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alydiarackham · 4 years

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(Cover by me)

The Last Scene: A Novel by Alydia Rackham

Prologue

I’ve seen it ever since I was ten years old. While I’m lying in my bed, right between sleeping and waking—in the middle of that drowsy half-dream state, you know? Where your thoughts are more lucid than dreams and you can remember them, but the images are much brighter and clearer and more emotional than regular thoughts.

So when I’m lying there, all snuggled in and surrounded by my pillows, relaxed and letting my mind wander—it hits me.

A crystal-clear image of a little red velvet box, with a diamond ring in it. The diamond is all surrounded by gold leaves so it looks like a rose, with the diamond in the center. Someone, a man, is holding that ring box up to me. There’s nothing but blackness off to my left—and blinding white light to my right. The light is sparkling and twinkling all through the diamond, and I can see all different colors inside it. It just looks like a chip of magic.

Then, just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone. It doesn’t fade off and meld into other thoughts. It’s just gone.

That’s how I know it’s one of my Pictures.

That’s what I call them. To myself. Because I’ve never told anyone about them. Ever. For a few reasons. One, because I never wanted to worry my parents—because they would worry. Two, because…Well, I never actually trusted anyone else to handle them correctly. I will see something—vivid, obscuring my vision, absolutely clear—and then, usually later that day, it happens.

Most of the time, it’s something little. I’ll see a Picture of the coffee pot overflowing, and when I come out to breakfast, it’ll happen. Or I’ll see my dad tripping over a pair of tennis shoes, and an hour later, it’ll happen. I’ll see my hand turning the key in the ignition of my car, a sunset, a cat walking across the street, a pair of people walking and laughing, me stubbing my toe on the end of my bed, the dog chasing a rabbit, things like that. Sometimes, I go days and days without seeing a Picture. Sometimes, I see two or three in one day.

Now, with the one about my dad tripping over the shoes, or me stubbing my toe, you would think that I’d be able to prevent that kind of thing, right? Once I caught on to the fact that I was somehow seeing into the future? Sure, I thought so, too. When I was eleven, I saw a Picture of my mom slipping on a wet patch of cement outside and falling down. So, that morning, I made sure to take all the hoses and stretch them out across the yard so that no water could leak out of them onto the patio.

Lo and behold, when I wasn’t looking, Mom just pulled one hose back to where it was and started watering the tree. I let the dog outside, Mom turned to see and stepped sideways into a puddle—

And fell down. Just like I’d seen her do in my Picture.

After that, I’d try to move shoes so they wouldn’t be tripped over—only to watch them be replaced by other shoes and still be tripped over. I’d try to fix coffee makers or scare rabbits away, yet they’d still overflow or get chased. I have never yet been able to prevent one of my Pictures.

But what I have been able to do is become aware that something is about to happen. I see, for example, that my dad is going to trip over the shoes. So I don’t stray too far that day, I keep an eye out…

And when he inevitably trips, I jump up to help catch him.

It’s opened my eyes, made me far more awake to the world than most people are, I think. And yes, sometimes that’s scary. Very scary.

Especially after my dog Jenny died.

I saw a Picture of my family and I all standing around in our backyard, shoveling dirt back into a large hole. We were quiet, and my parents and sisters were crying.

That disturbed me. I began waiting and watching that day for something to happen…

But nothing did. I relaxed a little. Another day went by. Everything was fine. I relaxed more. Two weeks went by. I took a day to drive into the city and do some job searching.

And when I got home, Mom told me that she’d taken Jenny into the vet because she was throwing up—and the vet said she had kidney failure.

The next day, we put Jenny to sleep. And there we were, in the back yard, burying her. My parents and sisters crying.

That’s the first time that the idea of these Pictures really and truly scared me.

All right, so, I take it back: I have talked to someone about this. I’ve talked to God about it. Quite a bit. Usually when I am scared or really worried about something I’ve seen. And because of that process, a sort of back and forth between Him and me, I’ve come to believe that this is some sort of secret gift I’ve been given. Just little fragments of insight, because I’m supposed to know them. I’m supposed to know them so that I don’t necessarily stop the bad ones from happening—but so that I’m there when they do.

Except this one with the ring.

Crystal clear, yet never in front of me in reality.

I’m twenty-six years old now. I have a wonderful boyfriend named Jim Tucker, who I’ve known since high school. I’ve had a couple other boyfriends, too. None of them have even talked about that kind of ring. I mean, I love the style of it, but it isn’t something any of them would pick out. And the setting of that Picture seems funny. It’s indoors, I know that. If Jim ever proposes to me, I’m almost positive he’ll do it outside, on some high hill in the summer countryside, with the sunset as a background.

So maybe that ring means something else.

It’s been strange, growing up and living with this sort of thing—because I do remember what it was like before. I know normal people don’t experience this. But I’ve done my best to be watchful and yet not too paranoid all through school. I went to college, came home during the summers and worked at the library in our little town in upstate New York…

And I’ve tried to look out for everyone all around me. All the time. Secretly watching over them, listening and calculating what the best response will be to whatever happens. Giving words of caution when I know they’ll be listened to and accepted. Words that won’t stop the fall, but might help someone catch themselves, or at least recover a little better. Because the pain I feel from a broken toe or a broken heart—my own, or someone else’s—is bad enough when experienced once.

But I have to live it twice.

Chapter One

Friday, April 5th, 1985

“Hi, Anne!”

“Hi, Dad,” I croakily answered the bright voice on the other end of the phone, frowning as I rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?”

“It’s six-thirty, sorry,” he answered. “I was just excited about this and wanted to call you right away.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, turning over in my bed and stretching the phone cord, eyeing the minimal light leaking through my drapes.

“How did that interview go yesterday?” Dad said instead.

“Um…Fine,” I sighed, adjusting my pillow and trying to make myself think straight. “Well…sort of not fine. I mean, I interviewed okay, they just told me they needed someone with more experience.”

“More experience?” my dad protested. “Isn’t a degree in speech therapy enough experience? I mean, what did I pay for, anyway?”

“I know, right?” I sighed again. “I’m not sure how you’re supposed to get any experience if nobody will hire you in the first place…” I wound the cord around my fingers, shooting a dark look at the window again. The roar of the Manhattan traffic reached me even up here—a constant dull growl, occasionally punctuated by angry car horns. “I’m probably going to have to move out as soon as this month’s lease is up. I’ll come home and see if I can get my job back at the library.”

“Well, let’s hold off on that for a second,” my dad said. I sat up a little and frowned.

“What? What do you mean?”

“You remember Aaron Highgate, my friend from college?”

“Yeah…?” I said, fully awake now. “Doesn’t he live here?”

“Yeah, he does, and he’s a playwright,” Dad said. “A pretty good one. He’s written at least ten plays that have debuted on and off Broadway, and all of them got good reviews. They’ve been relatively small, but yeah, people liked them.”

“Okay…?” I waited.

“Well, he’s premiering another little play at the Quadrant Theatre, and I think you should audition.”

I stared at the wall. My mouth fell open. I didn’t say anything.

“Honey?” Dad called. “You still there?”

“Um, yeah,” I managed. “Audition? For a Broadway play?”

“It’s not Broadway,” Dad corrected. “What I mean is, it’s small. You did plays and musicals in high school and college!”

“Those weren’t…I mean, yeah, but—this is New York!” I cried.

“You’d be great for the part, though!” Dad answered. “Aaron gave me a copy of the script to read for fun, and the female lead practically just screamed ‘Annie!’ at me from the page.”

“Oh, Dad, you’re biased!” I moaned.

“No, I’m not,” he insisted. “You won, what, three awards for playing different parts in school?”

“Yes,” I muttered.

“And besides,” he went on. “When I talked to Aaron about it, telling him how brilliant the story was, he was just beside himself with frustration. Said that they’ve cast his nephew in the male lead, but they’ve been having a dickens of a time casting a female lead because nobody who tried out got along with his nephew, or seemed to fit, or whatever.”

“What’s wrong with his nephew?” My eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know, I think he’s just particular about getting it right,” Dad said. “I think he helped with a lot of the ideas for the script, or even wrote large parts of it, and he has a particular type in mind.”

“And you think that type is me?” I raised my eyebrows.

“It actually sounds like it,” Dad told me. “From what Aaron described, anyway.” He paused. “What do you think? Can I send you my copy of the script?”

I sighed and put my hand over my face—fighting back a strange, jumpy sensation in my stomach.

“Sure, okay,” I conceded. “Can’t hurt anything, right?”

“That’s my girl.” I could hear my dad’s grin. “I’ll overnight it so you’ll have it tomorrow morning. And after you read it, you can call me and tell me what you think, and if you like it, I’ll tell you when and where the auditions are.”

“Okay,” I tried to smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

After we hung up, I lay there in bed for a while, turning that thought over in my mind. The air in my apartment was chilly—even though it was April, the weather still hadn’t really warmed up much after one of the coldest winters in the history of the universe. I pulled the blankets up over myself, almost covering my face, hoping I could get a little more sleep…

Flash.

Right in front of my eyes. A mostly-empty stage, painted black, with red curtains open. I was sitting on the stage, facing stage left. And through the back rooms, a dancing, crowing laugh resounded up and down.

I blinked.

It vanished.

I sat up straight, flinging off my covers, my heart pounding.

A Picture.

Of a stage. With red curtains.

And a laugh that still echoed through my mind.

The next morning, I climbed out of bed, stretched, and pushed open the curtains to look down on the streets. Since it was Saturday, the traffic wasn’t as thick as during the week, and the noise had calmed. Though, in the Upper East Side of Manhattan, it was never as hectic as other places on the island.

Dad had initially come with me to pick out an apartment to start, and insisted on paying for it until I got a steady job that was good enough that I could pay for it myself. Neither of my parents wanted me living anywhere dangerous or seedy—and I hadn’t argued. I didn’t want to live anywhere dangerous or seedy, either.

After three days of searching, we’d come across an apartment building on 88th street, made of red brick, its front covered in tall, narrow windows and fire escapes. We’d investigated, and found an available apartment on the fourth floor. Dad said the rent was reasonable—for New York.

The apartment was little, compared to my childhood home out in the country, of course. There was a short hallway connecting the bedroom and the sitting room, and in that hall they’d crammed the kitchen, which is just a stove and microwave with a tiny bit of counter space and some cupboards. My bedroom was a nice size, but I couldn’t bring my dark-wood dresser—I had to bring the white one from when I was little, because the big one wouldn’t fit. The bathroom was right next to the kitchen. I had a table in the sitting room, and a couch and a chair, and a TV set.

I like light, floral print things, though not as garish as the style is these days. I’m partial to lace, so that’s my curtains. Roses on my comforter and pillows. Blue couch, rose pillows. I had a rug on my floor in the bedroom and the living room because this wood floor was freezing in the winter.

I sighed, folding my arms and looking around at everything in my bedroom, feeling my heart sink.

I’d just gotten used to it here.

Forcing myself to stop thinking about it, I pulled off my pajamas and got dressed in jeans, boots, and a plaid tuck-in shirt. In the bathroom, I brushed out my straight, dark-brown hair and put half of it up in a ponytail, to keep it out of my face. I had long bangs, and decided I didn’t want to mess with curling them today.

I’m a slender person, average height, not very curvy. I have bright green eyes, and people say I look like my mom. She’s very pretty, with dark eyelashes and eyebrows, so I suppose I have a little of that beauty, too. At the time, I didn’t like wearing makeup—just a little lip color and mascara, so I put that on.

Tap, tap, tap.

I quickly screwed on the lid to my mascara, put it away, and hurried out through my bedroom, into the hall, across the sitting room to the front door. My cat Milo—a striped orange kitty—meowed loudly at me as I whooshed past him.

“I’ll feed you in a minute, just wait!” I called back at him. I threw the three locks on the door and pulled it open.

“Hi!” I said, finding a FedEx man standing there, smiling back at me.

“I’ve got a package here for Anne Maple,” he said, checking the thick envelope.

“That’s me,” I said.

“Okay, can you just sign here?” he asked, holding out a clipboard. I took the pen and signed my name on the line, then gave it back. He passed off the package to me. I could feel a thick stack of papers inside—and when I looked at the envelope, it confirmed what I’d suspected it was.

“Thank you!” I told the delivery man.

“Have a good day,” he answered, and left. I shut the door after him, and automatically flipped the deadbolt again. Grinning crookedly, I turned the envelope over, tore it open…

And pulled out a typed script, spiral-bound. On the front page, it read:

The Ripple Experiment

A Play in Two Acts

Aaron Highgate and Peter Wren

“Raaawr!” my cat complained as he came and stood on my feet. I laughed out loud.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “We’ll both get breakfast, and then I’ll make some tea and cuddle with you on the couch while I read this.”

“Hey, Dad!”

“Hey, sweetie!” Dad answered at the other end of the phone. “Did you get the script?”

“I did, thanks,” I answered. “Just finished reading it.”

I sat on my blue couch with my legs tucked under me, a patchwork quilt over my lap—and a purring cat keeping me warm. My cup of tea on the coffee table however, had gone cold. And the last page of the script lay open in front of me.

“Well, what did you think of it?” Dad asked.

“It’s really interesting!” I admitted. “The premise is kind of funny—a man from a hundred years in the future trying to fix the problems there by changing things that happen in the past, and that the problems the entire future world is facing actually all stem out from one house and one woman’s life!”

“Haha, yeah, you wouldn’t want to see the statistics on that, probably,” Dad chuckled.

“But the story convinces me,” I said, gesturing as I talked. “At least, it does if I understand half of Dr. Ripple’s techno-babble—the stuff that isn’t made-up, anyway.”

Dad laughed out loud now.

“I know, isn’t that great? I’d love to know how they came up with all of those technical-sounding nonsense words.”

“Me too,” I said, scratching Milo on the back so his purring thundered. “This show could do well if it’s still running when that movie Back to the Future comes out this summer. And I like Wendy James. She’s sensible and down to earth and a scientist too, but she’s still fun, and pretty brave, and she can at least halfway keep up with Dr. Ripple when he’s trying all those ridiculous things.”

“Mhm, I agree. A pretty nifty gal,” Dad said pointedly. I rolled my eyes, trying not to smile.

“But, this um…” I flicked the edge of the last page, making a face. “This last part…”

“What?” Dad asked.

“The last scene!” I cried. “I mean, am I reading this right? It just says ‘Act Two, Scene 10: actors will improvise to achieve a conclusion.’ What is that about?”

“Well, I suppose it means the ending will be different every night, depending upon what the actors feel like,” Dad guessed. “But you’ll have to ask them more about it at the audition.”

“I’ve never done any improvisation before!” I protested. “I hate that! Like when somebody forgets a line and just stares at me, expecting me to save them from themselves and get the scene rolling again—that’s terrifying!”

“It’s exciting,” Dad offered.

“Oh, how would you know?” I shot back.

“Athletes do it all the time,” he said lightly. “They practice a certain set of skills, and then whoever they play throws different scenarios at them that they have to deal with, based on the set of skills they’ve already learned.”

I groaned.

“Look, just ask them more about it at the audition,” Dad suggested. “I’ve set it up for two o’clock tomorrow at the Quadrant Theatre.”

“Wait—you set it up?” I sat up so fast that Milo tumbled off my lap. “I thought it was an open audition!”

“No, they started with those, but couldn’t find anybody,” Dad said. “I called Aaron and arranged this for you so you can meet with him and the director, and with Aaron’s nephew, if he’s around.”

“Oh, Dad…” I whispered, my heart hammering.

“This is far better than a cattle call, honey,” Dad insisted. “They’ll get to hear you, and you’ll get to find out everything you want to know about the play, and the people in it, and whether or not it’s something you want to do. If it doesn’t work out, then sure, you can come home when your lease is up and work at the library. That’s fine. But don’t you want to just give this a shot and see what happens?”

I hesitated, winding the phone cord around my forefinger again. I heaved a sigh.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll give it a shot.”

“Sounds good!” he said. “Be sure to call me after the audition—and Mom wants to hear about it, too!”

Chapter Two

Sunday, April 7th

I shut the door to the phonebooth behind me with a clatter, shoved the clanking money into the pay phone, picked up the receiver and dialed. I waited, tapping my feet while it rang, watching the traffic whizz by on the street outside the grimy glass.

“James Tucker speaking, how can I help you?” came a brisk, male voice at the other end.

“Hi, Jim!” I instantly broke into a smile at the sound of my boyfriend’s answer.

“Hi, Anne!” he answered cheerfully. “How are you, what’s going on?”

“Is it okay to talk for a second?” I asked.

“Sure, I was just taking a break in the middle of typing this editorial. What are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m…I’m standing about a block away from the theatre and decided to call you,” I said, folding my free arm around myself and shifting my weight.

“The theatre where you have that audition?”

“Yeah, for the play I told you about yesterday,” I answered. “The one about the time-traveler.”

“What time is the audition?” he asked. I looked down at my watch and winced.

“In about five minutes.”

“Won’t you be late?”

I heaved a sigh.

“That’s why I wanted to call you,” I confessed. “I’m getting cold feet.”

“Well…I can understand that,” he said.

I blinked.

“You can?”

“Sure,” he said. “You’re afraid that if you do this, it might be a waste of your time, but you will have tied yourself down. And you might miss a really great opportunity to work in your field.”

My heart sank.

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

“You’re such a brilliant therapist, Anne,” he said gently. “I’ve seen you work. Are you sure there are no schools around there that need a speech councilor?”

“Only scary ones,” I muttered.

“Well, you can always come across to Jersey where I am,” he coaxed. “I’ve been keeping my eyes open for something for you. And the rent is a little cheaper here. Or, you could move home with your folks and save money till you land the kind of job you want.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “Dad and I talked about that second option.”

His sigh came as a hiss of static in my ear.

“I know your Dad’s excited about this play and everything…I just don’t want you to miss something, Anne. I have this really strong feeling that, really soon, you’ll have a serious chance to truly help somebody who desperately needs it. I mean, you could get a call back tomorrow from any number of the schools where you’ve applied—but if you commit to this play, you won’t be able to accept any of them. And how long could this show last, anyway?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t,” I shook my head. “Depends on if it’s successful.”

“Or if it even gets off the ground,” Jim added. “And besides—”

I didn’t hear the rest of what he said.

Right in the middle of his sentence, that Picture came. Again.

The same one from the other morning: me, on a black stage, open curtains—and that laugh.

It overpowered me, blanking out all my vision. And the tenor of that disembodied laugh shot a thrill down my spine.

And then it disappeared.

“Sorry, Jim, I have to go,” I muttered absently, my eyes fixed on the glass in front of me. “Dad set this up and it’d look really bad for him if I don’t show up.” And without waiting for a reply, I hung up the phone, pushed out of the booth…

Cold wind hit my face.

I sucked in a breath and shook myself, almost feeling like I’d just woken up.

I stood on a dirty sidewalk, grey clouds looming over the skyscrapers. The traffic howled all around, people passed me, their shoes clattering on the pavement. I lifted my eyes and looked at the small brick theatre just ahead of me, its blank marquee sticking out over the sidewalk. Above that, a neon sign, unlit, read: The Quadrant Theatre.

My heart hammered again.

This morning, I’d put on black dress slacks, heels, a red silk blouse and black jacket over that, and tied my hair up in a ponytail. I desperately hoped I looked professional, but not too uptight.

And I hoped I could get this over with as quickly as possible.

Setting my teeth and taking a deep breath, I headed for the theatre door.

I pushed through the one front door of the theatre that I found open, made my way through the silent, red-carpeted lobby, and leaned cautiously through the open door to the hall.

It wasn’t large—could maybe hold three-hundred people on the lower floor, and a small balcony hung above. It smelled dusty, and the house lights were dimmed low. On past the rows of seats, down a gentle slope, the stage itself stood in lights, with red curtains pushed off to either side.

I swallowed.

Two men sat on chairs center stage, and an empty, funky-patterned couch stood near them, stage left. One man was thin with faded red hair, wearing black dress pants and a white collared shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had a serious, angular face and a penetrating look. He had a booklet on his knee, and gestured delicately with a pencil between his fingers as he talked to the other man. I recognized him—and suddenly remembered the calm, regulated lilt of his upper-class English accent.

The other man was fat, with a round face, and his chortling laughter echoed out into the hall toward me. He had greying, combed hair and little eyes, and wore a grey suit and vest, with no tie.

Bracing myself, I started down the aisle, my feet silent on the thin carpet. Then, all of a sudden, they saw me.

“Miss Maple?” the fat one called, his voice booming out. He sat forward and shielded his eyes from the lights. “Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me,” I called back. “How do I get up there?”

