V.
Bested by the Worst
Goodness.
What a difference a day makes, amirite?
What works wonders more than time? That might be a riddle; not sure.
As soon as I opened my eyes this morning, I felt the change in my demeanor. Less toxic. More confident. Like I deserve the other half of my soul. I do. No, really, I do! (So do you, bee tee dubs.) I can feel this inspiring truth as it reverberates throughout the density of my bones—furthermore, emotions aren’t generally clever enough to fib. If I didn’t deserve Atlas, then I wouldn’t recognize him, would I now? (Hint: nope.) And he wouldn’t do what he does to me, now would he? (Need another hint? Tough titty.)
Sorry, peeps [mainly ladies]. I’m not sorry. Not at all. You’ll understand soon if you don’t already.
I never always know when I’m a broken record. Forgive me.
I’ve lost track of time. That’s fine. I wasn’t really trying to keep it.
I have a lengthy history of making shit-tons of progress (mentally) while sleeping.
Today, I’m feeling good. Refreshed, enlivened, strong. I’m pointed in a direction and it’s right.
This morning, freshly emerging from a deep slumber, before my immediate surroundings filtered into view, Ernest was snoring loudly, and when my eyes achieved a state of focus, my gaze gravitated involuntarily and instantly to ARK, who slept next to me but nowhere near close enough (physically), and he was already looking at me. He didn’t open his mouth. He didn’t shy away from the moment, either. His eyes smiled.
And I melted. I’m melting all over again in retrospect. I’m so melty.
When our lines of sight overlap and mirror back and forth at lightspeed, lies cannot be told.
We talk without speaking.
He heals me by being.
I feel stupid for thinking stupid thoughts.
Aye, I’m a mess (emotionally), but I’m his—all of me—and he doesn’t see my messiness as anything negative.
He sees me. Period. I know he does.
And I see him. And I know he knows that. And I love knowing what I know.
We don’t have to discuss it; eventually, though, I’m sure we will.
Hmm, starting to think I have a bit of a crush on this kid.
Like faith, patience rewards itself.
Thierry seems like herself today. Happier, surer, better.
Color me relieved.
This might sound absurd, but I feel her emotions. I cannot hide from that fact, nor should I dare to try.
I fell asleep reading about twin flames. I dropped one of my phones on my mouth; tasted a hint of blood. Don’t care; was worth.
Before her, I would have cackled [not aloud] at the notion of “soulmates,” let alone twin frickin’ flames. I would’ve seen it as nonsensically naive hippie mumbo-jumbo.
But now, weirdly, it makes all the sense in the world.
There must be essential truths buried in any system of belief that gains enough traction to spread widely. I knew that. I know everything, more or less, and yet I still make mistakes.
Damned human genome. Damned emotional interference.
I’m kidding. I’m increasingly grateful for the special code propelling me forward.
Barring internal readiness, one cannot certify incoming wisdom.
Atlas and Ernest are on their way out the door momentarily. “Errands.” I know they need to chat outside of earshot from me. I’m cool with that. Of course I am. I’m not that psycho.
And, in case you were on the fence about whether or not to express concern, I’ll be safe alone in this hotel room. Yeah, for sure. We cannot be found. Not here, and definitely not within the next twelve hours. Atlas “ran the numbers,” as he likes to say, and when he does that, I’m sold. Every time. Forever.
Plus, quite frankly, I could use a bit of alone time.
EQ2 requires new wheels, and guess who’s on it. This girl. I’m good at online-shopping for vehicles, apparently. Yup, I am contributing legitimately to this reality-changing, clandestine operation. Sup.
Incidentally, Ernieboi is warming up to me rapidly—we had a quick convo this morning about forgoing chopsticks in favor of hand-shoveling sushi/sashimi; forgot exactly what I said, but I made him laugh; we bonded—which further validates my belief in who I know I am.
I am becoming who I was meant to be. It’s kinda fun. You should try it.
Oh, have you?
Be yourself lest someone else take your place.
I know exactly what I’m looking for: a Tesla Model S Wagon. It’s perfect for Ern. Practical reasons abound. I already have two promising leads.
Aw, there they go, out into the world. Before closing the door, Atlas lingers an extra second solely to peer into my our soul. Pretty sure that’s why. Nothing else makes sense. I can feel my heart beating. I (more than) like it. He gives me life. In other words, with him around, it’s as if I age more slowly. Do you understand? Cool. I don’t. Not completely. Yet I understand completely.
Weeeeeeeeee.
Hi. I’m (still) all over the place. Duh. But I think I’m probably fine. I’m just me, you know? I live at both ends of any spectrum at once. I’m a feeler.
As A. Ray departs, shutting the door equals the lone event that interrupts our eye contact, which was maintained until the last possible second.
I’m already pouting.
So weird. I can’t see him at the moment—he has been gone for two whole seconds—but I sense his presence, his protection, his power. Even when he can’t see me (technically), he keeps his eyes on me at all times.
Annndddddddd now I’m horny. (I’m not a fan of that word, by the way, but right now it’s accurate as hell.) What I’m feeling is so dang bizarre, though—it’s as if diddling myself would seem like cheating on him.
And we’ve never even kissed! Still. WTAF.
Okey-doke, I’m psychotic.
I need professional help. I’ll probably have to seek therapy from one of the voices in my head.
Great.
This has been a productive dialogue with myself—so glad to have had you around as a witness!
Anyway, I think I have to get off or I won’t be able to think straight.
That’s none of your business, but there you have it.
BRB! (Sssh.)
When nature calls, answer.
Ernest and I don’t have time to get each other caught up all the way; nonetheless, we’re working toward this unachievable milestone.
We’re en route to obtain more clothing. Function over form. Still, I’m hoping to pick out a nice (sun)dress for Thierry. I have myriad reasons to believe that I’m in tune with what she likes.
I don’t know exactly what I’m doing, necessarily; I’m responding to primal urges.
Genuinely, I do wonder aloud: “How’s Elvyn, by the way? Brutal honesty.”
“Tired,” Ernest responds swiftly. “Exhausted, more like.” That’s what I thought. “Still all there up top, though.” He taps his dome.
In my heart, I already knew that; regardless, it’s great to receive confirmation. “Is Taya still alive?” I wonder further, and suddenly I’m ashamed that I hadn’t asked about her much sooner.
“Somehow. Barely.” That’s an immense relief. “Swear I thought she was dead once back in ‘89.”
“Why?”
“She looked fucking dead.”
“She was asleep, wasn’t she.”
“Bitch. Why you always gotta hijack my punchlines?”
I don’t mean to; words simply spill forth from my core. Forging ahead: “How’s her health?”
