He was so excited to be free of work for a few days. He quickly decided once again that whoever invented weekends deserved to live in one perpetually. Then he realized that, as far as he knew, it was just as likely that at one time, everyone lived in a perpetual weekend, then some jerk came along and invented the work week. He quickly decided that whoever invented the work week deserved to live in one perpetually.
As he was pulling into the parking lot of the theater, he felt his pocket buzzing. He quickly found a spot, parked his car, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Hello?"
"Hey. We just got to the theater."
"Me too," he responded with less enthusiasm than he actually felt.
"We'll save you a seat if you grab the popcorn."
"Deal," he said with a bit more enthusiasm than he actually felt.
"Sweet." His sister hung up.
He loved spending time with his siblings and he had really been looking forward to seeing this movie. The thought briefly crossed his mind that he needed to make sure they paid him back for the popcorn, but some quick calculations reminded him just how pointless balancing a relationship financially with someone you would be around for years. It all worked out eventually.
He got into the theater, said hi to his brother, sister, and sister-in-law, passed the popcorn around, then took his seat and settled in to watch the previews.
He stifled a yawn as he felt the week catching up with him.
He leaned over to his sister and whispered, "Kick me when the movie starts." She smiled and gave him a thumbs up, so he settled back into his chair.
And he closed his eyes.
"Wake up, dummy!"
He slowly opened his eyes and stood up. "I'm up," he said drowsily. "I'm up."
As the world came into focus, he made out that Sharpshot was sitting across the cabin from him, cleaning the barrel of an unnecessarily large rifle. "Did you have a nice nap, princess?" He waved her off, trying to ignore her typical condescension.
He walked to the front of the plane to talk to the pilot. "How far are we from the drop zone?"
The pilot consulted a dial in front of him. "Looks like you've got about two minutes."
He nodded to the pilot before returning to his seat, retrieving a long scimitar on the way. As he sat down and began sharpening, he could see Sharpshot growing ever more irritated at him. He knew she hated the sound of him sharpening his sword and truly loved anything that gave him an opportunity to make her uncomfortable.
A red light began flashing at thirty seconds from the drop zone. It was followed fifteen seconds later by a siren as the bay door opened. Thirteen seconds after that, Sharpshot ran for the open door, passing the parachutes without a second glance, and leapt gracefully from the plane. Three seconds later, a column of dark smoke followed her.
It didn't take long for Haze to catch up with his partner. He surrounded her and began slowing her descent. By the time they reached the ground, she landed so softly, even Primadame couldn't have heard her.
Hopefully neither could their target.
As he rematerialized next to Sharpshot, Haze took in the scene now surrounding them. It was chaotic to say the least. Some kind of hostage situation was going down and a huge squadron of police cars were lighting up the night. The office building they had surrounded was dark save one window on the fourth floor. When Sharpshot nodded at the window, Haze nodded back to her and approached an officer who had the air of authority about him. A quick flash of his badge identifying him as a member of the League gave the two nexters all the power they needed to bypass the local authorities and fly straight up to the window.
As they got close to the fourth floor, Sharpshot casually shot out the illuminated window and Haze sat her down inside, heralded by a chorus of hostages' screams.
Then he saw her.
Melanie Menteur was standing in an open doorway across the room.
His heart sank. He knew that a crawler was involved in the situation, and he had been trying his absolute best to mentally prepare himself for the inevitable moment that his and Sharpshot's hunt would lead to an encounter with his old flame. But he wasn't prepared.
Not in the least.
Melanie smiled at him and began crossing the room. Before she had taken two steps, however, Sharpshot had drawn the rifle she had been cleaning on the plane and trained it on her head. Melanie's smile only faded briefly as she slowly raised her hands over her head. "It's nice to see you too, Sharps."
"You don't get to play to nice anymore, bitch," Sharpshot responded bitterly.
Haze realized what was happening a half-second after Sharpshot had pulled the trigger. He dove forward, dematerializing slightly, trying to slow the bullet enough that Melanie would be alright.
Old habits died hard.
And so did Melanie.
He hadn't reacted fast enough to save the crawler. As he solidified next to her, he could practically feel Sharpshot's eyes boring into the back of his skull. He didn't care. He held Melanie's lifeless body in his arms and sobbed softly. His partner let out a frustrated sigh.
"You do remember what she did to you, don't you?"
Realization dawned on him. What would Nash do when he heard about this?
He felt a sense of purpose flow through him again. They couldn't let that stop them. They had a mission, and today was a victory. Zero casualties. Another crawler down, and a breeder at that. He silently reassured himself that they were doing the right thing, stood up, and walked to the window. He turned back to his partner. "I wish I didn't." And he let himself fall backward.
He chuckled to himself as the crowd below gasped and screamed at him falling. He reveled in their shock all the way up to the moment right before he hit the ground, at which point he transformed into a cloud of black smoke and flew back up to retrieve Sharpshot.
Just after she had leapt from the ledge, a sharp pain in his left leg tore him away from the moment.
And he opened his eyes.
"Please silence your cell phones now," a soft, pleasant voice repeated more times than was necessary.
He turned and gave his sister a silent nod of appreciation. She just smiled, reveling in the opportunity he had given her to kick him without consequence.
One hundred and two minutes later, he left the theater with his sister so that she could navigate to the restaurant they were all supposed to meet at. As they climbed in the car, she asked the obligatory question after seeing a movie with someone. "So, what did you think?"
"It was good," he responded with a bit less enthusiasm than he actually felt. "The first one was better, though."
"Are you kidding me?" She asked incredulously. "The first one was impossible to follow!"
"You just aren't used to non-linear story telling."
She laughed at him. "Nerd."
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Long Lunch Lamentations
Holding the phone nervously, he waited for a response on the other side. None came.
"Hello?" He asked again.
Still no response. But there was some breathing this time. Not heavy or unnatural breathing, but enough to make it clear that there was definitely someone on the line with him.
"Look, I don't know if you can hear me, but . . ."
There was a click and the line went dead.
". . . but I'm pretty certain roasted checkers pieces would make terrible slippers." He hung up the phone more disappointed than he had expected to be. Apparently, it was back to boring old life again.
Maybe he would take a long lunch.
He got up and returned to the arduous task of collecting the papers he had so unceremoniously scattered across his office a few minutes before. As he stood from picking some up, he felt blood rushing into his head. He steadied himself against his desk.
And he closed his eyes.
"What do you mean you don't know where he is?" His voice was trembling with anger. "Your people were supposed to be keeping track of him!"
"That's not how we work, Qualm, and you know it," Captain Superior responded, stern but level-headed. "We're not the League."
"No, but we have been kind enough to allow you to continue operating . . ."
"Allowed us?" A bit less level-headed.
"Yes, Captain, allowed. We have allowed you to continued your work." He knew it was worthless to threaten Captain Superior, but even the leader of the Archers was susceptible to being thrown off his game by cheap insults. Moreover, his psych eval from upstairs suggested a strong possibility of a huge inferiority complex. Even his self-chosen name screamed over-compensation. Maybe he could trick the hero into taking the blame for this one. Maybe.
"Do you really want to turn this into a war between L.A.N.C.E. and the Archers? Do you think that will end well for either side?"
Maybe not.
"This isn't about us versus you," except that it was. "It's about the fact that we turned over a dangerous fugitive to you, because you assured us that your people could handle him." Stay calm. Keep him on the defensive.
Superior took a step forward and pressed a finger against Qualm's chest. "Don't you talk to me about my failures. We both know you wouldn't be here at all if Tristam wasn't breathing down your neck from upstairs. This is as much your screw up as mine."
That wasn't the defensive. New attack.
He looked at the Captain from over the top of his tinted glasses. "How many of your people did he take with him?"
Superior turned his back on the agent and walked to the window. "Most of the crawlers. Shaman, Mr. Simon, and Nujalik all left with him willingly. Malice is missing too."
"Have you heard from Sam?" He tried his best to feign genuine concern. It wasn't quite as convincing as he would have hoped, but thankfully it seemed to be enough that the Captain didn't notice.
"Arcano called in earlier. Sam's safe in Axis Mundi."
Qualm silently mourned a lost bullet in this shootout. "Thank God," he said in a tone that completely contradicted his legitimate feelings.
Superior snorted. "Thank someone."
Questioning his faith. This was a good sign. He was back on the ropes with his arms down. "Did Arcano have any leads?"
Superior sighed. "I already told you, Qualm. We don't know where he is. Nash disappeared, ok? There was a disagreement, he blew up a building, and ran off."
Qualm sighed. "I just can't believe you didn't even send someone after him."
Something snapped in the captain and reeled around to stare Qualm down. "I lost two good men in that pursuit. Do you understand that?" Anger. Qualm was winning again. "Daedalus and Astro Defender gave their lives trying to stop Nash. I will not let you diminish their sacrifice by suggesting we didn't do anything. We did all we could."
Perfect. "And I don't think you want to diminish their last act by simply letting Nash go." Superior's jaw tensed. Qualm looked him dead in the eye. "When you get word about him, let me know immediately." And with that, he turned and walked away.
He managed to pin blame and responsibility on the Archers. Tristam would be proud.
When he turned a corner and knew he was out of Captain Superior's eyesight, he leaned against a wall and let out a long, slow breath.
And he opened his eyes.
A long lunch was sounding better and better by the seconds. He needed the change of scenery desperately, and he had hours to spare. It wasn't like he would be accomplishing anything the rest of the day anyway at this rate.
Suddenly, the phone on his desk rang. He checked the caller ID to see his boss's extension number.
Apparently, the long lunch would have to wait a bit longer.
"Hello?" He asked again.
Still no response. But there was some breathing this time. Not heavy or unnatural breathing, but enough to make it clear that there was definitely someone on the line with him.
"Look, I don't know if you can hear me, but . . ."
There was a click and the line went dead.
". . . but I'm pretty certain roasted checkers pieces would make terrible slippers." He hung up the phone more disappointed than he had expected to be. Apparently, it was back to boring old life again.
Maybe he would take a long lunch.
He got up and returned to the arduous task of collecting the papers he had so unceremoniously scattered across his office a few minutes before. As he stood from picking some up, he felt blood rushing into his head. He steadied himself against his desk.
And he closed his eyes.
"What do you mean you don't know where he is?" His voice was trembling with anger. "Your people were supposed to be keeping track of him!"
"That's not how we work, Qualm, and you know it," Captain Superior responded, stern but level-headed. "We're not the League."
"No, but we have been kind enough to allow you to continue operating . . ."
"Allowed us?" A bit less level-headed.
"Yes, Captain, allowed. We have allowed you to continued your work." He knew it was worthless to threaten Captain Superior, but even the leader of the Archers was susceptible to being thrown off his game by cheap insults. Moreover, his psych eval from upstairs suggested a strong possibility of a huge inferiority complex. Even his self-chosen name screamed over-compensation. Maybe he could trick the hero into taking the blame for this one. Maybe.
"Do you really want to turn this into a war between L.A.N.C.E. and the Archers? Do you think that will end well for either side?"
Maybe not.
"This isn't about us versus you," except that it was. "It's about the fact that we turned over a dangerous fugitive to you, because you assured us that your people could handle him." Stay calm. Keep him on the defensive.
Superior took a step forward and pressed a finger against Qualm's chest. "Don't you talk to me about my failures. We both know you wouldn't be here at all if Tristam wasn't breathing down your neck from upstairs. This is as much your screw up as mine."
That wasn't the defensive. New attack.
He looked at the Captain from over the top of his tinted glasses. "How many of your people did he take with him?"
Superior turned his back on the agent and walked to the window. "Most of the crawlers. Shaman, Mr. Simon, and Nujalik all left with him willingly. Malice is missing too."
"Have you heard from Sam?" He tried his best to feign genuine concern. It wasn't quite as convincing as he would have hoped, but thankfully it seemed to be enough that the Captain didn't notice.
"Arcano called in earlier. Sam's safe in Axis Mundi."
Qualm silently mourned a lost bullet in this shootout. "Thank God," he said in a tone that completely contradicted his legitimate feelings.
Superior snorted. "Thank someone."
Questioning his faith. This was a good sign. He was back on the ropes with his arms down. "Did Arcano have any leads?"
Superior sighed. "I already told you, Qualm. We don't know where he is. Nash disappeared, ok? There was a disagreement, he blew up a building, and ran off."
Qualm sighed. "I just can't believe you didn't even send someone after him."
Something snapped in the captain and reeled around to stare Qualm down. "I lost two good men in that pursuit. Do you understand that?" Anger. Qualm was winning again. "Daedalus and Astro Defender gave their lives trying to stop Nash. I will not let you diminish their sacrifice by suggesting we didn't do anything. We did all we could."
Perfect. "And I don't think you want to diminish their last act by simply letting Nash go." Superior's jaw tensed. Qualm looked him dead in the eye. "When you get word about him, let me know immediately." And with that, he turned and walked away.
He managed to pin blame and responsibility on the Archers. Tristam would be proud.
When he turned a corner and knew he was out of Captain Superior's eyesight, he leaned against a wall and let out a long, slow breath.
And he opened his eyes.
A long lunch was sounding better and better by the seconds. He needed the change of scenery desperately, and he had hours to spare. It wasn't like he would be accomplishing anything the rest of the day anyway at this rate.
Suddenly, the phone on his desk rang. He checked the caller ID to see his boss's extension number.
Apparently, the long lunch would have to wait a bit longer.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Bzzzzzzt!
He picked up the folder and threw it across the room, scattering papers everywhere. It was slightly satisfying, but not quite as much as punching someone in the face would be.
"I'm not a miracle worker," he muttered to himself. "What do they expect me to do?"
"What was that?" A coworker was shouting to him from the office next door. Apparently, he could hear the slightest mutter, but not something that might socially obligate his assistance like the sound of a hundred papers flying through the air and the rest thudding into the wall between our offices.
"Nothing," he shouted back.
He was slowly rising from his desk to start gathering the papers back up when his leg started buzzing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone to find a number staring back at him rather than a name. It looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. He made the assumption that if it was important, they would call back and slid the phone back into his pocket.
He reached down to pick up some of the papers only to be rewarded with a sharp pain in his lower back. It was as though someone snuck up behind him, lodged a knife just above his hip, then stuffed the wound with a couple of marbles.
He decided not to question how he would even know what that felt like.
Hoping that it would eventually relieve the pain, he hobbled back to his chair and sat down.
Then he closed his eyes.
He slowly lifted his head out of his hands and looked across the desk. "So how have we responded?" Haze's voice was haggard, tired, and full of the darkest of emotions.
Tristam looked almost as tired as Haze felt. His eyes were focused intently on the paper sitting in front of him on his desk. "We can't take any chances right now. We've already taken her into custody, but there really isn't much else we can do. The situation is delicate. Even as a crawler, she could still be part of L.A.N.C.E., but the fact that she lied to us in the first place changes things quite a bit."
"Can you blame her, though?"
