August and Everything After


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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