“See, there’s a door off to the side, there, house left,” he pointed. “Take the set of stairs up and turn right, you’ll come out on the stage.”

“Okay, thanks,” I managed, waving. I headed to my left, pushed through the curtains—tried not to fall down in the dark—and turned toward the bright light coming from between the hanging stage curtains. Finally, I emerged out there with them, the lights flashing in my right eye.

They both turned to smile at me, and the thin man stood up and nodded.

“How do you do, Miss Maple?” he asked. “Do you remember me?”

“I do!” I said, taking his proffered hand. “You’re my dad’s friend, Aaron Highgate—I think we met at a football game once.”

He smiled broadly, now, and it did wonders for his appearance.

“Yes, I remember that,” he said, then waved to the other man. “This is my friend, and The Ripple Experiment’s director, Mr. Sam Everhart.”

“Forgive me for not standing up,” Mr. Everhart chuckled, extending his hand. “I just had knee surgery.”

“Oh, then don’t get up,” I said quickly, leaning in to shake his hand.

“Will you please sit down?” Aaron asked, indicating the empty couch.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, maneuvering around and then easing down on the couch in front of them, clutching my purse in my lap and trying to keep my hands from shaking. Both men rested their gazes on me, and I could practically feel them thinking.

“I seem to remember you participated in theatre in high school and college?” Aaron prompted, crossing his legs and gracefully letting his hands rest on the note pad.

“Yes,” I answered quickly. “In high school I played Alice Sycamore in You Can’t Take it With You, um…I was Laurey in Oklahoma!, and Titania in Midsummer Night’s Dream. In college we did a lot of Shakespeare, which I loved—so I played Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing, Cordelia in King Lear, and Lady MacBeth in Mac—” I instantly stopped myself with a nervous giggle. “I mean, The Scottish Play.”

This made the men across from me laugh, and something in my chest loosened a little.

“And you won a few awards?” Mr. Everhart asked.

“Yes, for playing Alice, Laurey and Lady MacBeth.”

“And that success made you want to pursue acting?” Aaron wondered.

“Um…Well, no,” I confessed, feeling my face get hot. “I actually got my degree in speech therapy. I want to help people with speech and reading impediments like stammering, lisping, dyslexia, things like that.”

“A noble cause,” Aaron mused. He raised his eyebrows. “But you’ve had no luck so far getting a job in that field?”

“No, not yet,” I sighed, trying to smile. “It’s tough, in the city!”

“Yes, it is,” Mr. Everhart agreed, exchanging a look with Aaron. “But you’re willing to try this, instead?”

“Well, yes—if it’s agreeable to everyone. Including me,” I said, feeling my face get hotter, but saying it anyway. “I’d want to make sure it would be worthwhile, and that the people involved are good to work with.”

“That sounds wise,” Aaron said, suppressing a smile. “Have you had a chance to read the script?”

“Yes, I read it yesterday,” I replied quickly.

“What did you think of it?” Mr. Everhart asked. “Can you summarize it for us, give us your impressions?”

“Well…” My brow furrowed and my fingers curled on the top of my purse. “It’s about a sort of a mad, but endearing, scientist who comes back in time a hundred years on an experiment. About half of earth’s population in the future where he comes from is robots, and the other half lives in a very sterile, dark environment. And he thinks that’s wrong, and something’s gone wrong. He’s trying to figure out if something can be changed in the past that will change the future—he’s narrowed it down to this particular house at this exact time. He does various science and social experiments while he’s living in the present—some of which are pretty funny—in an effort to impact the future the way he wants. And, um…” I shifted in my seat. “The last scene is always completely improvised.”

“Do you know why it’s improvised?” Aaron asked, watching me carefully.

“Well…I’ve been considering that,” I admitted. “I think…I think it leaves the entire play up to different interpretations, and a chance for it to evolve and take on a life of its own.”

“All right, keep going,” Mr. Everhart urged, leaning forward. I shifted again.

“Well…” I said again. “The scientist’s focus is all on global—or at least national—events, but almost accidentally, he does things to change the life of the woman living in this house, and that could ultimately be what makes a difference in the future. Small things, like fixing a leak or throwing away a faulty toaster, to saving her from a bus, discouraging a bad relationship, protecting her from a creepy neighbor. And it could be any of those things. It’s why it’s called The Ripple Experiment. One, it’s his name; two, he is causing a ‘ripple’ effect; and three, those ripples impact everything else that comes after them. Because, in the scene before the last, he goes into his time machine again, and the last scene is the result of whatever discovery he decides to make about the future. Nothing changed, something changed, or everything changed—he can literally pull from any scene in the show.”

The two men smiled at each other.

“Yes, the people playing Dr. Ripple and Wendy would pull it from any scene in the show,” Aaron reminded me.

“That’s…actually what scares me,” I said, feeling my cheeks burning, now. They both frowned at me.

“Scares you?” Mr. Everhart repeated.

“Mhm,” I said, gripping my purse. “I never did any improv. Everything was very memorized, very blocked out. And I mean—well, a lot of it was Shakespeare! You don’t improvise Shakespeare!”

“No, you don’t,” Mr. Everhart chuckled.

“And…you don’t think you can do that part of it?” Aaron pressed.

“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t.”

“Do you think you might try?” Mr. Everhart peered at me. I bit my lip.

“She should!”

I nearly hit the ceiling when a bright, young male voice shot through the silence behind me.

The next second, someone leaped over the back of the couch and landed sitting right next to me. My breath caught and I gaped at him.

He looked about my age, maybe a couple years older. He wore a short sleeved maroon polo shirt with the top buttons undone, baggy khaki slacks, and yellow socks. No shoes.

He had a bright, clever face, with a smattering of freckles across his nose; dark, expressive eyebrows and long lashes, and an impish smile. His features might be oddly handsome if he allowed a cloud of seriousness to pass over them. Actually, he probably could be dashing at the right angle. But right now, his vivid blue eyes—like lightning—lit his whole being with an almost wild brilliance. He had brown, reckless curls that caught the stage lights, and, as if in complement, the lights illuminated them in a flame-red halo. In a ridiculous instant of memory—though the next instant, it didn’t seem so ridiculous—I remembered Shakespeare’s description of Puck in Midsummer Night’s Dream: the “shrewd and knavish sprite,” “that merry wanderer of the night.”

“Um—hi!” I giggled breathlessly.

“Hi, don’t mind me, I just dropped in,” the stranger beamed, sticking out his right hand. Cautiously, I took it—and he suddenly brought mine up and kissed it.

“Enchanté!” he said crisply.

“Ha!” I laughed, shocked.

“Miss Maple, this is my nephew, Peter Wren. He’s playing Dr. Edward Ripple.” Mr. Everhart motioned to him. “Peter, this is—”

“Anne Maple, yes, I know, I’ve been listening the whole time,” he said, turning toward me eagerly, fixing me with those sky-bright eyes. “Are you going to do the show?”

I suddenly sensed Aaron and Mr. Everhart go completely still.

“Well, I’d…I’d like to,” I stammered—surprising myself. “I was just telling them about how I don’t know how to improv.”

“Oh, shoot, it isn’t that hard,” Peter waved it off. “You’re improv-ing right now, aren’t you?”

“Ha, well…” I rolled my eyes. “I guess so?”

“You can walk, talk and chew gum at the same time?” he pressed narrowly.

“Um—well, sure—”

“You’re not deaf, blind, have a third eye somewhere?”

I burst out laughing.

Peter’s eyes suddenly twinkled with an almost fiendish light.

“Yep,” he said. “I like her.” And with that, he leaned over, kissed my cheek—

Shot up, headed around the couch toward stage left, ramming his hands in his pockets and whistling “Everything’s Up to Date in Kansas City.”

Baffled, I twisted in my seat to watch him stride toward backstage like he was strolling through the park. The shadows of the curtains swallowed him.

“I hope this means you have your part memorized, Peter,” Aaron called after him, arcing an eyebrow.

And Peter laughed.

That ringing, thrilling, innocently-delighted sound straight from my Picture.

My lips parted, and I couldn’t speak.

“Well, Miss Maple, if we could,” Mr. Everhart called me back—and I had to struggle to turn around and face him.

“Could we hear you read a little bit?” Mr. Everhart finished. “Aaron can read Dr. Ripple for you.”

“Oh! Okay, sure,” I nodded, taking the script they handed me.

“Why don’t we start with act two, scene two?” Aaron asked, pulling reading glasses out of his breast pocket and slipping them on.

“Okay,” I said again, flipping to that page.

We started the read, and I did my very best. The written dialogue was lively and natural, and of course I’d read it already, so it wasn’t all that difficult once my fingers stopped trembling.

But all the while, though I never turned to look, I kept wondering if Peter Wren was watching us from the wings.

Chapter Three

Wednesday, April 10th

I bounced up and out of the subway and emerged in front of the dark, solemn, jagged edifice of Trinity Church. I immediately opened my umbrella, humming to myself, hardly noticing the rain pounding on the top of the canvas.

The crowds all around me ducked and hurried through the downpour, and the hundreds of noisy cars and cabs splashed through the puddles in the street.

I dashed across Broadway, hopping over the flowing puddles in the gutter, and headed into the narrow canyon of Broad Street. The traffic roar echoed here, and the shadows of the buildings made it even dimmer. I whistled to myself, forcibly calming my urge to start skipping.

I came to where the Stock Exchange and Federal Hall stood cattycorner to each other, and grinned up at the serene, noble statue of George Washington towering atop the stairs of Federal Hall, his head and broad shoulders shining with water.

“Hullo, sir!” I said to him. “Sorry I don’t have an extra umbrella!” I giggled at myself, and turned right down Wall Street.

I followed Wall Street, down three long blocks, smiling at the historic buildings, until I spotted my favorite place to eat in the whole world: Fraunces Tavern.

It’s the place George Washington said goodbye to his troops at the end of the Revolutionary War, so you can imagine what it looks like: Georgian architecture, only three-and-a-half stories, light-red brick with decorative stonework around all the edges. On its front face, it has exactly fourteen tall, small-paned windows bordered in white. It has a street-side chimney, and an inset door with pillars right in the front, and another door and a lot more windows on that side. There are also cute windows to the attic room, and a wooden railing all around the top of the square roof. It is one of several Revolutionary-era buildings in this block that have been preserved for their historical significance, and the skyscrapers loom around them like giants. The little buildings are so utterly out of place—and yet, they seem to be part of the very ground itself. Impervious to the ever-changing tumult of the city all around them. As if to say, in the most dignified and unruffled tone: “We were here first; you uppity youngsters maintain your distance.” So whenever I walk up to Fraunces, at any time of year, I feel like I’m stepping back in time.

I hopped up the stairs, folded my umbrella and shook it out, then pushed through the front door. I was instantly surrounded by old wood walls and floors, and the clatter and clamor of the pub through the door to my left. I turned right and ducked through another door into a tiny front hallway, at the far end of which waited a narrow white staircase that lead up to the George Washington-themed museum above. I smiled at the waitress who stood behind the podium.

“I think my dad and boyfriend are already here.”

“All right, go on ahead, then!” the dark-haired girl said in a lovely Irish accent, and motioned me through. I passed through a wider door, down a couple steps, and into the long dining room.

Broad wood floors, and a row of large street-facing windows in the far wall, with lamps standing in the sills. Long, tavern-style tables and high backed benches marched down the length of the space, all filled with New Yorkers eating and drinking and talking. At the far left stood a fireplace, with an antique map hanging above the hearth. In the far corner of the room stood a round table, and I spotted my dad and Jim sitting there. They sat up and waved at me—I grinned and waved back, and headed across to them.

My dad is about six feet tall, enjoys wearing tweed suits and driving caps, and always has a smile ready for me. He’s clean-shaven, mostly bald, but he had dark hair when he was younger. He has dark, mischievous eyes—he’s very creative. A good artist, and also has an eye for classic cars. He loves driving a rumbling 1930’s roadster down the country lanes around our house. He’s one of the co-owners of an oil company my grandpa started.

Jim Tucker looks exactly the opposite of my dad. He’s six-three, muscular, blond hair, likes wearing stylish business suits—and somehow makes them look comfortable. He’s extremely handsome, I think. Brown eyes, dimples, a great laugh. His smile makes me go weak. He has long lashes and a boyish aspect that can change to solemn and rugged if he just lets his beard grow a few days.

As soon as I came up to the table, Jim stood up and pulled out my chair for me.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said, and kissed my cheek.

“Hi, everybody!” I said breathlessly, taking off my coat as I sat down, and draping it over the back of my chair.

“Hi, honey!” Dad greeted me. “Did you get wet?”

“Oh, only a little. Not bad,” I said, setting my umbrella under my chair. “It’s really pouring!”

“Yes, it is—the grass in Central Park will be happy to get it,” Jim noted as he sat back down.

“We ordered you a hot tea,” Dad told me.

“Oh, thank you,” I said, shaking out my hands. “I need that today. My fingers are frozen!”

“Okay, so—what did you want to tell us?” Jim asked, pinning me with his dark gaze and folding his hands on the table. “I’m too curious to wait any more. Your dad is too!”

I couldn’t suppress my smile any more.

“Welllll…” I said, canting my head and sliding my napkin.

“Hey, I knew it,” Jim said, a delighted grin spreading across his face. “You got a call back from one of the private schools. They want to hire you?”

My eyes flashed up to his, and I suddenly frowned. My smiled failed me.

“I…Well, no.”

My dad raised his eyebrows, and gave me an entirely different—playful—look.

“You got the part.”

I let out a nervous laugh, turning to him—but his eyes sparkled at me.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Yeah…I got the part!”

“That’s amazing, sweetheart!” he cried, grabbing my wrist and shaking it back and forth. “Congratulations!”

I relaxed into another laugh, and it felt better this time.

“Really?” Jim said, his smile gone now. “They picked you? Even though you’ve never had any professional experience?”

“Well, I…” I looked at him for a second, then tried to gather my thoughts. “I went in and sat with Aaron and the director, Mr. Everhart, and we talked about the show, and its themes, and its potential to evolve and grow over several performances…and then Aaron’s nephew, Peter Wren, just sort of…popped in from nowhere.” I chuckled remembering it. “He just hopped over the couch and plopped down right next to me! He’s playing the scientist,” I said to Jim.

“Yeah, Frank told me,” Jim nodded to my dad.

“What was he like?” Dad asked, watching me.

“Well, he…” I frowned, then laughed. “He’s hard to describe! Kind of…wild or something. Really enthusiastic, silly, just jumping in and out when he feels like it. He asked me a bunch of ridiculous questions and then just left!”

“Mhm,” Dad murmured, glancing down at his folded hands. My attention sharpened.

“What?” I asked. “What is it?”

“Well,” he took a deep breath. “Aaron’s talked about him before to me. He had to raise him after Peter’s mother left, and Aaron had some trouble with him. But,” Dad looked at me. “He also said Peter’s a heck of an actor. A genius of both dramatic and comedic timing. And I’m sure this show will sink or swim because of whatever Peter decides to do with it.” Dad chuckled. “I think you’re in for a ride!”

“So—this guy is kind of unpredictable?” Jim asked him. “Or…unreliable?”

“Aaron didn’t go into much detail,” Dad shook his head. “He did tell me that he’s classically trained. So he must have finished college.”

“How long has one of Aaron Highgate’s shows ever run?” Jim pressed.

“Hmm, well, one of his ran for three years,” Dad replied. “But that was a few years ago. His most recent show only lasted six months. But he wrote the others on his own,” he held up a finger. “This is the first one that Peter has helped with.”

“Six months, though, that’s not too long,” Jim said, brightening up. “That’s what, about here to the end of the summer?” He looked at me. “So while you’re doing this play, you can keep applying to schools and then step into a job around September!”

“Yeah,” I made myself smile, suddenly off balance. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

“Well, I hope it runs for a while longer,” Dad countered. “Since I’m sure all of you will be putting a great deal of time and effort into it. When do you start rehearsal?”

“Oh, tomorrow,” I answered, shaking myself. “We’ll rehearse all the rest of this month and then open Friday, May tenth.” I pointed at him and Jim with narrow eyes. “Everyone is coming to opening night.”

“Yes, Mom and Grandma and Lily and Janie will all be there, I guarantee it. I’ll call Aaron and have him reserve us some good seats,” Dad assured me.

“And I’ll bring my mom and sister,” Jim smiled, reaching around to take my hand. “This could be fun. You’ll be great.”

Warmth spread through me at his touch, and that sinking feeling dissipated. But before I could say anything more, the waitress came, and I was forced to decide between at least a dozen delicious hot teas.

Chapter Four

Thursday, April 11th

Thursday morning, I saw a Picture of a man’s hand grabbing mine, and pulling me forward. From the look of it, it belonged to a young man, wearing long, fitted red sleeves. I lay there in bed for a long time after I saw it, turning it over and over in my mind. Then, finally, I got up, showered, got dressed in a white blouse and tweed jacket with a broomstick skirt and high boots, fed Milo, snatched up the copy of the script my dad had sent me, and headed out the door.

As soon as I hit the street, I took a deep breath of the cool air. The morning was crisp and bright, and I could tell that the sun’s position in the sky had shifted. Its light glinted differently against the windows, and filled the canyons between the buildings at a changed angle. It wasn’t winter anymore.

As I rode the subway, the metallic whizzing of the train’s speed surrounding me as it gently rocked side to side, I sat near the rail by the door and read over the script for the fourth time since getting it in the mail. I tried to imagine the blocking, the arrangement of the set, and how I ought to say each one of my lines. But every time the realization hit me that I was actually doing this, a weird wave of excited nausea passed through my whole body.

At last, the subway lurched to a stop, and I gathered up my things and bustled out with ten thousand of my closest friends, the roar of the trains and the foot-traffic of hundreds of people ricocheting off the cement walls. Ducking my head and concentrating on where to put my feet, I worked my way up the stairs and into the daylight again.

I emerged just a couple of short blocks from the theatre, so I walked briskly, maneuvering through the crowds of people, the noise of the traffic and car horns sending a never-ending echo up and down the walls of looming buildings.

New York has a particular smell—a mix of stinky scents like exhaust and garbage; and good scents like cooking food, and gusts of sea air. The city hums with activity, never letting your mind rest whilst you’re walking, lest you run into a light pole, a stack of garbage bags, or a person.

Finally, I spotted the sign for the Quadrant Theatre, smiled weakly, fought back the shivers, and pushed through the front door. It squeaked.

I maneuvered through the silent lobby, as I had before, and entered the theatre. House lights were up this time, and the stage was fully lit. Chairs sat in a circle on the stage, all occupied except for two. I immediately spotted Aaron and Mr. Everhart sitting next to each other, scripts and pencils in their laps. Aaron wore a white dress shirt and black slacks and shoes, with the top buttons of his shirt undone. Mr. Everhart wore a black suit and red tie. Then, as I cautiously and silently made my way forward, I studied the other three in the circle.

Next to Mr. Everhart sat a middle-aged woman with beautifully quaffed, rather large blonde hair, wearing a flowing white blouse and vibrant blue skirt, and white high heels. She had large eyes, a pretty, distinguished face, and she smiled as she talked to the director. She had a script in her lap, too. Beside her sat a thin, slightly-balding middle-aged man with big, watery eyes and a weak chin, wearing a grey suit and blue tie.

Next to him sat a tall, extremely good-looking young man with neatly-combed black hair, wearing a collared shirt with a blue sweater over it, jeans and sturdy boots. He instantly struck me as looking very like Christopher Reeve’s Superman. The five people talked quietly and easily to each other. All of them calm, confident. As if they belonged there.

I slowed to a halt, feeling my blood turn cold. I took half a step back.

“She’s here!”

A shout like a rooster crowing. It shot through the theatre, jerking my attention house right—

Where Peter Wren had appeared on stage as if by magic. He stood in those baggy khakis again, with a long-sleeved, fitted red shirt, and white tennis shoes. I could see the vibrancy of his eyes even from where I stood, and his hair looked windblown, like he’d just come in to land.

He trotted across the stage and then leaped off, hitting the carpet like a cat and then bounding up the aisle and right up to me. Funny—I suddenly realized that he could only be an inch or two taller than me. I almost looked directly into his eyes.

“Hi, how are you?” he asked, beaming at me.

“I’m good, how are you?” I managed to answer.

“Fantastic, now that you’re here,” he said. “We were sure your subway had crashed or something like that.”

I laughed and shook my head.

“Nope, everything’s okay. I…” I stopped. “Wait, am I late?”

“No, not at all, Anne,” Aaron interjected from up on stage.

