Taglove

V.

Chapter IV.

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.

IV.

Chapter III.

ARK: E à la G

To defy G, one needs E.
In other words, energy inverts gravity, and vice versa.
Via the power combined by light through matter, gravity [powerful] gives rise to energy [power].

Forty-five hours and one minute from when my long-lost BFF, Ernest Quinn, asserted that he would contact me (“in EXACTLY 45 hours”) with instructions pertaining to a specific location for rendezvous, we’ve been circling Dallas, Texas on I-635 for upwards of seventy-five minutes, and still he has not contacted me.
By now, my sweat glands have more or less fully acclimated to riding shotgun (alongside Thierry).
I’m not being lazy; she just really enjoys sitting behind the wheel, and I find her enjoyment (of  anything) to be enjoyable.
She’s adorably complex.
Every day, without trying, and unbeknownst to her, she motivates me to be better. At everything.
At present, we’re listening to the closing moments of a song about waiting for someone. I can’t quite relate to these lyrics, but only because I never imagined that a girl like TNT could exist, let alone “come into my life.”
I can’t stop stealing glances at her. I blame her luminosity; the girl simply glows.
Holy god, I’m in trouble.
Now two minutes beyond the time that Ernest pledged to contact me with instructions, he has not contacted me still.
My brain leaps to irrational, worst-case conclusions. He’s dead. He came down with amnesia. He quit his job. He’s a double quadruple agent. He’s lost. Cruetzfeldt-Jakob disease. Mauled by a hippopotamus. Impromptu walkabout. Spontaneous combustion. Quicksand. Abduction. Brainwashed.
Blah.
After another minute elapses beyond the exact time that Ernest solemnly vowed [whatever; I’m getting antsy] to contact me with instructions—for those of you keeping score, he’s three minutes late—finally I get a text:

Ah, so, my base layer of deductive reasoning skills alert me to his strong suspicion {if not his virtual certainty} that Bessi has more “moles” than have been identified; thus, in the name of caution, we’re rerouting to another city.
“Hard” = Easy, “Small” = Big.
So far, though he means only to exercise hyper-prudence, his codes have been a bit too simple for my liking, but I’m choosing to believe that our transmissions were/are insusceptible to interception.
I instruct our happy-go-lucky driver, “Take exit 6B.”
Thierry winks [she’s an exceptionally graceful winker], busy partying to a song about a lady [assumedly] by the name of Eileen. The tune sounds absolutely nothing like the track we heard most recently; nonetheless, we’re on an unmistakable eighties kick, it seems. My ear-holes aren’t mad. Fittingly, this woman’s taste in music pales only in comparison to her bewitching personality of multilayered intricacy. In other words, she’s like a stunning tapestry.
No, far superior.
Speaking of any one-hit wonders, how awful must the second single have been? A fairly fascinating concept to me. Can’t decide whether it’s more akin to winning the lottery or a blind squirrel scoring a sweet nut.
Rescuing me from a useless rabbit hole, another text vibrates the cellular device in my hand:

I have no reason not to trust him; as such, I’ll respond:

Exiting the bypass around which we’ve been cruising, I request, “Help.” Meaning left or right. Atlas gets me.
“Right then straightish for about thirty miles.”
“Pretty sure that’ll take us outta Dallas, boo.” Oops, shite, that straight-up slipped.
“Erring on the side of extreme caution. Diverting to New Orleans.”
Either he didn’t notice the pet name I unveiled inadvertently, or he thought nothing of it. Truthfully, I declare, “Oh, neat. I quite liked my lone visit.”
Nah, he’s tryna stifle a grin. Definitely noticed. Just like I subconsciously planned. Hmph.

Gah. Thierry flat-out trusts me. Automatically. As hard as life is, particularly these days, she makes breathing easy. I would do anything (within arguable reason) for her.
And she called me “boo”! I wonder if she meant what I wish she meant by that.
I yearn to kiss her (with tongue) soon.
Why did I admit that? Now I’m distressed to the point of blushing.
In other words, I’ve embarrassed myself in front of me (because you’re paying attention).
Ridiculous!
I hope that I know innately how to kiss her the way she likes/wants/needs to be kissed.
At this point, I feel the urge to think a new thought because the previous one makes me long for an inexplicable loss of consciousness.
I feel feverish, but that can’t be real. I haven’t had a fever since the early seventies.
I’m saying things heretofore unsaid {in my case} due to feelings never before felt.
Have I been compromised to a degree that portends fatalities?
Not sure if I’m capable of caring, honestly, because I’m aching to taste her lips. (Take your pick which set.)
Goddammit, I’ve fallen victim to demonic possession; I just know it.
I don’t say things like that/this.
I do care. I need for neither of us to perish. Moreover, I want us both to live forever. And together.
Somebody, put me to sleep. Permanently.
What if I smooch her so poorly that it amounts to a dealbreaker?
I’ll mourn. I’ll implode. I’ll quit life.
Goodness gracious, there’s so much to consider as far as technique.
I cannot believe what I’m admitting to you, reader.
Essentially, I’m a sixth-grader.
Ugh, I should do some research.
Naw, I should wing it.
Yeah, I’ll allow emotions that I don’t understand to dictate my actions spontaneously as they assail my senses.
Nah, I should just make every effort not to press my lips against hers since that’s the only surefire way to avoid doing it wrong.
I’m aware that (at best) I sound like a deranged clown. Do us both a favor—forget everything you just read.
I’m still raw about coughing up Halcyon. Let’s blame that.
Please?

***

As we approach The Big Easy, I can tell that Atlas wants to say something, but he’s hesitant. He does this a lot; it’s cute. Knowing I’ll detect his desire (to speak up), he waits for me to tell him it’s okay to flow freely. Sssh, we’ll work on it. Eventually he’ll feel secure in knowing he can tell me anything.

Healthy repetition reduces imperfection.

As always, I’m too curious not to pull it out of him. “What’s spinnin’ aboot in that head of yours?” That’s my go-to invitation. On this occasion, though, the Canadian inflection was spontaneous; no clue where it came from; maybe cerebral wires got crossed; I’ll likely never do it again. Three semicolons in a single sentence—two firsts in a row!
Atlas responds, “Nothing much.”
“Lie again.” Another go-to expression of mine, apparently. (He pointed it out a couple weeks ago.)
He chuckles then tells me, “Neural gaps are being bridged beyond my control and comfort.”
Sometimes, when he assembles verbiage, it’s as if I’m reading my own mind. Grinning, I roll my eyes. That’s all I have to express. I know he’ll expand momentarily.
“Okay…”
There we go. Here it comes.
“Would you like to, uh, phone home?”
Not what I was expecting. My brain replays the plot of E.T. in a handful of seconds. Now I wanna watch it for the hundredth time. Perhaps I’m trying to avoid reality. (In many ways, I am, but aren’t you, too?)
“Ernest can make it happen. He’ll take extra proper precautions.”
I’m a deer in headlights. Atlas almost winces.
If you would, please allow me to contextualize my headspace.
In early 2012, after a tragic sequence involving the untimely death of my infant, Iris—subsequently followed by two miscarriages [yes, I’ve been a mom three times but have no kids to show for it]—I took a one-way flight from the United Kingdom to the States with the ambiguous intention of getting lost, searching for my soul and, with any luck, finding myself. Eventually shit went sideways. Got myself into an unholy, monstrous pickle. Had to go into hiding. (Perhaps by now you’ve heard/read the/my story.) To safeguard my family—and if only due to paranoid ignorance—I didn’t (attempt to) make contact; none of them have heard a peep from me since late April of 2012 via a half-assed email. They must assume that I’m deceased. I was scared even merely to look for them on any social media platform. Because what if? I dunno. Better safe than sorry. I had no idea what kind of person-finding tools my homicidal stalkers might be in a position to access.
Late at night on Christmas Day in 2014, fully bollocksed off spiced rum, I searched for Mum on Facebook; although, as of my departure from home, she didn’t have an account. When I typed her name, I didn’t expect a result. Then I pressed the enter key. And there she frickin’ was. Her most recent post was from the day before Christmas Eve:

Anyone have fun recipe for stuffing ? Would like to mix it up this year

Nevermind the absence of punctuation at the end; focus on the space before the question mark and try not to twitch.
I’m fine.
The post before that, from over eight months earlier, read:

Sometimes I just miss my girl..

Instantly, I forgave her for falling one dot short of a properly formatted ellipsis.
In that moment, I saw the oh-so strong lady who carried me into the world, but I knew assumed that I could should not communicate with her. The pain of that realization demolished me.
Then I deleted my fake account.
Then I cried for five days without interruption.
Then I embarked upon a path toward raging alcoholism.
Then I spent 80% of my existing funds on light dresses and heavy blankets.
Since then, I’ve made no attempt to gather information about my family.
I hid. I’ve hidden. In every sense of the words. Insulated myself in the name of their protection.
Doing whatever I can think of that might ensure their safety trumps the possible alleviation of my excruciating anguish.
Atlas proclaims confidently, “Your instincts to protect them speak to your inner strength. You’ve done nothing unnecessary in a consistent display of inspiring bravery.”
Friggin’ Atlas and his words. Stubbornly, I’m rejecting my ducts’ inclination to release a steady stream of tears.
“Anyway, it’s just a thought,” he remarks. “Up to you. No pressure, but the option exists.”
Emotional conflict compromises my mentality. I want (*almost) nothing more than to reconnect with my most immediate kindred; however, now I fear for their safety more than ever.
He asks, “Hypothetically, is there anyone you think would be able to handle hearing your voice?”
Hmm. Good question. Lemme think. Mum, no way. Daddy, yes, if he could avoid Mum, which he never could and surely can’t. Of my four sisters, starting from oldest to youngest: hell no, nahhhhh, nooooope, maybe.
My heart/gut tells me that Chryssie would be my best bet. We got along. We were close. We understood one another. I dunno why any of that would’ve changed in seven years of continuous separation.
Atlas reinforces that it’s: “Just something to think about.” He doesn’t usually repeat himself. Hmm. Why is he off? My first instinct is to fret about the possibility that he doesn’t like me anymore, or that soon he won’t, or that perhaps he never did and I’m a lunatic. He’s probably just tired; I most certainly am.
But anyway, yeah. I nod. “I’ll think about it.” And I will.

*More than anything—can’t believe I’m about to divulge the following info; I feel funny about it—I want to be as close as possible to Atlas, which (TECHNICALLY) would involve more than one type of “penetration.” Negative closeness, in a (physical) way. Maybe? Omigod, I’m such a slut these days. I should be shot in the neck with a tranquilizer dart thrice daily.

In what feels like an hour, 10 minutes tick by.

Okay. I thought about it plenty. “Okay,” I say. He looks at me. “I would like to call my youngest sister, I think.”
He nods. “What’s the name on her birth certificate?”
“Chrystal Heidi Drinkwater. There’s an H in Chrystal in the only spot that makes sense. She might be married by now. Obviously. I’m sure you thought of that. Sorry.”
Atlas smiles affectionately, sensing my painful turmoil. He whips out one of his phones and sends a text. At least I think that’s what just happened.
I could cry, but at the moment, for whatever reason, I refuse to let myself.
Kinda sick of crying, I guess.

