Poem: "When You're Lost, You Question Everything"
This poem came out of the September 3, 2024 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by prompts from Dreamwidth users Dialecticdreamer, rix_scaedu, and Siberian_skys. It also fills the "Formidable Handicapped Villain" square in my 9-1-24 card for the People with Disabilities Drabble Fest Bingo. his poem has been sponsored by a pool with Fuzzyred. It belongs to the Big One thread of the Polychrome Heroics series.
"When You're Lost, You Question Everything"
[Monday, June 27, 2016]
After the fourteenth time
that somebody told him,
"The sensory room is down
the hallway," Bluescreen knew
that he wasn't just imagining it --
something was wrong with this town.
Well, okay, something was wrong with
the whole West Coast after the Big One,
but this was a whole new flavor of weird.
It wasn't just the sensory rooms either;
people also pointed him toward quiet rooms,
EFA rooms, dotties, and refugee services.
Even the perky girl at the Mercedes mall,
Amber something-or-other, had smiled
and asked him if he needed any help and
told him she was an Emotional First Aide.
Did he really look that bad? Sure, he
wore a bright blue prosthesis over
the stump of his left elbow, and
that patch of hair at his temple
was turning metallic silver, but he
wasn't the only supervillain in town.
That was another odd thing about it,
how many supervillains -- or at least
other soups -- Bluescreen had seen.
There were crayon kids everywhere,
and he'd even seen a few primal soups,
who usually preferred to remain hidden
although it was common for a superpower.
He had noticed Kudzu Dan, currently
in human form, coming out from
the Everything Store with his arms
full of overflowing canvas bags.
Bluescreen was pretty sure
that was Polilla shepherding
a mixed group of superkids
toward the Triton Teen Center,
looking as happy as ey ever did.
Nobody was staring at them
either, even though it'd come out
that Kraken was behind Triton.
People here just acted like
all this soup was ... normal.
It was freaking him out a bit.
Bluescreen shook himself
and tried to focus on business.
He needed to scope out the town
and pick a territory for himself.
Cupertino was a lost cause --
the whole office complex had slid
right off the side of the mountain,
including his consulting suite.
San José was barely better,
so he hadn't stayed there.
Bluescreen had headed east,
exploring and discarding several
of the smaller towns such as
Newman and Gustine before
he set his sights on Mercedes.
It would have to be here, unless
he wanted to catch a bus for
some inland metroplex, and
he was a West Coast guy.
Unlike the others, Mercedes
was booming -- it had become
a major bridgehead for personnel,
tools, and supplies flowing west
to clean up after the earthquake,
and refugees fleeing to the east.
Surely an enterprising fellow
like Bluescreen could find
somewhere to set up shop.
He could do all kinds of things,
but right now he had it in his head
to offer fake papers and build gizmos
from whatever box of scraps he could
scrounge from the rubble trucks.
Lots of people had lost everything
in the Big One. They would need
his help, if they could afford it.
Someone could always afford it,
that was just how the world worked.
So Bluescreen rambled around town,
noting the places that still had signal
and where he could sleep his meat
and possibly cadge a free meal or
at least find some cheap eats.
There were cricket stickers
everywhere -- it seemed like
almost every restaurant or
food truck or soup kitchen was
aware of how much extra food
superpowers could burn up.
Not just murals but fresh graffiti
in cheerful colors adorned the walls,
including the buildings that faced
busy streets where people had
to have seen that shit going up,
and no sign of anyone trying
to scrub it off the bricks, either.
There were no broken windows,
though, no junked cars on blocks,
no litter anywhere, none of the signs
that a neighborhood was running down.
Bluescreen didn't understand that,
and it was making him anxious.
He fiddled with the audioplayer that
fed his noise-cancelling headphones.
No matter what he set it to -- rain or
ocean waves, birdsong or desert winds --
it didn't seem to soothe his nerves.
He missed his old audioplayer with
its familiar techno sounds, but he had
lost that in the earthquake and this was
the only replacement he could find.
He missed the privacy field from
his office, too. No telling when he
might manage to replace that.