“Yes you are, I was here at seven this morning,” Peter countered.

My mouth fell open.

“I—Was I supposed to be here at seven?”

“Hey, don’t worry about it, hon,” Peter winked at me. “That’s just me—I couldn’t sleep, I was too excited.” Then, he reached out and grabbed my left hand, and tugged on me.

Gasping—having an instant flashback to my Picture—I managed to keep myself from tripping as I followed his eager pace toward the stage. As if in reflex, he interlaced our fingers and squeezed, and pulled me through the curtains at the stage door. We swerved, hopped up the stairs, and burst out onto the stage as if we were coming out for an encore.

“Everybody, this is Anne Maple, playing Wendy James,” Peter announced, waving to me with his free hand.

“Hi!” they all said, their expressions open and agreeable.

“Uncle Aaron and Mr. Everhart you know already,” Peter said. “This stunning and vivacious beauty is Nancy Bennet, playing Janet James, your mother.”

“Hi, sweetheart!” Nancy, the lovely blonde woman, waved at me.

“Hello!” I gestured back at her with my script. Peter swung my hand back and forth once, then pointed to the man next to Nancy.

“This diamond in the rough is Walter Emmet, playing your neighbor, Allen.”

“Howdy,” Walter grinned at me, and gave me a lazy salute, then shifted back and forth in his seat as if pleased with himself. I tried not to laugh, and nodded to him.

“Good morning.”

“And this handsome and dashing young man,” Peter said grandly. “Is Stephen Tell, playing your truly-fickle true love, Eric Schultz.”

“Haha, how do you do?” Stephen chuckled, standing up and sticking his hand out to me. Peter let go of me so I could shift my script to my left hand and shake Stephen’s. As Stephen took my hand and gave me a warm smile, I saw the flash of a wedding ring on his left hand.

“You’re married, Stephen?” I asked him as he sat back down.

“Yes, two little girls, too,” he chuckled. “They’re a handful!”

“Here,” Peter said, drawing a chair into place for me.

“Thank you,” I smiled at him, and sat down. He sat down immediately on my left, set his right ankle on his left knee, and folded his hands. He didn’t have a script.

“All right!” Aaron said in a bright—but still measured—tone, looking round at all of us. “Welcome to the premiere production of The Ripple Experiment. Of course, this is a small cast, so I anticipate that we and the crew will become rather like family as the show goes on. Mr. Everhart wanted to conduct a quick read-through of the first act today, and discuss any thoughts on character and so forth. So, sir, take it away.”

Mr. Everhart cleared his throat.

“Good morning, everyone! I should also make you aware that our producer, Mr. Gregory Flintheiman, is up in the balcony today, just listening.”

I couldn’t stop myself—I instantly looked up to my right to search…

Through the nearly-opaque glare of the stage lights, I glimpsed a large, shadowy figure sitting in the center of the balcony, all alone.

I froze. Chills crawled down my spine.

That moment, I felt a light nudge on my arm, and turned to the left to see Peter give me a quiet smile, another wink, and then shake his head. My chills dissipated.

“So, erm…Let’s start with the first scene, then,” Mr. Everhart cut into my thoughts, and I mentally came back to the stage. I flipped open my script, hearing everyone but Peter do the same.

“So, we’ve just got Wendy center stage, in front of the curtain, in the main spotlight,” Mr. Everhart went on. “Take it away, Anne.”

That sickly-nervous sensation swept through my whole body again. It gripped my gut, sending a freakish pain into my chest. My throat locked, and my heart bashed against my ribs. I glanced up. Everyone was looking down at his or her script…

Except I could sense Peter watching me. And his gaze felt warm against my side, like summer sunshine.

I took a deep breath, clutched my hands together in my lap, stared down at the page, and read out loud.

“‘I lead a little life,’” I began. “‘I’m alone in a big, Victorian house that I restored myself; I work, I cook, I garden, I study for my master’s degree in plant biology. I keep to routine. I’m friendly enough with my neighbors, but I keep mostly to myself. Which isn’t particularly unique, I’m sure lots of people lead similar if not identical lives to my own. And I’m content with that. I’ve never had any desire to have my name splashed across newspapers or written in flashing in lights. And yet, sometimes late at night, when I can’t sleep, I wonder…Do the small, everyday actions and decisions of any of us make a difference to the future? Will our small town election for mayor affect the face of our city a hundred years from now? Will what we drive, what we eat, what we plant, how we treat people, prove to be any more important than a billboard you pass on the highway? Don’t we all think to ourselves: will my life, even if it is little, pass by without making any sort of splash? Will I always just live within routine, touching many people, but none of them deeply? Will anyone remember me after I’m gone? And in the end, long after I’ve vanished from the earth…will it even matter that once, Wendy James lived?’”

“Very good. Moving on,” Mr. Everhart said—and I accidentally let out a shaking sigh. I caught Peter shooting me a brief, twinkling look. My face got hot, and I tried not to smile.

“Now, we’re in Wendy’s front sitting room,” Everhart said over the noise of pages flipping. “And it’s she and her mother having tea or coffee or whatever while her mother is visiting.”

“Ahem,” Nancy sat up and adjusted the way she held her script. “‘I love what you’ve done with the wallpaper, darling.’”

“‘Thanks, Mom,’” I read, keeping up with her. “‘It’s almost exactly like the original pattern from 1910. It took me ages to find it.’”

“‘This house has really been an investment for you!’” Nancy kept going, sounding supremely natural. “‘It doesn’t look anything like it did when we first bought it. It was really a fixer-upper.’”

“‘Yes, it’s taken what, five years?’” I continued. “‘And now I’ve finally got it the way I want it.’”

“‘And so now you’re ready to sell it?’”

I felt Nancy glance up at me. Mustering my own confidence, I met her blue eyes and gave her an indignant look before going on with my next line.

“‘Sell it? Mom, I just spent all that time and money making it exactly the way I always dreamed—why would I turn around and sell it now?’”

“‘Because that’s what I thought the plan was, honey!’” Nancy replied, her voice and expression inviting me to engage, to ramp up the emotion beyond a simple read-through.

I took the bait.

“‘What plan?’”

“‘When Dad and I bought it for you and you paid us back—you said you were going to fix it up—’”

“‘I think you might be confusing what I said with what Eric said,’” I skillfully interrupted—not cutting off her line, but leaving no space between. “‘He said it might be a good idea to flip the house, to make some money—’”

“‘—so that the two of you would have money to get married,’” Nancy interrupted me this time, just as deftly.

“‘Well, there’s no need to worry about money now that he’s gotten his own practice,’” I went on, swiftly turning the page. “‘But you’re getting ahead of yourself.’”

“‘In what way?’” Nancy demanded.

“‘Well,’” I said, adding in my own frustrated noise. “‘For one thing, Eric hasn’t even proposed to me! First he was eyeball-deep in his residency and I hardly ever saw him, and now he’s only just bought this practice and gotten it going. We haven’t had time to talk about anything like that.’”

“‘You have time now,’” Nancy insisted. “‘And wouldn’t you much rather get married and live in his house? It’s in a much nicer part of town, there’s a pool, a back garden, it’s right by the country club. It’s just divine.’”

“‘Well, I think this house is divine,’” I answered, with purposeful quietness. “‘I’m sorry you don’t like it.’”

“‘Now, honey, I didn’t say that,’” Nancy said, masterfully gentling her voice so that she almost sounded like my real mother.

“Very good,” Mr. Everhart concluded, and I lifted my head to attend to him.

“Any questions about their relationship?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, halfway lifting my hand. “How long has Wendy’s father been dead?”

“Five years,” Peter suddenly answered. I swung around to look at him…

To see him smiling simply—but with a ghostly sadness in his eyes that vanished faster than I could be sure of it.

“Yes, he died of cancer,” Aaron added with a sigh. “Lung cancer, if you need to know. Smoked all his life.”

“Okay, thank you,” I said quietly.

“I assume Janet James has been accustomed all her married life to being comfortable?” Nancy asked, gesturing. “Money-wise, I mean.”

“Yes, she was actually wealthy growing up, and she and her husband had quite a bit of money,” Mr. Everhart explained. “She enjoys luxury and a fast pace.”

“Which sets her and her daughter at odds,” Nancy noted. “Because Wendy likes simple, quiet, old-fashioned, maybe rather eccentric things.”

“Uh, oh, I think I was typecast,” I muttered, though loud enough for everyone to hear. They all chuckled—and Peter laughed aloud.

“She also might be worried that her own life has stopped right in its prime,” Nancy added. “Which is why she’s trying to live vicariously through Wendy—pushing her to marry the handsome doctor, move up in the world, give Janet grandkids so she’ll feel like she has a purpose again.”

“That makes sense,” I agreed. Nancy smiled at me.

“Okay, let’s have Stephen come in as the boyfriend, Eric,” Mr. Everhart said, sticking his pencil behind his ear.

“Okay, sure,” Stephen said, clearing his throat and moving his script. “Looks like you start me off, Anne, after the doorbell sound.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, then started reading again. “‘I’ll get the door…Hi, Eric!’”

“‘Hello, sweetie, how are you?’” Stephen answered, his deep voice inviting and engaging. “‘Is your mom here too? I think I saw her car.’”

“‘Yes, she and I were just having a drink in the living room. Come in and sit down!’” I read.

“‘Hello, Mrs. James.’”

“‘Hello, Eric dear. How was work today?’”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter start bouncing his knee, and glance off. I tried to stay focused.

“‘Just fine, just fine. Very exciting, taking a lot of new patients.’”

Absently, I scanned down the page, realizing my character didn’t say much for another page—it was just small talk between Eric and Mrs. James. I managed to relax a bit. But Peter’s leg bounced more rapidly.

Finally, Stephen said my cue line.

Peter’s knee went still.

“‘I know it keeps Annie happy, but I’d go stir-crazy in this old house. The TV doesn’t even work!’”

“‘You know I have more than a thousand books here, Eric,’” I cut in. “‘And a garden, and a sewing room, and a radio, and a record player. I’m not bored.’”

“‘Oh, I know you’re not, honey—that’s one of the things I like about you,’” Stephen read. “‘Because it means that you’d never be bored anywhere. You can adapt to anyplace, and find something you like about it.’”

“‘Maybe,’” I said—playing that line with considerable doubt.

“Doorbell noise,” Mr. Everhart announced.

“‘I’ll get it,’” I said again. “‘Oh! Hi! Can I help you?’”

“Oops, that’s me, let me turn the page real fast,” Walter sat up straight, then nervously flipped the page of his script. “Sorry. Okay. Erm…‘Hi, I’m Allen. Next door.’”

“‘Next door?’” I read. “‘Which next door?’”

“‘Um. There,’” Walter said, changing his tone to a nasal, tremulous, unnervingly-not-okay tenor. “‘Red house, blue trim. South.’”

“‘Oh! Mrs. Nelson’s old house?’”

“‘Don’t remember,’” Walter read, twitching his shoulders. “‘Mine now. Thought I’d come say hi.’” And he suddenly looked up and gave me a gawkishly-inappropriate, toothy grin with widened eyes—and I burst out laughing.

The rest of the cast loudly echoed it, especially Peter. Trying to stifle myself, I kept reading.

“‘Well, it’s nice to meet you.’”

“‘Can I come in?’” Walter’s nasally voice sounded more like a rat this time.

“‘Um, I have company over…’”

“‘Pretty carpet. Looks like tofu.’”

We read on through some awkwardly-humorous lines involving all of us except Peter, and I kept giggling because Walter did read his lines so well that I knew—after we’d gotten over our fits of laughter—he could really play this part in a downright-creepy way, so that the audience would instantly feel unsettled. Peter—no help at all to my composure—kept muttering commentary under his breath. I had to fight not to listen, or I would have hyperventilated and stopped functioning.

Finally, Walter’s character Allen departed.

“‘I don’t know if I’m okay with this,’” I read, swiping tears out of my eyes and calming back down so I could act again.

“‘Okay with what?’” Nancy as Janet asked.

“‘With him as my neighbor!’” I waved in the air. “‘I don’t like that vibe—he’s not all right in the head.’”

“‘Anne—aren’t you being a little judgmental?’” Stephen as Eric accused. “‘He’s just shy and a little socially awkward. Just because someone isn’t eloquent doesn’t mean they’re inferior.’”

“‘I didn’t say he was inferior, I meant that he makes me nervous!’”

“‘Implying he’s some sort of psychopath, then?’” Nancy asked.

“‘I don’t know, Mom, you saw him, too!’”

“‘Well, I didn’t see that,’” Nancy said coolly. “‘I thought it was nice of him to come over and introduce himself. And don’t you trust Eric’s professional judgment?’”

“‘I, well…Yeah. Yes, I do,’” I read the line with increasing firmness.

“‘But of course, if you do decide you don’t like the neighborhood anymore, there are always alternatives…’” Nancy read her line with obvious pointedness.

My character then performed all the niceties of getting her suddenly-unwanted guests to leave the house, so she could finally sit down and do some reading for her master’s program. All throughout that dry but necessary dialogue, Peter’s knee started bouncing again, and he twiddled his thumbs.

“All right, and now there are some stage directions,” Mr. Everhart put on some reading glasses, held up his script, and read them. “Wendy seats herself in her favorite chair by the front window. Everything goes quiet for a few moments as she immerses herself in her studies. Then, a low rumble, like thunder, passes through the house, and she notices it. Suddenly, with a flash of lights and a burst of smoke, Dr. Edward Ripple’s time machine appears stage left, dials and buttons blinking, the whole apparatus spitting and hissing.’”

“And then the fun starts!” Peter declared, suddenly hopping to his feet. “Mr. Everhart, can we please do this standing up? You can move us all over, wherever you want, I don’t care. C’mon, Anne, I need you.” And he grabbed my hand again and pulled me to my feet.

“Sure, Peter. I think the machine will be over there almost where the stage left curtain is,” Mr. Everhart twisted and pointed. “We can…Well, we can all turn our chairs so our backs are to the house, and get out of your way.”

“Mr. Everhart is a brilliant director,” Peter told me swiftly and quietly as he hustled me upstage. “He never makes actors move just for the sake of moving, you know?”

“Yes, I’ve had directors like that,” I said, my mind spinning. “I mean—ones that made you move just to avoid stagnation on stage.”

“Right, exactly—that’s pointless,” Peter nodded adamantly. “And it’s irritating—you keep thinking to yourself, what the heck am I doing walking over here? What’s over here? Why am I turning my back on the person I’m talking to? He never does that. Every movement he assigns has motivation.”

“Good, I look forward to that,” I smiled at him. And he beamed back at me.

“Okay, sit, stay,” he instructed, holding up a finger. “Right in your invisible chair.”

I stifled another giggle whilst he left me and dashed off toward the stage left curtain. As he got set, the other actors, along with Mr. Everhart and Aaron, got up and moved their chairs downstage, facing us. I felt a nervous flash again.

We now had an audience.

“Anne, your chair will be about where you’re standing,” Mr. Everhart pointed. “So obviously, you’ll be reacting to the appearance of this ridiculous contraption in your living room.”

“Obviously, yes,” I laughed.

“Okay, so, go ahead,” he said.

Biting back my nervousness, I took a deep breath, let out a yelp, feigned leaping off a chair, gaped with wide eyes, and took several steps backward.

Peter, putting on a deep, critical frown, pantomimed pushing open the heavy door of his time machine, and carefully stepping out onto the floor as if it might be quicksand. His movements were so realistic, as if he were actually touching something I simply couldn’t see. Fixated, I watched him without breathing.

“‘Computer, begin recording. Day one, year 1985. I comprehended just two seconds ago that I should have brought an updated Hydro-polyspringer,’” Peter growled…

And, in one earth-tipping moment, I realized he had all his lines memorized.

He lifted his face, and sniffed the air, then took something invisible from his belt and stared at it, twisting invisible knobs. “‘No sign of ethelnanriol toxaride in the air. Interesting. So what is that smell?’” He stepped around his “time machine,” as if eyeing it up and down, then bent down and twisted the air with his forefinger and thumb. “‘Mhm. Just wore out the Petazap Couplet.’”

Suddenly, I realized that was my cue.

“Um!’” I yelped, flipping the page. “Um, sorry! Okay, okay, found my place. Ahem. ‘Who are you?’”

“‘Thankfully, the yocto-perigram was set correctly,’” Peter went on, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “‘And the replacement sub-temporary zeptometer seems to have worked just fine.’” Peter rolled his eyes. “‘Which is good because Xaron charged me three times what it’s worth. Filthy cheat.’”

“‘Hey!’” I shouted, starting toward him. “‘Who are you, where did you come from, and what are you doing in my house?’”

He stood up, spun around, and pinned me with a lightning-flash of a gaze.

I stopped in my tracks.

“‘I’m the one who should be asking who you are,’” he snapped. “‘Since every calamity that has befallen the world is the fault of your generation.’”

“‘Excuse me?’” I took another step toward him. “‘What are you talking about? What is that thing?’”

“‘This thing,’” he spat, with violent indignance. “‘Is a Third Generation Xenon Parathormax Time Traveler—a Yottazarathor Model. A far more sophisticated device than you could ever comprehend. And I—’” he slapped a hand to his chest. “‘—am the Head Scientist of the First Society. And I am commandeering this house—or whatever it is—for use in my scientific studies.’”

And with that, he slammed the invisible door to his invisible time-machine with such vehemence that I actually jumped. Then, he stormed across the stage, right past me, and exited stage left.

As I gawked after him, he spun around in the shadows—

Transformed his scowl into a grin, and shouted:

“I assume the stairs will be this direction?”

“You went a bit too far, Peter,” Mr. Everhart called back. “Next curtain downstage!”

“Aha, okee-doke,” Peter called back, hopping over ten feet and playfully sweeping a dividing curtain out of the way. I put a hand over my mouth to hide. Mr. Everhart put on his glasses again, and squinted down at the script.

“All right,” he declared. “On to the next scene—on Wendy’s roof!”

Chapter Five

“Okay, Peter, come out here for a second,” Mr. Everhart called.

“Yes, sir,” Peter said instantly, striding out of the shadows and clasping his hands in front of him. He stopped center stage, his back to me, and stood still, facing the director.

“Since we’re apparently all right with doing some blocking right now, you can note that you’ll be entering stage right for this scene,” Mr. Everhart said.

“Yessir,” Peter nodded.

“Anne,” Everhart beckoned to me. I mentally caught myself and leaped forward, stopping next to Peter.

“You will have followed him offstage—after standing for a moment in shock,” Mr. Everhart chuckled. “Up the stairs, through the attic stairway, and then you’ll both stoop through a window on the roof.”

“Okay, sure,” I said.

“All right, Peter, go ahead and come on first.”

“Sir!” he said, turned on his heel, and dashed past me. Spinning around, I hurried after him.

“Keep up, keep up, girl!” Peter teased, motioning to me as he ducked past the curtains offstage.

“Haha, I’m trying!” I muttered back.

“Coming on now,” Peter called out to the others, then bent down, pushed on an invisible window, swung it open, and stepped out. I waited, watching him stride out onto the “roof,” scanning around, and fiddling with the unseen device he’d initially pulled from his belt. He stopped center stage.

Following his lead, but trying not to drop my script, I also bent down just as far as he had, stepped forward as I eyed him—and made a show of tripping over the window ledge. Nancy and Stephen laughed.

All right, mental note to keep that, I thought.

“‘This site should be sufficient,’” Peter began, still talking into his “recording device.” “‘There’s enough attobugisite that I can set the radial thermozetta here…’” He began deftly stepping out measurements across the stage, pointing to certain places, tilting his head and squinting. “‘The radioactive femtobot can clamp to this edge, and leaving a teramacro between it and the zengatera should ensure absolute safety.’”

“‘What on earth are you doing?’” I shouted, storming downstage. He spun to face me, giving me an ugly look.

“‘Why did you follow me?’” he snapped, before sweeping past me in his continuation of taking measurements. I let my mouth fall open, gestured helplessly, then followed him.

“‘This is my house—I’m the one who should be asking you the questions!’”

“‘As I said, this is no longer your house,’” he replied, squatting down and eyeing something unseen with extreme intensity. I glanced down at my script, wishing with all my might I could just throw it offstage and go without it, like him…

“‘Of course it’s my house,’” I retorted. “‘I paid for it, remodeled it, and put this new roof on it! All my mail comes here, I have the deed, for heaven’s sake. This is my house!”

“‘Stop screaming, you ridiculous woman,’” he made a haughty face, and almost put on a British accent. “‘This is not a difficult concept, even for you.’”

