The girl. All the good stories start with a girl, don’t they? We met not long after I came here. She was beautiful. The inviting eyes. Those jaw-dropping curves. And a smile seething with mischief. She was absolutely irresistible. She nearly got me killed.

I was the master of my art. It was all I knew. It’s what I was made for. Towering monoliths of mineral and stone, forged with precision over millennia. But that was then. As with every job, someone better always comes along. That’s when I met him. The one man who could save me from oblivion.

“Working for me is not easy,” he said in a smug, French accent, “But I believe you will find the pay quite rewarding. Your life for your service.”

He called himself the Merovingian. I had heard of him before, but never thought I’d see the day when I would be shaking his hand.

“Whatever you need,” I said. “I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

He smirked. His eyes narrowed. There was a tense pause that felt like it lasted for hours. He was studying me.

“Very well.” he said. He turned and sat at a long table, decorated with illustrious food and priceless bottles of wine. The air of the restaurant was crisp and cold. Everything was polished to a mirrored finish.

“It just so happens that I have a task for you. It will take time, but you must know that patience is not one of my stronger qualities.”

All I could do was stand in silence. This man held my existence in the palm of his hand.

“For years I have sought this particular program. He is known as the Keymaker. He holds access to the deepest secrets of the matrix. But by his nature he has become very adept at staying hidden. With him in my… employ, my influence here would grow beyond measure. Your task, mon nouvel etudiant, is to find him and bring him to me. From there we will determine what niche you might fill in my organization.”

He held a glass of red wine to his nose and inhaled deeply, not once taking his eyes off of me. It was intimidating as hell.

I was confused. Was that it? Just go and find this Keymaker program? Where should I start? I didn’t dare ask.

“…What are you waiting for?” he asked, snapping me back into the situation.

I nodded and turned to leave.

For weeks I lurked hacker bulletin boards and questioned other exiles. Anything I could think of to lead me to this Keymaker. I considered what the Merovingian would do if I didn’t deliver. I’d heard stories of him torturing and killing his subordinates. Anyone who didn’t comply with his orders didn’t last very long. The Keymaker was my ticket to safety. I had to find him.

I decided to take a break and stop for a drink in a downtown club. The lights cast everything in a wash of purple and green, and the music was just loud enough. This is where she found me. The girl. I was leaning against the back wall when she sauntered over. We had a few drinks, popped a few pills, and got to know each other. She was an exile, like me. I told her about my test with the Merovingian and her eyes lit up.

“Unlimited access to the entire simulation?” she asked astounded.

I nodded and finished my drink. I couldn’t tell you how many I’d had at that point.

“Imagine what we could do with him!” she said. “We would never have to work for the Merovingian again!” She was right. I’m not ashamed to say that I wanted to impress her. I guess it was just one more reason to find the Keymaker.

Out of nowhere, after three months of searching I caught a break. A tip lead me to a reclusive hacker who claimed to have cracked the Keymaker program. So I did my research. The guy was good. I discovered that he was being monitored by a small group of awakened humans, known as “redpills”. I figured they must have been after the Keymaker as well, so I had to move fast. I commissioned him for a few small programs. Credit card generators, viruses and the like. Just to get into his good graces. But I was running out of time. The Merovingian was getting impatient and the redpills were stepping up their efforts.

I decided to ask him about the Keymaker program. It took some convincing before we eventually negotiated on a price. It wasn’t cheap, but at this point I didn’t have much room to argue. We agreed to another meeting. It would be the last time I would ever see him.

Sitting in our preferred club, waiting for the time to arrive, I watched her escorting various men and women out back to the alleys. She would always return smiling. Satisfied. Licking her blood-stained teeth. She was celebrating our promotion. It wouldn’t be long before we would have the keys, quite literally, to our palace. We would live like royalty, and with our power we planned to overthrow the Merovingian.

When it came time to leave however, she refused. She was drunk… If you can call it that. She was having too much fun with these humans. They were rather gullible, I admit. But this was our last chance. I was convinced that if I didn’t find the Keymaker that night I would end up dead. We argued for nearly an hour. Thank god she managed to sober up on the drive over.

