Non-Linear Story Telling

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."

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.

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?"