You know that terrible feeling that you get when you had lots of great idea that just don`t pan out because you totally run out of time. This is that feeling.

There`s a number in my head. I don`t know where it came from. But I think it might be the time left before the destruction of the world. And it`s getting pretty small.

The sky is dark, the air is moist. The scent of the city hangs thickly in the air, a sweet perfume of motor oil and sweat. It`s the kind of odour that doesn`t let you forget. It clings to your skin and makes all the little hairs crawl. It sticks to your clothes and heavies them. It`s the kind of smell you can taste. It clogs up your nose and makes your eyes water. It`s nerve gas, yeah. But I`m used to it.

A thunderstorm is coming. I saw a television in a store window earlier today; the weatherman told us to expect sunshine all day long. That`s what makes it possible for a thunderstorm to occur. There`s an inhuman logic to weather forecasts, and the universe obeys it. Just because it doesn`t make sense to us, doesn`t mean it don`t work. The sky is dark, the air is moist. Oh yeah, a big storm is coming. It`s gonna rain like hell and bolts of light are gonna pound the earth. It`s going to be loud, I can tell.

I don`t need any sort of shelter. The rain doesn`t bother me. I`m used to that as well. In fact, the only thing I could really use right now is a book. I`ll wait as long as I have to, but it helps to have a story to pass the time.

A reasonably attractive young woman, walking down the sidewalk, glanced up and noticed the imminently threatening sky. She grimaced, and picked up her pace. A public mailbox had been thoroughly vandalized and tipped over onto the cement; she did a neat little hop on top of it, and took a moment to appreciate the novelty of
standing upon something so unlikely. After stepping down, she took another moment to spit her gum into the shadows of the alley beside her, and continued
along her way.

That woman I recognize her.

She was wearing aconservative combination of loose-fitting shorts and t-shirt, with the Tasnican Institute of Technology logo emblazoned across the breast, and a small satchel slung across her shoulder. Her hair was short, crisp and red, her complexion pale. Although she carried herself confidence, she observed her surroundings with too much keen interest to be an inhabitant of the area; not an unreasonable hypothesis, since Egmont and its Institute were hundreds of miles
away.  

Confidence isn`t enough in a place like this. It`s only a state of mind; it ain`t tangible. The predators around here tear through that kind of stuff like a wet tissue. Confidence won`t stop a man. It won`t crack his skull and drop him to the floor. For that you need something hard, preferably, and made out of metal. What the hell is she doing here?


Oh, crap. I`m confused again. I can`t remember where I am. Last week I was in Centwerp. What happened? I can`t remember. I can`t stand it
when this happens. And it happens a lot. Shit, where am I? No, this isn`t Centwerp, I`m not still in those slums. The smell isn`t the same. Then why are
those guys following that girl?

Two men were indeed walking along the sidewalk, about half a block away from the young woman. She, for her part, seemed unaware. The men were young -- probably around the same age -- but their skin was a darker colour, more appropriate to the warm climate. They were probably natives of this area. This was certainly reflected in their swagger, and the relaxed and calculating way in which they observed the girl. The situation, however, seemed perfectly innocent.  

No. I`ve seen this scene. Before. Recently. It`s obvious what`s going on. Isn`t it? Oh, shit. Maybe I just read about it. It was definitely in a book. Stories are full of terrible madness. But, no, that`s not it. I remember. Back in Centwerp. Wherever I am now. Still, I probably shouldn`t interfere.

It`s probably nothing. She`ll probably be fine. There`s a lot of forces out there to protect her. A lot of forces that want to protect the innocent people of the world. That`s the basis of all civilization -- the safety of young women. It`s probably just my imagination anyway.

The woman reached her destination -- an unimpressive hotel wedged into the middle of the block -- and she walked inside. The two men kept walking towards the building. They were both fairly tall, and rather well built. One had a shaven head, the other a ponytail. Their behaviour remained innocuous. They didn`t even speak to each other. They just walked, purposefully, towards the building, and entered through the same set of doors.

A lot of forces: Fate. Blind desperation for survival, and instinct. The police. And me.

Oh, right. I`d forgotten about that.

Stuck to the door of the elevator was a sign -- OUT OF ORDER -- so the woman had to take the stairs, and grumble to herself about it as she did so. Her room was only on the third floor, but the stairwell was dank and dark, and she was already tired from her walk. So she climbed slowly, groaning slightly as she took the steps two at a time. At the first floor landing, she tripped and dropped her satchel. By this time, the men were halfway across the lobby. The clerk at the front desk was dozing, and didn`t even drift out of his peaceful slumber.

Fate. The stories I read have a lot to say about fate. That`s probably because I read a lot of epics. Sagas of great courage and tragedy. Fate figures into these quite prominently. Sometimes it`s inspiring.Sometimes it`s just funny because the language used is outdated. Generally I find them sexist and exploitative of women or disenfranchised minorities. But I still like to read them. They always speak to me on some level, and that`s mostly when they talk about fate. Books are better than television, anyway.   More imagination. I don`t miss television.

Standing back up, she heard the door to the stairwell open, and continued climbing, unperturbed. The men moved faster than her. She made it to the second story landing, when suddenly, a voice behind her, dripping with anticipation -- "Hey, lady, do you got a light?" She turned around, and saw a couple of guys two steps below her. The one with the ponytail held up a cigarette questioning. His friend was fumbling around in a pocket for something. The woman thought for a moment. "Uh, yeah, I think," she replied, and reached into her satchel.

Fate dictates that everyone has a destiny. The fruition of everyone`s destiny is their very own fate. The epics tell me that life unfolds with storybook clarity. Fate accounts for every last detail: every word you say has been preordained. That explains the perfect insanity of epic characters. Their actions, their speech -- it`s all poetry. Even when they`re lost, there`s something much greater that keeps track of them, guides them, makes sure they`re in place for the love scene or the climactic duel. It`s unreal but at the same time, I find it very realistic.

The woman held out her little flame; the man with the cigarette took a step forward and dipped it in while he put his mouth around the other end. He took a short drag, and the fire sparked. Lifting his head up, a wide grin stretched his face, and his friend began to move forward. "Thanks," he said.

Of course, fate isn`t foolproof. Sometimes it needs a little help.

The woman shrugged and started to turn around. "No prob..." but something stopped her--

And I`ve always considered myself a helpful guy.

An arm lanced out and collided with the face behind the cigarette. Something cracked. The little white stick flew up into the air, spinning rhythmically. At the apex of the arc, another blow hit the man`s face across the side, like a jackhammer, blood spurting from his mouth. He fell backwards, tumbling down the stairs, landing a
few steps down, at the same time as his cigarette.

"What the FUCK?" shouted the bald one.

A behemoth stood between him and the woman, who had her back to the wall and was staring, dumbstruck. Both thugs looked up at their assailant. The bald one raised his fists, while his friend raised himself off the ground.

"Who the fuck are you!?"

"I AM YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE."

The bald one aimed his fist at the man`s jaw, but the man caught it easily and slammed it into the concrete wall. The thug screamed out in pain. The man grabbed the side of his head, and also slammed that against the wall -- this time it left a dent, and a lot of blood. Finally he kneed him in the stomach, which sent the thug sailing
gracefully through the air, down, down, to where he landed well below the hairy
one.

This one, whose mouth was still dribbling blood, came at the man in a furious rush. He braced one hand in the other and attacked with his elbow, which the larger man grabbed and squeezed. The thug yelped and took the heel of a palm to the chest, winding him. As he gasped for breath, the man punched him brutally in the side of the neck, forcing him into the railing, and another blow sent him clean over it.

Smoke continued to rise from the cigarette on the ground.

At least, I think I have.

The woman had fallen to the ground, her back still against the wall, and stared in terror at the scene in front of her. There was blood on the wall, and the ground. On the landing below, the bald man wasn`t making no sounds. And there was nothing coming from the stories below, either. The stairwell was filled with a thick, wet silence.

Finally, the man in front of her turned around. He wasn`t even breathing heavily.

"What -- what do you want?" she gasped.

He was dressed in black pants and a black sweater, both of which were dirty and riddled with tears, and his hair was black and scattered and oily, as was his thin beard. Around his neck was a bright, red -- scarf.

"I want you to be safe," he replied in a deep, gruff voice. "Those guys..."

"Those guys work here! I`ve seen them before!" she cried. "You -- you --"

The man lowered his brow in consternation. "No you`re wrong."

The two simply remained there, his eyes lowered in thought, her eyes wide and shivering. Slowly, she began to pull herself to her feet, sliding her back against the wall. At her full height, her head only reached the man`s chest.

Crap, not again.

"Do you have any gum?" he asked.

She looked at him incredulously. "What?"

"Gum. You were chewing it earlier, when you walked by the alley"

"G -- gum?" Disbelievingly, she groped into her purse and took out a small package, which she handed to him. "Here"

He gazed at the label as he removed a piece. "Peppermint. Good." Pause.

"W -- what are you going to do?"

He put his back against the opposite wall and sat down on the floor. "I need to think." He no longer seemed to be looking at her -- his eyes were turned inward. Carefully, she edged toward the door. When he did not respond, she opened it just enough, and, after another pause, fled. The door closed silently behind her.

I remember that woman. But I don`t remember where I am. Oh god, I can`t let this keep happening. What the hell did I just do? Didn`t I save her? I can`t remember.

Sirens in the distance? How long have I been sitting here?

Indeed, there was the sound of police sirens from outside, and they seemed to be getting closer. He lifted himself off the ground and walked through the door, into the second story hallway -- there was no sign of the girl, but there was a window at the far end. He lumbered towards it, across the plush carpet, watching the numbers on the doors crawl upwards in twos, while the sirens got closer and closer until

As he reached the window, police cars were pulling up in the front of the hotel entrance. There were already three of them, and from the sound of it, more in the distance. Policemen stood behind their cars, waiting for the rest of the cavalry to arrive, watching the building for any sign of their target.

The man quickly ducked. From far overhead there came a large boom, and the violent pitter patter of heavy rainfall suddenly started to clatter against his nerves from all sides.

Oh, crap.

Beat/Beat/Beat/Beat/Beat/Beat/Beat/Beat/Beat/Lightbeat/Beat/Beat/Beat/Lightbeat/Beat/Beat/Beat/Light/Beat/Light/Beat/Light/Beat/Screamsandwailsinrythym, flowingscalesanddrumbeatsfalling/Poundingpoundingpoundingpoundingsatisfaction, insidetheheadpounding, poundingrythym/Harmony, it`sreal thisisreal thisiswhatyouwanted sogetupanddosomething

Holy shit, I`m drunk.

Lightsflashinginmyeyes, the floorispounding thisworks Icanstandit

"Holy shit, I`m drunk," said Serea.

"WHAT?" shouted Wake.

"I`M REALLY FUCKING DRUNK!" repeated Serea.

"YOU`RE WHAT?"

"I FUCKING HATE THIS MUSIC!"

The music actually made her feel good, though. It meant she didn`t have to talk. It meant she didn`t have to do anything. She could just sit there and watch. And think. The alcohol helped out with the thinking.

It`s easier this way. The flashing lights, the pulsing music, in synch with each other -- beat/beat/beat -- the uniform roar of a thousand shrill voices, talking, laughing, hooting, sweating, the smell of sweat and sex and booze, it permeated her brain, pushed out all the daytime thoughts, all the doubts and worries. It numbed her. It left her in a pleasant paralysis. These sounds, these sights, they`re an elixir for mortal woe, stoking the most basic desires, relieving the most primal tensions. It was all
much easier than anything with a form. It was like sleeping.

She looked at the table in front of her. Three beers demolished. Two Roan bourbons, two White Moogles. A single double scotch. Oh yeah, she was feeling alright. A lot better than usual, anyway.  

What`s so bad about alcoholism? Selea wondered. Oh, sure, it ruins some people`s lives, but those are just the people who shouldn`tbe alcoholics. Some of us can get along just fine. For some of us, it`s very important. Alcohol is a very important medicine. It reorganizes the world until it more closely resembles something tolerable. It clogs up your vision and blurs your hearing, sometimes, too, or, uh

A little dizzy, now (beat/beat/beat), but no problem. This is, I mean, I feel fine.

What?

I mean,

"WHAT?"

No, what? Oh, right, and then at the end. So much like sleeping, because at the end, it lets you do just that. Suddenly. Blessed sleep --

"Don`t be so didactic," Serea told her.  

"What?"

"You`re too cerebral. You need to get over yourself."

"Wait a second if you`re me, then who am I?"

"See? This is exactly what I`m talking about."

Serea found herself, standing, alone, amidst a field of gray and blue. No not a field. Rocks. She was surrounded by rocks a plateau. And overhead, blue the sky. Thin wisps of cloud in the air, washed out by the brilliant sun. A gorgeous day. In the distance, more rocks, larger, far away mountains. Ahead of her, the plateau dropped off. It was a vivid, indistinct scene.  

