Fleet week
A great time of the summer as the Bridgeton Port-of-call festival hits its high gear. Sure, last week brought us the Starburst Parade and the lesser attended Junior Starburst parade, where the locals could cheer on other local inhabitants and those how have been here sufficiently long and made enough of a positive impact on the local culture or society to be welcomed as one of the troop. Business sponsored floats decked in a myriad of colors, each speckled with lights and starshine, flood through main thoroughfares as hordes of overly sugar saturated onlookers cheer the possible banality or interesting strangeness that might turn the next corner. Theater troops, soldiers, and charitable organizations, all in uniform and costume, strolled the avenues, advertising and waving to the masses while traffic comes to a standstill and the train system completely loses its time table.
The Junior Parade is for their children.
That spectacle, while advertised nationally, really was only for the locals to enjoy before the real celebration arrived on the decks of destroyers. I’m not just using hyperbole, here, as much as I am given to that vice. Most of the ships I saw moored in the river were destroyer class boats. When the men and women in white uniforms disembark, they find the carnival awaiting. Again, no hyperbole, they turn most of Riverside Park into a huge carnival with Ferris wheels, funnel cakes, and con games masquerading as easy pitch and toss games. It flows easily into the Weekend Market of art stands and street performers into a mass of vacationers and those who would profit from vacationers. In a homespun, middle America with drastic progressive leanings, expensively cheesy way it’s quite a bit of fun. If you are around town during this time, I do recommend it, even if it’s just to see.
Oh, I should note, several changes to the town other than the fairs and festival. It’s louder, but that comes as no surprise. There is music everywhere, mostly from the street performers who now guard every corner downtown like performing sentinels. Keep a roll of dollar coins in your pocket. Never hand out the bills. It’s oddly brighter. Don’t ask me why, other than maybe, the practiced and dramatic effort to clear detritus and grime as much as they can without chaining the homeless and dragging them to some other location, far away from any tourist. Trust me, as progressive and forgiving as they can be here, if given a chance, they might actually do it. Why? The third change. Bridgeton has four scents most days of the year; pot, beer, water, and urine. Guess which one blankets the city? If you guessed beer or water, get your head in the game, will you? Pot? Nope, but I see you have been here before and thought it through. Good for you, half points. Nope the real aroma over most of the city downtown make you wonder how little sanitation there could be for a place which looks like the residents take care of it… mostly. Even walking over the bridges, high above the water, the air reeks of former beer. If you walk around long enough, you stop noticing it. Funny, last year this never came up. It makes me wonder how much of a utopia they are building in San Niebla that most of the bad homeless decide that Bridgeton is a much more welcoming place. Still watch your feet. You have no idea what you are stepping in or where it came from. Another of the things we ran from when leaving San Niebla.
The soldiers and sailor make their way around the city, for all the food carts, fine dining, and indoor glow in the dark mini golf, the city welcomes the newcomers and asks them to enjoy themselves, make themselves feel at home, knowing full well that their stay is temporary. It’s an actually positive salute to the brave souls who defend this country on the ocean waves. As a side note, I ask you sailors, I saw you at the minigolf places. Really? Why there? Ok, ok, not for me to judge. I was there too so what does that tell you?
So what a day to be detained by an extro-governmental, paramilitary organization, huh? It’s not like I plan these things.
They caught me on the way back from another interview for a maternity leave job, my third interview with the same company for the same eight week position, I might add. (Note: I managed to land another position later, temp to perm, but I’ll talk on that later.) One of the uncharacteristically warm days brought out my feet and strolling seemed a good enough pass time as any, and yes, I mostly got used to the smell. Mostly. In times like that a cup of the Omega Strength blend of coffee from the Caffienator covers up a lot, or you inhale the scent of the aromatic day of waste and pot just before sipping the warm fluid and question your life choices. I get mine in decaf. So drink in hand the anxiety of another day job hunting and coming up empty, I walked down Gardner Ave. I had maybe two minutes to enjoy my beverage when a non-descript van rolled up. Now, when I say “Non-descript,” I couldn’t have put it any more succinctly. The vehicle looked expertly crafted to resemble absolutely everything you see on the road. I barely noticed them before it came to a stop by the side of the road. Even then I was more than a little oblivious to the situation until several men in black suits, again, cut and strategized to be completely forgettable, exited and head my way.