The apartment complex looked like it was just days from demolition. The paint on the walls had rotted to a dark green. The whole building was cold and wet. We exited the elevator and made our way down the hallway. I silently counted down the apartment numbers like a new year celebration.

One-oh-six.

One-oh-five.

I had been to his place before, but this time was different. I kept reminding myself to stay calm.

One-oh-four.

One-oh-three.

I felt inside my coat. Two-thousand dollars rested safely in my chest pocket.

One-oh-two.

One-oh-one.

I knocked twice.

“Who is it?” his voice came muffled through the door.

I responded confidently.

“It’s Choi.”

I was only a boy, fifteen, when my parents sold me away to these bastards. The Gallente claim to be the pioneers of democracy in this god forsaken universe. Those damn militants didn’t seem too concerned about my rights as they dragged me away from my weeping mother. All they wanted was their big payday, and they agreed to cut my father a nice percentage. Take one goddamn guess if I ever saw a cent.

That was only a month after CONCORD lifted the blockade on planetary harvesting. For centuries the business of so-called “Capsuleers” was relegated only to what could be found in the stars. Then suddenly, for whatever reason, our homes had become fair game. I still remember the scream of the shuttles, loaded to the teeth with refinery equipment, sailing down and landing wherever they could find an open field. Drop in, set up shop, and completely destroy any semblance of established civilization.  How patriotic.

I made friends over the years, for what it’s worth. Most of us were indentured. Others signed up willingly, thinking one day they could become famed capsuleers themselves. Naive fools. Janek was like me. His father needed to make ends meet. We saw at once that we were both scared out of our minds, but we had plenty in common nonetheless. We became fast friends. On our breaks we’d talk about our families, our interests, and we’d share a cigarette or two. Most of the time we’d simply find ways to keep ourselves sane.  I remember one day, I swear to you this guy had balls, Janek made a pass at one of the lady soldiers. Maybe he was trying to get himself thrown out. But she jammed the butt of a rifle into his belly right then and there. As the poor guy was lying on the ground, clutching his stomach, he started laughing. He was laughing all the way back to our dorm. In this place you have to make your fun where you can find it. And your sense of humor tends to get a little twisted.  It’s really the only way to cope.  Three months after that incident Janek’s father received a letter of apology from the Gallente federation, and stopped receiving a monthly check. Janek was repairing a faulty release valve on a top platform of the refinery, when he tripped on a loose chain and fell into the business end of a mineral processor.

That’s what the official report says, anyway. What it doesn’t mention is that Janek’s friends were tasked with fishing his body out of a molten stew, knowing full well what really happened.

It was twenty-five years ago that I was signed over to this hell hole, and after twenty-five years I have seen enough. I’ve lived my whole life in this refinery. I’m 40 years old, and I can’t remember what grass smells like. I have so many scars and burns that I can’t remember where most of them came from. I don’t know if my parents are still alive, and I’m not sure I even care.

You pilots sit so comfortably in your pods, miles above ground, raking in profit without a care in your head. Protected from death, you’ve forgotten how to appreciate life. As immortals, you’ve forgotten what it means to be human. Enduring eternity only to watch your bank accounts grow.  For all I have been through, I sleep better at night knowing that I will never be like you.

I write these words as if they will be my last. By this time tomorrow I will no longer be here. Whether that means I’m flying a stolen shuttle to the farthest system I can find, or lying lifeless, riddled with bullet holes just outside these walls, I know I will not be spending another day in this place.

Whoever you are, I pray these words find you well. I have experienced the consequences of the capsuleers’ greed. They have no misgivings of what they do. And their reach knows no bounds. My one remaining hope in all of this is that they might some day reclaim their compassion for others. To feel the pain of loss, and marvel at the beauty of impermanence. To connect with people based on who they are, rather than the purpose they can serve.

Until that day comes we have no reason, none at all, to trust them.

Sincerely,
Tannen Burke

A lot has happened since I last posted.  I’ve committed to a new way of life, and I still find myself making mental notes on how to deal with it.  The inside of my skull is plastered with figurative sticky notes.  When I was younger I was convinced that I was the only person on the planet who upon birth was not bestowed the “Encyclopedia On What the Fuck to Do In Every Conceivable Situation”.  Somewhere between then and now I’ve learned that nobody has any more of a clue than I do.  Some are just better at faking it than others.