Bluescreen pulled up short
as he spotted another one
of the safety booths that
littered the whole town.
That was definitely Dubiety
chatting with the tall cop while
she made illusory balloon dogs
and a flock of flying pink piglets
that cavorted across the park
to amuse nearby children.
Seriously, what the hell?
Bluescreen backed away,
uneasy with the whole scene.
Then he turned and walked
briskly up the sidewalk.
The smell of cooking food
wafted over him, making
his stomach grumble.
Looking up, he saw
a hot dog stand made
from a food trailer and
several folding tables.
A middle-aged woman
was cooking the hot dogs
while her husband worked
to prep toppings and put
everything in the buns.
Menus in plastic holders
listed the available items.
A guy in a courier vest
parked his bike and
hurried to the stand
next to a girl who was
rummaging in her purse.
In front of the tables,
a teenaged boy in
a wheelchair wore
a sign advertising
the hot dog stand, and
prismatic sunglasses
that looked gizmotronic.
His black T-shirt read,
We believe everyone
belongs and we can
work beside one another.
Bluescreen flinched. That
hadn't been his experience,
at least not with naries.
His team had been mixed,
though; they were great before
that cape fight had killed some
of them and scattered the rest.
The boy rolled up to him and said,
"Hi, I'm Bryan. Welcome to
our hot dog stand!" His head
dipped, looking over Bluescreen.
"How hungry are you today?"
Bluescreen's stomach
growled an answer for him.
"Uh, pretty hungry," he added.
"Get the California dog,"
Bryan recommended. "It
comes in regular or footlong
and has avocado on top."
"Sold," Bluescreen said,
his mouth already watering.
He loved avocados -- they
helped with the extra calories
that he needed -- and he
hadn't found any in days.
Stepping up to the counter,
he saw that they actually had
several varieties of hot dog
including beef, pork, turkey,
and even carrot notdogs.
"One footlong California dog
in beef, please," he ordered.
"Coming right up," said the lady,
and a minute later her husband
passed her a paper boat with
a hot dog buried under ... stuff.
"Thanks," Bluescreen said,
and paid her. "This looks good."
He shuffled out of the traffic
to see if it needed anything more.
It did not. The toppings seemed
to include a whole handful of
alfalfa sprouts, several slices
each of tomato and avocado,
diced red onions, cilantro, and
some sort of fancy mustard.
Bluescreen bit into it
and moaned in pleasure.
He couldn't remember
the last meal he'd eaten
that was actually good.
It must have been
weeks ago; he'd been
living on refugee rations
that were barely enough,
let alone palatable.
This was heaven. He
was definitely staying.
Bluescreen was licking
the last of the rich mustard
off the paper when Dubiety
tapped him on the shoulder,
making him jump and squeak.
"Sorry, didn't mean to startle
you there," she said. "I just
wanted to check on you. I
haven't seen you since -- well."
Since the earthquake. Yeah,
everything was "since" now.
Dubiety was a hacker from
San Francisco, although
Bluescreen hadn't seen her
around the Bay Area recently.
"Yeah," he said. "My office
has gone up in smoke, so
I'm currently in the market
for new opportunities."
"Uh huh," Dubiety said,
eyeing him. "Don't start
trouble here, Bluescreen.
There's no future in it."
He bristled at that. "I'm
good at what I do," he said.
"Not around here," said Dubiety.
"The locals won't stand for anyone
moving in on their turf to cause
problems. Now if you want to help
for once, that's different -- I'm sure
folks could use a good programmer
or someone to fix whatever breaks."
Bluescreen wasn't sure he was
that hungry yet. "I'll think about it."
"If you think wrong, don't say that I
didn't warn you," Dubiety growled.
Then she turned and walked into
the park, following a winding path
that led between the flowerbeds.
"The hell," Bluescreen muttered.
He tossed his paper trash into
the compost bin, then stalked off.
He could keep looking for what he
needed, somewhere the cop wasn't,
and hopefully somewhere that he
wouldn't run into batty supervillains.
The day was hot, and the sunlight
beat down like a hammer on an anvil.
