Demon

Demon

            Blake was late to the visitation, but only by a few minutes. Given that he was one of the few family members that would be at Uncle Mark’s visitation, someone would probably recognize him, even though it had to be at least ten years since he had been in town. Nothing had really changed, other than the occasional restaurant here and there, even a fresh coat of paint could not hide the old memories. 

            The preacher was just starting his opening speech as Blake slowly closed one half of the main entrance doors, trying not to draw attention to his late arrival. Of the two rows of pews taking up both sides of the main room, only the last two rows on the left side were empty, save for a single person. He slowly made his way to the pew, moving in front of the man and taking a seat, leaving a comfortable space between the two men. The man nodded at Blake, as he took his seat, slowly unzipping his jacket, slipping out of it, and placing it to his left. 

            “You didn’t miss much,” the man whispered to Blake. He had a vague accent to his voice that Blake could not place. He wore a faded leather jacket with a white T-shirt with an abstract design on the front, a pair of jeans and tennis shoes rounding out the ensemble. “Family or friend?” he asked.

            “Family,” Blake answered. “Have we met before? You look familiar.” 

            The man pulled his neck back slightly, looking over Blake’s features. “Would you be Blake, by any chance?” he asked, uncertain. 

            “Yes,” he responded. 

            “Ah,” the man replied. “Then yes, we have met, although it was quite some time ago.” He reached his hand over to Vince, offering his hand. “Thomas.”

            He took the man’s hand. “I think I remember you. Used to work with my uncle, right?” 

            “From time to time, yes,” Thomas answered.

            “I had to be about sixteen at the time,” Blake said, pausing slightly to look at Thomas. “You’ve definitely aged gracefully.”

            “Call it good genetics,” Thomas shrugged. “You’ve grown up, though. I’m liking the beard.”

            “Thanks,” Blake replied, running his hand over his chin. 

            “Are your mom and dad coming to the funeral tomorrow?” Thomas asked, leaning back. “Given the surprise of the whole thing, I’m sure finding a flight back home will be a little rough.” 

            “They should be in late tonight,” Blake said. “They managed to find a flight out of Texas around 11.”

            “Good,” Thomas said. “Good. It’s always good to be around family, especially in times like this.”

            “Uncle Mark always did love his family,” Blake replied. “Even though he always had a rather interesting relationship with them.”

            “Mostly your grandparents,” Thomas said. “Or your grandpa, to be more accurate.”

            “True,” Blake said, glancing at Thomas. “You’ve known Uncle Mark for a long time, haven’t you?”

            “You could say that,” Thomas replied. “Actually, he saved my life once.”

            “I’ll bet that‘s a story,” Blake replied. 

            “Oh yeah,” The man said. “Definitely.”

            Blake paused, a thought working its way through his brain. He then turned his head back towards that man. “Aren’t you the one Uncle Mark called Scratch all the time?”

            “That would be me,” Thomas answered. 

            “Where he come up with that name?” Blake asked. “You have a chronic itch or something?” he paused, looking over to the right. “Hmm, maybe I don’t want to know.”

            Thomas smirked. “No.” He cleared his throat. “It’s on account of me being a demon.” He looked back toward Blake. “Retired, that is.”

            Blake just looked silently at the man, squinting slightly as if that would help him see the punchline coming his way. “Right,” he finally said. 

            “You don’t have to believe me,” Thomas shrugged. “Given all the stories your uncle told you, I figured you’d be more open to the idea.”

            “And I thought Uncle Mark was the one who loved to tell tall tales,” Blake said. 

            “He did at that,” Thomas said. “Ever stop to think that his stories were more right than wrong?”

            “To be honest,” Blake said. “more than I would like to admit.”

            “I know,” Thomas said. “To be honest, even though Mark didn’t have kids of his own, but he always considered you to be the son he never had.” A smile stretched slowly across his face. “Just wait till the reading of the will.” 

            “Lord,” Blake mumbled. “He didn’t leave me the cat, did he?”

            “No,” Thomas said. “Bunky has already been adopted by Mark’s landlord. Besides, he knew you were allergic.”

            “Good,” Blake replied. “I mean, I like the cat and all, but I don’t want to spend the rest of his lifetime sneezing.”

            “He fell in love with the old lady anyway, so...” He said, making an oh well gesture. 

            “So, you’re a demon,” Blake said, changing the subject. “How does that work?” 

            “I used to be a soul broker,” Thomas said. “You can probably guess what that involves.”

            “Use to be?” Blake asked, playing along with Thomas. 

            “Everything has its time in the Universe,” Thomas said. “There’s really no profit in collecting souls anymore.” 

            “Sounds like the stock market,” Blake paused. “At least I think it does.” He looked at Thomas. “I don’t know anything about that kind of thing.”

            “That’s fair,” he said. “But you’re not that far off. When you flood the market, the value tends to go down.”

            “Sure,” Blake said. “That makes sense.” He adjusted against the hard surface of the pew. “How does one flood the market in the soul department? The usual way, I take it?”