“She can’t walk—like…at all—but she zips around on her little cart at max speed, tolerates less bullshit every day, and she’s still psychic or whatever—all the newbies are scared of her.”
Golly. I long to return to my old stomping grounds in the mountains. As I imagine my homecoming, chill bumps threaten to surface upon my skin.
Here’s a fact that you may {not} find fun: my internal body temperature rests at 98.5°F. This is peculiar because other half-breeds [remember, females exclusively {as of now}] measure at 98.2 on average. Galacians/belanoc hover near 96.7. While we’re at it, most farm animals stay over 100, up to nearly 110 [chickens].
Anyway, you might say that we have a big problem. Bessi has been infested with more than one mole. Ernest insists that there could be no more than three; however, I do not share his optimism—I’m afraid that there could be upwards of five.
After last night, Ern has pinpointed one of them beyond any shadowy sliver of an illuminated doubt. Her given name is Karen Miranda Durr. Emigrated from Canada at age 18. Harvard grad, bilingual botanist [Latin], elite cross-country skier [made the Olympic team in 2010 but opted out (to join Bessi)], inherently gifted in the art of espionage—in other words, she’s a good liar.
And indeed, she has taken the side of the enemy.
More than that, she serves Severus. Physically. She’s on their team while pretending to be on ours. She’s a “bad guy.” Her plotline oozes complication. Thierry glimpsed her the night I buried Halcyon in Uncle Sevy’s wide-ass upper torso—she spilled coffee on herself; perhaps you recall—when she fled from the back of Boogie Dinner’s restaurant and took a hard right.
Anyway, “Agent” Durr. Hired by Bessi seven years ago. Shrewd lady, evidently. Worldly. Versatile. Comely, too, according to TNT.
Karen was trained specifically for undercover work and, in less than a year on the job, infiltrated Dick Purdy’s covert kingdom of brazen criminality.
In case you were unaware, Purdy is an oil tycoon based out of Nevada. Inherited old money and cubed it by branching into the pharmaceutical industry in the early nineties. One of the richest, most selfish and greediest, biggest bigwigs on the planet. Stockpiler, hoarder, collector of cash. It’s like an addiction. Behind the scenes, he directly influences politics on both sides of the radically expanding aisle.
Most notably, he allies with The Belanoc. Bet he regrets that one day.
Around Durr’s fourth anniversary of embedding herself {with}in Purdy’s slimy enterprises, Taya gleaned that her loyalty had shifted. Which was fine. Is fine. She could/can still prove useful.
Have you met Taya yet? I can’t keep up. In a nutshell, she’s a halfie (like me and Elvyn), essentially a wildly wise, 250-year old shaman, the chief advisor to the chief of Bessi.
Roughly ten tense months after rousing suspicions, KD {re}proved herself by providing coordinates that would lead to a particularly nasty rascal we named Langley [imagine Vilfred but even taller and more devilish], a high-priority target—number six on the list at the time, in fact—who had been terrorizing Patagonia for years.
I tracked him to Iceland on my own in 1984, but the trail went cold. (Lame pun intended.)
Also notably, despite several attempts, the Aurora Borealis did not deem me worthy of witnessing its magical majesty. That was more disappointing than not getting a chance to destroy Langley, and it’s still number one on my current bucket list (only because Halley’s Comet won’t circle back until late July, 2061 [missed it back in ‘86].
I’ll be 141.
Thierry will be 69.
Damn.)
Anyway…
Equipped with fresh, highly specific intel—and although a few promising agents were lost in the execution—Bessi launched a major mission which resulted in Langley’s assassination, redefining Durr’s value, recontextualizing her worth.
Mind you, even then, she wasn’t trusted.
Is this hard to follow? I’m only asking because I have no fucking clue.
To The Belanoc, she was/is seen as an unwitting resource.
To Bessi, she was/is seen as an unwitting resource.
Either side has ample cause to eliminate her.
Seemingly, a chess match has ensued.
With regard to what she herself sees in a mirror, we can only speculate.
Poor woman. The assignment has to be shaving years off her life.
Karen Durr’s hopeful status prior to the casino shitshow: an official agent of Bessi, insanely deep undercover, operating at ground zero with the enemy while known to them [eek], acting like she’s on their side but also pretending to be working for “the good guys.”
That was our best case scenario, at least. Turns out, nope, it’s worse.
Unfortunately, see, the incident in Biloxi confirmed that KD aligns with The Belanoc in totality. While kicking himself, Ernest told me, “We thought she was a triple agent, but I guess she’s only impressive enough to be a double. Fuck her in the face. She’s so fired.”
“Might she know that her true allegiance has been discovered?”
“Unsure. Haven’t talked to her. And I’m not sure talking to her will tell me anything.”
“She needs to believe that Bessi still believes in her.”
“When did you start stating the obvious so often?”
Good question, actually. I haven’t been sleeping soundly, believe it or not. When my brain bursts through phases of increased synaptic activity, it never fails to hold my consciousness hostage. “I suggest that you call her later when Thierry can listen.”
“Why??” Ha, his grumpy face—so scrunched.
I won’t be able to explain this satisfactorily. I simply state, “She can read people.”
“Ohhh, gotcha. Yeah, that clears it up.” I chuckle at Ernie’s melodrama. I get it. He does not understand. Neither do I. That’s okay.
But I’m not wrong—Thierry can read people better than anyone I’ve ever known; even better than Taya, I think.
Speaking of long-lost colleagues/friends/family, Ernest hasn’t heard from Elvyn in almost 32 hours. He assures me that this isn’t abnormal, but I can sense his anxiety.
I am dying to converse with my longtime mentor. I have missed her terribly.
When one simply clicks with another, separation (of any length) will not disrupt the connection’s continuity.
Reunite, and pick up precisely where you left off.
It will be as if you never missed a beat.
So.
Don’t judge me. But…
I came ten times in twenty minutes.
That’s a record. However, it had been a while.
TMI?
I’m shrugging (again)!
“Hi”?
I really don’t see how any of this is my fault.
Oh, plus, pretty sure I found Ernie’s new ride (no more than four minutes after I finished playing with myself). Less than a minute ago, I texted Atlas the info.
Ernie’s future automobile is exactly what I was looking for (down to the color [navy{ish}])—that’s the shade my brain envisioned automatically for him; dunno why.
I’m not really psychic, probably.
I can’t seem to text Thierry without grinning like an idiot.
Let’s go over how Ernest acquired Chrystal Drinkwater’s phone number, shall we?
Because I’m worried.
