(August) Prompt #1 - Catalyst

[Kiki]

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The first prompt of August is the word, catalyst.

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If you have any questions about how to participate in this event,
please visit the rules (http://role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=63004) thread or PM me (http://role-player.net/forum/member.php?u=42034).

Happy writing!

[~N~]

(Author's Note: I posted the two previous chapters of this morbid little yarn for the RPApril, though, those threads no longer seem to be accessible. If you're interested in seeing them, I can provide them to you directly. I decided to continue the cold, dark philosophical journey I began there with this entry, but it stands well enough on its own)
(Chapters 3 (http://role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=74134&p=2546994&viewfull=1#post2546994), 4 (http://role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=74133&p=2564317&viewfull=1#post2564317), and 5 (http://role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=74132&p=2565080&viewfull=1#post2565080) can be found in their respective links.)
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Chapter 6: Death Revisited

He lay in a mess of his own blood, if you could even call it that at this point, and I was driving him to the hospital.

“I thought you couldn’t die,” I stated plainly, though my tone was forced with emotion that I wasn’t ready to come to terms with. Fact was, I was still alive because of him and, by my reckoning, he was dying right in front of me.

“I can’t…” he said with labored gasps, playing across a visage that was a mix of surprise and pain, “… not naturally; ‘of old age’ as they say.” He choked, coughing up spit that was scarlet with blood. “But bullets can do the job quite nicely, apparently!” His eyebrows raised and an amused, yet ironically bloody smirk played across his lips.

He had been shot in the chest by two bullets that went astray; the first one hitting him when he took down the gang leader, shot from the other member’s gun, and the other when he was dealing with the last two offenders—now his shirt was a pool of black crimson, spilling out all over him in a sticky mess that mocked his immortality. And here I was thinking you needed a stake or something to put these creatures down.

“You can’t…” he winced, “take me to the hospital. They’ll get me there.”

“Who, Mathis? Who will get you?”

“You know they won’t let me go. You know they’ll find out what I am,” he argued, wiping the blood from his lips.

“Mathis, even if they did find out, what would they make of it? Your identification is all false, isn’t it? They won’t be able to track down who you are, much less what you are,” I countered, glaring at him. “Besides, they’ll probably be more concerned about payment than your physiology.”

“You don’t understand…” he sighed heavily, laboring with his breath.

“I’m taking you and that’s final; we’ve been over this,” I replied with a surprisingly solid tone. We had been over this twice already; once when I was dragging him to his feet, after he finished with his “meal”—I had to practically fight him to get his cooperation then, when he was “stronger”—and once when I had to force him into car initially, after breaking into it myself. I was pushing the thought that I was now driving a stolen car to the local hospital out of my mind.

For three lights, I drove in the relative silence of the road, the car engine, and the labored breathing of the vampire lying back in the reclined passenger seat next to me, before he tried to speak again, gasping out his words: “Did I ever tell you about the woman I loved?”

“Didn’t you turn her?”

“No,” he exhaled at length, as if trying to summon up the strength to continue his explanation, “Alissa was not the one I fell in love with. If anything,” he gasped, “she was just obsessed with me.” And then a pained, thin smile worked its way over his mouth, as though he took some secret pleasure in that. “No,” he repeated, “she was not the one.”

“Then you haven’t told me.”

Another labored gasp, as he drew in breath. “Her name was Marisa,” he said softly, and then he stopped. I glanced over at him after a few moments and saw his eyes glazed over and distant, so that I was compelled to call him by name to rouse him, for fear that he might’ve expired right there; my conscience was irreconcilably bound to him at that moment for what he did in the street, and it made me sick to my stomach that he should die on my watch.

“Mathis!”

He stirred, snapping back to reality with a blink of his lids; he apparently was just lost to his remembrances, and not to the waiting darkness beyond which had avoided for so long.

“She was so… beautiful; long, rich hair, curly, yet straight as well; like a groomed yet vibrantly wild mane; fair, smooth cheeks, and eyes… long lashes that complimented the crystalline blue of her irises. She had lips that were flush rouge, but not overly so; the makeup, lipstick, and all the accessories that women bear were on her but lightly applied, so that they didn’t thickly cake the natural beauty beneath. She was rich, yes, in material wealth, but moreso in personality, and I tell you, she lit up the room with her gorgeous, illustrious smile. It was her vibrancy, her youth that attracted me most, however, initially. She had such life about her…”

“No doubt it drew you because you’re so devoid of it yourself,” I found myself muttering out loud.