===

Atlas and I settle into an extravagant local suite right smack-dab in the middle of the French Quarter two blocks from Bourbon Street. Our accommodations are excessive for a group of 6, let alone 2{-3}. Pickins were slim, and money is no object, so here we are.
On the way in, nearby, I spotted a voodoo museum; naturally I’m itching to tour. Maybe we’ll have time. Not holding my breath, though.
I can’t find my new favorite phone ever. I look around the room. Ah, hell. I’ve been here for twenty minutes and my belongings are already EVERYWHERE. I have a way of doing that. Oh, look, a surface—I better put something on it!
Multiple times per day, my eyes roll at myself.
Atlas, fiddling with two of his phones, sits quietly in a corner on a vintage chair which features a glorious old-lady faded floral pattern. (Fuckabuncha commas.)
Oh, right, I was looking for my phone. I resume my search, get distracted by shiny objects [namely my rose-gold, leaf-shaped earrings; they’re so dang cute], can’t decide whether I wanna change knickers. Maybe two minutes pass. Maybe eight.
Then he informs me, “Got a text.”
Pretending not to be joking, I kid, “Who is she?” My voice was so serious just then; my face still is. One of my trademark funnies. He likes it every time.
And right on cue, his dimples emerge. As usual, I swoon. This boy has made me a swooner. He holds up a finger, telling me to hang. I hang. He finishes messing with a phone, glances my way. My left ass-cheek vibrates. Ah ha, found my device! I check it. A message from him, digits only, a phone number, British format.
“Never married, by the way.”
My heart rate goes bonkers.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Atlas assures me. “This is your decision.”
I know myself. I’ll overthink this.
Where’s my cocktail? On the coffee table? Nope. Nightstand? Nope. Countertop? Nope. On the floor next to a small trash bin? Yup.
I don’t even like the taste of this particular beverage, but I needed a drink, and now I need another.
The bar downstairs is super luxurious. We’re acting like tourists. Trying to blend in, I suppose.
I stare at Chryssie’s number as it appears in my text thread with Atlas.
I chug. Gross. This adult beverage contains ample Aperol, a substance I don’t like even splashed; the faintest hint tastes like liquid plastic. Why the fuck did I order it?
I tap the number. Phone asks if I wanna call.
Another sip. Still gross. Grosser, maybe. Despite the sink five paces away, I pour the remainder of my beverage into the bin. Clearly didn’t think it through. Don’t care!
In a strange daze of sorts, I decide to accept my phone’s invitation to dial, an action which hurls me back into complete lucidity. Eyes undoubtedly wide, I stare at Atlas, who stares back, also surprised.
FUCK. It’s (past) the middle of the night over there. Too late to hang up, though, no? My thumb hovers over the red button on the screen. When my youngest sister answers before the second ring, she sounds wide awake.
I’m taken aback. Cat got my tongue.
Chryssie repeats her standard greeting. (Believe it or not: “Hello.” However, note that she doesn’t ask it; she states it; always has.)
I don’t know what to say, but I do genuinely wonder where she is. Sounds like a public place. This pops out: “Where are you?”
Silence.
Prolonged.
Intense.
My ticker challenges itself to a race and dominates.
I don’t know what else to say.
I can tell that she recognized my voice.
“Sec,” she says. Now I think she’s in motion, assumedly seeking privacy. I hear doors opening, chatter, wheels rolling. Tears slide down my cheeks. Finally, my baby sister confirms, “Maddy??” She’s crying.
“Hey, girl. Hey.” She bawls; I join her. “I’m so sorry, sis.”
Emotions upend her speech capacity. Half a minute elapses as neither of us can put together a third of a sentence. Finally she chimes in: “Can I ring you back straight away?” Pretty sure that’s what she said.
And I understand totally since I’m also none too near regaining my ability to use words. “Yes.”
She ends the call.
On the spot, I embark on a mission to pace the floor for five kilometres.
“Are you okay?” Atlas asks gently.
“Umm,” I begin, marginally worried about suffering a myocardial infarction, “I don’t know yet.”

Truly real bonds don’t can’t break.

I figure I’ve almost hit three kilometres when my phone vibrates. It’s my littlest sissy, Chryssie. I answer, “Hey.”
“You sound so American now.”
We share a giggle. I could unleash another round of waterworks but I’ve got to keep it together. I repeat my earlier question: “Where are you?”
“We’ve been at hospital for five days. Granda had two strokes.”
Oh, no. Ugh. “Will he be okay?”
“I reckon he won’t.” She fights off more tears. “He’s in a coma. Braindead, I think. But Mum can’t accept it yet.”
“What about Granny?”
“Goodness, Maddy. Been dead five years.”
Ouch, my heart. “What’s Dad saying?”
“Dad and me are the only ones not in denial.” I’m not surprised.
“How’s everyone else?”
“Let’s see. Reagan just birthed her sixth boy, says she won’t stop ‘til she gets two girls—good luck with that, Rea. Phoebe’s still a bitter fookin’ pill, divorcin’ yet another abusive donkey, and Darcy’s at university over at Dublin. She beat breast cancer couple years back.”
Despite my best efforts, I’m getting upset. I miss me fam.
Chryssie inquires, “Where ya been, love?”
God. Where do I even begin? “I took a wrong turn, Chryss.”
“What do ya mean?”
“It’s a long story. I’ve been stuck. I’m in hiding. People want me dead. Bad people. Fuck, it’s a long story.” She’s speechless. Understandably so. “I’ll explain soon. For the time being, don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“Give Granda a kiss for me.”
“I will.”
“I gotta run.”
“‘Kay.”
“Okay.”
“Maddy?”
“Yes, dear?”
“I’m glad you’re alive.” Now I wanna cry again. “I love ya.” Now I’m gonna cry again.
“I love you, sis. Ta for now.”
I hang up and head for the toilet so I can sit on the floor and sob for a while and possibly toss my biscuits.

When it needs to rain from within, let it pour out.
Sooner or later, bottled emotions will demand release.

Thierry’s still in the bathroom. Been about half an hour. I’m choosing not to invade her privacy. I hope that’s the right decision.
Why do I think that I can feel her pain? No, actually feel it. That can’t be possible.
What is wrong with me?
At last, having collected herself, she reemerges.
I stand. Not sure what to say. Oh, I know: “Hi.” That was probably wrong.
She submits a request that strangles my heart: “Don’t ever let me exist as a vegetable.” Ew, I don’t want to ponder that scenario for one more second. “Pull the plug. Promise?” Stop.
Reluctantly, I shake my head in agreement. I don’t know if I mean it.
No. I would exhaust every resource to keep the light in her alive.
I don’t wish to contemplate this further. Changing the subject:
“We should go somewhere and try to consume calories.”
Thierry barely acknowledges my suggestion with a nod. Not one of her signature nods. No, this one’s empty. Understandable. I judge her not. I’m compelled to offer support, but I abstain. I must be patient.

On occasion, a person may need time to heal.
Should you not oblige, you will only exacerbate the wound.
Unequivocally, patience is a virtue.

It’s late. Almost midnight. Took me a while to prepare for venturing out into public places. Judge me (if you must).
We exit the premises and walk toward the hustle and bustle. No real plan; just gonna find a place to eat. I’ll have to force-feed meself. Been there, done that.
I feel bad about being sad around Atlas. He understands, though. I know he does.
Wait, does{n’t} he??
Fucking hell.
Who am I kidding? I’m not good enough for him.
Should I try to make him hate me? That thought nauseates me.
But I’m legitimately afraid that he’ll die because of me. I’m not joking.
Maybe I’m PMSing a bit early this month.
Eventually, maybe 20 minutes later, Atlas and I wander into a hip little coffee-/cocktail-/french-cuisine-themed bistro and grab seats one space from the right corner of the bar, the only side-by-side empty spots {although seven (of fifteen) stools are unoccupied} because most people don’t know how to plant their squishy asses considerately and efficiently in climates of open seating.
Sorry. I’m in a mood.
I check my phone. Nothing. Atlas checks his. Something:

Atlas sighs, tells me, “We’ve been rerouted once again.”
I don’t mind at all. Kinda relieved, in fact. “Seems like he’s being extra careful.” That’s the best I could do. Can’t be arsed to respond cleverly at the moment.
He nods—yeah, classic Ernest, apparently. “Biloxi,” he further informs me. “Tomorrow night.”
Yup, I’m totally fine with this since my present mindset isn’t conducive to making a good first impression.

While he’s texting, insane intrigue develops inside me thanks to the trio of ladies seated one chair from directly adjacent to us. They appear to be around my age. And just by looking at them and eavesdropping on their conversation, I’m strangely certain that we’d get along quite well.
OMG, sometimes I forget that Atlas has 72 years on me.

And, as it turned out, my intuition didn’t fail me. We made friends. No, we connected. Zita Wilson, Liza Hooberry, Peyton Coop. Witches, basically. Sorta. Oh, and their fourth wheel, Walker Davis, blood-brother to one of them, baby-daddy to another.
Interesting night.
I needed the distraction.
But I’m not sure I’ll reap the rewards until later on down the road.
If ever.

— — —

By half past noon the next day, having traveled less than 90 minutes to Biloxi, Mississippi on less than two hours of sleep, we’ve checked in to yet another cookie-cut hotel room.
He drove. I gave no fucks whatsoever about the music. We listened mostly to instrumental electronic stuff that he likes.
I fear that I’m losing whatever part of me I thought I’d found. Surely it’s temporary.
And he’s worried about something, acting somewhat distant, which in turn worries me.
I’m as sick of worrying as I am of crying. I have a headache and I don’t get headaches.
I need a nap.

Sleeping repairs brain damage!

Okay.
Logged a three-hour siesta.
The time of day ticks to 18:36 precisely.
Atlas informs me that our meet-up has been scheduled for about four hours from now and that the location lies within walking distance. Good. I like walking.
Also, hmm, I’ve barely got time to dye streaks into my hair; therefore, might as well!
I don’t enjoy my own company today. I annoy myself. I’m trying to spare him from my toxicity via subtle avoidance. Hope that doesn’t backfire somehow.

An hour later, we set out on foot.

Do you like people-watching? Visit a casino. What a riveting experience. Bunch of overfed drones with their tongues hanging out, wild-eyed wildebeests panting like hot dogs, emotions inflamed with false hope, feeding coinage into slots, pulling levers, dying to score big.
Welcome to America, where, though astronomically unlikely, you could get rich quick.
Anyway, here we are. Public place. Supposedly safe. The plan is to join forces with Mister Ernest Quasar Quinn. I feel like I already know him. Also, if you ask me—nevermind that you didn’t (until now, perhaps)—his mama kinda misfired on that middle name. Don’t tell ANYONE I said that.
Then again, he was named prior to 1911, I think, so maybe I’m okay with it.
Not that it matters.
As I’ve stated previously and will state again later, I know nothing.
Dunno where Atlas is, but I know he’s got eyes on me. Although he doesn’t expect things to get hairy, we’re proceeding as if shit jussssst might hit the fan. I’m less concerned than he is, and he seems rather relaxed.
I’m sitting in front of this dumb slot machine, feeding it about two coins a minute, sipping on bottled water and feeling terribly guilty about the plastic bottle.
Accidentally, I make eye contact with a late-twenties couple. I look away. They approach me regardless. God, they seem to be coming right at me. Please go away. OMG, STAHP. Shoo!
“Scuse me,” says a basic country boy. (Mother eff, I gotta work on my mind-control skillz.) He’s with a girl who could’ve been a runway model had she played her cards right several years ago. They do not fit together. I’ll bet she could beat his ass, too. He continues, “Would you mind takin’ our pitcher?”
Oh, is that all? “I would not.” His face reveals profound confusion, thinks I’m refusing his request. Lord, help me. I clarify, “No, I would not mind takin’ yer picture.” Enunciated the shite outta that C.
“Ah, heh. Thanks.” Still confused. What an utter simpleton. I can’t decide whether to pity him or hope like hell that he’s sterile [you know, for the future of humanity], so I’m choosing both! I accept his phone/camera and wait for their pose.
Within five seconds of examining this girl’s facial features/expression and body language, I have sized up their relationship. She does not love him. Hell, she hardly likes him. But she has allowed herself to be enslaved by his financial support [probably inherited] because she doesn’t reckon that she can afford to lose access to the source of funds his presence provides—at least not currently. Maybe they have a kid or two. Maybe she’s got demons similar to mine. Worse yet, maybe she’s unexpectedly prego. Whatever the case may be, she’s in survival mode, forcing herself to pretend; otherwise, he’ll explore other options, meaning her bills would require more effort to pay than she’s presently capable of expending. And he’s too oblivious—and unintelligent, frankly—to pick up on any of this.
Can’t fool me, girlie. Smile all you like—your pain bleeds through. But I’m rootin’ for ya! (It is possible that she will read this one day, by the way, hence the direct address.)
Now that I think about it (pointlessly), I would very much like for her to be the subject of my second Tarot reading. (My first occurred last night early this morning.) That seems unfeasible, however. (Duh.)
Blimey, I should procure my own deck (of cards).
Of course, I could be wrong about all some of my off-the-cuff assessment. My brain tends to travel and sometimes I get carried away. But my intuition doesn’t often fail me. I can read people, ya see.
Anyway, I take a handful of pics as she fakes it while he thinks about sport-fishing or Nascar or raping heroin-bombed hookers in their sleep or whatever—I’m sure he’s a swell fellow outside of his shallow horribleness—and then they go on their merry sad way.
Ugh. I’m bored of this slot machine—on to the next.