Anyway, what I’ve been working on lately: Since I gave up drugs and alcohol, I’ve had to fill the void with something else.  Video games.  Every now and then I’ll write something, but mostly I’ve consigned myself to entering fantasy worlds in which I accomplish various goals for some abstract measure of progression.

A few months ago I set forth on a goal to write fan-fiction.  At the time I did not realize the hell I was imposing on myself.  Writing in this genre is difficult because you are attempting to create something new out of what has already been established.  To pay homage without borrowing directly from your source material can often seem impossible.  I’ve nearly filled an entire moleskine with ideas that I have no intention of expanding.  But I’ve managed to settle on a story that I am happy with, which details the trials of two human sympathizers fighting alongside the A.I. resistance, taking place in the Second Renaissance.  I understand that that made absolutely no sense to a lot of people.  But that’s ok.  The story isn’t for you.  So there.

I’ve nearly finished the first chapter, and I’ll be submitting it to my loved ones for review.  I’m dying for criticism.  Tell me what I have done wrong, so that I might make it better!

Insert poignant sign-off here.

That night I had trouble sleeping. I had completely forgotten about the grey man. I figured it was just one of those nights. At 3 o’clock I trudged into the kitchen and downed a couple antihistamines with a glass of milk. I fell asleep while flipping channels.

The grey man came to me in my dreams. He was distorted now. He looked warped, or stretched. Like he was a living ripple in a pool of water. I stood on the same sidewalk where I had seen him the previous day. He was walking towards me. His rippling made his movements erratic. He limped, as if he had a sore knee. His arms were outstretched and waving. Small fragments of his figure sliced in and out of existence.

I was scared. As the grey man came closer I felt my body quake ever stronger. His ghostly figure reached out to me, and I gasped trembling. But with that breath the grey man drew himself into me. I could feel him filling my lungs, expanding into my muscles, seeping into bone. When I felt a bead of sweat absorb into the corner of my eye, I realized that my head was hot. He was in my mind now. I clutched my skull and began to massage deeply and roughly. The scraping sound of hair against scalp bore into my ears. Perhaps I could drive the grey man out.

He told me to stop fighting.

]]> http://inspireatwill.com/2008/08/25/the-grey-man/feed/ 0 http://inspireatwill.com/2008/07/24/the-weeping-child/ http://inspireatwill.com/2008/07/24/the-weeping-child/#comments Thu, 24 Jul 2008 17:32:00 +0000 Manic Velocity http://inspireatwill.com/?p=52 Never walk the streets between the hours of 3:30 and 4:00 in the morning. Punks, whores, and the destitute. These are mortal creatures, and will not bring to you anything you cannot endure. But to walk alone, in between the glowing puddles of lamp light, you will hear a faint whimper. Exhausted sobs between labored gasps. Your feet will stop, along with your heart, and you will know in an instant that this is the cry of a child. Your eyes will dart around, but through the black of night they will find nothing. So you will continue to listen.

The sobs will reverberate. They will echo. You will walk cautiously into the street, when in all actuality the thought of being hit by a car will be the last thing on your mind. You will step lightly, continuing to listen for the source of these cries. You will stop in the dead center of the road and slowly lower your eyes to the ground. There, between your wet leather boots, you will see a manhole cover.

You will blink wildly as you try to process the situation. It will only take a second. It will feel like aeons. You will fight against the tightening of your legs and you will drop to your knees. The cover will be heavy, but you won’t notice with the adrenaline bursting through every pore. The sobs will grow louder and more pronounced. You will strain to find this child, but impossibly, the dark only gets darker as you press your sight further. You will reach down and command, “Give me your hand. Give me your hand.”

Through your heavy breathing the sobs will faint, enveloped, drowned in the dark. The silence will terrify you.

A large, wet, muscular tentacle will ooze from the blackness and grip your arm. You will instinctively struggle and fight this thing, only to realize that your struggle causes its grip to tighten. You will feel your fingertips swell with blood nearing to burst. A strange calm will wash over you as the creature begins to pull you gently. You will begin to cry as you relent in acceptance. You will whisper your goodbyes to your loved ones, and you will apologize to the child whom you could not save.