She was standing on a mountaintop, she realized. The top of a barren cliff. There was neither grass, nor trees, neither on the plateau nor on any of the mountainsides within view. Only granite thin slabs of the stuff, sprawling sheets layered on top of each other, a blank canvas for erosion or, more accurately, the final product. Desolate. Very desolate. But beautiful, she realized. Entranced, she walked towards the edge of the cliff, to look below there was a city or rather, a nice, remote town nestled amidst the rocky landscape and clean mountain air. Large enough, from the look of it urban, certainly but not too big. Also very beautiful.

But more beautiful than either the town or the mountains were the streams of light falling sideways across the sky. They were brilliant gleaming streamers, rivulets of lightning, spaghetti, or confetti too dazzling for even the sun to compare. At first there were only a few, but then so many more. Not falling, anymore, but sliding downwards converging downwards a million bolts of amazing death hurtling towards the innocent town below

THE SIRENS.

Serea woke up with a start. The wailing klaxons lingered in her ears. They came from the town below. Like screaming banshees. But the town was gone now. The mountaintop was gone. The lights were gone, fading fast. Only the ceiling, now, as Serea lay confused in bed, wondering why the warning sirens were still continuing, waiting for the sleep amnesia to fade along with them, and the images of a finished dream to resolve in her head.

Shit. Not that one again. The same one again and again. How many nights now? Serea pushed herself out of bed with a grunt, groped blindly for her alarm clock, and pounded a bunch of buttons until it shut up. Then she fell back in bed with a sigh.

Time to go to work. With a hangover.

Of course, once in her office, she realized she had no desire to work. And, with a glance at the calendar on her wall she realized she had forgotten to call her parents on their anniversary. She cursed herself mentally.

"They`ve finally got an improved algorithm to the traveling salesman problem," Mike was observing as Serea entered the lab.

Jurt looked over his shoulder. "What?"

Mike turned away from his computer screen with a disgusted look on his face. "The traveling salesman problem. How`d you get a job here without knowing anything about computers?"

Jurt scowled in return. "Shut up. I`m a physicist, not an information scientist. Just tell me."

Serea scanned the small room. It was mostly a lot of electronics -- used for administrivia and simulations, which in turn were used to tangibly develop the prototypes visible through the window into the lab and test bay, as well as a few up in orbit. Jurt and Mike were sitting at a couple of terminals to the left, and Wake was reading something in the far corner. Nobody got much work done on a Monday.

Wake glanced up as she entered. "Got home okay last night?"

Serea rubbed her forehead and wandered about for a moment. "Yeah, you know, okay."

Remembering something she had thought of Friday evening, she thought of settling into work -- but her head was aching, and she was finding it difficult to think straight. The prattle of her coworkers made it difficult to concentrate. She sighed. Then her stomach rumbled.

"So now they`re using quantum computing," Jurt was explaining. "Which of course utilizes the concept of superpositions as fundamental to the notion of qubits, rather than bits, you understand. So in essence, the salesman is in more than one place at same time."

"Guys" she said, without turning around.

"What?"

"I think I`m gonna visit Roland today. Anyone wanna come?"

Wake replied, "Sure," to which Serea rolled her eyes.

Mike and Jurt dissented. "The hospital? That`s down by the waterfront," Mike proclaimed. "That`s like, an hour`s drive, one way. Some of us have work to do, you know."

"Too much drink last night, Serea?" asked Jurt. Serea grunted noncommittally.

"What if Mountbatten`s people come by? They`re supposed to be checking on our progress sometime soon. We`ve got a thousand reasons for failure, you know, but not a single excuse."

"Pff," Serea scoffed. "They won`t come on a Monday. Besides, the Manabeast 04 should be operational any day now. That`ll satisfy them."

She glanced at Wake as she walked towards the door. "Coming?"

"Yeah, just a sec"

Serea often wondered how much longer she`d be able to hold down this kind of high ranking job in the RAF research department. These days, she barely ever did any work at all. It was usually the hangovers.

"Hey, man, what`s up?"

Cor would have had to look up to see the face of the older boy. He didn`t. He didn`t respond at all. He made no movement whatsoever. His eyes were cold and resolute.

"Hey! Hello? Anybody home?" The boy stepped in front of him, too close. "What are you, dumb?" He looked down with a smirk on his face, daring Cor to do something.

"What are you doing out here?" asked another boy, to the side. Cor stared at the ground.

"You`re all alone, retard." The first boy smiled amiably. "School`s out. You should go home." He took a step forward, until he was almost touching Cor, who had no choice but to take a step backward -- but something behind his foot --

Cor lost control, flailing over himself backward, over the back that had tripped him, realizing too late as usual -- he hit the frozen ground with a hard thud, the wind knocked out of him. He stared up the sky. The third boy, now standing, obscured the clouds and looked down at him in disgust. What could be done? He started to get back up, but by now, it was again too late.

He felt a foot drill into his stomach, and he gasped -- the second kick came from behind, knocking him hard against the shoulder, twisting him around -- the last boy, wanting a piece, tried to punch him in the face, but Cor covered his face, thrashing wildly, and grabbed blindly for the arm. The boy pulled back, inadvertently bringing Cor stumbling to his feet, as his backpack fell off his shoulder.

Cor was suddenly full of fierce desperation, and the bullies were glad to have a legitimate challenge. But Cor was small, and bullies aren`t genuinely interested in risk. He started to back away, somewhere, anywhere, but he wasn`t fast enough -- one of the boys connected a fist with his jaw and he stumbled backwards, the world spinning, his face and body ringing out, his mind silently spewing hate and anger.

Too late, after all. Too late to run. It was over. The first boy stepped once again to Cor, and this simply pushed him over -- who, in his dizziness, dropped easily. The back of the ground collided with his head and his vision swam.

"What a retard," came from the voice, from somewhere. Cor heard their footsteps fade away into the grass. And then silence.

Cor lay there, again, unmoving, as his body and mind returned to normal. He watched the clouds. There were only a few, the wispy kind cirrus clouds, he remembered, high up, drifting lazy against a brilliantly dark blue backdrop. It was getting late. He could feel the cold heat of the winter sun coming from the west, dying rapidly. His body ached with frustration and smothered rage. He felt paralyzed, lying there. He didn`t want to try to move, but if he did, he imagined that he would find he was unable.

What now?

The grass was cold and covered in frost. The wetness seeped into his clothes, slowly he could feel it spread across his back, his legs, his butt. And his mind kept going, past normal, out of control down the slippery slope. He could feel the hopelessness rising in him, the helpless impotence. Tears welled up in his eyes. He didn`t cry. He didn`t want to cry. He was angry, not sad. He was furious. But the tears came, hot salty stuff. He blinked them away and they rolled down the side
of his face. He screwed up his face, willing them to disappear, but that only made them worse.

Something inside him was ready to explode. He wanted to rise up and flee. He wanted to chase after the boys and crush their skulls. He wanted to tell someone. But what could he do? What could he do about anything?

Silence all around him. No animals, no people. No cars no bikes. School was long out. He was alone.

Where the hell are you, Daddy?

Earlier, the psychologist had asked him:

"Why was it so hard?"

Cor shrugged. "I dunno."

"You`re a smart kid, Cor. You know that, right?"

"No."

"Why do you have such trouble?"

Cor rolled his eyes. "It`s a standardized test. It`s meaningless. I don`t think I`m stupid because of a stupid test."

"But this isn`t a new thing."

"No."

He was seated in a comfortable leather chair at a small table. At other end was seated the psychologist, peering at him with those child-probing eyes. The room was small, filled with books, binders and paper, charts and posters, toys and coloured pencils. Cor didn`t really take much of it in. He was flustered, trying to sit there and justify himself. Justify his existence. Justify his ineptitude and stupidity. Why not just say it? I don`t fit in here. I don`t belong. I shouldn`t be on this planet. Shoot me off into space, send me to the moon colony.

"Well, why is it so hard to write a simple test?"

Cor fidgeted in his seat "I don`t know what the right answers are."

"But your teachers seem to think you understand the material in class." The psychologist spoke gently.

"No, no, no, it`s different."

"How?"

"Two groups of people each have 60 people. If 3/4 of the first group and 2/3 of the second group board buses to travel to a museum, how many more people in the first group board buses than in the second group?" asked Cor, remembering a recent question.

"You remember that?" replied the psychologist.

"Kind of. It was something like that."

"Do you know the answer?"

"No. Maybe. Maybe if I had time to work it out," Cor admitted.

"Well, what did you do at the time?"

"I dunno. I freaked out."

"You couldn`t concentrate."

"I dunno, maybe. I had to write something down. I just knew I had to had write something down. It`s a test, you can`t just leave it blank."

"But why not just take the time to work out the right answer?"

Cor shook his head angrily. "That`s not the point."

The psychologist stared at him inquisitively "What do you mean?"

"You just have to write down something It`s hard to think. I" Cor grasped at his hair in frustration. Or defiance. Something like that.

"It`s alright. Don`t worry about it." She paused.

For a moment, no one said anything.

"What did you write down, anyway?"

"I dunno, 54. Something like that."

The psychologist nodded, and glanced at a couple of his drawings, lain out across the table. Cor felt rising irritation that she had obtained access to them.

Looking up, she asked, "Do you feel alone, Cor?"

Do you feel alone, Cor? Do you feel alone when you get beat up in an empty schoolyard?

"Doesn`t everyone?"

Cor remembered what Daddy had said, later, on the way back from the psychologist, Cor in the passenger seat, his father driving:   "No."

"What? Come on," Cor pleaded.

"Forget it. I don`t like these things. Your mother and I don`t like you going into the city. You know this."

He fumed. "It`s just a field trip. It`s practically like being in school."

"Except downtown," corrected Daddy.

"I`m practically thirteen, already!"

"Yeah, I know how old you are, Cor. Just take my word on this."

Cor sneered silently and thrust his chin against his hand, resting his elbow on the armrest to stare out the passenger side window. It sucked. It totally sucked.

Daddy was such a cop. He was so cautious and reserved. Mummy complained about it too, but they agreed often enough to keep Cor from doing anything interesting. He wouldn`t even turn on the siren when Cor got the occasional chance to ride in a squad car with him. And Cor loved the sound of sirens -- the wailing, the screeching. They blotted out conversation. He loved it when someone was talking to him and one of the cars would drive by, shrieking that awful sound. It was one of those nice, little things in life. But Daddy wouldn`t do it.

When Daddy did anything, it usually to say something like, "I`ll get off work early and pick you up tomorrow. Can you wait outside the school entrance?"

Cor snorted. "Yeah, sure."

And now, Daddy wasn`t here.

And Cor was alone. Up on his mountaintop. Except not. Actually on the grass in front of the school, dry tear streaks cooling off on his cheeks and in his ears. His clothes practically soaked. Shivering. Up on his mountain, except definitely not. The mountains were still off in the distance, misty and cloud streaked. Cor was stuck here, here, here.

Finally he pulled himself off the ground. His mind had returned to normal and he could observe his surroundings with a semblance of sanity. It was getting very late, now. The sun would be setting. He had an idea of the route to get home, but he knew it would be an impossibly long walk. And as for seeking refuge somewhere in the neighbourhood, well he had never been allowed to explore it. He barely had any idea what was out there.

Grudgingly, stiffly, he moved to the curb, and sat on it. He stared at the road, and at the mountains in the distance. The wind whistled by, and he wondered he could possibly do.

At least I`m done crying, he thought. But there was little else to do but cry. And sit. And wait. And hope, and then, as the pit of his stomach sank, and as it came so much easier -- despair.

"You`re the toughest case of all, you know. There`s so much to learn, and so little time."

Cor gave a surprised and desolate sniffle as he turned around to meet the voice. A man stood, on the grass behind him, a rather tall man. Though Cor was sitting, which made it hard to tell. He wore a deep black suit, which contrasted with his blonde hair. And he was carrying a black suitcase. Still, he seemed respectable and looked friendly. Cor decided to be nervous.

"What?"

"Cor, right?"

He hesitated. It would be no use running. There was no useful destination in sight, and if the man meant any harm, he would easily be able to catch him. "Yeah. Who are you?"

The man smiled. "I`m a friend. Your parents sent me."

"What? What are you talking about?" Cor demanded.

"Relax! They told me to tell you they couldn`t make it, and where you should meet them."

Cor glared at him suspiciously.

The man put down his suitcase and held out open his hands. "Look, your dad`s Jim, right? Chief of police. Your mom`s Lyla. Don`t worry, I`m safe."

Indecision. Cor knew that he had trouble figuring out the right answers. He glared the suitcase suspiciously.

