other. The owner of the dream was dramatic in that sense – David was now certain he'd never dream this up on his own. Taking up the weight of her need, he marched on, and when he raised his arms, the gears gasped and paused.
When he brought them down, it shattered. Belt. Gears. Chains. Shadows. The red shattered like the red of the overseer's glasses. Everything collapsed with a single dose of VERITAS, LIBERTAS clattering to the floor. The owner of the dream, a young and beautiful woman, looked up at him from the mess – the only one still in chains. Her face was plain – David remembered her gratitude - her body was unremarkable, for that matter, but in her dreams, she was beautiful.
“You saved me...you freed me. Freed all of us.” She raised her chained wrists. She changed.
Her hair was now silver. Her eyes were an endless, shining gray. Her face was slight and fragile and pure. Her lips were open. “You did this to me.” Her eyes were so very sad. All around, the shattering and clattering of glass played on, an endless rain in David's ears.
David's dream had found him. “J-”
*****
“-ust get up already. You're going to be late. You know how Dwight gets.” David's eyes snapped open. He was sitting in an awkward position, like Cassiopeia on a borrowed couch. The entire apartment was borrowed. He was borrowing it from Glenn, who let him. Glenn, after all, owed him more than half a soul, by all rights.
Glenn was burdened with an overabundance – something David could definitely understand.
Glenn's dreams were different, however. Glenn dreamed of Heaven. Something inside of Glenn cried every night. Glenn had to comfort her, and in return, she had grown fiecely loyal. David considered himself lucky. The woman of his dreams at least had the courtesy to stay there.
“All right. I'm up...” He went over to shave. He never bothered with his hair, but he always shaved, then showered, then put on a freshly pressed shirt, tie, and slacks. He added the odd boots from his last job – he told strangers who stared that they'd been made for him by elves. They thought he was lying.
“All right,” he repeated. He stared into the mirror. Her silver eyes were watching. So much for courtesy these days, he thought.
“I'm up.”
He stood in an open doorway, staring down and out into endless rows of belts and gears, an assembly line like a wicked engine, thrumming with pistons and the vivid stink of oil. Sparks danced like chained demons, cruel and compelling all at once, the only light except for a pervasive, sourceless red. This place was industry. This place was hell. To the owner of this dream, it was both.
This hell was not empty, either. Men, if you could call them men, stood in chains before the endless, grinding belts. Some small and lean, others long and so beautiful as to bring ice tears to a loving eye – David did not have loving eyes, but he found his breath stolen nonetheless. Fat and squat, lean and thin, every step between and all of them with eyes of a vibrant, dangerous green. They did not belong in this place of black and red and steel. To the owner of this dream, it was their hell.
It was another's industry. Shapeless and looming, his shadow danced on three of the walls, the fourth lost to the darkness of offstage, of possibility. This is where David's door led him. The shadows rose, eyeglasses glinting red in reflection. David supposed he was supposed to make it right. He supposed that to the owner of this dream, he was the hero.
It was true enough. He strode forward, a sledgehammer heavy in his hands. VERITAS was burned into the iron on one side, LIBERTAS on the other. The owner of the dream was dramatic in that sense – David was now certain he'd never dream this up on his own. Taking up the weight of her need, he marched on, and when he raised his arms, the gears gasped and paused.
When he brought them down, it shattered. Belt. Gears. Chains. Shadows. The red shattered like the red of the overseer's glasses. Everything collapsed with a single dose of VERITAS, LIBERTAS clattering to the floor. The owner of the dream, a young and beautiful woman, looked up at him from the mess – the only one still in chains. Her face was plain – David remembered her gratitude - her body was unremarkable, for that matter, but in her dreams, she was beautiful.
“You saved me...you freed me. Freed all of us.” She raised her chained wrists. She changed.
Her hair was now silver. Her eyes were an endless, shining gray. Her face was slight and fragile and pure. Her lips were open. “You did this to me.” Her eyes were so very sad. All around, the shattering and clattering of glass played on, an endless rain in David's ears.
David's dream had found him. “J-”
*****
“-ust get up already. You're going to be late. You know how Dwight gets.” David's eyes snapped open. He was sitting in an awkward position, like Cassiopeia on a borrowed couch. The entire apartment was borrowed. He was borrowing it from Glenn, who let him. Glenn, after all, owed him more than half a soul, by all rights.
Glenn was burdened with an overabundance – something David could definitely understand.
Glenn's dreams were different, however. Glenn dreamed of Heaven. Something inside of Glenn cried every night. Glenn had to comfort her, and in return, she had grown fiecely loyal. David considered himself lucky. The woman of his dreams at least had the courtesy to stay there.
“All right. I'm up...” He went over to shave. He never bothered with his hair, but he always shaved, then showered, then put on a freshly pressed shirt, tie, and slacks. He added the odd boots from his last job – he told strangers who stared that they'd been made for him by elves. They thought he was lying.
“All right,” he repeated. He stared into the mirror. Her silver eyes were watching. So much for courtesy these days, he thought.
“I'm up.”
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