            “Pretty much,” Thomas said. “Although, things went south with the start of the Crusades.” 

            “Crusades?” Blake asked. “Which crusades?”

            Thomas turned and glanced at Blake. “All of them. It really didn’t matter. The end results were all the same. After that, with some of the other realms starting to take notice, the market all but dried up.”

            “So, where do all the souls go then?” Blake asked. 

            “They go to where they’ve always gone,” Thomas said. “As always, it just depends on who holds the deed, to use a phrase.”

            “Deed? I thought you said your kind was out of that market.” Blake said. 

            “No, I am,” Thomas replied. “Some of my kind still take part in the market from time to time, but when it was opened up to other realms, like Carcosa and Ryleh, it became harder and harder to make ends meet.” 

            “So, what do you do now?” Blake asked. 

            “Consulting,” Thomas said.

            “So, a former demon quits doing what he’s known for to take a consulting job?” Blake asked, his voice trailing off slightly as the words escaped his mouth. “How did you know my uncle? He was a college professor here in town.”

            “Well, that’s the interesting part,” Thomas said. “I was sent to procure his soul by an unknown third party.” He glances at Blake. “This was back when he was a field agent for the Foundation before he took over as the head of the department at the school.”

            “Ah,” Blake said. “Before he shattered his knee?”

            “A couple years before that,” Thomas said. “He was still in his prime when I met him.”

            “So, what happened?” Blake asked, a smile creeping up at the corners of his mouth. “You take his soul?”

            “Nah,” Thomas said. “Granted, my heart wasn’t in it to begin with, but your uncle made me a better offer.”

            “Which was?”

            “A new job,” Thomas said. “A new life. And all that comes with it. Thirty years later, and I’m still consulting. Still alive.” He motioned to the open casket at the front of the room. “And I have your uncle to thank for it.” 

            “Thirty years?” Blake said. “Bullshit. You don’t look a day over 40, and you expect me to believe that you met my uncle thirty years ago?” 

            “Believe what you would like,” Thomas replied. “But the truth is that your uncle was my friend. The specifics don’t really matter at this point. He rests, while the rest of us continue.”

            “Interesting story,” Blake said. “The way you tell it really sells it too.”

            “Presentation is everything,” Thomas said. “I learned that from your uncle.

            “He was quite the character,” Blake replied. “Mom always said he could tell a good story.”

            “That he could,” Thomas said, looking at his watch. “Well, I must be heading out. Will you be at the graveside service tomorrow?”

            “Unfortunately, no.” Blake answered. “I have to head back early tomorrow morning. I just wanted to say goodbye.” 

            Thomas smiled. “I’m sure your uncle appreciates that. He did always say you were his favorite nephew.”

            Blake looked up at the man. “I’m his only nephew.” He replied. 

            Thomas shrugged. “Like I said, a character.” He stood and eased his way out of the old pew. “You take care, young man.”

            “You too,” Blake said, smiling. “Demon.”

            The man smiled at Blake, picking up the coat crumpled up at the edge of the pew and putting his left arm through the sleeve, followed by the right arm. He straightened the front and dropped his arms back to his side, letting the coat hang open. “Be seeing you, nephew.” He then turned and walked down the right side of the row of pews. 

            Blake watched the man leave, watching the man push through the wood doors before turning his attention back to the speaker. He had only caught a word or two before listening to the man’s story. He was way more interested in the story of his uncle being friends with a demon.

            “Only Uncle Mark,” Blake muttered to himself. 

            “Only Uncle Mark,” a voice chimed in his head. “When you’re ready for the whole story, let me know.”

            It was not his voice, but that of Thomas. It almost felt like a light breeze at the back of my head before the sensation suddenly dropped off. “Nice trick,” Blake muttered to himself. 

            “I have many more,” Thomas said, in his head. “Be seeing you, nephew.” 

“Huh,” Blake muttered again. “Demon.”

 

 

 

  

            

Exhibit

 Exhibit

         He slid into consciousness much like he did every day around this time. He could feel the breather strapped to the front of his face before he opened his eyes, much like every morning, catching the edge that covered the bridge of his nose. The vague sensation of limbs came to him as a memory suspended in the air. The fog of his surroundings remained thick for a few seconds before the fluid sensed his slow awakening and slowly began to turn clear, bringing his surroundings into focus. 

         Turning his head as far as he could, Number 1587 could make out the edges of his cube, its silver edges running to the top and bottom of his encasement. As the grogginess slowly worked out of his system, 1587 worked his arms suspended slightly in front of him, moving slightly back and forth, barely moving through the thick gel that encased him in the display. He managed to wiggle his fingers for a couple seconds before the liquid became clear and froze his extremities in place. As his body was set into its usual position for the beginning of his usual existence, he could feel the drugs work their way through the gel and into his system. When the jell took to clear, 1587’s nervous system clicked into standby mode. The last thing he felt was what had replaced the need of food filter into his body before the numbness took hold of him. 

