Tagstory

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.

I.

Prologue

One (K)night’s Loss

Fuck off.
No, wait, stay!
Yup, there it is.
A tone has been set.
Lube down before buckling up.
Just as you’ve been doing for the whole of your miserably happy/happily miserable life, mix and match if/when it suits you. [Example: lube up before buckling down.] It’s all leading to the same destination anyway.
Mostly, all of this was written long before today, by the way; thus, should you find yourself overheating between the ears and/or leaping/subscribing to self-indulgent/-fulfilling conclusions/prophecies, you importantly adventurous and intelligently flexible reader you, maybe go ahead and chill out—don’t allow the present tense to fool ya.
Don’t let yourself get stuck in the past, either.

Tension builds as pressure mounts.

Feel it?
You don’t wanna miss this.
Doubt you know what I mean by that.
Make no assumption other than that you truly might know nothing.
Doubt you know what I mean by that, too.
I know “nothing” all too well.

Look, try to keep up.
Follow along.
Anyway…

Hi!
I hate everyone, but I love you already; so, having processed your sudden collection of a clarified perspective—if you’ll allow my bold presumption this early on in the narrative flow that has been brewing evidently since around the beginning of last August [2019]; give or take somewhere between twenty-four years and our entire cosmic calendar—reconsider the first sentence, the subject of which is “(You)” {whatever that/this means}.
Just don’t go anywhere.

We’re sure this can{not} be deciphered.
The both of us are grammatically minded sticklers.

In case it’s not (already) obvious, yes, you’re reading more than one author/voice—each coming from utterly unique (yet uncannily like-minded) viewpoints—as well as a cooperatively combined wavelength running straight down the pipe.

(Where else?)

One reason being: accuracy holds immense value.
Written language must be elevated, and somebody’s gotta do it.
I’m striving to become more human. She’s helping me.
Have you figured out how this works yet?

Hang in there.
This is where we meet.
We (all) learn from one another.
English has arisen as the key to understanding.
Of every language that ever communicated, English is the one.

Suck a dick, French.
Trust me. Better yet, trust her.
I was born on the second of July in the year 1920, and theoretically I’ve only experienced about 33% of my (body’s) potential lifespan.
This is the part where I tell my future self happy birthday from the past.
Assuming I live through tonight.
And the next night.
Plus the day after.
See how similar we are?

The universe exhibits a snaking flow by which we each ought to abide lest we die prematurely.
Full stop.

In devout observation of this universal truth, never shall we leap from one side to the other without first making a pitstop in the middle. At least, not in this “book.” No, the pattern will hold.
(In case you missed it, you’re near the beginning of chapter one.)

Truly!

(Probably.)

Our voice{s} seem to be (e)merging.
Consider yourself invited to get lost as hell.
Upon the entries following herefrom, traditional indentation does not fit.

That’s why you’ll find it absent in that regard.

In the sequel(s), who knows(!)?
Are we redefining the concept of novelization?

Don’t look at me.

It’s all up to you.

Also, topics will be subject to change, seemingly at random, but nothing is exactly what it seems, is it now?

Only recently have we truly learned that.

Every/any story has two opposing sides. That’s why magnets work. That’s how scales function. And then there’s the third point of view, the space in the spectrum where tales converge, overlap, tighten and twist, also known as the truth.

Once upon a blip, our story begins, and you might (not).

Believe.

This.

Shit.

Until you do, that is.
It’s high time to be/get real.

Of course I’ll start. Ello again!
Let’s break some frozen water, shall we?
Unless I think exposing my bare feet would risk frostbite or make someone noticeably uncomfortable, I’m wearing neither shoes nor socks. Hell nah. Blech! So unnatural and restrictive and fever-inducing, frankly.
Vaguely put, I grew up out of doors. As one of many results, I can walk across jagged gravel without the slightest hint of a wince.
Your piggies need to breathe, my lovelies.
Don’t sacrifice your health in the name of fashion.
Get your soles dirty; purify your souls. (Aren’t semicolons stupid-useful?)
And a foot can be gross; yet, on occasion, it’s hard to look away from a particular set of tootsies for a widely varying multitude of reasons. My feet, for example {kinda}, are hardly symmetrical.

Always use your imagination.
Even when it hurts, embrace the pain in recognition of future growth.

Okay, okay, okay. Fine. Let’s go back and get all “specific.”
As has become my recent custom, I’m boozing on the job.
Yeah, yeah, put a sock in it. Crazy shite happens momentarily and sobers me right the fuck up for good. I’m sorted now. Ethanol is as poisonous as artificial sugar. I don’t even drink coffee anymore. But on the day in question I started imbibing while neck-deep in the lunch rush after a tubby middle-aged jack-knocker berated me for requesting a phone number in conjunction with his in-person placement of a takeaway order.
Back then, I was always looking for a reason an excuse to get (the British version of) pissed, and the greasy bloke you’re imagining presently supplied me with ample justification; it was as if he thought I was plotting to violate his privacy and possibly hijack his identity. God forbid anyone should attempt to gather and assimilate data in the name of mutual convenience and timely expedition. He also sported {and most likely still sports} a fading tattoo on his forearm featuring the letters: “BORN TO LOOSE.”
Yeah. Such an unoriginal meme.