For that reason, I’ve been hesitant to ask, which I would compare to a person suspecting that something is wrong (medically) but avoiding a doctor visit due to fearing what might be diagnosed. Of this, I am not proud.
We’re canvassing an enormous sporting goods store, by the way. The sundress selection, not shockingly, is limited.
Not sure why I put it that way because in actuality it’s nonexistent. Unless I’m blind.
But I’m keeping my eyes peeled anyway.
Why would I do that?
Why would I look for something that I’m virtually certain won’t be seen?
Why would anyone?
“Hope”?
Anyway, I pose my aforementioned pressing question to Ernest, who then tells me about his third favorite person at Bessi, and now I’ll relay to you (most of) what I learned.
Would ya look at us? What a team we are (becoming). (Yes, you.)
Daisuke Yokoyama is a Japanese-American math genius [born in Vermont], former valedictorian at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology {a.k.a. MIT}, gymnastics enthusiast, and an accomplished chef skilled in the art of molecular gastronomy. He has worked at Bessi for over two decades. Son of a legend, Hideki Yokoyama, a man who sacrificed himself essentially for the greater good.
Although he spent the bulk of his time in the field, I knew Hideki fairly well from 1954 until his tragic demise in 1977. He excelled all around, one of the smartest full-blooded humans I’ve ever met, the truest of patriots.
On an ill-fated surveillance mission in a little town called Coward, ironically enough, he was captured by a roving horde of belanoc and probed for sensitive info which, somehow, he did not relinquish. I can only imagine the torture and pain he must’ve endured (for two days more than a fortnight). When I do imagine it, my skin crawls.
His release could not be negotiated. We tried for weeks. I birthed clever ideas. None worked.
Every time I think of Hideki, I feel both sadness and gratitude.
In particular, his death is one that I seek to avenge.
For a human, his bravery has been all but unrivaled.
According to Ernest, Daisuke doesn’t look anything like his father, says almost nothing in person, but get his tiny ass yapping in the cyber realm and he might never shut up. He will violate a coworker’s inbox. And do not befriend him on any social media platform unless you’re prepared for total domination. He’s super into gluten free recipes and minimalistic home decor ideas. All of them; no filter. Never had a lady friend. Ever. Really, never. I asked twice to confirm. Not even in elementary school; though, in those days, he was a renowned hand-holder. Ernest assumes that he’s a virgin. He’s 54.
Have I just written, for all intents and purposes, his optimal bio for a dating app?
I’m not judging. I’ve never had a “girlfriend” either.
One more thing: Daisuke’s mother was belanockian. That makes him a lumina/fourther.
So there’s that.
Oh, wait, this store does in fact carry athletic dresses, whatever those are. Not sure whether these were designed for tennis or golf or {n}either. No matter. I’m grabbing one in her size. It won’t be light and flowy, but she could twirl in it, maybe. Hmm, upon closer inspection, nah, maybe not. But, yeah, this one will do. Plain magenta. A simple garment for a complex individual. Fitting. She might not like it. I’m prepared for that. Hopefully the thought is what counts.
Desperately, I want her to love me.
I feel crazy. Maybe I am. And maybe I’m fine with that.
Back to the subject at hand. I can’t help but wonder, “How sure are you that you can trust Hideki’s son?” Doing my fair share of wondering lately, it seems.
Ernest laser-eyes me but utters not a single syllable. Usually, as far as snappy retorts, he’s quick on the draw. But his thoughts are plastered across his face. At first, he’s kind of offended, but then he realizes, holy crap, that he’s never thought about this. Can he trust Daisuke? Bloody hell, perhaps not. Now he’s kicking himself again. “The more time you spend entrenched in a certain point of view—”
Ernest cuts me off, “—are you about to tell me some annoying wise horseshit?”
Ha, I guess not. “Just don’t beat yourself up.”
“How’s about I beat you up instead?” He’s not serious. “I’m a brown belt.” He’s serious.
But now I’m extremely apprehensive (to a mildly nauseating degree) about Thierry’s kinfolk.
And I am not good at experiencing nausea. It’s the worst sensation. When it happens, I’m a big baby (in my head). I just have to sleep it off. Thankfully it almost never occurs; I can count the times on one hand. (This is the fifth.)
Salty, Ernest whips out his flip phone and rapidly peppers the keypad with both thumbs. I begin, “I hope you’re—”
“—I am. God, you’re needy.”
I can only shrug. Honestly!
(And just to be clear, he must be arranging a protective detail for Thierry’s parents, sisters, and extended family in The United Kingdom.)
But wait. That’s not enough. Better mention it. “Wait, protection isn’t enough.”
“Aware.” He’s really fast at texting on the old flip phone. Look at him go—T9ing his ass off—I’m somewhat impressed. He continues, “Safehouse in Holland; they’ll be there by tomorrow or the next day. Probably the next day. Cock-fucking shit in a buttermilk biscuit—let me concentrate, dude. Damn.”
Okay. Phew. That’ll work. For now.
Wait. “With whom are you collaborating?”
Tapping away, he groans: “Besides Ma and Taya, the one soul I know I can trust. Upper internoc. You don’t know him yet.”
“Yet”? My interest is piqued. “Name?”
“Xalvador Maru.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Since forever ago.”
My previously piqued interest peaks, but I’ve never been one to pry; therefore, I’m letting it lie.
Truth be told, I’m ready to get back to Thierry, but Ernest and I have a few more stops to make. First to acquire his wagon, second to get him (and me) a batch of new cellular devices, third to buy a shitload of rope and duct-tape (because in any survival scenario, you never know when cordage {and a “binder,” if you will} could come in ultra handy).
I should be back home in less than eighty minutes.
That’s correct. Home.
One’s “home” may stay fluid, existing solely wherever “She” or “He” is.
Wow, I’m incredibly, confusingly, ridiculously happy.
Atlas and Ernest should return any minute now. I can’t wait to see my “man.” I miss him—GAH. Since last I saw his cute-as-hell face, three long-as-fuck hours have passed. Hush up.
I’m just playing. Keep talking (unless you have nothing to say).
The three of us will go somewhere and break bread together soon, I think. I got my appetite back. I’m actually hungry. I’m craving offbeat tacos. Strange!
Hmm, I should go ahead and pick a spot. Hang; lemme scour the interwebz. Okay, instantly found an adorable food truck close by. Checking it out. Omigod, one of their menu items contains whipped feta. Sold. Ima nom on dat.
Oh, they’re here/back! And there he is. Holy feels, I do love him, but the first words outta his mouth kinda weird me out: “When was the last time you interfaced with your sister?”
Why is he asking me this? “You were there.” And so were you; back in New Orleans.
