measured_words (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
measured_words) wrote2007-06-30 05:06 pm
measured_words) wrote2007-06-30 05:06 pm
Entry tags:
Pieces Part Twenty-Six
It is like I am on a roll or something! But really I started this last week in the airport ;p
Other Pieces
I am vaguely aware of Brown’s presence just before he comes through the door. He is talking to Alita: laughing, reassuring her.
“I used to work with Daniel. He called me a few days ago.” He lies so easily, just like me. “I know how he can get, yeah, but don’t worry – he’ll be all right.” More lies.
I remember Alita, my landlord, letting herself in a few days ago to check on me. She was worried. I haven’t left the house in some time. I sent her away – I barely even thought about what I was doing. She just turned and left, her questions of concern only half asked. She must have been quite confused later on. And still worried. I can sense it in her mind as much as hear it in her voice. Brown promises again that everything will be fine, and gives her a little nudge. She thanks him, and leaves.
I sit up as he turns on the light. It is an old fixture and washes everything in yellow. Brown’s frowning face washed in yellow light. It even washes out the blondness of his hair and brightens the green of his polo.
“You look sick,” he says after a minute’s assessment. “Have you been eating?”
I shrug. I don’t remember. Everything is sort of blurred: I know I’ve been in the kitchen, but not when or what I was doing. Everything is blurred together.
Brown makes his own assessment of the premises. There isn’t much to see. He looks at all the photographs I’ve turned over, in here and in the bedroom. He plugs the phone back in. I don’t remember taking it out of the jack either. Once he has made the circuit, he comes and sits on the couch, on the other end, looking across at me.
“I’m going to make you some coffee and something to eat, okay?”
“Why?” I start to ask. My voice cracks and my throat is very dry. Brown just holds up his hands, expression guarded.
“Don’t even start that crap, Daniel.”
I close my eyes, not even sure what exactly I was going to ask. It doesn’t really matter. He is back in the kitchen now. I can feel him moving around in there. I can hear him too, but it seems further away. I’m not sure which senses I can trust – maybe none. Maybe this is just another in the series of strange dreams I’ve been having. He rifles through the cupboard ungently, slamming things down. He is angry, or perhaps worried. His mind is closed, though – that could be what he wants me to think. Would he do that? I’m not certain. I can hear the microwave.
He is quiet. Maybe he is angry. I could ask. I could do anything other than just sit here listening to him grind frozen coffee beans for the percolator. I just can’t think of what it would be, or why. I don’t feel like I’m really awake, or else I’ve just become more accustomed to the people and places I see in my dreams. They may be strange, but I have more control and it costs me less.
I open my eyes as he comes into the living room carrying a plate supporting a wilted looking cardboard container, and a glass of water. He sets them on the coffee table, but remains standing. “Not much in there to chose from… But you are going to eat it if I have to shove it in your mouth myself. Coffee’s coming – have some water.” He gestures at the table. There is a fork on the plate.
I can smell it – pre-cooked, frozen and reheated pasta, a bland meat sauce. Three cheeses, the box proclaims. Some part of me is hungry, but my mind is so dull that the urge to eat dies before it even touches my consciousness. Did I buy this? No. It was left in the freezer by the apartment’s previous occupant, a student. I still get mail for her.
I drink the water first. My throat is dry and there is a foul taste in the back of my mouth. I drain the glass and set it down. Brown is watching me. How did he find me here? What even prompted him to look? And why, finally, am I only thinking of this now? He could have put any number of things in the water or food that I wouldn’t be able to taste. I’m not worried though. I can’t say it if is apathy or confidence in my own powers of perception or self control. Maybe I even trust him.
I pick up the fork under his watchful eye, and he seems to relax when it is apparent that I will comply. I don’t want food, and especially not this artificial mess of tasteless carbohydrates, sugary watered down sauce, and meat that may as well be cardboard. I don’t feel my hunger, only a mild and distant revulsion. But I also don’t remember when I ate last, or what, and I understand that I should.
