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The time is 4 am.The night is young and doesn't care about the morning. Too soon, the dew will blanket grass and trees, too soon the birds will begin their songs. But in this moment, the night, with its outstretched arms, feels like it will never end.
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“There you are!” Shana turns in confusion, her reverie broken by the bright voice behind her. It’s Grace, slowly making her way down the dockside. She hadn’t spoken to her in nearly a decade, and from the looks of it, she hadn’t really changed one bit. Somehow, she really hasn’t grown into her limbs. Some of her confusion must show, because Grace laughs. “Gods, whatever happened to the one who no one could sneak up on? Hi, sorry am I interrupting?”Shana shakes her head, she’d just been ready to call it a night, now that the sun had set. But seeing her brings up a lot of memories she thought she’d left behind her. She crosses her arms, stepping back from the dock’s edge. “Do you want some tea?” Her place was nearby, it would only be polite… She fidgets with the buttons on her jacket.Grace’s smile softens. “No, thanks. I was just passing through.” She hesitates, collecting herself with a shrug. “I mean – if I didn’t work up the nerve to see you now, when would I?” “You can only live with so many regrets, right?” Grace stares out into the water, back to Shana. “At least I knew you were alive with all those read receipts when I texted.”“Grace,” Shana starts, she’s relieved, so relieved that her space would still be hers but it does make her wonder about some of her own actions over the years. “You know that I am glad to see you…”She shakes her head, cutting her off with a smile. “For a while, I thought you would at least come visit, but you really wanted to be out of that town. We didn’t make it any easier.” She sobers.Silence falls between them, as they both look at each other. The fading light casts long shadows over Grace’s face, and it’s then that Shana’s struck by how odd this is. A lot has changed, and even though they were friends, there were notes here that they no longer knew. “Anyway,” Grace says, “this is going to sound weird, but I need a favour.”Oh no, here it is. Shana thinks, the anxiety really biting at her, but she doesn’t have the heart to leave. “If Sandi calls, and she might — can you just pick up? I know you hate each other now, but she still has your number.” She sticks her hands in her pockets. “I’m sorry to ask this, but it’s important.” Grace waits until Shana nods.It’s like she deflates with the answer, whatever had been keeping her up evaporates. “Good. Thanks. I — I’ll see you when I see you then.” Grace says. “Good night.” She walks back over the uneven planks, disappearing into the forest, Shana watching as she goes, somehow it seems to take forever. It takes some time for Shana to finally walk back towards her house, the little cabin off the edge of the lake. The moon’s hidden behind clouds, an owl hoots somewhere off in the distance. She wants to put the whole conversation out of her mind, but Grace knew both of them, her coming by was as much a warning as a friendly visit. She never was one to rock the boat. She had just hung up her coat where her phone rang. “Sandi,” she says. Just what would be this important? She hears unsteady breathing on the line. “Shana, there’s been an accident.”
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"You’re a sonnuva gun, you know that?""Uh, hi to you too.""I can’t believe you didn’t invite me to your wedding!""While you were off chasing ancient pottery, away from any sort of regular contact, not to mention civilization?""Tch. You still could’ve. Now I’m obligated to curse your first born. Time honored tradition.""You only wish. Come on, I'll buy you a coffee and you can tell me all about that trip."
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Tucked away behind the all-night pharmacy and the CVS is a door; Unmarked and unremarkable, the peeling paint hiding the sturdy wooden frame. Most pass by, but every once in a while it sees visitors.Nobody ever knocks. A woman scribbles industriously behind a desk, not looking up as the small bells chime. "Don't tell me, you fell." Professional, and curt. Questions aren't welcome here. She finishes with the papers she's working on, tucking them away under a red leather folder. "Take a seat, I'll be with you in a moment."
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Prohibition may have been over, but folks who'd made a pretty penny off of it don't take kindly to infringement. Racketeering was still profitable, and every bar paid their dues if they knew what was good for them. He watches the door through the haze of smoke, half-heartedly plucking at the bass; the same four notes over and over, while the rest of the band plays over him. He senses more than sees when someone new joins the crowd, a ripple running through it like electricity, but he can't see anything. He pulls his hat lower, just in case. No one pays attention to the bassist anyway, too busy watching as the trumpeter prances and flirts with the singer. They're hamming it up, milking their chemistry and playing the crowd as well as their did their respective instruments. They'll need it. This gig paid in pennies. The song comes to a close, and he stills the strings, everyone walking off for a breather. It's enough time for him to abandon the bass against the back wall, nodding to the actual bassist who had agreed to the switcharoo and make his way to the back storeroom, and the instrument cases within. He flicks the clasps, checking them one by one.Jackpot. His contact had come through.
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Light. That’s the first thing you notice. A yellow incandescent glow you don’t often get nowadays, with LEDs and florescent tubes being at the forefront of the environmentally (and monetarily) conscious. Light. Soft and fuzzy, like the edges of a dream. Because this is a dream. And you must run. So you do. Away from whatever is after you. Through endless hallways and loops, an interlocking maze of hidden passages in a shopping complex which has seen better days. And it works. For a while. They stay far, far behind you. But then, you get tired. And you find that the roads and hidden paths aren't so hidden anymore. There are no tricks or turns you can take that aren't known to others, and you start running into them. You clash.You get hurt. And it begins all over again. Endlessly.Ceaselessly. You don't wake up.