“You might be right,” he replied in acknowledgment, “but it was her understanding that kept me enthralled. I met her at a society ball, during the1930’s, in pre-war Berlin. Things were stifling, increasingly military, and narrow-minded, but that didn’t stop high society. I found myself actually less offended than the more fretting types of that age; those bright-eyed lights of humanity that trembled like leaves in the haunting warm breeze before the storm. Hitler’s visionary direction, his single-minded focus wasn’t anything new, and certainly to someone like myself, had been imitated by ‘heroic’ and ‘villainous’ types throughout history, depending on what your national or historical perspective was.”

“So the fact that he orchestrated the Holocaust, that doesn’t separate him from other personalities in history at all?” I inquired with a critical edge to my voice.

His eyes shifted to mine, and his eyebrows arched slightly before he spoke: “My good pup, the Jews have suffered for centuries in Europe. Hitler was merely the last of a long line of anti-Semitic offenders, not the catalyst. And if you merely broaden your scope to include people other than Jews, Stalin and other such pleasant personalities as history can reveal to you make him seem rather bland by comparison. Shall I list them off? Vlad. Nero. Look what this country did with the atomic bomb to the Japanese. Sure, you can claim that perhaps the circumstances were different, but honestly, that’s obnoxiously splitting hairs, isn’t it, when it comes to the importance of human life, don’t you think?”

I was facing the road again, but I could feel his searching eyes crawling over my profile, prying to see the answer I would give, the wheels turning inside my mind. “But you don’t care about human life,” I settled on, finally.

He turned to face the road now as well, addressing this reply, “I suppose it’s just a matter of perspective. One atrocity becomes less significant when you’ve been alive to witness comparable acts of slaughter enacted decade after decade, incident after incident. One life; ten lives; ten hundred lives; ten thousand; ten million. Like Joe said, the numbers tend to make it statistical after a while, losing the flesh of meaning through the crisscrossed edges left behind in the wake of cold blood being washed away by the rains of Time, till all that is left is a house of knives and bones, in the absence of bodies and life that once had been.”

“So that’s how you remember Marisa; knives and bones.”

“No.”

“Oh?” I thought I was getting to him.

“Either you know that’s an absurd statement, or you are truly ignorant of love.”

“Why, because you loved her, she’s different?”

“Of course she’s different. People have different capacities to love; some don’t love at all, or couldn’t know what love is even if they had it explained to them. Maybe you’re one of those people.”

“You know I’m not.”

“Yes, that fit you threw in the cemetery does seem to lend itself to something bordering on love.” His voice was cutting and cold; he was digging at me now. I had gotten to him, and now he was returning the favor. “I’m not entirely sure though. Could just be a passing thing.”

I felt my jaw set, my face hardening at his remark, my breathing quickening. I knew he was manipulating me, getting to me; I knew it, but I couldn’t stop myself from feeling the rage swelling up inside me at his remarks. “It’s hard to believe you could ‘love’ anyone.”

“But I did.”

I drove in silence for several long minutes that passed like hours. There was no traffic, and Mathis didn’t say a word. The silence was pregnant with thought and tense between us, and for a while I could only let the merry-go-round of thoughts in my head spin and spin about this vampire and his “love”. I was angry at him so I didn’t want to seem interested, but the question of what kind of person this man could truly feel anything for gnawed at me. Adding to that, the possibility to point out how flimsy his notion of love was once he revealed to me the details of his relationship appealed to my sense of petty vengeance; so with those to impetuses urging me on, I asked the question.

“What was it like; your relationship with this woman?”

He smiled; I’m not sure why. It could’ve been because he thought he had some small victory over me when I didn’t attempt to attack him further, or it could’ve been in remembrance of her. I think now that it was the latter.