It is as bland and tasteless as I imagined and requires forceful self-discipline to keep eating after the first mouthful. Brown looks satisfied and smiles tightly. “At least the coffee will be fresh – you know I’m not much of a cook.”
It’s true. His metabolism is extremely efficient and adaptive, designed so that he can survive off of almost anything, and it has made him extremely lazy in his eating habits. Left to his own devices he might well consider coffee and a cheap microwave dinner gourmet. I nod, and he continues. “I’m going to check you fro Etheric poisoning.”
It is half a question, ad I nod again. I wonder what makes him suspect this – is there still trace of some kind of localized backlash? It must have been days ago now. I remember that much: on the phone with Anna, realizing she was slipping away from me. I reached out, hundreds of mils, just to touch her hair, and be near to her before it was too late. What a stupid thing to do.
Brown takes out a slim foil-wrapped package and peels it open to reveal a thin black strip that reminds me of those old thermometers that indicate fever by changing color, blue to green to red. It apparently works much the same way, as he slaps it on my forehead. I don’t recall using anything like it in my time with the Order. Maybe it is new, or else it is Iteration-X technology. It is warm on my skin. Brown has disappeared again into the kitchen, presumably to check on the coffee. I finish the rest of the pasta and wait.
He returns shortly – not quite two minutes – with two mugs of coffee, and sets them on the table. Both are black. Does he remember my preference, or was he just unable to find milk or sugar? He was never very particular himself. “Peel that thing off and pass it over,” he instructs. “Let’s see how you’re doing.”
If only it were so simple. I remove it, turning it over to look more closely. It feels like metal, or some kind of advanced metallic plastic, with an electronic readout showing a repeating pattern of a chart plotting readings of my apparently erratic levels of etheric contamination over the last few minutes. The readout is in yellow. There are other functions on the slim device, but I don’t have the energy to investigate at the moment. Etheric poisoning – it sounds almost quaint. I can sense the low levels of Prime Element radiating in the device. I pass it to Brown, who frowns over the device and calls up extra data to assess.
“It isn’t as bad as I was afraid it might be,” he concedes. It seems like a lot has bled off on its own. But Mike will still want me to bring you in – for your own good of course.” His intonation on the last phrase express his sentiments – he expects objections form me and is willing to let it go.
I start to shake my head, and add a “No.” It is only the second word I’ve said since he came in.
“I didn’t think so.” He pockets the strip and sits back down, picking up and sipping the still hot coffee. “You know he is trying to look out for you. At least that’s what he is telling himself…. We’re both worried about you.”
He is frustrated, still. Anger is part of it, but this is sincerity. Victor Brown and Michael Xi, both people who at one time I trusted with my life, are worried about me. Brown, Victor, I can at least understand. This whole affair is personal for him as well. If Xi is worried about me, then surely his primary concern is whether I will cause him any difficulties.
“What about you, Daniel? Are you worried? Talk. Say something.”
“I don’t know.” Lightheadedness is starting to overtake me, as though after eating that mess my body remembers what it has been missing and craves nutrients. I wish I could believe this was a purely physical response, but I feel shaken at my core somehow, like something is trying to come loose. I am not well, and one sad meal is not gong to change that. I try to force it back.
The phone rings, as if sensing my weakness.
‘Let it go,’ I want to say, but I don’t quite make it before Victor has the receiver in hand.
“Hello?” A pause. I can’t hear whoever is on the other side – he is blocking me – but despite my sudden vertigo, I can almost see the energy if I concentrate. “No,” he looks my way. I should take this, I’m sure of it, but there is a cold chill running down my spine, racing up to meet the lightness in my head. Victor frowns, concerned. “I don’t think he can come to the phone right now. Is this Anna?” Another pause. I feel frozen. Is this fear? Why am I afraid to speak with her again? What could I say worse than anything I have already done? Surely she is already lost to me. “This is Victor Brown.” He sounds cool enough – normal enough- despite the lines across his forehead as he watches me do nothing. “That’s right. No – he’s fine. Don’t worry.” Now I frown. I can hear the persuasion creep into his voice, the inflections intended to trigger obedience. I can feel him influencing her. He shouldn’t do that. “It’ll be okay. I’ll have him call y-.” He stops, frowning for a different reason. “Who is this?” Another brief pause and he slams the receiver down quickly.