Atlas is visibly relieved; meanwhile, Ernest looks like a child who just got in big trouble for taking a dark yellow piss on an autistic kid during recess. Naturally I’m worried. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing that we know of,” Atlas explains, “but just to be on the safe side, we’re taking precautions and moving your family to a secure location.”
“Why?” For real. Fuck. Why?
“Because Bessi must have multiple moles, and we’ve yet to identify them all.” Listen to him, would ya? He says “we.” He does that on purpose. He doesn’t put all the blame on Ernest or anyone else; he lumps himself in; he shares the weight. He’s doggone amazing. Still, officially, I am stressed. “Don’t worry,” Atlas continues, “Ernest is on it. Having them moved to Nederland.”
“Holland,” says Ernest.
“This is scaring me,” say I.
“I know,” Atlas acknowledges, his regret apparent. “I’m sorry.” His apology rings true. “It’s just extra, extra precautionary.” I wanna hug him.
Ernest chimes in, “Fret not, dear—I put the best in the business on this.”
To date, that’s the most sincere thing I’ve heard Ernie say. It’s comforting. I think I’m okay. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“But what are they being told?”
Oof. Tough question. Thought so. They struggle to summon a response. “The truth,” Ernest lets me know, “in as few words as possible.”
Well. Okay. Nothing else makes sense. Fine. Frick. Ugh.
Atlas adds {if only to change the subject}, “Also, we could use your assistance.”
Hmm. Where is this going? I’m trying not to blush. Don’t care whether I’m succeeding.
“Ernest is preparing to make two calls. I just want you to listen because you can read people better than either of us.”
Ernie rolls his eyes slightly. I can’t help but smirk.
I reckon it’s possible that I’m in denial (regarding my family’s safety), but currently I think I’m better off clinging to optimism.
While I wrestle my imploding mindset into submission, they take a few minutes to bring me up to speed about Karen and Daisuke. Additionally, Atlas replaces my former favorite phone ever with my new favorite phone ever [it’s exactly the same, only newer].
Then Ernest dials a number on a refurbished device [he has a bag of 10; half are fresh outta the box]. Speakerphone activated. Spy-girlie answers after four rings. Her voice is high-pitched in a very endearing sort of way. Ernest simply says, “Howdy.”
Karen breathes a sigh of relief. There’s an odd echo. I think she’s in a small bathroom, perhaps. I remember her face clearly. She’s pretty hot. If I were bi- or pansexual, I’d definitely scissor-bone her. Probably. I guess I wouldn’t know. I like men him. Whatever, shut up, gotta focus.
“It wasn’t me,” Karen expresses.
“I know.” Ernest rolls his eyes for us. “I think I know who. I can’t believe it. Such a goddamn mess.”
“Who?”
“I’m not ready to say.”
“Holt? Letcher? McGillicuddy?”
“Like I said, I’m not ready to say.”
“Understood. Apologies.”
“Unnecessary. What’s your twenty?”
“Meridian, Mississippi.” He gives us a look, letting us know that he believes her. I check immediately; it’s just over two hours from us. A little too close for comfort. “Where are you?”
“Atlanta. Leaving soon.” (Yup, we’re still in Birmingham.)
Karen sighs again. It’s genuine. This is wearing her down. “Please advise.”
“I’ll get back to you soon,” Ernest promises. “Hang tight.”
“Been doing that for ‘bout seven years, buddy.”
“You’re getting good at it.”
“Asshole.”
“I know. Born that way. I’ll be in touch.” Ernest ends the call before she can finish a syllable, breaks the phone, eyes Atlas briefly then focuses on me. “Well, as our resident psionic wonder, what do you think?”
Ha! I quite like when people compliment me without really realizing it.
Hmm, where to begin? “Okay, first of all, she’s worn out and frightened. But…” Wow, I have their undivided attention. This feels nice. “She wishes she could be on our side, but she doesn’t think she can. In too deep, probably. It’s a math problem. She’s just trying to stay alive. I would most definitely trust her only to be reliably untrustworthy.”
Atlas appears to be proud of me. I’ll take it.
Ernest kinda snickers. “So you passed the pop quiz to decide whether you qualify for the final exam. Good job.”
“Thanks, bruh.”
Sans hesitation, Ernest dials another number. Ringing. Before the initial ring concludes, a soft-spoken man’s voice answers quietly, “Who is this?” His accent, though decidedly American, represents no definitive region of the country. Clearly this is Daisuke Yokoyama. Sounds like he’s all up in a bustling laboratory finger-blasting a mechanical computer keyboard—okay, now I’m envisioning him wearing a headset, maybe in an air traffic control room, or maybe he’s in a submarine, but neither of those can be are likely accurate.
Ernest identifies himself with a huff: “It’s me.”
“Thank god.”
“No, thank my quick wits.”
“Why am I on speakerphone?” Hmm, okay, homeboy’s on top o’ shit.
But Ernie doesn’t blink. “You’ve met me, right?”
“Indeed.”
“Wonderful. I still don’t press phones against either of my ears unless I have to.”
“Pardon me. Paranoid. Circumstances. What happened? Where are you?”
“Let’s just say shit hit the fan.”
“Vague and obvious.”
“You have met me, right?”
“‘Fraid so.”
“Agent Durr is definitely not on our team.”
“I knew it.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“You weren’t certain.”
“Are you sassin’ me, Dicey?”
“Irrelevant. Just tell me what to do.”
“Have you seen my mother?”
“Not since yesterday morning.”
“What in the buttfuck?”
“I don’t know. There’s a palpable uneasiness in the air around here. Very tense.”
“Gonna get a lot weirder soon.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Gonna need your help soon, too.”
“I’m ready to mobilize. Should I disappear? I could vacate tonight.”
“Stay put for now. I need eyes in there.”
“Just keep me in the loop.”
“Will do.”
“Find your boss.”
“Seriously?”
“Not really.”
“Have you met your mother?”
“Did you not hear what I just said?”
“I did.”
“Well, shit, man.”
“Can I contact you on this number?”
Ernest’s face tells me {unbeknownst to him} that Daisuke’s question was so stupid that it’s suspicious. “This phone is toast as soon as we hang up. I’ll get back to you.”
“Got it. Good idea. While I have you, did you establish contact with…Atlas?” Okay, so, excuse me, but hi. The way Daisuke hesitated before saying my main squeeze’s name, and the way he said it…oh, my. Atlas is like a myth who has proven to be true. And I can’t get enough of him. Gosh, who do I think I am?? Don’t answer that.
