funny how we make new friends
A very long time ago I started this little piece of original fiction. Every once in a while I poke at it, add a bit and then don't work on it for months. This latest poking has actually amounted to something. huzzah! So here it is in all it's unbeta'd round about 1700 word glory.
Fog, part three in which there are mysterious things in both silver and grey.
Previous parts, etc.
Rain is running down Julian's neck and under his collar. He's wet through now - and for the second time today - but he keeps walking, trying not to think too much about where he's going, turning randomly down side streets. If the street sign starts or ends with S go left, if the sign has more than one E go right, otherwise keep on straight ahead. A left, a right, another left, two rights in a row then: Spencer. He stops. Turns around, then heads back in the direction he came. He flicks at his collar to try to keep the rain out, but he only manages to send more cold drops skittering down between his shoulder blades. The warmth of his twenty minutes ago chai is long gone.
Julian curses himself inwardly for being stupid enough to forget his jacket, for letting small (they are small, yes, he can tell himself that) odd things get to him so much. He'll probably never see Kimball again. He's just stressed out about not finding work. Maybe he should go see that counselor Sylvia kept trying to get him to got to before she left him.
Or maybe he should crouch down under something protective with his hands above his head and brace for impact because there are three low flying bomber looking planes - menacing and big and dark grey with two engines on each wing - heading straight for him.
The clouds are hanging low and grey, seemingly just above the rooftops, but the planes are lower. It seems nearly miraculous that they don't brush the TV antennas as they pass overhead. Even more miraculous still when they don't bomb the street, the city, to oblivion. He sees flashes of London during the blitz when he blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. The planes are still there, further away now, heading away now, but still there. He realizes now what was so strange about them, as close as they were, as low in the sky. They made no sound.
It's as if someone has turned the creepiness dial up from the usual two that only crazy people notice to seven, and now it’s right there in his face. Or maybe he’s just suddenly seeing the two. Either way it’s incredibly disconcerting and he finds himself jumping at the now much more obvious shadows, sure that there are eyes peering at him through windows into basements, through sewer grates.
More disturbing that the presence of giant military planes flying so low over the city and the feel of eyes, that are not there, on his back is the fact that no one else seemed to see the planes. No one else on the street even looks up. It is as if the entire world has gone mad (though actually it's probably just that he's mad). Maybe no one else sees them because they blend with the grey of the sky. Maybe everyone else is just completely unobservant, and in general that does seem to be the case but-
“Fascinating. Isn’t it?” Julian is so taken aback that a) he has just walked straight into someone because he was walking while staring up at the sky and b) that that someone is Kimball that it takes him a moment to register exactly what it is that Kimball is saying.
“You can see them too then? The airplanes.”
Kimball gives Julian a look that would have left him cowering in fear it he hadn’t already been half way to completely freaked out.
“Of course I can,” Kimball gestures down the street, long fingers flashing against too grey sky, deep blue silk, blood red brick. “They all can, they just don’t notice. And that is the problem is it not? The problem with the entire human race. they do not look up because they are afraid they will trip over something when in reality they are missing the entire thing."
"I'm sure I'm missing it too," Julian mumbles, half-heartedly trying to edge away from the other man and back the way he came. Kimball gives him a sharp look, nearly as sharp as his next word.
"No. That is exactly the trouble with you. You cannot deny what you see. Once you see it it is not going to go away just because you turn from it. There is no erasing memories. No undoing what has been done."
"I haven't done anything."
"That is where you are wrong, my friend." There is something very wrong in the way Kimball says friend, as if he knows the concept but has never experienced it in practice, never actually applied the word to another person in a way that meant anything. "You looked up just now, yes, but also some years ago and that has made all the difference." The look on Kimball's face grows suddenly more serious, almost ernest. “It is my,” here he gives Julian a look that says it is nothing of the sort “great pleasure to present to you this offer for employment.” Kimball reaches into his inner jacket pocket and withdraws a long thin envelope with a flourish and holds it out to Julian between his index and middle finger.