"No," Tristam said matter-of-factly. "Regardless of what our official policies claim, there is a distinct prejudice against crawlers. Nexters are praised, crawlers are feared. That's just the way it is right now. That doesn't change what she did."
"But it does!" There was more anger in his voice than he had intended. "It changes everything!" He realized he was not only standing, but hovering a few inches off the ground. He returned to his seat. "She couldn't help it."
"Haze, quit lying to yourself. She knew full well what she was doing."
"What's happened to the Gefell?"
"We're integrating Nash into the team."
"It won't work," he responded quickly and flatly.
"Excuse me?" More than a little offended.
"It won't work," he repeated. "He won't take to League protocols. He'll be with the Archers in a week."
"And you know this because . . ."
Haze looked at his boss with disdain and condescension. "Because I can't take League protocols."
"Excuse me?" More than a little nervous.
He quickly changed the subject. "Where's Melanie being held?"
Tristam looked at him suspiciously, pondering whether or not it was alright to answer him. "She's being held beneath the Lexington base."
"Who else knows about this?"
Tristam raised an eyebrow, guessing at where this was going. "Haze, you can't. You won't be allowed anywhere near her. It would be the stupidest move you could make."
Haze scoffed. "You think I'm an idiot? I'm just trying to figure out which towns I'm gonna have to avoid."
"You can still go to Lexington, just not the base," Tristam responded with a touch of concern in his voice. Concern not for Haze, but for the future of L.A.N.C.E. He could finally see where the conversation was heading.
Haze smiled. "If she's being held in Lexington, there'll be higher security there. If I step foot within a hundred miles of that base, you people will know exactly where I am."
Tristam interrupted him. "We know where you are anyway, you know. There's a tracer in every League agent."
"I know," said Haze, raising a hand where smoke swirled before materializing into a small metallic device. "And you can have that tracer back. I quit."
"Haze, you . . ."
"No," said Haze calmly, rising from his seat. "I'm done."
"You think the Archers are going to be any better?"
"No. I don't. That's why I'm not going there either."
Tristam was confused. "But then . . ."
"When I say I'm done, I don't just mean with the League. I mean with this life." He turned to walk from the room, passing through the chair as though it wasn't there. "I'm going to go try being normal for a change. See how that goes. You might consider the same, Tristam, before you find yourself trying to integrate your own Gefell into the League."
He felt an odd sort of peace pass over him.
And he opened his eyes.
A sudden thought struck him.
He pulled his phone back out of his pocket as he wheeled around to his computer to start digging through his old emails.
Maybe. Just maybe.
The worthless professional conversations he had had by email over the past week had filled up his inbox rather nicely. If the boss were to come by, it looked much better than a bunch of goofy forwards that had nothing to do with his job. Unfortunately, when he was looking for one of those goofy forwards, the professional emails were less helpful and more obnoxious. After much digging, he finally found the email he was looking for.
He compared the number on his computer screen to the number on his phone.
Yes!
He couldn't believe it. The numbers matched! What were the odds of this?
Suddenly, he felt his phone vibrating in his hand and looked down to see the now incredibly familiar number staring back at him. He always said if it was important, they'd call back.
It must be important.
He tapped the screen nervously.
"Hello?"
"I'm not a miracle worker," he muttered to himself. "What do they expect me to do?"
"What was that?" A coworker was shouting to him from the office next door. Apparently, he could hear the slightest mutter, but not something that might socially obligate his assistance like the sound of a hundred papers flying through the air and the rest thudding into the wall between our offices.
"Nothing," he shouted back.
He was slowly rising from his desk to start gathering the papers back up when his leg started buzzing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone to find a number staring back at him rather than a name. It looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. He made the assumption that if it was important, they would call back and slid the phone back into his pocket.
He reached down to pick up some of the papers only to be rewarded with a sharp pain in his lower back. It was as though someone snuck up behind him, lodged a knife just above his hip, then stuffed the wound with a couple of marbles.
He decided not to question how he would even know what that felt like.
Hoping that it would eventually relieve the pain, he hobbled back to his chair and sat down.
Then he closed his eyes.
He slowly lifted his head out of his hands and looked across the desk. "So how have we responded?" Haze's voice was haggard, tired, and full of the darkest of emotions.
Tristam looked almost as tired as Haze felt. His eyes were focused intently on the paper sitting in front of him on his desk. "We can't take any chances right now. We've already taken her into custody, but there really isn't much else we can do. The situation is delicate. Even as a crawler, she could still be part of L.A.N.C.E., but the fact that she lied to us in the first place changes things quite a bit."
"Can you blame her, though?"
"No," Tristam said matter-of-factly. "Regardless of what our official policies claim, there is a distinct prejudice against crawlers. Nexters are praised, crawlers are feared. That's just the way it is right now. That doesn't change what she did."
"But it does!" There was more anger in his voice than he had intended. "It changes everything!" He realized he was not only standing, but hovering a few inches off the ground. He returned to his seat. "She couldn't help it."
"Haze, quit lying to yourself. She knew full well what she was doing."
"What's happened to the Gefell?"
"We're integrating Nash into the team."
"It won't work," he responded quickly and flatly.
"Excuse me?" More than a little offended.
"It won't work," he repeated. "He won't take to League protocols. He'll be with the Archers in a week."
"And you know this because . . ."
Haze looked at his boss with disdain and condescension. "Because I can't take League protocols."
"Excuse me?" More than a little nervous.
He quickly changed the subject. "Where's Melanie being held?"
Tristam looked at him suspiciously, pondering whether or not it was alright to answer him. "She's being held beneath the Lexington base."
"Who else knows about this?"
Tristam raised an eyebrow, guessing at where this was going. "Haze, you can't. You won't be allowed anywhere near her. It would be the stupidest move you could make."
Haze scoffed. "You think I'm an idiot? I'm just trying to figure out which towns I'm gonna have to avoid."
"You can still go to Lexington, just not the base," Tristam responded with a touch of concern in his voice. Concern not for Haze, but for the future of L.A.N.C.E. He could finally see where the conversation was heading.
Haze smiled. "If she's being held in Lexington, there'll be higher security there. If I step foot within a hundred miles of that base, you people will know exactly where I am."
Tristam interrupted him. "We know where you are anyway, you know. There's a tracer in every League agent."
"I know," said Haze, raising a hand where smoke swirled before materializing into a small metallic device. "And you can have that tracer back. I quit."
"Haze, you . . ."
"No," said Haze calmly, rising from his seat. "I'm done."
"You think the Archers are going to be any better?"
"No. I don't. That's why I'm not going there either."
Tristam was confused. "But then . . ."
"When I say I'm done, I don't just mean with the League. I mean with this life." He turned to walk from the room, passing through the chair as though it wasn't there. "I'm going to go try being normal for a change. See how that goes. You might consider the same, Tristam, before you find yourself trying to integrate your own Gefell into the League."
He felt an odd sort of peace pass over him.
And he opened his eyes.
A sudden thought struck him.
He pulled his phone back out of his pocket as he wheeled around to his computer to start digging through his old emails.
Maybe. Just maybe.
The worthless professional conversations he had had by email over the past week had filled up his inbox rather nicely. If the boss were to come by, it looked much better than a bunch of goofy forwards that had nothing to do with his job. Unfortunately, when he was looking for one of those goofy forwards, the professional emails were less helpful and more obnoxious. After much digging, he finally found the email he was looking for.
He compared the number on his computer screen to the number on his phone.
Yes!
He couldn't believe it. The numbers matched! What were the odds of this?
Suddenly, he felt his phone vibrating in his hand and looked down to see the now incredibly familiar number staring back at him. He always said if it was important, they'd call back.
It must be important.
He tapped the screen nervously.
"Hello?"
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Company Space
He huddled in the corner, holding his phone just inches from his face. He was deeply enthralled in a video about immigration and really didn't feel like moving.
He briefly considered the possibility that what he was doing was wrong somehow, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized there was absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. He had already signed out, locked up, and set the alarm. What did it matter if he was still in the building? No one was there to care and the only thing he was "stealing" was company space that would have otherwise been occupied by air.
Hopefully the air wouldn't file a complaint.
Then, as he looked around the office, he realized just how ridiculous he was being. Everyone else had gone home over an hour ago.
He kicked his shoes off.
There was no reason not to be barefoot.
Suddenly, the video stopped for no apparent reason. He tapped on the screen of his phone to bring up details of the video's progress to find that for whatever reason, the video hadn't just stopped playing, but stopped loading. He let his head fall back against the wall behind him in frustration.
And he closed his eyes.
He slowly lifted his head out of his hands and looked across the desk. "So how have we responded?" Haze's voice was haggard, tired, and full of the darkest of emotions.
Qualm looked almost as tired as Haze felt. His eyes were focused intently on the paper sitting in front of him on his desk. "We can't take any chances right now. We've already taken Sam, Diri, and Nujalik into custody, but they're only a tiny fraction of the crawlers we know of. That doesn't even begin to cover the unauthorized ones still lose in the world."
"Qualm," Haze said sternly. The new director finally raised his head to look at the nexter. "I know you better than that. You wouldn't have called me in here for a personal meeting just to debrief and give me a status update. What's the mission?"
"Look, Haze, I know you said your days with the League were behind you, but-"
"But that didn't stop you from coming to my home and drag me to Lexington did it?"
"Haze, I'm sorry. None of that was supposed to-"
"Save it. Just give me the mission. Lord knows I need it right now."
Qualm hesitated, then handed over the papers on his desk. "I've managed to compile a list of suspected crawlers. I need you to-"
"Really?" Haze was bitter and spiteful. "You've got me doing interviews?"
"No," said a female voice behind him. He instinctively dematerialized just enough to turn, stand, and face the intruder. She stepped out of the shadows of the corner until Haze could see a familiar face. "There's no time for interviews." Sharpshot stood just over five feet tall, but had one of the most intimidating presences of any nexter Haze had ever met. Her long, blonde hair fell over one of her eyes and an oversized rifle rested on her hip. Several more weapons in various shapes and sizes awaited her commands in the pockets of her cargo pants, each pocket designed specifically for the weapon it held.
Haze turned back to Qualm. "Are you saying-?"
"I want the two of you to eliminate the crawler threat at any cost."
Haze's eyes were burning with a flood of emotions. He wasn't sure if he was excited about the opportunity for such swift action, thirsting for the blood of vengeance, or concerned by Qualm's willingness to potentially kill civilians.
"Don't tell me you don't want in on this," Sharpshot said teasingly.
"Haze, listen," said Qualm compassionately. "I understand if you don't want to do this. We can always-"
"I'm in."
Qualm was taken aback. Sharpshot smirked.
Haze nodded at his new partner, then at his new boss, grasped the papers in his hand even tighter, and dematerialized. He let his voice echo into the room from all around them. "I'll see you enzone." He let himself fade out, but waited in the corners of the room to listen in.
"That went well," Sharpshot said smoothly. "You played your part like a pro."
Qualm dropped heavily into his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. "I wasn't sure he would buy it. He normally picks up on those kinds of plays."
Haze smiled to himself. He had seen through the play, but it wouldn't have mattered either way. He didn't need to be tricked into this assignment. He would have done it just for the chance at some vengeance. The fact that it was government-sanctioned and that he was getting paid was just icing on an already delicious cake.
As he passed through the walls of the room, a sudden male voice caught him off guard.
He opened his eyes.
Relief filled him as he realized the video had started up again. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped again. His head thudded against the wall again. Begrudgingly, he reached over, grabbed his shoes, and slowly began to put them back on.
Apparently, the wifi of home beckoned louder than his desperate desire for something new.
Stupid metal building.
He briefly considered the possibility that what he was doing was wrong somehow, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized there was absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. He had already signed out, locked up, and set the alarm. What did it matter if he was still in the building? No one was there to care and the only thing he was "stealing" was company space that would have otherwise been occupied by air.
Hopefully the air wouldn't file a complaint.
Then, as he looked around the office, he realized just how ridiculous he was being. Everyone else had gone home over an hour ago.
He kicked his shoes off.
There was no reason not to be barefoot.
Suddenly, the video stopped for no apparent reason. He tapped on the screen of his phone to bring up details of the video's progress to find that for whatever reason, the video hadn't just stopped playing, but stopped loading. He let his head fall back against the wall behind him in frustration.
And he closed his eyes.
He slowly lifted his head out of his hands and looked across the desk. "So how have we responded?" Haze's voice was haggard, tired, and full of the darkest of emotions.
Qualm looked almost as tired as Haze felt. His eyes were focused intently on the paper sitting in front of him on his desk. "We can't take any chances right now. We've already taken Sam, Diri, and Nujalik into custody, but they're only a tiny fraction of the crawlers we know of. That doesn't even begin to cover the unauthorized ones still lose in the world."
"Qualm," Haze said sternly. The new director finally raised his head to look at the nexter. "I know you better than that. You wouldn't have called me in here for a personal meeting just to debrief and give me a status update. What's the mission?"
"Look, Haze, I know you said your days with the League were behind you, but-"
"But that didn't stop you from coming to my home and drag me to Lexington did it?"
"Haze, I'm sorry. None of that was supposed to-"
"Save it. Just give me the mission. Lord knows I need it right now."
Qualm hesitated, then handed over the papers on his desk. "I've managed to compile a list of suspected crawlers. I need you to-"
"Really?" Haze was bitter and spiteful. "You've got me doing interviews?"
"No," said a female voice behind him. He instinctively dematerialized just enough to turn, stand, and face the intruder. She stepped out of the shadows of the corner until Haze could see a familiar face. "There's no time for interviews." Sharpshot stood just over five feet tall, but had one of the most intimidating presences of any nexter Haze had ever met. Her long, blonde hair fell over one of her eyes and an oversized rifle rested on her hip. Several more weapons in various shapes and sizes awaited her commands in the pockets of her cargo pants, each pocket designed specifically for the weapon it held.
Haze turned back to Qualm. "Are you saying-?"
"I want the two of you to eliminate the crawler threat at any cost."
Haze's eyes were burning with a flood of emotions. He wasn't sure if he was excited about the opportunity for such swift action, thirsting for the blood of vengeance, or concerned by Qualm's willingness to potentially kill civilians.
"Don't tell me you don't want in on this," Sharpshot said teasingly.
"Haze, listen," said Qualm compassionately. "I understand if you don't want to do this. We can always-"
"I'm in."
Qualm was taken aback. Sharpshot smirked.
Haze nodded at his new partner, then at his new boss, grasped the papers in his hand even tighter, and dematerialized. He let his voice echo into the room from all around them. "I'll see you enzone." He let himself fade out, but waited in the corners of the room to listen in.
"That went well," Sharpshot said smoothly. "You played your part like a pro."
Qualm dropped heavily into his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. "I wasn't sure he would buy it. He normally picks up on those kinds of plays."