“For now, you’re better off not knowing anything else,” Ernest tells his traitorous pal. “I’ll paint the big picture soon enough.”
“I’ll continue to wait patiently.” Pfft.
“Thanks. Bye.” Ernest ends the call, looks at me immediately for feedback, almost sarcastically.
I glance at Atlas. He’s lost. I’m so fucking in love. He really does need me. Of all people, me. ME.
I begin by stating, “Daisuke is suspiciously eager to please.”
“He’s always like that,” Ernest chimes in quickly as if my forthcoming assessment is dead on arrival.
“Cool,” I blab. “Maybe he’s always been a spy?”
Ernest’s face right now—it’s blank, yet it says everything. I just blew the dude’s damn mind. I’m almost embarrassed by the level of satisfaction I’m feeling.
I add, “Just listening to that fella—not what he was saying, per se, but the way he spoke, the emotional undertones—even though he was probably saying things that are true, it felt like he was lying. Does that make sense?”
“Only if I pretend to be schizophrenic.”
Didn’t mean to, but I just rolled my eyes. It’s fine—Atlas is lovin’ it. I simplify my analysis: “He was acting, Señor Quinn.” Ernie considers this possibility carefully. Suddenly I wish he had a brother named Burt. But, hmm, yeah, I think he can see what I mean. I keep going: “I wouldn’t trust him any farther than I could throw him.”
“Well, he’s barely five feet tall and weighs less than you, so…”
“Regardless, I’m really bad at throwing people.”
A grin invades Ernest’s facial geography as Atlas smiles widely. God. He is SOMINE. (Still not sorry.)
Ernest breaks the phone he just used. Not out of anger. (And he’s not as adept at breaking phones as Atlas, by the way. {Not that it matters.} I’ll bet you assumed as much anyway.) Next, he seethes, “Cunt-shit!” Ew. That erupted out of anger. He’s not raging or throwing a tantrum or anything overly male; he’s just highly irritated (at himself). Mostly he’s disappointed. Also, isn’t he colorful?
I blurt, “So how do you like Myrtle?” I dunno; seemed like a good spot for a subject change.
“Sorry, what?” Ernest has no idea what I’m talking about. Didn’t expect he would.
“Your new ride.” (I named her about fifteen seconds ago.)
Atlas grins. Both dimples. Fuck me. (Hard.)
“Listen, missy, his name is Wally,” Ernest informs, “and so far I like him just fine. He’s my favorite color, in fact.”
Yup, I think we’re friends now.
Pay attention to signs, for they could signify what you imagine.
The time is 14:15. Tad early for breakfast but we’re making an exception. We grabbed tacos from the food truck I found earlier—3 for me, 6 for Atlas, 8 for Ernest—and brought them to a well-maintained public park for a picnic. Nice day.
The taco with blackened ahi, charred cauliflower, and seared watermelon is my favorite. Atlas likes the one with eggs, tater tots, and some sort of cruel trick for a chili which lit my mothereffing tongue on fire.
Who named chili peppers a word that sounds like “chilly,” by the way?
And yeah, he let me taste his taco, ya see, after he had taken a few bites, no less. Mmhmm, I bit where he had bitten, and then he bit where I had bitten. Two mouths, same {“corny”} tortilla. Our taco. We shared. You with me? In a way, we swapped spit.
So we’re basically married now. Hmph.
I’ve mentioned that I’m five, no?
In their own way, children see the world as it is.
Innocence should be preserved as a treasure.
The time has come for you to know what’s (probably) going to happen before the ball drops on 2021.
Off and on, Ernest and I have been discussing all this in front of Thierry; I am not compelled to keep secrets from her—at least not for long. He has filled in many a blank for me. Indeed, our reality unfolds as I feared. In other words, I have bad news (for you).
Here’s the deal, okay?
For the last decade or so, The Galacian Empire has been constructing a pair of structures—let’s just call them “facilities”—located on opposite sides of the world and buried deep beneath the surface. One evolves smack-dab in the middle of The Outback, the other lies in wait at Yellowstone. At first, we deduced that these facilities would be nuclear fusion plants (or something more spectacular, even).
Unfortunately, this is not the case.
No, regrettably, these “facilities” are being built for a single, multilayered purpose: to detonate epicly, triggering a planet-wide dust cloud that could span ten years (or more), blocking out the sun, cooling off the earth, paving the way for Galacia’s rise to power and global domination.
Yellowstone is particularly concerning because it’s connected to a caldera; i.e., a supervolcano {which is overdue to erupt}. When that sucker blows its lid, stateside, unless deep underground and well stocked, only folks residing in Florida and Maine might be exempt from its wrath.
Recent satellite/infrared surveillance of the site down under reveals a marked acceleration in construction. Updated estimation of the time until completion: months. Few. Tops.
Yuck.
Fortunately, the Yellowstone site is a little farther off, maybe a year (or more).
Either way, I hate to say it, but I’m afraid that each calamitous explosion is inevitable. In spite of this, I still believe that we can win.
I have to believe in humanity; otherwise, what the hell am I doing?
You should start preparing in whatever ways you can.
Today.
Now.
Dedicated preparation breeds success.
On the road again. It’s half past seven; we left way before dawn. Unplanned. We all just kinda naturally woke up early.
I’m behind Gloria’s wheel, following Wally north toward Kentucky en route to D.C. Not the most efficient route from Birmingham, but Ernest wants to simply must encounter a particular distillery, apparently. Won’t really say why, acting a bit shady about it, but whatever. I’ll figure it out and let you know. Deal?
Also, not sure what the hell “his” driver is doing up there, but Wally’s speed fluctuates between 68 and 86. We think he peed in a bottle or, more disgustingly, a Tupperware container a short while ago.
Just crossed the state line. I’ve never been here. Looks a lot like Tennessee so far. Have you ever heard that “Tennesseeing is tennebelieving”? I wouldn’t know.
As I understand it, the plan is to connect with someone from Bessi and gather highly specialized, critically useful supplies—I dunno; didn’t listen to all the details; got distracted reading about an update to my ancestry [I sent off a serving of my spit several months ago; got super stoked about the results, namely my fractionally Scandinavian heritage] while they were hashing out the particulars—spend one night in Washington, and then supposedly we’ll head to South Florida (because it’s hot and humid and galacians/belanoc hate that shit) with the intention of setting a gnarly deathtrap for Severus Rex.
That last sentence was intense, eh?
Gimme a break. Because fucking yikes. I’m so nervous.
Should Atlas die, it’ll kill me. Actually. No, you don’t understand. My heart will stop beating. I’m not joking.
Okay, self, lock it up. I can’t think about this or I’ll have a panic attack.