The man followed his gaze. "You`re wondering what`s up with this thing?" he asked, kicking it lightly. "I`m a traveling salesman. I`m in town for a while I met your dad when I was here a year ago."

"What do you sell?" Cor ventured.

"Knick knacks. This and that. And technically I don`t sell. I barter."

His curiosity was piqued. "Well, what have you got in there right now?"

"Well, what have you got to offer?"

Cor grabbed his backpack from where it had fallen on the grass and opened the flap. "Uh, I got some cookies. And school stuff. Pencils, pens. Papers. Scissors."

"Can I see?"

He pulled out a small pair of scissors with orange handles and held them up in the air. The salesman took a moment to inspect them from various angles.

"Those`ll do," he said, and snatched them out of Cor`s grip before he could react.

"HEY!"

"Here`s your purchase," proclaimed the salesman, and handed Cor a small piece of paper.

"What the hell is this?"

"That`s where your dad told me to tell you to meet him."

Cor took a closer look at the paper. It seemed to be a ticket. Admit one. Francesca Theater. 7123 Elm.

"My dad told you to tell me to meet him here?" Cor asked.

"Correct. You`d best be off, it`s a bit of a walk. You`re on Church now, just head that way," the salesman pointed, "and you`ll hit Elm. Then just turn left and keep going till you see the theater."

"Holy shit," observed Cor.

The salesman picked up his suitcase. "I`d best be off. Business, you know. Never lets up." And he started to walk away.

"Hey, wait!" Cor cried. He jumped to his feet and tried to follow the man across the grass, but he was a surprisingly fast walker. Cor started to run.

"HEY, WAIT!"

The salesman looked over his shoulder but didn`t let up. "I told you! Business!"

"HEY, NO, COME ON!" Cor gasped, and tripped, falling face first into the dirt. After he spat out the grass and looked up,
the bizarre visitor was well across the field. So Cor just lay there, cold and wet and confused, but mostly alone.

+++

Oh, crap. I hate this stuff.

How did the cops get here so fast? How long was I sitting there? It`s difficult to salvage memories of thought. When the brain shuts down, it`s time for sleep. Not for threats. Not for the damn police. But things always turn out weird for me. As far back as I can recall. Which is admittedly not much. But it varies.

What do you do when you don`t know what to do? I guess you think about it.

The man crouched with his back to the wall underneath the window, and rubbed his temples.

It`s usually not a good idea to take people like this head on. I don`t want to hurt anyone. And the protagonist can only go down in a blaze of glory at the end of the story, not middle. But how can you tell what`s the middle and what`s the end? Sometimes a tricky narrative can make the beginning come last.

It takes a while for cops to do much of anything. Unless they`re motivated. It has to be something important. And they have to know it`s important beforehand. Otherwise they`ll investigate. But they won`t act. Not immediately. Not in force. This is all old hat. So what`s the big idea?

Maybe

He caught a glimpse of something black dart across the end of the hallway.

A-ha!

His feet were airborne and running in an instant. He barreled down the hallway, watching for another sign of it he arrived at an adjoining hallway, looked right, left -- that way!

Maybe they`re not after me!

Another glimpse of black, the door to a stairwell swinging shut. Not the same one. The man dove for it, pounded it out of his way. Running, running -- up the stairs, he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure. Resounding echoes of heavy footsteps and hurried breathing -- up onto the landing, out the door again.

Damn! This guy`s fast.

Racing down a hallway again, windows flying by, the summer sky -- window, window, window -- the man came to a stop at another intersection. Which way did he go?

Damn!

"I see you`ve been keeping in shape, Jerry," came a voice from nowhere.

What the hell? How does this guy know my name?

"Oh, I know all about you," answered the voice. "Though you`ve never met me. Not before."

Good god! How is he reading my thoughts?

The voice chuckled. "I`m not. But I can read you. Like a book."

"Who are you? Get out here!" demanded Jerry.

"Not just yet," replied the voice, smugly. From behind

Jerry spun around. The shadowy figure was off and moving again, too quickly, down another corridor.

"Hey! Get back here!"

Double damn!

Moving again, faster than before, just to keep up, zip, zip, zip -- door, door, door! -- towards the approaching sunlight, the open window, the shiny blue heavens -- the man dove straight through it. Jerry kept going.

Give me a break!

And out into the air! Momentary flight. To the right! Jerry caught the edge of the fire escape and hung on tightly. His quarry was already up and over the rail. Jerry started to follow suit, but had to be careful not to fall as he maneuvered his way over the grill and simultaneously tried not to look down.

"Come on!" shouted the man sadistically. "What would Serea think if she saw you now! Dangling like a helpless baby!"

"What!?" exclaimed Jerry in a sudden, spontaneous shiver.

Whoops.

His hands free of the rail, Jerry fell, eyes skyward, the wind tickling the back of his neck as it whistled upward.

A loud, metal, CLANG. He was at last on top of the fire escape lying on top of it, specifically. One story above him he saw the spot where the structure thinned out. Two stories above him he caught a fleeting glimpse of the shadowy man escaping through a window.

This guy is pissing me off.

Jerry grunted loudly and his back protested as he peeled himself off the metal floor. He opened the window next to him and crawled through it, back on the chase. This time, he ran for the nearest stairwell and started to climb swiftly, four steps at a time. He passed the sixth floor landing.

That`s one, one more

Darkness flew in front of him and before he could stop the two bodies collided violently. They tumbled backward, Jerry head first, but he rolled into it as they flew into a wall and clattered onto the ground. Jerry emerged on top of the man, who he could see now wore a black cloak with a hood over his head, which conveniently gave Jerry something to pull the man up by as he held his other fist threateningly in the air.

"Okay!" he gasped threateningly. "What the hell are you talking about?"

The man laughed from underneath his hood. "Oh, the figments in your head? Don`t worry, I`m really not a mind-reader. They`re real, you know. Serea and Cor, they`re"

"Shutup!" Jerry shook him roughly. "Why are the cops after you?"

"How do you know they`re after me?"

"Call it a hunch."

The man laughed again. "I just had to take care of some business. A couple of measly murders. You wouldn`t understand. They certainly didn`t."

"Who didn`t?"

"The police. Not too swift, are you?"

"Shutup!"

"Oh, you`re intellect`s fine enough. Physically, I mean. You`re sub par."

What the --

Jerry felt and saw him slip out from underneath his massive girth, but wasn`t fast enough to respond. By the time he grabbed something, it was only air.

"Villain!" he shouted, and leapt down the stairs after him.

Evil people are often possessed of magical powers which let them perform some pretty spectacular bodily feats. But not as spectacular as the ones I perform.

As Jerry passed the second floor landing, he launched himself over the railing. The man below was unprepared for it -- Jerry caught him easily as they rolled together down the steps, far more rapidly and painfully this time, bouncing on sharp edges and unyielding concrete, until they reached the first floor door and toppled out in the foyer.

This time the cloaked man ended up on top, and though smaller, he grasped Jerry firmly, holding him down. Jerry turned his head to the side and was confused by the sight of a sideways group of scared-looking people huddled in a far corner of the room, and little white flies buzzing everywhere around the room. Slowly the flies faded, and he was just looking at the people, who looked at him looking at them. Only they were a lot more afraid then he was. Probably afraid of the strange metal devices that lined an area of the room in front of them, separating Jerry from them.

Standard storybook scenario. Crazy guy takes a bunch of people hostage in a hotel lobby. Crazy guy wires up a bunch of crazy bombs that`ll blow if any of the hostages try to escape. Crazy guy is so crazy that he leaves the hostages alone for a moment to go taunt the other crazy guy upstairs. Well, that part isn`t so standard.

"Don`t worry," proclaimed Jerry, flat on his back. "I`m here to save you."

Immediately he grabbed the cloaked man and shoved him off, throwing his weight into the motion so that he rolled with him and ended up back on top.

"And so we find ourselves in a similar position," observed the man.

"Except this time you`re not going anywhere," said Jerry angrily. "You`re nuts. I mean, what the hell is this? This is ridiculous!"

"What are you going to do about it?"

"End it."

"I`ve got one word for you, Jerry. Well, two, actually. Hyphenated."

I should probably do something right about now.

"Bath-time."

Crap.

Serea couldn`t understand it. Why did she react like this? But she didn`t really care, either. She didn`t want to think about it. She wasn`t interested in being psychoanalyzed, especially by herself. She only wanted to sit down. Sit down, and rest. Try to calm herself.

Her nerves were jangled. She couldn`t help it; she hadn`t expected it. There were people who might say that she but, no, she didn`t believe that. She was just tired? And she had a headache. And suddenly, she also wanted to be alone. Desperately, to be alone. But she also wanted someone to talk to. She found a chair, at least, so she got that wish.

Just get through the day. Just get through this stupid hangover. When you wake up tomorrow, you`ll feel better. Like a mantra. Say it over and over again, until you believe it`s true.

There was an old man two seats over. He noticed Serea`s melancholy. Maybe, she thought, he was feeling a little melancholic himself.

"I ran into a traveling salesman," said the man haltingly. "He said he was selling mountaintop property."

Serea looked at him and wiped away some of the wetness around her eyes. "What?" she said, quietly.

The old man met her gaze and smiled. His face was heavily wrinkled, his eyes mere slits with deep, shining pupils underneath. "Iasked him why a salesman would travel around trying to sell property," he continued.

"That`s a good question," Serea admitted. "What did he say?"

"He said that some people are just meant to be in a certain place and when you find those people, and give them the opportunity, well" He shrugged.

Serea sniffed solemnly. "Weird."

"Just trying to make conversation, dear. Are you here visiting someone?"

"No. Yes. No, I mean," Serea spat out, "I mean, yeah, I`m here visiting a friend. But I`m glad for the distraction. Sorry." She lowered her eyes.

"Tough, is it?"

"I suppose. Yes."

"What happened to your friend?" the man asked innocently. Serea looked up at him again. His concern seemed neighbourly and genuine.

"I he, he`s gay, you see," she began, "and some assholes, they"

The man`s smile faded. "Oh. I`m sorry."

"Yeah."

They sat in silence for a moment, both downtrodden.

"Sorry," Serea said at last, "Who are you visiting?"

"A relative," replied the man. "Cancer."

"Wow. I mean it`s hard, I know, when"

"Yes. We have a thousand reasons for failure, but not a single excuse."

Serea watched the floor quietly and tried not to think. She didn`t look at the man, and neither of them said anything further. Only the sounds of the hospital, the clitter and the clatter, other muted conversation, elsewhere

And of course, that terrible hospital odour.

Finally, Wake emerged from the room.

As they walked away, Serea did not look back at the old man.

"Are you alright?" Wake asked as they waited at the elevator.

"Yeah. Sorry. It`s just a headache."

The elevator came, and they stepped inside. There had been no one waiting with them, but there were already a couple of people inside: a young man in a wheelchair, and an older woman holding the chair from behind. Wake pushed the button for the ground floor, despite the fact that the elevator was probably already on the way there.

Serea faced the door and uncomfortably tried to ignore the additional occupants. Wake stood beside her and did likewise.

"What did you tell Roland?"

Wake glanced at her for a moment, then looked away. "I told him that there`s a lot going at work, and you`re pretty stressed out." Serea grunted.

No one said anything. More silence, silence again. Enough silence to last a life time. Serea closed her eyes and tried to forget that were people behind her. But she could hear them breathe. Ding, ding, ding -- the elevator descending floors.

She felt the subtly sickening push on her stomach as the elevator glided to a stop. Ding, the door opened, and they walked out of the silence and into the bustling lobby.

"Wake," said Serea as they walked, "Do you know who said, `A thousand reasons for failure, but not one excuse`?"

"Ah I don`t think so. The Bible? I don`t know. Why?"

"No reason."

Now in the parking lot, they wandered in the direction of the region where Serea hypothesized her car was. It felt good to be out in the open air. It was only mid-afternoon, but the skies were getting dark; they were becoming rather overcast. It certainly looked like it was going to rain. And it was humid. 9960912midity, 84öhance of raining cats and dogs. Something like that.

They walked toward her car, and she pulled the keys out of her pocket. She unlocked the driver`s door with her key, got in, and sat down. Wake`s door unlocked too, so he followed suit.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzat. Serea groaned and quickly turned off the ignition.

Wake grimaced. "Uh oh. What was that?"

"I don`t know," she told him irritably, and tried twisting the keys again.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzatpffffffffff

"ARGH!" Serea pulled her keys out entirely and grasped at the hood release. They both stepped out of the car and walked around to the front.

The engine was covered in a black, sooty stuff. Something definitely seemed burnt. Or frozen. Or zapped. It looked dangerous to touch.

"Do you know anything about cars?" she asked desolately.

Wake shook his head. "Only fission engines."