The words breathed slowly from his lips. “Have you ever been with someone who understands you so well, that you don’t need to explain yourself to them because they already know within themselves what you’re talking about?” Of course, I knew; those bright moments in my own marriage had been times of simple happiness and relief really; assurances that we were going to last and were truly meant for each other. “Marisa knew me, without ‘knowing’ me. She could already understand my darkness; she had it within herself. She already knew my passion for all of things I have a passion for because her own passions mirrored mine in range and intensity. She was a creature of life and elegance; she knew the fine balance between living well and living fully. Her courtesy and refinement in the company others was merely the artful, complimentary dressing on the lively, charming conversation that she could engage people with that was intellectual, inspired and eloquent in its cadence,” and then his eyes lit up, “Oh, and how she sang! Like an angel in an ethereal choir whose ringing notes sing out clearly as the sunrise, that clear the air with the pristine melody of the stars all lit up in the night sky. All of Man’s instruments could not compare to that heavenly, clarion voice.”

“Was she a vampire too?”

He shot me a look that made me feel like I just insulted her! “NO! No, no, no…no… no…” His “no’s” trailed off in a strange way.

“But she loved the occult. This pleased me. I myself had become quite learned on all of the mystical and occult beliefs of early America and Europe. Witchcraft came into vogue in the 17th century, was carried over into America with the Puritans, and the South has always harbored a taste for the kind of antique gothic flair that would make a creature of the Night feel right at home. She pored over all of my tomes, from the more ancient books on demonology to the more mystical tomes from the Middle East on immortality and mythical beliefs. She treasured a pack of tarot cards she had passed down to her from a deceased aunt, who had bought them from a gypsy who had emigrated from Romania. We delighted in each other’s secret knowledge that was, and has been, condemned and feared by the masses around us.”

“Where is she now?”

He went on quietly, “We traveled, saw things… other places in the world. She loved to listen to me tell her about how things were in various places, because I had experienced it first-hand. Paris, Berlin, London, ha! Baltimore, Philadelphia and New York. I would tell her of the politics and the gentry and the way things used to be; apple presses and orchards; farms and dirt roads; covered wagons; horse and buggies, snail mail. You begin to realize that we’ve lost so many simpler treasures in life for technology, crowds; higher, bigger, faster… nobody who lives today knows what it is to live a simple life. Thoreau and those ‘transcendentalists’ weren’t crazy; getting away from everything and living without computers, cable, cell phones, mp3 players, pda’s, GPS devices; all the different ways people can reach you anymore… makes you want to escape someplace and rediscover what it is to live without all the commercialism; pen letters by hand, sit by the fire in a plush reclining chair with a fine leather-bound book, and put on some classical or jazz through the record player if you really want some musical accompaniment to accompany your thoughts in the welcoming solitude.”

“You didn’t live with her?”

“Yes! Yes, of course I lived with her; wouldn’t have been much of a relationship otherwise, no?” I shifted and directed his gaze upon me once more, looking for a response.

I noticed and shrugged.

Then he shifted back, and frowned. “Well, I suppose you can be long-distance friends with someone, but it’s not much for the fire in a relationship. Passions can be carried upon words, but company, physical presence and warmth cannot be conveyed through the pen alone. Imaginations are misty substitutes and comfort one little more than the intangible fantasies of daydreams, which – while they last – are well enough in a numbing kind of way, but could never replace the many silent ways we communicate to each other without and beyond words. Just a simple touch is often enough to say what words cannot, and words themselves clutter the peaceful serenity of silence in their clumsy flopping about, trying to do with voice what sensations do so easily without any disturbance at all.” He had a point, and let him talk while I silently listened; as he had said, it was easier that way, but in his current state of blood-loss, he seemed to fade with the droning of his own voice, or perhaps he was simply drifting off into the inviting reflections of his memories.

Either way I had to break him of it and spur him on: “How long did you live together?”

“We lived together for many years. I’m glad you didn’t ask where because we moved around. She wasn’t quite the roamer that I was, and as she got older, she expressed the desire often to settle down. It was south of here, in the old country, surrounded by old families of southern wealth that we eventually found a place to rest.”

“Where is she now?” I asked again, wanting to possibly meet this woman at some point.

“She’s dead.”

[Skeletor]

Letters to People Who Don't Exist Anymore - II.

Dear II,

I watched a stick of incense burn today. Reminded me of you. How stupid is that? That something so simple should remind me of you. And slowly send me into a fit of tears.
I mean, honestly, I don't think you'd be very proud of the way I've been handling this whole thing.