But he assured me that he’ll abort mission the second he figures the probable success rate dips below 99.7%. He gave it some super serious thought for about fifteen seconds before concluding that 99.8 would, in fact, suffice—his face is so cute when his beautiful brain’s wheels are churning and he doesn’t realize that I’m ogling him. Shush. I’m as fine as you are. Then, randomly, get this: a beer-bellied old man and a teenage meth-head captured our attention as they pedaled by on a two-seater bicycle, both wearing big red clown noses. Um, wow, that was bonkers. Like I don’t even know. I’m sure it symbolizes something that I might never realize.
Each time I think life couldn’t get any crazier, I end up laughing aloud at my naiveté.
Anyhow, Atlas said, “Thierry, look at me.” Right then, gladly, I obeyed [love it when he’s bossy]. “I won’t die on you, I promise.” His eyes told me, too. And it took all my willpower not to just…fall into him on the spot. (For context, we were at a charging station juicing up our electric mini-caravan; Ernie was busy on the phone yapping about secret agent stuffs, methinks.)
With every ounce of me, I believe {in} (y)our hero.
Oh, and how about that imminent volcanic winter nonsense!? Scary as hell, no?
Yet, somehow, I’m at peace—for the first time since I was a small child, honestly—because I know that as long as I’m by his side, everything will be okay. Even when, in a difficult moment, I think it won’t, deep down, I know it will.
I hope I never forget that.
Surely I won’t.
Right?
The unflinching laws of physics dictate that holding fast to a good cause will honor perseverance.
Be true to yourself.
Be brave.
At 11:01, we commence our tour of the predestined distillery [Angel’s Envy]. I must confess that I’m a fan of the name. And the location itself is interesting enough, but I’m too distracted to absorb the experience fully because I don’t know exactly why we’re here and thus, objectively speaking, from my view, we’re wasting precious time.
Not a big deal. I’m biting my tongue.
While Ernest was in the restroom a few minutes ago, Thierry and I huddled briefly and agreed that this detour must be connected to a private, personal matter. Perhaps he’ll open up later. I won’t ask. She might. (She will.)
At least she’s in good spirits. Her happiness empowers my contentment.
In so many ways, out of left field, she becomes my silver lining.
(Co)incidentally, traditionally, silver commemorates 25th anniversaries.
I’ll be the first to admit—the tour was pretty fun. Equal parts informative and fascinating.
Did you know that alcohol—more specifically ethanol, the substance that gets us drunk—is a byproduct left behind when yeast do yeasty shit? (You know yeast are living organisms, right?) So, yeah, when you drink, you’re consuming yeast waste. Ernest misunderstood, thought it resulted from the reproductive process, thusly called it “fuck juice.” I corrected him: “Poop juice.” He didn’t much care for that, but my forever-babe loved it. (Let me dream, okay??)
Sorry, Ernie, but you should’ve been paying attention instead of taking 900 million pictures.
Anyhoo, this was neat.
(All of this is neat.)
Atlas and I chose not to indulge in the included offerings, but Ernest knocked back like 10 shots; yet, at most, he’s barely buzzing. He also bought a couple matching shirts and three bottles of bourbon, one of which he gifted to me.
I feel slightly guilty about how elated I am.
Whatever it is, don’t force it.
Let it happen.
(Let light be.)
Another ten-hour drive, this time from Louisville, Kentucky to the Nation’s Capital. Stopped by a grocery store at my request. Checked in to a fancy hotel by 22:42. Cocktails made by 22:58.
(I pay more and more attention to numerical symbols as they continue slapping me across my friggin’ face.) Still, I dunno whether any of that/this is relevant.
Perhaps boozing after midnight—or at all [I KNOW, OKAY?]—isn’t the smartest activity we could choose right now, but we’re all rather wired, weirdly wide awake, needing to unwind, and this feels celebratory, not unlike a very special occasion.
Plus this bourbon is unbelievably delicious.
I never fuss when high expectations are exceeded. Do you? If so, then quit, ya goof.
Atlas has been nursing his first drink for two hours, EQ2 has gotten noticeably tipsy and giggly [I’ve been making his drinks stronger every time; he’s on number five], and I’ll just go ahead and admit to being damn near properly sloshed. I must be on number four; can’t say for sure.
Oh, forgot to mention that I’ve been concocting Old Fashioneds using my gift/bottle. However, by now, should another drink be mixed, Ernest will have to donate one of his bottles to the cause. (I already know he will.)
He has been doing most of the talking, telling stories about memorable missions and all the crazy-cool shit he and Atlas have done in their {past} lives. I’m just sitting here absolutely enthralled while listening to them reminisce about the glory days. I’ve never seen Atlas my husband [I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK RIGHT NOW] laugh so much. I’m loving this more than I possess the capacity to express.
Am I the luckiest girl in the universe? Shoot, maybe. I’m cereal.
Ayyyyyyyyy.
Don’t mind me.
After half an hour of hints and buildup, emboldened by liquid courage, Ernest confesses to Atlas: “I’m gonna tell you something that will shock you.”
“Go ahead,” Atlas remarks, undaunted. “Electrocute me.”
Should I close my legs orrrrr…?
Ernest then includes me: “And I guess I’m telling you, too, because, well, there you are.”
“Hey.” I wave.
He tips his imaginary cowboy hat and throws in: “Ma’am.”
I’m certain that my cheeks are red and that I’m smiling pretty damn big.
“I have to get this off my chest,” Ernie expands. “On the ninth of March in 1999, I met someone.”
We wait for more. Nervous, Ernest fidgets. Fuggit; I’ll ask. “Who?”
He takes a moment to gather his thoughts before declaring somewhat in disbelief with finality, “My soulmate.”
Once again, we wait for more. Ernest looks like he’s about to speak on three separate occasions but just can’t seem to get it out. No big—I got zero problem energizing his tormented caboose. “What’s her name?”
He chuckles, and one more time, we wait for more. Finally, he submits a correction that I definitely didn’t see coming. “His name.” My jaw drops, I think. Did it? Lemme check. Yeah, it did.
Atlas, however, doesn’t even fucking flinch.
Ernest stares at the ground.
Why can’t I shut my mouth? And why is my beverage under my chair? And who orchestrated my crooked-ass ponytail?
“Xalvador,” Atlas guesses. Wait. Hell. That wasn’t a “guess.” He knew.
Ernest studies his oldest friend’s face—which bears a subtle expression that reveals acceptance, approval, happiness—then he half-chuckles, shakes his head at himself prior to questioning, “How long have you known?”