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Barely there, all smoke and shadows. The one who follows. Capable of carrying the entirety of the world, or just one soul. The shape of a horse, but no matter how hard you try you can never see it. Silent, the cold, dark touch of the grave. It smells of dust and decay. You never see it move, but you know it’s there.
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At first glance, a glossy-coated warhorse, all spirit and glory. Smoke curls from its nostrils. Burning a moth’s flame and you go closer, then closer still. Red glints from its metal armor, clanking with every jink and shiver of steaming flesh. Only when you’re too close do you see the scars; lightning lines and puckered metal, the breakage of bones and marred flesh, all blending into a shifting monstrous mess of robotics and muscle. A beast. As it moves, its hide going green-black, then desert-grey, the false calm before the storm of devastation. Barely controlled, for was not Conquest once a beast unto itself? Before the fine words and careful justification, before War was wrapped up in perfect uniforms and the story of us and them? The clash of blade, the thrust through flesh. It stinks of sweat, blood and fear, heady with the undertone of burning metal. Dark hooves pound as it pulls away, its stride relentless: the patter of bullets, and a scream rising like a hydrogen bomb. No matter how much you try, you can’t wash the soot clean from your hands.
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Persephone and Hades fell in love in the springtime of the world. If you can call it love. And now, it is winter. It has been a very long winter
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There's nothing quite so satisfying as the hissing of the pneumatic doors, he thinks stepping through to the next room. The soft noise broke up the gentle hum which anyone aboard the station eventually got used to.He'd heard some engineers claim they knew just what was wrong from a change in it, but he suspected they'd been exaggerating; given the time needed to find that minor leak. If he never had to manually crank open a door again, it would be too soon.While it was not that late, the halls were empty. Eventually he could hear a faint beeping from further up ahead.
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To change the code that is fundamental to ourselves, is to change the function.
And if you change the function, you can change the form.To transform — to shift yourself is not to be forgotten,but to be newly recognized.
(Who am I? I shout at the world. This is me.)
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Instant coffee has many uses, my mother knew that well. She made sure I knew it too, before she disowned me.As a metaphor: The bitterness of life. I remember my first cup: the dark liquid, uncut by sugar or milk. I'd have scalded my tongue if she hadn't stopped me.
I'd tasted it too, the bitter tang at the back of my throat on the day she told me to take my shit and go.As a flavouring: A kitchen staple?Baking always made more sense than regular cookery. Anything more complicated than putting stuff into a pot and boiling never seemed to turn out quite right. But baking? A touch of instant coffee, and anything tasted better. It's a magic all on it's own.She's always loved the taste, more than the subtleties of more expensive brews.As a beauty aid: The eye of the beholder.Rubbing a paste of instant coffee under my eyes to hide the bruises works better than any concealer. The weeks, months when insomnia has me in it's grip, and not one single comment on how tired I looked. Mom always knew, but she never said anything. Hiding.As revenge: AftertasteI hadn't meant it at the time, and I stand by it. Spills happen, and no one got hurt. Carpet can be replaced.Which I did. Replace the carpet, I don't see what the big deal is. It's certainly not enough for her overreaction, or the yelling - cut off only when I was outside, the door slammed after me.Oh well.As my mother taught me, there are many bitter things.
And the coffee? All the better to hide them with.
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I’ve never met a woman as petty as Maggie Liu, who met every slight against her and returned the favour threefold. The sun could be burning out, and still she would be measuring up every word, tone, and gesture – a slow alligator grin spreading to show white, white teeth – all while cutting someone to pieces.To survive on spite alone, now that is a dear wish. But I wouldn’t know what she paid for it.
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INT. OFFICE MEETING ROOM - AFTERNOONTOP-DOWN view of a table strewn with papers. Two people are seated in the room at opposite ends of the table moving papers around.Door opens. [P1] enters.
P1
Oh good. You're here. Perfect.
P2
We've got the room booked for the afternoon.
P1
And I've got a meeting. Which you're part of. Just move your project over a bit. We'll be done in an hour.
P3
An hour?
P3 pushes back from the table, turning their computer towards P2, P1. The words AGENDA is clearly visible, along with the words UPCOMING ACCREDITATION INSPECTION
P3
I don't think so.
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He trails his hand across the obsidian wall, guiding them further down the passage.It's mirror-gleam surface seems to swallow the light from their torches, dark blurs where their reflection would be.At the end of the hall, stands a grand door, a perfect reflection swimming into view as they approach - perhaps the stone was better polished? - and Sam too is clearly reflected. He drags his hand over towards the door, taking care not to lift away, and a trail of blood follows.Someone gasps.While Sam continues to draw out a symbol, his reflection completes it on the other side. The symbol for "open" floats out at them before the doors finally groans open."This is where I leave you," he says. He leans against the wall, and his reflected self draws him in.