         There was movement at the corner of 1587’s vision. There was a slow sense of movement just beyond the cube that encased him, although he was used to this. He had been through this many times in the past, shapes moving past his encasement to wherever their destination lay beyond. He could track some of the movement with his eyes given the fact that his whole head was frozen in place, allowing only his eyes to track movement. He followed the movement as far as he could, then moved his gaze to the next movement that came into the arch of his vision.

         The beginning moments of his waking was often spent in this fashion, until his encasement was moved into place. When he felt the familiar click that vibrated through the gel, he knew his waking time had begun. With the now clear gel slow swirling slowly around him, his eyes were beginning to become used to the soft like just beyond the encasement. He could make out undefined shapes moving past him from both directions. The movement was light at first, but he could see the traffic of the undefined shapes steadily increase. The closer the shapes came to the encasement, 1587 could see the slow chaotic movement that made up the body of the patrons. A faint memory of dry ice and white clouds rattled throughout his mind, as the patrons moved by, some stopping in from of him. The flow of mist seemed to not so much bend but, flow out to the area just at the base of the outside of the encasement, pausing for a few seconds, and then flowing back into its place. 

         “Hmm,” the flowing shape said. “I believe this one is new.” The shape seemed to float in the direction of a larger form, motioning toward the encasement. 

         “I think you’re right,” the other shape replied. “What does the display say at the bottom?”

         “Human,” the smaller shape said, in a slightly monotone voice. “One of the one thousand specimens left in existence.” 

         “Huh,” the larger shape said. “Must be part of that traveling exhibit that was added to the museum’s inventory.” 

         “That is correct,” another voice replied. A larger shape floated into view, being slightly larger than the two shapes in front of the encasement. “The museum recently purchased a couple of the traveling exhibit’s specimens when the exhibit’s owner decided to retire after almost twenty-five years.”

         “I see,” the larger of the two shapes said. “Do you know the history behind this one? It doesn’t look like a species that I am familiar with.”  

         “Oh yes,” the other said. “While this is a relatively new attraction, I have done a great amount of research into the history of this species.”

1587 thought he recognized the shape, its cloud like shape looking somewhat like the other two, but this one was greyer in color than the other two. 1587 did not know what the distinction was, but he thought it may have something to do with age. It was simply a guess, but it fit what he could remember from before. Although some of his memories would be purged when the gel would turn dark, announcing the time of rest, over time, even though he wouldn’t remember everything, some things would creep back into his mind. He didn’t remember his name, knowing that 1587 was not it, but maybe it would come to him eventually. 

“Well,” the shape started, cutting through the haze that made up 1587’s existence. “The species in front of you is, well, was a race known as Human. They lived in a section of space that is unknown to scholars even now.” The shape paused, looking at the pair in front of him, gauging their reactions. “As far as we can tell, much of their race took to the stars for one of two reasons, we think. Simply to explore, or, more likely, they were trying to escape their world, which scholars believe was dying. Why exactly, we are not sure. Whatever information we were able to uncover on this subject is very limited.”

“What about this subject specifically?” The white cloud asked the grey cloud. “Do you know anything about it?”

“A little,” the grey cloud replied. “The prior owner had a genealogy worked up some time ago, although not as complete as he had hoped.” The grey cloud floated closer to the encasement. “It would appear that the subject was what was called a manual laborer, although some pieces of information show the subject didn’t necessarily picture himself as that. The subject was quite a multifaceted thinker. This one did what he could to at least try to better himself.”

“Is that unusual?” The smaller cloud asked.

“In some cases,” the grey cloud replied. 

“Why?”

“Hard to say,” Grey cloud replied. “As with all different kinds of species, what drives their goals in existence are up to the individual, much like our people. Unlike us though, it’s not always an easy path. Sometimes, a variety of forces work against you.”

“Is that how they came to be here?” the younger cloud asked. 

“That is a mystery,” Grey cloud said. “While the actual cause is not known, it is believed that this subject was part of a larger whole that found their way to our race. We found that the species, for the most part, are relatively easy to repair. Most of their ailments were easily reversable, even the aging process. Where our lifespan is measured in centuries, this species was lucky to live close to seventy, maybe eighty, years. After some manipulation, scientists found that they could slow, even preserve the subjects, and that lead to the specimen encased in front of you.”

“The case?” Little cloud said. 

“Not quite,” grey cloud replied. “The gel inside the encasement preserves the subject, while, at the same time, keeps them at a near conscious state for limited periods of time. At the end of the show, the gel darkens, and the subject soon falls into a form of hibernation until the next showing.”

“Are they aware of their surroundings?” the larger cloud asked.

“We cannot be sure,” Grey cloud said. “In all my time at the museum, I am not aware of communications with any of the subjects, much less subject 1587.”

“Have you tried?” Little cloud asked, a slight tone of defiance in the voice. 

Grey cloud chuckled at the younger cloud. “We monitor all our subjects daily. Any attempt would be logged, and the staff would respond immediately.”

“Well,” Large cloud said. “at least there’s that.”

“Still seems sad,” Little cloud mumbled.