To top it all off, his headphones still
weren't helping much. Maybe they
needed new batteries or something.
Frustrated, Bluescreen pulled them
off and just let them dangle for a while.
He hugged the shade and kept to
the awnings or doorways of buildings
that faced the exposed stretch of street.
He was eyeing up an old brick place
with a "vacancy" sign in the window when
someone said, "Are you Bluescreen?"
Of course he didn't turn around, but
a mental flick turned up the power
in his prosthesis, just in case
this guy turned into trouble.
"Dubiety sent me to look
for you. She thought you
might need a local guide,"
the man said. "I'm Cold Cash."
Bluescreen whirled around.
The guy was lean with
wiry muscles and he wore
a pair of dark sunglasses.
Bluescreen had heard about
what happened to Cold Cash --
everyone had -- and was amazed
that he was still in the same town.
"Uh, hi," he said. "I'm Bluescreen.
I got in on a refugee bus yesterday."
"Welcome to Mercedes, call me
Cash," said the man. "If you care
to tell me your story, I might point
you toward whatever you need.
We may be stretched thin, but
we try to do what we can."
"I lost my team, my arm, and
now my office too -- everything,"
said Bluescreen. "Well, I guess
you'd know something about that."
"I guess I would," Cash said, and
tipped his sunglasses down enough
to show one brown eye and the other
blue-white with a starburst scar.
Bluescreen stared at him. He'd
heard about the mall incident,
of course, everyone had, but
he hadn't heard about this.
He'd never seen anything
quite like it, except for --
"You look like a Husky dog,"
he blurted. "You know how
they have odd eyes, sometimes,
especially with white on the face?"
"I've seen the type, although we
don't get a lot of Siberian Huskies
down in California," said Cash.
"Sorry," Bluescreen muttered.
"I shouldn't have said that aloud.
Shit just falls out of my mouth."
"I know how it goes," Cash said,
nodding. "Not everyone gets
the ordinary brain-to-mouth filter."
Bluescreen gave a bitter laugh.
"My life would be a lot different
if I had," he allowed. "People
don't like freaks and geeks much."
"Everyone has different interpretations
of reality," Cash drawled. "Normal or
freak, superhero or supervillain --
nothing is really set in stone. It's
all based on personal perspective."
"And I always seem to come up on
the wrong side of it," said Bluescreen.
"I'm just looking for a way to get by."
"We could always use a man with ..."
Cash's head tilted. "... two good hands,
and yours sure look skilled enough."
"What, Dubiety didn't tell you
all about me?" said Bluescreen.
"Just enough to get the ball rolling,"
said Cash. "So what can you do?"
"A little of this and a little of that,"
said Bluescreen. "Hardware and
software, making do with that I find."
"Is that your work you're wearing?"
Cash said. "It looks pretty good."
"It's just a prototype," said Bluescreen.
"I'm still trying to work out the bugs."
"Five fingers, independent motion,
that's a good start," said Cash.
"What's the lens on the back?"
"Right now, just a flashlight,"
said Bluescreen. "I wanted
something like a beam or
a forcefield, but even I'm
not smart enough for that."
"Ah, a brain," Cash said happily.
"Still working through gizmology,
haven't leveled up quite yet?"
"I can manage," Bluescreen said
through his teeth. "What's it to you?"
"I'm just hoping to find something
for you to do other than make trouble
that I'll have to mop up," said Cash.
"This really isn't the place for that."
"Yeah, I'm getting that impression,"
Bluescreen grumbled. "It's nuts here.
People keep pointing me to resources
like they fuckin' care what happens."
"You get used to it," Cash said with
a rakish grin. "I believe that you
could fit here, if you give it a chance."
"Really?" Bluescreen said, frowning.
"That seems like a pretty far stretch."
"Yes. I also believe that when people
are going through difficult situations in
life, it causes them to search a lot more,"
said Cash. "They search life and they
search their soul. When you’re searching,
then you’re suddenly a lot more open to
the world around you, to the possibilities,
to things you never thought about before."
"Why does everything have to be
so difficult?" Bluescreen complained.
"When you’re happy, then you don’t
question the world so much," Cash said.