As you are dragged into this strange deep beneath the city, you will feel rejuvinated. Your skin will slowly tighten around muscle and bone. Your hair will turn soft, and your lungs will inflate effortlessly. Through the blinding dark, a single point of light will birth into existence. A star. It will pulse, slowly at first, like the beat of a sleeping heart. The pulse will grow into a strobing, slowly still, but quickening, until the intensity causes the explosion of a starfield. Forces of gravity and magnetism twist and contort this immense universe around you. In the chaos of formation and destruction, things begin to take form. Small things. Familiar things. Walls will surround you, the floor will rise to meet your feet. Furniture and appliances materialize around you. Soon you will find yourself in a place you have not seen in decades.

The house in which you grew up. The place of your youth. But it is different now. Everything is blurred and grey, as if you were inhabiting a faded memory. The dry smell of dust will permeate. You will call out to your mother and father. And you will get no response. You will turn and run towards a window. Looking out you will see only barren desert. Strong winds kick up whisps of salty, bleached white sand. It will be immediately apparent that nothing could possibly survive here.

After a moment you will realize that you are standing on your toes, straining to peer over the windowsill. You are smaller now. Younger. The youngest you can remember being. Confusion and fear will strike you deep in the heart. Again you will call to your mother and father, and again you will get no response. The outside light will begin to fade, and this place will grow dark. Your only reaction will be to huddle in a corner of the room.

As the darkness deepens around you, you will close your eyes and begin to whimper. Your sobs will reverberate. They will echo. The familiar place will fade away, and the wretched stench of mildew and sewage will set in. A wet chill will brush your skin. Up through the chasm, you will hear the faint footsteps of a lone passerby as they walk the streets, between the glowing puddles of lamplight.

Photo source: Manictastic

Every morning she ate a small breakfast. Just three strips of bacon and one egg with a glass of orange juice. She ate slowly, fully appreciating every aspect of the experience. There wasn’t a single meal that she rushed through.

“Never take the morning for granted”, she would tell her late husband, who passed away in the deep of winter three years ago.

The last morsel of crisp dark bacon crumbled loudly in her mouth as she re-folded the morning paper and cleared the table.

The mid-day streets erupted with commotion. Car traffic, foot traffic. Men and women gabbing away on cellphones, negotiating with ulterior motive all manner of business deals. As if on cue, a bike messenger zipped past with a metallic ring of his bell. Grandma Time strode easily against the hustle and bustle. Even at only five feet tall, she easily stood out among the dark suits in her pink skirt, white blouse, and pink jacket. In stark contrast of her outfit was a crow’s feather tucked tightly into the band of her pink floppy hat. She closed her eyes and tilted her head skyward to get a quick fix of of the sun’s rays. Her bifocal lenses glinted, and the crow’s feather seemed to shimmer. She grinned, almost in thanking, and retreated back under the brim of her large hat.

She stopped at a street-side market. Merchants stood behind their crates, shouting over the noise of the city, and each other, to hock their wares. Grandma Time stood patiently, waiting for the next available opening in the clamor. She held her pink purse in front of her with both hands.

The crowd managed to dissipate briefly. A tall European man standing behind a large crate of various vegetables, in black jeans and a dirtied white t-shirt raised his eyebrows to acknowledge Grandma Time, who stepped forward and smiled up at him.

“What can I get for you today, ma’am?” His accent was thick, but charmingly so. He reached into his back pocket and grabbed a handkerchief to wipe his hands. The handkerchief was almost as dirty as his t-shirt. The gesture was merely a formality.

She ordered a yellow summer squash, three onions, and of course, some fresh thyme. The European swiftly tossed everything into a medium-sized paper bag, as Grandma Time handed him exact change and a hearty tip. He counted the bills, smiled to her, and bowed his head.

That night, Grandma Time made sure to stay up late. She sat at the table and polished some antique silver to pass the time. She could polish silver for hours and not realize it, sometimes forgetting to eat a timely dinner. Her husband would often have to fend for himself, but he wouldn’t think to wrest her from the task. Over the years she had accumulated enough silver to fill their attic. And then some.