“It does,” Grey cloud replied. “But one can only do what we can. If there ever was any sign that subject 1587 ever tried to communicate, I promise I would do everything in my power to treat them accordingly.”

Little cloud seemed to be satisfied with that response, moving closer to the encasement. The mist extended out, swirling across the clear surface before retracting back into their form and turning back towards the larger cloud. 

“Are you ready?” the larger cloud asked.

“Yes,” Little cloud said. 

Both turned back to Grey Cloud, seemingly to bow slightly at the shape before turning back towards the doorway. He watched them go, and then floated back around towards Subject 1587, noticing the breather just below the slightly hazy eyes, probably an effect from the now-clear gel. He began to wonder when maintenance was due on the encasement, thinking about what the little cloud had asked. Maybe he could use that opportunity to try to communicate with Subject 1587. 

“Maybe,” Grey Cloud said aloud, moving away from the encasement. 

Behind the encasement, Subject 1587 moved his eyes towards the shape moving away from him. He remembered some of what Grey Cloud had said. He remembered his home. Soon, he would remember his name, and with that, he would communicate. 

Soon.

 

 

 

 

Seaside

Seaside

         

It was a relatively calm day. The smoke and ash that had filled the skyline the day before had dissipated enough to where the sun of early morning was shining just over the horizon, catching the shimmer of the ocean waves. The beach had been cleared of the previous days fighting, leaving only deep grooves in the light brown surface of the sand. Hours after the cease fire, the beach was almost back to looking as it did when the first set of boots landed on the planet almost six months ago. The soft breeze carried the smell of the sea towards the tree line, with only a mild scent of the battle from the night before. 

         Bishop made his way through the thin trail to the beach, walking slowly to take in the thick trees that made up the forest. They reminded him of the trees near the small town of Elder on the artificial planet of Sawyer. The base of the trees may be slightly wider than those trees, but the bark was of the same color and texture that reminded him of his younger years of his home. The closer he approached the tree line to the beach, the more his hand would find the occasional scorch mark from the various attempts to take the beach from the months before. By the time he had reached the last tree, there was a sizable chunk out of its base, caused by a series of oversized splinters that stuck in the surrounding sand. As he stepped clear of the trees, the breeze caught him, and he took a deep breath. 

         The beach looked different, almost calm, save for the crashing of the waves on the shore. He was familiar with the area, but on this occasion, he was not being shot at by various forms of weaponry, while patching up one of his many patients. It almost seemed out of place, at first, to be here without having to tend to anyone, but the moment passed the closer he got to the shoreline. He stopped just short of the water touching his boots, as he relaxed and took in the scene. 

         The cease fire was almost twelve hours old, but Bishop could not shake the feeling that this one might actually stick. There had been two called before; one almost a month before his squad was assigned to this planet, and the other about six weeks ago. The first talks had simply been a ploy to allow some strategic maneuvering involving an important planet that each side wanted, lasting only a day before the peace talks broke down. He had noticed that many of the soldiers in his squad had begun to show signs of strain with having to fight day after day for reasons that many have begun to question. Hopefully, that will transfer to both sides when they come to the table and, fingers crossed, come to an understanding that would allow all of the soldiers, on both sides, to go home. Somehow, Bishop still held out hope somehow, even as he patched up every soldier, friend, or foe alike, that he would maybe be able to leave the service and go home. While he had the same hope the last time, he crossed his fingers that this time it would stick. 

         As he walked closer to the tide, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Reflexively, his hand fell to his right hip, then he remembered that he had left his firearm back at the base. He smarted at leaving it behind, but his left hand rested on the medical pack slung there. If needed, Bishop knew he had at least had a scalpel in the pack if needed. The figure moved along the shoreline a few feet ahead of him, coming around the burnt-out tree left standing on the beach. Bishop noticed the person walking towards him wore the uniform of a Shuroki soldier, but there was not a weapon slung on his hip or across his back.

         The soldier noticed Bishop a couple steps away from the beach and slowed his pace, raising hands palms out, showing off their lack of weapon. Bishop stopped in his tracks, also raising his hands palms out, mimicking the soldier’s actions. He became very aware of his surroundings, as the soldier walked towards him. The sand was smooth where the water washed over it and then retreated backwards, letting the next wave come forward. That was the only thing nearby: sand and water, with the occasional scorch mark at various points of the beach, the water having not washed the marks away.

         “I’m unarmed,” the soldier said, speaking in Bishop’s language. “I hope I’m saying that right,” he added. 

         “You are,” Bishop answered. “And I am also unarmed.” He motioned to the small medical pack on his hip. “This is all I have on me.”

         “Medical?” the soldier asked.

         “Yes,” Bishop replied, answering in, what he hoped, was the soldier’s language. 

         “You speak my language?” the soldier asked.

         Bishop nodded. “A little here and there.”