"Employment?" Julian sputters eyeing the envelope suspiciously. The paper is oddly silver and very nearly shines even in the dull grey light.
"I realize it has been a while since you have had any but I had hoped you would at least be able to recall the concept."
"I do, of course," Julian is trying for affronted but his voice sounds more confused than anything. "What exactly do you mean by employment?"
"I am afraid the sensitive nature of this project does not allow me to divulge specific information at this point. I am assured, however, that you are the perfect candidate for the position."
"That really doesn't give me a hell of a lot to go on."
"I assure you accepting this offer will be in your best interest."
"And turning it down?"
Kimball's eyes darken. "Not in your best interest."
"Is that supposed to be a threat?"
"Threats are not necessary in this particular situation."
Juilan squares his shoulders, tries to offer an imposing figure even though he knows in the back of his mind that it's useless at this point. "So if the situation was different then you would be threatening me?"
Kimball makes a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a crow and taps Julian in the chest with the corner of the envelope. "When you are ready you will find the information you need in here." Julian puts up his hand to ward off the tapping and the edge of the envelope hits him in the palm hard enough that his hand closes involuntarily around the it. It is surprisingly sharp. "Keep the envelope safe. It would not do to have the contents fall into the wrong hands."
Julian looks down at the envelope. The color seems to change slightly as he watches getting very slowly lighter, then darker. He blinks, looks back up to Kimball to protest that he hasn't agreed to this - whatever it is - to ask him what exactly he meant by the information will be there when Julian is ready, but the other man is gone.
Great.
He stuffs the envelope in the back pocket of his jeans and pulls his shirt down over it, hiding it from view.
There is blood on Julian's hand where the envelope first hit him, a cut on his right hand just to the left of his thumb. He flexes his fingers, watches the blood follow the lines across his palm. It sticks to his life line, follows it down to his wrist. He tries to keep from thinking that this is some sort of sign but the words of Sylvia (that batty bitch) keep seeping to the forefront of his mind.
She'd taken a palmistry class, kept practising on him, kept telling him it would help their relationship (that was one of the things about her that he definitely didn't miss). The life line demonstrates how you look at your life and your personal control of it. He can't help but wonder if a cut clear across the life line means he's no longer in control. If he hasn't lost it already he sure is going to if he keeps thinking like this.
Julian wipes his hand on his jeans, leaving a dark streak that's barely visible on the still wet fabric, and turns toward home. After three steps it starts to rain again Thankfully it's only a drizzle this time.
As soon as he gets through the door of his apartment Julian throws the envelope on the counter amid the junk mail and resolutely forgets that it exists for the next three days. Or, at least, he makes a valiant effort to forget that it exists, but the thought of it keeps niggling at the back of his consciousness. He keeps telling himself that maybe if he ignores it long enough it will go away.
Whatever the information the envelope contains he's sure he's not ready for it. He never will be. He considers running away. Just getting in the car and driving but he hasn't had a car since he moved to the city three years ago and running away on public transportation doesn't feel quite the same. It doesn't have quite the same romantic connotation. Nobody ever takes the bus off into the sunset, they always drive.
Here he is twenty six years old, a perfectly independent and functional human being, and he's considering running away from an envelope. An envelope that's made of a very odd sort of paper and was acquired under rather strange circumstances, true, but still. Just an envelope. Julian shakes his head at his own ridiculousness.
The television is blathering at him but he hasn't been paying attention for at least an hour. He's not even sure what he's watching at this point. He switches it off, gets up, walks into the kitchen and riffles through the pile.
Even under the off-color buzzing fluorescent that hangs under the upper cabinets the silver paper gleams when he unearths the envelope.
Julian stops for a second, turns it over in his hands, watching the color slowly change light to dark and back again, then rips off the end in one quick decisive motion. The ripped off portion flutters to the floor as he drops it, dimmer now, less gleaming, less sparkle to it now that it's separated from the rest. He squeezes the envelope, opening it wider so he can see inside. The inside is black, very very black. Like what looking into a black hole might be like, he thinks, before he can stop himself.