“‘Well, breaking and entering isn’t a difficult concept, either,’” I shot back. “‘I’m going downstairs to call the police.’” And I started back toward the invisible window.

“‘Then—I’ll be forced to activate the Megafabricon,’” Peter said, ice-cold, slowly rising to his feet.

I stopped dead, and made myself turn around very slowly, and pin him with a sideways look.

“‘What is a Megafabricon?’” I asked, my voice low and tight.

Unseen by the others, Peter’s glance suddenly sparkled, and—for some reason—his composure flickered. Then, he lifted his chin and took a deep breath.

“‘It is a super-heated, invisible barrier that will launch from this spot right here—’” he pointed to a spot on the stage and then ferociously shot his hand up into the air.

I cowered backward.

“‘—and cover this building entirely,’” he waved wildly, deepening his voice to booming. “Penetrating through the earth and all the way beneath the basement, encapsulating it in an unbreakable, uncrackable, unshakable forcefield that nothing invented in this century could even put a dent in.’” He leaned toward me. “‘Not even an atomic bomb.’”

I just stared at him, as per the script—but also captivated by his fiery animation and the radiation in his gaze. I felt like, any second, flames might shoot from his fingers.

“‘You’re insane,’” I said shakily, thankful that I already knew that line and didn’t have to break eye contact.

Suddenly, he shrugged and looked away as if we weren’t talking about anything of importance at all.

“‘Say what you like, it makes very little difference,’” he said lightly. “‘I’m establishing my laboratories here for the duration of my experiments, and you may either remain here and keep to yourself as much as possible, or you can leave.” He put his hands in his pockets and strolled across the front of the stage, as if looking down over the edge of the roof. “‘Of course, I would prefer that you left, but I won’t force you out. I might need someone to cook.’”

“‘Wha—!’” I gasped, speechless with horror, and made myself stammer for a minute whilst he dutifully ignored me. Then, I stomped my foot, grabbed a fistful of my hair…

Then spun around, marched toward the invisible window, threw another forceful glare back at him, pushed through the window—

And tripped again.

Everybody laughed—and I heard Peter break character and snort.

And then…

The cast started clapping. I felt my cheeks get hot, pushed my hair out of my face, and turned back around, biting my lip and smiling. Peter took a bow, and then frantically waved me forward. I laughed and came up to join him.

“Wow, that was great!” Walter cried, clapping widely.

“Good grief, did you two practice this beforehand?” Mr. Everhart asked.

“No, they didn’t,” Aaron sat back and folded his arms, giving us a sly smile. “They’re just reading each other very well.”

“Well, let’s keep going then!” Mr. Everhart suggested, clearing his throat and turning the page. “The next bit takes place on a split set. Stage right will be Wendy’s room, where she’ll be pacing and deciding whether or not to call anyone. Then there’s a wall with a door in it to an adjoining guest bedroom. That’s where Peter will end up. Got it?”

“Yup,” Peter went up on his toes. “Go ahead?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Everhart chuckled, waving us off.

Peter dashed off stage left, and I maneuvered into what I thought was the right place.

“Downstage a bit, Anne,” Aaron motioned to me.

“Okay, makes sense,” I said, obeying. “So, I’ve got a bed here, nightstand, stuff like that?”

“Right, a full-size bed, nightstand, wardrobe over there,” Everhart pointed. “The dividing wall’s at center stage. Got it?”

“Yeah,” I nodded.

“Okay, go.”

I re-oriented myself, outlined the bed and the walls in my mind, and started pacing back and forth, glancing down at my script as I did.

“‘Sure. Okay. There’s a man on my roof, setting up…Tarabetazips or…Plasmafalazoids or…What did he say? The Megafabricon? What is that?’” I stopped in the center of the room and threw my hand in the air. “‘Is that even real? Well, the mess down in the living room is definitely real! Ugh, he probably would do something ridiculous if I called the police. And what exactly is that thing down there, a bomb? It’s obviously not a time machine, whatever he says—he’s clearly crazy…’” I sighed helplessly. “‘But…if I try to explain this to Mom or Eric they’ll think I’m crazy.’” I put my hand to my forehead and kept reading, very aggrieved. “‘What am I going to do?’”

“Clank, crash, boom, general irritating noises,” Peter said in loud monotone. I covered my face with my hand so I wouldn’t giggle.

“Want me to go in the other bedroom now?” I muttered through my fingers.

“Yes, the door’s just upstage of you,” Everhart answered.

“’Kay,” I said, turned and mimed flinging open an adjoining door.

Peter was in the next “room,” pretending to set something up with studious precision. For a second, I gaped at the invisible array of technology that filled the room, which was supposed to have appeared basically out of nowhere.

“‘What are you doing now?’” I demanded, furious.

“‘I noticed you weren’t in this room, and since you live alone, I assumed this was the guest room,’” Peter replied absently. “‘I’ll be staying here for the duration, until I’ve discovered or altered whatever is necessary.’”

I looked down at my script, burning the words into my mind, then pushed it down, lifted my head, and poured boiling venom into my voice.

“‘How. Dare. You.’”

Peter stopped. He frowned over his shoulder at me.

“‘What?’”

“‘I don’t care who you are or what you are—How dare you just…Just come charging into a lady’s home, without asking permission, without smiling, saying hello, explaining yourself?’” I advanced on him like an army.

He faced me, and his eyes flashed.

“‘And now you’re just moving in to my guest room, as if you own it, completely disregarding what I might want or need,’” I continued. “‘Clearly you have extremely advanced technology, and you’re very smart—but you are absolutely disrespectful, uncivilized and unkind. And whatever it is you came here to find out, it’s irrelevant.’”

“‘Irrelevant?’” he repeated, as if baffled.

“‘Yes,’” I bit out. “‘You can’t put any knowledge to good use if you don’t have wisdom and compassion to go along with it. Didn’t your parents teach you that?’”

“‘I didn’t have any parents.’”

I stopped. Looked down at the script.

That wasn’t in there.

I brought my head up, suddenly searching Peter’s face.

He’d changed completely.

The hardness had melted from his features, his eyebrows drawn together. His blue eyes, catching the stage lights, seemed incandescent. And he carefully clasped his hands in front of him.

“‘My parents died in a chemical explosion when I was six months old,’” he went on, his voice quiet and careful. He shifted his weight. “‘I grew up with scientists and professors, surrounded by lab coats and computers. But…even they told me that I suffered from an acute lack of empathy.’”

I said nothing. I couldn’t say anything—he’d gone off script. So I waited.

“‘Whatever the cause of it, it must be true,’” he shrugged. “‘I hear it often enough. I don’t like people, and I don’t want their company. But I…I still feel keenly the waste, the missed opportunity that I see every day in the world around me. I just feel it in my bones—that something has gone wrong.’” He looked at me with an odd urgency, and pressed his fingertips to his chest.

I glance down. What he’d just said somewhat resembled a written line—so I took it.

“‘What exactly is wrong?’”

“‘Everything,’” he said—and I could feel the pain in his voice.

Without meaning to, I let the angry tension in my brow change to concern. And I watched every move on his face.

“‘Half the world’s been destroyed by nuclear holocaust, the people who survived live in a sterile environment—no trees, no grass, no animals. Everything is synthesized, everyone is monitored. Half the population has to live encased in machinery to keep them alive. Nobody risks natural pregnancy for fear of genetic mutation, so children are engineered and then implanted into women who have been specifically chosen for the task.’” He took a deep breath, the pain overwhelming him now. And he took me right with him.

“‘We live to live,’” he said softly. “‘To survive. To keep going. And yet…We’ve lost everything that makes us want to.’”

I swallowed, my heart churning inside me. I reluctantly glanced down at my script, then returned my eyes to Peter as quickly as I could.

“‘How did that happen?’” I asked.

“‘I don’t know,’” he said helplessly. “‘That’s what I came to find out.’”

I allowed a pause to linger between us. And I carefully took two steps toward him.

“‘How do I know you’re from the future?’” I ventured.

He held out his invisible device. I eyed it for a long moment, then reached out and took it, very carefully.

“‘What is this?’”

“‘Almost anything you want it to be,’” he answered. “‘A communicator, a camera, a recording device, a map, a scanner, an X-ray, an infrared detector, a computer, an encyclopedia…Go ahead, ask it something.’”

“‘Ask it something?’” I raised my eyebrows. “‘This looks like a TV remote with a screen!’”

Peter chuckled, then buried it.

“‘It could do that, too. Probably. Go on, ask it something.’”

I stared doubtfully down at the invisible device, then lifted it up toward my face, and spoke.

“‘What is the capital of the United States?’”

“‘The capital of the United States of America was Washington, District of Columbia,’” Aaron read out, as the voice of the computer, in his most precise and lofty British accent.

My character would obviously be astonished at this, so I let my mouth fall open and I held up the device, staring at Peter and then at it. He just stood there, a self-satisfied smile on his face. Finally, I hesitated, frowning at it, before I risked another question.

“‘What is the circumference of the earth?’”

“‘Twenty-four thousand, nine hundred one miles,’” Aaron answered.

“‘What is the distance from the earth to the sun?’”

“‘Ninety-two point nine-six million miles.’”

“‘Okay,’” I said, putting challenge in my tone. “‘How tall am I?’”

“‘You are a human female, aged twenty-six, standing five feet, six inches tall.’”

I widened my eyes at Peter.

“‘That’s…’” I stammered. “‘That’s not possible.’”

Peter just lifted his eyebrows a little, implying I ought to go on. I narrowed my eyes, and said my next line very pointedly.

“‘All right. Okay, fine. What is the population of the earth?’”

“‘Two million, seven hundred fifty thousand, one hundred three.’”

I stopped. I looked up at Peter again.

He gazed back at me, sorrow all over his face. I swallowed. And, without taking my eyes from Peter, I asked again.

“‘What year is it?’”

“‘The year is two-thousand, eighty-five years after the birth of Christ,’” Aaron answered, without a hint of emotion.

“‘Wow,’” I gasped, looking earnestly at Peter. “‘This…This is true, then? You’re actually…from the future. And it’s actually…Like that.’”

“‘I’m afraid so.’” He closed one eye in a tired wince.

“‘And you’ve come here to what…get away from that?’” I ventured, holding out the device to him.

“‘Oh, no,’” he shook his head, taking it from me. “‘I’m a scientist, and I never run away from anything. I want to learn—to find out what went wrong, and prevent it.’”

“‘You’re trying to change the future?’” I cried.

“‘Yes, exactly!’” he stepped toward me now, getting more animated with his gestures. “‘If I can discover what events led to the domino effect that created the world I now live in—then it won’t turn out that way! Don’t you see? If I can get to the bottom of this, I could prevent nuclear genocide, test-tube babies, synthesized food, people living in cubicles and never seeing the sky or trees or animals again.’”

I looked at him for a long time as he gazed earnestly at me.

“‘And for some reason…’” I said slowly. “‘You think that whatever went wrong…happened at my house?’”

“‘Well, maybe not your house precisely,’” he shrugged. “‘According to my calculations, it happened somewhere within a ten-mile radius of here, and your house is at the center of it.’”

“‘That sounds pretty precise to me,’” I offered a weak laugh. His smile brightened a little.

“‘Don’t you see how important this is?’” he asked. “‘Not just for my generation, but all the generations that come after?’”

I canted my head, frowning.

“‘But,’” I said slowly. “‘Theoretically…If you change something in the past…couldn’t you erase your own existence? Make it so you were never born?’”

“‘Time travel is still in a very experimental stage,’” he replied. “‘And no theory has been tested to its full extent yet. So, technically…’” He took a deep breath. “‘Yes. Yes, I could.’”

“‘And you’re still willing to do it?’” I studied him hard.

“‘Absolutely,’” he said. “‘And you…’” he stopped.

I raised my eyebrows, waiting. He glanced down, bit his lip, then risked another step toward me.

“‘And you may help me. If you’re willing.’”

I didn’t say my next line. For some reason, a line—any line—felt wrong.

So instead, I held out my right hand.

Peter’s eyes flashed to mine. He looked at my hand, then at me again.

And that incandescent sparkle danced across his gaze for just an instant.

He reached out, very carefully, and took my hand.

But he didn’t shake it. Instead, he gently took my fingers and curled them inside his, leaving our thumbs to rest on top. He tapped my thumb with his, and ducked his head.

“‘I…’” He hesitated. “‘I don’t believe I caught your name.’”

Finally, I let myself smile at him—which I’d been wanting to do the whole time.

“‘I’m Wendy James.’”

He looked up, and squeezed my fingers.

“‘I’m Dr. Edward Ripple.’”

And he smiled back at me.

“Very good!” Mr. Everhart declared, and the rest of the cast clapped—and Walter whistled.

Unable to contain myself any longer, I gripped Peter’s hand and leaned in close to him.

“Peter—you are fantastic!” I told him. “That was incredible!”

“Oh, shoot—no it wasn’t,” he dipped his head away, then sneaked a glance up at me. “You think so?”

“Absolutely!” I cried, keeping hold of him. “I’ve never seen anything like that!”

“Oh, I hardly knew what I was doing, I was so busy watching you,” he answered, laughing.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed, shaking my head. “You’re amazing.”

He couldn’t repress his grin anymore, and turned away to hide it—but I felt him tighten his grip on me, and I saw his cheeks color.

“I am impressed,” Aaron declared. “That was wonderful to watch.”

I dipped my head, and Peter swung our hands back and forth.

“Why don’t we take a ten minute break?” Mr. Everhart suggested. “Get a drink of water, stretch out a bit, and come back for the next scene.”

Chapter Six

The rest of the morning, we ran the entire show.

After watching Peter and I trip over windows and slam doors and talk to invisible hand-held devices, the rest of the cast wasn’t content anymore to just sit and read through the script. Knowing what I did about actors, I’m sure they were eager to prove that they could mime and pretend just as heartily as anybody else. So, holding their scripts in one hand and gesturing with the other, Nancy, Stephen and Walter threw themselves into the scenes.

Mr. Everhart, too, got out of his chair several times—in spite of his painful knee—and maneuvered carefully around the stage, pointing with enthusiasm to the places where tables, chairs, couches, fireplaces, doors and futuristic equipment would be, and where we ought to stand in relation to the furniture and each other. Only Aaron remained seated, pencil in hand, silently watching us and making marks in his script.

I noticed right away that the other actors had studied the script even more diligently than I had, and seriously thought about their character voices and even some mannerisms—especially Walter. Both Nancy and Stephen readily made eye contact with me and each other as we rehearsed, turning the lines into actual conversations.

Stephen wasn’t afraid to come close to me when the scene called for it, put an arm around me, or give me a quick peck on the head, just as an actual gentlemanly boyfriend would. He had a deep voice and an easy manner that, as Eric Schultz, also carried a confidence and a little sharpness that I thought was perfect for the part. He had an incredibly handsome smile that he used skillfully to soften what otherwise might be unkind-sounding lines. And when he looked at me, I really enjoyed looking back at him, because he had radiant green eyes and a piercing gaze that pulled me into the moment of the story.

Nancy exuded class and a sweet sort of arrogance, using her beauty to make Janet James’ whole aura charming instead of irritating. Twice during a conversation, she reached out and grasped my hand, so I decided that was the gesture we’d use as a family signal—and so later, when my character wanted to make a point with hers, I reached out and grasped her hand in turn. When I did, she returned the pressure and gave me all of her attention.

Walter, when he wasn’t in character, reminded me of a cat I had at home upstate: sweet, a little shy but likes everyone, and fond of sitting dopily around and blinking. But when Walter became Allen, his watery eyes took on a cunning coldness, like a lean, starving wolf, and he’d tilt his head in an absolutely unnerving fashion that caused me to break into uncomfortable giggles more than once.

One time, as Mr. Everhart was talking to Stephen and Nancy, and Peter was discussing something with Aaron, I found myself standing next to Walter. He shifted uncomfortably, keeping his eyes on his script—except when he’d glance repeatedly over at me. Finally, I turned to him.

“Do you have family here in New York, Walter?”

“Um…Yeah, actually,” he said, his head coming up in surprise. “I…I live with my sister. She works on Wall Street.”

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “That’s high-pressure work.”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “She and I are constantly having competitions about who has the most to worry about. She says she worries about watching a million dollars go down the tubes, I say I worry about tripping and falling on my face in front of a thousand people.”

“Oh, you’re not going to fall on your face,” I assured him. “You’re doing a really wonderful job.”

“Thank you,” he smiled and shrugged one shoulder. “I haven’t gotten a part in such a long time, I feel pretty rusty. But I’ve worked with Mr. Highgate before, in one of his first plays, and he called me up and asked if I’d be interested in this one.”

“Hey, that’s wonderful!”

“Yeah, he’s a great guy. Really sensible and down to earth,” Walter nodded, then lowered his voice. “Unlike most writers in New York.”

I chuckled at that, and then Mr. Everhart called us back to the scene.

As we progressed, the scenes I had with Stephen and Nancy were measured, flowing, natural, and felt astonishingly-good and solid. I’d worked with excellent college performers before, but never professionals—and it suddenly felt like stepping from a rickety stool onto a marble tabletop. I could tell that I could rely on them to come in every time, to remember their lines, and to bring life and flavor to every scene.

Peter, on the other hand…

He felt like a hurricane.

A delightful, energetic, flashing storm of a presence, spitting out those nonsensical futuristic words as if he spoke fluent technobabble; expertly working the dials and knobs of the invisible computers that slowly crowded every room; flying into thunderous, self-righteous rages only to wilt in defeat and confusion. When he and I had scenes together, I felt like I was grabbing onto the tailcoats of a whirling dervish and fighting to hold on.

Yet, every time I felt like I was just about to get shaken loose, he’d stop. He’d slow down, change his tone, come over to me, and pierce me with such keen and unwavering attention that I had just enough time to gather myself, take a breath, and continue with my line.

He never touched me whilst playing Dr. Ripple, and portrayed the eccentric scientist with a haughty, Sherlockian aloofness. But when we broke character to listen to Mr. Everhart, he often nudged me, gave me sly looks, or made faces when the director wasn’t looking to try to make me giggle.

We all burst through the length of the script, laughing in between times, often excitedly talking over each other about character points.

And then, suddenly, we came to the last scene.

“All right, that’s good enough,” Aaron said, holding up a hand.

I twitched, surprised. I’d almost forgotten he was there.

“Yes, Mr. Highgate is right,” Mr. Everhart grunted, sitting down in his chair again. “We’ll rehearse this scene separately, since there’s obviously no script for it, and an entirely different technique will be used. And, of course, it’ll only involve Peter and Anne.’”

“And I think you may need to rest, my friend,” Aaron gave him a careful smile.

“Oh, nothing a couple aspirin can’t fix,” Mr. Everhart waved him off.

“No point in pushing yourself,” Aaron countered. “We’ve come a lot further today than we thought we would.”

“Wow, is it already two in the afternoon?” Nancy realized, looking down at her watch. “I completely lost track of time!”

“Easy to do,” Peter laughed.

“No wonder I was starting to feel wobbly on my legs,” Walter remarked. “I’m starved!”

“Well, there are several good restaurants around here,” Aaron said. “There’s a pizzeria around the corner that’s particularly good. I suggest everyone go eat, study your scripts, rest, and we’ll see you back here tomorrow at nine a.m.”

“I’ll be here at seven,” Peter nodded, giving a grin to his uncle, then to me.

“Bye, everybody!” Nancy waved. “See you tomorrow!”

“Goodbye, Mother!” I called teasingly after her.

“Go get good rest, darling,” she answered as she headed toward the stairs, putting on her Mrs. James affect. “Don’t neglect your beauty sleep!”

The others waved and said goodbye, and I shut my script and went to pick up my purse from beside where I’d been sitting.

“I thought that went really well,” Peter said to Aaron in a calm, low—but not secretive—voice.

“Yes, I thought so, too,” Aaron agreed, standing up and closing his own script. I glanced over to see Peter put his hands in his pockets.

“Nancy’s really natural, and Walter’s just great,” Peter noted. “He’s seriously creeping me out.”

“Yes, and I’m glad I got Stephen,” Aaron said. “Snatched him out of the jaws of some big musical that’s opening two weeks from now. A revival of Cinderella, I think.”

“Yeah, he looks like the football type,” Peter said, in a sports announcer voice. I stifled another smile and started toward the steps, hearing the men continue talking behind me. I pushed through the curtain and headed down the stairs and out into the house.

Then, I heard footsteps behind me, and turned to see Peter walking up the aisle, his hands still in his pockets, his head bent in thought.