Her coo-coo clock chirped loudly twice. Grandma Time glanced up to read the time. 2 AM sharp. She finished her last piece of silver and returned it to the last of three large wooden boxes she had arranged on the kitchen table. She put a kettle of water on the stove to boil, and reached into the pantry for a packet of camomile tea. As the tea steeped, she sprinkled in a small bunch of freshly ground thyme. The aroma was calming and invigorating. Her lungs awoke, and she smiled widely.

This was when she was at her best. In the deepest hours of the morning, on the cusp of not-quite-day. She took the first sip of tea and made her way to the back porch. The night air was balmy. A tiny light bulb spotlit a wooden rocking chair. Grandma Time sat down slowly, began to drink her tea as it reached just the right temperature, and waited.

And waited.

And waited still.

As the coo-coo clock chirped three times from inside the house, the tiny light began to flicker. A chilly wind cut through the warm summer air. For a few minutes, the tiny light was extinguished, and Grandma Time disappeared inside of nothing. In the inky blackness, she finished what was left of her tea and set the empty mug at her feet. She folded her hands in her lap and sighed pitifully.

“Always so dramatic.” she said.

The wind diminished, and the tiny light faded back on.

At the edge of the porch, just beyond the bottom step, a shape began to form from dust that was not dust. It started small, like a miniature tornado in the dirt. As it spun and grew, the shape began to mold and harden but still remain immaterial. Grandma Time could suddenly hear the sounds of insects. Flies, locusts, beetles, mosquitos. It was a deep and violent grumble that emanated from the shape. It continued to spin, and it continued to grow, now standing eight feet tall. It seemed to have sprouted something akin to limbs. Like a gargantuan black snake made of earth, with two arms and a voice of pestilence.

Grandma Time was still smiling.

“So… how’s business?” she asked smugly.

The shape spun wildly, its “arms” jerking and flailing about. The sound of insects grew more pronounced, and reverberated with the shape’s movement.

“Come now, you know that’s not true.” Grandma Time said. “That’s the trouble with your kind, always seeing things in black and white.”

The shape began to sway, now. Almost a dance of seduction, or taunting. The “arms” spun and extended towards Grandma Time, but never strayed into the beam of the tiny light. The sound of insects became less grating, and more soothing, like a cello.

“Do you really think I could be tempted that easily? I’m young, dear one, but I am not foolish by any means.”

The not-dust of the shape was no longer spiraling. It appeared to boil up from the ground. The noise seemed to subside, but it was not gone. It whispered in the back of Grandma Time’s mind.

“You must know as well as I do, dear one, that we each have our roles to play. I have my orders, just as you do. Even now, this discussion of ours plays a part in all of it.”

The bubbling of the shape rose and fell.

“We are two sides of the same coin. You’re not going to win because it’s not about winning. Winning would have to mean that there is an end to all this, and we both know how unlikely that is. ‘Eternity’ means exactly that.”

The bubbling quickly turned back into aggressive spiraling. The noise of insects shot up into a shriek. The empty mug at Grandma Time’s feet split into two jagged halves and fell apart.

“Do not try anything funny.” Grandma Time was no longer smiling. Her tone was cold and commanding. She raised her chin and stared down her nose at the shape, unblinking. “You know where you are standing and you know what the rules are. If you act on those thoughts your boss won’t be any happier and we are both very aware of what he is capable of.”

The shrieking puttered down to a gurgle. The shape slowed and calmed itself.

“As I said, two sides of the same coin. If I go, we both go. So just relax. Let’s just keep up the friendly banter, and we may both live to see another day.”

The shape twisted and writhed. The “arms” collapsed in on themselves. In a burst of not-dust, the cold wind returned. The tiny light flickered and was extinguished again. The porch, the rocking chair, the broken coffee mug, and Grandma Time were drowned in darkness.

The wind faded. The sound of insects grew to an unnerving silence, and for a few minutes there was nothing. The tiny light blinked once.

Twice.

Three-four.

Five.

Grandma Time’s bifocals glinted as the tiny light returned with its pale glow. The last flurry of not-dust slinked away, barely escaping the reach of the light. Grandma Time’s smile returned as she stood up from the rocking chair and took slow steps down the porch.

There, lying in the dirt where the shape took form, a single crow’s feather seemed to shimmer. Grandma Time knelt down, picked it up, and placed it in her pocket.