I used to think fire was good. It meant passion. It meant living. It meant that everything could be taken away in an instant by such a hungry, threatening force...which used to mean to me that it was just another sign directing mankind to enjoy the finest things in life while we have them.
Fire also used to mean setting aflame the past and starting somewhere new. Well, I suppose it still does. We've made the decision to move back home after the identity of that body was confirmed to be you. I got the message the next day, but I already knew it was you. I had to be the one to tell all our friends after the police called, even though I was halfway across the country. I never wanted my eyes to behold fire ever again.

It's kind of funny, though. I remember playing with fire a lot when I was a kid. My sister and I used to pretend to smoke by lighting dried sunflower stems and holding them between our fingers, imitating our aunts and barking at one another like gossiping old hags.
Now that I've actually started smoking, it's not so funny to look back on. As stand outside my hotel room, smoking your favorite cigarillos, the unpleasant perfumed smoke in my lungs makes me wonder what it felt like to be you, all by yourself in that burning house. Were you dead before the flames consumed the second floor entirely? Did you choke on the plumes of the grey, wicked clouds of death you invited to carry you off on your last journey? What was in your back pack? Did you even get a chance to flip through any of those old books in the attic? I feel like I should know these things, considering you called me beforehand. Everyone wants to believe it was an accident, but I know better. I wish you wouldn't have called me so I could believe it was an accident, too.

My boyfriend thinks I was your suicide note. How nice. What a fucking honor. I got to relay your last moments to everyone else. And now I can't sleep at night and feel both guilty for not being able to help you, and angry that you made me feel like I could. It's been a month. A fucking month, man. And I'm losing it. I sound like a broken record. Our friends are tired of me talking about you, I think. Part of the reason I think this situation has stomped the fucking breath out of me, aside from the obvious reason of losing our best friend, is because I know what you felt like in that moment. Our other friends don't. And Jim says that's why you told me the things you'd never told anyone else; because you knew I'd understand. Well, yes. I do. But what was your purpose in calling me and then going through with it all anyway? Was your goal to have me follow you into the afterlife shortly after you? Because some days I'm inclined to believe that's where I'm headed.

My head is riddled with thousands of tiny, harmful pin-prick thoughts that poke holes into my sanity and I mean it when I say that if I could trade you places, I would. You were far better company to our friends than I am, anyway.

I keep wondering why people like us are forced to carry on in this world while others with cancers and long-term, debilitating illnesses get to choose to end their suffering comfortably --and legally-- in some parts of the world. When the anti-depressants make you manic and the anti-psychotics are off balance and turn you into someone else, where do you turn? What do you do when the doctors don't even know what to do with you anymore? And therapy has all become the same, repetitive psycho-babble bullshit coming from the mouth of an otherwise blank face that tells you it's okay to relapse. Of course they're going to tell you that. It puts money in their pockets when people like us keep coming back. And you...you tried to get help and were turned away. What kind of institution does that?

Today, my chest is empty. The crows moved out, but left their nest. One of them collected a locket and had it tucked in the twigs they used to construct their former home. One day, while I was sitting near the window watching the rain wash away the rubble from the parking lot outside, I became curious and decided to look inside of the trinket. Inside it was a tiny, folded up piece of paper. Upon carefully unfurling the little note, I saw that it contained the words, "I can't stay in this abandoned house forever."
It was the fucking catalyst to an epic melt down.

The run-down movie theater in my head that had been playing our last conversation over and over again went suddenly dark. The starving beggar boy that had been picking up popcorn off the floor became frightened and started to cry. Without the sepia tones from the screen to guide him out of the room, the boy stumbled over a couple of other still, despondent customers sitting in their seats, staring where the film was no longer being shown. He quickly realized the other people sitting in the theater were, well...dead.
Dead people. People I haven't 'gotten over' yet, as everyone else has expected me to.
As the situation unfolded inside, everything on the outside began to break as well. How do they expect me to 'let go' of you? What is the proper way to grieve or go through life after your best friend calls you right before killing himself by setting fire to a 200 year-old, abandoned farm house in the middle of nowhere with him still in it on the second floor? What would you do? What would you fucking do?

Inside, the movie theater began to catch fire but it was promptly put out by a sudden, heavy rain that fell hard against the outside of the building. Eventually, it began to flood. The beggar boy escaped.
Outside, the rain crept into the hotel room and rose up to my ankles and eventually up over my knees. My face was already wet from the tears, so I smiled and wished all the rain would come visit me in my room.