Serea walked back to the car door, reached inside, and fished her cellular phone from the little compartment between the two front seats. Standing back up, she turned on, and was about to start dialing, but hesitated. Consternated, she turned it off, turned it back on, and tried walking back and forth a few large paces.

"What is it?" inquired Wake.

In response, she tossed him the phone, to take a look at it for himself.

Network down.

"That`s weird," he observed.

"No kidding," she agreed.

"Wait"

"What?"

"The power`s out."

"Huh?"

Wake pointed toward the street. "The streetlights were on a moment ago. Now they`re off."

He was right. She remembered seeing some patio lights on the wall of a pub across the street from the parking lot as she walked out. Now they were dark.

"Fabulous. So we`re stuck," she said dryly.

"It must be one hell of a power outage to bring down the networks. Maybe somewhere in the hospital knows what`s going on" Wake looked back at the building, and then questioningly at Serea.

"Yeah. No. I I`d rather not go back in there," she mumbled. "I just don`t like hospitals. I mean, I thought was fine, but it turns out not. I`ll just wait for you. I think I`ll get something to eat. There`s a pub over there." She gestured over her shoulder.

Wake`s gaze became far more questioning.

"I won`t have anything to drink," she told him defensively.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I`m fine."

Wake didn`t look entirely satisfied, but he also looked like he wasn`t about to start a fight. As he started to move away, he said, "I`ll meet you there in a minute."

"Yeah, sure."

As Serea headed toward the road, her headache started to get worse. Maybe it was the situation that did it. Maybe it was Wake. Goddam Wake. Nice guy, but what a pain in the neck. He wasn`t overt it about it, but Serea could tell what was going on. She wasn`t ignorant, even though she pretended to be.

She almost felt guilty for being so callous about it, but not quite. She refused to apologize, even to herself, for the way she naturally felt. For her natural inclinations. It was her choice, not that of others, to determine the object of her attraction. And in fact, that was no one. So it wasn`t like Wake was really getting the short end of the stick, here. She simply wasn`t interested in that sort of thing anymore.

But that train of thought doesn`t go anywhere pretty. Just derail it.

Ugh, what a day. And she had the creeping, inexorable feeling that it was only going to get worse.

A mountaintop. A desolate mountaintop, a barren plateau. Far away from the world, far away from the town below. No traces of life at all. Save one. A small boy, no more than eight. He sits near the edge of the cliff and watches the remote civilization, so distant, so safe. He likes it here.

A lot if it is blurry. Indistinct images, distorted words, half remembered sounds and sights, broken and garbled voices. A scrapbook of memories accidentally tossed into the washing machine. Evidence of a broken mind, a tortured soul. But some things do stand out. Some things are completely crystal clear -- they can never be forgotten entirely. They can be put aside, sometimes, shoved underneath the floorboards. But they will not be ignored. They push, they pulse, the floor swells, and eventually, one day, the wood shatters -- and it`s all back, all of it. And it`s confusing with context, little more than a dream, really, but that doesn`t matter because
emotions don`t need context. They don`t need anything. They simply are.

This emotion is of loneliness. But a good kind of loneliness, a safe loneliness. A comforting kind of sorrow.

No, no, I don`t want to be alone, I don`t.

But danger doesn`t lurk here. There`s no monsters here because there`s no shadows. In a building, in a house, there are shadows everywhere, and monsters enough to go around. Of course, the emotions of a child are nothing so articulate, but it all works out the same.

Bath-time.

Why would these words invoke such a primal fear? All little kids have baths. When it`s time for a bath, their parents say: "Bath-time. Come on, it`s time for your bath. Come on, Jimmy, Bobby, Susie, Jerry, put down your toys and get in the tub." How could something so innocuous and so plain be so terrifying?

Oh, please god. Not again.

Memories of pain, memories of helplessness. Helplessness to defend yourself from the instruments of violation. These are the worst of all. Because these are the ones you want to think you`ve gotten rid of. And they`re also the ones that diminish the least. They can destroy your life; they`ve destroyed enough already. And if the feeling of impotence, of fear and desperation and betrayal is so intense, it can scar you deeply, far deeper than can ever be healed, than anyone can come even close to healing -- it will leave you broken, shattered, destitute. Almost inhuman. If, for instance, the betrayal comes from your parents -- nuturing, loving, caring, deadly, hateful parents -- then there is very rarely ever, ever, any going back, at all. However, a child can put it so much more succinctly:

I can
still hear it.
Somebody`s crying down the line.
A scream from above.
The door opens, footsteps coming down.
The whispers as he`s dragged away,
"Don`t fight, it`s worse when you fight."
"I wanna go home."


The
bathroom in the basement is tiny. You can`t breathe in there. You think you`re going to suffocate -- almost tight enough to choke -- but there`s nothing you can do. You`re trapped, stuck, pinned out. Those eyes will be with you forever. Those dark, inky, uncaring eyes, deep and cold as a pit. The eyes of your father.

Who wouldn`t want to be alone?
I`m
helpless out here. Don`t leave me.


I`m not
leaving you. I`m right here. And I`m going to help you.
No



That mountaintop. Listen to me. Do you remember that mountaintop? It`s your only chance, now.

STOP!

"It`s not going to stop," said the cloaked man, "until you wise up."

Jerry desperately clutched at his sanity, seized reality and clung to it desperately. The solid against the back the floor, yes, upside down no, lying down on my back, against the floor air -- a room, images, voices, people -- a building a hotel a foyer people, a person, black, a cloak, a cloaked man, people, hostages, a bomb on my back, on the floor, in the foyer, in the hotel, the cloaked man standing over me, holding a staff?

AND RAGE!

He threw himself to his feet in a single, furious motion. The man must have been surprised by the violent action, because he took a jerking step backward just as Jerry went to rip his limbs off.

"STOP!" he commanded, and held out the staff between them. A sizeable fire erupted and burned brightly on the tip of it.

Jerry stopped.

Villainous sorcery! At least I didn`t lose my inner monologue.

"What the hell is that?!"

"What does it look like?" mocked the man. "It`s villainous sorcery."

Jerry took a closer look at the staff. It was an oaken affair, very mysterious looking, the kind of you think one could only assume was crammed full of potent magical powers. Probably something from Aryth. It was thin, and despite appearing to have a smooth finish the wood was bumpy, gnarled and covered with knots. It didn`t touch the ground, but it was still a bit too big to be plausible.

"Where did that thing even come from?"

The man rolled his head a little and exhaled in disgust. "Sorcery. Obviously."

Deus ex machina. A common flaw in these kinds of stories.

"No! You just don`t get it, do you?"

In retort, Jerry took a step forward. They were very close now, but the man stood firm -- and the fire got larger. And hotter. He could feel the heat against his skin, very well, well enough for it to hurt, suddenly. Sweat droplets appeared on his forehead. But rather than back up, he shot his arm out and crazily swung the back of his hand across the middle of the stick. The cloaked man recoiled as it snapped in half, and the flame disappeared. The top half clattered onto the ground several feet away and spun to a stop, as the man regained his footing.

The man looked incredulously at the half still in his hands, then at Jerry, who met his invisible gaze with an unimpressed expression. Then, morosely, he threw the useless piece of wood onto the floor, where it too rattled quickly across the marble tiling.

"Well, great. You broke my staff. Now what are we going to do, punch each other?"

"I`ll punch you," Jerry suggested, "Until you tell me what the hell this is all about."

The man raised his arms to his sides and held out his palms. "A guy kills a few people, the police track him down. Of course, their not-altogether-uncommon bungling shows them their hand before they`re ready, and what should have been a pretty standard takedown becomes a hostage crisis."

"Why haven`t they done anything?"

"It`s still early in the game. They`re waiting for my demands. Or something to that effect."

Suddenly, another voice: "Alright, both of you! Don`t move!"

In unison, they turned toward the corner of the room. It had come from the group of hostages, and there was a man, now, in front of the rest of them, holding a gun. A revolver. He looked to be about middle age, balding, a little chubby, not very tall. He wore a plaid shirt and a terrified, determined expression. He alternated his aim between Jerry and the cloaked man, rapidly, watching them both with a unstably nervous energy. As a person, as an individual, he didn`t seem like a terribly large threat to Jerry, who trusted that the cloaked man shared a similar appraisal.

"Excuse me? We`re trying to have a conversation here," complained Jerry.

"Both of you, stand against the wall! Go!" he shouted. Neither of them moved. Jerry let loose an exasperated growl under his breath.

"What are you, stupid? Why didn`t you do anything before?!"

The man seemed uncertain. "What? What are you talking about?"

"Before! When he wasn`t around?!"

"W... what?"

The cloaked man gestured toward Jerry. "You`ll have to forgive him," he explained, "He`s a product of institutions. Schizophrenia, you see."

Jerry ignored him and tried to gauge the distances involved. Not too far. Not a problem. Throwing caution and patience to the wind, he lunged forward -- and it took a couple of seconds, but the frightened man was in no position to react -- so Jerry struck his outstretched arm, and the gun flew through the air, everyone watching it, to where it landed -- clack, clack -- beside the top piece of the broken staff.

Weapons only complicate things. Real action, the best action, is a matter of pure will; not of gadgets and doohickeys. The bad guys never seem to realize this, and that`s generally how the good guys defeat them. It`s not about superiour numbers, or better equipment, or strategic positioning -- it`s about pure goddam bravado. That, the occasional act of stupid insanity and fate.

Both he and the cloaked man dove for the revolver. Jerry actually hurled himself straight into the floor, but the man, on his feet, was ever-so-slightly faster, and his hand was on the gun just barely before Jerry could touch it. So he did the next best thing: grabbed the stick, and clubbed the man`s knee. He cried out in pain, giving Jerry an additional moment to rise to haunches, from where he swung the stick into the man`s side. The gun fell, again, and this time Jerry was in the better position -- he reached behind him, picked it up, and quickly staggered backwards to hold it up and aim.

The cloaked man, recovered from his beating, looked inquisitively at the firearm pointed at him, and at Jerry. "Do you think you can operate that thing before I do the same thing you just did?"

"Probably. Don`t forget, I`m nuts."

"Fair enough." The man paused. "Well, what are you going to do?"

"I want you to talk."

"At gunpoint?"

"Seems like the best idea," snarled Jerry, holding the gun steadily at his target. "Do you have a better one?"

"Maybe. Look, I have every intention of talking. But it`s important to me that you have every intention of listening." The man seemed earnest suspiciously so.

"Why? What are you so damn keen on telling me?"

"That before the day is out, both Serea and Cor are going to die."

Do you ever get the feeling that you were supposed to be somewhere but you weren`t? That you had a calling but missed it?

Serea didn`t really have an answer to herself. Yet it was accurate enough. She certainly wasn`t interested in work anymore. At the same time, it was too precise. Too exact to describe the breadth, the depth of her emotion, which was hidden under so many layers of illusions, expectations, doubts and rationales. It wasn`t a new feeling, either, and that was the problem. She couldn`t take it anymore. She didn`t want to admit it, but she was crumbling. She needed to escape. She needed a drink.

"A Roan bourbon. Please," she told the bartender. He smiled obligingly. She imagined she looked odd, sour and raw behind the tremendous disparity of her opulent uniform. Though perhaps not an atypical site: a disillusioned career woman.

She put her elbow on the bar and leaned forward, holding her forehead, and tugging unhappily at a bit of her short, crisp red hair. She didn`t notice the man sit down a few stools to the right of her until he spoke up:

"What do you have on tap," he asked the barman. She glanced at him surreptitiously, shielding her gaze with her hand. He was a good-looking man, about her own age, white skin, blonde hair. He seemed pretty typical, except for the black cloak he wore -- but, Serea considered, best not to judge considering her own outfit. Except he also had a black suitcase on the ground beside him, for some reason.

As he negotiated with the bartender, she went back to ignoring him. After they were done with that, her bourbon arrived, and she fished a few coins out of her pocket to cover her debt. With a guilty gaze over her shoulder and out the front window, to make sure Wake wasn`t anywhere in sight, she took a slug of the sharp, acrid substance. The napkin stuck to the bottom of her glass fell off and landed on the bar.

Guilt. That`s my problem. Too much guilt. And for what? For doing what I want? For forgetting a stupid anniversary? Bullshit. Bullshit. I need to start remembering what I need. That needs to come first. I need to ignore all these fucking little insects buzzing around my head, because they`re never going to leave me alone.

"Do you ever get the feeling that you`re not where you`re supposed to be?"

Lost in her reverie, she was surprised by the man`s words. Bemusedly, she turned to face him.

"Cuz I got that feeling," he elaborated, and took a sip of his beer.

She could see now his face was remarkably well-kept, free of any of the wrinkles that were beginning to overtake hers. No dermatological problems whatsoever, in fact. And his eyes, somewhere between blue and gray, seemed soft, though his expression was currently a little hardened. Overall, he appeared thoroughly pleasant. Serea glanced out the window again and then back at the man.