Haze smiled to himself. He had seen through the play, but it wouldn't have mattered either way. He didn't need to be tricked into this assignment. He would have done it just for the chance at some vengeance. The fact that it was government-sanctioned and that he was getting paid was just icing on an already delicious cake.
As he passed through the walls of the room, a sudden male voice caught him off guard.
He opened his eyes.
Relief filled him as he realized the video had started up again. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped again. His head thudded against the wall again. Begrudgingly, he reached over, grabbed his shoes, and slowly began to put them back on.
Apparently, the wifi of home beckoned louder than his desperate desire for something new.
Stupid metal building.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
FWD: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRLS?
Scrolling through his email for what felt like the hundredth time that day, one subject line stuck out at him:
Click.
His screen was quickly filled with the image of a green-eyed brunette that looked oddly familiar. Above the picture, a headline echoed the grammar-free subject line of the email: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRLS? He felt he had probably seen "this girls" somewhere before, but he couldn't pin it down. He scrolled past the picture to find out if there was something he was supposed to do if he had seen her.
A ringing pulled him away from his computer. The phone was demanding his attention.
He hated the phone.
He closed his eyes.
Slowly, resentfully, he opened his eyes and picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Is that really how you're supposed to answer an official line?" The female voice was playful, sweet and becoming more familiar everyday. He let a smile cross his lips.
"Probably not," he said casually, "but it'll teach them to put me on phone duty. Never. Again."
"When do you get off?"
"Gardyloo."
"Shut up! You know what I mean." He could practically hear her grinning.
"Right now if I can swing it right."
"Gardyloo," she said enthusiastically.
He chuckled to himself. He liked this one. "Not bad, rookie. Where are you?"
"Lexington."
"Be there in a few."
"You better be," she teased, hanging up the phone.
He hung up his receiver and quickly scanned the room to see who else was on duty. On the far side of the room, he saw his mark and zoomed in.
"Hey, Qualm!" He waved the agent over to his desk.
"What is it, Haze?"
"Something's come up," he said quickly, professionally (silently adding 'gardyloo' to the end of his sentence), "and I need to get to Lexington. Can you cover for me?" He gestured toward the phone. "I'm the only one here who can get there fast enough." It was the truth . . . more or less.
Qualm looked hesitantly at the phone, weighing the scales of protocol vs. purpose. "Alright. But make it quick."
"I'll do my best," he said with a grin, fading into a cloud of black smoke.
Qualm had become almost too easy to manipulate ever since the split. Back when he was just a liaison to the Archers, he had always seemed so mysterious and calculating, but now he was just another stiff following orders. It was almost as if his other persona was just a well-calculated order from somewhere higher up. Or maybe he just hadn't realized back then what he was getting himself into.
The flight to the Lexington base took hardly no time at all. He circled around inside the base a few times, staying as translucent as possible so he could have some time to just look at her. Melanie Menteur was absolutely stunning. Her short brunette hair gave her a young, playful look and framed her face perfectly to draw attention to her shining green eyes. Not that they needed help drawing attention to themselves. They could almost literally light up a room and the longer he looked at them, the brighter they seemed to get. She was sitting in one of the soft lobby chairs with her long, toned legs crossed and her hands placed delicately on the fringe of her uniform's pink skirt.
He caught himself grinning . . . or at least the vaporic equivalent of grinning.
He materialized next to her in the chair next to her.
Where others would have never even realized he had appeared until he let them, she noticed right away. She hopped out of her seat excitedly and floated to the arm of his chair where she perched delicately, immediately locking lips with him.
He didn't question it or worry about whether someone was watching. He just went with it. It felt natural. Right. He felt her hand running through his hair and relished it until a sudden, sharp, and very painful pinch on the back of his neck snapped him out of it and forced him to pull away from her. She looked at him with a playful sort of hunger and concern.
"I'm sorry," she said sheepishly. "Guess I got a little excited."
He reached back and felt the spot on his neck where the pain had originated. Oddly, that spot wasn't quite as solid as the rest of him was. (Gardyloo.)
He leapt up from the chair and turned around to find a pillar of white smoke rising from behind the chair. It formed into a large, vaguely humanoid shape. Flames erupted along what could be described as its arms and it seemed to flex at their arrival.
Not her. She couldn't be one. Why her?
A high pitched, repeating tone seemed to squeal from somewhere near the smoke creature. It continued, getting louder and louder, persistently louder and louder until . . .
He opened his eyes.
He picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Hi! I'm calling on behalf of Providence Bank. Your debit card has been deactivated. Please enter your sixteen-digit card number . . . " Nice try, faceless thieves.
"I like turtles," he said loudly, imitating the zombie he so often felt he was, and hung up the phone.
He turned back to the girl's face on his computer to read the words under the picture. He was oddly interested in what he was supposed to do now that he was pretty sure he had seen "this girls". The font was significantly smaller than the header had been, and caught him completely off-guard.
He laughed, seriously considered calling the number, just to see what happened, then decided against it. Instead, he simply forwarded the email to a small list of people he thought would appreciate it.
He wasn't quite ready for that much excitement.
Maybe someone else was.
FWD: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRLS?Based solely on the glaring grammatical error in the subject line, he assumed there was some kind of virus attached to the email, but he didn't really care. It's not like it was his computer. If something went wrong, it was IT's problem. Not his.
Click.
His screen was quickly filled with the image of a green-eyed brunette that looked oddly familiar. Above the picture, a headline echoed the grammar-free subject line of the email: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRLS? He felt he had probably seen "this girls" somewhere before, but he couldn't pin it down. He scrolled past the picture to find out if there was something he was supposed to do if he had seen her.
A ringing pulled him away from his computer. The phone was demanding his attention.
He hated the phone.
He closed his eyes.
Slowly, resentfully, he opened his eyes and picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Is that really how you're supposed to answer an official line?" The female voice was playful, sweet and becoming more familiar everyday. He let a smile cross his lips.
"Probably not," he said casually, "but it'll teach them to put me on phone duty. Never. Again."
"When do you get off?"
"Gardyloo."
"Shut up! You know what I mean." He could practically hear her grinning.
"Right now if I can swing it right."
"Gardyloo," she said enthusiastically.
He chuckled to himself. He liked this one. "Not bad, rookie. Where are you?"
"Lexington."
"Be there in a few."
"You better be," she teased, hanging up the phone.
He hung up his receiver and quickly scanned the room to see who else was on duty. On the far side of the room, he saw his mark and zoomed in.
"Hey, Qualm!" He waved the agent over to his desk.
"What is it, Haze?"
"Something's come up," he said quickly, professionally (silently adding 'gardyloo' to the end of his sentence), "and I need to get to Lexington. Can you cover for me?" He gestured toward the phone. "I'm the only one here who can get there fast enough." It was the truth . . . more or less.
Qualm looked hesitantly at the phone, weighing the scales of protocol vs. purpose. "Alright. But make it quick."
"I'll do my best," he said with a grin, fading into a cloud of black smoke.
Qualm had become almost too easy to manipulate ever since the split. Back when he was just a liaison to the Archers, he had always seemed so mysterious and calculating, but now he was just another stiff following orders. It was almost as if his other persona was just a well-calculated order from somewhere higher up. Or maybe he just hadn't realized back then what he was getting himself into.
The flight to the Lexington base took hardly no time at all. He circled around inside the base a few times, staying as translucent as possible so he could have some time to just look at her. Melanie Menteur was absolutely stunning. Her short brunette hair gave her a young, playful look and framed her face perfectly to draw attention to her shining green eyes. Not that they needed help drawing attention to themselves. They could almost literally light up a room and the longer he looked at them, the brighter they seemed to get. She was sitting in one of the soft lobby chairs with her long, toned legs crossed and her hands placed delicately on the fringe of her uniform's pink skirt.
He caught himself grinning . . . or at least the vaporic equivalent of grinning.
He materialized next to her in the chair next to her.
Where others would have never even realized he had appeared until he let them, she noticed right away. She hopped out of her seat excitedly and floated to the arm of his chair where she perched delicately, immediately locking lips with him.
He didn't question it or worry about whether someone was watching. He just went with it. It felt natural. Right. He felt her hand running through his hair and relished it until a sudden, sharp, and very painful pinch on the back of his neck snapped him out of it and forced him to pull away from her. She looked at him with a playful sort of hunger and concern.
"I'm sorry," she said sheepishly. "Guess I got a little excited."
He reached back and felt the spot on his neck where the pain had originated. Oddly, that spot wasn't quite as solid as the rest of him was. (Gardyloo.)
He leapt up from the chair and turned around to find a pillar of white smoke rising from behind the chair. It formed into a large, vaguely humanoid shape. Flames erupted along what could be described as its arms and it seemed to flex at their arrival.
Not her. She couldn't be one. Why her?
A high pitched, repeating tone seemed to squeal from somewhere near the smoke creature. It continued, getting louder and louder, persistently louder and louder until . . .
He opened his eyes.
He picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Hi! I'm calling on behalf of Providence Bank. Your debit card has been deactivated. Please enter your sixteen-digit card number . . . " Nice try, faceless thieves.
"I like turtles," he said loudly, imitating the zombie he so often felt he was, and hung up the phone.
He turned back to the girl's face on his computer to read the words under the picture. He was oddly interested in what he was supposed to do now that he was pretty sure he had seen "this girls". The font was significantly smaller than the header had been, and caught him completely off-guard.
If you have, please call this number and tell her to break up with her boyfriend. I'm her mother, I hate him and she won't listen to me. Maybe she'll listen to you!There was a number listed below.
He laughed, seriously considered calling the number, just to see what happened, then decided against it. Instead, he simply forwarded the email to a small list of people he thought would appreciate it.
He wasn't quite ready for that much excitement.
Maybe someone else was.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Pain, Pleasure, and Pedaling
He slowly, painfully, lowered himself into the chair, letting out a groan. He quickly and silently prayed for the drugs to kick in faster.
It didn't seem to work.
He thought he'd decided not to work out this week. Apparently the faceless force that decided what he did everyday at work thought differently. Who knew teaching a kid to ride a bike would be so painful for the instructor?
At least it was something different.
He closed his eyes.
Slowly letting out a deep breath, he counted to ten and opened his eyes. He couldn't believe he had a crawler on his ship and didn't realize it. Thank the elements that Hemming had had the foresight to cut off the admiral and get off the bridge before his transformation. No captain could live down the shame of having a crawler ranked that high on his crew.
He pressed a small yellow button on the arm of his chair. Within seconds, four garrisons had entered his quarters unannounced and presented him with a communicator. He attached the receiver to his ear and placed the mouthpiece under his tongue. He hated using these things, but the ship's onboard comms were compromised now. They had no way of knowing the crawler's post-shift intelligence level, but if it had half of Hemming's knowledge as a communications officer, even this system only stood a shadow of a chance.
"Tell me you've got good news."
A voice echoed in his ear and felt like it was reverberating through his mind. "We've managed to narrow his location down to the seven central-most decks, but he's sealed us out, so we can't narrow it down more than that."
"What kind of personnel do we have enzone?"
"Most were evacuated by the automated system to the lowest decks, but two garrisons are unaccounted for."
The captain sighed and braced himself. "Who are they?"
"Diangen and," the captain mouthed the all-too-familiar name along with his first officer, "Corson."
"How did I know he would be right in the middle of this?"
A new voice jumped into the conversation. "Because Hood's Captain-on-High knowst his crewmen better than they knowst him."
Captain Hunter paused, immediately recognizing Corson's voice and pondering this new development. "I suppose I do. In fact, I know my people well enough to realize that the real Corson would have said 'with higher superiority' instead of 'better'."
"Well played, Captain," said the being speaking with Corson's voice.
"Hemming?" The captain's voice was level, matter-of-fact.
"I used to be. He's lying somewhere back on the central deck now, though. He wasn't very lively anymore. Have you figured out yet how he was able to smuggle me onboard?"
Hunter tried to dodge the question. He refused to believe that Hemming would willingly help a crawler. "What about Diangen? Is he still alive?"
"Yes. I believe he is, but he isn't enzone anymore."
Thank the elements. "You said Hemming is on the central deck. Where are you?"
Corson's voice laughed heartily. "Are you seriously telling me you haven't figured that out yet?"
There was a sudden hissing in his ear as the lights flickered. "You're in the tertiary nub, aren't you?"
Another flickering. "You do know your ship, don't you, dearest Captain?"
"You know you've left me no choice, right?"
"I know."
Hunter turned to the garrisons with him, addressing both them and his first officer he hoped could still hear him over the communicator. "I'm so sorry about this." Then he stood, walked to a purple, square-shaped button mounted on the wall. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pressed the button.
"We're with you, sir," said one of the garrison's confidently.
He was grateful for the support, but it didn't make hearing the computer's voice any easier. "Please state your position and authorization route."
"My name is Aberth Hunter, captain of the Ridinghood, route Sehkmet-Left-Aleph."
"Route confirmed."
"I'm sorry, Captain," Hemming's weak voice echoed over the ship's loudspeakers.
Hunter realized his eyes were still closed, but didn't really want to see anything when he gave his final command. "I will not see this ship fall under crawler control. By the Gods, their elements, and under the jurisdiction of the Grande Admiral of the Left Fleet," he paused, taking in his last moments in command, "initiate Keresian Protocol One."
A sudden pain in his back prevented him from considering the vast importance of this moment.
He opened his eyes.
He sat up slowly, agonizing more and more with every inch he moved away from the almost-comfortable chair that had been his almost-bed for the last hour. He was reminded once again how bad of shape he was in, but he couldn't help but relish his current situation.
He hadn't felt this sore in months.
And he kind of liked it.
At least it was something different.
It didn't seem to work.
He thought he'd decided not to work out this week. Apparently the faceless force that decided what he did everyday at work thought differently. Who knew teaching a kid to ride a bike would be so painful for the instructor?
At least it was something different.
He closed his eyes.
Slowly letting out a deep breath, he counted to ten and opened his eyes. He couldn't believe he had a crawler on his ship and didn't realize it. Thank the elements that Hemming had had the foresight to cut off the admiral and get off the bridge before his transformation. No captain could live down the shame of having a crawler ranked that high on his crew.
He pressed a small yellow button on the arm of his chair. Within seconds, four garrisons had entered his quarters unannounced and presented him with a communicator. He attached the receiver to his ear and placed the mouthpiece under his tongue. He hated using these things, but the ship's onboard comms were compromised now. They had no way of knowing the crawler's post-shift intelligence level, but if it had half of Hemming's knowledge as a communications officer, even this system only stood a shadow of a chance.
"Tell me you've got good news."
A voice echoed in his ear and felt like it was reverberating through his mind. "We've managed to narrow his location down to the seven central-most decks, but he's sealed us out, so we can't narrow it down more than that."
"What kind of personnel do we have enzone?"
"Most were evacuated by the automated system to the lowest decks, but two garrisons are unaccounted for."
The captain sighed and braced himself. "Who are they?"