         The soldier shook his head, slowly lowering his arms. Bishop followed suit, noticing the small communicator in the small pocket of the soldier’s utility vest. Bishop had one as well, in its usual place he kept it so he wouldn’t lose it when he wasn’t using it. He had never been this close to a Shuroki soldier without a firearm being pointed at him. They were relatively human looking, save for skin that look more like cracked dark leather, than flesh. Most Shuroki’s skin was darker, but this soldier eyes were covered in white from temple to temple. Whether this was cosmetic, or a birthmark, Bishop could not tell. His eyes ran across the rest of his uniform, not noticing anything else that would resemble a weapon. 

         “Taking in the sites?” Bishop asked, lowering his arms down to his sides. “Such as it is,” he added. 

         “Something like that,” the soldier replied, looking around at the surroundings. “In another time, I’m sure it looked pretty here.”

         “Yeah,” Bishop replied. “I’m sure it did.”

         “Medical officer?” the soldier asked. 

         “Yes,” Bishop said. “Medic.” 

         “I’m sorry?” A confused look flashed on his face. 

         “That’s what it is called,” Bishop replied. “Well, that’s what we call it.” He paused, thinking of the word that the soldier would understand. “Mir-Ja.” He hoped that was the right word. 

         “Close enough,” the soldier said, extending their hand. “Ves.” 

         “Bishop.” He took the soldier’s hand and shook it. 

         “Did I do that right?” Ves asked. “I haven’t had much contact with human, and those I have had contact with usually are shooting at me.”

         “Close enough,” Bishop replied. “Get shot at a lot?”

         “More than I would have liked,” Ves said. “But I guess that’s what happens.”

         “Sadly, yes,” Bishop said.

         “Hopefully,” Ves began, “all the shooting is finally over.”

         “I hope so,” Bishop answered, turning to look out at the sea. 

         “Not a fighter?” Ves asked, and then caught himself. “No, I wouldn’t imagine you are, being a Mir-ha.” Ves stressed the last part of the title, giving the correct pronunciation. 

         Bishop mouthed the correct pronunciation and then answered. “Not even close. I only carry a weapon because I have to. If I had my way, I wouldn’t touch them.”

         “I can appreciate that,” Ves said. “When this is all said and done, I doubt I will ever touch one again.”

         Bishop nodded in reply, turning his attention back out to the sea. They both stood silence, listening to the waves crash against the shoreline. The color of the waves was a deep blue, almost deeper than those he was familiar with on Sawyer. He wondered what kind of life was in this ocean, and if there was a cease fire, would he get a chance to possibly take a boat out and take a look. 

         “May I ask you a question?” Ves asked, breaking the silence. 

         “Sure,” Bishop said. “But I will warn you up front, I don’t know much in the way of anything military.”

         “Neither do I,” Ves said. “This is more along the lines of the history of your people.”

         “You have an interest in us humans?”

“History is a, what’s the word?” He paused, thinking. “Interest?” It sounded like a question. 

         “That’s the word,” Bishop smiled. “What’s your people’s word for it?”

         “Kresta.” Ves replied. 

         So,” Bishop said. “What is your question?”

         “Your people were found floating out in space for quite a few years,” Ves started. “Now that your people are part of the Coalition, has anyone thought about finding your home world?” 

         “I’m sure someone has,” Bishop said. “But I think the problem is that a couple of the ships we were in got lost along the way.”

         “I’ve read a little about this,” Ves said. “Three of the Generation Ships were lost? Is that right?”

         “Two ships,” Bishop corrected. “Two of them were lost.”

         “And the information was in one of those ships?”

         “That’s the theory,” Bishop answered. “Since the systems on the ships only hold so much, the information was spread throughout the ships. When the missing two were unaccounted for, the information was lost as well, along with a few odds and ends.”

         “Odds and ends?” Ves looked at him. 

         “Miscellaneous things,” Bishop answered. “More along the lines of historical artifacts from the old world.”

         “Historical artifacts?”

         “As my grandpa use to say,” Bishop replied. “Probably junk that someone could part with.”

         “So,” Ves continued, “the location of your home was on one of those ships?”

         “That’s the theory,” Bishop said. “And maybe one day, somebody will answer it.”

         “Ah,” Ves said.

         “My turn,” Bishop said. “If I may?” 

         “Of course,” Ves replied. 

         “What brings you out here?” Bishop asked. 

         Ves gave the man a quick look of confusion, but corrected himself before answering, the surface of his cracked, leathery skin twitching slightly. At that point in the war, if you could call it that, Bishop had more contact than anyone in his squad, usually providing medical aid to those captured by his squad. While many among his side grumbled about offering aid to the opposing side, Bishop adhered to the code of conduct that the Coalition had in place, especially when it involved two of its member races. The wounded were seen as noncombatants, and if it was discovered that one side violated this rule, the concept of war crimes would then be brought upon all those who violated the rule. 

         “Just taking in the morning air,” Ves said, motioning to the surrounding air. “Such as it is.”

         “Yeah,” Bishop replied. “Air quality will be pretty shaky for the next few hours.”

         “Hopefully the cease fire will become permanent, and the atmospheric scrubbers will be able to do their job.”

         “Hopefully,” Bishop said. 