"When you’re lost, you question everything.
That's the very reason why getting lost is
so essential to human self-discovery."
That was ... disturbingly plausible.
At least, most of Bluescreen's
greatest discoveries had come
just after everything hit the fan.
He rubbed his flesh hand over
the sleek blue prosthesis, then up
to dig into the fold of his elbow where
the sweat always pooled and itched.
"Yeah, maybe," he conceded. "So
what am I supposed to do about it?"
"Give this place a chance before
you run around town trying to tip
all the applecarts," Cash said.
"Check the job boards -- why go
to all the trouble of setting up
your own business when you
could join one already going?"
"Like what?" Bluescreen said,
narrowing his eyes. "Most folks
don't want to work with me
because I'm such a freak."
Cash chuckled. "Oh, I know
a few who'll be delighted
to meet you," he said.
"I find that hard to believe,"
Bluescreen said, shaking
his head. It's why he had
such a hard time finding
any new teammates.
He missed them all,
and his home, and
his coping equipment.
Everything was gone,
and he was not okay,
but he had to keep
pretending, or else
he'd lay down and die.
Bluescreen wasn't
ready for that, quite.
"Did you know that
Captain Kelvin is in
town?" Cash asked.
"Shit. No, I did not,"
said Bluescreen. "He's
the boss around here?"
That wasn't somebody
Bluescreen could fight --
way out of his league.
"No, but he knows
the boss," said Cash.
"They get along great.
So do the folks from
the Triton Teen Center.
Don't believe everything
in the news -- Mercedes
is pretty well meshed now."
"Yeah, it sounds that way,"
said Bluescreen. He missed
the feeling of belonging that
he'd gotten from his team,
just having people around
who understood him.
Well, that was over. He'd
have to make do alone.
Cash flicked his fingers
and offered a business card.
"Drop by Soup to Nuts," he said.
"They'll help you find a good gig."
"I'll think about it," Bluescreen said,
taking the card to stuff in a pocket.
"Depends on what else I turn up."
So far, nothing but vaporware,
but a fellow could still hope.
"By the way," Cash said
over his shoulder, "they
have a great privacy field."
Bluescreen groaned. Hooked.
* * *
Notes:
This poem is long, so its character and content notes appear separately.
"When You're Lost, You Question Everything"
[Monday, June 27, 2016]
After the fourteenth time
that somebody told him,
"The sensory room is down
the hallway," Bluescreen knew
that he wasn't just imagining it --
something was wrong with this town.
Well, okay, something was wrong with
the whole West Coast after the Big One,
but this was a whole new flavor of weird.
It wasn't just the sensory rooms either;
people also pointed him toward quiet rooms,
EFA rooms, dotties, and refugee services.
Even the perky girl at the Mercedes mall,
Amber something-or-other, had smiled
and asked him if he needed any help and
told him she was an Emotional First Aide.
Did he really look that bad? Sure, he
wore a bright blue prosthesis over
the stump of his left elbow, and
that patch of hair at his temple
was turning metallic silver, but he
wasn't the only supervillain in town.
That was another odd thing about it,
how many supervillains -- or at least
other soups -- Bluescreen had seen.
There were crayon kids everywhere,
and he'd even seen a few primal soups,
who usually preferred to remain hidden
although it was common for a superpower.
He had noticed Kudzu Dan, currently
in human form, coming out from
the Everything Store with his arms
full of overflowing canvas bags.
Bluescreen was pretty sure
that was Polilla shepherding
a mixed group of superkids
toward the Triton Teen Center,
looking as happy as ey ever did.
Nobody was staring at them
either, even though it'd come out
that Kraken was behind Triton.
People here just acted like
all this soup was ... normal.
It was freaking him out a bit.
Bluescreen shook himself
and tried to focus on business.
He needed to scope out the town
and pick a territory for himself.
Cupertino was a lost cause --
the whole office complex had slid
right off the side of the mountain,
including his consulting suite.
San José was barely better,
so he hadn't stayed there.
Bluescreen had headed east,
exploring and discarding several
of the smaller towns such as
Newman and Gustine before
he set his sights on Mercedes.
