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Twighlight Sky -> RE: Dark Sky (by Twi) (4/14/2013 14:42:20)
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Chapter Three: Dead of Night
A warm, muggy breeze enveloped the shady, littered streets, lit only by distant streetlamps in the fog of night. The occasional car drove by, puttering morosely as it carried its exhausted, under-rested passengers home. An empty, fatigued air filled the streets, as though the very earth had begun to rot. In the dark alleyways, criminals, dealers, and danger lurked, waiting to pounce upon any who dared explore this fatigues world, or merely wished to take a shortcut home. The dead of night bloomed in the full.
Jason clambered onwards through the streets of the dead city. He had already apprehended two would be-kidnappers, busted a dealer, and now he had stumbled upon a homeless man experiencing a seizure. The man's eyes bulged beneath his gray skin, and yellow teeth gaped wide, gasping for breath. It had happened so suddenly- one moment, Jason was passing him on the street, the next, the man was thrashing on the floor, kicking his legs in a perverse, macabre dance. Foam formed on the tips of his mouth, and a raspy howl echoed through the streets. Jason rushed to his side, but by the time he had arrived, the man was still. His pulse had gone, and breath no longer entered his lungs. The previous problems he could deal with, but this last one was beyond his power.
Death happens, particularly when I least expect it. He reflected, emptily. All around me. Is this all I bring to this world? Is everyone around me doomed to fall?
He took one last glance at the stagnant corpse, lying prone and undignified on the dirt-coated tarmac, the only sound the rustling of dead leaves upon the ground, swirling in the muggy air.
As Jason turned and departed, a cool breeze entered the alleyway. In the warm light of the streetlamp, a tremor ran through the dead man's body. A mere spasm? Unlikely.
Jason entirely failed to notice as fire ran along the tarmac road, and the man rose again, to face the world anew.
***
A bar. It was not Jason's first choice, but it was the only place left open at that hour. Well, that and the fast-food taco joint, but it was unlikely he was going to find any information there. Not to mention the repulsive quality of the 'food' served in those deathtraps. It was enough to make him feel sick to the stomach. No, the bar was a far better place to search.
As bars go, it was not a particularly elegant one. Dingy wooden counters and dusty glasses lined the walls, playing host to hundreds of old, filthy, unopened bottles bearing such colorful names as “CowFart” and “Spleen Killer”. A broken pool table lay in a side room, accompanied by a TV blaring out various sports replays. In one corner, shards of broken glass lay accumulated, hinting that this bar had played host to far more fights and brawls than were generally recommended for a business of its size. A low, gray haze of smoke hung over the room, solidifying the grim, lifeless atmosphere personified by this soulless enterprise.
Two figures sat by the window, separated by a vase containing a single, wilted rose, eating tasteless meals (the house specialty), and apparently deep in discussion. One wore a long, blue robe, fringed with gold tassels, yet somehow failing to appear regal, instead more wraith-like and frail. Around his neck hung a large, ornate gold cross, embedded with diamonds, sapphires, and pearls, a true work of beauty. This man, Jason knew. (Or, at least he considered them a man, as none knew for sure his identity beneath the cloak). The Wanderer. Nothing in the city escaped his gaze. He knew all, and could be persuaded to share it...for the right price.
Money, however, was not his currency. He demanded something far more potent. He made his trade in wishes: what could be, what has been, and what never shall, the darkest secrets of all humanity. Dreams were his wares, and the darkest parts of the soul his price. And, of course, there were always those willing to sell their souls for a pipe dream, to do anything to fly away.
The other, a middle aged, harassed-looking woman, appeared to be in tears. A motherly figure, it seemed, but one who was on the verge of giving up, and yet refusing to ever admit it to herself. Jason had seen the type before, for the modern world is a breeding ground for pain, sorrow, and hopelessness. In this meaningless, futile world, many could not bear their own sorrows, but fought on alone, driving others away, with a compounding interest of despair. And to those drenched in sorrow, the Wanderer gave dreams, a light in their darkness.
The deal, it seemed, had been struck. She spoke, and he listened. So simple, so easy to pay, easier than raking up debt with a credit card. Pouring forth all the stress, all the pain, and all the torment, she poured her soul out, all her grievances, trials, and despairs. And so, the Wanderer listened, and when all was done, gave her a small, leather-bound book.
The worries and cares lifted from the woman's worn, fatigued face. She smiled, a true, full smile, as all the problems she had faced faded to oblivion. She was, at last, free from all the stresses of ordinary living. She got up, laughing, and skipped out of the bar.
It happened quickly. Still smiling, still free. A loud screech heralded the end. There was a sickening crunch as the large truck collided with the woman. Her last expression was that of pure bliss.
Jason stormed over to the table where the Wanderer sat. “What have you done?” he demanded.
“Merely as she wished. She wanted an escape, so I changed her story's ending,” the Wanderer replied, aloof and uncaring.
“She had a life. She had a family. And you stripped that from her.”
“She was burned out. Her life had no meaning. She'd lost faith, her marriage was failing, and her children ungrateful and uncaring. I merely gave her the closing she desired. But sit, sit. We have much to discuss. You aren't here just to slander me, now, are you? There's something on your tiny little mind, something you cannot rest until you understand, a mystery, a puzzle which you desperately need to grasp.”
“How?..” Jason stammered.
“Your life is one of the grandest tales I have ever been blessed to witness. You want answers. I know them all. The question is...why should I provide you with spoilers?”
Jason slammed his hand down on the table. The vase beautiful red rose, full in bloom, fell shattering. A thorn pricked his hand, and warm blood began to flow.
“I see”, the Wanderer said. “Very good. Very interesting, indeed.”
“What do you mean?” Jason demanded. “Tell me!”
“A crossroads awaits for you. Several roads branch ahead, all with their own trials and terrors. You must take the path towards the right.”
“Why?”
“Because if you do not, you will never forgive yourself,” the Wanderer replied, smirking.
The Wanderer stood, turned on his heel, and vanished. Jason fell back upon his seat, devastated. No leads, no information, merely a cryptic message from a psychotic stealer of hope. So miserable was he that he almost missed a small, glossy piece of paper falling to the floor. He picked it up.
It said:
Madame Montagne: Renowned Psychic.
Specializes in fortune telling, dream interpretation, and astral projections.
What might the future hold for you?
82716 Willow Street
On the back of the card, there was a scribbled, handwritten note. It said: “Warning: spoilers.”
Jason rushed out the door, past the baffled police officers examining a dead woman in the street, and onwards towards the future.
The keycard in his pocket twitched in anticipation of the grim events which lay ahead.
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