"Diangen and," the captain mouthed the all-too-familiar name along with his first officer, "Corson."
"How did I know he would be right in the middle of this?"
A new voice jumped into the conversation. "Because Hood's Captain-on-High knowst his crewmen better than they knowst him."
Captain Hunter paused, immediately recognizing Corson's voice and pondering this new development. "I suppose I do. In fact, I know my people well enough to realize that the real Corson would have said 'with higher superiority' instead of 'better'."
"Well played, Captain," said the being speaking with Corson's voice.
"Hemming?" The captain's voice was level, matter-of-fact.
"I used to be. He's lying somewhere back on the central deck now, though. He wasn't very lively anymore. Have you figured out yet how he was able to smuggle me onboard?"
Hunter tried to dodge the question. He refused to believe that Hemming would willingly help a crawler. "What about Diangen? Is he still alive?"
"Yes. I believe he is, but he isn't enzone anymore."
Thank the elements. "You said Hemming is on the central deck. Where are you?"
Corson's voice laughed heartily. "Are you seriously telling me you haven't figured that out yet?"
There was a sudden hissing in his ear as the lights flickered. "You're in the tertiary nub, aren't you?"
Another flickering. "You do know your ship, don't you, dearest Captain?"
"You know you've left me no choice, right?"
"I know."
Hunter turned to the garrisons with him, addressing both them and his first officer he hoped could still hear him over the communicator. "I'm so sorry about this." Then he stood, walked to a purple, square-shaped button mounted on the wall. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pressed the button.
"We're with you, sir," said one of the garrison's confidently.
He was grateful for the support, but it didn't make hearing the computer's voice any easier. "Please state your position and authorization route."
"My name is Aberth Hunter, captain of the Ridinghood, route Sehkmet-Left-Aleph."
"Route confirmed."
"I'm sorry, Captain," Hemming's weak voice echoed over the ship's loudspeakers.
Hunter realized his eyes were still closed, but didn't really want to see anything when he gave his final command. "I will not see this ship fall under crawler control. By the Gods, their elements, and under the jurisdiction of the Grande Admiral of the Left Fleet," he paused, taking in his last moments in command, "initiate Keresian Protocol One."
A sudden pain in his back prevented him from considering the vast importance of this moment.
He opened his eyes.
He sat up slowly, agonizing more and more with every inch he moved away from the almost-comfortable chair that had been his almost-bed for the last hour. He was reminded once again how bad of shape he was in, but he couldn't help but relish his current situation.
He hadn't felt this sore in months.
And he kind of liked it.
At least it was something different.
Friday, February 21, 2014
Gotta Get Down on Friday
He let the door close behind him and took in a deep breath, savoring the wonderful air of the outdoors. After locking the door with a sense of finality, he walked slowly to his car. He was in no hurry, and for the first time in a long time, he truly appreciated that fact.
He hadn't been this excited about it being Friday in months.
There were no elaborate plans for the weekend . . . actually there were no plans at all for the weekend, but he was still somehow excited about it. Maybe he was happy that he had a couple of days that he didn't have to come in to work. Maybe he was looking forward to having a day to sleep in after a week of sleeping like a baby (waking up frequently hungry and cranky).
Maybe he was excited about the current economic state in southern Australia.
Screw logic.
For a rare moment, he really didn't stop and think about it. He just went with it.
It kinda felt nice.
As he walked to his car, he spread out his arms, looked to the sky and breathed deeply from the cool afternoon air. A sudden wave of self-consciousness overtook him, compelling him to look around to see if anyone had taken notice of his moment of exuberance. When he realized that not only did nobody notice, but that there was nobody to notice, he threw caution and dignity to the wind and ran across the parking lot to his car.
When he got there, he quickly realized in just how bad of shape he had gotten. It took a bit for him to catch his breath.
So he closed his eyes.
Slowly, cautiously, repressing his nerves and frustration, he opened his eyes to look at the assembled crowd. This was going to split them down the middle, and he was the one who had to break it to them. How did he end up here?
"It's time, Cap," the government agent said with far too much familiarity.
"I know," he said with far more confidence than he felt.
He turned to look at the other two members of the soon-to-be-disbanded Alpha team. Lance was sitting straight-backed in his chair, grinning at their fellow Archers with his typical far-away stare. Primadame was pacing back and forth right behind him, occasionally glancing around, but usually staring intently at her feet.
Captain Superior turned and called the assembly to order.
As he went through some standard protocols he could have done in his sleep, he did a mental check of the Archers and who would most likely end up where.
Beta team was easy. Sam would follow Arcano anywhere who would, in turn, stay with Captain Superior. The Keresian would be compelled to keep herself on the side of the government. Daedalus of Gamma team would fall in that same category, taking Galatea with him. Diri would likely go with them as well if for no other reason than to stay with his teammates. The other teams were a bit less predictable. Sharpshot and Cowhand would almost certainly leave along with Folivora-Man, but he expected Irene and Astro Defender to stay. Mr. Simon, Malice, and the entire rest of Epsilon were wildcards. Their decision would depend on what happened in the next hour.
Then there was Delta team.
He looked over at them. Corson was listening intently, or at least pretending to listen intently, while Ghost and Haze whispered back and forth to each other. They were linchpins. They were low-ranking enough to still be seen as comrades to the rest, but high-ranking enough to be seen as leaders. They were both dangerous and unpredictable.
There was a distinct possibility of Corson avoiding both teams just to stay out of the conflict, but Ghost and Haze would stick together. However much they fought and teased each other, nothing was going to separate them. If the decision was left to Ghost, he would probably stay with the Archers to spite the government. Under different circumstances, the same could be said of Haze, but it was far more likely that he would leave to spite Captain Superior.
He suddenly found himself at the point in the meeting he had been dreading. "And now," Superior said, feeling much less than superior, "here is Agent Qualm of the NSA to explain the real reason for this meeting."
Captain Superior slowly, begrudgingly sat down, yielding the floor to the government.
"Thank you," the agent said pleasantly as he stood, "but it's just Qualm. There's no need for the 'Agent'." This guy was good. He was dressed in apparel almost as flamboyant as most of the Archers and had even given himself a codename that made him sound like one of them. He was trying to convince them he was on their side.
Superior let a spark of hope slip into his soul as he saw Haze and Ghost quietly mocking Qualm. Just maybe this could go his way. Maybe.
"As you all know," Qualm continued, "when Lance here first approached the presidency about being a superhero, they didn't exactly get off on the right foot." A chuckle echoed through the group. This guy was really good. "And then when he said that he was forming a whole team of heroes, the government supported the decision."
"Eventually," Lance interjected, bringing on an even more vigorous round of laughter. Damn them for being good at this.
"Now," Qualm continued, smiling but not missing a beat, "we would like to offer you all the opportunity to become members of the NSA. You have the unique opportunity to become the first League of Authorized Nexters, Crawlers, and Extraordinaires, or L.A.N.C.E." No one in the room wondered who came up with that name.
Malice suddenly stood up, anger flaring in her eyes and across her skin. "You're recruiting us? Are you kidding me?" She threw out her arms, unleashing a burst of energy.
Captain Superior leapt out of his chair, floating a few inches in the air, shielding his face with his arms. At least now he knew where Malice stood.
He opened his eyes.
After finally catching his breath, he got in his car and started it. Maybe today was the day he would finally start working again. He yawned widely, remembering how little sleep he had gotten that week.
Then again, there was always tomorrow.
It was Friday after all.
He hadn't been this excited about it being Friday in months.
There were no elaborate plans for the weekend . . . actually there were no plans at all for the weekend, but he was still somehow excited about it. Maybe he was happy that he had a couple of days that he didn't have to come in to work. Maybe he was looking forward to having a day to sleep in after a week of sleeping like a baby (waking up frequently hungry and cranky).
Maybe he was excited about the current economic state in southern Australia.
Screw logic.
For a rare moment, he really didn't stop and think about it. He just went with it.
It kinda felt nice.
As he walked to his car, he spread out his arms, looked to the sky and breathed deeply from the cool afternoon air. A sudden wave of self-consciousness overtook him, compelling him to look around to see if anyone had taken notice of his moment of exuberance. When he realized that not only did nobody notice, but that there was nobody to notice, he threw caution and dignity to the wind and ran across the parking lot to his car.
When he got there, he quickly realized in just how bad of shape he had gotten. It took a bit for him to catch his breath.
So he closed his eyes.
Slowly, cautiously, repressing his nerves and frustration, he opened his eyes to look at the assembled crowd. This was going to split them down the middle, and he was the one who had to break it to them. How did he end up here?
"It's time, Cap," the government agent said with far too much familiarity.
"I know," he said with far more confidence than he felt.
He turned to look at the other two members of the soon-to-be-disbanded Alpha team. Lance was sitting straight-backed in his chair, grinning at their fellow Archers with his typical far-away stare. Primadame was pacing back and forth right behind him, occasionally glancing around, but usually staring intently at her feet.
Captain Superior turned and called the assembly to order.
As he went through some standard protocols he could have done in his sleep, he did a mental check of the Archers and who would most likely end up where.
Beta team was easy. Sam would follow Arcano anywhere who would, in turn, stay with Captain Superior. The Keresian would be compelled to keep herself on the side of the government. Daedalus of Gamma team would fall in that same category, taking Galatea with him. Diri would likely go with them as well if for no other reason than to stay with his teammates. The other teams were a bit less predictable. Sharpshot and Cowhand would almost certainly leave along with Folivora-Man, but he expected Irene and Astro Defender to stay. Mr. Simon, Malice, and the entire rest of Epsilon were wildcards. Their decision would depend on what happened in the next hour.
Then there was Delta team.
He looked over at them. Corson was listening intently, or at least pretending to listen intently, while Ghost and Haze whispered back and forth to each other. They were linchpins. They were low-ranking enough to still be seen as comrades to the rest, but high-ranking enough to be seen as leaders. They were both dangerous and unpredictable.
There was a distinct possibility of Corson avoiding both teams just to stay out of the conflict, but Ghost and Haze would stick together. However much they fought and teased each other, nothing was going to separate them. If the decision was left to Ghost, he would probably stay with the Archers to spite the government. Under different circumstances, the same could be said of Haze, but it was far more likely that he would leave to spite Captain Superior.
He suddenly found himself at the point in the meeting he had been dreading. "And now," Superior said, feeling much less than superior, "here is Agent Qualm of the NSA to explain the real reason for this meeting."
Captain Superior slowly, begrudgingly sat down, yielding the floor to the government.
"Thank you," the agent said pleasantly as he stood, "but it's just Qualm. There's no need for the 'Agent'." This guy was good. He was dressed in apparel almost as flamboyant as most of the Archers and had even given himself a codename that made him sound like one of them. He was trying to convince them he was on their side.
Superior let a spark of hope slip into his soul as he saw Haze and Ghost quietly mocking Qualm. Just maybe this could go his way. Maybe.
"As you all know," Qualm continued, "when Lance here first approached the presidency about being a superhero, they didn't exactly get off on the right foot." A chuckle echoed through the group. This guy was really good. "And then when he said that he was forming a whole team of heroes, the government supported the decision."
"Eventually," Lance interjected, bringing on an even more vigorous round of laughter. Damn them for being good at this.
"Now," Qualm continued, smiling but not missing a beat, "we would like to offer you all the opportunity to become members of the NSA. You have the unique opportunity to become the first League of Authorized Nexters, Crawlers, and Extraordinaires, or L.A.N.C.E." No one in the room wondered who came up with that name.
Malice suddenly stood up, anger flaring in her eyes and across her skin. "You're recruiting us? Are you kidding me?" She threw out her arms, unleashing a burst of energy.
Captain Superior leapt out of his chair, floating a few inches in the air, shielding his face with his arms. At least now he knew where Malice stood.
He opened his eyes.
After finally catching his breath, he got in his car and started it. Maybe today was the day he would finally start working again. He yawned widely, remembering how little sleep he had gotten that week.
Then again, there was always tomorrow.
It was Friday after all.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Something New
For what was certainly not the first, second, or even third time that morning, he habitually flipped over to look at the monkey-on-his-back that was Facebook, not truly expecting anything new. As he scrolled through the pointless posts and the meaningless messages, he toyed with the thought of deleting his profile for what was certainly not the first, second, or even third time.
Suddenly, something shifted in the universe. A soft and gentle bloop issued from his computer as a small red icon appeared toward the top of his screen.
A friend request.
He had heard legends speaking of such things, but had never considered the possibility that one would actually grace his screen. As he moved his mouse to find out whose profile the fabled request heralded, he felt honored, nervous, and a little hungry. (It had been a while since breakfast, after all.)
He clicked on the red icon to find himself confronted with the face of a girl. Her short, auburn hair and unnaturally (i.e. clearly photoshopped) green eyes were completely unfamiliar to him, so he instinctively clicked "ignore". He had enough people he knew clogging up his feed with addictive nonsense. He didn't think he needed that from someone he had never even seen before.
He pulled away from his computer in frustration. Was this really what life had become?
He closed his eyes.
When he regained consciousness, he looked around the room. A dozen or so other people were scattered across the floor in similar varying states of functionality while a few others stood alongside them, some completely lucid, others apparently comatose. It left him a little concerned that he was hardly phased at all by their current situation.
Was this really what life had become?
What did they expected when someone had the brilliant idea of gathering all 21 Archers together? Lance had had some bad ideas over the years, but this one took the cake.
Most of the Archers were fine. They could be put in any situation and keep their cool no matter what. Others, though, didn't take disagreements very well. Given the fact that the room was filled with some of the most powerful beings on Earth, temper tantrums were something not to be trifled with.
As he recovered from Malice's most recent outburst, he righted his chair, heavily sat down, and turned to his teammates, Ghost and Corson, who both appeared to have been unaffected by the tirade. He assumed that Ghost had "ghosted", allowing the energy to pass through him, leaving him unscathed, and very few things seemed to do any damage to Corson. He really needed to learn how he did that.
Ghost was openly cackling at him while Corson had let a smile cross his masked face, the closest anyone had ever seen him get to laughing. "Come on, Haze," Ghost said playfully. "You're making Delta look bad!" The three had developed a relaxed rapport with each other that allowed for open mocking. He would get them back for it eventually.
"Yes. Perhaps," Corson said in his deep, mystic voice, "you shouldst ponder requesting of the good Captain-of-us-all for guidance in eschewing such eruptions. He doest appear unscathed."
A low blow, but still permissible.
"Yeah," said Ghost enthusiastically. "Maybe, while he's at it, he can show you how to close a deal!" A flick of his eyes and slight twitch of his head said more than his words possibly could have.
Too far.
"Well at least she considered dating me," said Haze retaliatorially, "unlike some people here."
Ghost's face suddenly darkened. "You and I both know she's only got eyes for Cap. Neither of us stood a chance."
Haze smirked as he sat back in his chair. "I did."