When you’re in tune, you cannot be fooled.

I’m patrolling the second floor, which surrounds and overlooks the main level, where Thierry drifts slowly from one slot machine to the next.
As a precaution, I’ve disguised myself with a backwards baseball hat and hipster glasses.
I will not take my eyes off of her for more than three seconds.
I’m worried that I jumped the gun on spearheading contact with her family.
In other news, the hint of lavender in her hair looks positively magnificent.

When you notice something you like about a person, consider telling him/her.
Because you could be the only one who does.
And s/he might need to hear it.

I watch people drowning in their own self-absorption, steeped in an ignorance they can’t identify, let alone rectify. Unwitting cogs in capitalism’s ever-warping wheel. Slaves of/to greed, by both their own externally imbued desires and under the rotten powers-that-be.
No one sees me (except you-know-who), not the mindless menfolk who spit unwanted attention my way, nor the insecure women who auto-hate me simply because of my appearance. With every blink, eyes glaze over. I swear to god—I think some of these people are literal robots. They’re all just doing what they think they’re supposed to do—trying to fit in, falling in line, playing their parts, going through prescribed motions, acting like characters they’ve seen only on screens in two dimensions. In other words, the vast majority of humans live a life of suffering under hypnosis.
Ooh, here’s a slot machine I wanna touch! Yeah, it’s as fruity as the rest, but I spy the Union Jack and (what I believe to be) the Finnish flag. I wanna stick a token in the hole and yank the lever. I’m gonna.
Done. Spinning.
Nothing.
Again.
Again, nothing.
Let’s go again! (The hell else am I gonna do?)
Uh oh. I hit something rare. Exciting sounds erupt amid flashing lights. Oh, frick, what have I done? I think I accidentally won money. Ack!

More often than not, you’ll find what you’re looking for when you stop looking for it.

Shit.
Unluckily, Thierry just got lucky.
But I’m sure we’re fine.
Right?
Nonetheless, just to be safe, I scan everything within the umbrella of my sightlines. These stupid glasses hinder my vision; I ditch them.
She’s still okay, but people are nosy.
You know, in general.
I’m on edge.
Scanning: an obnoxious bridal group, all sorts of people wearing visors, a man wiping a booger under a craps table, a woman stretching her quads, an escalating spat between a group of seniors, a {fe}male [honestly can’t tell which sex] slumped over in a chair snoozing, another ruckus across the way as somebody else must’ve landed on a winner—and, finally, a face that I have seen before. Only once. Four decades prior. Underground in London. With half a minute more time to spare, I would have slain his wormy ass. This is Vilfred Hammershøi. He looks about 15 years older than he did in 1979.
If Severus is a twisted, murderous version of Batman, then Vilfred is Robin, only much taller.
His eyes are fixated on Thierry. Looks like he’s sending a text.
Indeed, we’re busted.
But how??
Fuck.

What to do, what to do…

Already I can feel my pits sweating. I’m hot. My face has to be red. This mind-numbing machine pukes up the noisiest preprogrammed response EVER and I just want it to STOPPPPPP. Glad I’m not epileptic. Unwanted attention looms. Trying to make sense of this. Come on, brain, process. Okay, just won $1,199 that I can’t collect. Not that I need it.
I look around for Atlas. Everywhere. Scanning in a big damn hurry. Don’t see him.
Onlookers encroach wearing idiotic, often slobbery grins; a particular (but irrelevant) double chin drips canned nacho cheese. Another dunce drops his full cup of beer and stares at it in disbelief. Oh, that’s the bumpkin from earlier. Now he stomps away like a lil tit as my would-be soul-sister’s shoulders go slack.
(In another life, perhaps, baby girl.)
I feel an invisible spotlight burning my skin. Panic threatens to overtake me.
Once more, I survey the next level, desperately hoping to spot my bodyguard. Can’t find him. Maybe he’s not up there anymore. Yes, surely he’s swooping in to my rescue. I’m stressing because this is stressful. Now I’m laughing nervously at a drunk fatass who just tried to high-five me [I whiffed on purpose]. Still looking for help. My eyes dart here and there frantically until zeroing in on a shape I’ve never seen but recognize his presence immediately as a threat. He’s very tall, very pale, very hairy—standing perfectly still on the upper level against the railing (roughly 40 meters away). He sees me, no doubt about it, and he appears to be one minor facial flex from a majorly sinister grin. I know he’s out to get me. More than that, I am positive that his blood pumps not one iota of the human genome.
Hmm, am I positive? Instinctively, I question my instincts. Perhaps he’s just a creepy-as-fuck, tall-as-shit, hairy-as-ass, pale-as-hell, fully human male. Fingers crossed!
But, just to be safe, I divert my eyes and backpedal away directly while maintaining vigilance peripherally. He hops over the guardrail, drops a solid twenty feet, lands with unnatural ease, walks my way like a supernaturally gifted 80s-movie slasher. Yup, definitely belanockian. Or, shite, could be galacian, I suppose; I’m not exactly an expert. Either way, no thanks.
Yeah, I know when to GTFO, and right now would be such an occasion; therefore, I pivot and run toward the main/front exit/door, dodging folks left and right. Three seconds later, I realize that I should be sprinting. Hauling ass now! At this point, I’m not worried about drawing attention. Survival instincts have kicked in (yet again). Yup, fuck everybody. I’m running for my life (AGAIN). And, again, I have no idea where I’m going.
And I’m sick and tired of using the word again.

Sometimes, surviving requires blatant disregard for (your concept of) external perceptions.

On the ground/main level, Vilfred’s on Thierry’s tail, and I’m on his.
As far as weaponry, I have a dagger, a tactical tomahawk, and four throwing knives on me. (All are handmade of moose antlers, by the way [to slip by metal detectors].) But in other words, I’m ill-equipped to fight.
How the fuck did this happen? Bessi must have been catastrophically breached.

People are capable of more than you know.
Including yourself.

I’m out the door. I don’t feel as safe as I did indoors; fewer tourists. Not that any of them could save me. I try to get my head around the possibility of dying. I hate it.
Ever thought about what it might feel like to die? Try it. It sucks.

All people possess more strength than they realize.

I exit with violent speed, barreling over an elderly gentleman. Shoot, I’m sorry, fella. That’s gonna leave a mark. A lady yells shrilly at me. I can’t stop.
Per instinct alone, I turn right, and there they are.
Vilfred can’t be more than three seconds from pouncing on Thierry—an agonizing realization. In desperation, and although it delays my advance, I hurl my tomahawk at his melon. I must confess that it’s an amazing throw—incredible pace [135 mph easily] on a frozen rope. But it misses. Just barely. Enough to get his attention and warrant a glance back, though. He recognizes me—it slows him down as he snarls—but maintains his aggressive pursuit. I’m convinced that he aims to (sacrifice his own life in order to) kill her in front of me out of hateful spite.
He’s ready to pounce again, and I got nothin’.
To say the least, I’m freaking out.
Then, in the nick of time, automatic gunfire rings out as a steadily powerful bullet-spray tracks Vilfred, shredding anything in his immediate vicinity, including his legs as well as two innocent civilians {probably on their honeymoon}, unfortunately.

Collateral damage can’t be avoided.
People aren’t perfect.

That was so fucking loud and scary, but after hearing it for two seconds without being torn apart, I knew it was friendly fire.
Still running, I sneak a peek behind me, almost tripping in the process. (I’m not usually clumsy.) The creeptastic belanoc, having clearly suffered (nonfatal but) temporarily disabling wounds, has sought cover behind a tour bus, pinned down by intermittent bursts of hugely destructive automatic gunfire, all the while glaring at me as if this is my fault and thus wants to kill me a lot over and over.
Wait, where’s the source of the endless projectile-storm?
My eyes find the shooter, a lanky old-timer [looks about 65] who appears to be unnaturally spry. I think the heat he’s packing is called a “minigun” [later confirmed]. What a stupid name, by the way; the damn thing can plow through 4,000 rounds before running dry [later learned].
Anyhoo, this has to be Ernest; I’d bet my bottom dollar. (Nevermind that my bottom dollar is also my top one.)
Verging on panic, I look for Atlas. Oh, there he is—whew—across the way, moving toward Ernest and motioning me along.

Tactical retreat denotes intelligent foresight, not cowardice.

Ernest backpedals and posts up against an oversized matte-black sport utility vehicle. “We got about twenty seconds.” To explain that declaration, he motions with his head.
And there’s Lisbet, comin’ in hot from across the lot. He adds, “Keys are in the ignition.”
Guess I’m driving.
We (all three) pile into the Erniemobile, the back of which has been gutted; the only two seats are in front. Thierry hops in beside me and buckles up.
Crank. Drive. Go. Tires squeal. I check the rearview.
Lisbet’s speed on foot has to be in the 99th percentile for females of her ilk.
And I see that Ernest thought ahead—he has always been very good at that—as the rear windshield is already down. He opens a crate full of armaments. I assume that he intends to snipe. Should he miss, Lisbet’s crazy ass will be diving in, at which point things would get terribly weird. Flat-out not exaggerating: he is the best marksman the world has ever known, no matter how fast and erratically his target moves. Presently he looks indecisive. Come on, Ern. I have faith. One bullet for the win. Let’s do this.
Instead, he whips out a fantastically modern bazooka, aims, tracks.
Also Lisbet is fucking insane. Easy diagnosis. I don’t know if she can’t see the weapon being pointed at her or what, but she does not stop. Hell, I think she speeds up.
Off to my right, I notice Severus in the distant background making a beeline for us. To compensate, I drift left, delaying our egress from the parking lot.
Ernest fires. The rocket whistles through the air. A fiery explosion rattles our atmosphere.
In my head, it should be obvious that I’m wondering about the result of the fresh blast, but no one offers a preemptive recap; thus, I ask, “Ern?”
“Uh, I guess I hit her in the face.” Evidently, Ernest has surprised himself.
Thierry confirms, “Yeah I’m pretty sure he blew her head off.”
They each appear rather astonished. Hate that I missed the epic bullseye. Plus, they just bonded slightly, which pleases me.
I check in on Severus. Fat fucker’s faster than I realized.
I decide to roll the dice, risk a collision, take a hard left with the intention of jumping a curb onto the main drag.
Here we go. Indeed, the beaten path has been abandoned.
Ernest worries, “Umm…” Thierry braces herself.
The pedal under my foot stays down; otherwise, nearby brakes get stomped, vehicles swerve/stop, horns blare.
A few jostling bumps and tense seconds.
But we’ve made it onto the road intact. Rearview mirror reveals no pursuers. Punching it.
Ernest seethes. “Gotta ditch this thing.” I infer that he suspects the vehicle itself of being tracked by a previously unidentified double agent. “Asap.” I know. I advertise my knowledge with a five-fingered hand signal. Turning left.
Ernest stews, pissed at himself.
Turning left again, Ernest wonders why: “Hmm, almost appears as though we’re doubling back.”
“I know what I’m doing.” But I’m not entirely sure that I do. If Thierry were me and she communicated my last thought via text message, then she’d have added the shrug emoji at the end.
Aloud, she wonders, “Back to Gloria?”
Via nothing more than eye contact, I confirm her assumption.
“What the Christ is a Gloria?” Poor Ernie.
Right now, I don’t have time to brief him; I’m busy (in my head) solidifying my bond with TNT. She trusts me because, instinctively, she identifies my thought process{es} based on my body’s actions. Our room/car lies barely over a mile from the casino where all hell just broke loose. They couldn’t know this and will should never expect that we’d (be “dumb enough” to) reverse our trajectory from the cardinal direction by which we were last seen in flight. Even if our vehicle is being tracked by a traitor, they could easily assume that we, uh, gave it to someone else?
Whatever, we need our stuff, and this doesn’t feel like much of a gamble. This ride will be abandoned by the time it is found.