         “But” Ves continued. “I felt the need to…” He paused, as if trying to find the words. “See something vadin,” He paused again, turning to Bishop. “Pretty.”

         “Ah,” Bishop said, smiling. “Gotcha.” He looked from one end of the beach to the other, taking in the visual of the tide coming in and then retreating. “Funny.”

         “What’s that?” Ves asked. 

         “Vadin is one of the words from your language that I know.” He turned to face Ves. “It’s a thing with me. I try to learn how to say certain words in other languages whenever I can.”

         “Really?” Ves replied. “Interesting practice.”

         “Yeah,” Bishop said. “Some collect trinkets. Some rocks. Metal. I collect words.”

         “I’m curious on how that practice got started.”

         “Oh, that would be my mom,” Bishop said. “She loved languages.”

         “Oh? Teacher?” Ves asked. 

         “Diplomat, actually.” Bishop said. “But eventually became a teacher after she left the diplomatic corp. Taught for several years before she retired for good several years ago.”

         “Both are honorable professions,” Ves said. 

         “Yeah, although I find that some would disagree.” Bishop said. “Mostly politicians.”

         “I find that politicians are normally the farthest from honor that you could be,” Ves paused, leaning slightly towards Bishop. “Although there are a few exceptions.”

         “Very few,” Bishop replied. “But they are some here and there.”

         “Agreed.”

         “So,” Bishop said. “I ask again. Why are you out here?” He motioned to the insignia on the front of Ves’s tactical vest. “I know what that means. What rank you hold, and I have to ask why?”

         Ves looked down at the pin, then back up at Bishop. “Sometimes you have to see the end results of what is going on. Maybe to make sense of what you, as a people, are doing.” Ves looked at Bishop. “And what it could possibly cost.” 

         “I understand,” Bishop said, then paused. “Somewhat. Being just a medic, I can’t imagine the decisions you, as a major, must make every minute of every day.”

         “Maybe, maybe not,” Ves replied. “But I do envy the simplicity of the decisions that you have to make on a constant basis. Not necessarily who to save, but how to save those who come under your care.”

         “Some of my superiors would question the who part,” Bishop said. “But I don’t have the time for that. I am in the business of saving lives.”
He looked at Ves. “Any and all life I can.”

         “Interesting,” Ves replied, meeting Bishop gaze. “I haven’t met very many human soldiers, and most of them have spent the last few months shooting at me, so I have very little experience with your people, but do all share that belief of yours?”

         “Some,” Bishop said. “Sadly, not enough. But you have to keep in mind that I’m a medic, not a carfa. I may carry a weapon, but I would be more comfortable with just my medical pack.”

         “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Ves said. “I believe you are a warrior, just a different kind of warrior.”

         “Maybe,” Bishop replied. 

         There was a sharp beep from the earpiece stuffed into the collar of Bishop’s vest. With a sigh, he took it and slid it into place around the outside of his ear, the small speaker positioned directly in front of his eardrum. Once in place, Bishop tapped the smooth surface, causing it to beep out of rest mode. As he did so, he noticed Ves placing his right hand up to his own right ear and tapping the earpiece that Bishop assumed rested there. 

         “Bishop,” he said. “Go ahead.”

         “Bishop,” the voice squeaked. “You are hereby recalled to base.”

         “Confirm,” Bishop replied. “Orders? Are we back to…”

         “The campaign is over, private,” The voice said. “The squad is being recalled.”

         “The campaign?” Bishop started.

         “Is over, private,” the voice cut him off. “Return to base. We are leaving.”

         “Yes, ma’am,” Bishop said. “On my way.”

         Bishop tapped the earpiece again, silencing it, and then looked at Ves. The man wore a shocked expression on his face, having pulled his own earpiece out and holding it in his palm. “It’s over,” he said, an expression of shock on his face. “We’re going home.”

         “I guess we are,” Bishop said, equally surprised. “I mean, I’m not upset, but…”

         “More like shocked?” Ves asked. 

         “Yes, quite,” Bishop said. “Did your people give you an idea of how?”

         “Not really,” Ves said. “Just that something has happened that has changed the game, their words.”

         “What does that mean?” Bishop asked. 

         “No idea,” Ves said, opening a pocket on his vest and placing his earpiece inside. “We better get going if we’re going to find out.”

         “Guess so,” Bishop replied, extending his hand. “It was nice to meet you, Major Ves.”

         Ves smiled and took his hand. “Same, Private Bishop. I hope we see each other again sometime. I would prefer peace time.”

         “Same,” Bishop said, shaking his hand. “I would add in civilian life as well, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

         “One thing at a time,” Ves replied, releasing Bishop’s hand. “Well, thank you for sharing this moment with me. Hopefully, it will be the first of many between our two sides.”

         “I hope so,” Bishop said. “Take care, Ves.”

         “You too, Bishop.” Ves replied, bowing slightly. 