Note: in the sentence before the four periods prior, “God” is only capitalized because it’s the first word, and that’s the (current) rule.

Since I’m on the clock right now (in your head) as you read this, shoes are being worn onsite (by me, too). “Slippers,” to be precise in my case, made responsibly from trees by a company worth supporting, I’ve reckoned. My feet are sweaty and probably stinky.
This is normal.
Three-fourths into a fifth of bottom-shelf vodka since noon, nearly two hearty porters in the last ten minutes [it’s after 21:00], and I’m not even tit-faced; I’m as functional as anti-chafing balm on a pair of exposed thunder-thighs during a ten-mile hike. I could walk a straight line while looking directly up and reciting the alphabet backwards {only because I’m paranoid and have been practicing for months}.
How disappointing. These days, sobriety is the condition which inebriates my perception. And it’s terribly irritating. Reality has been a spirit-sucking negotiation since I became someone else, but lately it has been trending upward. Finally.

Suppose we should gloss over basic formalities forthwith.

Greetings yet again, ‘tis I, Thierry Nova Tuck, the “black-and-white” human formerly known as Madeleine Abigail Drinkwater, at your service.

And this is us. Here we are.

Oh, uh, me?
I’m basically a “map” to enlightenment.
No big deal.
Don’t worry about it.
Move along.

Humanity’s only potential savior, evidently.

Your eyes might not be the only ones rolling.

Ugh.

I’m changing the subject.
Get this.
I’m terrible at winking.
Speaking of my eyes, I don’t know what weeping feels like.
I seem to remember pretending like I did once, but in truth, I can’t speak from experience.
Forgive me if by chance you feel betrayed.
Heck, suddenly I remember an occasion from about five decades ago when I tried to activate my tear ducts solely because I wanted to know that they worked.
One of my few failures thus far in my virtual century of life.
I’m okay.

Did you catch that?

Never has he [Atlas Ray(burn) Knight] shed a single tear.
Do you understand??
(Y)OUR HERO HAS NEVER CRIED; WTF.
Give him a break—only half his DNA came from a human. (Not joking.)
Anyhoo!
Keeping it real (in retrospect): our chances (of seeing tomorrow) are slim.
I’ve been in hiding for around halfway over half a decade. Powerful people (who are above the law) want to end my life in the misguided name of learned vengeance because of a genetic relation to the sadistic animal who tried to sodomize me but ended up dead (thankfully). I’d have killed him on purpose if I could’ve, but due to a severe imbalance of physical strength in the contest, I couldn’t.
Plus he was hyped up on meth, not to mention psychopathy, I think.
I got lucky.
This is an anecdote which has been told elsewhere. Find it if you dare and/or haven’t already.
For now, we’re focusing on a monumentally eventful night in the story which hasn’t yet been told—not in full, anyway—a turning point of momentous, mythic proportions.
I know: it’s a lot.
A LOT.
And it’s a tale that shall unfold before your very eyes assuming you’ve come equipped with an adept literacy atop a curious nature as well as strong mental capabilities in terms of really unreal projection.

In other words, can you imagine?
Since we’re on the clock, let’s cut to the (literal) chase.

I’ve got one last table to serve—comprised of a few rather large, intimidating men (perfect for a gang-bang/-rape fantasy) who came in fifteen minutes prior to closing [don’t be that person, by the way]—between me and my getaway to The British Virgin Islands.
(Spoiler alert from the future: I didn’t wanna go anyway thanks to a/your/my “boy.”)
Suddenly, by extension, I’m reminded of Éire. Mother’s land. My place of birth. My home turf—one of them, anyway. (Maybe yours, too, ancestrally.) The island whereupon I grew, the reality I once knew, the “incomplete” sentence in which obvious rhyming opportunities go to fuck off and die in an unconventional effort to keep your metaphorical calf muscles engaged.
As I’ve never attempted to leave the U.S. since getting stuck here, I’m a wee bit nervous about my fake ID passing the test.
But also, deep down, somehow, someway, I don’t feel like I’m going on this trip.

A potent thunderstorm (further) materializes.
Welcome to the new hurricane season on the Gulf Coast.

Where was I?
Ah, yes. Brave face. One more table then I’ll be on vacay.
The aforementioned trio of large man-looking mammals [2 very black, 1 very white] occupy a booth on the south [my left (on approach)] side of the restaurant.

Lightning crackles noisily nearby, startling everyone whose blood sports the human genome exclusively.

That means two of us definitely didn’t flinch.
An accomplice (of theirs) must be stationed out front.
Believe me—I know things.

Key.

No one expects fireworks tonight.
Of course they’ll be launched clumsily anyway.