I absolutely drowned in the delicious sorrow no one else could understand but you.

I have finished the painful process of becoming a siren, though not one of a sea that many are familiar with. I dwell in my tears and whisper the wonders of what it's like to live to those who don't want to any more so that they won't leave just yet. It's selfish, I know.
My abilities don't work on me, though, in case you were wondering. I wish I had known before how to tempt you into staying alive with a raw, ethereal song about the hope of your future.

And I still wish I could trade you places sometimes. Spending all my time at the bottom of the ocean waiting to change things that can't be changed isn't exactly my idea of happiness, but it gives me something to do.
It cools me down. It puts out the embers in my head and keeps the scorch marks on my fingertips cold, even though the salt still burns them.

I used to think fire was good. It meant passion. It meant living. It meant that if I could feel the heat of it running through my veins that I was alive.

I don't know if I believe that anymore, but I might one day again. Until then, I will stay here by the sea and take my place seated firmly between the realm of life and death where I'm comfortable. That way, I can look beyond and see our friends waving on the shore, and when I turn my head the other direction, I can also get a glimpse of your face on the horizon, somewhere further into the sea where I dare not venture.
Not yet, at least.

Someday, though.
And hopefully not soon.

With love,
Alistair

[Kicks]

The world outside the open door was blue. On any ordinary day I would pass by the door and thinking nothing more of it. I wouldn't take the time to sit down and admire the view before me. Maybe if I had the time, or maybe if I were more relaxed then I would enjoy it... but those had always been excuses.

It came as a mere stroke of humor now to think of such lame excuses. There had always been time. Too bad no one ever realized this until they were staring at it right in its ugly face.


The world outside was a dark blue. There was still enough light in the sky to spread the hiding world above into an ocean blue mirroring that of a portrait by Thomas Kinkade. The clouds that raked the sky full of darkness were much darker in tint and gave the world below it a hideous shadow to obscure lines and shapes.


An ugly black form stood in contrast to the sky. It was just as tall, just as reaching. Just as ugly. It was the mountain across the field. From where I stood now it looked like a climbable feet. But up close I knew it to be a dangerous climb, taking over five hours to conquer and longer to reach the bowl of the mountain. Or that's what people called it... a mountain. It was a volcano by others' standards. A dormant one, that houses stood upon and ranchers gleaned for their glory.


They used to say that Yellowstone would be the catalyst to set our world alight here.


There were no truer words than that. But even when Yellowstone lit up like a great ball of fire, and even when our skies turned red with hell-fire... our world retained its former glory. Technologies had advanced to keep the apocalyptic event from destroying everything in its path. It was that same technology that kept the eruption contained within eight hundred miles. The effects could have been much worse.


And even though several perished at hell's wrath, more existed in fear. I was of the many that existed in fear.


I used to think that when Yellowstone erupted it would all just end in a flash. One second I would be hearing the national weather channel announce our fate, and the next second I would be meeting Jesus in a grand event.


Nobody ever told me I would be wearing a mask for the next two years. Nobody ever told me I would lose enemies and friends, family and strangers to the smoke, to the radiation.


My neighbors were long gone. I now stare across an empty field, dead from the effects of the explosion.


Yellowstone had went off after the bombs came. A shifting of the plates, a crashing of worlds... and then our lives were lit up.


It was in combination with the bombs and the volcanic devastation that few of us survived now.


It had long been a debate for me whether to leave and find sanctuary elsewhere. But after two years of saying I would and never did, I knew better than my heart that I was too scared. For there were several questions that still remained unanswered. What existed beyond the boundaries of my comfortable two mile radius?


There was no electricity, no running water, no fresh air. I knew I couldn't live like this for long. And I had accepted that in the months after the eruption. But after surviving two years longer than I thought I would, a stubbornness grew in me to survive.


I could only imagine what long dead Freud would have to say about that. Would he blame my mother for this sudden will?


I laughed at the funny thought. Such sarcastic remarks I could never share again with anyone else. That was saddening, but a truth I had long since accepted.


Now as the field and the mountain stood before me, I wondered if there were other survivors like me out there. Others who fought for fresh water, food, air. Had they all suffocated? Were they all dead? Or worse?


I closed the back door. It was time to set out now. The sun rising even if it were still an ugly dark outside. It always would be with those looming clouds.