Just as Ghost was about to lunge forward and start the tirade cycle anew, a throat being cleared at the front of the assemblage reminded them where they were. Captain Superior looked down on them smugly. "Is there something you boys would like to share with the class?"
Haze really hated Superior sometimes.
Corson stood confidently. "My fellow Delta-encompassed team members were enthralled in deliberations regarding the respective likelihoods of copulation with she-whom-all-adore," he said proudly, gesturing unnecessarily toward a girl across the room with short brown hair wearing an equally short pink skirt. Her eyes seemed to glow an even brighter shade of green in embarrassment.
Haze shrunk down in his chair as low as he could, fighting the instinct to phase out.
He opened his eyes.
As he thought about it, he hadn't given someone new a chance in quite a while. Perhaps someone he didn't know was exactly what his news feed needed.
He quickly plowed through the unnecessarily complicated process of finding the girl's profile again and scrolled through what he was allowed to see of it. A few pictures told him she was gorgeous, but a few posts told him that she rarely posted anything interesting in any sense of the word.
He closed the browser.
Maybe it wasn't a day to try new things.
Suddenly, something shifted in the universe. A soft and gentle bloop issued from his computer as a small red icon appeared toward the top of his screen.
A friend request.
He had heard legends speaking of such things, but had never considered the possibility that one would actually grace his screen. As he moved his mouse to find out whose profile the fabled request heralded, he felt honored, nervous, and a little hungry. (It had been a while since breakfast, after all.)
He clicked on the red icon to find himself confronted with the face of a girl. Her short, auburn hair and unnaturally (i.e. clearly photoshopped) green eyes were completely unfamiliar to him, so he instinctively clicked "ignore". He had enough people he knew clogging up his feed with addictive nonsense. He didn't think he needed that from someone he had never even seen before.
He pulled away from his computer in frustration. Was this really what life had become?
He closed his eyes.
When he regained consciousness, he looked around the room. A dozen or so other people were scattered across the floor in similar varying states of functionality while a few others stood alongside them, some completely lucid, others apparently comatose. It left him a little concerned that he was hardly phased at all by their current situation.
Was this really what life had become?
What did they expected when someone had the brilliant idea of gathering all 21 Archers together? Lance had had some bad ideas over the years, but this one took the cake.
Most of the Archers were fine. They could be put in any situation and keep their cool no matter what. Others, though, didn't take disagreements very well. Given the fact that the room was filled with some of the most powerful beings on Earth, temper tantrums were something not to be trifled with.
As he recovered from Malice's most recent outburst, he righted his chair, heavily sat down, and turned to his teammates, Ghost and Corson, who both appeared to have been unaffected by the tirade. He assumed that Ghost had "ghosted", allowing the energy to pass through him, leaving him unscathed, and very few things seemed to do any damage to Corson. He really needed to learn how he did that.
Ghost was openly cackling at him while Corson had let a smile cross his masked face, the closest anyone had ever seen him get to laughing. "Come on, Haze," Ghost said playfully. "You're making Delta look bad!" The three had developed a relaxed rapport with each other that allowed for open mocking. He would get them back for it eventually.
"Yes. Perhaps," Corson said in his deep, mystic voice, "you shouldst ponder requesting of the good Captain-of-us-all for guidance in eschewing such eruptions. He doest appear unscathed."
A low blow, but still permissible.
"Yeah," said Ghost enthusiastically. "Maybe, while he's at it, he can show you how to close a deal!" A flick of his eyes and slight twitch of his head said more than his words possibly could have.
Too far.
"Well at least she considered dating me," said Haze retaliatorially, "unlike some people here."
Ghost's face suddenly darkened. "You and I both know she's only got eyes for Cap. Neither of us stood a chance."
Haze smirked as he sat back in his chair. "I did."
Just as Ghost was about to lunge forward and start the tirade cycle anew, a throat being cleared at the front of the assemblage reminded them where they were. Captain Superior looked down on them smugly. "Is there something you boys would like to share with the class?"
Haze really hated Superior sometimes.
Corson stood confidently. "My fellow Delta-encompassed team members were enthralled in deliberations regarding the respective likelihoods of copulation with she-whom-all-adore," he said proudly, gesturing unnecessarily toward a girl across the room with short brown hair wearing an equally short pink skirt. Her eyes seemed to glow an even brighter shade of green in embarrassment.
Haze shrunk down in his chair as low as he could, fighting the instinct to phase out.
He opened his eyes.
As he thought about it, he hadn't given someone new a chance in quite a while. Perhaps someone he didn't know was exactly what his news feed needed.
He quickly plowed through the unnecessarily complicated process of finding the girl's profile again and scrolled through what he was allowed to see of it. A few pictures told him she was gorgeous, but a few posts told him that she rarely posted anything interesting in any sense of the word.
He closed the browser.
Maybe it wasn't a day to try new things.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
RING RING
He pulled his head away from the wall and reached up a hand to rub his now throbbing cranium. Perhaps literally banging his head against the wall hadn't been the best way to express his frustration, but it had seemed like a good idea just a few moments before.
Still rubbing his head, he slowly returned to his desk and dropped heavily into his office chair, effectively forcing it to yield and drop a couple of inches. The phone rang again and he looked at it a bit mournfully. Whoever was on the other side couldn't possibly do anything to improve his day at this point. Chances were that they would actually make him even angrier than he already was.
After deciding that he couldn't ignore it forever and had waited about as long as he possibly could to answer it, he begrudgingly lifted the receiver and gave his standard, pre-programmed greeting.
After an almost unreasonably long pause in which he decided there wasn't anyone on the other side of the line, a faint voice quickly sputtered, "Hi. This is Zach," before falling silent again. He quickly and cheerfully responded, thankful to be talking to someone he didn't already hate. After another unreasonably long pause, he heard the distinct click of someone hanging up.
"Hello?" No response. "Helloooooo?" No response. "I like to lick seagulls. Have a nice day!" And he hung up.
A part of him was relieved and grateful that he didn't have to deal with anyone, but there was another equally sized part of him that had been looking forward to some human contact. He sat and stared at the wall for a few minutes, letting the two sides fight it out for a while before returning to the arduous task of pretending he was doing something productive.
That lasted all of five minutes.
Then he closed his eyes.
"I don't know how," he said desperately, pleading with the strange man.
The light that had left the forest returned just as quickly as it had faded, bringing with it even more of the joyous rays. "Oh. Well why didn't you say so? This way!" The strange man suddenly pointed back in the direction Paschar was almost positive had led him to where they were now standing. Of course, he knew better than to think that anyone knew where anything was while in the Forest of Diri.
A sudden and dangerous idea struck him.
"You know, if you know your way around this forest-"
"I should hope I do," said Diri cheerfully.
"Then you could lead me to the lance, couldn't you?"
Diri suddenly rounded on him and looked deep into his eyes, just inches from the young captain's face. He paused for a long time, a serious face scrutinizing Paschar's every detail. Then, very seriously, though somehow sounding childish, the strange man spoke. "It's not called the lance. It's called the Lance." He suddenly looked away very thoughtfully. "Actually, L.A.N.C.E. would probably be more accurate, though it occurs to me that you can't hear punctuation." He suddenly turned his attention back to Paschar. "Can you?" It was an honest question.
The captain slowly shook his head, still not sure what to make of his new travel companion . . . and seriously wondering what he had done with his previous companion.
"I thought not," Diri said quickly, returning to his original course. "Besides, if I showed you where that was, I'd have to kill you. Violently."
Paschar gulped and followed Diri at a distance.
After a few minutes of walking, the darkness seemed to return, bringing with it a sense of dread.
But there was something different about the darkness this time. It seemed closer, more tangible, and, most importantly, Diri seemed to take notice of it. The strange man looked around, reaching out with a hand as if hoping to grab hold of the shadows themselves.
When he did grab hold of them, Captain Paschar seriously considered running for it, but something held him in place.
Suddenly, streaks of lightning coursed through the shadows, forming into a strange symbol that caused Diri to recoil. The symbol charged at the strange being, ramming hard into his chest. Lightning then began to pour out of it and envelop him. The energy grew brighter and denser by the second until Paschar couldn't look at Diri anymore.
Suddenly, the light faded back to normal, and Paschar turned back to see what had become of his companion. He quickly decided that one of two things had happened. Either Diri had transformed into the incredibly human man now standing in front of him, or Diri had somehow been driven away and replaced by barefoot man clothed in simple, tattered, grey clothes and hood with brightly colored tattoos covering his legs. The captain wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know which it was.
When the man spoke, Paschar quickly made note of the fact that while this newcomer didn't look young by any means, his stern but cheerful voice sounded significantly older than he looked. "Are you alright?"
Paschar paused for a long time just staring at the man. He finally managed to form a coherent sentence. "Who are you?"
The man almost smiled. There was definite movement around his lips, but not enough to actually call it a change in emotion. "I'm what's left of L.A.N.C.E." He paused dramatically as if listening to something way off in the distance. "You can call me Haze."
A sudden ringing filled Paschar's ears and completely overtook his mind. It didn't take long before he couldn't focus on anything else.
So he opened his eyes.
The ringing stopped when he picked up the phone's receiver, instinctively greeting the person on the other side.
There was a long pause before a somewhat mechanical male voice began to speak. "Hello! I am calling on behalf of . . . " He spaced out for a moment and didn't hear who this pseudo-person was with. "Did you know that by updating your listing in . . . " He spaced out again.
"Did you know," he responded cheerfully, "that I hate the smell of waxed mongoose tongue?" And he quickly hung up.
He let his head drop down and land with a loud thud on his desk, immediately regretting the decision.
He rubbed his forehead in his hand.
Did real people still exist?
Still rubbing his head, he slowly returned to his desk and dropped heavily into his office chair, effectively forcing it to yield and drop a couple of inches. The phone rang again and he looked at it a bit mournfully. Whoever was on the other side couldn't possibly do anything to improve his day at this point. Chances were that they would actually make him even angrier than he already was.
After deciding that he couldn't ignore it forever and had waited about as long as he possibly could to answer it, he begrudgingly lifted the receiver and gave his standard, pre-programmed greeting.
After an almost unreasonably long pause in which he decided there wasn't anyone on the other side of the line, a faint voice quickly sputtered, "Hi. This is Zach," before falling silent again. He quickly and cheerfully responded, thankful to be talking to someone he didn't already hate. After another unreasonably long pause, he heard the distinct click of someone hanging up.
"Hello?" No response. "Helloooooo?" No response. "I like to lick seagulls. Have a nice day!" And he hung up.
A part of him was relieved and grateful that he didn't have to deal with anyone, but there was another equally sized part of him that had been looking forward to some human contact. He sat and stared at the wall for a few minutes, letting the two sides fight it out for a while before returning to the arduous task of pretending he was doing something productive.
That lasted all of five minutes.
Then he closed his eyes.
"I don't know how," he said desperately, pleading with the strange man.
The light that had left the forest returned just as quickly as it had faded, bringing with it even more of the joyous rays. "Oh. Well why didn't you say so? This way!" The strange man suddenly pointed back in the direction Paschar was almost positive had led him to where they were now standing. Of course, he knew better than to think that anyone knew where anything was while in the Forest of Diri.
A sudden and dangerous idea struck him.
"You know, if you know your way around this forest-"
"I should hope I do," said Diri cheerfully.
"Then you could lead me to the lance, couldn't you?"
Diri suddenly rounded on him and looked deep into his eyes, just inches from the young captain's face. He paused for a long time, a serious face scrutinizing Paschar's every detail. Then, very seriously, though somehow sounding childish, the strange man spoke. "It's not called the lance. It's called the Lance." He suddenly looked away very thoughtfully. "Actually, L.A.N.C.E. would probably be more accurate, though it occurs to me that you can't hear punctuation." He suddenly turned his attention back to Paschar. "Can you?" It was an honest question.
The captain slowly shook his head, still not sure what to make of his new travel companion . . . and seriously wondering what he had done with his previous companion.
"I thought not," Diri said quickly, returning to his original course. "Besides, if I showed you where that was, I'd have to kill you. Violently."
Paschar gulped and followed Diri at a distance.
After a few minutes of walking, the darkness seemed to return, bringing with it a sense of dread.
But there was something different about the darkness this time. It seemed closer, more tangible, and, most importantly, Diri seemed to take notice of it. The strange man looked around, reaching out with a hand as if hoping to grab hold of the shadows themselves.
When he did grab hold of them, Captain Paschar seriously considered running for it, but something held him in place.
Suddenly, streaks of lightning coursed through the shadows, forming into a strange symbol that caused Diri to recoil. The symbol charged at the strange being, ramming hard into his chest. Lightning then began to pour out of it and envelop him. The energy grew brighter and denser by the second until Paschar couldn't look at Diri anymore.
Suddenly, the light faded back to normal, and Paschar turned back to see what had become of his companion. He quickly decided that one of two things had happened. Either Diri had transformed into the incredibly human man now standing in front of him, or Diri had somehow been driven away and replaced by barefoot man clothed in simple, tattered, grey clothes and hood with brightly colored tattoos covering his legs. The captain wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know which it was.
When the man spoke, Paschar quickly made note of the fact that while this newcomer didn't look young by any means, his stern but cheerful voice sounded significantly older than he looked. "Are you alright?"
Paschar paused for a long time just staring at the man. He finally managed to form a coherent sentence. "Who are you?"
The man almost smiled. There was definite movement around his lips, but not enough to actually call it a change in emotion. "I'm what's left of L.A.N.C.E." He paused dramatically as if listening to something way off in the distance. "You can call me Haze."
A sudden ringing filled Paschar's ears and completely overtook his mind. It didn't take long before he couldn't focus on anything else.
So he opened his eyes.
The ringing stopped when he picked up the phone's receiver, instinctively greeting the person on the other side.
There was a long pause before a somewhat mechanical male voice began to speak. "Hello! I am calling on behalf of . . . " He spaced out for a moment and didn't hear who this pseudo-person was with. "Did you know that by updating your listing in . . . " He spaced out again.
"Did you know," he responded cheerfully, "that I hate the smell of waxed mongoose tongue?" And he quickly hung up.
He let his head drop down and land with a loud thud on his desk, immediately regretting the decision.
He rubbed his forehead in his hand.
Did real people still exist?
Thursday, January 30, 2014
A Corner of the Union
He banged his head against the wall as he reeled back in shock, frustration, and mockery.
"Oh, really, Mr. President? You think team USA's gonna do great at the Olympics? Clearly that is an important part of the current state of the union," he shouted sarcastically to the empty room.
He didn't normally get into politics, but for some reason, he was actually sitting this year, watching the State of the Union Address. He was really glad that the station he was watching had explained some of the history behind it, but it also was kind of pissing him off now. If it was just a random pointless speech, he would care ever so slightly less about how pointless it was.
. . . then again, he was frustrated by just about everything any politician did these days.
Who was he kidding? He was only paying enough attention to get himself angry enough to post something clever on his blog . . . and there really was nothing worth writing about here.