"Yeah, a little," she confessed. Suddenly curious, and as long as he had initiated some sort of conversation, she asked, "Why? What are you doing here?"

"You mean here, in this establishment, or more holistically?"

"You know what I mean."

He patted the top of his suitcase. "I`m a traveling salesman. And I`m guessing you.."

"I`m not actually with the RAF per se," she clarified, "I`m just a technician. A researcher."

"Ah. What do you research?"

"Spacecraft. Mainly the large ones."

"Sound exciting."

"Used to be."

"I guess I can`t ask about the details."

"Afraid not. What do you sell?"

The salesman waved his hand around in the air a little. "You know. Knick knacks. This and that."

"No mountaintop property?" she inquired, half-jokingly, her glass in front of her smirking lips.

He gave an unenthusiastic and perplexed chuckle. "Not so much."

As she started to take another sip, Serea glanced out the window again, and saw Wake emerging from the parking lot.

"Shit!" she grunted, and quickly replaced the glass back onto the bar. The salesman raised a confused eyebrow as she jumped up, and said to the bartender, "Uh, could I get a salad?"

"What kind?"

"Doesn`t matter."

"Uh, nice talking to you," offered the salesman.

"You bet," she told him, and hurried across the bar to a table out of view from the window. She sat down, and within a handful of moments, Wake entered. After scanning the pub, his eyes found her, and he smiled and started over to the table.

"What`s the story?" she asked him as he sat down.

"No one knows just yet," he replied. "But it`s a pretty big outage. Everything`s down. All the networks. And they don`t know when it`ll be back up, either. Of course, the hospital`s running on an emergency backup."

She grunted unappreciatively, unhappily. "At least there`s still daylight," she observed.

"Fading fast."

Through the window, she could see dusk was rapidly approaching. A waitress was walking around, setting up portable lanterns wherever she could find a good spot. As she approached their table, she smiled.

"Hi, can I get you anything?"

"Uh, yeah," Serea said slowly. "I already ordered."

"Oh," chirped the befuddled woman. A look of hesitant comprehension crossed her face. "The salad, right?"

"Yes."

"Could I have a menu?" Wake asked.

"Sure. I`ll be right back," the waitress said, and walked away, while Serea started to remove her uniform`s tunic.

For dinner, Wake had a primavera pasta and Serea had a surprisingly expensive Northtown Salad. He made light conversation and she responded half-heartedly to it. She hadn`t planned on spending such a prolonged period of time alone with Wake and wasn`t really ecstatic about being forced into it by the circumstances. Moreover, she could feel him watching her throughout the meal. Waiting for something. Maybe expecting something, or hoping for something, or watching for something so that he could stop it. Regardless, she didn`t appreciate it. She knew what it meant.

Afterward, as they were finishing up, something inside Wake growled audibly.

He winced, and announced, "I have to go to the bathroom." Leaving his own tunic on the back of his chair, he added, "I might be a few minutes."

"Take your time," Serea advised. He walked off towards the opposite end of the pub, and she continued to pick with her fork at a few leaves of lettuce. After a moment, she looked out the window to her left.

The sun was setting, now, she could tell from the darkly coppered shadow tints of the roadway beyond, and what little she could see of the cityscape behind it. The window faced west, so there was no brilliant display of atmospheric gases aglow. On the other side of the building, though, would be the waterfront.

After settling the food bill with a small pile of cash, Serea stood up, tied her tunic around her waist, and wandered off in the direction Wake had gone. Finding the nook which contained bathroom entrances, she knocked on the Men`s door. "Wake?"

"What? What is it?"

"I`m going to see if I can go around back, check out the lake."

"Okay I`ll join you as soon as I`m done here."

Outside, she discovered that the pub stood over a small hill, and a stone staircase near the door lead down and towards a small parking lot, beyond which lay a pier. Ahead, the golden water unfolded like a great sheet of liquid metal. She walked down, hands thrust in her pockets to protect herself from the chill. Halfway through the asphalt graveyard, the fading sun came into view from behind a row of cars to her left. As she emerged onto the foot of the waterfront, where a few sparse trees slammed into the inhospitable gulf of open space, she saw it splayed out across the sheet of metal -- a blazing hot core that melted iron and spilled it into the gaping
wounds and chasms of the planet. Walking along the pier, she found herself playing with a piece of paper in her pocket. Francesca Theater. A relic
of her failed vacation. She stood close to the edge to better appreciate the view, better feel the brisk, chilly wind.

What happened? What happened to the world? Did it die? Has it been ravaged by some sort of disease? Or is it just me? Am I barren? Have I always been barren? What happened to lying on a bed, simply together, and pronouncing wry cynicisms about society? What happened to being able to cry in the presence of one another? What happened to that special, intangible kind of love, the kind that you makes you feel that terrible, whirling, nauseating joy? I don`t think I`ve ever known it. I feel sick. I`m going to throw up. I`m going to heave and hack and vomit up my innards. I think I`m the kind of person that confuses sickness and love.

Enough. Enough, enough, enough. Why bother. I`m stuck here. I`m not going anywhere. The world is empty and my answers are in outer space or rather, in another dimension or rather -- Amazing. So many breached frontiers and so little found beyond them. So little of what we`re actually looking for. Is outer space a reason to wake up in the morning? Where do you go? What do you do? All the planes have taken off and they`ve left you behind. A life is just so much time to prepare for death.

This time she was not surprised by the familiar voice. "My intuition," it said, "is that you think too much."

Serea briefly turned her head to brusquely observe the salesman as he joined her on the pier. "I`m just watching the sun set."

"I prefer to watch the waves," he replied, sauntering over to the edge to stand beside her. "What an intricate pattern. Millions upon billions of crests and troughs, all interfering. All with their own agenda -- it`s chaos, but somehow very orderly."

"Yes," agreed the scientist in her.

"What`s that?"

"This?" She glanced at the ticket in her hand. "Oh, it`s I was supposed to on a vacation. I bought a ticket I was supposed to go a nice mountain village, alleged to be very beautiful. I`ve never seen the mountains."

"Supposed to? What happened?"

She hesitated, and stifled a groan in her throat. "Complications," she answered calmly, "At work. A big project."

"A big ship?" He continued before she could respond, "No -- I know, you can`t tell me. Let me ask you, though: how attached to that are you?"

"What? This?" She held up the piece of paper incredulously. "It`s just a theater ticket. No refunds allowed. Why would I be attached to it?"

"I`ll buy it from you," offered the salesman.

"What?"

"The things I sell -- I don`t actually sell them. I barter."

"You want to barter for a ticket?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I have my reasons."

"Peculiar reasons, no doubt. Well I guess if you can find someone who will be in Sino next Thursday it might be of some value" She shrugged. "Fair enough. What do I get?"

"What do you want?"

"What do you have?"

"A lot of things."

Serea narrowed an eye in utter skepticism. "I also want a lot of things. How about a boat?"

"That I do not have."

She scoffed. "Well, then"

But the salesman held up a forefinger. "Let me try and guess what you want."

"This ought to be good," she replied, with a subtle roll of her eyes.

He paused, and she watched him watch the lake. For a long while, he said nothing, and she could only hear the lapping of the waves against the pier, combined with the distant metallic honks and smoky belches of the city behind them. Serea felt herself being calmed by the gentle silence, and she abruptly realized that she appreciated the company. Then, he spoke again, but didn`t look at her.

"Why aren`t you wearing the rest of your uniform, in this kind of weather?" he asked.

"RAF uniforms are notoriously uncomfortable."

"Is that it?"

She hesitated. "I guess I also like the cold air."

"Because its numbing?"

"I guess you could put it that way." Suddenly she felt uncomfortable, and looked away.

"Perhaps," he considered, "It is not a matter of what you want but of what you need. I think you want what everyone wants. A constant reminder of why life is worth living. A reminder of how to love, maybe. However..."

For a very long moment after she felt him push her forward, she found herself trapped in that horrible instant of flight. The push was nothing more than a sensation, a memory in her lower back, of a sudden, unexplained pressure. But far more powerful than a simple thrust was that particular impression of weightlessness and impending doom: that bizarre feeling of knowing what`s coming, disbelievingly, stupidly, but the simultaneous conviction there will be an eternity before it happens. An eternity that doesn`t last. The liquid metal reached up to swallow her; she could almost feel her heart stop as she touched its frigid innards.

The white rabbit was dead.

It was more than dead. It was hideous, and flat, and mangled. It was barely even a rabbit at all. It was an ornament, a prop, a practical joke, an illusion. Nonetheless, it had hopped along over the cold asphalt, how long ago -- days? Hours? Amazingly, there was no blood. But, when Cor looked close enough, he saw its innards, splayed out in the nooks and crannies; and then he stopped looking closely, to appease his stomach. The rabbit was a street performer. Its trick was reminding passersby of their own mortality.

A subtle lesson. Cor had never seen road kill before. The streets near his house were not particularly busy, nor were they well frequented by animals. Seeing this rabbit, now, he was not quite sure how to react but it certainly didn`t fill him with joy. What he could not figure out was the creature`s logistics. It was very near the curb. So near, in fact, that it didn`t make sense for the wheels of a car to be that far over. Would someone go out of their way to run over a rabbit?

As he continued to walk down the sidewalk, he saw a father and his two sons cross the road. They were both younger than him, just little kids, but old enough to be articulately willful, so that when they came near the rabbit they both sneered at it. "Ha, ha," said one of them, pointing.

What had happened to Daddy? Failing him, couldn`t Mummy have come? What in the world was the problem? Cor couldn`t fathom the reasons and he tried not to think about it. He tried to concentrate on getting to where Dad`s friend had told him to go. Without much explanation. The theater. It didn`t make much sense, but Cor didn`t know what else to do.

Making matters worse was the fact that he had no idea where he was. It was all alien to him -- the streets, the buildings. The only thing he could do was follow the directions give to him. Walk straight. He had done so for twenty minutes, as the road from the school led out into an area of small homes and smaller urban plazas. Small coniferous trees had, at regular distances, dotted the roadside. After that, the houses began to disappear. There were more stores, and less trees. The sidewalks became dirty and there was a lot of garbage everywhere. Fifteen minutes later and distinct buildings gave way entirely to seemingly endless blocks of shops wedged together with barely ever any space between. There were a lot more cars, and almost no trees at all, except tall ones in the background beyond some of the block-buildings. Now even those were gone. He knew he was downtown. Which was both exciting and scary, and if circumstances had been different, he might
have been enjoyed it; but he was, in fact, fundamentally lost and confused.

He kept walking. It was easy enough. He was not an entirely stupid kid and knew how to follow instructions and mind his own business. People walked him, ignored him, ignored each other, except for the occasional secretive and fleeting turn of the eyes. They seemed to go about their business with more purpose then Cor. They seemed to be going somewhere, to something, or someone. Cor had a destination, but he didn`t really know what he was doing, and he tried not to dwell on it. He just kept walking.

Except, suddenly the sidewalk came to an end. Or rather, it was blocked -- there was a wooden barrier, and beyond it, the ground had been torn up. Cor saw all kinds of holes, materials and structures that he wouldn`t have imagined could have been underneath something as simple as a stone pathway. And this meant he had to cross the street. So, with some trepidation, he approached the road. Looking to the right, he saw it was clear, and the traffic light just beyond was red. To his left a car was parked by the curb, but from what he could observe it seemed alright to go. He stepped out, remembering the rabbit.

SKREEEEEEEEEK!

The car horn nearly jolted him out of his skin. Dumbly, he let his momentum carry him and he followed forward, rather then back, past the path of the vehicle -- WHOOSH -- it passed by him, hitting his back with a gust of cold air. He stood petrified, for a moment, in the middle of the four lanes. Then he took another couple of steps, and --

This time the car came from his right, and he didn`t have time to figure out where it came from. It honked as well, and he jumped forward again, terrified, directly into the path of more traffic -- another angry, belching SKREEK -- he lurched backward, narrowly surviving, only to find yet more livid metal creatures bearing down on him, and he jumped forward, and forward again, where he tripped on the opposite curb, where are the breath he had been holding up poured out of his lungs as he tipped over --

The bicycle dodged and missed him by a hair`s breadth, and when the man atop it had recovered, he turned his head and yelled, "Watch it, kid!"

Cor watched the concrete, because his face was planted in it. Slowly, he turned over, sat up, and rubbed his sore forehead. Finally he stood, gnashing his teeth in impotent humiliation.

That was stupid. That didn`t need to happen. What the hell was I doing?

Around him, lights were beginning to turn on. The streetlights nearby came to life and began to emit their mild, carcinogenic buzz. Wind blew through the street, kicking up dust and plastic wrappers, and car fumes sputtered in and out of his ears. Far away there was the sound of bells and elated shouts. A man walked by, smoking a cigarette. Cor continued on his way.