There is nothing in the envelope.
Fog, part three in which there are mysterious things in both silver and grey.
Previous parts, etc.
Rain is running down Julian's neck and under his collar. He's wet through now - and for the second time today - but he keeps walking, trying not to think too much about where he's going, turning randomly down side streets. If the street sign starts or ends with S go left, if the sign has more than one E go right, otherwise keep on straight ahead. A left, a right, another left, two rights in a row then: Spencer. He stops. Turns around, then heads back in the direction he came. He flicks at his collar to try to keep the rain out, but he only manages to send more cold drops skittering down between his shoulder blades. The warmth of his twenty minutes ago chai is long gone.
Julian curses himself inwardly for being stupid enough to forget his jacket, for letting small (they are small, yes, he can tell himself that) odd things get to him so much. He'll probably never see Kimball again. He's just stressed out about not finding work. Maybe he should go see that counselor Sylvia kept trying to get him to got to before she left him.
Or maybe he should crouch down under something protective with his hands above his head and brace for impact because there are three low flying bomber looking planes - menacing and big and dark grey with two engines on each wing - heading straight for him.
The clouds are hanging low and grey, seemingly just above the rooftops, but the planes are lower. It seems nearly miraculous that they don't brush the TV antennas as they pass overhead. Even more miraculous still when they don't bomb the street, the city, to oblivion. He sees flashes of London during the blitz when he blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. The planes are still there, further away now, heading away now, but still there. He realizes now what was so strange about them, as close as they were, as low in the sky. They made no sound.
It's as if someone has turned the creepiness dial up from the usual two that only crazy people notice to seven, and now it’s right there in his face. Or maybe he’s just suddenly seeing the two. Either way it’s incredibly disconcerting and he finds himself jumping at the now much more obvious shadows, sure that there are eyes peering at him through windows into basements, through sewer grates.
More disturbing that the presence of giant military planes flying so low over the city and the feel of eyes, that are not there, on his back is the fact that no one else seemed to see the planes. No one else on the street even looks up. It is as if the entire world has gone mad (though actually it's probably just that he's mad). Maybe no one else sees them because they blend with the grey of the sky. Maybe everyone else is just completely unobservant, and in general that does seem to be the case but-
“Fascinating. Isn’t it?” Julian is so taken aback that a) he has just walked straight into someone because he was walking while staring up at the sky and b) that that someone is Kimball that it takes him a moment to register exactly what it is that Kimball is saying.
“You can see them too then? The airplanes.”
Kimball gives Julian a look that would have left him cowering in fear it he hadn’t already been half way to completely freaked out.
“Of course I can,” Kimball gestures down the street, long fingers flashing against too grey sky, deep blue silk, blood red brick. “They all can, they just don’t notice. And that is the problem is it not? The problem with the entire human race. they do not look up because they are afraid they will trip over something when in reality they are missing the entire thing."
"I'm sure I'm missing it too," Julian mumbles, half-heartedly trying to edge away from the other man and back the way he came. Kimball gives him a sharp look, nearly as sharp as his next word.
"No. That is exactly the trouble with you. You cannot deny what you see. Once you see it it is not going to go away just because you turn from it. There is no erasing memories. No undoing what has been done."
"I haven't done anything."
"That is where you are wrong, my friend." There is something very wrong in the way Kimball says friend, as if he knows the concept but has never experienced it in practice, never actually applied the word to another person in a way that meant anything. "You looked up just now, yes, but also some years ago and that has made all the difference." The look on Kimball's face grows suddenly more serious, almost ernest. “It is my,” here he gives Julian a look that says it is nothing of the sort “great pleasure to present to you this offer for employment.” Kimball reaches into his inner jacket pocket and withdraws a long thin envelope with a flourish and holds it out to Julian between his index and middle finger.
"Employment?" Julian sputters eyeing the envelope suspiciously. The paper is oddly silver and very nearly shines even in the dull grey light.