So he closed his eyes.
He heard the door close and watched one of the most powerful men in the world walk to his desk and sit, head in his hands, letting out a huge sigh.
"Hello, Mr. President!" The president quickly leapt to his feet, reaching instinctively for the phone that was no longer there. "Sorry. I borrowed your phone. I'll get it back to you later. Alright?" The intruder's face and voice were both infinitely cheerier than the president, who looked both terrified and angry.
"Who are you and what do you want?"
"Straight to business then? Alright. I'm a victim . . . well actually a friend of a victim . . . well actually a friend of a friend of a victim." He paused and stared into space for a moment. "Anyway, I want justice."
The president didn't respond. Instead, he began slowly edging his way toward the door they both knew was hidden in the wall behind him. He managed to reach the handle, but before he could turn it, he found the intruder's hand holding his wrist. "How did you . . . ?"
"Oh, Bill. Can I call you Bill?" It was an honest question.
The president looked confused, but the question seemed to catch him just off-guard enough to inspire honesty. He spoke very slowly and cautiously. "My name is . . . "
"I didn't ask what your name was," he said still innocently, but with a sudden spark of anger. "I asked if I could call you Bill."
A sudden sternness overtook the politician. "No. You may not call me Bill," he said with more anger than he had intended and less dignity than he had hoped. He tried to recover by stepping back toward his desk and straightening his jacket.
"Great. So, Bill," the intruder said, walking back over to the seat he had been occupying before the president had so rudely forced him to get uncomfortable, "like I was saying, I want justice."
A sudden calm professionalism had overtaken the politician as he sat down at his desk. "And what exactly do you want justice for?"
"Everyone and everything," the intruder said matter-of-factly.
The president had taken out a piece of paper and began writing on it. The furniture in the room was arranged so that he knew the intruder wouldn't be able to see what he was writing, but he somehow knew that trying to keep secrets from this man wasn't going to work. He avoided writing anything classified just in case. "I think we all want that. Don't we?"
The intruder leapt to his feet, gesturing wildly. "Thank you! Finally, a man who understands the people!"
"So what do you want from me?"
"I want you to sign an executive order officially making me a hero!"
"A hero?"
"Yes! The United States' first superhero! Just think how good that will look in the history books!"
"Look," he paused. "I don't know your name."
"Oh sorry about that," the intruder replied cheerily. "You can call me Lance."
"Alright, Larry . . . "
"It's Lance."
"Right." The president smirked a bit. "So, Larry, you realize that I can't really make anyone a superhero. No one can be above the law."
Lance was suddenly standing behind the politician, gently rubbing his shoulders. "Oh, Bill. I think you'll find that I'm already above the law. I just want you to make it easier on everyone and keep the authorities out of my way." He leaned in close to whisper in the ear of the leader of the free world. "And it's Lance."
He opened his eyes.
He must have dozed off. Based on where the commentators were in their analysis of the president's speech, he had been out for hours. He glanced out the window to check on the state of his little corner of the union.
Yep. Still there.
Why did they need a two-hour speech to tell everyone that?
"Oh, really, Mr. President? You think team USA's gonna do great at the Olympics? Clearly that is an important part of the current state of the union," he shouted sarcastically to the empty room.
He didn't normally get into politics, but for some reason, he was actually sitting this year, watching the State of the Union Address. He was really glad that the station he was watching had explained some of the history behind it, but it also was kind of pissing him off now. If it was just a random pointless speech, he would care ever so slightly less about how pointless it was.
. . . then again, he was frustrated by just about everything any politician did these days.
Who was he kidding? He was only paying enough attention to get himself angry enough to post something clever on his blog . . . and there really was nothing worth writing about here.
So he closed his eyes.
He heard the door close and watched one of the most powerful men in the world walk to his desk and sit, head in his hands, letting out a huge sigh.
"Hello, Mr. President!" The president quickly leapt to his feet, reaching instinctively for the phone that was no longer there. "Sorry. I borrowed your phone. I'll get it back to you later. Alright?" The intruder's face and voice were both infinitely cheerier than the president, who looked both terrified and angry.
"Who are you and what do you want?"
"Straight to business then? Alright. I'm a victim . . . well actually a friend of a victim . . . well actually a friend of a friend of a victim." He paused and stared into space for a moment. "Anyway, I want justice."
The president didn't respond. Instead, he began slowly edging his way toward the door they both knew was hidden in the wall behind him. He managed to reach the handle, but before he could turn it, he found the intruder's hand holding his wrist. "How did you . . . ?"
"Oh, Bill. Can I call you Bill?" It was an honest question.
The president looked confused, but the question seemed to catch him just off-guard enough to inspire honesty. He spoke very slowly and cautiously. "My name is . . . "
"I didn't ask what your name was," he said still innocently, but with a sudden spark of anger. "I asked if I could call you Bill."
A sudden sternness overtook the politician. "No. You may not call me Bill," he said with more anger than he had intended and less dignity than he had hoped. He tried to recover by stepping back toward his desk and straightening his jacket.
"Great. So, Bill," the intruder said, walking back over to the seat he had been occupying before the president had so rudely forced him to get uncomfortable, "like I was saying, I want justice."
A sudden calm professionalism had overtaken the politician as he sat down at his desk. "And what exactly do you want justice for?"
"Everyone and everything," the intruder said matter-of-factly.
The president had taken out a piece of paper and began writing on it. The furniture in the room was arranged so that he knew the intruder wouldn't be able to see what he was writing, but he somehow knew that trying to keep secrets from this man wasn't going to work. He avoided writing anything classified just in case. "I think we all want that. Don't we?"
The intruder leapt to his feet, gesturing wildly. "Thank you! Finally, a man who understands the people!"
"So what do you want from me?"
"I want you to sign an executive order officially making me a hero!"
"A hero?"
"Yes! The United States' first superhero! Just think how good that will look in the history books!"
"Look," he paused. "I don't know your name."
"Oh sorry about that," the intruder replied cheerily. "You can call me Lance."
"Alright, Larry . . . "
"It's Lance."
"Right." The president smirked a bit. "So, Larry, you realize that I can't really make anyone a superhero. No one can be above the law."
Lance was suddenly standing behind the politician, gently rubbing his shoulders. "Oh, Bill. I think you'll find that I'm already above the law. I just want you to make it easier on everyone and keep the authorities out of my way." He leaned in close to whisper in the ear of the leader of the free world. "And it's Lance."
He opened his eyes.
He must have dozed off. Based on where the commentators were in their analysis of the president's speech, he had been out for hours. He glanced out the window to check on the state of his little corner of the union.
Yep. Still there.
Why did they need a two-hour speech to tell everyone that?
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Annual Pedantry
He stifled another yawn . . . then gave up stifling them and let them flow freely.
It wasn't that his church's annual meeting was boring. It was really more like . . . no. His church's annual meeting was boring. It wasn't always. In fact, some years, it was downright exciting once they got on to something controversial like last year's time change proposal that he could have sworn almost came to blows. This year, however, there didn't seem to be anything worth fighting over.
Lame.
He tried to listen to the members bringing up the same points and getting confused by the same reports and volunteering for the same things they did the year before, but that was a hopeless endeavor. He tried to get involved in the conversations himself, hoping he could throw everyone a curve ball that would catch everyone off guard, but he couldn't focus enough to add anything. He even tried to imagine that it was actually a mafia assemblage (the heads of all five families were present, after all), but there wasn't even enough excitement for him to make that work.
As they started to open discussion on the proposed budget for the coming year, he accepted that money was never going to be something that he could make sense of anyway and settled back into the pew. He stretched out his arms, careful to make sure to keep them low enough that no one thought he was volunteering for something, and allowed another yawn.
And he closed his eyes.
He felt a warm breeze blowing on his face, filling his nostrils with their first glimpse of the outside world in years. His first thought was that it was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.
His second was that it smelled like burned salmon.
His third was that he had no idea was burned salmon smelled like.
He opened his eyes and looked around at the ruined laboratory surrounding him. Whatever had set him free of his confines must have been incredibly powerful to leave this kind of impression on his captors' fortress. Broken glass covered roasted corpses and the ground surrounding them while large gaping holes riddled the walls. A layer of ash gave everything the feel of an old black-and-white movie.
He smiled, reveling in his newfound freedom. He felt a slight twinge of guilt about the joy he felt towards the bodies he was walking on, but it was so strongly outweighed by the relatively chemical-free air filling his lungs that he didn't actually care.
A sudden scraping noise on the large metallic door across the room pulled him away from his revelry.
He turned slowly, a manic grinning spreading across his face as his hands gently traced the trail he had taken since he had awoken. As they moved gracefully in front of his face, he slowly curled his fingers into a fist and marched forward with sudden deliberateness to meet whoever was knocking on the door of his long-time home.
He reached the door just as it swung open to reveal a heavy-framed, humanoid form.
Without hesitation, he reeled around, lifting his left leg gracefully into the air and planting his heel hard on the figure's head. Before he could figure out what kind of effect this had on his new visitor, he leapt through the doorway, lifted effortlessly off the ground, and flew off into the sunset.
"Great," a voice echoed from somewhere just beyond the horizon. "Thank you for doing that!"
He opened his eyes.
Several people in the room had turned to look at him while others whispered to each other, gesturing at him with nods and even a point or two. He took a quick inventory of himself to find one arm stretched straight up in the air. His sister was giggling quietly next to him.
Uh oh.
He smiled up at the president of the church council and nodded curtly.
What exactly had he just volunteered for?
It wasn't that his church's annual meeting was boring. It was really more like . . . no. His church's annual meeting was boring. It wasn't always. In fact, some years, it was downright exciting once they got on to something controversial like last year's time change proposal that he could have sworn almost came to blows. This year, however, there didn't seem to be anything worth fighting over.
Lame.
He tried to listen to the members bringing up the same points and getting confused by the same reports and volunteering for the same things they did the year before, but that was a hopeless endeavor. He tried to get involved in the conversations himself, hoping he could throw everyone a curve ball that would catch everyone off guard, but he couldn't focus enough to add anything. He even tried to imagine that it was actually a mafia assemblage (the heads of all five families were present, after all), but there wasn't even enough excitement for him to make that work.
As they started to open discussion on the proposed budget for the coming year, he accepted that money was never going to be something that he could make sense of anyway and settled back into the pew. He stretched out his arms, careful to make sure to keep them low enough that no one thought he was volunteering for something, and allowed another yawn.
And he closed his eyes.
He felt a warm breeze blowing on his face, filling his nostrils with their first glimpse of the outside world in years. His first thought was that it was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.
His second was that it smelled like burned salmon.
His third was that he had no idea was burned salmon smelled like.
He opened his eyes and looked around at the ruined laboratory surrounding him. Whatever had set him free of his confines must have been incredibly powerful to leave this kind of impression on his captors' fortress. Broken glass covered roasted corpses and the ground surrounding them while large gaping holes riddled the walls. A layer of ash gave everything the feel of an old black-and-white movie.
He smiled, reveling in his newfound freedom. He felt a slight twinge of guilt about the joy he felt towards the bodies he was walking on, but it was so strongly outweighed by the relatively chemical-free air filling his lungs that he didn't actually care.
A sudden scraping noise on the large metallic door across the room pulled him away from his revelry.
He turned slowly, a manic grinning spreading across his face as his hands gently traced the trail he had taken since he had awoken. As they moved gracefully in front of his face, he slowly curled his fingers into a fist and marched forward with sudden deliberateness to meet whoever was knocking on the door of his long-time home.
He reached the door just as it swung open to reveal a heavy-framed, humanoid form.
Without hesitation, he reeled around, lifting his left leg gracefully into the air and planting his heel hard on the figure's head. Before he could figure out what kind of effect this had on his new visitor, he leapt through the doorway, lifted effortlessly off the ground, and flew off into the sunset.
"Great," a voice echoed from somewhere just beyond the horizon. "Thank you for doing that!"
He opened his eyes.
Several people in the room had turned to look at him while others whispered to each other, gesturing at him with nods and even a point or two. He took a quick inventory of himself to find one arm stretched straight up in the air. His sister was giggling quietly next to him.
Uh oh.
He smiled up at the president of the church council and nodded curtly.
What exactly had he just volunteered for?
Saturday, January 25, 2014
A Sold Soul
He thumbed through the cookbook absentmindedly, not really seeing anything on any of the pages. His hands seemed determined to find a recipe that would spark the rest of his being into actually cooking something, but they weren't having any luck. His mind simply wasn't there. Actually, if he was being honest with himself, his mind hadn't been spending much time around his body at all that day.
He suddenly slammed the book shut and went back to his computer. He could always order pizza.
Three unicorns, two llamas, and a course in oceanography (or was it oceanology?) later, he managed to force himself off of YouTube. A quick glance at Facebook told him nothing new was happening anywhere at all in the world, so he tried to pull himself back to the real world.
No such luck.
After selling his soul for a username, he scrolled through the newest blue-birded abyss of his online life. He then quickly shut his laptop before something else could suck him in.
And he closed his eyes.
He peaked through his eyelids at the chaos surrounding him. How could he have done this?
They deserved it!
He tried to convince himself it was true, but it wasn't doing any good. No one deserved this. He glanced quickly at the corpse lying closest to his feet, not daring to look for more than a second. She certainly didn't deserve this. She had only been trying to help.
You couldn't stop yourself!
It may have been true, but it didn't change the fact that he could have simply never come here in the first place. He could have stopped his niece from having anything to do with the Archers. He could have turned his abilities in on himself a long time ago, and none of this would have happened. So many things could have gone differently to stop him from ever getting to the point where stopping himself was a necessity.
You couldn't have known!
"SHUT UP!" He screamed as loud as he could at the voices in his head. They weren't helpful, and no one was around to offer him even the slightest odd look for chastising them.
No one is anywhere to offer you any kind of look!
Apparently yelling at them wasn't going to do any good.
Moreover, he knew it was true.
Far off on the horizon, a single standing structure caught his attention. A dark pillar rising above a vast, blank . . . nothingness. Within seconds, a wave of energy had carried him to its large metallic door. He brushed off a thick layer of ash to reveal an all-too-familiar acronym: L.A.N.C.E.
They were prepared for you! They're still alive!
But do you really want them to be alive?
It's better than no one!
Is it?
"I told you to shut up!!!"
He easily threw open the heavy door, trying to remain void of hope . . . in either direction.
And he opened his eyes.
Who was he kidding? It wasn't selling his soul! It was simply adding another form of entertainment to his repertoire. With the amount of free time he had, he could use all the help he could get to keep himself from getting bored.
Boy did he need a hobby.
Or maybe another job.
In the meantime, he took the advice of one of his fellow interwebbers and followed a link to what promised to be the best video he would ever see.
Ok. So maybe it was selling his soul.
He suddenly slammed the book shut and went back to his computer. He could always order pizza.