Per Thierry’s disarmingly adorable insistence, I’m listening to music at a volume that pushes the limits of comfort. Her well-cushioned, bulky headphones are quite luxurious, permitting my detection of sounds that might’ve otherwise gone unheard.
Is it the treble?
No, it’s the bass.
Wait, it’s undoubtedly the treble.
Mother of hell, am I high?
I’m already uncomfortable. Fuggit—let’s get louder.
[“Fuggit” is one of many a “Thierryism” which I find incredibly endearing. In other words, the/my girl is precious.]
Much time has elapsed since I enjoyed this level of escapism.
And who is this bewitching songstress? Also how is she setting my loins ablaze?

Meanwhile…
Rain falls. It’s noisy.

I close in on the table of three that separates me from “vacation.”
I see two men male figures I’ve never seen. One man, the most portly of the party, sits with his back to me, his head freshly shaven, as I wobbly approach—only because I’m tired and over it—not even worried about farming their egos for a fat tip. As his facial profile comes into view, I recognize him. It’s a face that has haunted infected my dreams nightmares for years.

In moments such as these, it’s as if time stands still.

This was more or less my path away from the office. I stopped behind the (unlabeled) counter to retrieve ibuprofen from my purse and got distracted looking for my favorite scrunchy, hence the scribble-blob. I can’t handle losing anything, even if I don’t technically need it ever again.

At last, I’ve been found.
Fuck.
I’m dead in the water.
Hold up.
(Or as I like to say purposefully when I’m tryna be cute, “Hode up.”)
Up there, a few lines prior, I wrote, “Fuck.”
That was an understatement.
FUCK.
That’s what I meant.
God, I must’ve played it so cool (for half a second).
After that, in a purely instinctual maneuver, I bolted away and out the back door by the loos, an emergency exit. Honestly not sure whether the alarm activated.
Know how you’ve seen all those delightfully awful slasher flicks and you’re {silently} yelling at the screen for someone to run but they don’t because scary drama?
Yeah, no. I ran like the wind. Immediately.
And I didn’t merely hear them give chase; I kinda sixth-sensed it.
It was loud.

The office, wherein I’m serenading Atlas through a bafflingly underappreciated artist, is missing a wall in this drawing. I was in a hurry, all right? You’re fine. It’s a tight squeeze. Visualize.

Also, get used to rip-roaring good times through the carefully calculated insertion of mid-sentence tense changes and time-jumps if you would/haven’t already.
Ha, good luck.

Outside, it’s pouring.
I have no idea where my instincts will herd my body; I just know that I’m running as fast as my legs will take me away from mortal danger.
I spy a woman drinking coffee behind the wheel of a big cream-colored van. [Later on she’ll be identified as Karen Durr.] Instantly, I know she’s not my friend. No, that’s not specific enough—she is one of my enemies. She spots me, spills java on herself [must’ve been lukewarm] while hurriedly efforting to hop out and pursue. Too late, lady.
(KD has a fun character arc; just you wait; it’ll unravel later.)
My would-be captors did not anticipate the potential of my adrenaline-fueled footspeed. To be fair, neither did I.
At full tilt, I approach a busy highway with no intention of slowing down.
Yeah, I’m terrified.

Shush. I spent way more time on these diagrams than I should have. Probably. I think.

Hmm, have you ever had to run for your life?
Pretty much all “civilized” people have not.
Zero out of ten; do not recommend.
Unless you must, of course.
In which case, go, go, go…

Let’s rewind roughly ten seconds.
Keep in mind that I’m alone in a cramped office behind a closed door.
Thierry’s noise-canceling headphones emit incredibly crisp sounds.
Happily paying boatloads of attention to detail, I listen to her musical recommendation.
Right, she was: I do like.
Probably, the volume is too loud.
But this is bliss at its finest.
Approximately.
I’m drowsy to an irksome degree.
Heck, I could doze off.
But then…
I sense a disturbance so unnerving that I must’ve knocked the cans from my ears onto the grimy tile floor while springing to my feet in the fastest blink your eyelids have ever mustered.
My heart sinks as I detect chaotic distress: a ruckus, screaming, mass confusion, a spooked stampede spilling from the main entrance.
Already I’m certain that a murder has been committed.
I can only hope that the woman of my dreams wasn’t the victim.
A window shatters.
Screams amplify.
My normally steady pulse quickens.

This can’t be happening.

Nope.
Except it is.
Fearing imminent death by way of torturous dismemberment, I’m running across four lanes of traffic in a torrential downpour at night.
And I’m not fleeing from a fellow human. (Didn’t know that at the time.)
It’s as if I can feel him it gaining on me because I CAN FEEL IT GAINING ON ME. [Strikethrough just for Atlas; doubt I’ll be able to maintain throughout; I’m too emotionally driven.]

Belanoc have been clocked in excess of 2 km per minute.
Understanding speciation is key.