Where am I going? What am I doing?

Maybe this wasn`t just such a good idea.

Well, duh. But...

There was something itching at the back of Cor`s head. Not on it, but inside -- a bizarre, hot tingling that he didn`t know how to interpret. It was very faint, and it came and went, but once he noticed it, he couldn`t put it out of his mind. He felt like he was trying to remember something, or maybe like someone was trying to tell him something. But whatever that was, it was remote and vague, like a dream. There were no words in this sensation.

"Hi, there."

Cor turned around. He had almost walked by a smiling woman standing the street corner. She was old, but not nearly as old as his parents, and she wore nice clothing. She also held some kind of stack of paper in one of hands. Her greeting was warm and Cor thought that he didn`t have much to fear.

"Hi."

"What are you doing alone out here?" she asked earnestly.

Is it really that odd for someone my age to be walking around the city on their own?

"I`m, uh, going to meet my parents," he said.

"Ah, well, want a pamphlet?" She held out one of pieces of paper. He could see now that it was, indeed, some sort of folded flyer.

"Huh?"

"It`s good reading," she promised.

He took the pamphlet and smiled nervously. It was smooth and glossy to the touch. "Uh, thanks," he muttered, and turned away to resume his journey.

Weird.

While he walked, he took a look at the brochure in his hand. In thick black letters on a white background, it said, Rainere Loves All Her Children. Below this was a stylized logo based on the Mana Tree and a number of orbs, as well the words: Tasnican Raineric Church. Cor was of course familiar with the existence of Rainericism, but, as his parents were not converts, he didn`t know much about the details. Curious, he opened to the first page.

Rainere Loves All Her Children

Rainere loves everyone, young and old. As the patron deity of Tasnica, She cares deeply for the welfare of its inhabitants. By Her word, Her church works to better the life of Tasnicans everywhere, however it can. All sales that the church collects go towards charitable causes, and many men and women have had their lives saved, by the blessing of Rainere. However, even as She helps us, She reminds us that the betterment of our world is not merely a question of divine influence, but one of initiative, and enterprise, and our own will to succeed and understand. The greatest gift of Her love is our own empowerment: We must seek to guide our own society towards our own vision of utopia. The first step towards this end is a comprehension of the world we live in.

Cor heard music approaching -- or rather, he heard himself approaching music, which he found to be emanating from a music store just in front of him, and the speakers mounted high up on its wall, beside the store`s large, red neon sign. The acoustics in the open air weren`t so great, or else the speakers were inferiour, because the music sounded tinny. It had a nice rhythm and melody, though, and despite not having enough knowledge to classify it, he enjoyed it.  

Do you realize? it asked, then again, Do you realize?

Understanding Ourselves

From birth, we are taught how to be dependent on others. However, any rational person knows that we cannot wander blindly through life, always expecting others to pick up our slack. To survive, one must enter the universe around us of one`s own accord, on one`s own terms, and seek its meaning as an individual entity. We all learn many lessons growing up, and these are essential to our success in this life. Everyone desires to be a self-made man or woman. Nevertheless, we are not always so eager to...

Cor was interrupted by a loud sound in front of him. He looked up with a start to see two dogs on the sidewalk, one of them barking, in his way. The music was still audible behind him, Do you realize

The dog was barking, and Cor was suddenly flustered. It was a large creature, brown and black, with short hair. He wasn`t sure what the species was called. The other one was smaller and lighter and shaggier. However, they were both threatening. Both of them had leashes around their necks, but they only trailed off onto the ground, tied to nothing. And they seemed angry about something, though Cor for the life of him couldn`t understand what. He backed away carefully, trying not to make eye contact, or do anything at all really, except get the hell out of there. Others near him on the sidewalk looked, but no one said or did anything, or even stopped walking. The larger dog stopped barking, but matched Cor`s paces, and began to growl.  

Suddenly panic seized him, and he span on his heels and ran. He could hear one or both of the dogs behind him. His mind reeled limply and offered no assistance, except a frantic request to keep going. Desperately he expected someone to come to his aid, but nothing of the sort happened, and he could only keep running, now turning a corner at the end of the block. His inertia almost sent him flying headfirst onto the road, but he managed to pivot on a single foot and launch himself down the new sidewalk. Why won`t anyone help me?

His eyes searched in a frenzy for some sort of escape. They found nothing, only more buildings, useless uniform brick walls, except -- a fence, a chain link fence, coming up on his right. He jumped and grabbed the top of it, his feet working like mad to find purchase amidst the metal and shove him over to the other side -- which they found, and he did shove, to the sound of urgent barking just below him -- as he fell, the bottom of his shirt got caught on a piece of wire from the links, and a great rip went through it. But sitting up quickly, he realized he was safe. The dogs could not jump the fence, only harmlessly against it. Still, Cor pulled himself off the ground and moved away from the sputtering animals, as the rushing blood and adrenaline faded from his head. He was grateful to be alive.

He was now in a back alley, and from the muffled sounds beyond, he realized he was behind the music store. It was gross and dark and grimy back there, so he walked towards the other end of the alley, where another fence, without dogs, led to a brightly lit path. Futilely, he examined the tear in his sweater. It was fairly large, and he wasn`t wearing anything underneath. But there was nothing he could do. Great.

Before climbing the fence, so much more calmly this time, he noticed he was still carrying the pamphlet on Rainericism. He shoved it in a pocket, and once on the other side, pulled it back out. It was open to where he had left off.

...
is a choice, just as happiness
is a choice, whereas every child knows that loneliness is...


He was no longer interested in reading it.

As he emerged back onto Church Street, he could hear the music more clearly, and he realized the same song was playing Do you realize? Do you realize?

Do you realize?

That everyone you know, someday will die.

Cor crumpled up the pamphlet and tossed it in a recycling bin that he passed. The evening was coming upon the city, now, and the nightlife was emerging. More people began to fill the streets, walking, chatting, laughing, wandering through their own pocket of reality. Cor, meanwhile, remained alone. He refused to let himself cry.

Underwater, you can hear what it sounds like to die. This is the moment of shock. This is the moment that your body doesn`t know how to interpret. It is a moment of pure, silent noise, and it is a universe unto itself. It`s another dimension. It`s the emptiness of non-creation -- this is the sensation that existed before time and space were conceived.

For an instant she didn`t have a name. For that instant, she had never existed. She was only a myth -- the dream of some soul lost in purgatory. Then the torn edges came back together and convulsed violently -- her body thrashed, screamed out in terror and confusion. Molecules of embryonic ice tore her skin, spread like a cancer, clutched her wildly twitching heart. The water coated her like a tomb, destroying her, plunging her lungs into a throbbing spasm. There was no bottom.

The feral, uncontrollable thrashing of her body became a desperately coordinated attempt at survival. Somehow, she rose, upwards, through the tunnel of stabbing knives, upwards, for too long, until something broke -- the tunnel crashed wide open and she fell into air, stillborn and newborn from the womb of death. Only then did she remember who she was.

Serea splashed helplessly on the surface of the gently bobbing waters, as she realized that she was still alive. The water was cold, and it scraped against her like sandpaper, but she would survive. Liquid metal no more, she grasped herself as part of a great gulf, floating in an undiscovered world far beneath civilization. The water around her was gloriously orange in the wake of the dimming sun, and the colour bounced on ripples through a straight, uninterrupted path towards the horizon.

She perceived a helping hand held down in front of her -- so she seized it, and it pulled her upwards with surprising strength. She clutched the wooden edge of the pier and pulled herself up over it, her body heavy with fluid, exhaustion and relief. Once upon the ground, she lay still and did not move, save for a continuous, involuntary shivering that racked her body and made her feel invigorated and broken. Far overhead, the thick cloud cover, heavy with snow was a deep purple gradient.

"What the fuck," she managed.

"Here," said the salesman, holding a large black towel over her, "Dry yourself off."

"What the fuck?" she repeated as she grabbed the towel, letting it fall down onto her shuddering body.

"How do you feel?"

She grabbed the towel and rolled over so that it wrapped it around her. "What the fuck, what the fuck?" she reiterated, and attempted to sit up. As she did so, she realized that she was wrapped in the salesman`s black cloak.

"Okay. But how you feel?"

Serea looked at him. He was wearing a black suit, now, and he crouched beside her with an upsettingly genuine smile on his face. She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders and tried to repress the shivering, brought her knees up and hugged them tightly against her chest.

"I feel like you just pushed me into a fucking five degree lake," she told him.

"Does it feel like being alive?"

She stared at him incredulously, but he just returned the gaze calmly. Then, quickly, she turned aside. Filled with adrenaline, filled with terrible anger and joy at the warmth now returning to her body, she didn`t know how to respond. She clenched her teeth and suddenly, the shivering was inexplicably pleasurable.

"Go away," she commanded him quietly.

"I will." She heard him rise to his feet, take a step away, and then another back. "But this is for you."

She looked back and saw a small bundle swathed in black cloth before her. "What?"

"In exchange," He leaned down and put it down on the pier at her side. She didn`t look at his face, only his hands and the bundle. "For the ticket," he clarified. "Don`t use it unless you choose to. That`s vital. You must choose to use it." After a moment`s hesitation, he turned, and started to walk away. "And get yourself someplace," he added. "You don`t want to die of hypothermia."

Quivering and quaking, she watched him walk away without looking back, through the parking lot, and up the stairs. Once he was out of sight, she looked back at the bundle on the ground beside her. Cautiously but curiously, she pulled out her arm from underneath the tight covering of the cloak and extended it towards her purchase. As corners of the cloth were pulled aside, it revealed to her, bit by bit, polished metal and wood.

She sat there in silence and motionlessly examined the revolver that was now hers. The first few shiny white snowflakes of the night drifted into sight and melted on the immaculate black fabric beneath it.

The nightlife could not sustain itself. People began to disappear from the streets. There were far less people, now, laughing, chatting, walking. Pockets of reality seemed to be getting cut down in large swathes. Cor heard a number of hushed and bewildered tones as he wandered past the men and women he was pretending not to observe. Something was not quite right. But he couldn`t tell quite what, and it didn`t really sound like anyone knew exactly what was happening. Yet there was something in the air.

Cor literally found himself at a crossroads. Ahead of him, Church Street was apparently inaccessible. Pylons blocked the intersection, and a police car was parked behind them. Beyond that, he couldn`t make out what was happening, but it was pretty clear that cars were not meant to pass. The relevant question, however, was whether or not he could. It might in fact be possible to find the police officer whose car this was, somewhere down the road, and ask him to get in touch with Daddy. This would, specifically, seemingly, be a very prudent course of action. It would be the smart, knowledgeable, wise thing to do.

The street was empty past the blockade. A number of people were gathered nearby, trying to peer at the indistinct forms in the distance and figure out what the big deal was. Everyone stood behind the pylons, leading Cor to the impression that no one at all was meant to be on the other side.

"What`s going on?" he heard someone say.

"An accident."

"No, it`s that warning message"

"You don`t know what you`re talking about."

"I bet it`s related."

"Something weird is definitely going on."

Cor departed from the intersection, heading to the left.

One road was like another. Everywhere it was the same. Walls and stores, doors and windows, lights and garbage cans and garbage and newspapers and parking meters and NO PARKING signs, FIVE MINUTE UNLOADING ZONE signs, BUS STOP signs. People and bricks and concrete and tarmac and the odour of stale smoke. Old men, young women, wearing jackets and hats and scarfs and skirts, carrying purses and satches and briefcases and brown paper bags. The air, full of food and exhaust fumes and salt. He couldn`t separate them. He was walking through the belly of some enormous beast, but a beast so large and foreign that its threats were difficult to recognize as anything more than another confusing phenomenon amidst a seemingly endless series. Dogs and cars and music and pamphlets on Rainericism.

He was lost in more ways than one. Physically, no doubt. But in addition to that, his mind was beginning to take peculiar detours. His reactions perplexed him. It was probably nothing more than emotional exhaustion. He did feel tired, or maybe intoxicated. There was nothing to compare it to -- he had most definitely never been even somewhat drunk. Even so, he felt unquestionably different. Not happy. Not glad to be miserable and stranded in the heart of Sino. Just different.

This particular road, actually, was starting to become rather quiet. There were almost no people, and many of the shops about him were unlit. Occasionally he spotted someone leaning against a wall, or walking by furtively, but they all kept quiet and clandestine. Cor knew that he only had to head down to the next intersection, hang a right, and take the new route up to Elm instead of sticking to Church. It seemed perfectly reasonable and he had no reason to doubt the soundness of his geometry.