         Both stood for a beat, looking at each other before Ves turned and made his way back down the beach, not taking his gaze off the horizon. Bishop watched for a couple of seconds and then turned back towards the tree line and the forest beyond it. After a few steps, Bishop paused and reached into one of the small pockets of his vest. He found the small vial there that he had emptied the day earlier during a much different situation that now felt happened years ago. He popped the small cap to one side of the vial and bent down, scooping up some of the sand from the beach inside. He placed the cap back in place as he rose, placing it back into his pocket as he made his way towards the tree line. 

 

         

         

         

Sunrise

Sunrise

 

         He couldn’t get to sleep. He had screwed up and let his anxiety lock his brain up at the worst possible time. The moment he had been waiting for, hoping for had finally come, and his brain prematurely activated the flight portion of his response. He was halfway to his apartment before the fog cleared, and he had realized what he had done. Or, in this case, not done. He should have stood his ground and professed his deep feelings for Holly, but he instead he ran out the door. Now, almost three hours later, his head pressed against the large picture window of his apartment, Terry had to fight the urge to smash the glass with his forehead. The cool surface provided a moment of relief, but he could still feel the adrenaline burning just beneath skin. 

         It had started out as a simple night of movies and pizza, a tradition that both had done many times before. The location, movies, and type of food always changed, but the end result always was the same: two people enjoying each other’s company. That was the part that Terry always looked forward to. He never cared what they did, as long as Holly was there, he was content. They had a lot of common interests, many of which caused many late-night conversations, to the philosophical importance of Fraggle Rock to the comedic genius of Red Dwarf. Terry had been familiar with both before he had met Holly, but now he was an expert in both, and much more. After two years, he lived for their moments together. He knew how he felt about her, but the problem of whether she returned his feelings was the question. 

         And he was terrible in reading the signs when it came to this. Unless there was a brick involved, smashing him upside the face, he had no clue what was going on. He was often surprised he could function in the real world with the anxiety being what it was, so he would often push things, and people, away. He was certain that no one ever returned what he was feeling, so he stopped thinking he would ever make thing work with anyone. He started to believe that was the case, then he met Holly.

         It was a series of events that would eventually lead to their meeting, mostly just a series of Terry hitting rock bottom and skidding along the surface. He had lost his place, his job, and had moved into the building they both lived, Holly on the tenth floor, while Terry lived at the halfway point on the fifth floor. It was a simple place to go along with his simply existence of a bed and a bathroom. The stove and tv were just an added bonus as far as he was concerned, but they worked. Later additions of a bookcase, a tv, and a kitchen table that acted more like a computer desk would click everything in place. He could work from home with said computer and be completely content with no complications whatsoever. 

         Until he just happened to be checking his mail downstairs when a tall redhead appear a couple steps from him, checking her mail. Terry guessed she was a grad student from the nearby college with the backpack and the tattered copy of Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein under her arm. Normally, Terry would just nod and move on to the elevator, but, for some reason that day a sense of courage streaked up his backbone. He locked the door of the mail slot and moved towards the girl slowly. The motion caused her to look in his direction, but he noticed that she didn’t take a step back from him, just stood her ground and smiled softly. Terry returned her smile, and then motioned to the book under her arm. 

         “Is that the corrected version,” he started. “Or the original 1818 version?”

         “1818 version,” she answered, a surprised look on her face. “And annotated as well.” She closed her own mail slot and locked it. “Have you read it?”

         “Annotated? No,” he replied. “But I have read the original version before. Both versions, actually. Once in high and then in college.”

         “Let me guess, the more modern version was in high school?” she asked. 

         “Lucky guess,” Terry said, holding his hand out. “Terry.” 

         “Holly,” She replied, taking his hand, and shaking it. “What other classics have you read, Terry?” 

         He liked the way his name sounded when she said it. “Well, obviously Dracula. Can’t read one of the classic Universal monsters without reading the other. The Great Gatsby.” He took a step back, and motion her to the elevator. “And of course, Ray Bradbury.”

         “Nice list,” she said, moving towards the twin doors. “What about recent works, or are you someone who only reads the classics?”

         “Not at all,” he said, “I’m an equal opportunity reader.” 

         “Nice,” She replied, pushing the green button up. “What’s your genre?”

         “I split my time with a little of everything,” he replied, trying not to sound pretentious. “Since it’s close to the fall season, I tend to read a little more in the horror genre.”

         “Seems fitting,” she replied, as the doors opened. 

Terry paused, letting Holly enter the elevator first. He then slid into the small box, standing shoulder to shoulder with her. He reached forward to keypad full of numbers. “Floor?”

“Ten,” she answered. “What floor’s your?” 

“I’m on 5,” he replied. “How are you liking our little building?”

“It’s good,” she replied. “I’m liking my floor so far. Nice and quiet.”

“That’s good. Really, all the floors are pretty quiet,” he paused. “Well, except for floor twelve, but that’s really just on the weekends.”

“Oh? Is that the party floor?” she said, a smiled stretching across her face. 

“You could say that,” Terry returned her smile. “A couple of DJs live on that floor. They usually take turns on which night they perform. Sundays are the official rest day of the whole building, being the lord’s day and all.”