A small bag packed with what little remained of my water source, scraps of food, and a tattered map. Days were hot and nights were cold so I traveled in layers. I didn't want to become weighed down by any more than what I needed. Besides, treasures and possessions had long since become null. They were trash if they could not be used to better my surviving chances.


I said goodbye to my memories here now. I said goodbye to sleepless nights with friends, a lazy cat that left me the bottom halves of rabbits it would catch, and many days of pondering or lazying around the couch.


I threw open the front door. The morning smog had set in. It was impossible to see more than my hand's length in front of me. But I did not need to see to know the way down the curving path of the small hill. I did not need to see to know that in three minutes I would turn left and head towards the bridge.


If this were any other day, it would be a normal journey to find food and water. But this was not a normal day. This was the day I journeyed into the world. This was the day I began my adventure of finding other people, of discovering what else was out there.


It was a day to mark on my calendar had there ever been a use anymore for them. Every calendar in the world was two years expired, nine months behind, two weeks late, and three days uncounted.


I no longer needed to keep track of the days that had passed since the event. Today, I would begin to keep track of how long I was out in the world for the first time.

[m139]

He squinted into the falling snow, one hand resting on the fencepost. He should have started home hours ago, when he had first seen the signs of the storm. But he had ignored them, foolish as he was, and so now, he and his brown shaggy dog, now white on account of the snow, trudged on, low visibility, biting wind and all. Together they trudged along, barely able to see five feet in front of them.

Suddenly, the fence came turned. They had reached the cross roads. Only five minutes to go. He turned to the right, and his dog to the left.

Surprised, he spoke, "What's up, Don? You know home is the other way."

But the dog did not move, but stayed fixed, looking in the other direction, even when the man took a step towards his home. The dog wined, and looked off into the distance.

The man knelt down besides the dog. "What is it? Do you see something I don't?"

His dog whimpered, as if excited in a happy way. The man could feel the dog's muscles tense. It was as if it wanted to go bounding off and greet a dear friend.

But there was no one out there. No one even lived close to his remote house, and certainly no one would have been as stupid as he had been and tried to travel in this snow. So what could his dog be wining at?


The man looked out again. And once again, all he could see was the falling, swirling white falling down. "There's nothing there, boy." he said to his dog, and he bent down to pat him, "Nothing at all."

He began to straighten himself up again, when suddenly he stopped. He looked straight out, and even brought his hand up to shield his eyes in a useless gesture, as if it could somehow help him see better in this swirling snow.

There was... there was something there. He could just see the faint outline of the something, a little bit of greyish moving towards him in the snow.

What was it? He had no idea. It might be a bear, for all he knew. But his dog was excited... which meant it was either a giant rabbit (highly unlikely), or a person. But what would a person be doing out in this snow? It was just so dangerous...

He stood by his dog. Slowly and slowly the outline became more clear. And then, he realized what it was: it was another human being. "Who..." he whispered to himself. But the words, and the thoughts that accompanied these words were soon pushed to the back of his mind. For the figure stumbled, and fell in the snow. She needed help.

Some seven minutes later, the man, his dog, and the bundled person the man was practically carrying made it to a small cabin in the woods. He helped the person into a chair by the fireplace- whoever it was could barely move- and lit a fire. His dog stayed at the person's feet the entire time.

After some time. The person in wrappings let out a "brr..." and began to take off the outer garments. The man helped. The first hood was removed, and then a scarf, and then another scarf. Soon the face of a woman was revealed.

It was a face the man had not seen for a long time. "You..." he said shakily, stepping back and only being stopped by the fireplace grate, "You came back."

"Of course I did, John. You knew I would. I promised I would and I always keep my promises."

"But the middle of winter? You would only do that if... if"

She avoided his eyes. "Yes." she said quietly, then continued slowly "They have decided. It will happen. So-"

She did not finish her sentence, but raised her eyes. He was staring directly at her. His eyes, full of shock, met her pained gaze. They were both silent for a moment. Both the bearer and the receiver contemplated the news.

Then, looking down at his shoes, he said, "I don't understand. How could it have been so soon? I thought it would be at least another five years, with all the arguments and such going on when I left." He leaned against the mantle, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead with his eyes closed. When he looked again, he saw her still staring at him, as if she wanted to say more. "What is it?" he said, simply and without emotion. He was pretty sure what she was about to say, and did not want to hear it.