It would have to be here, unless
he wanted to catch a bus for
some inland metroplex, and
he was a West Coast guy.
Unlike the others, Mercedes
was booming -- it had become
a major bridgehead for personnel,
tools, and supplies flowing west
to clean up after the earthquake,
and refugees fleeing to the east.
Surely an enterprising fellow
like Bluescreen could find
somewhere to set up shop.
He could do all kinds of things,
but right now he had it in his head
to offer fake papers and build gizmos
from whatever box of scraps he could
scrounge from the rubble trucks.
Lots of people had lost everything
in the Big One. They would need
his help, if they could afford it.
Someone could always afford it,
that was just how the world worked.
So Bluescreen rambled around town,
noting the places that still had signal
and where he could sleep his meat
and possibly cadge a free meal or
at least find some cheap eats.
There were cricket stickers
everywhere -- it seemed like
almost every restaurant or
food truck or soup kitchen was
aware of how much extra food
superpowers could burn up.
Not just murals but fresh graffiti
in cheerful colors adorned the walls,
including the buildings that faced
busy streets where people had
to have seen that shit going up,
and no sign of anyone trying
to scrub it off the bricks, either.
There were no broken windows,
though, no junked cars on blocks,
no litter anywhere, none of the signs
that a neighborhood was running down.
Bluescreen didn't understand that,
and it was making him anxious.
He fiddled with the audioplayer that
fed his noise-cancelling headphones.
No matter what he set it to -- rain or
ocean waves, birdsong or desert winds --
it didn't seem to soothe his nerves.
He missed his old audioplayer with
its familiar techno sounds, but he had
lost that in the earthquake and this was
the only replacement he could find.
He missed the privacy field from
his office, too. No telling when he
might manage to replace that.
Bluescreen pulled up short
as he spotted another one
of the safety booths that
littered the whole town.
That was definitely Dubiety
chatting with the tall cop while
she made illusory balloon dogs
and a flock of flying pink piglets
that cavorted across the park
to amuse nearby children.
Seriously, what the hell?
Bluescreen backed away,
uneasy with the whole scene.
Then he turned and walked
briskly up the sidewalk.
The smell of cooking food
wafted over him, making
his stomach grumble.
Looking up, he saw
a hot dog stand made
from a food trailer and
several folding tables.
A middle-aged woman
was cooking the hot dogs
while her husband worked
to prep toppings and put
everything in the buns.
Menus in plastic holders
listed the available items.
A guy in a courier vest
parked his bike and
hurried to the stand
next to a girl who was
rummaging in her purse.
In front of the tables,
a teenaged boy in
a wheelchair wore
a sign advertising
the hot dog stand, and
prismatic sunglasses
that looked gizmotronic.
His black T-shirt read,
We believe everyone
belongs and we can
work beside one another.
Bluescreen flinched. That
hadn't been his experience,
at least not with naries.
His team had been mixed,
though; they were great before
that cape fight had killed some
of them and scattered the rest.
The boy rolled up to him and said,
"Hi, I'm Bryan. Welcome to
our hot dog stand!" His head
dipped, looking over Bluescreen.
"How hungry are you today?"
Bluescreen's stomach
growled an answer for him.
"Uh, pretty hungry," he added.
"Get the California dog,"
Bryan recommended. "It
comes in regular or footlong
and has avocado on top."
"Sold," Bluescreen said,
his mouth already watering.
He loved avocados -- they
helped with the extra calories
that he needed -- and he
hadn't found any in days.
Stepping up to the counter,
he saw that they actually had
several varieties of hot dog
including beef, pork, turkey,
and even carrot notdogs.
"One footlong California dog
in beef, please," he ordered.
"Coming right up," said the lady,
and a minute later her husband
passed her a paper boat with
a hot dog buried under ... stuff.
"Thanks," Bluescreen said,
and paid her. "This looks good."
He shuffled out of the traffic
to see if it needed anything more.
It did not. The toppings seemed
to include a whole handful of
alfalfa sprouts, several slices
each of tomato and avocado,
diced red onions, cilantro, and
some sort of fancy mustard.