Barely, I open the office door. No immediate peril.
A (presently irrelevant) employee hides under the sink, face down, eyes closed, hands cupping her ears. [She had a similar reaction a few weeks ago when a grease fire ignited on the eight-burner range; I’m sure closing her eyes and covering her ears helped somehow.]
A raw-beef-caked meat cleaver on a nearby stainless steel commercial prep table grabs my attention.
Training kicks in. It never fails.
From the cramped office I emerge swiftly, arm myself with the meaty “weapon” and secure the room like a knowledgeable tactician [which I am], headed for a rear point of entry/exit [not the one from which TNT fled], the one connected to the kitchen, the weather-worn door of which flies open ahead of my arrival—I might’ve even flinched, weirdly enough—bringing in a big-boned young lad who boasts the self-assigned nickname “Beaver King,” drenched in both rainwater and dumbfounded fear. (Perhaps you’ve met him.) He’s looking for answers, but I’m kind of busy.
By the way, since I noticed the cleaver, no more than two handfuls of seconds could’ve elapsed.
The owner’s nearly fifty-year-old son’s shaky but somewhat surprisingly collected voice becomes audible; sounds like he’s on the phone with emergency services personnel. He’s called Doyle. He’s also “the manager.”
In anguished desperation, I peek outside, hastily determine that it’s safe enough to exit before darting out and around the building. I’m already drenched. I observe a chase in progress.
There she is, still alive, across the road, looking like an Olympic-caliber sprinter.
And there it is, too—a very big hairy man-shaped creature—in hot pursuit.
This moment marks the second time I’ve seen my arch nemesis in the flesh, not to mention the first time I know that finally he’ll soon catch his initial (and hopefully last) glimpse of me, too.
I’m thinking fast but not aloud: “Don’t look back, Thierry. And veer right. No. Left. To Joan’s. Please.”
Actually, the word please just slipped. This seems significant because I almost never accidentally utter words.
Her inhuman pursuer closes the gap. Ten meters.
I’ve only felt this helpless once.
Now I see a female belanoc entering the mix from the west. This must be Severus’s [that’s the creature’s (assigned) name; it’s also my uncle, incidentally] new procreational plaything.
Thierry. Please. Left. Fuck.
Never have I felt anything like this. I’ll die if she’s killed.
Ah, but then, almost as if we enjoy the hypothetical benefits of true telepathy, she changes her direction of travel on a dime.

A crude depiction of the impact that saved my life.

Not three seconds later, a nondescript sedan clips Severus, deflecting its progress as it skids across the wet road, buying her much-needed time.
[In its case, I refuse to reference my male kinfolk as a “he.” Not this fuck-stick, anyway.]
Two pick-up trucks collide as each attempts to vacate the parking lot simultaneously.
Severus springs back to his feet.
The car that hit my mother’s brother gets trashed by a semi, a wreck which quickly morphs into a five-vehicle pile-up.
I spy a car that must be connected to Sevy as it joins the pursuit.

Things are happening so fast and stuff.

Severus hops over a fancy sports car, which then swerves pointlessly, inciting a separate pile-up. Horns blare after the fact, triggering me briefly because what the hell, people? Think faster—damn.
The five-vehicle pile-up gains three more participants.
Whoever’s in the Miata just bit the dust.
What a mess.
Thierry disappears into a familiar residential building.
A feeling of momentary relief emboldens me. She’s safe for a short while. I set a mental timer for 900 seconds. I think I can save her. I can only imagine the terror she must be experiencing.
And now the highway is a parking lot. That’s actually good.

This is it.
It’s happening.
Sorry, world!

Oh my god. Oh my crap. Oh my fucking shitfuck.
Might’ve pissed myself—not sure—too wet.
Who cares at this point anyway?
Probably about to die. Thanks for the memories, Earth!
Miraculously, I have the wherewithal to summon the lift [a desperate decoy, as it were {which I think might’ve worked}] as I bypass its accommodating access hastily en route to one of two stairwells. Up I go, legs/chest burning like cold hell.
You missed your chance to recruit me, MI6. Better luck next time.

Prepare for anything all you want; without the ability to improvise, ultimately you might get screwed.

I return to the kitchen via the rear entrance, where Beaver King eagerly awaits my arrival, seemingly. Referring to the meat cleaver that I’m still clutching, he queries, “Yo, Bo, should I wash that or…?” [He calls every male “Bo.”
I guess in his head he might spell it “Beau.”
Nah.]
Anyway, “Please do,” I respond.
He gladly takes it off my hands and hurries toward the sink as Doyle approaches. “Oh my goodness, Seth, this is so terrible.” He’s off the phone now and could be barreling toward a full-fledged panic attack. “I think that man might have killed Big Nick and Julian. Kurt keeps passing out. Do you know anything about diabetes??” Yeah, his voice just cracked—hyperventilation imminent.
“Listen carefully,” I instruct.
“I can’t freakin’ believe this.” Damn, 0 for 1.
“Doyle, listen.”
“Seth, a man grabbed Julian by the head and—”
“DOYLE.” Got him. Usually, I neither “strike out” nor yell. When I do yell, it’s loud.
“Joan.”
“What? Who? Why?”
“The lady with the cats named Joann and Joanie. Orders every Saturday. Ring any bells?”
Doyle manages to soggy-burp up a few unintelligible syllables before I’m compelled to add rapidly, “Po’boy, hold the bread, extra pickles and hushpuppies, four sides of thousand island—”
“Yes, okay,” Doyle overlaps. “Joan Smythe. Longtime customer.”
“I need her apartment number as fast as you can get it or Thierry will be kidnapped with murderous intent.”
“Oh, dear holy god in sweet merciful heaven, this is why we shouldn’t live lies.”
Um. The fuck just happened?
“Doyle. Focus. Who delivers on Saturday? BK? Caleb?”
“312.” Off my fleeting look of confusion, Doyle clarifies in shame and near tears, “Building C, apartment 312.” I pause for one less than a second to process this intel’s implication of infidelity [I forgot that I had already made this deduction a while back; ugh; sloppy] before bolting toward the rear of the premises, which prompts him to plead his case (as if anyone cares): “We’ve only ever chatted. I just sit on the chaise lounge by myself. It’s covered in cat hair and I’m mildly allergic. Where are you going? I don’t think you’re supposed to leave. I’m gonna barf. Please, holy Christ…”
He definitely vomits soon after that.
Doyle strikes me as a fellow who pukes noisily and starts crying roughly halfway through the expulsion.
No matter—I’m already long gone.