“I’m so impressed you have all your lines memorized,” I said, stopping to wait for him. He blinked and lifted his head, then gave a friendly shrug.

“Ha. Easy when you write half of them,” he said.

“You wrote half of them?” I cried, falling into step beside him.

“Yeah, I basically invented the character,” he said. “Uncle Aaron wrote all the mentally stable ones, like you.”

I chuckled, and he answered it. We stepped out into the lobby, and I turned to face him.

“Well, would you like to come to lunch with me?” I asked. “I thought I’d go to the pizzeria Aaron mentioned, since it’s close by—I’d love to hear about what it’s like to write a script.”

“Hey, I’d like to, but I have a date,” he said.

“Oh!” I blinked. “A date? Okay—some other time, then.”

“Sure,” he smiled brightly. “And we won’t go to any run-of-the-mill pizza place. I know this Indian spot around the corner that’s fabulous—you won’t be able to feel your tongue afterward, but you’ll die happy.”

“Haha, okay,” I agreed. “See you tomorrow.”

“Bye!” he waved at me, and headed toward the back of the lobby, where there was probably a side door I didn’t know about.

Unable to turn away quite yet, I watched him go, feeling an odd shift inside me—like I’d just been swept through the tail of a comet.

“Hi, Mom!”

“Hi, Annie! How was rehearsal?”

“Ugh, I’m exhausted,” I groaned stretching out on the couch, Milo purring on my stomach. I adjusted the telephone wire. “It’s only four in the afternoon and I’m ready for bed. I’ve already had a bath and I’m in my pajamas and everything. I can’t even summon the energy to get up and put a movie in the VCR.”

“Goodness, why are you so tired?”

I heaved another sigh.

“We ended up running almost the whole show today,” I answered. “It was just supposed to be a read-through, but then Peter Wren wanted to get up and actually go through the motions—which is a lot easier for him, since he’s got it all memorized.”

“Peter is Aaron Highgate’s nephew, right?”

“Yeah,” I smiled. “Wow, Mom—he’s incredible. What a fantastic actor. And he just seems to have endless energy. Like a puppy or something. He’s going to run us all ragged.”

“Yes, Aaron’s told me a little about him,” Mom said.

“Really?” I adjusted the throw pillow behind my head. “What did he say?”

“He hasn’t talked to me about him in a long time,” Mom said. “It was when Peter was in high school, and Aaron was really worried about him.”

“Worried? Why?”

“I can’t remember exactly—mixing with the wrong crowd, I think. Getting involved in things that caused him to miss classes and start failing. I think he was even arrested.”

“Arrested!” I cried.

“I might be wrong—but he got in quite a bit of trouble.”

“Hm,” I murmured, rubbing my forehead. “Well, maybe, since Aaron hasn’t talked about it for a while, he’s straightened out now.”

“Quite possible! And it’s probably good that he’s working so closely with his uncle,” Mom noted. “Probably helps keep him on the right track.”

“Hopefully,” I said quietly. “Because—the rest of the cast is really good, and I’m going to love working with them…but,” I took a deep breath, realizing what I was about to say was true, even as I formed the words. “He’s Edward Ripple. And I honestly don’t think this show could even work without him.”

Chapter Seven

Friday, April 12th

My heart pounded, and I stared up at the dim ceiling of my bedroom. The memory of the Picture that had just flashed in front of my eyes made me frown so hard my head hurt.

In it, I was on the stage at the Quadrant Theatre, staring out at the empty house. Except it wasn’t quite empty.

A man sat there, six rows from the stage, right in the center, staring back at me.

He wore a black suit and dark blue tie, and had white hair and neatly-trimmed beard. He wore businesslike glasses, and had a red handkerchief in his breast pocket.

And his gaze pinned me—shafted right through me, froze me to the spot, so that I couldn’t move or think.

I shivered as I lay there in bed, wanting to duck back underneath the covers and stay there all day.

RING-RING!

The jangle of the phone nearly made me fall out of bed.

I whipped into a sitting position, snatched up the handset and pushed it to my ear.

“Hello?” I croaked.

“Hello, Miss Maple, this is your 7:30 wake-up call.”

I slapped a hand to my head.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“It’s Peter Wren,” he said brightly. “Did I do a good job—are you awake?”

I chuckled, sounding like a 100-year-old woman.

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Come on, girl, you should be up already—eating Wheaties, building up your strength, running laps around the block—”

I really started laughing now, and I could feel him smiling on the other end.

Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/Last-Scene-Alydia-Rackham-ebook/dp/B07JHSJ1JC/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=the+last+scene+alydia+rackham&qid=1572889808&sr=8-1

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thedazedyouth · 6 years

Text

Stream Team

Despite the name “The Saints”, the distant ringing of church bells on a Sunday meant nothing to the residents of the bustling city. Religion and spirituality weren’t even allowed to grace children’s minds as eventually the city will prove again and again that God had abandoned that particular timeline. He had packed up his shit and allowed the demons to walk amongst his mistakes that he’s no longer proud enough of to call them his children.

A piece of evidence that God had truly left us, was the monstrosity of a car hurtling down Los Santos’ streets. The bright orange and purple vehicle was weaving between the normal cars and blasting the unusually loud and annoying horn. The amount of modifications done to this and a few other vehicles is the reason it was currently running red lights to reach the furthest bank.

In the backseat of said horror was Trevor Collins, who was very thankful he was colourblind and would never have to see the disaster that Jeremy Dooley had created. During times such as when Jeremy first pieced together his entire Rimmy Tim outfit, Trevor’s colourblindness was a luxury that Matt Bragg stated he would kill for. Jeremy would mostly ignore those kinds of comments, relishing in his attire, but even he couldn’t ignore Matt trying to sink into the passenger seat as they passed through the city.

“Try to look more excited, Matt,” Jeremy teased, honking the horn once more.

“This car is horrendous dude and you know it. Why didn’t we go with something less obvious?” Matt asked, already done with Jeremy’s shit even though it was still early morning.

From the back Trevor piped up with his more cogent way of speaking. “You know we love you, Jer, but I remember asking you to at least try and be more stealthy. I’m getting tired of all our heists ending with hour long car chases with the cops. Next time, we take Matt’s or my car.”

Jeremy quickly diverted the topic. “We’re here,” he said, parking right in front of the sleek building, “we’ll finish this later.”

“There’s no later, we-”

Jeremy was already out of the car before Matt could argue, Matt looked behind at Trevor who could only shrug. The two left the car to join Jeremy, they all had a duffle bag in hand that concealed an AR-15 rifle, Jeremy’s had a little extra to help with his job.

“Remember, we’re only borrowing these toys,” Trevor said, as they slowly made their way inside. “So get enough for our supplier’s share. Get in fast, get out alive. Don’t stop until these bags are full, or until I say so.”

Matt and Jeremy nodded. They opened the golden metal lined, glass doors and Trevor lead them through. He eyed the security cameras lining the building. The trio walked in time down a shining, tiled floor until they reached the tellers. The bank was reasonably empty, and with only a few guards.

The teller they stood before was a middle-aged woman, she had greying black hair and a beautiful set of pearls around her pale neck. She smiled at Trevor, as he stood closer and lent across the wooden desk.

“May I help you?”

Her voice was one that could immediately make someone feel warm inside, and Trevor felt a hint of guilt at the trauma she was going to endure at his hands.

“You would think,” he said, keeping a veil of confidence, “that out of every bank in every city, they would put bulletproof glass in this one. I mean this place has to be in danger, being in this part of the city. Right?”

The woman laughed nervously. “Actually, sir, we’ve never had a robbery here. We pride ourselves on that.”

“Really?” Trevor asked sarcastically. “See now, you shouldn’t tell that to people; because then people like me might want to change that.”

On cue, behind him Jeremy and Matt ripped open their duffle bags and threw up their rifles. The security guards went down quickly and they both tore into every camera, counting each one.

“Fifteen,” Matt said.

Trevor didn’t break his stare with the teller. “Good job. There’s twice that leading up to the vault. Take your time, I’m gonna have fun out here.”

Trevor looked behind him as Jeremy and Matt ran off to locate the vault. There was about a dozen civilians, all of them had fallen to the ground with their hands over their heads, but still watching Trevor with fear blatant in their faces.

Well trained, Trevor thought.

He turned back to the bank teller. “Listen, I know that the panic button is in the back and you haven’t had the time to go hit it; so as long as you don’t even think about running to hit it then we won’t have a problem. But the moment I see you try, it won’t end pretty for you. Y’know, just to get that elephant out of the room.” Trevor had taken out his own rifle, he rested it casually over his shoulder and started pacing up and down the bank.

He was facing the grand front doors when he suddenly spun around and pointed at the teller. “What’s your name?” he asked, no threat or demand in his voice but it still caused the woman to tremble.

“Um-um- it’s- it’s Sharon.”

“Of fucking course,” he muttered to himself. “Alright, Sharon, I just realized you should probably be out here and nowhere close to that panic button. Although it’s definitely useless now, it’ll only make things worse and I’m sorry to say but I don’t trust you back there.”

Trevor smiled, almost genuinely and ushered the woman to come towards him. She obliged and took a spot on the ground exactly where he pointed to; between the bodies of the guards.

Trevor was alone in the main room for roughly ten minutes before Matt and Jeremy came rushing out from the otherside; they each had a stuffed duffel bag slung over their shoulders.

“Fifteen minutes, guys. I got you guys fifteen minutes and you still couldn’t get through that door?” Trevor wasn’t faking the frustration but it was more of a slight annoyance than anger.

“Hey, in our defence,” Matt said, “it was a pretty big door and Jeremy didn’t know how to use the toys right.”

Trevor couldn’t help but laugh at Jeremy’s attempts to counter Matt but could only make sputters and random noises in defence.

“Doesn’t matter now,” Trevor said. “The cops are here.”

“How do you know-”

Just then the distinct sounds of police sirens suddenly blasted from outside.

“They wanted to surprise us,” Trevor noted.

There wasn’t much else to say between the trio. Matt and Jeremy made sure the bags were zipped tightly and dumped them just next to the front doors.

“Sharon, I suggest you move,” Trevor said.

He raised his gun as the other two fell into a similar stance beside him. They edged forward together, the sirens had obviously stopped just meters from them and a voice projected by a megaphone cut through the tense silence that had overtaken the bank.

“Come out with your hands up and no one gets hurt!”

Trevor nodded to Jeremy, who grinned and eagerly kicked open the doors after a count to three. The moment they got a glance of the outside, the three started firing on the awaiting cops. They had half a dozen cars positioned in a semi-circle around the front of the bank, and in the middle of them all was Jeremy’s orange and purple car.

The cops returned fire and the team took cover back in the bank.

“Alright, get the bags and on my count I’ll cover you two as you get the car started. Once I’m in there, Jeremy, ram anything that’s in your way, I’m not concerned about property damage today. Matt, find the path of least resistance anyways.” The orders rolled off Trevor’s tongue like he’d rehearsed a thousand times before.

Matt and Jeremy nodded, already having heard the plan a thousand times.

“Just saying,” Jeremy interjected, “if anyone hits my car, you two will pay for it.”

“C’mon dude, that still makes me want to hit it,” Matt laughed.

Trevor rolled his eyes at the two but gave Matt a look that confirmed he felt that same. “Okay, ready? Go.”

They whipped back into view of the cops, Matt and Jeremy seamlessly throwing the duffel bags onto their shoulders, and the gunfire continued. Trevor stayed behind at the threshold as Matt and Jeremy ran forward to the car, he hit anyone that had their sights on the two.

There was a pause in the noise, the cops had thinned out and the remaining few had their backs pressed hard against their cars. Trevor got one last shot at a car tire and took his opportunity to dive in the backseat of Jeremy’s car.

He had barely got in when the back windshield was blasted out, Trevor and Matt turned back to shoot through it while Jeremy drove away.

Matt had taken out his laptop from where it was tucked away under his seat, and was pulling up the city’s traffic cameras; he directed Jeremy which turn to take that would put the most distance between them and the new lot of cops that had to be called in from other stations.

Trevor sat and counted their gains. Even with what they had to pay their supplier, they made a respectable earning. Satisfied with their work, Trevor leant back and enjoyed the madness of the current car chase. He trusted the two in front to get them to safety and instead of worrying, he relaxed and watched them argue as Jeremy took the wrong turn. It wasn’t a costly mistake, so Trevor cracked a smile when Jeremy tried pinning it on Matt.

They managed to lose the cops as they neared the mountains, where their safe house laid. They quickly covered Jeremy’s eyesore of a vehicle with a tarp before the choppers were sent out on a manhunt.

They hid out until nightfall, when the Los Santos cops realized they’d never catch the bankrobbers, and the trio took Trevor’s car to meet with their supplier. They passed back the rifles and a third of their earnings to a businessman and left without another thought.

After the team had left the bank, cleanup started. The hostages had been taken care of, although none of them were physically hurt. A couple had sat together in the back of an ambulance as paramedics declared that they were in shock and that’s the only explanation to their calm and almost excited attitudes.

There were no rings to prove it, but the man turned to his wife; he was beaming while she seemed unphased by him and refused to meet his puppy eyes.

“Jack,” he said.

“No,” she replied sternly. His wife shook her head, her copper red hair bounced.

“I want them.”

“I already let you keep the last three. We don’t need anymore, Geoffrey.”

Jack was mostly set in her ways, but Geoff always seemed to get what he wanted in the end.

#fake achievement hunter crew #FAHC #Trevor Collins #matt bragg #jeremy dooley #stream team #geoff ramsey #Jack Pattillo

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notapaladin · 4 years

Text

all the rainbow’s heavy tones

okay. so. this is LONG AS SHIT and contains, in no particular order: fight scenes, concussions, blood loss, death magic, and a Very Good Dog. but i decided obsblood needed a modern au, and so i have provided! can also be read on AO3, as usual.

Acatl, chief of the Mictlan Division, hunts a beast of shadow on what was supposed to be his day off. Fortunately, he has help in the form of one (1) confident young undergraduate and his trusty dog. The dog is fine. Acatl...less so.

At least he manages to get Teomitl's number out of it.

Acatl was halfway through his morning routine (offer blood to the gods, brush teeth, wash face, feed the cat, grudgingly remember to feed himself while Little Skull twined around his shins and purred) when his phone rang.

When he realized the ringtone was the one he used only for work calls, he closed his eyes briefly. He’d been having a good morning, too; he’d slept well for once, without any nightmares of failure in his new post or wistful dreams of his old one. The sheets had been the perfect temperature when he’d woken, and he’d allowed himself five extra minutes to just lay there and enjoy it. Little Skull had been sleeping on his chest as a ghost’s butterfly investigated the potted plant Mihmatini had brought him to, in her words, “make it look less like Mictlan in here.” (He hadn’t bothered to point out that, as the new head of the Mictlan Division, he knew very well it was impossible to mistake Mexico City for the land of the dead no matter how small his apartment was.)

The phone was still ringing. Sighing, he picked it up. It looked like he wasn’t going to get to use his day off to catch up on any of his much-needed rest after all. “Yes?”

“You picked up so early even on your day off! Wonderful.” Acatl felt a muscle start to twitch in his cheek, but held his tongue as Ichtaca continued. “We need you here. There’s been a body found.”

There were always bodies being found in Mexico City, but if it was a work matter, that meant the death had underworld magic about it. Acatl hoped fervently that it hadn’t been found near the sewers. Ahuizotls could and did swim up the larger pipes, and they would require help from the Tlaloc Division to track down. A particularly bad infestation would even mean he’d have to work with Acamapichtli again.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thank you for informing me.”

As soon as he could meant he would have to ride his bike. It was the only way to get through the traffic near the Old City in any reasonable amount of time; he’d made the same trip a million times in his college days. Unfortunately, it made Ichtaca twitch in fury every time he saw him showing up to work on a battered gray bike; though Acatl’s second-in-command never said a word to him about it, he knew he thought it was unbecoming for the dignity of someone who was, for all intents and purposes, a modern-day priest of the dead. He could handle that; a priest was meant to serve their people, and there was no need to put on unnecessary airs. Besides, he liked the city, liked the noise and the chaos of it. It was home. It was—alive.

Of course, in another way, it was also quite dead.

The crowd on the sidewalks ebbed and flowed around little pockets of cold emptiness; as he turned his head at one stop sign, a translucent woman in an old-fashioned tunic and skirt bowed to him, and he nodded back. It always paid to be polite to ghosts. Cars in front of him stopped in the middle of the street to let a faded, barely visible man push a wheelbarrow across a road that no longer existed; despite the delay in their commutes, nobody honked their horns. Acatl quietly approved. In other places, he knew, people were much less calm about bits of the underworld leaking through to their everyday lives, but in Mexico—and especially in this city—the underworld very nearly was their everyday lives. Ghosts walked the streets they had loved in life, and when they passed on, they took the forms of butterflies that brightened the hearts of their loved ones. And if they made trouble...well, that was what people like him were there for.

He pedaled on, thinking of work. It wasn’t anything he was looking forward to; though he’d never been good with people, he’d truly enjoyed his post in Coyoacan where much of the job had lay in talking to bereaved families, following threads of magic, and occasional heartstopping moments of sheer terror as whatever had crawled out of the underworld decided to take a bite out of him instead. It had all been very straightforward. Meanwhile, being the Chief of the entire Mictlan Division meant any case he had to examine himself was going to involve politics, and he knew he was entirely out of his depth there. Fuck you, Ceyaxochitl, he thought grumpily—but not too loudly. He wouldn’t have put it past her to be able to read his mind from across the city.

He doubted the last High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli had had to deal with a Ceyaxochitl of his own. And if he had, at least she hadn’t had a cell phone.

Then again, I’m sure he had much more immediate problems to deal with. The Europeans showing up with steel and horses, for one thing. The history books all said that the Mexica had held out for a time, but when they faced total annihilation—their deaths, the destruction of their temples, the destruction of their gods—the last High Priest had joined together with his fellows, the last Guardian of the Duality (his little sister, the codices said, and Acatl thought of Mihmatini with a pang every time), and the last Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan (the Guardian’s husband, and the High Priest’s...friend said the grammar school textbooks, and lover said the college ones on the strength of some very emotional surviving poetry) in a desperate ritual to...well, nobody, even now, could agree on what they had been trying to do. Kill all the Spaniards? Save their own lives? Strengthen the wards between all three realms, so that even if they died the world would live on? Whatever their goals had been, the result was this: a world where very few people rested quietly in death, where monsters sometimes walked the streets, and where the gods’ gift of magic was spread thin to keep the world intact.

Of course, the distance of the gods worked in their favor now. The sun rose without being fed by human hearts, and star demons were a thing of the distant past. (Election years were bad enough. He didn’t even want to imagine how bad they’d be with the threat of Coyolxauhqui hanging over everyone’s heads.) Only minor, more-easily-killable creatures still threatened them. Historians generally agreed it had also spared a larger part of his people and culture than might otherwise have been the case (he’d had nightmares as a child of what could have happened, of the Great Temple trampled into the dust and a church built atop it), so on the whole Acatl was inclined to look very favorably upon the spiritual predecessor whose knives allegedly were the ones sealed in a glass case in his office. And if he happened to have been intimate with Emperor Ahuizotl (whose namesakes had very explicitly eaten Hernan Cortez, described with glee by contemporary commentators), then good for him.

Eventually, after thirty minutes of weaving through traffic and an unpleasantly exciting near-collision with a car that was apparently immune to a Mictlan officer’s aura, he came to the Division headquarters. From a distance it looked just like any other office building, until you got close enough to notice the owl-and-spider motifs in the stone and the skull prominently displayed over the door. They might no longer officially be priests of Mictlantecuhtli, but the symbols remained. (Including the official regalia of the High Priests, which Acatl had to wear for the big rituals and feast days, and which he hated more than he thought he could hate a bit of fabric and feathers. The loincloth helped, but ritual sites never had air conditioning; adding a giant skull mask and heavy cloak only made it worse.) He attempted to smooth down the mess the trip had made of his hair and was about to lock his bike up when the doors slid open and Ichtaca strolled out.

Unlike Acatl—windblown, sweaty, sporting a black mark of uncertain provenance on his uniform pants—Ichtaca was immaculate. His standard-issue uncut hair was pulled back neatly, his shoes gleamed, and the prominently displayed owl badge on his chest proclaimed his status to anyone who cared to look. Even his short-sleeved uniform shirt had been pressed and ironed, and the spider trim shimmered. “Don’t bother, sir. The...deceased is in the Old City. We’ll be heading there straightaway.” Unspoken, but clear in his tone was I would have told you that but you hung up on me, you idiot.

