The room felt wrong as he awoke from the dream of snakes, and
immediately he knew. "Hello, darling." Her voice dripped venom, sweet
malice pretending to pretend affection. He looked up and saw her there, in
the corner, clothed in dislike, as gorgeous as ever. He summoned his gifts,
and smiled at her with all the light in the world, just for the hell of it.
She adjusted her lapel unnecessarily, warding him off.
"I came to warn you, lover," she said, velvet razorblades in a beautiful
acid challenge.
"You always were thoughful," he said sincerely, his eyes blue with care.
"I miss you."
"You're under attack," she said, unpleasantly off-hand. "Think of it as
a Charm offensive. All the Spite in the universe can't save you."
"Thank you," he said simply, and she was gone.
The Gauss train stank, as usual. Old sweat, stale fear and tired cloth.
A lovely cocktail for company on the journey home. Mission sighed to
himself quietly, and tried to ignore the writhing around him, secretaries
and desk warriors banished from heaven as darkness approached. It had been
the same for two years, 'temporary overcrowding'. When he made 8 -- next
month, with luck -- he'd finally be able to get out.
When the train finally slammed to a halt at his stop, Mission found
himself trapped in the usual swirl of flesh as the suited and booted bore
him along the platform and up the stairs. Faded posters smiled insanely out
at him, beautiful puppets joyfully declaring the virtues of washing powder,
toothpaste or beer. They swirled him up and out of the station in a knot of
frottage, before the tide dispersed and he was beached, cold and alone in
the drizzle as usual. He shook himself free of the clinging residue of worn
out souls, and wiped the worst of the muck off his deathsuit. Beside the
entrance to the Gauss station, an old tramp slouched in dirty rags, his
matted beard filthy with grease and muck. Mission stared at him, absorbed
in the old man's misery. The tramp stared back, blue eyes twinkling from
his mask of slime with a hint of inexplicable joy. After a time, the tramp
glanced down, breaking contact, and Mission was released.
Twenty minutes later and close to home, the Ebon was distracted a second
time. The alley was grimy as usual, full of the muck and rubbish churned up
by daily life. It ran between two long towering blocks, the only way
through to the road behind that didn't involve a long walk around one or
other of the blocks and the maze-like estate that huddled at its feet.
Mission had walked it almost every day for the last two years, and knew its
moods well. Some days it stank, like corruption itself, and the walls
seemed to press in. Others it brooded, the blocks either side looming and
pressing in. Occasionally, it seemed almost to invite him, to tolerate his
passage as a matter of expediency. It was in a strange mood today, almost
exhilarated, and it made Mission nervous. An ancient trash skip had finally
died, the sides collapsed in on themselves and the back crumpled to the
ground. Through the dirt, he could see the shockingly regular outline of a
door in the alley walls. By the looks of it, it hadn't been opened in the
century that the skip had been in front of it. It occurred to the Ebon that
he might be the only living being aware of that door, a depressing thought.
It would be a lonely existence, covered over and forgotten for a hundred
years.
"It's not like I have any choice," he said, unsure of whether he was
talking to the alley, the door or himself. "It can't go anywhere. It must
lead into the block." He was definitely talking to himself now, never a
good sign.
Mission shrugged, picked his way through the debris to the door, and had
a closer look. There was no handle, but an old-fashioned SCL reader was
faintly visible. He wiped the worst of the crud off it, and -- before he
could admit to himself what he was doing -- pressed his card against it. A
faint click, and the door swung slightly, unlatched. On autopilot, Mission
pushed the door open and stepped through.
"Ah, good evening sir. May I take your coat?" Disorientated and
confused, Mission looked at the elegant man talking to him. Smartly
dressed, if somewhat old-fashioned, he seemed thoroughly unsurprised to be
greeting a damp Ebon. The hallway was lovely, wood-panels above lush carpet
in a light, airy atmosphere. To the left, the hall ended in a series of
doors, while to the right it opened out into a big, windowed room. The sun
slanted through the windows, etching the carpets with squares of light.
Outside, on the grass, some children were playing, a boisterous game with a
ball. The sun?
"Your coat, sir?" the man prompted.
...to be continued.
(c)2000 Tim Dedopulos, all rights reserved.
Imagine there are two of you. Which one would win? tim@midnight.demon.co.uk
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