Three unicorns, two llamas, and a course in oceanography (or was it oceanology?) later, he managed to force himself off of YouTube. A quick glance at Facebook told him nothing new was happening anywhere at all in the world, so he tried to pull himself back to the real world.
No such luck.
After selling his soul for a username, he scrolled through the newest blue-birded abyss of his online life. He then quickly shut his laptop before something else could suck him in.
And he closed his eyes.
He peaked through his eyelids at the chaos surrounding him. How could he have done this?
They deserved it!
He tried to convince himself it was true, but it wasn't doing any good. No one deserved this. He glanced quickly at the corpse lying closest to his feet, not daring to look for more than a second. She certainly didn't deserve this. She had only been trying to help.
You couldn't stop yourself!
It may have been true, but it didn't change the fact that he could have simply never come here in the first place. He could have stopped his niece from having anything to do with the Archers. He could have turned his abilities in on himself a long time ago, and none of this would have happened. So many things could have gone differently to stop him from ever getting to the point where stopping himself was a necessity.
You couldn't have known!
"SHUT UP!" He screamed as loud as he could at the voices in his head. They weren't helpful, and no one was around to offer him even the slightest odd look for chastising them.
No one is anywhere to offer you any kind of look!
Apparently yelling at them wasn't going to do any good.
Moreover, he knew it was true.
Far off on the horizon, a single standing structure caught his attention. A dark pillar rising above a vast, blank . . . nothingness. Within seconds, a wave of energy had carried him to its large metallic door. He brushed off a thick layer of ash to reveal an all-too-familiar acronym: L.A.N.C.E.
They were prepared for you! They're still alive!
But do you really want them to be alive?
It's better than no one!
Is it?
"I told you to shut up!!!"
He easily threw open the heavy door, trying to remain void of hope . . . in either direction.
And he opened his eyes.
Who was he kidding? It wasn't selling his soul! It was simply adding another form of entertainment to his repertoire. With the amount of free time he had, he could use all the help he could get to keep himself from getting bored.
Boy did he need a hobby.
Or maybe another job.
In the meantime, he took the advice of one of his fellow interwebbers and followed a link to what promised to be the best video he would ever see.
Ok. So maybe it was selling his soul.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Blame it on Bacteria
He sat at the table, fingers poised over the keyboard of his laptop awaiting further instructions from their master. Admitting to being sick had already stripped him of his energy, dignity, and a day's pay. He wouldn't let it take this from him too. As it was, he had skipped a day posting on his blog because he simply hadn't felt up to it. He refused to miss another.
As he picked up his mug to sip on the broth therein, he prayed that a muse would see how pathetic he looked and take pity on him.
No such luck.
So he closed his eyes.
A sharp pain in his upper abdomen jerked him awake. Phase one of the transformation was starting.
What poor timing.
He looked briefly at the clock on his desk across the room before begrudgingly crawling out of bed, putting on his uniform, and making his way toward the bridge. The lift seemed to be moving unusually slow, but, then again, the transformation always seemed to make everything move in slow motion. He adjusted the collar of his uniform as he stepped out of the lift and walked quickly to his station. When he tried to log into his console, however, he found his hands twitching too uncontrollably to type.
Apparently phase two was starting.
Seriously. Bad timing.
He finally managed to steady his hands long enough to get logged in and to pull up the communication control panel. "We're online and ready to connect, Captain," he said confidently.
The captain turned quickly around with a slightly stunned look on his face. "Hemming! I didn't hear you come in."
"Sorry, sir," he replied professionally.
The captain laughed. "It's alright, boy. Relax," he said jovially before snapping back to business. "Open a channel to the admiral's ship."
Hemming nodded and typed away at his console. Hopefully, if he worked quickly enough, he could get through this conference before phase three started. Hopefully.
A fuzzy blue orb of holographic energy materialized in the center of the room and quickly formed itself into the shape of the Grande Admiral of the Left Fleet. "Captain Hunter. Thank you for getting back to me so quickly."
"Of course, Admiral," said the captain in a formal, militaristic voice reserved only for his superiors. "Have we heard from the Black Jacob yet?"
The admiral shook his head solemnly. "After their initial survey, their captain led a team to the surface. We haven't heard from the team or the ship since they landed."
"Is there an extraction plan?"
The admiral didn't answer.
"I thought not," said the captain somewhat sorrowfully.
Hemming suddenly noticed an interference pattern on his console. He adjusted their broadcast signal in an attempt to compensate, but not before the admiral's form flickered briefly. If his maestro had seen that, he would have been running laps on the ship's helm for hours. Luckily, he was the only technician in the room, so no one else seemed to notice.
The two commanders continued to discuss things far above Hemming's clearance status in codes that he could have cracked very easily if he had been paying attention. He had learned very early on in his training, however, that when commanders started speaking in codes and riddles, the less you knew the better.
He suddenly noticed the same interference pattern spike up again, stronger than before. This time, he caught it quickly enough that the conference continued without a single glitch. However, this time, he also noticed something very familiar about that signal.
Poor timing. Very poor timing, indeed.
As realization dawned on him, he had just enough time to sever the connection to the admiral's ship before phase three started. Captain Hunter wheeled around on him as the holographic orb faded away.
"What happened? Did we . . ." His voice trailed off as realization began to dawn on his face. "Gods help us," he said in a half-mumble. Hemming looked down at his face reflected in the console and found glowing green eyes staring back at him.
A sudden tickle in his nose and sharp pain in his throat made him feel as if his head was going to explode.
And he opened his eyes.
The powerful sneeze had left his whole head aching. It felt as though it had gotten stuck somewhere along the way and blasted its way out of him with no regard for civilian casualties.
He looked at the snot covering his hands and decided to take it as a sign. He wasn't supposed to write anything tonight.
He got suddenly very excited at the prospect of going to bed and a grin crossed his face. A grin which faded rather quickly as he looked at the clock and realized that it was only 4:30 in the afternoon.
What jerk invented illness anyway?
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Definitely NOT Sick
He trudged up the steps to his apartment after another pointless day at work. As he reached in his pocket for his keys, he felt an all-too-familiar tickle in his throat that had been bugging him all day. He tried to clear his throat, but it didn't do much. He tried again. Worthless. As he got to the door, he went for one final attempt.
It worked. Just not like he wanted.
After he spent a solid two minutes fighting his way out of a coughing fit, he looked around, hoping no one had seen it. He caught a glimpse of a woman across the parking lot ducking into her place, and hoped that she somehow hadn't noticed. Working very hard to not think about why he cared whether or not she had seen his little episode, he unlocked the door and ran inside, quickly shutting it behind him. He briefly leaned against the door, closing his eyes tightly, and letting out a sigh.
He walked in, hanging his coat on the coatrack and tossing his bag haphazardly on the couch before plopping himself down beside it and slumping over. He shoved his face into a pillow and let out a stifled scream.
Bad choice.
After he got over the new coughing fit his scream had brought on, he caught his breath and rolled over so that he was laying on his back.
He wasn't sick. He refused to be sick.
He quickly noted an odd stain on the ceiling he hadn't noticed before, then rolled over, pulling a blanket on top of himself. He reached for the remote control, but quickly decided it was too far away and gave up.
And he closed his eyes.
He rematerialized atop the building just beneath Captain Superior and smiled up at him weakly, offering a mock salute. The hero looked down on him with a puzzled expression that hinted at just a spark of understanding and began to descend.
The Captain extended a hand to his fellow nexter which was accepted after a moment's hesitation.
Superior's cape billowed as he spoke in a deep voice that felt louder than it sounded. "What are you doing here, Haze?" It wasn't an insult or a threat. He genuinely wanted to know. They hadn't seen each other in months . . . since Lexington.
"Waiting," Haze responded flatly. He was never one to offer more information than necessary.
Captain Superior had been dealing with him long enough to know that it was pointless to press for more answers right away, so he took a moment to inspect the nexter, focusing particularly on the dark shirt hidden under Haze's trench coat. A single thin yellow stripe from his shoulder to his hip said all that he needed to know anyway. "You're back with the League."
Haze walked over to the edge of the building and crouched, looking down at the street below. "Yep."
An alarm suddenly sounded from a building down the street and both nexters snapped to attention. Captain Superior drew a large golden sword from somewhere in the billows of his cape while Haze willed a thin, curved sabre into existence. Superior swooped down, grabbed a couple of men in masks and carried them to a police car waiting around the corner. Haze smirked again. The Captain always made it look so easy.
But, then again, heroes had the easy job.
Captain Superior landed next to Haze and smiled at him. "I guess you waited for nothing."
"Not exactly."
The two flinched briefly at the sound of a gunshot and wheeled around to see a third masked man collapsing just outside the alarm-wielding building. Captain Superior briefly looked shocked, then spotted her on a building down the street. Sharpshot offered a brief salute before leaping off the building and gracefully turning in midair.
Superior turned to Haze who was already beginning to fade into vapor. "We can't all be heroes. Someone has to do those jobs beneath you," Haze said with just a hint of remorse. He let the wind blow his vapor toward Sharpshot, increasing his density just enough to catch her, and the two flew off.
He managed to barely hear the good Captain mutter, "What did she do to you?" before a sudden coughing fit caused him to almost drop his partner.
So he opened his eyes.
He caught his breath and looked around the room. It was a lot darker. He hadn't meant to sleep that long, so he did the only logical thing to do. He laid his head back down and snuggled into the covers again.
He definitely wasn't sick.
It worked. Just not like he wanted.
After he spent a solid two minutes fighting his way out of a coughing fit, he looked around, hoping no one had seen it. He caught a glimpse of a woman across the parking lot ducking into her place, and hoped that she somehow hadn't noticed. Working very hard to not think about why he cared whether or not she had seen his little episode, he unlocked the door and ran inside, quickly shutting it behind him. He briefly leaned against the door, closing his eyes tightly, and letting out a sigh.
He walked in, hanging his coat on the coatrack and tossing his bag haphazardly on the couch before plopping himself down beside it and slumping over. He shoved his face into a pillow and let out a stifled scream.
Bad choice.
After he got over the new coughing fit his scream had brought on, he caught his breath and rolled over so that he was laying on his back.
He wasn't sick. He refused to be sick.
He quickly noted an odd stain on the ceiling he hadn't noticed before, then rolled over, pulling a blanket on top of himself. He reached for the remote control, but quickly decided it was too far away and gave up.
And he closed his eyes.
He rematerialized atop the building just beneath Captain Superior and smiled up at him weakly, offering a mock salute. The hero looked down on him with a puzzled expression that hinted at just a spark of understanding and began to descend.
The Captain extended a hand to his fellow nexter which was accepted after a moment's hesitation.
Superior's cape billowed as he spoke in a deep voice that felt louder than it sounded. "What are you doing here, Haze?" It wasn't an insult or a threat. He genuinely wanted to know. They hadn't seen each other in months . . . since Lexington.
"Waiting," Haze responded flatly. He was never one to offer more information than necessary.
Captain Superior had been dealing with him long enough to know that it was pointless to press for more answers right away, so he took a moment to inspect the nexter, focusing particularly on the dark shirt hidden under Haze's trench coat. A single thin yellow stripe from his shoulder to his hip said all that he needed to know anyway. "You're back with the League."
Haze walked over to the edge of the building and crouched, looking down at the street below. "Yep."
An alarm suddenly sounded from a building down the street and both nexters snapped to attention. Captain Superior drew a large golden sword from somewhere in the billows of his cape while Haze willed a thin, curved sabre into existence. Superior swooped down, grabbed a couple of men in masks and carried them to a police car waiting around the corner. Haze smirked again. The Captain always made it look so easy.
But, then again, heroes had the easy job.
Captain Superior landed next to Haze and smiled at him. "I guess you waited for nothing."
"Not exactly."
The two flinched briefly at the sound of a gunshot and wheeled around to see a third masked man collapsing just outside the alarm-wielding building. Captain Superior briefly looked shocked, then spotted her on a building down the street. Sharpshot offered a brief salute before leaping off the building and gracefully turning in midair.
Superior turned to Haze who was already beginning to fade into vapor. "We can't all be heroes. Someone has to do those jobs beneath you," Haze said with just a hint of remorse. He let the wind blow his vapor toward Sharpshot, increasing his density just enough to catch her, and the two flew off.
He managed to barely hear the good Captain mutter, "What did she do to you?" before a sudden coughing fit caused him to almost drop his partner.
So he opened his eyes.
He caught his breath and looked around the room. It was a lot darker. He hadn't meant to sleep that long, so he did the only logical thing to do. He laid his head back down and snuggled into the covers again.
He definitely wasn't sick.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Waiting for Nothing
He pulled out his phone, not really sure what he was expecting to find. He knew full well that it hadn't rung and that no one would be texting him any time soon. Maybe it was just habit.
He swiped across the screen and opened up the Facebook app on his home screen . . . again. He scrolled through all both of the new entries in his news feed, checked for messages he knew wouldn't be there, and scanned the list of online friends.
Nope. Still nothing.
Nope. Still nothing.
He set his phone down, watched a couple minutes of TV, then picked up his phone and repeated the process.
Nope. Still nothing.
He set his phone down, stood up, and took in a deep breath.
Then he closed his eyes.
Letting out the breath he was holding in, he whirled around and slammed his fist through the wall leaving a burning hole that let in a breeze from the outside world. He turned around slowly, opening his glowing eyes and clenching both his fists even tighter. Flames began to spread up his arms and across his chest as he stood there panting.
The other Archers had never seen Nash this angry before. He had always had a bit of a temper, but his training-enforced self-control had always tempered it rather effectively. The fact that the wall (not to mention the rest of the building or them) was still standing meant that he had made a ton of progress. It was a definite improvement over the weapon of mass destructive they had been sent just a year earlier, but he was still terrifying.
"Why are we even considering this?" His voice was booming and echoed with a distinctly unearthly quality.
"Look, Nash," Irene said calmly, stepping forward into the line of fire, "we all know what she . . . "
"No! You have no idea," he roared. "How could you possibly know? You JUST met her!"
Irene raised her hands and walked slowly toward Nash. "You're right. We don't know her like you do." A faint glow began to emanate from Irene's back, visible to all the other Archers except Nash. "But we do know you, and we know how far you've come. You don't want to do this."
Nash's head suddenly jerked forward and his palms opened. Flames completely enveloped his body and began to burn brighter. At the same moment, Irene leapt forward, pale blue fizzle-wings bursting from her glowing shoulder blades and pulling the two together in a tight embrace. Nash felt his own flames burning him for the first time in his life.
The pain intensified, leaving him lighted-headed and dizzy. He could vaguely hear Irene screaming, but the pain screaming in his brain was starting to drown everything else out.
Then he opened his eyes.
He stretched out his arms, trying to steady himself, but to no avail. He succumbed to his only option and sat back down.
Headrush. That's what he got for standing up too quickly . . . or at all.
He reached for his phone and flipped through Facebook again.
