The Shadow in the Machine

Chicago, IL - November 9, 2014

I have learned much in my time away.  Isn't that the point of a crucible, to grow?  While my brief stint in torpor taught me how to master the lessons that Dr. Fischer brought to us, more importantly I have learned the value of patience - but clearly not enough.  Their steps and missteps still offend me.  It is my failing as a teacher.  I recognize when I make a mistake, but somehow, their mistakes still haunt me as if they are my fault.

Security - so easily compromised that a single phone call could distract those that are tasked with watching our backs.

Standards of Address - so easily broken that a masked man from out-of-town can approach the would-be-prince and not a single court officer stops him.

Documentation - no questions asked; especially not the hard ones.

It just goes to show that everyone just wants to be told what to do and how to do it...have they learned nothing?

Refreshing, as it was, to be reminded of my failings, I sought comfort in the history of an old friend.  We fought way too long about issues that were irrelevant, succumbing to the temptations of the crucible instead of working together on the tasks at hand.  No more.  We will be the unified force of balance and counter-balance that we once were, and together, we will make history.

A dragon does not excel because he is immune to flames; a dragon excels because he learns to fear the very fire in his heart.

And now my greatest task begins; rebuilding the trust of those I burned.

Memories

October 20, 1892 - Chicago

For the first time in his entire life, Jon was nervous.  He hadn't exactly made a name for himself as he had promised he would when his father step-father kicked him out, but this was going to be big.  World's Fair big.  His boss was lazy and the paper would be thoroughly embarrassed if they didn't have a front row seat at the dedication ceremony.  As he walked towards the fair grounds, his hands fiddled with the small box in his vest.

"A married man is an established man," the old man at the pub had said.  "Lets people know you're serious about putting down roots - gives them a reason to keep you on at the factory."  It had worked for his father, before the heart attack, and it had worked for his step-father after.  Jon's feet were sore from the long walk, but he kept his mind focused on the big event.

He had to sneak in, of course; technically no one was allowed onto the fairgrounds until tomorrow morning, but he slipped one of the guards a fifth of whiskey he had picked up at the store and promised he was just scouting out a path to get to the main stage.

Hours before, in the jewelry shop, his hands were sweaty, but his nerves were calm.  He knew it was the right choice.  He knew she'd love the ring.  She, like him, hadn't come from much so having something like this should really put her over the edge.  He loved her, but he loved his work more.  He was going to go over to her apartment that very night and propose, but when he got the tip from one of his watchers that his boss was passed out drunk again, he knew he had to step in and do something about it.

That was Jon's way.  Always stepping in and doing when he should be focused on the more important things in life.

He felt for the ring again, just to make sure it was still there, and stepped toward the fair grounds.

It happened so fast.  He recognized the man right away.  The same old guy he had seen the past few nights lurking in the shadows.  He looked European.  Out of time.  Out of place.  That's when he felt the first stab, right between the shoulder blades.  It knocked him forward, the ring stumbling out of his pocket, out of the box, and lost somewhere in the darkened grounds.

Strangely, he didn't think of Elizabeth first, but how he could have been so careless as to not leave the ring at home where it would have really been safe.  Again, it was his way.  Assume that everything is safer in his control.  He felt immense pressure on his back as his attacker stabbed him again and again.

He felt the darkness passing over his eyes.  The pressure was gone, and a wave of pleasure passed over him.  Then nothing but a pair of voices.

"Is this it then?"  It was his own voice.

"No, this is not the end, my son."  A voice that for decades would call out to him in his times of need.  "Your work is not yet finished."

He felt the life drain out of him, and something wrong take its place.  Something keeping him here when all he wanted to was to reach out for the ring and go home.  Something inside him knew he couldn't, anymore, that going home was never going to happen again.

He silently cursed himself for realizing it all too late.  This.  This is the way of things.  Death does not happen all at once.  It happens in steps, like life.  He averted his eyes from the ring and looked toward his attacker.

He no longer cared about love, or rings, or World's Fairs.  His blood boiled in his veins.  All he cared about now was blood.

Decisions...

So That's What That Does

"The Hand of God"

Somewhere in Edison Park...

"Don't ask questions, just shoot me."  Jon stared across the garage at Bree, who seemed to slowly consider what it was the nice man who let her stay in his garage was telling her.

