☸ OOC: The first dream
The warm, dim light radiates from a streetlight made to look like a gas lamp and illuminates the worn, centuries old paving covering the ground. The homey, affected antiquity is a stark contrast to the sleek, modern vehicle he's sitting in. Taking a deep breath, he dials the number and asks for a report.
It isn't good news. And it is exactly what he had expected. He had been told what to expect, after all. Promising to call again, he terminates the transmission, then dials again.
"We're in a bad situation," the man on the other line says. His voice is tense with the special kind of strain that comes from losing comrades and the weariness of starting to think you just can't win. "Please tell me you have good news."
"Don't tell me that unflappable optimism of yours has taken a hit." The caller's voice is flippant, masking his own uneasiness. "I've gotten an offer. One I think you'll be interested in."
The caller relates his news. He expects a debate, a weighing of the pros and cons. Instead, the man on the other end of the line is nothing but hopeful. There's that optimism I mentioned earlier, he thinks with amusement.
"Are you sure I'm even the man for the job?" The caller jokes. Before he can say anything further, his attention is caught when one of the faux-gas lamps switches on in the distance ahead of him. Four men are standing there, almost shoulder to shoulder. They are just far enough from the lamp that they are backlit; no features can be discerned, only the stark outlines of the figures. One of the silhouettes, the caller realizes, seems achingly familiar. No sooner does he note this than the figure fades away, leaving an empty space.
The space that he's expected to step into.
The realization comes with an avalanche of feelings: bitterness and resentment, curiosity and confusion, and a bone-deep sadness mixed with bittersweet fondness. It's almost too much and he jams the key into the ignition. He should just drive off.
"Go on, Gene-1," the voice cuts through his thoughts. He hadn't even realized that he was still holding the phone up with his other hand. "Join them. We need them and it's possible that they may just need us."
A moment of hesitation, then he shakes his head. "You bastard." It's a concession. Laughter comes across the line before he ends the transmission and pockets the phone. As he opens the car door and steps onto the pavement, fat raindrops start to fall. He raises his face into the rain as he walks, getting the vague impression that it will be a long time until he is able to do this again.
It isn't good news. And it is exactly what he had expected. He had been told what to expect, after all. Promising to call again, he terminates the transmission, then dials again.
"We're in a bad situation," the man on the other line says. His voice is tense with the special kind of strain that comes from losing comrades and the weariness of starting to think you just can't win. "Please tell me you have good news."
"Don't tell me that unflappable optimism of yours has taken a hit." The caller's voice is flippant, masking his own uneasiness. "I've gotten an offer. One I think you'll be interested in."
The caller relates his news. He expects a debate, a weighing of the pros and cons. Instead, the man on the other end of the line is nothing but hopeful. There's that optimism I mentioned earlier, he thinks with amusement.
"Are you sure I'm even the man for the job?" The caller jokes. Before he can say anything further, his attention is caught when one of the faux-gas lamps switches on in the distance ahead of him. Four men are standing there, almost shoulder to shoulder. They are just far enough from the lamp that they are backlit; no features can be discerned, only the stark outlines of the figures. One of the silhouettes, the caller realizes, seems achingly familiar. No sooner does he note this than the figure fades away, leaving an empty space.
The space that he's expected to step into.
The realization comes with an avalanche of feelings: bitterness and resentment, curiosity and confusion, and a bone-deep sadness mixed with bittersweet fondness. It's almost too much and he jams the key into the ignition. He should just drive off.
"Go on, Gene-1," the voice cuts through his thoughts. He hadn't even realized that he was still holding the phone up with his other hand. "Join them. We need them and it's possible that they may just need us."
A moment of hesitation, then he shakes his head. "You bastard." It's a concession. Laughter comes across the line before he ends the transmission and pockets the phone. As he opens the car door and steps onto the pavement, fat raindrops start to fall. He raises his face into the rain as he walks, getting the vague impression that it will be a long time until he is able to do this again.