Bluescreen bit into it
and moaned in pleasure.
He couldn't remember
the last meal he'd eaten
that was actually good.
It must have been
weeks ago; he'd been
living on refugee rations
that were barely enough,
let alone palatable.
This was heaven. He
was definitely staying.
Bluescreen was licking
the last of the rich mustard
off the paper when Dubiety
tapped him on the shoulder,
making him jump and squeak.
"Sorry, didn't mean to startle
you there," she said. "I just
wanted to check on you. I
haven't seen you since -- well."
Since the earthquake. Yeah,
everything was "since" now.
Dubiety was a hacker from
San Francisco, although
Bluescreen hadn't seen her
around the Bay Area recently.
"Yeah," he said. "My office
has gone up in smoke, so
I'm currently in the market
for new opportunities."
"Uh huh," Dubiety said,
eyeing him. "Don't start
trouble here, Bluescreen.
There's no future in it."
He bristled at that. "I'm
good at what I do," he said.
"Not around here," said Dubiety.
"The locals won't stand for anyone
moving in on their turf to cause
problems. Now if you want to help
for once, that's different -- I'm sure
folks could use a good programmer
or someone to fix whatever breaks."
Bluescreen wasn't sure he was
that hungry yet. "I'll think about it."
"If you think wrong, don't say that I
didn't warn you," Dubiety growled.
Then she turned and walked into
the park, following a winding path
that led between the flowerbeds.
"The hell," Bluescreen muttered.
He tossed his paper trash into
the compost bin, then stalked off.
He could keep looking for what he
needed, somewhere the cop wasn't,
and hopefully somewhere that he
wouldn't run into batty supervillains.
The day was hot, and the sunlight
beat down like a hammer on an anvil.
To top it all off, his headphones still
weren't helping much. Maybe they
needed new batteries or something.
Frustrated, Bluescreen pulled them
off and just let them dangle for a while.
He hugged the shade and kept to
the awnings or doorways of buildings
that faced the exposed stretch of street.
He was eyeing up an old brick place
with a "vacancy" sign in the window when
someone said, "Are you Bluescreen?"
Of course he didn't turn around, but
a mental flick turned up the power
in his prosthesis, just in case
this guy turned into trouble.
"Dubiety sent me to look
for you. She thought you
might need a local guide,"
the man said. "I'm Cold Cash."
Bluescreen whirled around.
The guy was lean with
wiry muscles and he wore
a pair of dark sunglasses.
Bluescreen had heard about
what happened to Cold Cash --
everyone had -- and was amazed
that he was still in the same town.
"Uh, hi," he said. "I'm Bluescreen.
I got in on a refugee bus yesterday."
"Welcome to Mercedes, call me
Cash," said the man. "If you care
to tell me your story, I might point
you toward whatever you need.
We may be stretched thin, but
we try to do what we can."
"I lost my team, my arm, and
now my office too -- everything,"
said Bluescreen. "Well, I guess
you'd know something about that."
"I guess I would," Cash said, and
tipped his sunglasses down enough
to show one brown eye and the other
blue-white with a starburst scar.
Bluescreen stared at him. He'd
heard about the mall incident,
of course, everyone had, but
he hadn't heard about this.
He'd never seen anything
quite like it, except for --
"You look like a Husky dog,"
he blurted. "You know how
they have odd eyes, sometimes,
especially with white on the face?"
"I've seen the type, although we
don't get a lot of Siberian Huskies
down in California," said Cash.
"Sorry," Bluescreen muttered.
"I shouldn't have said that aloud.
Shit just falls out of my mouth."
"I know how it goes," Cash said,
nodding. "Not everyone gets
the ordinary brain-to-mouth filter."
Bluescreen gave a bitter laugh.
"My life would be a lot different
if I had," he allowed. "People
don't like freaks and geeks much."
"Everyone has different interpretations
of reality," Cash drawled. "Normal or
freak, superhero or supervillain --
nothing is really set in stone. It's
all based on personal perspective."
"And I always seem to come up on
the wrong side of it," said Bluescreen.