I might have ignored them, as was their preferred method, I think, but I was a geek, and not just any sort of geek. At their hips, I noticed strange and out of genre holster belts they wore, brown leather and electrified, the circuitry inlayed in the hide. On the man left of me, I saw a huge firearm, far bulkier than your standard side arm with side canisters for some fluid or pressurized air. On my right, a wizard’s wand protruded. I should note, the wand looked like a wizard who knew Nicola Testla on a first name basis constructed it from a rare and forbidden metal found only in strange orbs from the sky or deep in the earth to be extracted by ancient dwarven hands. I am oddly specific in these descriptions as I knew these items well, too well. I read about them in various blogs talking about mad scientist devices that have never been replicated. Suddenly my drink didn’t taste too good anymore.
The one on the left approached, an older gentleman, probably in his 60’s with grey hair and a scent like tea that steeped for several generations. He held out a badge I had never seen before and called my name.
Like any idiot or innocent, I said, “Yes?”
The second, tall, lanky wearing a pair of goggles, stepped forward. “Please come with us. We have questions for you.” I watched him offer me one hand, while his other slipped to his holster.
“Couldn’t you ask them when I was getting coffee?” I offered, holding the cup high.
“Sir.” The first one said. “We are all friends here, and I can assure your safety if you comply, however, there are people in positions who have need of your presence. So we can either walk calmly into the van, where we ride as friends, or we can not travel as friends and our guarantees expire. What will it be, sir?”
“Isn’t that a good way for me to get killed?” I asked.
“I think we have someone who doesn’t know the situation, Mr. Hartnell.” The second one said. “Shall I fetch him?”
“Indeed, Mr. Tennant.” Mr. Hartnell said to his companion before holding his hand out to reassure me. “I believe our associate will answer all your questions, at least for the moment. Mr. Collins?”
A tall foppish looking man climbed out of the driver’s side and strode confidently towards us. Unlike his fellows, his outfit could be seen from space and probably several alien forces that looked down on the tiny blue marble with envious eyes suddenly looked away in blinding terror. The coat in particular swam with strange colors, shifting design patterns and high neon overtones. I wish I could describe it more, I really do, but it would require me making up dozens of words in the English languages that the brain could barely track let alone find any real definition before it would retreat to bad behaviors trying to scrub the new concepts from the memory. Mr. Collins pulled on his lapels, stately, then brushed his shoulders of non-existent dandruff.
That’s when I passed out. Pity. That coffee costs five bucks.
A couple of gentlemen in nice suits helped me up. I must have tripped on whatever crap was in the side walk. (I wish I was just being colorful. I really do.) They kind of looked like the gentlemen who approached me but the vehicle of no interest was gone. Oddly the sun had drifted farther to the horizon that what I remembered and a slight twilight decended.
“You ok, sir?” the tall one asked, brushing me down.
“I’m fine.” I found my feet and blocked the hands. “Thanks for assist.”
“Not at all.” The older one said. “Just being neighborly.”
“We managed to catch your drink too.” He said, passing me my cup, complete with name and seal. I was impressed and thanked them immensely.
“Not a problem. Just watch where you are walking.” The tall one said. “Good day.”
They left. Nice fellows. Funny, my coffee was ice cold….
When I returned home, I found a letter, a small manila envelope. Nothing to strange about that, except that it was in my front pocket. I completely missed it until I fished for my house keys. Inside, small medallion, barely the size of a quarter and a top, like the one from Inception, fell out. It was well made top, brass, polished, and expertly carved. Small letters and indentations ringed the edge. The medallion however, pricked something in the back of my skull, the image of a ivory broach, a silhouette of some type that I had never seen before but hints of previous lives with the Victorian bauble wafting past my psyche. While it had the same hues, I don’t think it was ivory, real or imitation. It shimmered red and green like some soapstone I remembered seeing as a kid on girl’s jewelry, but felt like silk. I put it down near my writing computer as I found a clear surface to spin the top. Sorry if my house is a bit cuttered at the moment. Getting ready to move soon. Hopefully to a better apartment.