"I can't.  It will attract attention."  She put the gun on the crudely constructed work bench and went back to her game of Flappy Birds.

"Bree, please, I need to test this."  He walked over and put the gun back in her hand.  "Even if it works, you won't hurt me.  They're low velocity rounds and I'm wearing a vest."  She knew a lie when she heard it.  He was wearing a vest, as usual, but not the kind that would protect him from a bullet - unless she had missed something about polyester in the past three years.  "And the garage is sound proof.  Just point and click and I'll let you use my pass for the entire year."

"No."  She put the gun down again.  "I don't want to.  Just leave me alone.  Why do you always have to act so weird? I do what you want.  I watch the house during the day and at night when you're not here.  Why can't you just make a pass at me like anyone else would?  Why do I always have to do weird things like print out obituaries and buy kitty liter and shoot you?"

"Because you're a worthless girl who has no ambitions beyond getting her next high, scavenging from hard working citizens, and lazing about waiting for some prince to pull a pretty woman on you and whisk you away."  That was enough.  She retrieved the gun and levied it at his head.

"You're a bastard and I hate you."  She took a step closer to him and paused.  She levied the gun at his head and lined up the shot.  "I should just kill you and then this can be my house.  No one will miss you."

"That is true.  You're one trigger pull away from having a house for the first time in your life.  Imagine what you could do with it.  Even if you just sell my books you'll have enough money to live off of for years, assuming you don't smoke it all way."  She scowled at him and pulled back the hammer like she saw in the movies.

"Good bye Mr. Clay."

This is the part where her finger should pull the trigger, the bullet should pass through his skull, and obliterate most of his brain, especially at this range.  She saw it all.  Click.  Bang.  Drop.  That's how it was supposed to go.  But somewhere deep a new vision rose up.  Across the narrow space between her and her target a soft light appeared just in the corner of her eye.  A voice whispered to her softly and told her that it was a sin to murder an innocent.  A soft tear rolled down her cheek and she set the gun down.

"Bree?"

"I can't.  He won't let me."

Jon smiled.

"Good.  That is all.  You can have the rest of the night off."

Frozen

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

The Gregorian Calendar, with all of its modifications, is still inaccurate.  I prefer the Persian Calendar which acknowledges that our rotation has nothing to do with our revolution.  Silly system if you ask me.  It's like calculating the speed of a truck by counting the number of times a ballerina spins in the cab.  Still, it cannot be ignored.  The people are out in droves tonight, despite the weather, and it makes it all the better to observe and feed.  Thousands, desperate for a midnight kiss, each one willing to forsake the ignorance of strangers in order to, just for a moment, feel loved.

I walked her home.  She and I had been at the bar for hours, playing her little game of coy resistance to my gentlemanly aggression.  I bought her drinks.  She batted her eyes and stood close when we went outside to smoke.  I told her my name and that seemed to comfort her, it's a boring name after all, not the name of a monster.

Her apartment was warm.  Her cat looked at me suspiciously, but I kept my distance.  I knew it knew, but I also knew it had no way of warning her mother.

She offered me a drink, a 12-year old Scotch that she kept on hand for men like me.  This wasn't her first time, and it wasn't mine.

After the drink, I told it her it was time for me to be going.  She was equal parts confused and relieved.  She thought she knew what I wanted, and it surprised her that I never made a move.

"Are you sure?  The weather is getting worse..."  As I slid my arms into my coat and situated my hat I smiled.

"And it will only get worse if I don't leave now."

The walk home was bitter and justified.  The long night was ending soon and the temperature was dropping rapidly.  I could feel my joints seizing up at the cold, unaided by body temperature or fluids.

A cab pulled over, "Jon, it's too cold to be walking tonight.  Get in."  It was Alonzo.  We rode in silence the last few miles until just before the turn off to my neighborhood.  "Well, this is it, boss.  Hope you had a good night and Happy New Year."  I paid him more than I should, but he deserved it.  He was there when I needed him and didn't ask questions.

As I shook off the cold, I lit a cigarette and turned on the news.  A quite night all around.  Only a few incidents to add to the record.  The city was freezing in the cold.  All activity stopping.  Stasis.  Equilibrium.  God help us when it starts to thaw.