"I'm just looking for a way to get by."
"We could always use a man with ..."
Cash's head tilted. "... two good hands,
and yours sure look skilled enough."
"What, Dubiety didn't tell you
all about me?" said Bluescreen.
"Just enough to get the ball rolling,"
said Cash. "So what can you do?"
"A little of this and a little of that,"
said Bluescreen. "Hardware and
software, making do with that I find."
"Is that your work you're wearing?"
Cash said. "It looks pretty good."
"It's just a prototype," said Bluescreen.
"I'm still trying to work out the bugs."
"Five fingers, independent motion,
that's a good start," said Cash.
"What's the lens on the back?"
"Right now, just a flashlight,"
said Bluescreen. "I wanted
something like a beam or
a forcefield, but even I'm
not smart enough for that."
"Ah, a brain," Cash said happily.
"Still working through gizmology,
haven't leveled up quite yet?"
"I can manage," Bluescreen said
through his teeth. "What's it to you?"
"I'm just hoping to find something
for you to do other than make trouble
that I'll have to mop up," said Cash.
"This really isn't the place for that."
"Yeah, I'm getting that impression,"
Bluescreen grumbled. "It's nuts here.
People keep pointing me to resources
like they fuckin' care what happens."
"You get used to it," Cash said with
a rakish grin. "I believe that you
could fit here, if you give it a chance."
"Really?" Bluescreen said, frowning.
"That seems like a pretty far stretch."
"Yes. I also believe that when people
are going through difficult situations in
life, it causes them to search a lot more,"
said Cash. "They search life and they
search their soul. When you’re searching,
then you’re suddenly a lot more open to
the world around you, to the possibilities,
to things you never thought about before."
"Why does everything have to be
so difficult?" Bluescreen complained.
"When you’re happy, then you don’t
question the world so much," Cash said.
"When you’re lost, you question everything.
That's the very reason why getting lost is
so essential to human self-discovery."
That was ... disturbingly plausible.
At least, most of Bluescreen's
greatest discoveries had come
just after everything hit the fan.
He rubbed his flesh hand over
the sleek blue prosthesis, then up
to dig into the fold of his elbow where
the sweat always pooled and itched.
"Yeah, maybe," he conceded. "So
what am I supposed to do about it?"
"Give this place a chance before
you run around town trying to tip
all the applecarts," Cash said.
"Check the job boards -- why go
to all the trouble of setting up
your own business when you
could join one already going?"
"Like what?" Bluescreen said,
narrowing his eyes. "Most folks
don't want to work with me
because I'm such a freak."
Cash chuckled. "Oh, I know
a few who'll be delighted
to meet you," he said.
"I find that hard to believe,"
Bluescreen said, shaking
his head. It's why he had
such a hard time finding
any new teammates.
He missed them all,
and his home, and
his coping equipment.
Everything was gone,
and he was not okay,
but he had to keep
pretending, or else
he'd lay down and die.
Bluescreen wasn't
ready for that, quite.
"Did you know that
Captain Kelvin is in
town?" Cash asked.
"Shit. No, I did not,"
said Bluescreen. "He's
the boss around here?"
That wasn't somebody
Bluescreen could fight --
way out of his league.
"No, but he knows
the boss," said Cash.
"They get along great.
So do the folks from
the Triton Teen Center.
Don't believe everything
in the news -- Mercedes
is pretty well meshed now."
"Yeah, it sounds that way,"
said Bluescreen. He missed
the feeling of belonging that
he'd gotten from his team,
just having people around
who understood him.
Well, that was over. He'd
have to make do alone.
Cash flicked his fingers
and offered a business card.
"Drop by Soup to Nuts," he said.
"They'll help you find a good gig."
"I'll think about it," Bluescreen said,
taking the card to stuff in a pocket.
"Depends on what else I turn up."
So far, nothing but vaporware,
but a fellow could still hope.
"By the way," Cash said
over his shoulder, "they
have a great privacy field."
Bluescreen groaned. Hooked.
* * *
Notes:
This poem is long, so its character and content notes appear separately.