“What happened.”
“Some kind of interference toward the end there. I think I may have cut her off… She sounded, ah – did something happen?”
“How did she sound?”
He is trying to read me, but can’t. At least no more than my biology reveals. I doubt it is very much, if only because I’ve lost the instincts that tell me how to react like a normal person. “Wary,” he answers finally. I nod. Of course. What must she think? Does she, or do her people, understand what happened? It is clear that they are prepared to protect her. They reacted to Victor’s attempt to influence her. I wonder if he realizes this.
He sighs. “You really should call her, you know. I’m sure there are other more noble reasons but if nothing else, this would be a bad time for them to decide that you need checking up on. Or that I do.”
“Then why did you answer the phone?”
He purses his lips, weighing his words. “You never would have. And I… I can’t let you just waste your life away, starving yourself to death in some dark basement.” He can, of course, but he finds it upsetting. Sincerely so, and I only have the slightest grasp on his motivation. He has helped me, and taken some large risks in the process. “I can’t stay now, but I’ll be back. And I’ll try to keep putting off Mike, but you are going to have to deal with him.” I nod, and he takes another look around the place as he stands and gulps down most of the rest of his coffee. “If you don’t e-mail me in the next two days, I’m going to have some groceries delivered. I know you’ll hate that, so take care of yourself.”
I nod again. I will try, though it is possible that I will leave my momentum again as soon as I am left to my own devices. It isn’t enough, and he is right that it is a waste. I should be able to overcome such a mundane affliction, shouldn’t I? “Victor,” I say as he sets down his mug and turns to the door, “thank you.”
He gives me a genuine smile, and is gone.
Other Pieces
I am vaguely aware of Brown’s presence just before he comes through the door. He is talking to Alita: laughing, reassuring her.
“I used to work with Daniel. He called me a few days ago.” He lies so easily, just like me. “I know how he can get, yeah, but don’t worry – he’ll be all right.” More lies.
I remember Alita, my landlord, letting herself in a few days ago to check on me. She was worried. I haven’t left the house in some time. I sent her away – I barely even thought about what I was doing. She just turned and left, her questions of concern only half asked. She must have been quite confused later on. And still worried. I can sense it in her mind as much as hear it in her voice. Brown promises again that everything will be fine, and gives her a little nudge. She thanks him, and leaves.
I sit up as he turns on the light. It is an old fixture and washes everything in yellow. Brown’s frowning face washed in yellow light. It even washes out the blondness of his hair and brightens the green of his polo.
“You look sick,” he says after a minute’s assessment. “Have you been eating?”
I shrug. I don’t remember. Everything is sort of blurred: I know I’ve been in the kitchen, but not when or what I was doing. Everything is blurred together.
Brown makes his own assessment of the premises. There isn’t much to see. He looks at all the photographs I’ve turned over, in here and in the bedroom. He plugs the phone back in. I don’t remember taking it out of the jack either. Once he has made the circuit, he comes and sits on the couch, on the other end, looking across at me.
“I’m going to make you some coffee and something to eat, okay?”
“Why?” I start to ask. My voice cracks and my throat is very dry. Brown just holds up his hands, expression guarded.
“Don’t even start that crap, Daniel.”
I close my eyes, not even sure what exactly I was going to ask. It doesn’t really matter. He is back in the kitchen now. I can feel him moving around in there. I can hear him too, but it seems further away. I’m not sure which senses I can trust – maybe none. Maybe this is just another in the series of strange dreams I’ve been having. He rifles through the cupboard ungently, slamming things down. He is angry, or perhaps worried. His mind is closed, though – that could be what he wants me to think. Would he do that? I’m not certain. I can hear the microwave.