"I realize it has been a while since you have had any but I had hoped you would at least be able to recall the concept."
"I do, of course," Julian is trying for affronted but his voice sounds more confused than anything. "What exactly do you mean by employment?"
"I am afraid the sensitive nature of this project does not allow me to divulge specific information at this point. I am assured, however, that you are the perfect candidate for the position."
"That really doesn't give me a hell of a lot to go on."
"I assure you accepting this offer will be in your best interest."
"And turning it down?"
Kimball's eyes darken. "Not in your best interest."
"Is that supposed to be a threat?"
"Threats are not necessary in this particular situation."
Juilan squares his shoulders, tries to offer an imposing figure even though he knows in the back of his mind that it's useless at this point. "So if the situation was different then you would be threatening me?"
Kimball makes a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a crow and taps Julian in the chest with the corner of the envelope. "When you are ready you will find the information you need in here." Julian puts up his hand to ward off the tapping and the edge of the envelope hits him in the palm hard enough that his hand closes involuntarily around the it. It is surprisingly sharp. "Keep the envelope safe. It would not do to have the contents fall into the wrong hands."
Julian looks down at the envelope. The color seems to change slightly as he watches getting very slowly lighter, then darker. He blinks, looks back up to Kimball to protest that he hasn't agreed to this - whatever it is - to ask him what exactly he meant by the information will be there when Julian is ready, but the other man is gone.
Great.
He stuffs the envelope in the back pocket of his jeans and pulls his shirt down over it, hiding it from view.
There is blood on Julian's hand where the envelope first hit him, a cut on his right hand just to the left of his thumb. He flexes his fingers, watches the blood follow the lines across his palm. It sticks to his life line, follows it down to his wrist. He tries to keep from thinking that this is some sort of sign but the words of Sylvia (that batty bitch) keep seeping to the forefront of his mind.
She'd taken a palmistry class, kept practising on him, kept telling him it would help their relationship (that was one of the things about her that he definitely didn't miss). The life line demonstrates how you look at your life and your personal control of it. He can't help but wonder if a cut clear across the life line means he's no longer in control. If he hasn't lost it already he sure is going to if he keeps thinking like this.
Julian wipes his hand on his jeans, leaving a dark streak that's barely visible on the still wet fabric, and turns toward home. After three steps it starts to rain again Thankfully it's only a drizzle this time.
As soon as he gets through the door of his apartment Julian throws the envelope on the counter amid the junk mail and resolutely forgets that it exists for the next three days. Or, at least, he makes a valiant effort to forget that it exists, but the thought of it keeps niggling at the back of his consciousness. He keeps telling himself that maybe if he ignores it long enough it will go away.
Whatever the information the envelope contains he's sure he's not ready for it. He never will be. He considers running away. Just getting in the car and driving but he hasn't had a car since he moved to the city three years ago and running away on public transportation doesn't feel quite the same. It doesn't have quite the same romantic connotation. Nobody ever takes the bus off into the sunset, they always drive.
Here he is twenty six years old, a perfectly independent and functional human being, and he's considering running away from an envelope. An envelope that's made of a very odd sort of paper and was acquired under rather strange circumstances, true, but still. Just an envelope. Julian shakes his head at his own ridiculousness.
The television is blathering at him but he hasn't been paying attention for at least an hour. He's not even sure what he's watching at this point. He switches it off, gets up, walks into the kitchen and riffles through the pile.
Even under the off-color buzzing fluorescent that hangs under the upper cabinets the silver paper gleams when he unearths the envelope.
Julian stops for a second, turns it over in his hands, watching the color slowly change light to dark and back again, then rips off the end in one quick decisive motion. The ripped off portion flutters to the floor as he drops it, dimmer now, less gleaming, less sparkle to it now that it's separated from the rest. He squeezes the envelope, opening it wider so he can see inside. The inside is black, very very black. Like what looking into a black hole might be like, he thinks, before he can stop himself.
There is nothing in the envelope.