His hands were shoved in his pockets. His feet hurt and his backpack was beginning to feel very heavy. All that, and he couldn`t shake the strange fog drifting through his head. Either he couldn`t think clearly, or he was thinking altogether too clearly. It was difficult to tell. And that was a strange enough thought in of itself.

Keep going, keep going. Despite his drooping eyelids. He had been walking for so long, now. How long? An hour, maybe? Long enough. He wanted to be done with it. He wanted to fall over and sleep in a quiet, dark alley. He would dream nightmares, to be sure, and wake into another nightmare, but at least it would be an escape, a chance to forget this impossible, ridiculous crawl. Despite his frustration, though, it was abundantly clear that there could be no turning back, now. He would have to see this journey to its end. And, he admitted to himself, he wanted to. This was an escape, and though not what he had bargained for, it was worth exploring
to its limits. This was his field trip.

It was a trip he could only experience with the company of his own self. The road became completely barren and hushed as he came to the end of the block, and he discovered that this was because the buildings ceded the land to a small park on the other side of the junction in front of him. He could only scarcely recognize it as a park, because beyond the outer perimeter of greenery, lit by the streetlamps, there was nothing but pitch blackness. There was a clear implication of a park, to be sure -- there did seem to be paths and trees and bushes -- but to Cor it was nothing more than a jumble of grays and black. And the stillness emanating from it was for more intimidating than the silence of the road he had just walked down. This was a heavily loaded stillness, a thick blanket of quiet, so much so that it reached
out, past its borders, and plastered the blank, unassuming brick wall that Cor walked along the side of. This wall did not seem to belong to a building. It was empty and uniform and lifeless. Very soon it stopped, and there was nothing but unlit back lots, full of dumpsters of gravel. The streetlights offered little solace. They seemed only to illuminate the horrible solitude of the path he had chosen to follow. Suddenly, he was in a world of shadows.

He tried not to linger on these sorts of thoughts, but he thought he could hear some sort of hooting off to the left, from within the foreboding park. It was hardly noticeable, but it clung to his ears until he was sure that he could hear it. Or at least that he had heard it. It was difficult to tell. But he couldn`t shake the feeling that there was something out there, something watching him, something in the dark, soundless night. Soundless except for his own, echoing footsteps.

There. He froze. The sound. Not a hooting, but a shrieking. A high-pitched, inhuman sound. It was definitely coming from the park, though he couldn`t tell how distant was. It was a bizarre noise and he didn`t know what to make of it, except to be nervous. There, again. Keep going, just keep going. Don`t think about it. Don`t concentrate on it. What is it? It doesn`t matter. It won`t bother you. Shut your ears.

Oh, god. Someone`s screaming. Keep going. It sounds like a baby -- oh god, it`s a screaming baby. Or a little girl. Keep going, keep going! The sound reverberated off a metal trash bin to his left and he almost jumped, but instead squeezed his eyes shut and let his feet carry him onward. Keep going, keep going!

He opened his eyes and something flitted across his peripheral vision, off to his other side, now, off in a back lot, which made him wish he hadn`t. This time, he did jump, and stopped again, unable to move. Something was moving rapidly around him in a circle. There were more noises, footsteps, and every time he turned his head he spotted only a glimpse of something escaping out of his sight. His eyes widened and his heart beat rapidly, sharpening his senses to a surreal degree, every fragment of him devoted to this single moment with pinprick intensity. But still, only glimpses. And shrieking.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEE...

Cor spun round in terror towards the racket and spotted its source only just in time to see the enormous blot of shadow and metal soar through the air, impossibly past him, down the road. It came with another sound, which his mind registered only a split-second later -- a terrible metallic crunching sound, compressed into a single moment, and then that horrible mid-flight silence -- and now his senses caught up with another, and he saw the car spin in midair, and, shattering the silence, crash into the ground, this time to an extended cacophony of grinding steel and shattering glass, as it rolled over on itself, and finally came to a rest, upside down, just a short ways down.

(CRUNCH -- NOTHING, WHOOSH -- SMASH, CRASH, SMASHSMASHSMASH NOTHING)

In his lagging mind, he thought he saw a man in the driver`s seat, and a woman beside him, sailing by. For an absurdly brief moment, their eyes locked. Then Cor remained motionless, and so did the car. Once again, there was nothing but that painful nothingness. Then he took off in a sprint towards it.

Crunch, crunch. He felt the roughness of shards of broken glass underneath his shoes, but didn`t care. He ran to the mangled car, and stood just behind its rear bumper. Only one end of it was still attached to the car. At eyelevel, the wheels spun uselessly. Something in him was compelled to act. Only, he wasn`t sure what to do.

Then, to make matters worse, the foreboding in the air suddenly manifested itself. Wailing -- screeching -- a high-pitched mechanical battle cry. Loud, terrible horns from all sides of him at once, from everywhere, from inside his head. Lost and frenetic, he ran to the side of the car, and knelt down. Inside, he saw the man contorted at an unthinkable angle, the insides of the vehicle a completely indecipherable wreckage. The man was alive, he could tell, as eye contact was made. But he was gasping heavily, and there was a lot of human blood mixed with the car`s.

"Don`t worry," Cor said breathlessly, convincing himself as much as the man, and struggling to be heard over the din of the sirens. "I`m going to get help."

"No, no... " The driver looked at him imploringly. "Get out of here. Get out of here."

Cor stared at him, as his besieged consciousness filtered the words. He continued to stare at him. But then his stillborn terror surged back to the front of his mind, and rose, feeding voraciously on the terrible sight in front of him. It tore him open mercilessly and he fell back on his hands, into which tiny pieces of glass embedded themselves. His insides screaming, he pushed himself up and turned around quickly. Without looking back, he started to run, through the dim glow of the menacing streetlights, which no longer provided any protection from the darkness beyond. He ran, and he felt the sobs come, great racking things, and tears streaking down his face -- and he didn`t think to stop him, because he knew now that all was lost, and there was no escaping it.

"There is a commonly documented belief that schizophrenics share. They believe that they have a higher calling. Often the   feel that they will save all of Mana. Or all of Esper, or Gate, or Crystal, or Dragon. You see, this is pandemic to sufferers everywhere. And it is generally written off as a product of insanity. Which is fair enough. But let`s be honest: nine times out of ten, the medics of the Web don`t have the information necessary to make that kind of extraordinarily vital call. Madness seems like a manifest phenomenon, but the mortal mind is as delicate a beast as the fabric of reality itself.

"We know that fate exists. If an individual could feelhis fate, mightn`t this affect him deeply? Certainly it would be confusing. This individual might be particularly sensitive to the force of fate, in general and this might lead him to be aware of the fates of others, as well. Particularly if they were tied to his. Make sense?"

"No. Yes. I mean, I guess. Dammit!" Jerry clutched his hair and pulled at his scalp with his free hand. "I can`t think!"

"That`s because you have to concentrate on figuring out whether or not to shoot me."

"It would easier," he growled without moving, "If you would just answer questions normally."

"Ah. A pedant."

"These people -- you`re saying that they`re real?"

"Precisely."

"No, no" Jerry`s shoulders started to tremor tensely, though the gun stayed steady, and his eyebrow twitched once, spasmodically.

"Do you think I`m the kind of person who would play games?"

"YES."

"About something this important!? This isn`t the same as a round of tag. I am telling you, I am trying to educate you, this is vital..."

"Then tell me who you are!"

"Just," said the man in the cloak, "A traveling salesman."

"That`s it?!"

"Of course not!"

"Then keep going!"

"I`m trying to!" The salesman sweeped a furious hand through the air. "My God, Jerry, life is not a story. The answers aren`t easily packaged and delivered with dry wit. They are long, they are slow, and they are difficult."

"I know!"

"Do you!? Do you actually know? Or, rather, do you believe? Do your convictions reflect reality?"

"I don`t know! I`m nuts, remember!?"

"You`re not nuts. You`re merely unique but I guess it`s kind of the same thing, isn`t it?"

"Shut up." Jerry`s arms convulsed and the gun shook threateningly. "How are they going to die?"

"Are you convinced?"

"How!?"

"Painlessly."

"What about the mountaintop!? You told me" He quivered and stumbled over his words. "Back in Sino, you" His arms fell and he pressed a palm against the side of his face. "Dammit" He raised the gun again before the salesman could move. "How did you get inside my mind?!"

"Not inside your mind -- I told you! But, yes -- it`s related to my trade."

"As a salesman."

"Yes."

"What the hell do you sell?"

"Knick..." the salesman interrupted himself with a sigh of exasperation. "Look, we don`t have time for this. There are many poorly trained police officers outside and they haven`t heard a peep from me. Eventually they`re going to have to take action."

"So what?" Jerry demanded. "What`s in the suitcase?"

"My wares, obviously."

Jerry lowered his threatening brow and moved guardedly towards the suitcase, which stood upright halfway between the salesman and the group of hostages. He watched them out of the corner of his eye as he moved towards it; they looked understandably frightened and befuddled. Mainly they just sat and watched transfixed as this bizarre drama unfolded before them.

"Your stubbornness," complained the salesman, "is putting me behind schedule." Jerry ignored him.

Still keeping his weapon aloft, and a wary eye on the salesman, who merely observed, he crouched down and pulled the two latches which held it shut. It fell open lazily, and he swung it around in front of him to look inside. Inside, bizarrely, was nothing more than: a single, lonely pair of small safety scissors with an orange handle. Within that seemingly cavernous space.

For that brief moment, Jerry was off-guard, and at the moment, the thunder struck, deafening everyone for that terrifying split-second -- which the salesman used to rush forward and try to slap the gun out of Jerry`s hand. Jerry blocked his first attempt with his other arm, but the salesman quickly followed with a downwards swing from his own backup, and the gun fell into the suitcase, which the salesman kicked away in quick succession.

Jerry leapt savagely forward, wielding scissors instead.

I`ve known Serea and Cor for as long as I can remember. The professionals have told me they were nothing more than the figments of a diseased imagination. I wouldn`t know. I don`t really trust professionals. There`s too much corruption in that world. These two people -- I don`t understand exactly where they come from, or precisely who they are. But in my dreams, asleep or waking or neither, when I meet them, they seem a lot like old friends. So that`s what they are. Sometimes I forget, like I forget everything from time to time. Often, I don`t even remember what they look like. But I know them. And I know that if someone told me they were in danger -- real or not -- I would do everything in my power to protect them.

The sirens continued to blare, blotting out all other concerns, but before long, Cor started to realize that he was still alive.

He was, in fact, back on a well lit, completely urban street. Surrounded by some sort of life, he felt comforted, and the tears subsided. He only sniffed forlornly, now, as he wandered about. It was not the kind of life it should have been. It was a desolate husk of a life, the pleasant countenance of a dying animal. The streets were almost completely empty, where before they were bustling. Cor was able to move off the sidewalk and move right amongst them, and amongst the handful of empty cars that had been abandoned, quite disturbingly. People ran to and fro, here and there. They all seemed in a hurry to get somewhere, or away from something. But the sky was clear, and the ground was still. It was only the sirens that told anyone anything was wrong. Or so Cor imagined.

If the city half an hour earlier had been a wonderland, it was now a dream world. Everything remained the same, except for the lack of participants in it. It was like a deserted amusement park, after it closed and the guests were gone -- gaudy lights and signs, an entire apparatus of neon civilization, working of its own accord, not aware that its masters had long since departed for whereabouts unknown. It was a great, flashing, buzzing,humming automaton without anyone at the wheel. Cor was as entranced as he was bleakly frightened.

"Left over from the war," someone was saying. "Such a bore."

He stepped back to the sidewalk, where an old, disheveled man was sitting cross-legged, his back against the wall. His clothes were an odd and conflicting assortment of colours, and they were as dirty as his face and hair. Another, cleaner and younger man, was sitting on a small wooden box, listening to the old fogey`s words.

"From the terrorists, you understand. Great signals of impending doom! Bah. Fah. All that old duck and cover nonsense. Bullocks and lox!" He pounded a fist against his open palm for emphasis.

As Cor came closer, he noticed that a transparent plastic cup full of coins sat on the ground in front of the old man. Either the two of them noticed him or they didn`t, but neither responded to his presence. It seemed pretty obvious what the cup was for, though Cor had never seen a homeless person. Probably the man didn`t think that a kid like him could possibly have any currency to contribute, but nonetheless, Cor reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change, and dropped it into the cup to the sound of little metallic clink.

The bum looked up at him, and frowned. "What exactly is your agenda?"

"I -- I just was wondering if you knew what`s going on," Cor said innocently, slightly put off. The younger man looked at him with a guarded, probing expression.

"Ah. A curiosity seeker," declared the bum. "Perhaps you will find this curious: I was once a jester, a fellow of many unearthly delights who cavorted with the high rollers in a great casino in the sky." He laughed. "My occupation hasn`t changed much."