Acatl grimaced. Trying to take bodies out of the Old City without at least some token prayers tended to end badly. “To the Old City, then. You’ll be walking?”

“...I also brought a bike.”

When the last High Priests and the last Emperor had snapped the boundaries like so many dry twigs, they had succeeded in preserving a single part of their city. In the middle of Mexico City, a mile-wide circle of Tenochtitlan remained as it had been in the last days of the Empire, a place of perfectly preserved adobe buildings and now-dry canals with the Sacred Precinct at its center. Between the ghosts and the fact that electronics tended to fail there, it had been abandoned for centuries—the province of religious rituals, heavily supervised archaeological expeditions, and rare tourist walks. These days, there were checkpoints with armed guards to make sure nobody snuck in and got themselves eaten; rumors that vagrants seeking a place to sleep had woken up covered in a protective blanket of butterflies were officially declared false. (Acatl believed them. The people that had laid the spell had loved their city.)

Acatl waited until they were within the borders, away from the noise of traffic, to say, “Tell me about the deceased. What do we know so far?”

Ichtaca set a hand to the hilt of one of his regulation knives (obsidian, six inches, fixed-blade, sanctified by three drops of human blood and sharp enough to slice a single hair). “Female, possibly Nahua, roughly in her late forties. The body was...mauled, and the area stinks of magic.” At Acatl’s look, he added, “More than the usual, anyway. It’s how we found her; we were exercising the xolos.”

He nodded. While humans could sense magic, dogs were better at it, and the best breeds for it were those that were native to the area. The three main divisions all had their K-9 units. “No identification on her?”

Ichtaca shook his head. “None. We think she must have been trying to sleep in one of the buildings...ah. Here.”

‘Here’ turned out to be a tiny adobe house by a canal, watched over by a young officer, her dog, and a wheelbarrow full of ice. Acatl could smell the blood from the street, and something else…

When he stood in the doorway, the howling emptiness of Mictlan hit him like a truck. For a moment he could barely see the woman’s corpse curled up on the floor, and then his gaze focused again. Ichtaca was right. She had been mauled. Her limbs were still attached, but something had raked its claws over her to the bone, and giant jaws had opened her chest. It was impossible to tell the original color of her tank top.

“We leave this earth,” he whispered. “This world of jade and flowers—the quetzal feathers, the silver. Down into the darkness we must go, leaving behind the marigolds and the ceder trees. Safe journeys, my friend. Safe journeys. All the way to the end.”

And then he pulled his rubber gloves on and knelt to examine her corpse, turning her over gently to inspect the wounds. He almost didn’t have to; the bottom of his stomach felt like it had dropped to hell and froze over there, which would have been a clear indicator of something from the underworld even if her heart and lungs hadn’t been torn from her chest cavity. A beast of shadows, he thought, and then, Damn it. They could only prowl in places where no light shone, making them the chief predators of anyone sleeping alone in the Old City and blessedly rare everywhere else, and only obsidian could kill them. He still had the scars where one had caught his arm before his comrades had saved him. At least they were solitary, unable to bear the presence of another even in the same city; he didn’t even want to think about dealing with a pack of the things. The problem was that he couldn’t tell where this one had gone. And if it managed to escape the Old City, the mayor would have his head.

The young officer—he hadn’t gotten her nametag—spoke up. “We couldn’t find a trail, sir. It’s like it was summoned here.”

He shook his head. “Impossible. There would be signs. It must have slipped in from somewhere. You couldn’t even track it with the dogs?” There had once been spells that would track things from the underworld—he’d seen the codices—but with the breaking of the boundaries they were weak and unreliable, prone to throwing up false positives.

“No, sir.”

He sighed. “Let’s take her to the morgue and see what comes up. If it’s necessary, I’ll get us the permits for a full search of the Old City.”

In the end, there wasn’t anything to find. The autopsy showed nothing suggesting the woman had been targeted by a sorcerer with a grudge, so Acatl returned to the Old City on his own; by the time he finally stopped for a rest—dusty, footsore, and exhausted—in the house that had once belonged to the last High Priest of the Dead, he’d checked every inch of it and wanted nothing more than to go home. A dead end. Wonderful.

He fiddled with his earrings, running his fingers over the thin scars at his earlobes. His gaze drifted over the worn frescoes of owls and spiders without really seeing them. Five hundred years ago, his spiritual predecessor had lived and grown old here; Acatl had seen reconstructions of the place before the museums had descended and knew that there had been a quetzal-feather fan there, that just over there had been a single well-worn reed sleeping mat. Judging by the childish paint smears at roughly knee height, he’d also played host to a number of the Emperor’s children and grandchildren. He’d probably shed blood from his own earlobes here every morning, just as Acatl did. He wondered how he’d feel to be summoned for advice; it was a seriously tempting prospect, but one he ultimately dismissed. One did not summon the Last Priest on a whim; he surely had enough to do with guiding the dead through Mictlan safely.

He checked his phone, mostly to have something to do with his hands. As expected, it was hovering at a dismal 30% battery life and no signal, but the picture on his lock screen—Neutemoc and his children, with Mihmatini holding Little Skull in her lap—was as clear as ever, and still made him smile.

Impatient footsteps—one set human, one set canine—made him look up just as a boy entered the doorway. Silhouetted by the setting sun, at first Acatl couldn’t make out his features; then he stepped inside, leading a truly impressive xoloitzcuintle, and Acatl felt his heart drop into his shoes. He knew the features of that face. He’d seen them in the news and in a dozen press releases, every time the mayor gave speeches with his family in tow. If he wasn’t a relative of some sort, Acatl would eat his own shoes.

The boy—a young man, really, around his sister’s age—had dressed for the weather, at least. Acatl took in the sight of sandals, cargo shorts, a camo-print tank top, a thermos clipped to his belt along with a stone knife. The high cheekbones and hawkish nose that were so familiar sat on a face that looked much more used to smiling than anything else; the military-style buzz cut was at odds with the gold studs in each ear and below his lip. “Excuse me. Are you Chief Acatl?” He was eyeing him like a tricky page in a codex.

Acatl studied him for a moment. He felt human, though the faint glitter of the light caught in the little hairs on his arms spoke of powerful magical protections on him. (He was also very handsome when he started to smile, but Acatl told himself firmly that now was not the time to be noticing that.) “I am. How can I help you?”

“Actually, I was hoping I could help you. Ceyaxochitl sent me; she said you’d need assistance.” Acatl’s heart wanted to sink, but it was somehow very hard to manage when the young man aimed that confident half-smile at him. “My name is Teomitl, and this—” he gestured to the dog “—is Yaotl." Acatl wondered if Ceyaxochitl knew the man's dog shared a name with her PA. "We were told there was underworld magic to track.”

“There is.” But Teomitl shouldn’t be doing it. This was a beast of shadows, a matter for the Mictlan Division, not a boy with a dog. On the other hand, Ceyaxochitl had sent him, and it was best not to anger her if he could avoid it. Sighing, he started to stand up and immediately dropped his phone in the dirt.

Teomitl bent and picked it up, only to stare at the lock screen. “How do you know Mihmatini?”

Acatl blinked at him. What a small world we live in. “She’s my younger sister. Why?” When Teomitl handed him his phone back, he made sure to slip it safely into his back pocket.

He grinned. “I’m in Advanced Solar Divinity and Warding Magic 201 with her. She’s amazing.”

Great. Mihm, you have another admirer. On one hand, Mihmatini deserved everything she could ever wish for. On the other hand, a possible relative of the mayor...he thought back to the aftermath of a few family dinners when she and Neutemoc had started discussing (arguing about) politics, and decided she could definitely do better. At least their shared university courses explained the glimmering magic around Teomitl; Mihm had once turned in a term paper in a similar class that had left flowers appearing in her steps for a week. They’d had to stop their nephew from putting them in his mouth. Teomitl was clearly skilled enough with Huitzilpochtli’s magic to protect himself. “Mm-hmm. How much were you told regarding this case?”

Teomitl fixed his gaze to a point over Acatl’s shoulder and rattled off, “An unknown woman was found dead eight hours ago—“

Has it really been eight hours? Gods.

“—with the clear marks of a Beast of Mictlan on her corpse, and no trail to follow. It’ll be easier to track now that the sun’s going down.” Now he made eye contact, and Acatl spared no thought to hiding the expression on his face.

Because the idea of tracking a beast of shadows at dusk—never mind at night—was certainly more effective, but it was also suicidally dangerous. It wasn’t something Acatl would dare attempt without backup. A thousand retorts flew through his mind—you’re insane, we’d both be torn apart, it’s slower but so much safer to just kill it while it sleeps—but, looking at Teomitl’s proud eyes, he found he couldn’t voice any of them. What came out instead was, “Are you telling me you can track it now?”

Teomitl patted Yaotl’s head. The dog whuffed quietly. “Yaotl can. He’s descended from the Emperor’s hounds and blessed by Mixcoatl. And I can fight it.”

Acatl rubbed his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on, and it wasn’t all due to the fizzing, hot-blood sensation of Mixcoatl’s magic he could sense on Yaotl when he focused. I owe Ceyaxochitl much. I can recognize that. But to put this young man at risk… It took no effort at all for him to remember his last junior partner. Payaxin had died in front of him. He couldn’t do it again. He wouldn’t.

Teomitl spoke again, voice low. “Please. Let me prove myself. Let me help. This is my city too, and my people’s heritage this thing is using for a hunting ground. I’ll be of use to you, I swear it.”

He closed his eyes and allowed himself a single aggrieved sigh. “Very well. Follow me.”

Back to the scene of the crime. It was too hot for anyone sensible to exert themselves, but this didn’t appear to stop Teomitl. He power-walked like he thought the sun couldn’t touch him. Acatl trailed behind, finding his gaze lingering for a moment longer than it should on broad shoulders and lean, strong back muscles; he was perversely grateful Teomitl wasn’t looking at him. Pathetic. I’m on the clock. I have to keep my mind on the job. (Also, if he went to school with Mihm, he was almost definitely too young for him even leaving aside the obvious admiration when he spoke of her; Acatl might have been lonely, but he had some standards.)

Teomitl turned the wrong way, and he cleared his throat. “We make a left here.”

The boy shook his head. “Yaotl really wants to go this way.”

He eyed the dog. Blessed or not, if you are chasing after a dead pigeon I will be very upset. “...Fine. But slow down, Teomitl. You’ll give yourself heatstroke.”

Teomitl unhooked his thermos; Acatl must have made a noise at that, because he looked over with worry in his eyes. “I’m fine, I have Gatorade. But you—you should drink something. Here, have some.”

He had dignity. He hated Gatorade. But the sloshing of the thermos had reminded him that he was desperately thirsty, and so he threw his head back and drank deep without even tasting it. Later, the aftertaste would no doubt remind him that this had been a stupid idea, but now all he felt was relief. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Teomitl watching him and belatedly flushed, remembering his manners. “Thank you.”

Teomitl turned his face away, but not before Acatl saw his dark skin tint a shade redder. “It’s nothing. Let’s keep moving.” Not that he had much of a choice; they’d stopped to let Acatl drink but Yaotl wanted to keep going, tugging insistently on the end of his leash when his master stopped moving.

They continued on, keeping to the shade as much as possible. Whatever Yaotl was smelling, it was leading them on a long walk. At least Teomitl hung back to walk next to him, saying nothing at the way Acatl had taken to leaning on his bike. They were both silent; Acatl didn’t dare speak, knowing full well that not every creature unleashed by the shattered boundaries was confined to nighttime hours. Besides, he wasn’t sure how to start a conversation even if it had been safe. He cast a sideways glance at Teomitl and found him grave-faced and focused, gaze flicking towards every unexpected movement.

They were mainly ghosts. The Old City was filled with them—mostly Mexica, but a good sprinkling of others ranging from Spanish conquistadors to unfortunate tourists and, Acatl knew, at least one archaeologist who’d fallen off the Temple steps and hit his head. Acatl nodded to each of them, even the conquistadors, until he became aware of the steadily increasing tension emanating from Teomitl. He turned back to him then, feeling an answering irritation rise in his own heart. “What?”

“You keep stopping to be polite. We’re wasting time.”

His eyes narrowed. “My vocation demands no less. You should try it, too; you never know when you might need something a ghost can provide, and they do not appreciate rudeness.” Nor do I. “Besides,” he added, “It’s the decent thing to do.”

Teomitl fell quiet again after that, but the next time they passed a ghost—a little girl—he bowed, and she clapped her hands and cheered in silent delight at him. Acatl felt something warm in his chest, and found himself gazing at his new ally thoughtfully. Prickly and privileged and impatient, yes—but considerate too, when it’s pointed out to him as an option he should take. Maybe this won’t be so bad. (And he’s nice to look at, whispered a little voice that he staunchly ignored.)

The sun was setting. The shadows grew longer. They quickened their steps, and Yaotl broke out into a trot—

—And then, quite suddenly, into a run. Teomitl had to unclip the leash; it was that or have his arm yanked out of the socket. As he broke into a sprint, Acatl hopped onto his bike and pedaled after. Teomitl kept pace, which shouldn’t have surprised him but did. The part of his brain that was always devoted to spellwork wondered just how many magical protections had been layered over the boy.

There wasn’t much time to think about that, however. Yaotl led them through the city without stopping. Left—right—left again—the sun had vanished, and they were navigating by the reflective patches of the dog’s collar—and then the stench of blood and the bottomless grief of Mictlan hit him, and he gasped too-loud in the gathering gloom. Teomitl stopped dead with an instinctive retch and then continued on. Impressive, Acatl thought. Normally they throw up or start crying when they first sense that. He’d done both.

By the time Yaotl stopped in front of a house, stiff-legged and growling at the empty doorway, Acatl was wishing he’d waited for permission to bring a full crew. It would have to be just him and Teomitl, then. He slid off his bike with a grimace and grabbed Teomitl’s arm before he could rush in. He could just make out a ragged shape lying against the wall. The beast of shadows could be back any minute.

If it wasn’t already waiting for them.

He drew a knife and crept in by Teomitl’s side, holding his phone in his other hand for light. The beast’s latest meal had been male, white, age indeterminate, with a scruffy attempt at a beard. The blood was still fresh and pulsing with magical power. He breathed out, voice barely audible even to his own ears, “You leave behind your fine poems. You leave behind your beautiful flowers and the earth that was only lent to you. You ascend into the Light. Safe journey, my friend."

Teomitl tensed up, turning towards the door. “I heard something—“

Yaotl barked. It probably saved both their lives.

A thing darker than shadows, sharper than knives, barreled through the entryway. It knocked Teomitl aside in its rush; Acatl, turning, dropped his phone but managed to keep hold of his knife. And then it was flattening him under its weight and for a heartstopping second he couldn’t think. His world narrowed down to a crushing weight on his torso, a foul stench in his nose, snapping teeth and ripping claws entirely too close to his face. He heaved desperately—if he could just get some leverage to actually stab the thing—

“Acatl!” A dog’s snarl.

It roared, dripping saliva, and turned its head away. As it shifted its weight, he finally shoved it off of him and scrambled, ungainly, to his feet and away from its claws. The throb in his chest suggested he’d cracked a rib, but that was a pain he’d deal with later. If he survived. His night vision was slow to arrive, his eyes watering painfully, but finally he could pick out three darker shapes in the night. The beast had turned to attack Yaotl, who was doing his best to hamstring it while Teomitl, knife in hand, was trying to land a blow. Acatl knew they were in trouble; Teomitl was clearly skilled, but the awkward way he moved in search of an opening suggested he’d been injured in the initial rush, and Yaotl’s jaws were already burned from its blood.

Think. If I can get it outside—the sky’s never truly dark, it’ll be weaker— It wasn’t focused on him. As quickly and quietly as he could, he moved to the doorway and drew his other knife. He would only get one shot at this.

He closed his eyes and cast his senses out. In the empty, static darkness of Mictlan, the beast’s outline was a knot of frantic hatred and hunger.

He threw the knife. As the beast howled in pain, he dropped to the ground. Its leap soared right over him, and then they were in the street together; he could finally see it, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Not that he had much time to take in more than a strong impression of burning eyes, claws like a bear, and too many teeth in a too-long jaw before it was lunging for him again. He threw himself to one side, quick enough to avoid a swipe to his chest but not enough to dodge the blow entirely. Agony seared up his shoulder as claws ripped into his arm instead, so cold that they burned. He felt his hand open of its own volition, felt the knife fall from useless fingers and skitter across the ground, felt himself scream in pain, and thought No.

When the beast launched itself at him again, his legs crumpled under it. Instinctively he raised his injured arm to protect his face; fangs raked his flesh, but before the beast could close its jaws Yaotl was leaping on it, snapping savagely at its head.

Teomitl’s footsteps. “Acatl!”

The world felt like it was made of tar, everything slower than it should be. The beast was still pinning him down while Yaotl’s teeth flashed in the night, Teomitl was moving towards him but it was too late, there was only the white-hot agony of his arm, the lances of pain through his ribs, through his head where he’d hit the ground. He couldn’t think. His knife had fallen inches from his bloody hand.

His hand.

The knife.

His fingers closed around it and he knew he was screaming, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Mictlan’s emptiness coiled within the blade, pushing away the pain—not far, but enough for him to move. Enough for him to strike. He brought the knife up, at an angle that made every tendon in his arm howl, and buried it in the beast’s ribs. It convulsed; he had a moment to see his impending death before Teomitl’s own blade slammed into the back of its neck.

He thought he blacked out; by the time he opened his eyes, Teomitl was dragging the bulk of the beast off of him. He croaked something he thought were words and made an aborted attempt at sitting up. He had to see it sent on properly. That was his duty.

Teomitl dropped to his knees, pressing him back down. His free hand held his phone, and the flashlight app was bright enough that Acatl hissed, tried to turn his head away, and immediately regretted it. He thought he might be sick. “Don’t move, Acatl! You’re—you’re losing a lot of blood.”

Oh. That explained why he felt so weak, then. The beast’s claws must have struck deep. “I have to—” He swallowed painfully. “Have to send it on. Or else it...doesn’t know it’s dead. They’re...just as hungry when they’re ghosts.”

Teomitl’s expression suggested he thought Acatl had gone crazy. “I’ll do it, then! You just stay there and—hang on, I have a first-aid-kit—“

“No,” he whispered. “Take my knife. Draw a quincunx...on its skull.” The light was just good enough to see Teomitl’s hand shake as he followed his instructions, stabbing deeply enough to strike bone. His chest hurt, but he could force out this rite if he were dead. “In darkness they dwell. They feast, they consume their prey. In darkness they dwell. They eat, they consume their prey. All save one...and that one returns. Mine is the...the knife that stole this life. Mine is the hand—“ He coughed, once, and nearly passed out from the pain. He’d definitely broken a rib. “—that sends this one home.”

The bulk of the beast’s corpse sagged; as wisps of black smoke bled off it, Teomitl dropped the knife in disgust and yanked a first-aid kit from his pocket. “Now can I stop you from bleeding to death?!”

He turned his head to see Teomitl’s shin crooked and covered in blood and managed, somehow, to whisper, “You’re hurt.” You shouldn’t be hurt. You’re such a good fighter, much better than Payaxin, and I was supposed to look after you...Ceyaxochitl will be so angry…

“Don’t worry about me!” Teomitl snapped. The gauze pad he pressed to Acatl’s shoulder was soaked almost immediately, and he muttered a curse and tossed it aside for another one. “Come on—gods, no, Yaotl, do not put that in your mouth—Acatl, stay with me!”

He let himself be lifted so Teomitl could wrap bandages, noted with dispassionate interest how the hand he set at the back of his head was dark and wet. The antiseptic poured on him with shaking hands stung, but everything seemed very far away. “You did well.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded like it was coming through water. “Thank you.”

Teomitl’s voice was a snarl. “Thank me when we’re safe! After we get Yaotl to a vet and you to a hospital and I get a chance to kick your ass for throwing a fucking knife at me, really? A knife? Was that necessary?”

He should be annoyed, he thought. “I’ll remember that for...next time.”

“Next time, I’ll be better prepared.” He pressed more gauze down on Acatl’s forearm and cast a glance at his face. In the darkness, his eyes glittered wetly. “You are not allowed to die until then, okay? I will drag you back from Heaven myself.”

“Mictlan,” he whispered. “I am—a priest, for the modern era. A priest of...Lord Death. I’ll go to Mictlan.” Not forever on earth, but for a little while...

“No.” Teomitl’s voice was ragged with an emotion Acatl couldn’t place. Grief, he thought. Or rage.