A few minutes pass.
Maybe longer.
Maybe not.

I park my budget street racer, a faded black 1997 Subaru Impreza [it’s a clever aspect of my alias], as diagonally as possible from the breezeway adjacent to the one into which Thierry disappeared about six minutes ago. I’m fiddling with one of my current five cellular devices in an almost assuredly awkward act to conceal the reality that, in actual fact, I am surveying the surroundings while plotting an impromptu rescue operation.
Plus, hopefully, as a bonus byproduct, I can lop off my uncle’s head in the process.
A cream-colored van with half-tinted windows in the middle of the lot nabs my focus. Can’t see anybody inside, but I’m positive that the van means trouble.

Did I mention that my writing hand is broken? First bone I ever fractured. It happens later in this action-packed yarn. I’m fine; it’s just highly inconvenient.

The storm has only barely relaxed; nonetheless—and for tactical reasons that will become evident later (if you’re paying attention)—I pop the trunk, roll down all four windows then casually step out of the car, leaving the key in the ignition, and nonchalantly amble the long way around to access the trunk.
Why did I take the scenic route? Not entirely sure. I’m probably doing it wrong, but I wasn’t trained to rescue “damsels in distress.” Usually my math-rooted judgment features an immunity to heartfelt attachment. Familiar though it may seem (to me) on paper and in practice, a heretofore foreign emotional variant makes this operation scarily challenging to process/gauge/execute.
See, when it comes to her, I’m involved, invested, conflicted, bound, and determined.
Indeed, she will be mine.
I open the trunk, reach in and come away cradling a pile of tattered old quilts {or so it appears}. Next, I shut the trunk and, still in character, stumble [I guess I’m trying to appear marginally intoxicated; not sure] approximately seventy meters into the farthest building’s breezeway.
I’m aware that someone’s watching, and blowing my cover now would mean no less than a double homicide, probably.
And yes, given my supposed destination, I’ve chosen a suboptimal parking spot, but I’m supposed to be hammered or whatever/something.
I hope this works.
Are your fingers crossed?

Fast forward 33 seconds.
Give or take.
One.
Max.

On the rear side of the residential complex, behind the building labeled “B,” I stand under a climbable tree in a poorly lit area, scanning the perimeter, now holding a single quilt, in which my trusty blade, Halcyon, a heavy, two-handed weapon I forged (and named) myself back home in The Rockies many decades prior, is loosely wrapped in her battle-tested sheath.
I glance all around one last time.
The coast is clear (if you discount the weather).
I equip Hal on my back in order to free up my hands.
Then, with the ease {but not necessarily the grace} of a panther, I scale the tree to a branch from which a leap onto the adjacent roof promises a quiet, safe landing.
Fifteen feet across. Here we go.

Fast forward two seconds and not a single second more.
The rain has let up, by the way, but would still soak you thoroughly within twenty seconds of exposure.
Lightning splinters marvelously across the night sky over the ocean.

Jump complete. Opposite of difficult.
Keeping a low profile, I draw my sword and scoot to the edge of the roof, look down, adjust by a few feet (to the left) then drop onto a particular balcony and stick an impressively quiet landing.
I rarely toot my own horn. Less than rarely. Virtually never.
But damn. Nailed it.
I’m on the balcony undetected.
Since dark, thick curtains have been drawn, I am unable to see (clearly) inside the unit into which I intend to gain access.
Just felt my teeth grit.
Uncertainty and indecision lead to hesitation at the sliding glass door.
Finally, I knock quietly, holding Halcyon below my waist and behind my back, ready to strike with an uppercut that would split any earthborn torso in half.
Movement detected.
Not sure I’ve ever felt this kind of adrenaline.
Okay, now I’m sure; I haven’t.
Wait. Am I sure?
I wait.
Curtains move to my left.
Most definitely, I’ve been seen, but by whom, I can’t be certain.
My grip on the hilt tightens.
A few seconds later, the door is opened from the inside, revealing a distraught, confused, quivering Thierry. Her cheeks are bright red and laden with fresh tear-streaks. She’s a nervous wreck tightly clutching her phone, which must’ve been in her back pocket, as usual.
She can’t believe I’m standing (t)here.
She doesn’t know it, but I have her.
That’s correct—she’s mine.