"Ay, Great Rainere!" the younger man berated him in a thick accent. "Just answer the bloody kid`s bloody question."

The bum shrugged. "Something about the end of the world," he told Cor.

"What`s that mean?"

"I don`t know."

"You don`t know?"

"I am but a messenger, a vessel. I speak only the words passed down to me by the great Storyteller. Ah, but that`s the rub, isn`t it? Aren`t we each of us mere helpless puppets to that saboteur of souls, that odious defiler of destiny? The Ancients called him Circumstance, and those from the distant future call him variously by the names of Happenstance and Flashdance. Men, you see, at times are masters of their fate. But not often."

"Gad, you`re so full of it, you old fart," complained the younger man. "What is all that nonsense?"

"It`s a soliloquy, you stupid, ignorant, man!"

"Fuckin` ay! You`re just talking out of your arse."

Cor ignored them. He was distracted by something else -- a familiar voice, soft but recognizable. He couldn`t quite place it, but knew it was coming from down the street. He wandered away from the two men, leaving them to bicker uselessly in peace. The voice grew louder as he moved, and he scanned the environs for some indication of where, precisely, its source was. The wailing of the sirens dominated, so it was a fairly difficult task, but by now it was basically just a background noise, so he eventually traced the voice to an alley on the same side of the street, halfway down the block. At the same time, it dawned on him who the voice belonged to, and his stomach dropped. For a moment he very seriously considered turning around and fleeing, but some bizarre feeling of confidence got the better of him and he edged up close to the wall just outside the alley, to listen.

"Come on, where ya going?" the boy said, with an audible swagger in his voice.

This boy was the same one as earlier. One of the schoolyard bullies -- the leader of them, the one who had spoken first. And from the sound of it, one of his buddies was with him, though he didn`t sound nearly as sure of himself.

"Come on," the other, repeated simply.

Of course, Cor couldn`t see them, but it was pretty clear they were talking to someone else in the alley. It was furthermore pretty clear, from the lecherous tone in the leader`s voice, that they were acting threateningly to this person. He didn`t really want to risk a look, but he didn`t need to, because the third person spoke.

"Fuck off. Just get out of the way." It was a woman. She sounded impatient and more than a little anxious. "Look, you can hear the sirens. Do you want to die?"

"Who`s gonna kill us? There`s no one around. Everyone`s gone all nuts," snickered the leader.

"Are you actually this stupid!?"

"Hey, hello!? Anybody home? There`s no one around but us."

All of a sudden, Cor felt the rage in him well up. Familiar rage. And it rose higher, this time, until he couldn`t take it, until it burned the back of his eyes. In a daze, he looked for something, anything -- just to his right, he found a small brown empty bottle that had not quite made it into a recycling bin. Swiftly he picked it up, then resumed his position against the wall. Breathing rapidly, he stole a quick glance around the corner and took a quick mental snapshot of the scene in the alley. Both boys had their backs to the street, while the girl beyond was not much larger than Cor himself. Then he stood there motionlessly, and tried to maintain a grip on his
wits. He exhaled deeply, and counted to three. The burning behind his eyes only rose, feeding on itself, and on that terrible knowledge that he was about to do
something tremendously, tremendously dangerous and stupid. He tried stopping himself, but it was impossible. His mind was already in motion and he could not
stop the mounting crest of insanity that raged so hotly. So rather than try to contain it any longer, in a monumental fit of spontaneity and idiocy, he dived around the corner, swinging the bottle as he went, and shouting like a feral warrior.

He brought the bottle crashing down upon the second boy`s shoulder, and he convulsed and doubled over from the unexpected pain. The girl, recognizing her chance, kicked him in the stomach vehemently, and he fell to the ground, gasping for air. Meanwhile, the leader was caught up in a momentary bout of indecision, seeing new threats on either side of him, and not knowing which to respond to first. It didn`t last long -- as he looked at Cor, recognition seemed to come across his face, and the startling assault was revealed for the act of personal vengeance it was. Cor realized very vividly that it was time to get the hell out of there.

So he turned and flew out of the alley, faster than he believed possible. From behind him came the raging battle cry: "YOU FUCKING BRAT!"

Wind whipped by him as his feet soared through the air like birds. The scenery around him was a blur, matching perfectly the ubiquitous siren wail. He realized that if his backpack was not impeding his motions, he could run even faster. But leaving his possessions to the whim of a bully would not do. So he continued to pump his legs, even as they started to burn.

He had never moved this fast before, never been motivated by this magnitude of survival instinct. But more than instinct, he found he was exhilarated -- not just terrified, but actually enlivened, filled with some kind of suicidal rush. It was amazing. He loved it. He also understood that his lungs were screaming in protest and he was probably going to really and truly be beaten straight into the pavement if he didn`t do something about the situation fast.

A solution presented itself. A preposterous solution, but an answer nonetheless. At the corner just ahead, a car was making a right turn, towards him. He wasn`t sure how far the bully was behind him, but he knew that he had to take a chance. So as he approached the car he waved frantically at the driver, who rolled down the window in puzzlement, and Cor slowed down enough to slide onto the back of the car.

"DRIVE OR I`M DEAD!" he shouted.

The man in the car seemed to get a pretty good idea of what was happening when he saw the bully running furiously towards them. He quickly stepped on the gas, and Cor held on with every fiber of his being -- they sped forward, and the bully could only grasp the air uselessly as they passed him by. The expression on his face as Cor watched him was priceless: a textbook figure of impotent rage. Cor couldn`t help but grin as the nighttime wind rustled through his hair, and raced with him along down the glorious, empty street, which he now owned.

A couple of blocks later, with the bully clear out of sight, the car stopped, and Cor jumped off. He walked around to the side to greet his saviour, who seemed irate about being caught so off-guard.

"Thanks," he said.

"No problem," replied the man crossly. "Now get the hell home." With that, he drove off.

How? Cor wondered.

With the adrenaline fading from his blood, he realized that he still didn`t have any idea what in the blazes was going on around him. Clearly, the man knew, and he assumed Cor knew, and somehow it all worked out to getting someplace safe. But what was the problem? At last, he began to perceive the potential gravity of the sound of sirens all around him. He had been fooled by his fundamental love of their noise, and their familiarity. Now, though, it was becoming increasingly clear that something was actually, vitally wrong with the world around him, and that he was not in any sort of appropriate position to deal with it.

"Hey," said someone behind him.

Driven by gut reaction, he whipped around, ready to fight for his life. The force and alacrity of the motion caused his backpack to fly off his shoulder and spill its contents on the ground behind him. It did not help that the someone in question was actually a girl.

"Thanks for the help back there," she said. "I don`t know if I needed it, but you were pretty impressive."

"Damn it. I mean no problem," he replied, as he crouched down to pick up the pile of school supplies and workbooks that had fallen out of the open flap on his bag. While he did so, he intermittently looked up at the girl, who he could get a closer look at, now. She was not much older than him, by the looks of it -- a teenager, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Which was old enough, to be sure. But she was also very slight, so he could see how those two boys, who were almost certainly a year or two younger, could have posed a problem for her. She had long, coppery hair, and wore what looked to be some sort of waitress uniform. "Hey, do you know what`s going on around here?" he asked her.

"No. I was really kind of hoping you did." She looked down at the papers in his hands. "What are those?"

"These?" He followed her look. "These are, uh, some drawings. Of mine."

"Wow," she observed. "That`s a gorgeous mountain."

"Yeah, I, uh, I like mountains."

"Being in them, or just drawing them?"

"I`ve never actually been to any," he admitted.

"Ah. Still, you`re quite an artist."

"Thanks."

"Where are you headed?"

"I`m not quite sure, at this point."

"Are you lost?"

"I guess so."

"Well. I`ll help you out. You must be trying to get somewhere."

"The Francesca Theater," he realized.

"Are you sure? I think these air raid sirens mean we`re supposed to get somewhere secure."

"I really don`t have anywhere else to go right now."

"Come on," she commanded him. He slung his bag back over his shoulder, and started to follow her down the middle of the road.

"Why mountains?" she asked, after a few moments.

"I dunno. They seem very alone." He looked at the mountains in the distance, desolate and lonely.

"Do you feel alone?" she asked unflinchingly, without looking back.

Cor didn`t respond. He wasn`t sure what to say.

"I remember when I was your age," she clarified. "What are you, thirteen? It`s a very..."

She stopped, and so did he, because on the side of the road was a storefront full of televisions, all turned to the same channel. Or, all broadcasting the same images. It was a newsman, and he seemed to be explaining something of Great Importance.

"Sshhh," she ordered, despite the fact that she had been the one talking. They both hurried forward, to listen what he had to say.

A few moments later, they had heard it.

"Oh my god" the girl whispered.

It seemed that it was, in fact, the end of the world.

There was no blizzard. It snowed only lightly, just enough to make the evening pleasant. The power remained out, and that meant Serea and Wake were still stuck without a car, but they made the best of it by going for an extended walk along the waterfront. There were a number of charming shops to be found, all lit up like Christmas lights and fireflies by hand-hung lamps. Power disruption was quite uncommon in the middle of the city, so it was not like the proprietors of these establishments were used to dealing with this sort of situation. Serea found it invigorating to see how well and quickly they adapted, how smoothly life flowed on despite the setbacks and interruptions. It was almost like some sort of winter holiday, some sort of anachronistic celebration dedicated to friends and lovers who walked the shores of the lake together.

Wake was not entirely satisfied with Serea`s explanation of the state he had found her in. But it was over now, and she was warm and dry, and consequently happy, and so he was happy. In truth, she was a lot happier than she could recall having been in a fairly long while. Some element of being thrown unceremoniously into a freezing, watery pit had woken something in her, something primal, something she had forgotten. She suspected it had been a good long year since this particular feeling was anywhere near the front of her mind.

A year ago she realized how much she had been thinking about it lately, while pretending not to, and actually believing it. She realized it preoccupied her thoughts far more than she had allowed herself to admit. While she was not so na’ve as to believe this was the root of all her problems, something would have to be done.

It was stupid, considering the weather, but she was eating iced cream. Mint chocolate chip, which, all things considered, was a fairly tremendous flavour. Wake had opted for some sort of fruity affair. They licked and bit their cones greedily as they wandered along an unpopulated path, past all the glowing stores and eateries. Here it was dark, with only the considerable light of the newly risen moon to light their way.

"Mountbatten," she laughed, "can suck my dick. Honestly, these administrative types don`t get it. Military, political, whatever. They`re all just products of a single stereotype. You don`t see the kind of stuff I do, the kind of ill-informed expectations I have to wade through."

"I believe it," said Wake.

"You`d better," she joked. "But it will be nice to see it done."

"Well, obviously."

"Well, yes, obviously obviously."

As they walked, she paused, and choked on the words she wanted to say.

"Do they the team, do they ever talk about me?"

"What do you mean?"

"No, never mind." She shook her head. "It doesn`t matter. I know that I`ve been acting peculiar for a while. A long while. I`m going to take steps to amend that."

Wake looked at her. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

He smiled. "That`s good to hear." Then it was his turn to hesitate, as if something was caught in his throat. "I hope I haven`t been too concerted," he managed. "I mean, I think I know what you`ve gone through. We`ve known each other for so long"

"Yes," she agreed, noncommittally.

"So, just, I just want to help. I don`t really care about careers. Or, I do, but there are more important things in life."

"I guess so."

Serea stopped, and Wake followed suit. He followed the direction of her gaze towards the water -- the full moon hung just over the horizon, and was reflected rather brilliantly in the lake, an effect accentuated by the otherwise full darkness that surrounded them. It looked very much like a tiny white gem, held aloft by the magic of the silver ripples that connected it to the shore in a wavering line. It was times like this that she had trouble believing that she created machines that flew amongst bodies such as this one. It seemed infeasible that the bodies should even exist -- the stars, the planets -- all seemed thoroughly unlikely.

"Shit," she remembered once again, "I need to call my parents."

"I`ll remind you."

"Thanks," she said, and turned her gaze to her friend, who continued to watch the moon`s spectacle. He actually looked rather handsome in the sharp, gray lighting. There was a certain nobility to his posture, his considerable height, his closely cut brown hair. Standing there, in the ghostly, dramatic moonlight, he almost seemed like an epic figure of some sort. She smiled. "You know, I finally feel like things are looking up."

She reeled forward, her head pounding, begging, screaming for an explanation. The back of her neck was throbbing, she realized, and the world in front of her was momentarily filled with black flies. It was confusing. She felt pressure on her back, felt herself being pushed to the ground. It seemed to happen in slow-motion, but she still didn`t understand. Now she was being pulled, dragged, her body hanging limp and brainless, compelled by the powerful force which was controlling her. She felt herself move across the pavement, scraping against the side of her face. It hurt. Dimly, she tried to move, but the powerful force was holding her down tightly.