Occasionally, one has to step back in order to take two steps forward.

“I fucked up royally,” Ernest laments. “You had him.”
“No,” Atlas corrects him, “besides obliterating two people, your actions were ideal.”
“Bullshit. As soon as he jumped on her, you had him dead to rights.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Huh??”
“She’s not expendable.”
“Sorry, what?” Already I can sense where he’s going with this. “No offense, human lady, but the life of Sevy Rex for yours would be more than a fair trade.” Yup, pretty much what I thought. And, hell, in the grand scheme of things, he’s probably not wrong. I assure my future new friend, “No offense taken.” In reality, my feelings are somewhat hurt. And I feel silly and stupid. But I tell myself that Ernest doesn’t know any better.
Atlas glances at me and, with his face/head, plainly refutes his lifelong comrade’s assertion.
That’s all I needed. I’m good now.
Ernest keeps yapping. “Wait, what all does she know?”
“Essentially everything.”
“Goodie.”
“More than you, honestly.” Ernest eyeballs Atlas sharply. Now his feelings might be hurt. Aren’t we just a bunch of titty-babies? Atlas detects the unease, offers sincerely, “No offense. I’ll explain.”
“I’m listening.”
“First things first.”
“Naturally.”

Two minutes elapse in a span that feels like ten seconds.

Atlas parks (off to the side) at a struggling resort/hotel. He begins, “We’re less than half a mile.”
“I see where this is going,” Ernest groans, already packing. He’s kind of a wiener, I’ve noticed. From the glove box, of a dozen or more cellular devices, he pockets an old flip-phone and a lighter, nothing more.
“Whatever we can carry,” Atlas adds. “Gotta move fast.”
Ernest doesn’t bat an eye, keeps inventorying/organizing his supplies.

At least tonight’s weather is dry and comfortable, eh?

Unbeknownst to anyone else, I summon a Lyft to the restaurant across the street. No intention of accepting the ride. I have reasons. (I’ll tip extra.)

Misdirection can save a life.
Always assume that your enemies know more than should be possible.
Better yet, avoid making enemies.

Less than two minutes later, I’m wearing a backpack that reminds me of seventh grade while clutching carry-on bags with each hand/arm. Gonna be a challenging workout.
Ernest sets a timer for seven minutes in his former ride, which now houses less than fifty percent of the supplies it once contained.
Both of my superhuman escorts strap rather enormous, identical hiking packs to their backs, one arm hauls a giant gym bag, another totes a sizably lengthy hard-shell carrying case, their other hands hold either end of Ernest’s toybox of weaponized wonders. Yup, our hands are absolutely full. This is all we can carry.
Away we walk from the vehicle en route to our room/Gloria.
The timer Ernest set, incidentally, is connected to a bomb. He declares, “Welp, I’ve officially gone rogue,” and remains noticeably salty.

Without salt, pepper wouldn’t taste so spicy.
(Probably.)

From across the street, cloaked in shadow behind a petrol station, each of us sporting unequal layers of sweat [Ern is sweatiest by far; I’m least], we survey our objective. Well, to be fair, Atlas seems to be doing the vast majority of the surveying. Looks safe to me, but what the hell do I know? But we should do this if we’re gonna do this. That’s what my instincts suggest, anyway, but I’m not exactly a highly trained/skilled operative like these two.
“Now or never,” Ernest points out, reinforcing my self-belief.
Atlas knows, instructs his pal, “Stay here with the loot. We’ll be back to scoop you.”
A halfhearted thumbs-up from Ernest, still ornery after a miscalculation that I don’t yet grasp.
As usual, Atlas leads and I follow.

Decisions, decisions.

Considering all the extra space Ernest and his supplies would occupy, we’ll have to manage our inventory wisely. Everything won’t fit. I think fast{er than usual}. Easily replaceable stuff like clothes (except for 3 outfits a piece), camping gear [including cookware], most of my books, consumer electronics, some luggage, a telescope, all get left behind. Even abandoning some shotguns, handguns, tomahawks, daggers and knives [none of my handcrafted items]. Keeping a silenced Triple Action Thunder, Ruger Super Redhawk, hundred-year-old double-bitted battle ax, two sawed-offs [one silenced], three daggers, four grenades, five tactical tomahawks, ten throwing knives, and anything that holds sentimental value.

When you know that you can get it back, if necessary, let it go.

Fifteen minutes later, having packed up Gloria and left room for three passengers as well as all the stuff we carried half a mile, we return to Ernest, who has been waiting impatiently. Atlas pops the trunk. Ernest immediately begins loading his gear.
“Stop,” Atlas instructs. Ernest stops, shoots him a look. “It’ll be faster if I just do it myself,” Atlas explains. “Already visualized.”
“Of course you did.” Ernest relights a half-smoked cigar.
Referring to the sizably lengthy hard-shell carrying case, Atlas inquires, “What’s in this?”
“A professional-grade keyboard,” Ernest informs him behind a cloud of smoke.
“And what makes this equipment essential?”
“I picked up piano a few years back. Keeps me more sane. No, less insane. I’m off meds, okay?”
“I’ll bet we can acquire a new keyboard.”
“Certainly, but this one’s irreplaceable. I’d rather ditch half my rifles.” Atlas doesn’t get it. Neither do I [not that I should]. Ernest goes on to say, “Look, trust my flare for the dramatic, okay? We need this particular keyboard.”
“So it’s more than a keyboard, then.”
“Yes, god, I hate you. Get off my thunder. Stop knowing everything. I’ll explain later. I’m busy being pissed right now.”
Atlas squints. “If we pack this keyboard, then you’re sitting in back.”
“That’s exactly where I insist upon sitting, dick-cheese.” (It’s not.) And, ha, in my book, Ernest is an entertaining name-caller.
“It better come in extra handy,” Atlas adds.
Ernest rolls his eyes. “Just wait.”
A few minutes later, Atlas has finished packing.
And indeed, we end up leaving behind 5 of Ernest’s old Sharps rifles, plus some of his clothing and a very nice air mattress. He had 10 rifles, by the way; he kept the oldest 1 and the 4 best. Merry early Christmas, somebody.

And we’re off.
Where we’re going, we know not.

On the road again, packed into Gloria like the fattest fuckin’ sardines. Ernest in back, cramped as hell, not happy, but not exactly mad either, just kinda being a whiny ham.
Atlas asks, “Got any particular coordinates in mind?”
“Waiting on Bosslady to respond.” (That would be his mother, by the way.)
“Then for now I’m headed northeast.”
“Why?”
“Instinct.”
“Why?”
“Physics.”
“Of course—what else!?”
Ernest is an absolute delight. Such a melodramatically grumpy wanker.
Out of left field, Atlas asks point-blank, “Did you use her as bait?”
And now I kinda shrink into myself.
Ernest doesn’t deny it; quite rather, he confirms: “Okay, not exactly, but kind of. Only because I deduced that you wouldn’t.” He shrugs, slightly ashamed, “Correctly, it seems, no?” Via a very noticeable adjustment by Atlas to find him in the rearview mirror, Ernest can feel his more youthful superior staring a nasty [“judgmental”?] hole through his soul. “Listen, I made calculations on the fly. You said she could run really fast.” [Awww.] “And her running form and speed didn’t disappoint; truly remarkable for a human girl.” [Loving this, actually.] The hole grows in size and intensity. “We needed a win.” The hole expands further. “I can only play the cards in my hand.” The hole gets holier. “Make no mistake, I would trade my life if it meant the death of Severus.”
With a matter-of-fact tone, Atlas states, “Then I hope you never get the opportunity.”
“You would,” Ernest blurts. Does he even know what he means by that? I rather doubt it.
Atlas is unfazed, moves on to his next line of inquiry: “When the rocket hit Lisbet in the face—”
“—Lisbet?”
“She named her.”
I can feel Ernest looking at me. “I like to name things,” I explain with a shrug. “Especially things that live.” Might even be kinda grinning. Oh, I am. Whoops? I lock it up. As I write this, I’m shrugging about my past grin. You know the shrug emoji, don’t you? I use it often (in text and IRL). Apparently I’m a shrugger.
Atlas genuinely wants to know: “Where were you aiming?”
Ernest can’t help but smirk. “At the spot where I anticipated her feet would be, approximately, by the time the rocket detonated on impact.” Atlas chuckles, prompting his old friend to joke seriously, “Thank god I missed.” They share a laugh.

The drive unfolds.
We don’t stop.

After a long spell of silence, Atlas asks, “Aphelion?”
Proud of himself, Ernest informs, “It’s safe.”
“Has it been test-driven?”
Ernest’s eyes widen. “Oh yeah, and it fucks shit up.”
“Composition?”
“All the elements you assumed—strong stuff that doesn’t rust—don’t remember the ratios; mostly tungsten and chromium; but the grips are made with traces of bamboo and spider silk. Found that interesting.”
“That’s because it’s interesting. Weight and length?”
“Almost 5 stone, and I don’t remember exactly—something like 168 centimetres.”
“Fascinating.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
“Tensile strength?”
“Listen, nerd, just wait ‘til you touch it.”
“That might never happen.”
“Eh, got myself a feeling. You’ll sling it around soon enough. Might even do some damage.”
For what it’s worth, I believe him.

The ability to see truly past a person’s front is really uncommon.

I’m worried about Thierry. She’s not herself. Quiet. Sadness in her eyes. But, I suppose all that makes sense given that we just fled from gory death again and there’s a new (and rather big) personality in the mix.
But I see her. And I think there’s more to it. More than what’s obvious. It’s as if I can feel her energy. Literally.
Am I risking her life by keeping her in the fray? Why would I do that? Is it because of my undeniable draw to her personage on a previously foreign emotional level? Now I seem terribly selfish to myself. I question my rationale. Though she might feel safer within my swiftly reachable orbit, would she, in fact, be safer stashed somewhere far away?
I do not know the correct answer.
But.
At any cost, I find myself driven to protect this woman, even if I have to pay for it with unfathomable hurt.

Mutual feelings can’t always be evident.

I’m sad.
Because who am I kidding?
I don’t belong by his side. I’m just a normal human. Below my hardened surface, I’m still quite broken, more so than I realized until right this second.
Perhaps I should push him away. Historically, I have been very good at that. Been known to abandon a precious gem (outta nowhere) in order to shack up with a lump of coal. Life’s easier when you numb yourself. Less likely to get feel hurt that way.
I carry a lot of old pain with which I’ve yet to deal.
Still, the mere thought of not being near with Atlas crushes my soul.
I don’t know what to do.
I just want him to be safe.
Perhaps I should get shitfaced and then decide. That sounds smart on all the levels.
Yup, definitely PMSing.
Plus I’m done with booze indefinitely. I mean it (this time).

4.5 hours since our departure from Biloxi, we enter a new city’s limits.
This time, it’s Birmingham, Alabama.
How are we back in the Heart of Dixie?
Somehow, it’s poetic.

Ah, here we are in another hotel parking lot. I’m ODing on repetition.
As far as provisions, we gather the bare minimum. Well, almost. I happen to end up carrying the “keyboard” case. I assumed correctly that Ernest would refuse to leave it in Gloria overnight; we’re kind of in a sketchy area. I notice him noticing, but he bites his tongue, doesn’t wanna draw more attention to the mystery, I presume. I wonder, “Are all professional-grade keyboards this heavy?”
Ernest shrugs [copycat]. “I don’t think we can team up to answer that because you’re a skinny human female. How many professional-grade keyboards have you toted in your life?”
My honest retort: “You may be able to find the answer in my last question.” (See, my answer to his question, in and of itself, implies that I’ve never carried a professional-grade keyboard before now, which I haven’t. [I don’t {often} lie.])
Ernest kinda gives me a sassy look. I wink. Half his face grins. Okay, cool, he enjoyed my smart-ass response. Now we’re getting somewhere.
But, sorry, dude, I’m taken (by either your “halfboy” or no one).

Yet another standard-issue hotel room.
By now, they’re all the same.