He is quiet. Maybe he is angry. I could ask. I could do anything other than just sit here listening to him grind frozen coffee beans for the percolator. I just can’t think of what it would be, or why. I don’t feel like I’m really awake, or else I’ve just become more accustomed to the people and places I see in my dreams. They may be strange, but I have more control and it costs me less.
I open my eyes as he comes into the living room carrying a plate supporting a wilted looking cardboard container, and a glass of water. He sets them on the coffee table, but remains standing. “Not much in there to chose from… But you are going to eat it if I have to shove it in your mouth myself. Coffee’s coming – have some water.” He gestures at the table. There is a fork on the plate.
I can smell it – pre-cooked, frozen and reheated pasta, a bland meat sauce. Three cheeses, the box proclaims. Some part of me is hungry, but my mind is so dull that the urge to eat dies before it even touches my consciousness. Did I buy this? No. It was left in the freezer by the apartment’s previous occupant, a student. I still get mail for her.
I drink the water first. My throat is dry and there is a foul taste in the back of my mouth. I drain the glass and set it down. Brown is watching me. How did he find me here? What even prompted him to look? And why, finally, am I only thinking of this now? He could have put any number of things in the water or food that I wouldn’t be able to taste. I’m not worried though. I can’t say it if is apathy or confidence in my own powers of perception or self control. Maybe I even trust him.
I pick up the fork under his watchful eye, and he seems to relax when it is apparent that I will comply. I don’t want food, and especially not this artificial mess of tasteless carbohydrates, sugary watered down sauce, and meat that may as well be cardboard. I don’t feel my hunger, only a mild and distant revulsion. But I also don’t remember when I ate last, or what, and I understand that I should.
It is as bland and tasteless as I imagined and requires forceful self-discipline to keep eating after the first mouthful. Brown looks satisfied and smiles tightly. “At least the coffee will be fresh – you know I’m not much of a cook.”
It’s true. His metabolism is extremely efficient and adaptive, designed so that he can survive off of almost anything, and it has made him extremely lazy in his eating habits. Left to his own devices he might well consider coffee and a cheap microwave dinner gourmet. I nod, and he continues. “I’m going to check you fro Etheric poisoning.”
It is half a question, ad I nod again. I wonder what makes him suspect this – is there still trace of some kind of localized backlash? It must have been days ago now. I remember that much: on the phone with Anna, realizing she was slipping away from me. I reached out, hundreds of mils, just to touch her hair, and be near to her before it was too late. What a stupid thing to do.
Brown takes out a slim foil-wrapped package and peels it open to reveal a thin black strip that reminds me of those old thermometers that indicate fever by changing color, blue to green to red. It apparently works much the same way, as he slaps it on my forehead. I don’t recall using anything like it in my time with the Order. Maybe it is new, or else it is Iteration-X technology. It is warm on my skin. Brown has disappeared again into the kitchen, presumably to check on the coffee. I finish the rest of the pasta and wait.
He returns shortly – not quite two minutes – with two mugs of coffee, and sets them on the table. Both are black. Does he remember my preference, or was he just unable to find milk or sugar? He was never very particular himself. “Peel that thing off and pass it over,” he instructs. “Let’s see how you’re doing.”
If only it were so simple. I remove it, turning it over to look more closely. It feels like metal, or some kind of advanced metallic plastic, with an electronic readout showing a repeating pattern of a chart plotting readings of my apparently erratic levels of etheric contamination over the last few minutes. The readout is in yellow. There are other functions on the slim device, but I don’t have the energy to investigate at the moment. Etheric poisoning – it sounds almost quaint. I can sense the low levels of Prime Element radiating in the device. I pass it to Brown, who frowns over the device and calls up extra data to assess.