Thank. Fucking. God.

Disregard the star; I was practicing pointlessly.

Atlas enters and slides the door shut behind him. He recognizes Joan, who’s on the phone with a fairly nice lady in response to our dangerous situation of unbelievable emergency.
Joan’s hodgepodge of furniture and decor are either hand-me-downs, flea market or yard sale finds, and there’s enough to crowd a living space triple the size of this one.
Confused, I wonder, “How did you get out there?”
“Via the roof.”
“How did you get on the roof??”
“A tree.” (He’s not being a smart-ass; I know him.)
And, uh, I’m just staring at him with a bewildered look on my face. He understands.
At the same time, Joan levels her gaze in awe at his big-ass blade. “Is that a broadsword or a claymore?” She’s a fan of weaponry, apparently.
“More or less.”
“It’s so dang shiny. Did you recently polish it?”
“Yes.”
He sheaths the sword.
“With what? The tears of God? Unicorn semen?”
Funniest shit Joan Smythe ever blurted.
But Atlas ignores her, intently locking eyes with me as if time is of the utmost essence, which it is.

Always, it is. Now more than ever.

“We need to talk.” I think I almost smile at his understatement, but I’m pretty sure I do nothing except nod because the only other bodily actions I’m presently capable of expressing are ugly-crying or esophageal volcanism or both simultaneously. “But first we gotta get outta here.”
“The police should be here any minute,” Joan interjects.
“I need you to trust me,” Atlas continues. His eyes say so much to me—not in terms of details, but the underlying gravity of emotional truth bespeaks a reality I can’t mistake.

Our soul is one.

Joan responds to the 911 dispatcher, “He works down the street with Thierry.”
Atlas urges me, “Please listen to me so that I can either save your life or die trying.”
“Seth, I don’t think you understand.”
“My name is not Seth.”
With this admission, Atlas seizes control of the room’s attention. Even a cat rubs against his leg. Slut.
Joan responds to the dispatcher’s question over the phone, “I don’t know. What’s taking so long?”
I have no idea what I’m supposed to do right now—constantly on the verge of collapsing and sobbing and accepting a bittersweet surrender to gory death. My head is down, but I am not moving forward.
With two fingers, Atlas gently lifts up my chin and peers into my very essence. “Thierry, please. We are not safe here.”
I’m an emotionally tormented snot factory. And somehow I’m finding time to worry about how swollen my eyes must be right now. “You don’t understand what’s happening.” Gosh, how silly of me. He understands everything.
He assures me, “We can catch up later. Presently we have to run.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“We are in the same boat,” he points out. “I also have some explaining to do. But you do know me, and I know you. And I know you know that.”
Tears swell in my longing eyes as they fixate upon the urgent fire in his.
He’s right; never isn’t.
Then Joan kills our vibe when she activates speakerphone and the dispatcher chimes in: “Do not listen to that man. The police will be arriving within minutes and they will help you. Ms. Smythe, put that man on the phone.” Joan approaches Atlas and offers him the phone, but it’s as if he doesn’t even see her.
His eyes remain latched onto mine.
The dispatcher adopts a stern tone: “Sir, can you hear me? Interfering with police business—”
A knock-knock at the door prompts Atlas to snatch the phone and end the call by crushing it with his bare hand.
Well then. My thoughts were already racing, but now they’re extra dizzying. Despite my mental over-stimulation, his dread becomes immediately evident, and I feel it, too.
Can’t tell whether Joan finds herself offended or turned-on.
Another knock, this time, a sequence of three, each separated by an unnerving amount time, the final one hitting harder than the previous two. Can you hear it? Knock, count to two, knock, count to three, knock.
Mmhmm, this is bad.
Atlas preps Joan with a look that underscores the dire seriousness of our predicament before whispering, “Very, very quietly, look through the peephole then tell me what you see.”
“Okay, yeah, shit, man.” She’s being semi playful. She doesn’t get it. I feel terrible. She steals a glance at me which plainly illustrates her suddenly keen understanding of my intense attraction to the superhuman in our midst.
I feel guilty about it now, but at the time I remember thinking, “Bitch, I will cut you.”
I WAS GOING THROUGH SOME CRAZY SHIT, OKAY?
However, real talk, I will cut a bitch. I’m not joking.

We should be closer here.