“That you and Xalvador are soulmates?” Atlas smirks. “Hmm, 45 seconds?” Hello there, left dimple; Ima kiss you (repeatedly) one day.
“I really, really don’t like you,” Ernest claims. “You know that, right?” It’s obvious to everyone in the room that he means the opposite. I love EQ2 because he loves ARK, too.
Atlas rolls with it: “Really I’ve only known since you said the word soulmate.” Ha, he’s having fun.
Best night ever. Legit.
Ernest shoots Atlas a knowing look, repeats his question, “How long have you known, dickweed?”
Atlas theatrically performs mental math before divulging, “No more than half a century.”
Ernest falls out laughing, which makes Atlas laugh harder, which makes me laugh hardest.
(Wasn’t exaggerating about this being the best night ever.)
Awww, this is a monumental, touching moment in their long history. I’m not ugly-crying or anything (like when I see a goddamn sappy Publix commercial around Christmas), but I’ve got a few tears of joy happening here.
Upon release, emotions energize.
Let your feelings flow.
Ernest is sooooo different now. An immense weight has been lifted from his shoulders; he’s loosening up by the millisecond. Glad as hell. Also verging on full-blown drunkenness. He goes on to tell us much more. I’ll paraphrase and hit the highlights.
Ernie and Xally, sittin’ in a tree. (That’s what he has called him ever since unloading.)
Sadly, these lovebirds don’t see each other often. Usually no more than 6-8 times a year. Truly tragic. I can’t even imagine; as such, I shan’t try. My heart/soul couldn’t hang.
When it’s not possible for them to converge physically, they effort to visit the same places at different times and then talk about their adventures, a practice which fosters their mental and emotional connections respectively. I pointed that out to him, by the way, and he thoroughly enjoyed my input. Indeed, I have broken down his hugely guarded defenses.
A few months back, E+X were supposed to meet at the distillery we visited earlier—they’re both bourbon connoisseurs—but something work-related came up, and Ern had to cancel. Xal went anyway and loved the entire experience, elevating Angel’s Envy to number one on his personal list of favorite distilleries and spirits, dethroning whichever place/brand had occupied the top spot for seventeen years. He told me which, but I already forgot; the name was boring. Sounded like a President from the 19th century. Or a bank. (It’s funny which details your brain decides to remember, isn’t it?)
I don’t know exactly what XM does for Bessi, but I’m told that his job comes with maximum danger. He’s a highly skilled warrior, dual-wields a pair of short swords [like Elvyn, incidentally]. Ooh, I suppose he’s technically an assassin. Apparently only Atlas and the three 3 Quinns can claim to have bagged more galacian/belanockian bodies. Since Conrad isn’t chopping off heads anymore {having lost his life 40 years ago}, Ernie’s “man” [62.5%] is closing in on fourth place.
Hmm, what else?
Ernest showed us several pics of them together. Xalvador is an exotic beauty [looks like a half-albino Indian Spaniard {if you can picture that without going cross-eyed}], tall, jacked, and appears to be about five decades younger than Ernie [the actual age gap is 33 years]. Superficially speaking, they don’t look like a match. But in every snapshot I saw, their auras tell a different story. Each belongs in the other’s arms.
Also, Xal owns a loft in D.C., a recent development after having been compelled to begin influencing congressional legislation. He was preparing a cup of chamomile tea and getting ready for bed when Ernest rang and asked him to fly across the pond and take care of my family. He left in a hurry and went straight to the airport. Nobody knows how long he’ll be gone. And he forgot to feed his ball python, Jorge [was scheduled to eat in a couple days]. That’s partly why we’re here.
Ernest alleges that (due to this journey) we’ll also come into possession of particularly useful provisions that he can get “only” from Xalvador—something about a customized laptop and access to facial recognition software, I think; hell, maybe I made that up—but who knows really? Maybe Ernest Quinn is just an absolute sweetheart underneath the irritable exterior he projects, and he came all this way just so that he could feed his soulmate’s snake and leave him thoughtfully selected swag alongside a bottle of their new favorite bourbon.
If it is romance you desire, then do yourself a favor:
Settle for nothing less.
Wait for it.
It’ll come.
I’ve lost track of time.
Ernest is outside on the phone talking to Xalvador.
Atlas and I just had ourselves a smiley eye-talk that spanned a brief eternity in ten seconds.
He’s happy, I’m happier, and I’m understating our mutually combined happiness.
These moments are precious. I hope I’m not too blitzed to remember them vividly.
Now I’m thirsty. I hop up and stroll over to my makeshift bartending station.
I make all the sense, don’t I? (Roll your eyes for me, will ya?)
Beware the comedown from extremely strong emotional outpourings.
Feeling the polar opposite of a truth does not imply its falsity.
No, more often than not, it serves as proof of authenticity.
At this point, savoring the extra pep in her step, I’m watching Thierry mix another drink. While she works, she shimmies to a tune in her head and, I swear to god, somehow convinces me that I can hear it, too. The way this girl moves is an intoxicating sight, a hypnotic delight.
Rhyme schmyme.
Yar, I am done for. She owns me.
I decide to pound the remaining third of my beverage so that I have an excuse to join her and request a refill, even though I do not desire another round. We (both) should stop altering our brain chemistry for a while.
However, much more than that, I definitely feel the urgent need to stand next to her; as a result, I’m headed her way. (Shrug for me, won’t you?)
I present my empty glass. It excites her. She happily brings my forthcoming drink to the stage where hers is already in the process of assembly. Ice. Ample bourbon. Splash of distilled water.
Now for the finishing touches in each. Agave nectar. Maraschino cherries. Mandarin orange peel.
Presently, I am physically incapable of taking my eyes off her.
But she doesn’t seem to mind.
She serves me a freshly crafted cocktail, picks up her glass, and we cheers. Clink.
We sample her creation.
Her concise review of the final product: “Not too shabby.”
She’s plain wrong; as such, I submit a slight tweak to her honest critique: “Not shabby at all.” To be fair, it’s the best fucking mixed drink I’ve ever tasted, but I’m not sure whether I should reveal that. I’m not sure that I shouldn’t, either. Shit, I should flip a coin. Shouldn’t I??
What in the holy hell is happening to me?
What are we doing?
We’re just staring at each other and glancing away shyly and I’m probably blushing like a fool.
Should I be more assertive? Should I act more confident? Should I hold my breath until (temporarily) losing consciousness?
Is any of that/this possible?
My heart rattles around inside my rib cage like a softball in an industrial-strength washing machine.
I am virtually certain that if I tried to plant one on her right now, she would not only allow it, but also she’d reciprocate.