I found a wide flat space on desk and gave the top a spin. The indentations and letters caught the wind as the thing spun around and around. Suddenly, in the virational hum of metal on wood combined into a resonance, a tone, that formed the shape of two words.
Xenex is.
Then I remembered.
When I awoke, after strange dreams of ancient technologies, the air around me felt like a coffee bog, hot, sticky, and more than a little sweet. I saw nothing other than a speckling of light that swam in front of me. I figured it was the after effects of the coat before the bag over my head whipped away. I half expected someone to either make ransom demands or just yell, “Ta-da!”
Before me, a clean, respectable office sat, complete with oversized desk reserved for important people. A cool faced woman in her mid fifties in a smart business suit, grey with over tones of light blue sat at the desk, pouring a cup and fragrant tea from a delicately crafted tea set. Over her head, a huge seal stood, as if for some government agency. She poured a second cup and sat it before me.
“Thank you, Gentlemen.” She said nodding to them. “This won’t take long.” Footfalls preceded a closing door.
She sipped her tea a moment before she spoke, her accent expertly crafted to sound like a Transatlantic to hide something of a British undertone, a voice that carried confidence and authority without strangeness. “I would normally offer you a cup, but I am afraid that courtesy would have to wait. I cannot allow you to drink it while it’s too hot for you, and we have had to disable your limbs, so I’m afraid you would not be able to hold your teacup correctly. For that I apologize. Simply dreadful manners. But then again, this is Bridgeton. Perhaps later you may drink, when it’s cool.”
She finished her tea before placing it back on the tray, a slight tinkle of china, before she returned to me. She looked at me for a moment, knitted her hands before her school-marm face, just underneath her oval glasses that made her seem more Victorian somehow. In her shoulder holster, she kept a device which caught and kept my attention. Even from the butt, I knew what it was. The soft azure glow of course gave it away. I pulled my gaze from the device back to her. Her blue eyes started into me, just looking. After a moment she nodded to the two gentlemen behind me, one with bag in hand.
“Let me answer some questions for you right away, shall I?” She said, rising to her feet, standing straight, her suit so crisp apples fell from trees in envy. She didn’t smile or even readjust her glasses which slid down her nose like a pair of reading glasses from the early 40’s. “Do you know where you are?” She started pacing slowly, turning towards the windows. “I can tell you that you are not far from your home. I’ll even tell you that this is the corner of Harrison and Pine, eighth floor, in a mercantile building you never bothered to read the name inscribed over the door. I can tell you that because this is a rented office and when next you come here, the walls will be stripped and all traces of us will vanish, assuming you can remember where any of this once we are done.”
She turned to face me, intently, from across the table. “Why you are here, always the second question, is a much longer question to answer but will become clear to you once you answer things for us.”
“Who are you people?” I asked, more as a sarcastic remark but I needed to know. She pointed to the seal above the window that looked like emblem for the state department for some other universe’s America. Scrolling on the bottom, a Latin motto stretched around small cogs and a red and white checkerboard.
“Quis custodiet ipsos custodies.” She recited. “Do you know what that means, Mr. E?”
Without thinking, I blurted out; “Of course I know that means. I’m an Alan Moore fan.”
She looked at me, expectantly, her hands drifted behind her back. After a moment of silence, she raised her eyebrow.
I sighed, “Who watches the watchmen.”
She said, leaning forward, eyes locked on mine, “We do.”
“What?”