“Nice,” she replied. “Anything else I should know?”

“Uhm,” he paused, mostly for effect. “Don’t feed the strays in the basement. The Super is always an hour late whenever he makes a visit,” He paused again. “Oh, and the Third floor is haunted.”

         “Is it?” she stifled a small laugh. “Is it really?”

         “I don’t know,” Terry said. “I don’t go up there.”

         “Does anyone live on the floor?”

         “Don’t know,” Terry repeated. “I don’t go up there.”

         “Scared?” 

         “You better believe it,” Terry smile. “I’ve read enough horror stories to know when not to press my luck.”

         “Hmm,” she returned his smile. “Interesting.”

         “I just like for all my insides to remain where they are supposed to be.” he said, as the small ding sounded above them, and the doors slide open. “This appears to be my stop.” He moved through to the hallway and then turned back towards her. “It was nice meeting you, Holly.”

         She reached her hand out and stopped the door from closing. “Nice to meet you too,” she replied. “I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”

         “Of course,” he said. “I’m always around. Apartment seven.”

         She reached into her inside coat pocket and produced a small card, giving it to him. “If you’re ever online, look me up. My email and messenger handle is on there.”

         “Fancy,” Terry said, taking the card. “For work?” He asked, motioning the card towards her. 

         “All part of being a grad student,” she said. “Have a good night.”

         “You too,” he said, watching the doors shut. He then turned down the hallway, towards his apartment, not taking his eyes off the card. “Better make sure everything is up to date on the old computer.” He stopped at this door and slide his key into the keyhole. With a slight jingle, he pushed the door open and then closed it absent mindedly behind him.

 

         To this day, Terry has never forgotten that image of the image of Holly on that day. Every moment together, every disagreement over whatever movie, book, or tv show they shared, and there were quite a lot of those, Terry’s memory always came back to that image of the redhead checking her mail in that shadowy lobby. In moments like these, she almost haunted him. He had spent many a night just like tonight, either staring at the ceiling or looking out his window in the late hours of the morning, wondering why he could not tell her what was happening to his insides whenever he talked her. 

         He felt like he had been punched, not because of the sudden, and quite unexpected, words that came out of her mouth this evening. Words that were, now, swallowed by the overwhelming anxiety that caused his rapid heartbeat to override his brain and go quickly out the door before he knew what was happening. Did he black out? 

         He must have blacked out. The word dropped out of her mouth, and the next thing he knew, when all the blackness behind his eyes cleared away to reveal the inside of the dull silver of the elevator walls. He could see the realization come across his face, but he still wasn’t in control. That didn’t happen until he was standing in front of the very window he was standing in front of now. 

He didn’t understand what was happening. He couldn’t remember walking out of her apartment, much less why he would do that. Especially after she had made the simple comment to his exclamation that it was getting late. 

They had watched both movies, and it was late. 

“Maybe you should spend the night,” Holly said. 

Her voice echoed through his brain. Had she said that? The one thing that he knew he had always wanted to her say ever since they met, and he had just walked away. He didn’t even know if he had said anything in return. The memory was not there. As if someone had erased that portion of brain, like an old VHS tape violated by a large magnet. It was just gone, and now, he had spent the rest of the evening staring out his window, waiting for the first shards of the early sunlight. The red sunlight shining around the edges just before it began to change to the brighter shade of yellow. 

“What is wrong,” Terry mumbled, to the night air. “What went wrong?” He stepped closer to the window, staring at the reflection in the window. “What is wrong,” he muttered, raising his hand, and touching the reflection that was the center of his forehead. 

There was a faint knock at his front door. Terry had barely heard it, being lost in his own mind, his own missed opportunity that ended an otherwise great evening. The second knock, slightly more forceful, fully snapped him out of thoughts and brought him back to the here and now. He turned towards the door, still uncertain what he was hearing was real, and slowly made his way to it. He could feel his heart in his chest start to increase, as he leaned towards the small peephole.

Staring back at him, looking beautiful in her weariness, Holly stood wrapped in a heavy robe. She looked cold, with her shaking visible in the faint light of the hallway. Her brilliant red hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail. Terry was transfixed for a couple seconds, the cold metal of the ancient door handle snapping him out of his stupor. As the hinge clicked open, Terry’s mind fully snapped back to reality. On the other side, Holly tired eyes stared through him. 

“You left,” she said, pushing him back, as she entered the apartment. “without saying a word.”

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I don’t know what…”

“Shh,” she said, placing her hand on his cheek. She let the door shut behind her, pulling him close. He tried to speak again, but again, she stopped him, placing her other hand on his face, cradling his face. “No more words.” she whispered to him. 

Both stood in the apartment, looking at each other in the slowly growing morning light. Slowly, Terry moved forward, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulled her close to him. He could feel her shaking begin to slow, as they both warmed each other. As the light lit the room, he leaned in and kissed her, her hands sliding off his check and around his neck. 

Moments passed by, as the sun rose off in the distance.