Nope. Still nothing.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Utter and Complete Boredom
He set the guitar down after his fifth play-through in a row. He figured that if he didn't have the song down by that point, it wasn't going to get any better. Besides, his fingers hurt and his arm was cramping up. He really needed to start to practicing more regularly . . . or to start doing more upper body workouts.
After settling back in his chair and turning his attention back to the movie he had started before he had even thought about playing his guitar, he quickly realized why he hadn't really watched movies in a while . . . he simply didn't have the attention span. It had nothing to do with the movies being boring and only a little to do with the fact that he had seen them all multiple times. It was actually because after about five minutes, he had already watched the entire movie in his head. What was the point of spending two more hours watching it again?
He waited a few minutes watching another extra getting killed by the terrifying almost-human monsters . . . aaand . . . cue explosion.
He reached down and picked his guitar back up. Maybe he'd practice just a little more.
That's when he realized that the only reason he had actually been practicing so much that day was because he was SO bored. He had tried several movies and watched a few episodes of some TV shows online. He even watched a few of them legally. But they didn't change the fact that he was tired of just sitting there. He wanted to do something. Anything!
But here he was, stuck sitting in this chair doing nothing. Doctor's orders. Lame.
He flexed the muscles in his arm, thumbed the callouses of his left hand, and set the guitar back down. There was no way he could play through the entire song again without more of a break.
So he closed his eyes.
The distinct smell of pine filled his nostrils and brought him back to reality. He looked around to make sure his team was still with him.
Three out of five . . . not bad. It was better than anyone else had done in the Forest of Diri.
"Alright, boys," he said in a commanding tone. "Let's get what we came for and get out."
His troops nodded. "Yes, Captain Paschar."
The young captain still wasn't entirely comfortable with his new title. After only a week in command, he still flinched every time it came before his name.
"Alright. You two," said Paschar, pointing to two of his men who looked at each other reluctantly, "head that way. Shout if you hear anything. Carmine, you're with me." Carmine gave his two companions a knowing look as they walked in opposite directions. They all knew what had happened to the last pair to leave the group, but what choice did they have? They couldn't leave now without completing their mission, and there was no way they could find the lance before nightfall if they stayed together.
It didn't take long before the captain couldn't hear his men's footsteps anymore. He and Carmine walked in silence, hoping to high heaven they wouldn't hear anything other than each other. Paschar closed his eyes to listen closely. Two sets of footsteps. Good.
As they walked deeper into the forest, it started to get darker. It didn't take long before he couldn't see his companion anymore. He started to rely on his hearing even more than before.
Two sets of footsteps. Good.
They walked for another ten minutes with no events. Paschar bumped into a couple of trees, but either Carmine didn't notice, or decided it wasn't his place to say anything about it. There was a brief moment where he felt sure his were the only steps he could hear, but a minute later, he heard a second set again and relaxed. Two sets. Good.
"Up ahead," Captain Paschar said suddenly. "There's a light! We must be getting close! Let's pick up the pace."
The captain began to walk faster. Based on the sound of his companion's steps, Carmine had sped up to stay with him. They reached the very edge of the light, and Paschar turned to offer Carmine a reassuring smile, but still couldn't quite make out his face. Hopefully he still got the message.
The captain walked fully into the light and stretched his arms out, hoping to soak up as much of it as possible. He turned to see how Carmine was doing and looked into the incredibly calm face . . . of a man who was definitely not Carmine. The man had white hair, small beady eyes, and wore flowing brown robes. He smiled eerily at the captain. "Hello," he said pleasantly.
Paschar drew his gun with a swiftness hard-wired into him by hundreds of hours of training. The man didn't react to the weapon. In fact, he didn't seem to notice it at all. "Where's Carmine?" Paschar asked furiously.
The man looked puzzled. "Where's what?"
The captain shouted spitefully. "Carmine! Where is he?"
"Do you mean that oddly red man?"
It was Paschar's turn to look puzzled. "What?"
"The one who was following you," the man said innocently, "had a very red aura. Somewhat T-shaped now that I think about . . . "
"I don't care about auras," the captain shouted. "Just tell me where he is, who you are, and what you want with us."
The man crossed his arms, stroked his chin, and smiled again. "He is safe . . . or at least, safer than you. As for who I am . . . that's complicated. I believe your people call me Diri. And what do I want with you? Well, to be frank, I want you out of me."
The captain lowered his gun slightly. "What . . . what are you?"
The man smiled. "I told you. I'm Diri. And I'll tell you once more: I want you out of me. Now!" The man's face was suddenly furious and the forest seemed to darken again.
The captain heard a voice shouting in the distance, "I'm home!"
He opened his eyes.
Instinctively, he paused the movie, though he wasn't entirely sure why. It seemed like the right thing to do to reassure his roommate that it was ok to talk to him. Anything was better than just sitting there.
He was SO bored, after all.
After settling back in his chair and turning his attention back to the movie he had started before he had even thought about playing his guitar, he quickly realized why he hadn't really watched movies in a while . . . he simply didn't have the attention span. It had nothing to do with the movies being boring and only a little to do with the fact that he had seen them all multiple times. It was actually because after about five minutes, he had already watched the entire movie in his head. What was the point of spending two more hours watching it again?
He waited a few minutes watching another extra getting killed by the terrifying almost-human monsters . . . aaand . . . cue explosion.
He reached down and picked his guitar back up. Maybe he'd practice just a little more.
That's when he realized that the only reason he had actually been practicing so much that day was because he was SO bored. He had tried several movies and watched a few episodes of some TV shows online. He even watched a few of them legally. But they didn't change the fact that he was tired of just sitting there. He wanted to do something. Anything!
But here he was, stuck sitting in this chair doing nothing. Doctor's orders. Lame.
He flexed the muscles in his arm, thumbed the callouses of his left hand, and set the guitar back down. There was no way he could play through the entire song again without more of a break.
So he closed his eyes.
The distinct smell of pine filled his nostrils and brought him back to reality. He looked around to make sure his team was still with him.
Three out of five . . . not bad. It was better than anyone else had done in the Forest of Diri.
"Alright, boys," he said in a commanding tone. "Let's get what we came for and get out."
His troops nodded. "Yes, Captain Paschar."
The young captain still wasn't entirely comfortable with his new title. After only a week in command, he still flinched every time it came before his name.
"Alright. You two," said Paschar, pointing to two of his men who looked at each other reluctantly, "head that way. Shout if you hear anything. Carmine, you're with me." Carmine gave his two companions a knowing look as they walked in opposite directions. They all knew what had happened to the last pair to leave the group, but what choice did they have? They couldn't leave now without completing their mission, and there was no way they could find the lance before nightfall if they stayed together.
It didn't take long before the captain couldn't hear his men's footsteps anymore. He and Carmine walked in silence, hoping to high heaven they wouldn't hear anything other than each other. Paschar closed his eyes to listen closely. Two sets of footsteps. Good.
As they walked deeper into the forest, it started to get darker. It didn't take long before he couldn't see his companion anymore. He started to rely on his hearing even more than before.
Two sets of footsteps. Good.
They walked for another ten minutes with no events. Paschar bumped into a couple of trees, but either Carmine didn't notice, or decided it wasn't his place to say anything about it. There was a brief moment where he felt sure his were the only steps he could hear, but a minute later, he heard a second set again and relaxed. Two sets. Good.
"Up ahead," Captain Paschar said suddenly. "There's a light! We must be getting close! Let's pick up the pace."
The captain began to walk faster. Based on the sound of his companion's steps, Carmine had sped up to stay with him. They reached the very edge of the light, and Paschar turned to offer Carmine a reassuring smile, but still couldn't quite make out his face. Hopefully he still got the message.
The captain walked fully into the light and stretched his arms out, hoping to soak up as much of it as possible. He turned to see how Carmine was doing and looked into the incredibly calm face . . . of a man who was definitely not Carmine. The man had white hair, small beady eyes, and wore flowing brown robes. He smiled eerily at the captain. "Hello," he said pleasantly.
Paschar drew his gun with a swiftness hard-wired into him by hundreds of hours of training. The man didn't react to the weapon. In fact, he didn't seem to notice it at all. "Where's Carmine?" Paschar asked furiously.
The man looked puzzled. "Where's what?"
The captain shouted spitefully. "Carmine! Where is he?"
"Do you mean that oddly red man?"
It was Paschar's turn to look puzzled. "What?"
"The one who was following you," the man said innocently, "had a very red aura. Somewhat T-shaped now that I think about . . . "
"I don't care about auras," the captain shouted. "Just tell me where he is, who you are, and what you want with us."
The man crossed his arms, stroked his chin, and smiled again. "He is safe . . . or at least, safer than you. As for who I am . . . that's complicated. I believe your people call me Diri. And what do I want with you? Well, to be frank, I want you out of me."
The captain lowered his gun slightly. "What . . . what are you?"
The man smiled. "I told you. I'm Diri. And I'll tell you once more: I want you out of me. Now!" The man's face was suddenly furious and the forest seemed to darken again.
The captain heard a voice shouting in the distance, "I'm home!"
He opened his eyes.
Instinctively, he paused the movie, though he wasn't entirely sure why. It seemed like the right thing to do to reassure his roommate that it was ok to talk to him. Anything was better than just sitting there.
He was SO bored, after all.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Rush Hour Traffic
He was driving home from work, thumbing the calloused fingers of his left hand. He always found the lack of feeling oddly comforting.
The drive home wasn't particularly long. It generally took less than a half hour, but that was more than enough time after spending the entire day sitting in front of a computer trying to stay focused on whatever it was he was supposed to have been working on. It bothered him that it didn't bother him that he didn't know what that was.
As he reached his third red light, he started to realize just how frustrated sitting in traffic was making him. He came to a stop, stretched out his arms, and turned up the radio.
Then he closed his eyes.
Who was he kidding? He didn't have to wait in traffic! He was better than this.
Imperceptible to everyone around him, his arcfield slowly spread until it enveloped his car. When he was sure he could feel every molecule of the car inside his sphere of influence, he lifted out of his seat and felt his entire body dissipate along with his car. To all the suckers who had to actually wait in traffic, a pillar of smoke enveloped a car that was gone after the wind blew the vapor away. To the young nexter, his car and body became a pillar of smoke that lifted into the air and took off in the direction of his apartment.
He circled the parking lot outside his apartment a couple of times choosing a spot which he then descended upon, rematerializing as he did so. He then casually and calmly stepped out of his car, climbed the stairs to his home, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
"Took you long enough."
He jumped at the voice, assuming a defensive stance and looking for its source.
"Relax," said the deep, smooth voice emanating from the chair across the room. "It's just me." A lamp clicked on, revealing the sharply dressed, middle-aged director of the NSA's nexter division.
The nexter calmly took off his coat and hung it on the hook by the door. "What do you want, Qualm?"
"Straight to business, then? Fine. We need you, Haze."
"I assumed as much," he replied calmly, walking into the kitchen and taking a bottle out of his bar. "That doesn't really tell me anything, though. Does it?"
Qualm smiled. "He's back."
Haze sat a glass of Scotch on the table next to the director as he passed him to sit in the opposing chair. "Who's back?"
Qualm sipped the Scotch and simply raised an eyebrow.
"Oh," Haze said knowingly. "Well he's not my problem anymore."
The director leaned forward in his chair. "He's all of our problem and you know it," he said with a new level of gravitas added to his voice. "You're the only one with enough experience and know-how to deal with him. He is your . . . "
"If you don't mind, director," interrupted Haze, "I'd like you to finish your drink and leave." And with that, he stood, dissolved into smoke, and faded from the room.
Qualm slumped back into his chair. "He's in Lexington."
Haze felt his stomach drop . . . or what used to be his stomach.
The director smiled as the nexter slowly rematerialized. "I thought that would get your attention."
"When do I leave?" Hazed asked flatly.
Before the director could answer, the loud blare of a horn melted the world of the nexter away.
And he opened his eyes.
He looked up to see a green light staring down at him, the traffic around him moving smoothly, and the driver in his rearview mirror showing off his IQ. Accepting the sudden return of reality, he pulled into the intersection and continued on his way home, knowing that another day at work was waiting for him tomorrow.
He hated traffic.
The drive home wasn't particularly long. It generally took less than a half hour, but that was more than enough time after spending the entire day sitting in front of a computer trying to stay focused on whatever it was he was supposed to have been working on. It bothered him that it didn't bother him that he didn't know what that was.
As he reached his third red light, he started to realize just how frustrated sitting in traffic was making him. He came to a stop, stretched out his arms, and turned up the radio.
Then he closed his eyes.
Who was he kidding? He didn't have to wait in traffic! He was better than this.
Imperceptible to everyone around him, his arcfield slowly spread until it enveloped his car. When he was sure he could feel every molecule of the car inside his sphere of influence, he lifted out of his seat and felt his entire body dissipate along with his car. To all the suckers who had to actually wait in traffic, a pillar of smoke enveloped a car that was gone after the wind blew the vapor away. To the young nexter, his car and body became a pillar of smoke that lifted into the air and took off in the direction of his apartment.
He circled the parking lot outside his apartment a couple of times choosing a spot which he then descended upon, rematerializing as he did so. He then casually and calmly stepped out of his car, climbed the stairs to his home, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
"Took you long enough."
He jumped at the voice, assuming a defensive stance and looking for its source.
"Relax," said the deep, smooth voice emanating from the chair across the room. "It's just me." A lamp clicked on, revealing the sharply dressed, middle-aged director of the NSA's nexter division.
The nexter calmly took off his coat and hung it on the hook by the door. "What do you want, Qualm?"
"Straight to business, then? Fine. We need you, Haze."
"I assumed as much," he replied calmly, walking into the kitchen and taking a bottle out of his bar. "That doesn't really tell me anything, though. Does it?"
Qualm smiled. "He's back."
Haze sat a glass of Scotch on the table next to the director as he passed him to sit in the opposing chair. "Who's back?"
Qualm sipped the Scotch and simply raised an eyebrow.
"Oh," Haze said knowingly. "Well he's not my problem anymore."
The director leaned forward in his chair. "He's all of our problem and you know it," he said with a new level of gravitas added to his voice. "You're the only one with enough experience and know-how to deal with him. He is your . . . "
"If you don't mind, director," interrupted Haze, "I'd like you to finish your drink and leave." And with that, he stood, dissolved into smoke, and faded from the room.
Qualm slumped back into his chair. "He's in Lexington."
Haze felt his stomach drop . . . or what used to be his stomach.
The director smiled as the nexter slowly rematerialized. "I thought that would get your attention."
"When do I leave?" Hazed asked flatly.
Before the director could answer, the loud blare of a horn melted the world of the nexter away.
And he opened his eyes.
He looked up to see a green light staring down at him, the traffic around him moving smoothly, and the driver in his rearview mirror showing off his IQ. Accepting the sudden return of reality, he pulled into the intersection and continued on his way home, knowing that another day at work was waiting for him tomorrow.
He hated traffic.
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