Quietly, she took a seat, she took a deep breath before continuing. “My name is Mrs. Plummer, head and Chief Operations Officer for the Rothchild Institute. The Institute was established to monitor, track, and ultimately control the metahuman population that might become a danger to the general populace. Our mission is one of study and safety for all involved. We work closely with most governments and your local government has seen fit that we have this little chat, so please understand, if I were to think that you were a detriment to our objectives or evading the truth from me, I could have you arrested on a number of charges, the exact number of which we would determine based on your level of deception, or find a nice place in the river to throw you in the dead of night. This is not a threat against you nor is it an assurance of malice on either of our parts, just a reminder of the situation you find yourself in and I wish to impress the importance of a truthful attitude. Are we understood on that concept?”
“Rothchild Institute?” The name sounded oddly familiar, something SubRosa would rant about just as I was tuning out. I remember seeing several posts about the Rothchild institute and how it was connected to something more, something…I saw the device again and knew. ”You’re the Paragon Council.”
I started to sweat.
“Good sir,” She said her hand touching her heart in mock distain. “We no longer apply that moniker. The Paragon Council is an establishment of fear and paranoia, resorting to less than ethical and barely legal actions to reign in the events that almost lead to Ragnarok in Southern Alaska. An act, I might add, that might have prevent a near cataclysmic event and the loss of fourteen hundred square miles of American soil. It was a vile, underhanded, and illustrated a poor time in the nation’s past not unlike the House Un-American Activities Committee. How can you compare our organization to something so vicious and cruel? The sheer gall.” Then she stared me down with that icy blue stare. “But I think we understand each other.”
I nodded.
“Good.” She smiled carefully again, a half smile, more quiet politeness. “So tell me, do you have any idea why you are here?”
“No.” I said before I blurted out like a total fan boy. “But I know what that is.” I had to point with my forehead, as my hands stayed on my arm rests, locked.
She nodded, almost impressed. In a quick, smooth, and less than threatening action, she pulled out the device and placed it on the desk, in the middle of a huge green deskpad. It looked like a space age version of a 40’s ray gun designed and hand crafted by someone in the mid 1850’s who had never seen anything like it. Chromed channels and barrels refracted blue light from the central core as a soft mist emanated from the mirrored focusing lenses.
I looked at it in awe. “How did you get your hands on that?” I asked, like a total moron not realizing that I was someplace I didn’t know, unable to use my hand, and staring at a person wielding one of the most powerful freeze cannons known to man who looked back at me like I was a specimen.
“Can you tell me what it is, first?” She said, gesturing to the weapon before returning hands to a tent.
I sighed awestruck. “The freeze cannon. Capable of projecting a beam of almost absolute zero. Originally designed to be used by firefighters dealing with massive coal fires and gaslight accidents. One of the eleven amazing inventions of Professor Sydney Fox. Commonly called the Wondrous Eleven.”
She smiled, almost pleased. “Actually, Professor Fox created thirty two “wondrous” machines, of wish we have managed to recover seventeen.”
“It’s amazing, never been replicated.”
She picked it up with a quick flick of the wrist, like a magician and pointed it at me. “Would you like to see it in action?”
I was about to scream, “Please don’t!” when she let off a blast of frost, freezing my tea. The whole cup and part of the desk sparkled and glistened with frost for a second before she brought her fist down, shattering the cup and making a narrow hole in the desk. "Oh, dear. It would seem your tea has gotten cold. Such a shame."
I stared still breathing hard as she reset the safety and adjusted the controls.
“It would seem you are correct. Well done.”
“I know things.” I said, almost proud.
“So it would seem.” She said, returning her weapon to her holster. “And that brings us here, to your,” she forced the words, “nice little berg. It would seem that not only are you well researched, approachable, and dedicated to your work…”
“I’m not that dedicated.” I mumbled. “I only put out a post a week.”
“Dedicated to your obsessions.” She interrupted forcefully. “You have already attracted some attention.”
“If you say so.” I said, my eyebrow raising.
“Indeed. There are several parties that will be contacting you soon, or might have already done so. We would be interested in contacting them as well.”
“You want me to talk to people for you?” I asked. “Don’t you have legion of agents that do all that for you?”
“I would hardly call them ‘legion’” She laughed. “They are hardly that many. And in most cases you would be correct, but there are several that have managed to avoid so much as a conversation as of late. After years of waiting, they resurfaced and started talking. We believe that they will talk to you.”