She indulges in another sip, enjoys it more than the first, adds, “I think you’re right. These cups are utterly devoid of shabbiness.”
Yeah, I agree. Also…
Oh. My. God.
I want to grab her and kiss her so, so, so badly.
Holy shit, I think I just might!
(I’m sure I won’t.)
Timing is everything.
Kiss me. Please. Now. I’m ready. I said please.
I have to make him do it, right?
HALP.
Omigahhhhh I think he’s about to do it!
But now Ernest barges in. Dammittttttttt.
Awkwardly, Atlas and I drift back toward our seats.
OMFG, I feel something beyond joy—not sure what it is. Probably I should be more worried about Darcy, but somehow I truly believe she’s fine. Shacked up with a (“bad”) boy, probably. Yeah, that sounds like her. And it’s a secret. For reasons. I dunno.
Atlas has this supernatural way of inspiring my faith in the universe. He just…has me, you know? He’s got me.
A naughty daydream seems to be brewing. Not gonna lie—kind of excited about it. Might even break out one of my go-to fantasies, such as being blindfolded in a tire swing, on the longest slide at a water park, or in a (moving) golf cart on the 8th hole (for some reason).
Wait. Almost forgot about Ernest; he hasn’t spoken since coming back inside, which has amounted to at least thirty whole seconds of unusual silence. Hmm. His face. Uhh, something’s wrong. I’m too curious and cozy not to ask, “Ern?”
He establishes eye contact with me before beginning, “I’m very sorry. I have some news to report.” Terrific. Already I can’t swallow. “Firstly, your grandfather passed.” Okay, so, this might sound awful, but instantly I’m relieved because I thought the “news” was gonna be much worse. Don’t get me wrong—I love{d} my Granda. He was the sweetest, most patient man. I remember sitting on his lap as a toddler enjoying Coke Floats. His passing hurts. I am sad, I swear. But it was his time to go; moreover, he was already gone. I’ve been mourning him since I talked to my littlest sis. Okay? I’m a good person.
“Thierry,” Atlas says softly, prompting me to locate his caring eyes. “If there is anything I can do, make it known to me and it will be done.” Welp, that’s gonna make me cry. Just a bit. I’m holding it together pretty well; nevertheless, tears do fall. I mouth the words, “Thank you.” I appreciate him. He knows this.
“We have secured most of your family,” Ernest informs, “and they should be safe in Rotterdam within forty-eight hours.”
Hold up. “Most”?
“All but one.”
“Who’s missing?”
“Darcy.”
Oh, I see. Again, I’m relieved. “She’s in Dublin,” I explain, wiping my eyes. Yeah, everything is fine. It has to be.
“I’m sorry, Thierry.” Oh, shit, he knew that she was (supposed to be) in Dublin. “She’s not there.” He’s kinda wincing.
Oh, no. No. Please. I’m scared to fucking death.
And Ernest’s face tells me all I need to know and nothing I wanna hear. My second favorite sister, Darcy Violet Drinkwater, has been captured by The Belanoc.
The Belanoc.
In a blink, my dreamlike evening has morphed into a waking nightmare.
And I feel like such a cold bitch because my brain just told me that I’m glad they didn’t get Daddy, Chryss, or Mum. WTF. I can’t look at anyone right now. I can see Atlas peripherally and I feel his emotions directly—this is excruciating for him. (Walk a mile in my shoes, though.) He doesn’t know what to say. At this moment, no one does. I know he feels like he failed me. I don’t know what to think.
Yuh, this party really died. Extra.
Not sure who to blame. I wish I could just blame myself entirely and be done with it. But I’m struggling. I’m flipping back and forth between rage and sorrow.
Atlas demands an answer from Ernest. “How?”
“Don’t know exactly.” He sounds ashamed.
“Best guess. Go. Quickly.”
“Bessi’s fucked,” Ernest sighs/groans. “I don’t know what’s happening. Mom’s in the wind; nobody knows where she is. This is…bad. Obviously. Worse than we thought. Detonation imminent.”
In exasperated disbelief, Atlas buries his face in his hands, rubs his exhausted eyes.
And I’m just…in bad shape. Spiraling. Should I remain conscious for too much longer, I’m afraid I might say something that I’ll regret. Rage quickly emerges as the frontrunner in its tug-of-war with sorrow. This sucks. I’m done. Got a fork? Nice. Stick it in me; aim for the heart. “I just need to go to sleep.” Yup, that’s what I’m gonna do. Where’s my fucking purse? I can’t find it. About to flip out.
“Under the bed,” Atlas says.
Ah. I mean, am I that obvious? Whatever. I pop a few sleepy meds and chase them with the rest of my drink. That was less than two shots. Not enough. Since Atlas has barely touched his second round, I help myself. Eyes getting misty. Chugging. He doesn’t approve—neither do I, frankly—but he won’t interject. Five or six shots in thirty seconds. That oughta do the trick. As I climb gracelessly into bed, silent tears roll down my cheeks. I close my eyes; I won’t open them again until I wake up.
“I’ll get another room,” Ernest says as he opens the door to leave before elaborating, “I’ll be up late trying to get to the bottom of this.” Atlas doesn’t respond—at least, not with words. Ernest hesitates for a few seconds at the door. “I am really sorry.” That was meant for both of us, and the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, but neither I nor Atlas offer him a (verbal) response. The door closes.
Now it’s just me and Atlas.
I can’t handle this.
Half a minute of the loudest silence of my life goes by.
Possibly gonna lose it.
Then, gingerly, he starts, “Hey, listen, there is a chance—”
“—tomorrow, okay? Please.” Can’t open my eyes. Seeing him will make me sob uncontrollably. “I can’t do today anymore.”
I can feel his presence as he debates what to say, if anything.
Tick tock, tick tock. Fuck off and die, clock.
He kills the lights. That was the right decision.
I’ll be asleep soon. I’m drunk as a skunk.
Sooner or later, dust must settle.
Train your “self” to wait.
(Train your body with weight.)
To put it mildly, I find myself comprehensively devastated.
Emotionally compromised, I made an awful, critical, costly error in judgment.
And I know where this is headed. Hell, maybe you do, too. It’s obvious. A trade will be proposed—DVD for TNT—and upon acceptance [not gonna happen, by the way], Severus might even let Darcy live, but Thierry would be subjected to unthinkable suffering at the vengeful discretion of Dick Purdy.
And, most assuredly, no matter how this plays out, my uncle will attempt to use the opportunity to end my unlikely life.
Oh, god…
What have I done?
The love of my life existence trusts trusted me, and there are no two ways about it: I have let her down.
How can I ever forgive myself for this?
Fuck.
VI.