Atlas posts up around the corner down the short hall from the front door as I drift away trembling until running into the coffee table, which scares the ever-loving shit outta me, but somehow I manage not to scream bloody murder.
Meanwhile Joan tiptoes to the peephole and takes a gander. “Nobody out there,” she whispers loudly as fuck, and literally I facepalm.
Urgently, Atlas silently directs me to a position that should allow him to intercept any assailant who breaches the point of entry currently drawing our collective attention with elevating concern. [No, I didn’t deduce his logic in the moment; I was just complying because he seemed to know what he was doing and a minute ago he wadded up a goddamn phone like it was a piece of paper.]
As we watch in horrified disbelief, Joan opens the door and looks right then left. (I might’ve sharted at this point.) She politely waves at someone down the hall then comes back inside.
Joan fancies herself a good actress actor. She’s not.
She also thinks she can sing. Which, she can, technically, but not well.
She locks, chains, deadbolts the door, remains there.
“What did you see?” Atlas whispers very, very quietly.
“Albino Sasquatch?” Joan’s way too casual, doesn’t know any better, and quite honestly, neither do/did I.
But when she said that, his legs nearly buckled.
“He kinda smiled and waved.” Joan shrugs.
I feel like I’m about to faint. I wanna quit; this is bullshit.
Staring through the peephole, Joan brandishes a basic firearm that neither of us knew she had been holding. She looks back, signals to us with a confident hand—I think she even winked; god help her—as if she’s about to save us by exercising her 228-year-old constitutional right to bear arms.
Dread grips me as I slump on the floor into a quivering puddle of emotional defeat.
Aiming her once-secret firearm at the door, Joan slowly backpedals, taking herself far too seriously.
Atlas extends his hand. “Come with me.”
With {t}his genuine gesture, while looking into his multicolored eyes, it’s as if I’m stargazing as unbearable mental turmoil yields to blind faith.
This is a moment I’ll never forget.
Inexplicably, my respiration normalizes.
I might be hypnotized; not sure.
Or dreaming, perhaps.
In any case, I take his hand and rise to my feet right when Joan’s front door basically fucking EXPLODES via the tremendous force generated by the monstrous bulldozer known as Severus Rex. He’s huge, well-fed, angry, and sweating profusely. Looks to be about 45 or so, but in reality, he’s a lot older—at least 15.1111111 times that number roughly, in fact, I think. (Keep a calculator handy!)
Joan manages to squeeze off an inconsequential round or two before Severus tramples her (to death, unfortunately [he purposely stomps on her face]) and spots me frozen in shock.
Luckily, he can’t see Atlas, who’s already against the wall around the corner lying in wait, ready to strike. Seriously, zero clue how he got there so fast; thought I was still holding his hand.
Severus moves to apprehend me and/or eat my brain on the spot, but the moment his enormous left boot steps technically from hallway into living room, Atlas attacks in a vicious, upward stabbing thrust.

Joan was actually about halfway down the hall. Oops. Tears sabotaged my sight (and fatigue impacted my memory) when I drew this one. Poor Joan.

Glimpsing the danger peripherally, Severus instinctively dodges and is successful (to an extent) as Halcyon misses its mark of piercing through the chin and obliterating the brainstem but still does considerable damage when it plunges through his shoulder and erupts from his back along with a dense jet of dark blood.
Severus roars and unhinges long thin fangs as his eyes transform from black and empty to a glassy, milky color accented by a fiery red tint—all the damn defense mechanisms at once.
Ah, okay.
Fangs.
Like…actually.
Cool.
Plus what in the fresh, bloody hell!?
Atlas tugs the buried blade, which slimes its way out of Severus looking like an oily dipstick.
Despite having been terrifically blindsided by the earth-shattering power of this encounter, Severus senses the hypothetically immediate danger of letting Atlas remove Halcyon from his body, so he grabs the sword and pulls it back into him. I mean, what a hardcore savage, no?
Atlas makes an agonizingly difficult, snap decision and kicks Severus in the gut with all his might, sending him sprawling backward into the third floor’s main hallway and onto his giant butt.
Atlas eyes his long-cherished weapon helplessly, knowing full well that he can’t recover it—at least not tonight.
Severus stares at his nephew, his hatred unmistakable. I think he might’ve said something in another language; I keep forgetting to ask {perhaps because I feel like either it’s none of my business or I don’t wanna know}.
Atlas grabs me in a frantic rush and ushers us out the back door onto the balcony. I sense that he feels bad about manhandling me, but he has little choice given that I’m paralyzed by shock and fear and whatnot.
Plus it’s kinda hot. You know, looking back.
No, I couldn’t possibly have known all this in the moment as it transpired in real time [now a memory {duh}]; he told me later.
He tells me quite a lot.
Don’t be overly jealous; he’ll speak to you, too, if you’re open-minded.
Outside on the balcony, he scans the environment, glances down over the railing. “Hold on tight,” he tells me.
Don’t worry, babe; I will. Forever.
Before I can second-guess his pure intention, he grabs my left armpit with his right hand, jumps and hoists me over the railing in another ridiculous display of strength and drops with me off the balcony. Using his free arm/hand, he stops our fall by catching the railing on the balcony below.
Can you picture this? It’s hard to describe. I can’t even try to illustrate it. So dumb. I’m just staring at him in amazed awe—can’t even be arsed to worry that he’s super-monkeying us both toward the ground with one arm.
He releases his grip, and again we fall, and again he catches us on the next balcony.
Now he lifts me above his position on the Y axis. Maybe my brain could overheat and stroke out at any moment. He lets go and I hear myself mini-yelp. He lands hard on his feet but catches me softly in his arms.
Like…no. I mean, what?? Just wait until you see it reenacted dramatically in a television series or something. Essentially, he raised me up so that he could hit the ground first and not only break my fall but also orchestrate my soft landing.
Oh, I’m falling, all right. More and more every day.
“Now I just need you to run,” he explains. “Can you do that?” I nod, too discombobulated not to just…go with it.
You know?
He leads the way along the back of the building.