“Why me?” I said. “Why would they be interested in me?”
“Because they like your blog and they are not interested in talking with us.” She said so directly I felt it in my guts like a face-hugger celebrating its birthday. “We are not asking for much, just to let them know that Mrs. Plummer is interested in talking. They will understand and more than probably tell you I am dangerous. As you can see from this conversation this is both true and misleading.”
“I’m not a spy.” I begged. “I’m just a dork who has his obsessions and a series of bad career choices. I’m not even that good at lying.”
“I know.” She said. “According to your file, you tried to become a paladin once, isn’t that correct, lived by the moral code of chivalry?”
I went silent again.
“Then consider this, just be my messenger when you can. You will know who to tell. Tell them I want to talk. Tell them…” She paused, breathed, straightened then spoke again. “Tell them Xenex is aware.”
“What the hell is Xenex?” I really had too much to process and a new name left me staggered.
“It doesn’t matter.” She said. “Just tell them. Oh, and know that you will be monitored. I will know when you tell the right person. Hell, put it on that blog of yours if you like. Enough of the metas read it. Tell them Xenex is.”
“Sure.” I shot back. “But please contact me by email next time. This is really freaking me out.”
“Understandable.” She said, pushing her glasses back up her nose.
“Then I believe our business has concluded for the moment. Thank you for your time.”
“Sure. Whatever. Happy to help.” I said before sagging. “Please let me go.”
“Why, Mr. E.” She said returning to her tea. “You are already back on the streets and forgetting this entire event.”
The top finished spinning just as I wrote that last line and I blinked. I know I wrote it. My fingers are on the keyboard and my usual writing mix is playing on the speakers. I remember writing the words, just not what they mean in context. I’m reading this to myself wondering what these words meant. I know they happened, but after that, I might as well be editing for someone else. Strangest thing. Also I can’t find that broach I wrote about.
Strangest things, huh?
Well, Keep dreaming, all.
Daniel
Xenex is.
Sorry for the wait. I had the wrong date for posting. It's fixed now.
So…. I think I created a superhero. As if magically pulled out of my head.
Look, I’m not sure if this has anything to do with the wizards and magicians of the world doing something to create hope and happiness in the world, or defeating some great evil. I’m just a simple pagan sorcerer, and a lazy one at that, so I have no idea what these great and powerful magi do in their spare time. For all I know this was Witchstone and Athame doing battle again and needed help, or Mr. Mystic once again called upon the power of the humans of the earth, anything is possible.
In this case, it was a meditation tape. Go fig, for a practice known as chod. If you need an explanation get Feeding your Demons. Good book. Anyway one of the practices is meeting the manifestation of your inner darkness, your demon if you will. I have plenty, from depression, anxiety attacks, mortality issues, the fact that I still don’t have a job and no money coming in from unemployment and rents continue to soar in this city, you get the idea.
Anyway, I’ll leave out some of the personal stuff as I imagined my own fears made manifest, a snarling hairy demon with a huge mouth full of needle like teeth. It has small black eyes, noticed only by the white center and a body that morphed in perspective. I followed the instructions, sat with it, asked what it wanted. It wanted my flesh and my death.
The last question you ask it is “how would you feel if you are satisfied.”
It replied, “Strong! Free!”
(I’m paraphrasing a lot. I’m not putting my inner most spiritual discoveries online for free, you know. The good stuff costs extra.)
The next step is letting it take it’s full from my body. I fed it. I gave it more and it grew huge. I thought it was done and it screamed, “You’re not dead yet!” So I gave it more.
Suddenly the hairy dark flesh fell away. It had human male features, a head, arms, and an extraordinarily huge and chiseled torso, all gleaming a ghostly ivory white. Its hands held huge cartoonish gauntlets of power and his hair shortened to a superman cut of hair complete with the front wave. He was extraordinary, huge and powerful. He glowed. Then said simply, “free.” He was strong. He was free.