“It isn’t as bad as I was afraid it might be,” he concedes. It seems like a lot has bled off on its own. But Mike will still want me to bring you in – for your own good of course.” His intonation on the last phrase express his sentiments – he expects objections form me and is willing to let it go.
I start to shake my head, and add a “No.” It is only the second word I’ve said since he came in.
“I didn’t think so.” He pockets the strip and sits back down, picking up and sipping the still hot coffee. “You know he is trying to look out for you. At least that’s what he is telling himself…. We’re both worried about you.”
He is frustrated, still. Anger is part of it, but this is sincerity. Victor Brown and Michael Xi, both people who at one time I trusted with my life, are worried about me. Brown, Victor, I can at least understand. This whole affair is personal for him as well. If Xi is worried about me, then surely his primary concern is whether I will cause him any difficulties.
“What about you, Daniel? Are you worried? Talk. Say something.”
“I don’t know.” Lightheadedness is starting to overtake me, as though after eating that mess my body remembers what it has been missing and craves nutrients. I wish I could believe this was a purely physical response, but I feel shaken at my core somehow, like something is trying to come loose. I am not well, and one sad meal is not gong to change that. I try to force it back.
The phone rings, as if sensing my weakness.
‘Let it go,’ I want to say, but I don’t quite make it before Victor has the receiver in hand.
“Hello?” A pause. I can’t hear whoever is on the other side – he is blocking me – but despite my sudden vertigo, I can almost see the energy if I concentrate. “No,” he looks my way. I should take this, I’m sure of it, but there is a cold chill running down my spine, racing up to meet the lightness in my head. Victor frowns, concerned. “I don’t think he can come to the phone right now. Is this Anna?” Another pause. I feel frozen. Is this fear? Why am I afraid to speak with her again? What could I say worse than anything I have already done? Surely she is already lost to me. “This is Victor Brown.” He sounds cool enough – normal enough- despite the lines across his forehead as he watches me do nothing. “That’s right. No – he’s fine. Don’t worry.” Now I frown. I can hear the persuasion creep into his voice, the inflections intended to trigger obedience. I can feel him influencing her. He shouldn’t do that. “It’ll be okay. I’ll have him call y-.” He stops, frowning for a different reason. “Who is this?” Another brief pause and he slams the receiver down quickly.
“What happened.”
“Some kind of interference toward the end there. I think I may have cut her off… She sounded, ah – did something happen?”
“How did she sound?”
He is trying to read me, but can’t. At least no more than my biology reveals. I doubt it is very much, if only because I’ve lost the instincts that tell me how to react like a normal person. “Wary,” he answers finally. I nod. Of course. What must she think? Does she, or do her people, understand what happened? It is clear that they are prepared to protect her. They reacted to Victor’s attempt to influence her. I wonder if he realizes this.
He sighs. “You really should call her, you know. I’m sure there are other more noble reasons but if nothing else, this would be a bad time for them to decide that you need checking up on. Or that I do.”
“Then why did you answer the phone?”
He purses his lips, weighing his words. “You never would have. And I… I can’t let you just waste your life away, starving yourself to death in some dark basement.” He can, of course, but he finds it upsetting. Sincerely so, and I only have the slightest grasp on his motivation. He has helped me, and taken some large risks in the process. “I can’t stay now, but I’ll be back. And I’ll try to keep putting off Mike, but you are going to have to deal with him.” I nod, and he takes another look around the place as he stands and gulps down most of the rest of his coffee. “If you don’t e-mail me in the next two days, I’m going to have some groceries delivered. I know you’ll hate that, so take care of yourself.”
I nod again. I will try, though it is possible that I will leave my momentum again as soon as I am left to my own devices. It isn’t enough, and he is right that it is a waste. I should be able to overcome such a mundane affliction, shouldn’t I? “Victor,” I say as he sets down his mug and turns to the door, “thank you.”
He gives me a genuine smile, and is gone.
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