We’re getting situated.
I’m fresh outta the shower yet feeling rather rotten to the core.
Atlas and Ernest have been talking shop and catching up, no doubt. And they’ve been discussing something about which they don’t want me to know. Have I mentioned that I can read people?
I can read people.
It’s fine, though. Circumstances are strange.
Regarding this mysterious-as-all-hell keyboard, I can’t ignore my curiosity. I ask Ernest if he’ll play us a tune. He declines, claims that he’s not in the mood.
I wanna open the case. I contemplate whether to ask for permission.
“Where’s Halcyon?” Ernest asks.
For Atlas, that’s like jalapeño juice in a fresh paper cut. “I stuck it in Severus and he kept it.”
“Mind if I vomit on your behalf?”
“Feel free.”
Quietly, I open the case. No one notices. Yep, it’s a fancy keyboard. Or so it appears. Am I being an impish shit? Moreover, do I care? Ha, at the moment, I don’t.
Ernest questions, “What happened?”
“Space was cramped.” Atlas explains. “I tried to skewer the brain through its chin. It reacted in time. It’s quick.”
“That just absolutely sucks,” Ernest states frankly. Atlas agrees. Ernest then offers, “I’m working on the early stages of a plan to eliminate his variable from the equation.”
“Do tell.”
“Tomorrow.” Ernie taps his dome. “Marination required.”
Hmm, this is fishy. I can’t help but wonder (aloud), “Where’s the power cord?”
Ernest spins in his seat, notices that I’ve invaded his privacy, scoffs, “Lady, what are you doing?”
What can I do at this point? I simply shrug. Wut. Is. Uppppp.
“Fine,” Ernest says crabbily as he collects the keyboard. “Let’s do this now. Come with me.”
Atlas and I share a moment of like-minded eye contact.
Then we follow Ernest outside, around the building, across the parking lot, finally landing at a pair of dumpsters enclosed by a tall wooden fence. He pauses dramatically. We wait patiently. Then, inferably disappointed by our patience, via a powerslam onto the pavement, Ernest shatters the huge “keyboard”—a.k.a. the thing wherein the most legendary weapon in the history of the world, the halberd wielded by King Magnus Rex across hundreds of millennia, Aphelion, was hiding.
Dramatic indeed, Ern!
“I really can play the piano now,” Ernest boasts.
Almost in a trance, Atlas picks up Aphelion carefully, reverently, almost ceremoniously. It’s kinda like he’s a Jedi Padawan who just earned his first lightsaber.
Ernest interrogates, “Did you already know it was in there?” But before Atlas can respond, Ernie insists, “Don’t answer that. You didn’t know. Shut up. Have I mentioned that I hate you?”
“Yes,” Atlas answers, entranced by the shiny weapon he clutches grasps (entirely). “It’s heavy.”
“No shit.”
Atlas strides into open space, flips/twirls Aphelion around/about or something/whatever; I don’t even know what’s happening but he looks fancy and capable as fuck and I’m wet again [HUSH]. “The weight is perfectly balanced.” Mmhmm, I can tell.
“Again, no shit.” Ernest lights up a fresh cigar before adding, “The lab geeks at Bessi sort of refurbished it. Or whatever. Science.”
No matter what he’s doing, I could watch Atlas forever.

Your truest love will enrapture you merely by being.

The sleeping assignments assigned themselves. Ernest gets a bed all to himself, meaning obviously that Atlas and I share the other.
But we’re not touching.
I can’t escape my own brain. I feel the old me rearing her ugly head.
I dunno. I’m thinking about whether I should ask him about hiding me.
I don’t want to leave him, nor do I want him to leave me. Either outcome would prove comprehensively devastating.
However, sometimes people have to make impossible sacrifices, don’t they?
Should we split, he might come back and collect me later, right? When it’s safer?
Fuck. I know nothing.
Except I love him and, thus, I don’t want to be the reason he loses his singularly important life.
As for whether to stick around, this raging conflict within me makes either decision terribly, heartrendingly, gut-wrenchingly hard.
I’ll sleep on it.
I need diphenhydramine. I have a full bottle in my purse. I get up and pop three. No one asks what I’m doing. (Atlas already knows.)
I return to bed. Still not touching my soulmate. I can’t let myself. It’ll feel so good it hurts.
And it’s killing me.
And my feet are so fucking cold.
And I’ll bet he’d rub them if I were extra pregnant with our child.
Is “child” even the word?
Wait, I know this one. She’d be a “lumina.” Yeah. I’m right.
Not sure why I think our imaginary firstborn is female, let alone a darling girl whose name starts with M.
Not sure why I think I’m physically capable of carrying his seed to fruition.
Not sure why I’m thinking at all right now.
Not sure why any of this matters.
Ugh. Come on, sleep. Hurry up. Save me.

The more powerful the attraction, the more difficult the decisions.
And the more easily mistakes will be made.
Illegal U-turns simplify roadways.

Vaguely put, I feel odd.
Never have I experienced internal sensations such as these. My emotions continuously mix in response to her topsy-turvy wavelength.
I don’t have to be with her, clearly, as I lived nearly a hundred years without her.
But that was before I learned of her existence.
Hmm…
Merely by being, Thierry Nova Tuck casts an otherworldly gravity that imbues the type of energy which inspires me most, and it’s not even close. For a significant other, she’s far more than I could’ve ever imagined, and I’m rather absurdly adept at imagining. Also, still, technically, I have no concrete evidence that she even likes me in that particular way. Plus I don’t deserve her—not in my current state—because in terms of emotional maturity, I’m an infant. I can only strive to rectify that condition. Upon her heavenly, earthly body, I have dropped my anchor happily, confidently, intuitively. I can’t exactly take it back. Granted, I can roam physically with other bodies and, quite honestly, at this point, who knows, perhaps I shall—arguably, it would be wise to test-drive impregnation on another full-blooded human before exposing the woman of my dreams to such a potentially volatile wildcard [again, this is assuming that she wants/needs/loves me, of course]—but, in the other two realms of existence, I will never leave TNT. She accepts my flaws and turns them into assets. She merits more goodness than she’ll ever accept, I’m afraid.
I need her to tell me the answer to a question that I cannot formulate.
This is a conundrum!
Because, in my heart of hearts, I’m aware that I owe her all that I have to give, my life, a new world, our legacy.
If I am unable to deliver, then it will be because I died trying, which, alas, is a possibility all too increasingly real.

When it’s inevitable, by definition/golly, it’ll be.
Someday.

Even in the midst of all this unbelievable madness, there’s one thing I know for sure: we each embody mirrored halves of the same soul. Tonight, that’s enough to relax me enough to let this generic Benadryl knock my psycho ass out.
G’night, fam. Night, moon. Goodnight, ({my} whole) world.
May tomorrow be a better day.

V.

III.

Chapter II.

Aye, Too, I Level

And so, too, may you!
(Sound it out. Be brainy.)
Indeed, on/up we go.
Feel free to join.

Okay. So. I’m making progress. One baby step/giant leap at a time.
Two days ago, I was under the impression that I had fallen in love with an exceptional model of wholly human manhood.
However, way back then, I also thought humankind ruled the celestial rock which grants us both a place to live and room to breathe.
Wow. Wow. No. No.
How do you feel about summaries? I’ll do my best.
And bear with me, won’t you? This is for my benefit as much as {y}ours.
Here’s what I’ve learned (about the real world) during my time spent with Atlas on the road over the last couple days. Wait, have only two days passed? Perhaps three if not four. Or one? Five? Eh, doesn’t really matter at this point. (By the way, I’m driving Gloria and she’s amazing.)
Forgot what I was {going} on about. Oh, right…
The earth formed approximately 4.6 billion years ago.
Fun fact{s} we like to reference: 1 million seconds equals 11.5 days. How long is 1 billion seconds, might you wonder now that I’ve asked (with emphasis) on your behalf? Uh, try 31.7 years.
Million, days; billion, years. My eyes bug outta my skull every time I think about it.
Like right now. Buggin’.
To understate an obvious fact for no good reason other than to illustrate an obscure point, our planet has been around for quite a long while.
For the last million years or so (at least), Earth has spent approximately 75% of Her time in an Ice Age.
Life arose roughly 4 billion years ago. Around 3,000,750,000 years later, a certain species from the taxonomic family known as “great apes” figured out how to stand up on two feet and put their vocal cords and glutes to work and what have you. That’d be us, Homo sapiens. Took us a hot minute to show up, eh? Wrangling fire may have saved us from extinction and led to freakishly abrupt cerebral growth because—semi literally outta frickin’ nowhere—it allowed for the consumption of mammalian proteins without disagreeable bacteria ravaging picky innards.
So, yeah. Our most ancient peeps learned how to make nasty shite taste good enough to stomach.
Hang tight. That was a necessary evil. Thank god for problem-solving skills. I’m eternally grateful for ancestral sacrifice. We stand upon the shoulders of giants. By the grace of their failures, we have been awarded recipes for success. Why we can’t seem to apply these lessons could be a story for another book, but we’ve got bigger fish to fry, don’t we now?
Man, salmon sounds delicious at the moment. I’ve perfected a recipe that incorporates rosemary and ginger. It pops. I’m salivating.
In any event, after the discovery of agriculture 10,000 years back, people abandoned nomadic lifestyles in favor of settling near crops/water sources, and once writing developed almost 7,000 years after that, human civilization was off to the races. Written language permitted us to record, document, chronicle, look back and reflect—in other words, to pass down knowledge.
Expressed another way, human beings taught themselves how to learn.
Then, in the 1800s, the onset of the Industrial Revolution—followed most importantly by the invention of the lightbulb—shot us out like an unnatural, misguided rocket. Now here we are—overpopulated and understimulated, overworked and underpaid, and catastrophically imbalanced as a whole.
Hode up. Let’s backtrack.
There’s another noteworthy species along humankind’s branch—and much, much closer to the trunk—that (almost) nobody knows about. (Hey, you’re special.) This one’s way, way older and a bit more, shall we say, “reptilian” in nature.
Oh, by the way, this is fun—guess who else knew:

  • Henry David Thoreau
  • Vincent Van Gogh
  • Charles Darwin
  • Gregor Mendel
  • Theodore Roosevelt
  • Albert Einstein
  • Stephen Hawking

That’s what I heard, anyway. A few of those are just…duh. And, yes, more people did know; those are just the names that stuck stick with me. Atlas rattled off like thirty in as many seconds. One sec; forgot something.
“Atlas?” Mmm. I love saying his name, but I’m trying not to wear it out. Moderation, folks. A key to balance.
“Hi.” Mmm! Plus gimme yer babies right meow, boi.
I’m kidding. (I am but I’m not.) I play it so fucking cool [nope]: “Remind me when galacians became a thing.”
He’s suspicious of my wandering thoughts but acts like himself: “Speciation or civilization?”
Anddddd I’m wet. No, drenched. Soaked. No. Like I need to change. This is not okay.
(And yet it so is.)
LEAVE ME ALONE—I CAN’T HELP ANY OF THIS.
At least not in terms of physiologically hard-to-believe responses to the mere presence of another’s magnetic energy. The body isn’t smart enough to lie, kids.
Whatever. Back to playing it cool. “Speciation.” First time I’ve ever uttered that word aloud. Ayyyy. (Hi, I’m five.)
“Eight million years ago, give or take four. Ish.”
Yeah, so, he means four million, just to clarify. Was that confusing? No idea. Fossilized g/b remains have never been found; consequently, regarding certain facts (such as this), they [Atlas and the (assumedly) fine folks at the Global Department of Galacian/Belanoc Analysis/Investigation, a.k.a. “Bessi” {because it used to be called Belanoc Studies & Surveillance Institute}] have only been able to formulate highly educated guesses. What they do know, however, is that the current king, Magnus Rex, my boy’s grandpappy, has been in power for about 700,000 years. But, depending on when you read this sentence, he’s most likely the opposite of thawed while sawing logs. Galacians spend like 2% of their lives awake, scurrying about, prowling around, doing icy things and gross stuff. I dunno, details.
Did you know our evolving concept of redefining the way parentheses are used was born in my brain? Yup. Wut up.
Beggin’ yer pardon for singin’ me own praises, but I reckon I have to feel like I’m serving some kind of purpose here because of Jesus Fucking Squared over there.
Don’t get me started (unless you want I should go).
Trust me because I wouldn’t fuckin’ know: never bite off more than you have previously and reliably demonstrated a capacity to chew agreeably into digestible morsels.
Eek, I’ve forgotten the exact topic of our discussion.
This never won’t happen, by the way.
Emotionally speaking, I’m in flux, one might say. All over the place. Everything at once. Ahhh! He calls me a “lightning rod of emotional energy.”
DAFUQ DOES HE KNOW??
Ha, I’m just kidding. Duh. I’m going cross-eyed.
But.
Let’s get serious. Because this is serious.
Above a vast pit of swift doom, I’m hovering upon a cloud that rightly owns the number nine. Suddenly, as my whole life falls apart and into place, nothing makes sense—it actually does.
Nothing. In and of itself. As a concept. I get it. I’m getting it, rather.
Can’t help but wonder if you think I’m kidding, asshole.
I’m just kidding.
Except in regard to nothing making sense; definitely not joking about that.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Not right now.
Hey, interestingly, my old accent has started flaring up on occasion.
And I’m feeling an odd sense of self-confidence. Haven’t felt anything like it since I was 17 and had an entire childhood’s worth of dreams to go realize into magical fruition.
Life didn’t happen according to plan. Does it ever?
Damn, this car is fun to drive.
Seems like so much time has passed since I saw terrain like this. Flat, wide, open. In the Deep South, it’s just—how shall I put this—thick. Everywhere and from multiple angles. Life looks basic. People seem sleepy. And it’s no wonder. The area is densely saturated with anything you might automatically assume after three seconds of stereotypical consideration. Out here, westward, it’s the opposite. I can breathe.
Whoops, easily distracted. But you know me (by now [don’t you?])!
Anyhoo.
Oh, by the way, Atlas is an observant shitter who notices things about me that I’ve never noticed about myself. For instances:

  • When (90s) Mariah hits my ears and I can reach the volume controls, I’m turning that shit up. And he’s a fan of my lip-syncing [not to mention my “singing”] as well as my imitated diva-moves. Per his unmistakable fandom, I’m more and more prone to perform. (Notably, Whitney [R.I.P.] and Céline can also get me hype.) Apparently I’m coming out of my shell. Better late than never, no?
  • I have a signature pose when I’m standing still (and usually talking {about anything unimportant}). Dunno how to explain it really. My left leg just kinda drifts off and only my innermost toe [the biggest of the bunch] touches the surface. God, I’m probably doing it right now. AM I? Oh, I’m not standing. Hush up.
  • Often, I say things that a well-adjusted, normal person might take as a joke. In these cases, typically, for the sake of clarity, I’m compelled to add, “I’m not joking.” Example: once in a blue moon, for one reason or another, I have no choice but to point out that “I will destroy” someone. When I forecast this possibility, I do mean truly that I will shatter a person mentally/emotionally, but never unless the chore has been justified through continually poisonous behavior and I know that s/he [usually she] could be better off after getting slashed in half. I’m not joking. No, I’m not joking—I will destroy someone who could benefit from destruction, including (and especially) myself.
  • When I’m tipsy and in a good mood, I tend to twirl while prancing to and fro. A. Ray suspects that it’s only when I’m wearing (sun)dresses, which adds up because—not even tryna lie—I do like a soft, cozy dress with a cute pattern. I have used to have about 25 such garments. Currently: zero. Now I wanna go shopping, but that seems unreasonable under the circumstances. I’ll just look at clothes online later; might even add a few items to my cart in spite of no realistic plans to purchase anything ever again BECAUSE RIP, WORLD. I’m overreacting. Calm down. We’re okay.

So do you think he likes me?
SORRY. (I’m really not.)
As I was about to say before interrupting myself, galacian psyches are virtually exempt from emotional turbulence. Rather, they had been immune until the generation earmarked by Severus and Liana began exhibiting undesired traits in this regard. For the first time in a while {if ever}, The Empire of Galacia had to deal with the emergence of deviant behavior {as defined in the context of their time-honored societal standards}. So, uh, yeah—apparently they just started tossing the unruly sorts into underground prison freezers, essentially, until they could figure out what to do about the “issue.”
Ya see, galacians view emotions as little more than a weakness. Feelings sabotage rational thought processes. Duh. We all know that. But Atlas insists [okay, and when he insists, lemme just tell ya, believe him] this is one of the main (two) reasons—the other being sheer numbers—that we can win (Earth War One).
Humanity, 7.7 billion. Galacia, 600 million. The Belanoc, 70 million. All ish.
What an insane equation. [More on that in here somewhere. I can’t be arsed to keep up with specifics; I’m too darn busy living through every single solitary moment as it disappears in front of my lagging eyes.]
The separation of “b” from “g” is a long story that should be told on/at another page/time; as such, I’ll make it confusingly brief, probably: Severus ended up in the slammer then Liana ran away from home.
Wait, hang. I’ll ask:
“How long after your uncle went to jail did your mom decide to peace out?”
“Best guess,” he begins [and I already know his answer will be specific as hell], “approximately two hundred and forty-three years.” God, I’m smitten. This can’t be normal. I should be locked up. Break the key in the door.
Near the mid-fourteenth century, the most significant security breach in the history of (any) civilization (ever) occurred. Pretty much every last one of Galacia’s inmates escaped, but some were hunted down and slain soon thereafter. Still, all told, this youthful population of aberrant galacians, these emotionally unstable dickwads, about 35 million of them, evaded capture/death and fled into the lower-upper/upper-mid latitudes, all the while fanning out across the world. Since then, they have doubled their numbers, expanded south slowly, and become what we now know as The Belanoc, 3 outta 4 of which are female, by the way; otherwise, there would be many more of them! Not sure if that has been mentioned elsewhere yet. The males surely must be satisfied sexually. Oh, and belanoc don’t bother with hibernation. No, these hangry, sweaty devils are up and at ‘em until gravity sucks the light from their overtaxed bodies. (Average lifespan: ~700 years [highly dependent upon exposure to warmer climates].)
Atlas assures me that humanity can triumph in the struggle brewing on the horizon, the war for the planet, our fight for existence; and, whether you like it or not, you will play a role in this. But you and yours will more than likely die horribly lest we learn, as a whole, to elevate consciousness. In other words, unless we get wise enough to group up, hunker down, recognize our strengths, and outwit the physically/mentally superior species that would farm all of us solely for our outstanding caloric provisions, then, aye, indeed, I’m afraid that we’ll be{come} dead meat.
Heh, no pressure, eh?
Relax, we’ve got some time before the galacians trigger a 5-/10-year volcanic winter that envelopes the whole globe. I don’t blame you if you’re wondering whether I’m being metaphorical. But that’s another story. I’m sure it’ll come up soon enough.
Did that count as “foreshadowing”? I only ask because I don’t pretend to know; I’m not big on conventional narrative flows.
I appreciate what Jack Kerouac once said. “Fuck structure and grab your characters by the time balls.”
Pretty sure he said that. If he didn’t, then he should have.

No matter your place in space, the time has come—the music must be faced.

With the volume cranked to a degree that catalyzes her urge to belt it out, I dare anyone to watch/listen to Thierry sing SWV’s greatest hit while trying not to melt.
Accept my challenge.
In other words, get reduced.
Indeed, savor the presence of failure if only for its undeniable potential to be spun into future growth.
You’re not alone.
You are never alone.
There’s always somebody; otherwise, you wouldn’t still be here.
The need to reach out auto-justifies reaching.
Folks, connect to your people before it’s too late.
I’m laughing aloud for like the third time in 24 hours and the sixth time in the last decade.
Math can go fuck itself already. I’ll push.
I’m incorporating words like “like” in light of her influential force upon my innate nature.
TNT affects ARK.
There.
I’ve stated the obvious.
And in the third person, no less.
Not to mention with one of the most elementary verbs imaginable.
I feel ridiculous and, oddly, I’m okay with that.
I hope that you are happy.
Anyhow, now that we find ourselves relatively up to speed on historical happenings, then, onward we may march.
Presently riding shotgun—a distractingly foreign condition in and of itself [but I’m hangin’ in there without sweating too much]—I’m composing a coded message (on an obscure text-based fantasy role-playing website) to my long-lost comrade, Ernest Quinn. Almost finished. I’ll read it once more then implement minor tweaks before transmitting:

Lyten Guideway, the Wayward Warrior from the land of Weonise, finally encountered his sworn enemy, the dark drow prince, Stu Piddidiut, after a failed ambush at a local tavern spilled into the surrounding village, resulting in the tragic forfeiture of both his prized blade and, most crushingly, the element of surprise; however, courtesy of remarkably good fortune, he and the fair maiden narrowly escaped. Since then, the pair have been inseparably adrift, looking for allies, a certain vigilante in particular, the one and only Sergeant Nightshade. The jig is up. Cover has been blown. Fate: set in motion.

Making two important tweaks—changing “the fair maiden” to “his bunny lass” and “the element of surprise to “our long-anticipated stealth opener”—prior to posting.
Posting.
Posted.
I am exceedingly disappointed with/in myself. I could’ve eliminated Severus, but no, I attacked with a precision-gated upthrust instead of a wild-ass swing. I didn’t plan that; it just happened. Vaguely I recall the narrowness of the hallway factoring in to my tactics. In retrospect, it wouldn’t have mattered—a wild-ass swing would have landed, and then I could’ve critically wounded him it, stabbed its disgusting forehead, and followed up with a swift and clean decapitation.
Sorry if I blew it, humanity.
No telling what it’s doing now.
Let’s think.
I would assume that the epic, breaking news spreads like wildfire among high-ranking belanockian officials while bleeding into the general population, and that Thierry and I are being hunted, triangulated, sought aggressively using every resource available—all the while trying (probably) to keep me off the Galacian radar for as long as possible; TEoG undoubtedly has spies embedded within The Belanoc, and vice versa. Furthermore, I must assume that Bessi has been infiltrated as well.
In other words, intelligence is being shared behind closed doors, and it’s impossible to keep track.
This is all so very slimy.
And we find ourselves in a bit of a pit facing an uphill battle against a slippery slope.
Oh my holy mother of hell, I’m suddenly horrified. The correct spelling is “bonnie (lass).” Cringing. Can’t deal. Editing. Sweating.
Edited. (I survived.)
I blame Thierry. She likes the bunny emoji.
Blaming her amuses me. Don’t tell.
I should try to sleep for five hours twice tonight because I’m neither sharp nor fresh and, starting tomorrow then the next day plus the day after that, I have to be both.
I’m at a loss, it seems. Despite knowing what to do, I’m not sure how to go about getting it done. I need would very much like for EQ2 to respond a minute ago.
Where the hell are we?
Ah, 86 miles from Amarillo, Texas. Should’ve known.
Our destination, incidentally {and unbeknownst to Thierry}, is the Grand Canyon. It’s #1 on her current bucket list.
Humans like to be pleasantly surprised, right? Not sure if this means that I’m on a mission to “woo” her.
Several years ago, on the fateful road trip that led her to where she is now [and me/them to her, ultimately], she was unable to convince her lone traveling companion to flex toward visiting a once-in-a-lifetime natural wonder a whopping 108 miles (roundtrip) off their plotted course. Unacceptable.
People can be breathtakingly stupid, too.
Thierry, on the other hand, takes my breath away every day.
Easy conclusion: she will see the site; I’m taking her.
And via her sparkling eyes—predicting the future here; feeling confident—I’ll see it again for the first time.
For/In completely different reasons/ways, the sight in question glows majestically both during the day and amidst the wee hours of morning. If you haven’t already, then you should go check it out before it’s too late. During the day, look down. Marvel away. At night, look up. The experience can be described as nothing more accurately than spiritual.
Ah, here we go: a response to my post—has to be Ernest:

The Midnight Rider, Lieutenant Dingleshank, responded seriously in coded jest to the distress signal with the word choice that follows hence:
“Greetings. I’ve ridden into town on a low mule and I’m strapped. Catch my drift? Are you leaking? No matter the hole, I’ll find a way to plug that puppy. Barking is optional. Ruff. When I’m done massaging that sucker, it’ll be as watertight as a frog’s butt, so make me some pudding and I’ll sample it. Chocolate or vanilla. Don’t care as long as it’s thick and gooey. Please respond swiftly, for I don’t have much time. The Nether-Aether Goblin-Lord’s fourth cousin, Calvin Jenkins, stalks me across procedurally generated plains.”
Lt. D. rode into a stormy landscape, ripe for the picking, there for the taking, eyeing a vacation but primed for a baking, a chime in the making, climbing the forsaken, rhyming incantations, sliming with duration.