And he leapt out of my apartment through the ceiling. Thankfully, this was a meditation. Such actions are not covered under our renters insurance. Behind, where the beast should have been, now sat Jenny again. She had become my ally, which was nothing new. A bunch redacted for content. Suffice to say, Jenny and I have a long history and I should really finish my books with her.
I felt better, more relieved in a way, and ready to face things. The hour long meditation/nap session certainly helped if nothing else.
Things went on normal from there. I wrote, I wondered, I made dinner. Life goes on.
Two days later, hearing back about a possible job, short term, two weeks, and waiting to for an interview, I saw something online. We were all mourning another musical superstar called back to the Eternal far too early when a small note appeared about a traffic accident that almost took eight lives in Ducklyn. Apparently, someone failed to stop at light which caused another car, which held three teens heading back from one of the seventeen catholic high schools here, to swerve. The swerving car ended up pointed directly at a crossing agitated mother and her three kids. Spinning out, the side of the car would have crashed into another car with an overly worked landlord inside. All together, at the speed and angles, the two cars would have impaled each other with the family trapped in between, each life snuffed out brutally on a common accident gone horribly wrong. I would have expected to read about them as a passing note of another massive fatality on the roads.
Instead a ghostly white superhero with huge power gauntlets swooped in from the sky. He landed, scoped up the family in one powerful arm. His other hand grew just before he slapped at the spinning car’s trunk, stopping it dead before it could impact. He leapt up to the sky, family in hand, just enough to hover over the foot or so of room between the cars. He managed to push the cars apart and save the family walking across the street at the time who would have ended up the meat of a vehicular sandwich.
He stayed only long enough to set the family down. They asked who he was while he flew with them out of the way.
“I am strong.” He said. “I am free. And I’m here to help the world.”
Then he set them down and flew away to his next adventure.
I couldn’t help but wonder. Was that me? Did I somehow create a hero? Coincidence or madness perhaps? I thought about heading down to either the local Quantum Academy branch or even GTI to get tested. Instead I’m here on the internet telling perfect strangers the workings of my inner mind and wondering if I can get access to the coffee I need to keep writing tonight.
So I’ll let you decide Internet Land.
Am I crazy? Powerful? Psychic? Or just a deluded writer in a fictional world of my own?
Keep Dreaming
Daniel
So I have this guy I know…
Yes, I understand. Very rarely has any good news or bright ideas started with that phrase. For all the weight of tragedy it might offer up is equal to “Dude, I have an idea, hold my beer.” But seriously, it’s not that bad. Mostly it’s confusing.
So there is a guy I know on several of my message boards who managed to get his hands on my direct email. I don’t know his real name other than the handle “Watchface.” He sends me all sorts of strange and cryptic questions and news reports, like he’s trying to get my opinion of various headlines and occurrences, most of which involving the Questors, Paramericans, anyone and everyone. I like the interaction and the ideas he brings up. Sometimes his hypotheses are interesting and worth noting. Between him and SubRosa, I get half the inside scoop on so many of the heroes. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have some crudely drawn schematic of Lord Quantum’s Satellite. Granted this is a structure that most government agencies deny exists yet still can be seen in orbit with the right telescope, so badly drawn shouldn’t come as any surprise. Still, this is a guy who is feeding me information about what is possibly the most secure place above the planet before you hit the Dragonesti Moonbase or Captain Mongo’s Living Ship. And why? Because he asks my opinions; about the architecture, the layout, the possibility of transport, even a possible crew roster of villains who are up there in hiding. Then he always ends with “does that seem right to you?”
I guess he reads my blog, which is nice of him. It’s always nice to meet a reader. Why else do people go to conventions? Well that and the money and exposure. I should really set up a booth.
I would tell him my ideas but mostly marvel at how he got the info in the first place. After the third of fourth time he sent me things, I asked him “What do you mean, does this seem right?”