"They have not started yet, and will not for at least two days. You could convince them otherw-"

"NO!" he roared. He had now straightened up and was unsupported. He knew she was going to say that. He just knew it. "I am not going back. Never." He folded his arms, "Not for anything."

"But... You are the only one who can stop them. You are the only one who can convince them this is a bad idea."

"They did not listen to me the first time," he said bitterly, one hand gripping the mantel, "Why should this time be any different?"

"I listened. You were able to convince me. And Dave and Annabel- if you came back you could win them once again to out side- We could still have that five years, you know. The only reason it happened so soon is because you left and I'm not strong en-"

"Don't tell me I'm the catalyst! I have no responsibility. You could do it. If you really wanted to." He sat down in a nearby chair, and buried his face in his hands. He knew what he said was a lie. She had always been more on the quiet side. He had been expecting Dave to help her, but, no. It seemed like he had left.

"Well," he said quietly. "I suppose then, we might as well prepare for the end."

She looked at him in disgust. "No." she said, "You do that. I am going to fight this as much as I can." She began to put back on her wrappings.

His head still buried, he responded, "You'll loose. You'll just end up dying at their hands."

"I'm going to die anyways." she said, standing up, "Life is only so long to begin with."

The dog got up with her, and the man looked up. She walked to the door.

"Your seriously going to do this?" he asked.

"What choice do I have?" She was looking at the doorknob. "Someone's got to try." She opened the door, and a gust of cold air came in. The storm had stopped, and all that remained was a blanket of whiteness for miles. Here and there was a lump or two, what was once a tree or bush could no more be seen.

"Wait." he said.

She paused, looking out at the scene, "You cannot stop me." she stated simply.


"No, but I can give you this." he placed on her shoulders a large, fur jacket.

"Thank you." she said, turning back to him once more.

"Well, if I cannot stop you from going to death, I can at least stop you from dying on the way."

She huffed, and left.

The dog followed her for about half a mile, then turned and headed back towards the cabin. Meanwhile, the man waited in the doorsteps, thinking. He knew that what she did was useless. Yet he admired her for never loosing the hope he had lost long ago. He shook his head. When his dog came back, he let him in, and closed the door to the harsh external world.

But the house could not completely separate the man from the outside: bits of the bitter breeze would always find there way in through the numerous cracks. For if ever one way was closed, another would always be opened. He could not completely avoid what was coming.

Yet, he would still try.

[Kris]

Chapter 1-

Mr. Valero was closing his store at exactly 20:00 (like he did every day aside of Tuesday and Sunday). As he removed the binding over the glass window he heard noises coming from the nearby alley. He wanted to brush it off as meaningless sound, a street cat kicking a can, or a rat, but the 2012 incident caused him to be alarmed. He started to move faster and as he watched metal frame closing over the jewels on the stands he noticed shadows appearing from behind.

The first thing he did was to turn around.

Nothing was there, of course.

Then something hit him. hard

Before he knew it, he dropped on the ground, bleeding heavily, voices of laughter echoing and circling in his mind until he lost consciousness.

***

Street number 5.

It wasn't always named like this. It used to be called after some General... or was it a president?
Never the less... ever since they changed streets names to numbers and codes things have gone smoothly with mails... Not that anyone using them anymore... but still.

Among the streets, among the crowd, Among the smoke of cars and factories I found myself passing. I was not a tall person, a feature I disliked greatly about myself which proved not once to be my essence. Today It allowed me to naturally blend in as I was making my way for the crime scene. I was holding a big camera with flash handle. Module 2015 (You hardly see them these days). I noticed few cops walking for my direction, but all I needed to do was stick out my badge and shake my head for them to let me be.

"Oh! You're here!", waved someone from the other side of the "stay out" lines. I lowered my camera just to meet his face.

"Be there in a second, Jack!", I grinned, knowing my time has its own special meaning.

I delayed more than a second of course, I wanted to make sure I got enough shoots before I will be kicked out.

***

Jack was a "healthy" man. He stood at about 190 cm and was well... big... big man... His skin was bronze and he usually always wore suits. As much as he carried himself as a "detective", he was not, in fact, part of the police by so. He worked alone and took special interest in difficult crime cases.