Firstly, WTAF? [An acronym I picked up from TNT meaning {in case it can’t be decoded on the spot} “what {in} the actual fuck.”
Secondly, at a glance, I don’t know whether the mysterious lieutenant meant “planes” because either spelling of the homonym makes sense, arguably. I’m perplexed! I’m also curious (from an academic perspective) about the author. Which is annoying. Ergo, I’m doubly annoyed.
Turns out, we don’t have time for shenanigans.
Thirdly—and most obviously, I’m quite sure—I stand corrected. It does not have to be Ernest. Because, decidedly, it isn’t.
I glance over at Thierry. She feels my eyes, meets them with hers, smiles. I try not to smile—no idea why—but my facial muscles have other ideas. Fine. I’m losing control; how wonderfully discombobulating. For no apparent reason, we laugh at the same untold joke. Who’s the invisible comedian? Good guess. I’m just over here hearing voices unheard. Nobody utters a word. A state of disorientation assails my overall perception. Should I choke myself out?? Hmm, I wonder if that’s even possible. (Recommendation: do not attempt.) I hate to say this, but, “The struggle is real.” I didn’t utter that phrase aloud; I merely thought it loudly. It’s such a meme, you know?
If it’s not too much to ask, would you please end my suffering since I’m not worthy of my body?
Thankfully, she goes back to driving, i.e. listening to music. It’s one of her favorite things to do, evidently. Ride and jam. She’s happy, and I’m glad.
When she’s content, I relax.
Currently soaring across our shared airwaves: recordings by a redheaded Englishman whose powerfully sincere vocals do not match his face. Indeed, an anomaly. On that basis alone, I’m a fan. Plus, I appreciate his talented, creative output.
And I’d ride with this girl anywhere, anytime.
(Especially in a vehicle that doesn’t burn fossil fuel.)

When the trip itself provides the reason for embarking, gas cannot be wasted.

Ah, neat, another response to my post—let’s hope it’s Ernie:

Sgt. Nightshade faints from disbelief, shits a hard brick, regains consciousness, gathers wits, questions sanity, scrambles headfirst into a concrete wall, bleeds profusely, guffaws, recalls reason for fainting, re-faints extra, shits a softer brick, hates it, wakes up again, orders a cheap blender, longs for a mercifully swift death, craves creamy milk, judo-chops own face, embraces delirium, shits half a brick in liquid form, loves it, goes to hell, somehow stays woke, dry-heaves forever, wonders silently or aloud [who gives a shit which], “WWJRED?”

Ahh, sweet relief.
My lofty wish has been granted (namely in the form of a female human being presently incapable of recognizing her own beauty).
Naturally.
But I know how to lead her (to safety).
Oh. Yes. I know where to go. Did you doubt that? Fuck off all over again. (Please stay.)
Back in the day at Bessi, the troops kept up with carefully selected television shows as a way of maintaining a finger (or two) on the pulse of popular culture. One of the last such examples that we watched together (before the earth-shattering incident {in London} that precipitated my self-imposed exile) is entitled Dallas, a main character of which was called JR Ewing. “WWJRED?” What would JR Ewing do? Well, Ernest, my dear {and} oldest friend, I suppose he’d go to Dallas. Pretty simple. So that’s what we’ll do, too.
From where we are now [McLean, TX], Dallas lies 321 miles southeast.
In contrast, the Grand Canyon looms 857 miles to the northwest.
For me, this decision requires the bare minimum in terms of brainpower.
The ability to prioritize anything in order of importance exemplifies a useful skill that too many humans seem to lack.
With that in mind, we will not deviate from our course—in other words, we’re about 13 hours from the Canyon, and that’s where we’re headed.
Hi. I really can see the future. “Sorry”?
I’ll take the graveyard shift behind Gloria’s wheel. Thierry should fall asleep before we turn right and head north toward the surprise. She’ll awaken moments after {or as} we arrive. I have a feeling that stopping the car will rouse her from slumber. The luminous glory of our Milky Way will blindside her senses. She’ll stargaze in unexpected wonderment. We’ll most likely camp there comfortably; shockingly enough, I packed top-notch supplies.
It’ll be an evening to remember.
Not like that. My intentions are pure.
Anyway, that’s my hopeful plan.
Listen, I don’t know jack about courtship, all right? You all invented it. I’m doing my best not to drown in a surging wake of lost time.
Just like everyone else, I suppose.
And now back to my futurecast.
After sunrise, Thierry and I will begin the thousand-plus mile journey to Dallas. Off the top of my messy head, we’ll break this leg into top-heavy, unequal portions, probably hunkering down in Lubbock on the first night.
Ernest won’t understand the delay at first. He’ll think I’ve lost my marbles. He’ll worry. (He’s a worrier.)
But then he’ll see me with Thierry. Soon after, he’ll get it.
She is (my) everything.
Hmm, I wonder if/when I should tell her about that.
Anyway, I should respond to Ernest’s original, pressing question. Phrase it however you like; make it fit your narrative—hell, pit it against the obvious. At this point, I’ll just be blunt because I know not what else to do:

Designate rendezvous point, allow exactly 46 hours, trust me.

I’m just…watching him. I’ve never seen him like this. He doesn’t even realize what I’m seeing.
Holy shite.
In a weird way, he actually does need me.
HOLY.
My “savior” needs me??
Well okay den.
I like this place anyway. Might even spruce it up a tad. Hmph.
Oh, he’s already excited about whatever he’s about to read:

Coordinates incoming in EXACTLY 45 hours. WTF, halfie.

He laughs to the point of wheezing, catches himself, looks at me as if his feelings might not be seen as okay. My eyes become friendly daggers as I set his fine ass straight right then and there.
He surrenders.
God.
I have to be strong.
Because this fucking literal superhero needs me to keep him in line. No big deal.
I can do this.
Less than a minute later, another message comes through:

Just call me ASAP. Mother of Pearl. Area code your bday in local format, 486, last four Connie’s SUPPOSED bday. FECKKKKKKK.

His “code” is a bit too obvious for my comfort level [even knowing that the phone number will be nullified straightaway post-conversation]; nevertheless, very well—I will call ASAP {whatever that means}.
I’m already strangely nervous.

If being apart from someone doesn’t hurt, then perhaps keep your distance.
Time can necessitate its own passing while in isolation from loved ones.
When a missed connection is real, separation only solidifies the bond.
Know what/who you need by feeling the truth inside yourself.

===

Passing through Albuquerque, New Mexico, Thierry spies a location once visited by her past echo. “Aw, I stayed there with Riley.” Her lower lip shifts into a condition of prominent expression; as you may be well aware, the tale involving Riley evokes a somber memory.
My eyes find the location in question. An inn. Wait.
I recognize that place. I’ve crashed there.
My heart invades my throat.
To confirm what I already know, I stutter, “That place? Right there? That one exactly? With the sign?” Already I hate myself for the offensive disaster my mouth just spewed.
And, appropriately, she gives me a funny look—I’m (almost) never so needlessly verbose. Sensing my inner tumult, she just nods.
Please indulge my clarification, if you will. When Thierry Nova “just nods,” it’s never just a nod—it’s much, much more. It’s a precisely apropos, perfectly timed response. It epitomizes economical communication. It’s a layered gesture. With just a nod—in tandem with her unparalleled, expressive eyes [duh]—she always tells me (more than) everything I need to know.
I follow up my most recent verbal catastrophe: “When did you lodge there again? Specifically. Have dates?” Did I just have a stroke? Did my voice just crack? Surely the fuck not. No, yeah, I think it did. That hasn’t happened since I front-flipped gracelessly into puberty around age 33. (I’ve always been a late bloomer.)
After a moment of thought, she answers, “Twenty-twelve. May.”
That’s what I thought. Destiny seems to be either showboating or mocking my ignorance. I’m racking my brain.
Also why isn’t she freaking out? I guess she can’t read every thought that stumbles through my head. Her eyes are open, inquisitive, curious, and it’s almost as if she’s smiling brightly despite next-to-nil lip-/cheek-flexing.
Intrusive thought: she’s a terrorist.
Welcome reinforcement: I love her.
Like a goddamned angel, she emits, “Atlas?”
Okay—fucking fresh bloody hell—when she says my name, is she doing what she does on purpose!? Whatever. She’s a goddess; I’m her servant. I don’t care anymore. (I care.) I think I’m experiencing acid reflux. Where’s the nearest apothecary? My body never requires drugs, but I could use a hefty dose of something that tranquilizes anything. Somehow, I manage to muster, “Perchance, do you have any pictures that were taken during your stay?”
She squints. Why is she {pretending to be} so relaxed? Maybe she is relaxed. Maybe she’s not sane. Maybe I’m the insane one. Maybe I can’t think/talk. Maybe shut up just a little bit. Not you. Me. Well, you, too, quite honestly, but only if you’re giving me shit while I’m at my weakest.
Finally [but really after no more than three seconds], she states, “I think so; lemme check my old email.”
I don’t even remember what I asked.
She accesses her cellular device while operating our automobile, and I’m not even twitching. Time becomes a lazy sloth.
An unsuccessful initial search elicits her request: “Hang on, don’t leave.”
Um. Definitely won’t (ever).
Either fifteen more seconds or seventy million hours elapse; I have no friggin’ clue.
At last, she holds up her left index finger, signifying a pertinent discovery, then informs, “Found a pic; I think this is the only one, honestly; it was taken by a stranger in the parking lot before we left.” She hands me her phone and continues, “He was a character. Tried to hire us to work on a website he was launching. Assured us that we’d make a hundred million dollars within a year. Very convincing, lemme tell ya. What was his name? Italian bloke. Papa something. That sounds ridiculous. Actually—”
“—Thierry.” I had to interrupt her.

When you’re on the right track, the natural flow of the cosmos will highlight your path forward.
Just start with one foot.
Put it in front of the other.
Proceed accordingly.

Okay, what am I missing? He doesn’t usually interrupt me—in fact, this truly might be the first occasion—and his face is ghost-white. That’s new.
Yeah, this is not normal.
Now my heart races.
He returns the phone to me, takes a moment, then identifies, “The dark green SUV in the background.” I see it. “See it?” I nod.
Atlas Knight stares blankly into space. I’ve never seen him caught off guard like this.
My eyes/thoughts wander as my brain loses itself in a meteoric hurricane of chaotic focus.
Hmm…
Oh.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
Shit.
No.
No way.
No.
Also duh!
My eyes meet his. I think I know why he’s spooked. His gaze can’t fib. Okay, yup, I do know; I knew I did. Pretty damned obvious. He senses it, nods. I definitely know. I think I’m about to die.
And, well, by his standards, he’s not in the best shape of his life, either. Yup, this is a first. All around. I’ve never seen his mouth hanging even slightly agape, whether involuntarily or jokingly. Also, quietly, his eyes scream, “WTF!”
Hi. So. Maybe this won’t kill me. But I think I’m having a heart attack. Or did my lungs just collapse? Both? Not sure. Either way, what {in} the actual fuck, universe!?
WE STAYED IN THE SAME HOTEL ON THE SAME NIGHT IN 2012.
(The present year, 2019, has entered its final quarter, by the way.)
W.

T.

F.

For a lifeform who understands everything, suddenly, as if for the first time all over again, I know nothing.
I know her very well.
I could have crossed Thierry’s path several years ago. But I didn’t. Why? I’m questioning every second of my life. Recently intaken calories might race up my esophagus within thirty minutes—a highly inconvenient realization—nevertheless, I must prioritize.
I’m not even hungry, but I know that I need energy.
At least she sleeps. She must be exhausted. Long day of singing and dancing.
I wonder about the time of day.
Who cares—night has fallen.