He didn’t reply with words. The next thing he sent me was a huge video file that took a while to fully download. (Thank the gods for a decent connection and an active anti-viral.) After checking it out, making sure it wasn’t going shatter my computer or do anything harmful, I opened it. It was some very well made fan movie about Doctor Quantum, as if it had been done in the late 80’s. Doc Quantum wasn’t active during those years. The movie was over exaggerated, almost cartoony, and some star named “Thomas Dolby” played the lead role. Honestly, it wasn’t the best take on Doctor Quantum I had ever seen, but it wasn’t bad, just a little over the top. He seemed to lack some of the characteristic warmth that we see. His costume also looked off, though if you asked me, I couldn’t tell you why or how.
The next file he sent was a huge collection of something called “Free Change Comics,” a series of comics going back to the early 60’s. Guess who was front and center in most of the stories? If you said Doctor Quantum, you would mostly be right. A whole plethora of heroes and villains made appearances, even dozens I had never heard of. The publication information mentioned a parent company “Parallax Comics,” but I never encountered them. Overall, the stories were pretty good, save for that time when for some reason he is stuck out in space with the Dragonesti then got trapped on a dungeons and dragons sort of world. Later on, he loses his sidekick, Stinger, in what can only be called gripping story telling. Quantum did mention in his autobiography his connection to a Libby Mega, one of his first of the Quantum’s Questors, who died years ago. Here’s the strange thing, the comic is dated 1987. Libby Mega didn’t die until 2007, 20 years later.
This was all fascinating and confusing. Each week, he would send me a digital bundle of comics, movies, animated series, TV pilots, and archival footage. This lasted for about a month before it stopped completely. I wrote and thanked him, to no response. I emailed him to find out if he was ok. Nothing. I asked SubRosa, who told me, “that name is unknowable” to him and “cannot be told.”
For the record, who uses the term, “Unknowable?” What does that even mean?
After a while, I figured this was a very intelligent man who either moved on with his passions or had real world issues to deal with before he could return to his obsessions like the rest of us. I lit a candle for him, just in case.
Two days ago I get another message from Watchface asking me how I survived Grand Master Grav. Then he told me to tell a few people I had never heard of ‘hi,’ and “everything was going to be ok.” When I asked him what he was talking about wrote in all caps;
“DAMMIT!! I OVERSHOT AGAIN!”
Two days later, earlier this afternoon, after a very unpleasant job interview, I get another email from him, cc’ed to a “Vectrix,” “Triassic,” and “Green.” I knew from earlier conversations Vectrix was his “twin” sister but not who the others were. (He was the one who always put quotes around it. I have no idea why.) His tone read as very formal. He introduced himself to me, said he really enjoyed my work, my blog, and my interactions with the metahuman community as a whole. He asked how I managed to get an interview with the Scythe, how did is managed to survive when the Arcade Gang attacked, and how did I manage to convince Enrique the Sheep to give up enough wool to Mrs. Biggles to make the MetaArmor?
I laughed a bit. I thought my internet friend was having a little bit of a laugh or he had gotten his hold on some strong narcotics. With that, I asked him what he was going on about, that we had communicated for months.
That was the last I heard from him since then. I really worry for my friends sometimes. I get to see so few of them in the flesh anymore that I rely on internet communications for any sort of human connection. So if anyone has heard from him, let me know. I would love to know he’s ok. He’s a strange one, polite, and an interesting guy, but still, you can tell his heart is in the right place.
[Edit: I got a blip from him two minutes ago. So far all it says is “Grav is coming.” Then “It all started with Quantum and they are many.” Then “Jenny is watching you.” I thought that was the end but as I write this I got “Who can make the sunrise?” “Ghost Owl Vs. the Arcade Gang,” and “Mrs. Plumber still knows all, and always have.”]
Watchface, I feel you. I worry about you. Let’s talk about what this means soon, ok? This is getting esoteric even for you.
If anyone else knows this person, please let me know. I’m told he likes gold as a color and might dress in it commonly. I tried email Vectrix but every time I do the closet in our bedroom keeps moving to the left by two inches. I have no idea why but I’m not going to push it.
In the meantime, if anyone can clarify what he is talking about, I would love to know.
Keep Dreaming
Daniel