He felt a smile curve his lips. “It’s not so bad. The Last Priest will guide me as he guides us all.”

“Well, I won’t let him.” It was a growl that softened as he leaned closer, reaching down to—oh, he was moving Acatl’s hair away from his face. That was nice. “You hear me? We’re close enough to the walls to get a signal. I’m going to call the paramedics and you’ll be fine. But you have to stay awake, okay?”

He was going to. Really. But his eyes slid shut, and the next thing he knew was Teomitl grabbing his arm as Yaotl’s cold nose met the side of his head. “Hm?”

“Wake up!” There was an edge of real fear in his voice. “Talk to me. Ask me anything you want to know. Or tell me something—tell me I’m being rude again.”

If he took shallow breaths, it didn’t hurt as much. Talk to me. He thought he could manage that. “You...saved my life.” Another breath. “You can be as rude as you want. But...you won’t impress Mihm like that.”

Teomitl snorted. “Nothing I do would impress Mihmatini.”

“Shame.” Hmm. Interesting. Words seemed to be coming out of his mouth that had bypassed his brain entirely. “But...you look kind of like the mayor, anyway. She wouldn’t like that. She doesn’t like him.”

There was another snort, and when he wedged open one eye he saw him shaking his head. “Nobody likes Tizoc. Not even me, and we share a father. She’s not alone.”

“Your brother?” Thinking hurt about as much as breathing—which was to say, much worse when he tried to put any effort into it. So he didn’t. “Huh. You’re much better looking than he is. Very pretty.”

So that was what it sounded like when someone choked on their own spit. “I—Acatl!” It was followed up by a muttered, “Now I know you hit your head too hard.”

As Teomitl hit the number for the paramedics, his free hand settled over Acatl’s and stayed there.

The First Patecatl Hospital had grown, like many other public buildings in Mexico City, out of a temple to the gods. In the hospital’s case, the very small attempt at a pyramid was still in the central courtyard, and Acatl had a fine view of it from his window. It would have been peaceful to the point of boredom if he hadn’t been so tired. The doctors had treated his wounds (severe lacerations, two broken ribs, minor acid burns and dehydration, and a nasty concussion) but when he’d suggested that maybe he could have Neutemoc drive him home he had been very firmly moved to a private room for continued observation. His brother and sister had come and gone, Mihmatini with concern and Neutemoc with...well, now that he thought about it, also concern, even though it had been masked with far too much I-told-you-this-would-happen grumbling for an army sergeant. I must have looked terrible. Even Ichtaca had spent a whole fifteen minutes frowning at him while filling him in on work.

Total casualties of his work day: his uniform (unsalvageable), his phone (cracked by the beast, to Mihm’s undisguised glee; Acatl supposed now he really had no excuse but to get a new one), and one regulation obsidian knife. At least he’d been reassured that Yaotl would be fine, and Mihm had promised to check on Little Skull. And they’d brought him clothes.

He hadn’t mentioned Teomitl to her, he realized. In his defense, the painkillers he’d been given were strong. At least they made breathing easier. But as the pain started to ease back in, it brought clarity with it. He closed his eyes, remembering how Teomitl had bandaged his wounds and begged him to keep talking. I have to speak to him. I have to see his face.

He had no idea where Teomitl had been taken and certainly wasn’t going to be able to wander around looking for him. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the button to call the nurse.

In no time at all, he was being bundled into a wheelchair and steered a few rooms down the hall, where a trio of very large men in suits hovered. They eyed him with thinly veiled hostility, and he recalled those videos of the mayor. He thought he remembered Teomitl saying something about Tizoc.

Unlike him, the nurse was entirely unruffled. “Chief Acatl of the Mictlan Division here to see the patient. You three can stop blocking the hallway now.”

They edged away to lean against the opposite wall, enabling him to finally see into the room and spy Teomitl. His first thought was relief—while Teomitl’s leg was heavily bandaged and splinted, the air full of the grassy scent of Patecatl’s magic to speed healing, his other injuries looked much shallower. He was listening to something on his phone; the way his face transformed from concentration to delight when he slipped his earbud out and turned to see Acatl in the doorway was entirely too heartwarming. “Acatl!”

He couldn’t keep a smile from his face. Teomitl’s joy was infectious. “How are you feeling?”

“I should be asking you that!” He waved a hand dismissively. “Cracked tibia, I’ll live. I’m going to have words with someone here, I swear—I wanted to come see you but nobody would let me.” That was pure, huffy impatience, and Acatl shouldn’t have found it charming.

Nor should I wanted to come see you have set his heart fluttering against his ribcage. “I was having stitches done; I was very heavily medicated.” Honestly, he still was; everything was fine as long as he didn’t make any sudden movements, but his limbs were not precisely cooperative. “And my family was here.” Looking around the room, he saw no signs of any similar visitations for Teomitl. The fluttering in his chest clenched into a fist.

“...I figured they would be.” Teomitl’s eyes gleamed as he looked him up and down “Nice shirt.”

Acatl groaned internally. Of course his siblings, when asked to bring him something to wear, would subject him to the old college T-shirt he usually only wore on laundry day. Loose and comfortable it might be, but nobody wanted to be reminded of their taste in bands from ten years ago. “Mihmatini picked it.”

“Mihmatini has good taste.” And since this was objectively true except in matters likely to mildly embarrass her older brothers, Acatl had to nod.

The nurse’s pager buzzed, and she sighed at it. “Sorry, I have to run—will you be alright in here for ten minutes?”

“He’ll be fine.” Teomitl aimed a dazzling smile at her. Acatl, clipped by its edge, could only gulp and feel his face grow hot. “I’ll take care of him.”

It felt easier to talk when she left. True, the door was still half open behind her, but he could pretend for a moment that there weren’t a trio of burly bodyguards eyeing him. He took the chance to simply gaze at Teomitl, noting the shadows under his eyes and the bandaged scrape along his arm. “You’ve already done so much.”

“So have you.” The warm regard in Teomitl’s face was too much; Acatl had to drop his gaze. “...I wouldn’t have been able to kill that thing by myself, or—what did you say? Let it know it’s dead? You did that. I owe you one.” He shifted on the bed. When a hand came to rest on his good arm, Acatl jolted.

He knew he had to be red. Responses fired through his mind—you don’t owe me anything, I got you into this, I’m so sorry—but his eyes fell on Teomitl’s phone before he could voice any of them. He’d been watching the news, he realized. Tizoc was giving a speech. Side by side, there really was no denying their family resemblance. So that’s why Ceyaxochitl assigned him to me. She always said we needed more political support. “...Convince your brother to let me keep my job, and we’re even. When were you going to tell me about him?”

Teomitl flinched, eyes narrowing poisonously at his phone before he flipped it screen-side down. “I don’t want to ride on his coattails all my life. I want to prove myself on my own merits and do things the right way. And…” He cast a sidelong glance at Acatl, catching his lip between his teeth. “I think we make a good team, and I know from Mihm how you feel about him.”

Tizoc thought the tenuous balance between worlds should be maintained with guns, that there was no need for the one-time clergy of the Mexica to continue ministering to their peoples’ spiritual well-being. He was not popular among anyone who had anything to do with magic. Or, for that matter, common sense. That even his own brother didn’t like him spoke well of Teomitl’s judgement. “That doesn’t change my opinion of you. Just...warn me next time.” There would be a next time. He was sure of it. He was also suddenly very aware that Teomitl hadn’t removed his hand.

A smile attempted to cross Teomitl’s face, but fell flat at the starting point. “If I warned you about all my horrible relatives, you’d fall asleep again before I got halfway through. I’ve been getting calls all morning; they weren’t happy about any of this.”

Oh, thank the Duality. Work. I can always talk about work. He nodded. “We still don’t know how the beast slipped in, but Ichtaca told me they’re trying to track down the relatives of the people who were killed to reassure them that it was slain. I’ll have a lot of paperwork to fill out next week; you’ll likely have to sign some as well.” His head throbbed rebelliously at the mere thought.

“…Ah.” Teomitl didn’t look happy about that, but then he looked up and his expression turned distinctly hopeful. “You’re taking the week off?”

“Patecatl can only do so much.” Also, Ichtaca had told him in no uncertain terms to take a vacation.

Teomitl fell silent at that, gaze shifting thoughtfully away. His hand slid down Acatl’s forearm and over his wrist, and all of Acatl’s higher brain functions immediately shifted to processing the sensation. There were calluses on those fingers, and scars as well. And they were so warm.

He still wasn’t quite looking at Acatl when he spoke. “You know,” he began, “I never did get your number.”

“You…” It was slow to compute. Sounds floated on the air without resolving into words, until finally in a shocking rush they arranged themselves into something Acatl could process. Things like this did not happen to him. “You want my number?!”

“You called me pretty.” Now Teomitl was looking at him. Worse, that radiant smile was out in full force, scouring away any defense Acatl could muster. The hand on his wrist was gentle and unmistakable. “I’d like to think that wasn’t the concussion talking.”

Fuck. It was the first clear thought he’d had in what felt like an eternity. He had said that. And Teomitl had heard it and...seemed interested in hearing more. “Mgh.” He should use words. Teomitl deserved words. “...No. It wasn’t.” You’re beautiful.

Teomitl’s hand slid over his, lacing their fingers together. Acatl had seen heated gazes before, but having one directed at him was an experience that defied description. “So...”

He had to look away. It was that or combust. “So.”

“I’d like to get to know you better. Much better.” Teomitl squeezed his hand once, lightly, and pulled away. Acatl mourned the separation immediately. “Can I?”

He swallowed hard. Duality, yes. Yes, please. It was probably a bad idea. No, it was probably a terrible idea given all that Teomitl was, all the differences between them. He was absolutely going to regret this when the painkillers wore off and he was operating at full mental capacity again. But he’d seen moths fluttering around candle flames, and now he thought he knew how they felt before they burned. “Give me your phone. I’ll put my number in and...you can text me in a day or two when I’ve got a new one.” His head wouldn’t be happy with staring at a screen, but it was better than whatever hearing Teomitl’s voice in his ear would do to his heart.

Teomitl had to hold the phone up so he could type. It took three tries, not least because Teomitl took advantage of their proximity to murmur, “I can’t wait. I’m looking forward to doing lots of things with you when you’re feeling better.”

The nurse returned just in time to hear the strangled noise he made.

> ACATL.

> how are you feeling?? how’s the new phone?

>> Much better, thank you. I’m home now. I have no complaints about the phone.

> good! I’m glad to hear that

> i was worried about you

> wanna get dinner sometime? my treat

>> I’d rather cook. It’s more economical, and the doctors assure me light exercise will benefit my arm.

> are you inviting me over to your place?

(…)

>> I suppose.

> that sounds great!! i’d love to come over and meet your cat!! is friday ok?? at 8?

>> That’s fine.

> :thumbsup: it’s a date! see u then!

(…)

>> I look forward to it.

ahuizotl2: mihm help

dear_prudence: what did you do

ahuizotl2: I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING I just. uh. your brother

dear_prudence: t e o

ahuizotl2: I asked him to dinner

dear_prudence: and?????????

dear_prudence: oh no did he turn you down?

ahuizotl2: NO

ahuizotl2: he invited me over to his place instead

dear_prudence: he

dear_prudence: he what

ahuizotl2: and I said it’s a date and he saID HE WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO IT

dear_prudence: MY brother??? ACATL???????

dear_prudence: AHAHAHAHAHAHA

dear_prudence: MIRACLES DO HAPPEN too bad he has terrible taste

ahuizotl2: yes yes I’m sure this is hilarious for you but more importantly I don’t know what to wear. my date wardrobe is all armani!!! do you know ANYTHING abt what your brother likes?????

dear_prudence: son, you’re on your own

ahuizotl2: wow rude

[The Gods Squad Groupchat]

Cursed Snake Facts: so what’s this I hear about someone having a hot date????

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: wHAT

Cursed Snake Facts: I mean mihm’s big brother, of course :) what did you think I meant?

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: fuck you neza

Cursed Snake Facts: is that an invitation?

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: I would literally rather stick my dick in a cactus

Queen Of All She Surveys: yes, a miracle finally occurred

Queen Of All She Surveys: the gods have blessed us

Queen Of All She Surveys: acatl has a date

Queen Of All She Surveys: and NO, I am NOT telling you who with. That is his business. We’re all very happy for him and his private life, neza

Cursed Snake Facts: godsdammit

Queen Of All She Surveys: :)

ahuizotl2: I take it back

ahuizotl2: I love you. name it and its yours

dear_prudence: take me shopping bitch

ahuizotl2: done! :D

ahuizotl2: ...also how the fuck did HE find out??

dear_prudence: it’s nez

ahuizotl2: point taken

Further AU notes:

- little skull is mostly white with black ears and a patch on her back that lends her her name. acatl talks to her like a person. sometimes her eyes reflect light that isn't there. - everyone is bi because I say so. - acatl's parents really wanted him to go into law or medicine but no, he had to major in religious studies, minor in history, and go off to be a glorified coroner. - neutemoc and huei's divorce was a nightmare but they are both happier now. - modern acatl can summon the wind of knives. the wind of knives thinks OG acatl was better. - yaotl: shadow beasts? no problem. an 8-lb cat? VERY SCARY MUCH SHARP.

#teocatl #obsidian and blood #acatl #teomitl #blood tw #concussion tw

0 notes

monstersofsilence · 6 years

Text

Am I good enough?

"Amorra, what the hell happened to you?" Jaisnt scolded her like a worried lusus as the teal blood just showed up. Both of her cybernetic arms are damaged and the artificial skin she had over them are torn off.

"It's a long story. Sorry if this is sudden, but I could use your help fixing my arms." She chuckled nervously as Jaisnt merely let out a sigh but still obliged to help her. Gesturing her to sit down he got to work on fixing her arms while she told him everything that has happened. "-And after that, we just got Merlee out and her ancestor's body out of there, running as far away as we can so Morrin won't come searching for us."

"You could've asked for my help, too. I don't have fancy magic or whatever, but I'm a hell of a sharpshooter." He finishes fixing one arm, attaching it back to her socket where it goes as he goes to work on the other. "Though I must say that I don't know how that girl feels right about now. I feel sorry for her, having to witness that, feeling helpless."

"She went completely nuts when she woke up. We had to knock her out so she doesn't go off and get herself killed. I pretty much parted ways and let them take her back home... I really don't know how it must feels to lose someone like that. I don't know if I want to."

Jaisnt paused for a moment, looking at Amorra. "I want to."

Shocked by the answer, Amorra retorted. "What? Why would you?"

"It would at least make me feel something other than what I have been feeling for the last couple of months. Amorra, I had mates and moirails, people that I have loved and cared for. People I'd be willing to put my whole life on the line for. There would be nothing I would do, but keep them safe. How can I do that when they all just vanish without a single trace? Without one of them saying goodbye...?"

"What...?" The teal blood was about ready to ask another question but sees Jaisnt's hands trembling.

"I want to feel that. It'd remind me that I'm alive and willing to do anything."

"Maybe... but you'd only hurt yourself in the process. I don't think they'd approve of it if they were still here."

"... You're not wrong."

"Hmm?"

"A moirail I had previously. Her name is Kusari. Surprisingly older than I am, but I like to make fun of her height since she was a bit shorter than me. She always worried about me. Though her selflessness gets to her that never worries about herself, constantly working and never getting enough sleep. She and I were inseparable... at least I thought so..."

Amorra didn't both to say anything, keeping quiet not to come out the wrong way by accident. Jaisnt then continued back to work on her other arm as the silence looms over them until Jaisnt asked a very sudden question.

"Do you have someone in your life?"

"Wha-what do you mean?"

"Did you love someone? Or found someone of interest?"

Love. She haven't had that word associate with herself in so long. Amorra could remember one person in particular, but can't remember the name, unfortunately. It's been too long. "I... I did. Once before. She was... kind. Though I wouldn't say our first time meeting each other was quaint, but it was something."

"Where is she now?"

"... I... really don't know. Honestly, I never bothered to look for her. I don't know why. I just assumed that I wasn't good enough for her. I've said that to myself ever since."

"I think you're full of shit."

"What?"

"Don't take that the wrong way, Amorra. My apologies for saying that, but don't belittle yourself. You're good enough to whoever you may be with. Understand that. Don't bring yourself down over one or a couple of things you point out about yourself that could be the cause. Think positive. Be alive. Be whoever you want to be to make sure the person you love is happy. If they're not, then they weren't good enough for you. When you do find the one, the one that you wish to spend your whole life with, be sure to bring them the happiness and joy they'll give to you. So, no, you're not good enough. In fact, I think you were too great for her to handle. Which is why you should find the one that can handle and respect you."

After he was done bantering, he finished fixing her arm as Amorra was speechless by what she listened. Jaisnt attached her final arm as she moves them around, making sure they're working fine. "Same goes for you, too." Jaisnt was caught by surprise from that comment.

"... Why...?"

"It seems strange. After you told me about your previous moirail, you're doing the exact same thing she was doing. Caring about others than caring about herself... Jaisnt... go out every once and a while. And it's gonna feel awkward coming from someone who barely talks to people, but go out and talk to someone... anyone."

Jaisnt didn't say anything. He is frozen from the position he is in, but he can remember the conversation he had with Alexandra. He clutched on the scarf he had around his neck and is then surprised by a hug from Amorra which made him mobile again, leaning back a little from this sudden embrace.

"You're a good man. You deserve to be happy. And you saying those things to cheer me up shows that." Pulling away, Amorra was greeted by Jaisnt's shocked face and tears running down his face. "Look for someone who can handle you, Jaisn't. It may take some time to find the one, but... you'll find them. Oh... and thank you."

Amorra left, leaving Jaisnt alone. Wiping off his tears, he unwrapped the scarf around his neck and examined it. He remembered he had it made to represent the two trolls in his life. Kusari. His moirail that he cared for so dearly. Although she had trouble from time-to-time with taking care of herself or finding out the mysteries surrounding the rings on her horns and other things connecting with her, he did whatever he can to help her. And then Oborus. His matesprit that he loved to the point that he died to keep her safe. From the beginning, she was someone that he never thought he would even be with but her being around him, he got her soft though she still knows how to take care of herself.

Two blue bloods. Two people that have helped him mentally. If it wasn't for them he'd possibly taken his own life a second time. Getting off from his chair, he hanged the scarf over the rack of tools he had, thinking back to all the times the people he have met that told him the exact same thing he just said. "I hate it knowing they are right... some kind of friend I am telling them that."

#Jaisnt Rodnik #Amorra Tarona #ExpositionzOfSilence

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kisuminight · 6 years

Text

When Cia woke, it was alone and to a cold bed. Which meant no Umbra today, more’s the pity. Still, that didn’t mean she had to be depressed. Autear and his Soul Companion were always busy during the Quiet Week that occurred when things got shuffled around, and people switched units, and all the paperwork needed to get in.

Ironically, Quiet Week was the least quiet week of the year, and this was only the start of the second day.

Cia, of course, had all her work done—for the moment. The real boatload would arrive next week, when she had to deal with everything that had changed. Nothing could be done to mitigate that, unfortunately.

Still, she had free time now, and it wouldn’t do to waste it lying in bed all day. Now, what to wear? Skirts were nice, but she was planning on a fairly decent hike. Also, it was cold today. How about something looser? She still had some clothing here from when she ran the tunnels. But wearing mourning colors… There’s a pretty sash in blue, that would look nice with steel-shine and shadows. A sturdy pair of vambraces enameled in the same blue—right, the whole set had been a gift for her first Name Day in Abayomi.

Normally Cia didn’t need armor, but this particular pair were good for hiding knives and came with matching shin protectors and something to keep her hair out of her eyes, too. Was a cloak worth it? No, her inner fire should keep her warm enough; the tunic was half-sleeved, the pants long, and her boots tough.

A soft chime; that was probably whoever Autear had sent to watch over her. Actaeon’s meddling, probably; she and Umbra were far stealthier together than any clomping idiot pulled from the ranks, and anyone who could match her stealth capabilities was unavoidably busy or stationed elsewhere. Why was this needed? They weren’t that close to the border—

“Citadel!” Ooh, she was looking up at her friend. Wow, had it really been that long? And hadn’t the Orrians been assigned to something on the other side of the Divide?

“Cadencia!” Right, definitely Actaeon’s fault if she was using that name instead of the childhood variant. “It’s so nice to see you.” Such a gorgeous cloak; probably Rigel’s work—it so neatly hid the hilt of Stormsurge of War.

“Are you my bodyguard for the day?” Please say yes.

“Yes.” Yes! “Is there anywhere specific you want to visit?” And so thoughtful, too.