Tonight, the weather promises to behave.

Closing in on our approximate parking spot at a southern edge of the Grand Canyon, I could be no more awake.

Oh, yes, by the grace of this night, stars will align.
A harmonic frequency will be achieved.
Heartbeats will sync in unison.

I realize that I’ve been asleep as my eyelids flicker open.
Rapidly, I grasp my place in space and time. I see stars. (Meanings.) Oh—wait—all of the stars. No, more than that: ALL OF THE STARS. Holy. I know where I am. I’m surprised; also I’m not, because he’s who he is, duh, whatever, give me a break—right then, on this very spot, I weep.
Yeah, I didn’t ramp up with a measly few tears—nah, when I saw what I saw, I wept. Just…let it happen. Gave in to the kind of weight that can’t be ignored. It was the right decision.
My imagination runs wild. Never have I ever witnessed a sight more fucking beautiful. I can’t think of a better way to put it, and it’s still nowhere near good enough. Not a single cloud obstructs my panoramic view. The entire dome above me sings thanks to a sparkling concert of radiant starlight. I’ve been imagining this moment for years, and it has exceeded every expectation.
There you are, galaxy. Hi. I love you.
And {OMG} I will love him forever. He could vanish without a trace and never speak to me again and the sentiment I just expressed would remain no less true. I could spontaneously combust—it’s still real. No, I’m not joking.
“Thierry,” Atlas says softly, “you should know something.”
Cool. Just kill me now {but do me first}.
Gulp. I look at him. In this moment, I can’t use words. He recognizes my condition, my handicap, my frailty.
“You’re right.”
About what?? I asked him with my face, I’m sure. I’m a tearful puddle of vulnerability. Can’t talk.
“About everything,” he elaborates. “Energy, emotion. The soul. The space between. Light, consciousness. All of it.”

The night goes silent.

My entire life flashes before my eyes.
Time itself comes to a screeching halt.
I’m frozen. I’m also liquefied. I’m also overheating. My thoughts explode in slow motion.
“You felt the truth,” he caringly adds, expanding upon his previous point before ramming it home: “You’re right, Thierry.” His sincerity levels me. “You’ve been right all along.”
Okay, so, previously, I was weeping. Now I’m sobbing uncontrollably. But these tears are filled only with joy, goodness, and thankfulness. This is the best night of my life. Finally. To know beyond any shadow of a doubt that I am not crazy. Oh, my god. The sense of relief washing over me is indescribable. (Unless you count the last sentence.)
For what feels like an eternity, I have been waiting for this moment.
This one.
Right now.
It’s happening.
My existence has been validated.
I love his soul. Mine. (Must this mean I love myself?) He’s my person. Why can’t I be with him?? Wait, can I? I don’t know! What good is any reality that cock-blocks a girl from her twin flame!?
My legs are done; I plop down on my ass. I’m beyond grateful. Who do I owe? My karmic checkbook is safely in the black and I’m ready to dispense repayment—bill me. And I can’t stop crying. I’m sad. But I’m so happy. I have no words.

Sometimes, words aren’t good enough.
Sometimes, emotions run deeper than any description.
Sometimes, an experience can only be felt.

Hmm, yeah, this sentient organism’s an absolute mess. What should I do?
To reiterate, I wasn’t trained for this.
But I suppose that no one could be prepped for the impossible.
To say admit the least, I’m stressed.
But I was trained for stress; therefore, the immense pressure I detect presently must be unreal.
Nope, this is all in my head.
Eh, I think I’m fucked.
Hell, I’m just guessing at this point. Survival mode kicked in while I was still on vacation.
Let’s focus on what I know. That’s a good place to start.
At the moment, it’s all I’ve got.
Ah, her. I know her. Indeed, she’s familiar.
And, although presently she radiates an emotional upsurge that would make an active caldera blush, she does not scare me.
Naw.
To her lifeforce, amidst all this uncertainty and in the face of grave peril, I am attracted.
I surrender to natural instinct.
I kneel, joining MAD/TNT{/whoever she wants to be} on the dusty ground, at which point I put my arm around her—awkwardly, I must assume.
She falls into me as her outpouring intensifies. I think she’s happy, though.
I hold her. Both arms.
Ah, she seems to like that.
Tighter, then.
Yes. Seemingly, I’m doing it right.
We say nothing.
In essence, we live in the moment.
Together.
One.
This could last forever.

Sometimes, you simply must need a break.
For taking time to reflect.
And then process.

Dawn has come and gone.
Thierry and I enjoyed our early-morning, sunbathed glimpse of the Grand Canyon almost as much as we cherished the starlit view afforded by our serendipitously shared perspective the night before.
Now we’re on the road again, headed toward Dallas, less than a hundred miles into the journey.
TNT really wanted to drive (again); therefore, she’s driving.
Genuinely, I like when she deejays because, from her eclectic song selection, I can further decipher her enigmatic splendor. She connects with particular rhythms, but only when the accompanying lyrics resonate—there’s a pattern here—typically beyond her comprehension upon the initial discovery of a particular tune. And no track she plays damages my drums, so that’s a plus.
In other words, we get along famously.
At this point, using a phone I’ll destroy less than a second after the forthcoming hypothetical exchange ends, I think I’m about to dial the number “hidden” yesterday by Ernest in boring code.
Damn it—I just fell asleep for at least two seconds.
I’m weirdly nervous, and I don’t quite understand why.
This conversation should be exceedingly brief.
Fuggit—pressing send.
After five rings, right when I’m less than a second from ending the call, Ernest answers with an overly dramatic sigh. Right on cue, he is himself: vintage, grumpy, calming. Perfection. Holy hell, I have missed this miserable bag of ass. I must be grinning like a giddy schoolgirl. I’m not about to cry. No. Not even close. I start babbling like the coolest talking cucumber that ever got its climate controlled: “I’ll explain everything in person. It’s a lot.”
I could die laughing at my criminally inadequate summary, but we don’t have time for that.
“You think I don’t know that?” Ernest quips. Since last I heard his voice, it has changed, deepened, but I recognize him. “On a scale of one to ten, how numb are your nuts?”
“Eight. No, three.”
“Gah, I still hate you.”
I can feel his energy through the phone. Nobody’s laughing now, but we each sense the strong chance of hysterics in the immediate forecast.
I smile because I know exactly what he meant when he reminded me of his undying “hate”: he loves me more than ever.
Ha, he’s such a glorious piece of shit!
Look at me—I’m energized or something! (Two straight exclamations, let alone three consecutive, denotes a highly unusual pattern of punctuation in my case!)
Roughly 15,000 days absolutely devoid of vocal communication, and we haven’t missed a beat.
Interpersonal relationships can be weird.
“So much to unpack,” I state vaguely. “Mind is blown—”
“—try mine on for size—”
“—but I still believe that we can win. I know we can. I have some ideas.”
“You? Ideas? Golly, I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
I must’ve cackled. Probably even threw my head back. (Oops; dangerous.) Can’t help any of that right now.
Meanwhile, Thierry, listening intently, can’t help but smile.
And that’s all she’s doing.
When she approves, breathing gets easier.
Too, her knowing gaze never falls anything short of hypnotic.
For a second that feels like a lifetime, we communicate with our eyes. Could we be more on the same page? Often, I think not, and then it happens.
A new page.
More of the same.
Only this time, it’s extra bold. More colorful.
Our foundation ever-strengthens.
I tend to lose track of time when I stop trying to keep it.
Ernest snaps me out of my love-trance by issuing another intentionally exaggerated sigh, but this go-round, a hint of laughter betrays his charade by bleeding through at the end.
Blood be damned—he’s more than a brother to me.
Time to wrap it up. “Provide a safe number or email address.”
He obliges my request for new contact information. Courtesy of my hyper-photographic memory, I store it securely before adding, “Be in touch soon.”
“Yep. Can’t wait.”
Ha, what a bastard. I can feel his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Such a delightful shithead. Still, I know that he’s grinning from one ear to the other. I end the call.

When it comes to words, invariably, the deepest meaning{s} must be derived from the vast space (of infinite potential) that may occur exclusively between the lines.

Well then.
On the edge of my seat, I just listened to Atlas utter, what, 42 words without caving in to my profound desire to interrupt him {but only lovingly}?
The sum of which made my heart happier than I can express in print!
Yeah, hode up (again). Don’t get me wrong, okay? He leads; I follow. Rinse and repeat for all eternity. Done. He’s all details; I’m a sideways shitshow. He organizes the chaos in my head without even trying.
But.
Sometimes he’s like a child. He needs guidance. That’s where I come in. I can’t explain this right now. It’s too much. (I’m “only” human.) I’m still sorting it out myself. Maybe later?
But try to imagine being him, the only known specimen of his kind, a mind-boggling prototype, a world-changing unicorn, a ghost, a half-man (who is all man, bee tee dubs {but shush}), a myth, a legend, separated for over four decades from his consistent family (of almost sixty years), finally taking the first step toward a long-awaited reunion. Dunno about you, but I’d be ugly-crying; he’s just kinda smirking while reminiscing silently.
I already know what’s about to come outta my mouth and you’ll have to excuse me for gettin’ excited in advance: “Atlas?”
“Just keep going straight.”
Perfect. Easy. No problem. I gotchu, boo. Hell, I’ll even accelerate.
Foot, meet pedal.
I don’t have to know where we’re going. As I stated gladly, I follow his lead. Not even a decision. Comes naturally. I said that, right?
By now, I have learned that he will tell me what(ever) I should know at the appropriate time—always just before I can apply the knowledge at some brilliant fundamental level that he saw coming well in advance. I’m getting used to it. Kinda like it. It’s a cozy spot.
See, Atlas has a penchant for comin’ in hot {AF} in the nick of time; his timing falls nothing short of lifesaving.

Heartfelt reunions symbolize one of many possibilities that make life worth living.

I mean…
Fuck it.
Have I made it clear yet?
I’m his. Always have been. He’s my sun and moon. This, I know.
Tomorrow I’ll know it more, which is just another level I can’t handle right now.
Tomorrow, my knowledge will reinforce itself in ways that I can’t foresee. That’s fine. I submit myself to cosmically undeniable flow. With an open heart—and through an enlightened mind—I trust the universe. Mother Nature knows me better than I know myself.
And he knows Her better than anyone.

All life needs reasons but one reason to trudge ahead.
Especially when facing seemingly insurmountable odds.
If you can imagine it, then, one way or another, it is possible.
Stick around and you will get lucky.
That’s physics.

I’m an old soul marching to the beat of a young heart.
Of much, I have eclipsed the point of certainty and left it rightly in my dust.
Of the following sentiment, I could be no more sure:
I belong with/to her.
Now.
Today.
More than yesterday.
More than ever.
I don’t know what else to say except for probably that I do.
Perhaps I’m saying all that needs to be said.
Conversely, maybe I’m tying my own, frayed knot.
How will any of us ever know?
Wild-as-fuck, hellbent, rosy rainbow though I may be—one thing I know for sure from a weatherbeaten shipdeck braving the relentless assault of an incomprehensible storm [pfft, nice try]—without her beautifully imperfect essence, the heavenly echo calling out to me from across the (a)eons, the constant source of my gravity—THE LITERAL REASON FOR MY BEING—I could not exist.

Cheers.
Here’s to nature.
Stripped down.
That’s who we are.

Now explain to me why (all of a sudden) I feel the presence of our unborn (first) child daughter.
I know, right?
Given how numbers always unfold, everyone has but one single soul to/with whom they may (re)connect most deeply.
Unsolicited advice: keep your eyes peeled and your heart open.
When the time comes, be ready to move.
Anyway, as I may {not} have been hinting, freely, I bow to milady’s magnificence, for only she may tempt my our fate.
For her, I {re}charge.
For our future.
For us.

Hmm…

Next time you threaten to convince yourself that something is impossible, do yourself (and all of us) a favor by remembering that it’s not.
I mean, you thought of it, right?
Yeah, call your own damn bluff.

Okay?
Envision the life you want need.
Excellent work.
Sounds good.
Now make it happen!
After all, you are the only one who can.

IV.