"Care for a smoke?", he said as he waved his bionic hand at me. He lost his hand in a great explosion when he was about 17. He never fully explained how or why and I decided against pushing him for answers.

"I don't do smokes", I said, and looked at the broken store's glass, "So... someone was partying last night?"

"You got it Vel"

For the record, Vel was not my real name, but rather a code I went by back when I was in junior high and did some decking (Cyber hacking and virtual life). Back then "Very Elegant Lady" sounded just as cool as "Untamed76" and "DeckEater".... (Don't ask..)

Anyway, I've been going with this code name ever since, which have proved helpful so far in keeping my life in some order. If I ever die while on mission (I don't think I'll ever be stupid enough to blow up my cover, but still), at least mom will not know it was me.... until she will get the money.... I guess being sad with coins is better no?

"Like all the other cases, normal break in and break out. Whoever in their ways is knocked down. Usually they keep their victims alive if they go down quick enough", said Jack as he inhaled and puffed out his cigar, "This time... jewelries...".

I walked a little away from him, watching few people being stuffed into a van. Crying about them not knowing anything and claiming innocence.

"Those are the criminals?", I asked and Jack nodded. I and studied them. Five men and woman, all seemed to be high school brats, "I see a pattern with the range of age...", I mumbled.

Jack nodded, "Don't bothered to tell them to the cops. Big bad officer Alister already warned me to butt off his case", he chuckled, "But yeah... same age range... all acting mad... but doing a specific hit and run at local expensive stores.... acting violently until the last moment... what time is it?"

"About 3?"

"Oh... no time pattern then", he exhaled with a gray smoke, "And recall nothing of what they did. It comes as such a great shock. You'd be surprised most of them are from cream schools or honored students"

"You never know with teenagers"

"Now you sound just like Alister"

I chuckled, "So what is your theory? Drugs?"

"Tested, negative. Whatever it is, it's not circlet in the blood..."

"But you have an idea?"

"I have", he throw the cigar away and fixed his jacket.

"Care to share with the rest of the class?"

"Every man to himself, chicka", he gave me a nod, "And so the race begins"

"So it seems", I smiled, "Thanks for the help Jack"

***

"So you think someone playing from behind the scenes".

"Someone gotta be", I answered, "Money, fancy cloths, music stores... those are petty crimes.... They plan something big"

"Oh?"

I was in my apartment. Well apartment will be a big and fancy word to describe the dump I was in, but there is so much you can complain about four walls these days. At least this one had a roof. And a working toilet.

"Think, suppose I give you a great unlimited chance to steal whatever you want, what would be the first thing you do?"

The boy was Tobias my roommate. He was a blond, slender young man, about 18 years old, about 6 years younger than me. It's kinda weird to say it, but he really does help me out of his kindness of his heart.... or because he is bored... I like to believe the former though.

"Well, if it was up to me, It will be only a catalyst I'd go bold on this", he said as he cleaned his glasses with his shirt.

"How bold?", I asked.

His eyes narrowed and in the gloomy atmosphere he looked somewhat sinister.

"A bank".

"Hmmm", I considered his answer and while crossing all the previous "hits" locations I had the next lead. I slammed the half empty pizza tray closed (not before grabbing a slice) and then put on my jacket.

"Heading out?"

"Taking a breather", I winked, "If you can't get the house clean today, or do the dishes, can you at least save me more slices?"

"You got it boss", he chuckled.

And with that I left.

Chapter 2 (http://role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=74776&p=2598419&viewfull=1#post2598419)

[Kiki]

And I saw it there, in your eyes. Like a dim boat light in a drift of fog at the end of long dock. Yellow, around the middle of a ring of blue. The sun. Sunshine.

Exactly what a sunflower needs. Sunshine. Your voice like rain. Rainfall.

That's where I saw it.

My universe breaking apart. Like a string of stars pearled into the black velvet of the night; collapsing around me. Taking the breath from my lungs, adrift in space.

A breakdown of my ego, a shift in my pride.

I saw only you. You, sunshine, rainfall.

I felt my insides break completely, before they scrambled quickly, scrambling together, to slide together, the fractures of what could be scavenged together of my broken down soul. Sliding together into the sunshine, to sparkle off your brilliance like sea glass, stained glass, beaming colored light, dazzling our eyes.

You, the catalyst.