“Trees. I’m sick of rocks and dirt.” Gardens just didn’t cut it, and even a well-tended one couldn’t be too large out here.

“It doesn’t remind you of home?” Citadel gently guided them both toward one of the other exits. The empty halls echoed; everyone who was transferring was likely stuck at desks catching up on paperwork or dragged out for training by their commanding officer.

“Very funny. For the record, my home has been Abayomi for the last quarter millennia at least.” It hadn’t been that long, probably, but close to it. Close enough that Uncle was likely to die in bed of old age, rather than from the fighting, even with the little trick that vastly expanded the lifespans of even the shortest-lived races—and Tirians were already much longer lived than the Rikonians.

“Hardwood trees then, not pines.” Citadel’s smile flickered for a bit as she thought. “Closest is Thousand Homes, if you’re willing to take your chances with Izhar.” A wave to the guards and they were out, stepping into cold morning sunshine. Cia stretched to meet it, eyes blinking slowly. “Now I know you’ve spent too much time inside.”

“Oh hush, you.” Winglets stretched too, and Cia had to hold them back, keep them from expanding in a snap-crack of lengthening bones and shush of new feathers as the wind tickled between them. “If Grandfather wakes up—well, at least the war will finally end.” I don’t think I could stop him in time, she meant.

“Have a little faith in yourself,” Citadel chided, taking long strides towards the perimeter. Cia hurried to keep up, flicking a thought with their intended destination down her Bonds to her twin and Autear. The other half of her Bonds… well, they didn’t matter anyway; Cia could no more use them than she could expect dead flowers to bloom. “Now how’re we going?”

“Let’s race,” Cia offered as they passed the final checkpoints. Mental note: check in with Autear about out-bound security. Yes, they appeared to be an Orrian and the Bonded of the Third in Command. Didn’t mean they shouldn’t get stopped all the same.

“I promise not to beat you too badly.” The beginnings of what would be a canyon, had the mountain range formed naturally, chipped their way out of the rock before them. Of course, the artificial nature of the terrain meant the canyon wouldn’t, couldn’t take them straight though, but it did give them a decent head start going up and over them.

“And what were you expecting to do if a normal soldier accompanied you, hmm?” Citadel teased. “Normally this journey takes well over a week, one direction.” And nobody had that kind of free-time anymore, not even not-really participants in this stupid war.

“That’s why they might have sent Umbra. He can keep up. Or, worst comes to worst, I’d beg Skylight for a lift. He’d probably have the break in between chasing the Air Forces through formations.” Often literally, though it was mostly just scare tactics. Starsong complained for days if she had to deal with unnecessary injuries.

Though everybody else’s definition of worst probably went more like Cia ditched her guard again and now we can’t find her. Actaeon and Leah had torn out their hair over it more than a few times, back before they’d returned to life. These days she knew better, though. With Actaeon, Autear, and Starsong in such important places, she no longer had the liberty to jeopardize their web on what might happen if they lost her as they’d lost Felka and Coiwren both.

“Think we can make it in under an hour?”

Her cloak unfastened and slung over one arm, Citadel’s wings rose with a singing, vibrating hum. “On your mark.”

“Get set.” Now Cia let her winglets extend and then keep going, spilling out until only their upraised posture kept white feathers from trailing in the dirt. Despite having been informed that the sound of her transformation made Starsong want to strap her to a bed and go over her with a bone-viewing spell (which she’d actually done, on one memorable occasion), it didn’t hurt. If anything, Cia felt most relaxed and at home when the sky opened up to her.

“Ready?” In unison, they looked to each other with sharp, competitive grins. “Go!”

The world fell away in a rush of wind and sound. The fall sky, dove gray, bent down to meet them, the flocks of clouds suddenly within reach. Up, up, following the sharp rise of stone sides, up to the highest point of the Dragon’s Spine. A pause, hovering over the craggy spikes that jutted from each obsidian-covered vertebrae and then down, down in a stooping dive.

She had the advantage here and now; the way Mitesha wings scooped the air made them good for hovering, for maneuvers and on-the-dime turns. Today, the name of the game was speed and power, climbing high then folding your wings to plummet—a falcon instead of a humming bird.

Change the angle, open the wings just a little, fast, too fast—there! Cia touched down in the shadows of trees, a little heavy but not enough to hurt anything. Citadel followed her down minutes later, and they basked together in exhuberance and anticipation, laughing.

“Time?”

“Just over half,” Citadel shared conspiratorily, wings slicking back down as she swung her cloak back over her shoulders. The sigils stood out even better here, opalescent and gleaming in the leaf-dapple of sunlight against birllant crimson. “I was prepared for you to hesitate, crossing over.”

“Why? Because I know the Naming is a true one?” Cia tilted her head upwards, taking in the sheer faces and jagged gaps that carved out a shape most people called coincidental in comparisons to the legends about the mountain range. Idiots. Honestly, what kind of non-volcanic mountain was topped in obsidian?

Not the natural kind, clearly. Mother’s last trap for Grandfather, placed in hopes that his waking would be a short one. “That’s a lot of rock. Even if he wakes up, it’ll take a while to shake his scales loose. After all, he’d been stone-locked since the Day the Sun Went Out.” And if he wasn’t careful about it, the knife-shards of his own making would slice through weakened scales and paralyze him to die in sunless, claustrophobic confinement.

“Alright. Do you have a reason to be here, or should we just find a canopy to cloud gaze from?” Ah, point. Cia hadn’t really thought it completely through under the pressing need to be surrounded by untamed green life and the cycle of death and reuse inherent in all things.

Slowly considering, Cia folded her own wings away, letting the extra mass slip back into subspace with the rest of her full shift, shrinking them back into winglets. Citadel slipped an arm about her shoulders, but the prospect of flying again, soon, kept the soul-killing pain at low ebb.

A head title, letting the sounds and temperature of the forest resonate through her audial horns. “Let’s just… look at the leaves. The temperature changes should’ve left us with some pretty spectacular foliage. We might get some late-presenting fruits as well.”

“Of course. The tree-cats will be getting their winter coat right about now; we might see some of them.” Citadel released Cia, taking a few steps into the forest in far-off consideration. “You might want to activate those limiters now; as soon as everything gets used to our presence, it’s going to get noisy again.”

Right. Cia didn’t need to physically dial-up or dial-down the muffling spells, but the repetitive motion of circling the rings at the base of her audial horns felt comforting, reminding her that she was in control, wasn’t hurt, wasn’t trapped. Gently, gently….

Ten percent left, and Cia stopped. She dropped her hands to her sides and leaned against a tree, just breathing as she waited for her balance to adjust. She didn’t have to wait long; if it hadn’t been Quiet Week back on the base, she’d never have carefully crept them up to thirty percent. Given the possibility—Cia pulled out her visor, slipping it on. Hooking into the underside of her ring-shaped limiters, they automatically shaded to appropriately match the level she’d set her hearing at.

“You set?” Citadel asked, hands moving up to flick through a series of signs that were half medical, half hunter-tracker, modulated with the Orrian’s own separate flavor of subtle curls. The actual meaning was more like :recovery-injury perception-broken ready-move:, but it was interesting to dissect the linguistics of Citadel’s patterns. They would allow even someone with no clearance—or even a studious enemy—far too much insight into Citadel’s position within their army, provided they knew about the origins of certain signs. Something to talk to Autear about.

“I’m good,” Cia responded quietly, as the world re-oriented itself around her. “Let’s go see if we can find some of your tree-cats.” :Fine no-worry: her hands backed up her vocal message. Hmm, maybe it was a little worrying that that sign, shaped in plain Abayomi Enforcer cant, was the one she used most often.

Cia pushed off from the tree, claws tapping out a staccato trill before she was fully on her feet, wings a trailing memory as a few of last year’s leaves brushed along her heels. Her chosen pace was sedate and observing, a long-ingrained habit. Citadel danced ahead, a flickering splotch of color as she explored and poked—but more a wraith than a living being. Every bell hung muted and silent, not a single chime emerging despite Citadel’s vivid movements.

Even now, they each kept themselves perfectly aware of where the other was. Before the war, before Izhar… Cyznia hadn’t been safe, even with three attentive parents. Now, with both of them in high-level positions (ish. Like Cia could ever actually join, not with her Bonds torn to both sides. But with the corruption that saw Abayomi massacred vanquished on every front, the Ghosts of Cia’s past could finally rest, and her revenge along with them), defensiveness was still second-nature. After all, it’s hard to break a habit when it keeps you alive.

They walked for hours this way. Above their heads, the branches painted each other a riot of colors. Deep red was background to an intertwined spatter of gold and orange. The trees were alight with shades of flame. Wistfully, Cia called out, “Do you think we could stay until sunset?” She drummed her fingers softly on one of the trunks as she passed, waiting for Citadel’s answer.

Though she really did want to stay for the sunset. Perhaps maybe this one could finally return the beauty to her, instead of ruins and smoke and the air itself glowing the color or blood to match the loss of an entire city state.

“Our CMO would throw a fit,” Citadel materialized on the branch above her head. “Isn’t that Saint Tumeric’s Exception?” The complicated gesture actually read :idiots laughably-bad strike-back:

Cia knelt, pattering her fingers along her calf. Citadel’s herblore was better than her own, no way she hadn’t recognized it as “Silvane-royale, actually. It’s different.”

“Very different?” Citadel asked softly. :Intention-firm: Cia simply laughed in response, and Citadel peered down at her balefully. Was it really necessary that Cia play it up so much? Well, Citadel wasn’t about to be left out. “What are its uses?”

Not necessary, maybe, but fun. “Very different,” Cia confirmed. “You might know it better as Kingslayer Mimic. Probably the deadliest herb-born poison on the planet.” Dead silence. Someone was clearly trying not to fall out of their tree. “Get down here, so I can show you the differences.”

“…Okay,” Citadel reluctantly replied, clearly worried about being bored to death. She jumped down to land beside her, light as a feather. Citadel swept her cloak out around her as she knelt, apparently vulnerable.

In the continued silence of the forest, Cia modulated her voice to seem low, but actually pitched it to carry. “Now, the major difference between Saint Tumeric’s Exception and Silvane-royale are the leaves. Saint Tumeric’s grows upward, with a leaf on every other side. Silvane-royale, much like Poison Creepers, puts out its leaves in threes. This plant is actually the origin of the phrase leaves of three, leave it be, though it is mostly remembered in terms of Poison Creepers.”

“Still good advice,” Citadel grumbled, “Poison Creepers may not kill you, but the rash will certainly make you wish it had.”

“A fine point! Still, this configuration is common among plants carrying touch-released toxins. Others you’ll also see it in include Thistle Briars and Purple Head.” With one hand, she reached out to touch the ripe seed pods. Citadel observed, content that Cia was doing it right, so Cia rubbed her fingers in reprimand.

“Are you supposed to be doing that,” Cia asked, injecting worry into her voice. Well-justified worry, given both were tempting an attack.

An attack which still hadn’t come, so they were observant after all. “The seeds have a milder version of the toxin—Silvane-royale gets the nutrients from the soil to metabolize into poison. The seeds can be ground and mixed into a tincture for a sedative or boiled into a tea to boost the immune system.”

Slowly, Cia reached out, snapping the seed pods off with two hands. Most of them went into the pouch she’d initially belted onto her hips. The other half she slipped to Citadel; undoubtedly, she went through plenty of them every time the Orrians went running into trouble.

The light had already changed, even in the time they’d been talking. Not late, not yet, but certainly afternoon. They’d walked for a while, even if their flight took only a short time, so “Time to go back?”

“Yeah, probably,” Citadel stood, brushing leaves off her cloak. She sounded wistful, and a spot of brilliant red clasped her hair. “We’ll want to get back before dark.”

“Hold on,” Cia reached out, plucking the stray leaf from her friend’s hair. “You had a hanger on. Look, it matches!” That would be a nice gift. Preservation spells, so the color never faded and the leaves never cracked, strung with ribbons and bells… it would make a nice hair decoration. But what colors? Red and black for Citadel, maybe? But some of the gold and orange leaves reminded her of Corona, bright and cheery and always happy to go where the wind led.

“It does,” Citadel agreed. “Do you want to collect more? They’d make pretty decoration.” Thank goodness for Citadel knowing what was on her mind! This trip would’ve been hell if they’d sent anyone else along.

“There was a really pretty maple closer to where we entered,” Cia offered. They could walk back and collect leaves at the same time. “Let’s find some nice gold ones, I want to make something for Umbra.”

“Of course,” Citadel curled a hand around Cia’s wrist, comforting. :Already-caught: the tracings of her fingers whispered, before she whirled, using the contact as a point of leverage to move Cia behind her even as she drew her blade with the other hand.

Metal rang against metal. Citadel breathed in and stepped forward. The glint of the sun on polished metal hid the mystic sheen of her Stormsurge of War changing, sharpening, and the Knight’s sword accepted the momentum, slicing through its opposition and then dulling again; blunt, as it threw the attacker back.

“Cadencia, go.” Yeah right, and leave Citadel? Not that Citadel couldn’t take care of herself, but the principle….

Cia didn’t want to be a soldier in this war. Didn’t was to fight the family scattered to every side. But here and now, she will protect the family fighting before her. Pretty, perfect nails stretch into broad claws. Bone thickens, lengthening, and more bone begins to jut from her skull at her temples, as audial horns ease back into the more pervasive set that crowns the head of her true form. Magic coagulates under fragile skin, hardening imperceptibly, even as rows of vertebrae are revealed when wings flare out—ready, poised on the edge of flight to freedom and an oncoming angel of death.

A magic suppressing cuff clamped down on one wrist, the edge of a knife pressed to her throat. Neither actually meant anything, of course, and the decision to elbow him and then use his own knife to slit his throat came to her in the split second before he spoke.

“Drop the sword, and Coiwren will keep both you alive.” Ah, well that changes things. Slowly, Cia let most of the truisms slip away, keeping only her defenses. Then, on second though, she edged that down, slowing turning the dial until the power was there, but hidden, lurking, waiting until the moment it was needed.

Best not to melt the cuff, after all. No need to give away even the smallest edge of their trump card.

“He never said we would be safe,” Cia stressed without speaking, through the little movements as she sheathed her sword.

“Sorry,” Cia whispered back, voice carrying to both her captors and the pair just on the other side of the minor clearing.

“It’ll be alright,” Citadel replied absently. No hard feelings; if it had been Rigel or Betelgeuse, she’d have done the same thing. Both knew how to keep themselves alive. Still, her eyes watched her sword as she passed it to the other enemy.

“Nice sword,” he grinned, a malicious flash of teeth. “I think I’ll keep it as a replacement.” Citadel rolled her eyes, completely nonplussed as she held out her hands to be bound.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” she offered blandly, and took the vicious glare head-on with a sharp, toothy smile of her own.

“Why not, you won’t need it anymore,” he sneered, deciding that she wasn’t being offensive enough to counterpoint it with a punishing blow.

“Magic sword,” Cia chipped in. “It kills people who aren’t its chosen wielder. Without the wielder being anywhere near it. Messily.”

“You’re bluffing!” The knife drew closer, and it took Cia a tick to remember that she should probably be bleeding right now. Oops. On the bright side, the idiots didn’t really seem to have noticed.

“Go ahead. Try it,” bland smile, I dare you to light in her eyes, Citadel buried her emotions behind the frigid nonchalance of Bellatrix, a title she’d proudly earned for all that she never used it.

“Fine. We’ll have Kah-Tiar check it out when we get back to base. Now walk.” The base was that close? None of their intelligence indicated that the No-Fly Zone between the two sides had shrunk. Walking distance should not be possible. Or a thing.

But at the same time, it had to be walking distance. Most of the fliers were on Melanthios’ side, and it wasn’t immediately obvious that either of them were flight-capable. Taking them into the air would be stupid, and Coiwren was… well, a lot of things, including emotionally crippled, but that didn’t mean he was stupid. Common sense would follow that none of his people were either—but these two weren’t setting a very high bar or intelligence.

Almost reluctantly, Citadel began to move off. Cia’s captor allowed the other two to go ahead before following. The first two steps were nearly dragging her, before Cia managed to collect her feet and meet the pace without stumbling. Still, weren’t they going to search her? Search Citadel? They hadn’t even looked under her cloak!

They weren’t even going particularly fast. Given the pacing, and the way Cia was playing it up… “Can I still collect leaves?” Ooh, Citadel had that full-body wince down really well. “I mean, we’re walking so slowly….”

“Why do you think that would be allowed?” Cia’s captor was looking a little wide-eyed before he remembered that he needed to keep moving. “Don’t you realize you’re a prisoner.”

“Well, yes,” Cia agreed. “But I’m not affiliated. Which means I can’t be held without reason.”

“Association with a well-known terrorist isn’t reason enough?” Citadel’s captor sneered.

“And I’m from Abayomi. We’re neutral in this war; or laws are different,” Cia shot back, firmly establishing her persona as finally in the here and now.

“Then how could you?” Citadel’s captor sputtered furiously, but the person leading Cia along snarled for silence. Citadel herself went tense and then loose, Stormsurge rattling in her sheath. Cia blinked innocently, but cycled up her power subtly.

“Leave it, Jazmyn.” He turned to Cia, taking a more gentle, coaxing tone. “Hey, can you tell me what year it is?”

That… was an interesting path to take. She didn’t want to get too deeply into lies, but this could be fun. Citadel nodded, the slightest incline of her head. After all, the people who mattered would know differently.

“Ano,” Cia hemmed a bit, and then listed off a number maybe a year or so before the Fall, with the caveat, “I think, anyway. I was… not aware for a bit, so now Autear is kind of protective.” The translation they were supposed to get out of that was extensively sheltered. Neither of them were quite sure how much Eon was sharing, but given how overprotective he was… yeah, sheltered.

Both of the captors were staring. Mission achieved, judging from the way Jazmyn soundlessly mouthed “Autear” over and over. Cia’s captor’s smile had turned weak and wavering. Citadel just rolled her eyes.

“How familiar are you with Coiwren?” As if a single person knew everyone else in a city of a million. But in this case, given they’d have enough surviving records to pinpoint her from Coiwren’s files….

“My bar was frequented by Enforcers after hours. If I see him, I’ll probably recognize him as one of the faces I saw from the stage,” Cia replied. And when the triad was actually on the clock, they were the best team in all Abayomi.

“You’re a bar owner.” Jazmyn said. His tone was mostly blank, but disbelief edged it.

“No, just a singer. Autear owned the bar. It burned down when I—well, Autear says it wasn’t an accident.” Not that it was connected to the fall of Abayomi. Glassong had been a casualty of the moment when one of her Bonds had gone silent and dead. A time when flames rose in a funeral pyre for Cia’s oldest child.

Then her second had gone in an attempt to find out what happened and perhaps reclaim the body, and had been Lost, too. Some days, she resented that her duty and family had kept her rage and grief tamped down, kept her from going herself to sort the situation out—and other days she was grateful, because then there would’ve been another Cyznian gone, and her entire corner-foundation would’ve collapsed before Melanthios had even begun his revolution.

“And you?” This was directed at Citadel, who was still putting a great deal of effort into maintaining a straight face.

“I’m a doctor,” she reported blandly, then flashed a fang.

“With a sword?” Jazmyn yelped. “A supposedly murderous sword? Yeah right. What’s your real story?” …Seriosly? They’d better not be Ops agents, or Cia would have to have a disagreement with Eon.

“I really am a doctor. With a sword, yes, because I’m what you would call Chi’sendra. I’m a wanderer though I’m currently wandering with a group—who’re all idiots incapable of staying out of trouble. The cloak was a gift from them. Cia is a friend from the days before I wandered and seeing as how she attracts more trouble than Starsong in a laboratory, I figured it would be best to tag along.” Citadel paused for a bit, then said, decidedly, “My sword is loyal and sacred. The murderous part only happens if you’re doing something you’re not supposed to.”

The Commander did the stitching himself,” Cia tossed in, just to see them squirm. “He was worried that she’d get hurt.” Now how ould they deal with telling two innocents that they were being dragged in based on the symbols they wore unknowingly.

“You don’t really believe this, do you, Valié?” Jazmyn sputtered.

“I think that’s for the officers to decided,” Valié responded, considering. “Now, march.”

#my writing #project: updating the medium #mentions of:#literally backstabbing swords #subterfuge #deliberate perception manipulation #Citadel is the bard character #Cia is trying to be the cleric #but she has roots as a rogue #yes they are deliberately messing with them #Valié and Jazmyn are so far out of their league it isn't funny #technically part of the same world as both my Maiinomaia pieces

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