His path wasn’t that squiggly, and mine wasn’t that straight.

Atlas peeks around the side of the structure and spots another fanged beast, this one a lesbian-looking, sloppy rage-eater, I’d wager confidently, closing in on the stairwell at the other side of the building ahead of us. He thinks fast [he does that; so cute] before leading me into the southern stairwell door of the middle building.

Not sure how we didn’t get spotted here. Or maybe we did. I’m shrugging IRL.

Yup, we find ourselves back inside the complex we’re trying to escape.
We come to a solid metal door that opens into the first story’s hallway. He calculates our next move. His brain moves at lightspeed.

So, too, does yours.
No, really!
Don’t even worry about not being able to keep up.
Keep exercising.

“We need help.” This particular utterance probably commemorates the first time I’ve ever forgiven myself (at the time) for whining.
He hates the call he’s about to make; I can tell. “We’re probably about to sprint down this hallway as fast as you can, okay?”
Did you catch that? As fast as “you” can. So much comfort derived from such a simple word choice because it tells me that he will not leave me behind.
Aye, I’m in love, but sssh. It’s not the right time to confess/profess.
This sucks, though. I’m scared. Come on, door number one, no whammies. He cracks the door for a peek. Hallway empty. Atlas urges, “We gotta go. Right now. Ready?”
I mean, hell, I guess I have to be. I nod.
Together, we run.

In my youth, I never lost a 50-meter dash. Or a sack race. Or a 100-meter dash. Or a 200. Lost a 400 in sixth grade and cried about it.

Once again, I can barely breathe. I feel like crumbling. I don’t know why I’m not waking up from this obvious nightmare.
We achieve our goal. He opens the next door. Another stairwell. Empty. The door after that opens into another breezeway. So many damn doors. Squinting slightly, he listens with extraordinary focus, assessing the risk. He’s worried about telling me, “We gotta get across into the next building.”
I knew it. Ugh! But I nod in willing compliance.
Across we go. He arrives first, enters quickly, carefully, readily, and holds the door for me then shuts it quietly.

I plan on never returning to this PTSD-inducing hellhole.

And now here we are at yet another stupid door to another stupid hallway. He glances at me; I know what he’s thinking; he asks with his eyes.
“No,” I pout. Suddenly I’m the biggest whiner in all of Whinyland.
Have you ever been pursued by belanoc? It is not fun.
“I’ll explain as soon as we’re safe, but right now I need you to run. Okay? Now, Thierry. I’ll be right beside you. Go.”
With all the bravery I can rouse, I start with a whimper and run as fast as I can down this motherfuckin’ hallway; Atlas remains tight on my heels and takes the lead as we arrive at the opposite (and last possible) stairwell door. He opens it quietly and we enter.

Incidentally, our arrows point north. (Meanings.)

Immediately upon entry, we hear footsteps above on the way up. We freeze and don’t breathe. Atlas takes one silent step then glances up, sees nothing aside from stairs and concrete, hears a door open and tracks the footsteps (away from us) down the hallway two floors up.
God, he’s amazing. An organic machine. I know he’s only half galacian/human, but still, holy shit.
Oh, and he’s mine.
He’s yours, too, in a weird way.
We’ll get to all that eventually, I hope.
Atlas explains with haste, “My car is parked near the north entrance about forty-five meters away. We will run to it momentarily.”
I’m struggling to catch my breath, and I’m in really excellent (cardiovascular) shape.
He cracks open the door for a quick glance. “We have to go immediately.”
“Fine; I’m just not sure what north means right now.”
Kindly, he clears it up with a finger-point.
I nod along with the issuance of a futile attempt at drawing a deeply productive pull of oxygen. Fail.
“Let’s go.” Sans hesitation, he leads me outside, pauses at the east corner of the building, looks and listens with tremendous hyper-vigilance.
Quaking in my boots slippers, I spot his car; accordingly, I whisper, “I see Nimmy.”
I named his car weeks ago. (“Nimmy” as in “Jeutron”; I’ve never seen the movie that led to the moniker—fuck, my brain can be a handful.) Ya see, I tend to name things.
Dear god, I need to stop talking so much.

To say the least, we are not fans of what’s happening.

I despise gambling. Making decisions based on percentages—what a mathematical mindfuck. Were it not for those bushy hedges, we’d have a straight and unimpeded path to the getaway car.

At least one of us is probably about to die.

Oh, pipe down—you already know we live through this.

Don’t we??

Atlas concludes his hasty appraisal of our best option at this moment. “Can you hurdle those hedges?” My facial expression announces my present inability to glean why he asked. “Straight line to the car, best chance, simple math.” Ah, of course. “Can you do it?”
In a vacuum, sure, easy, even at the ripe old age of 27. But right now? “I don’t know.” I could sob, though, no problem. Would that help??
He seems certain: “The answer is yes; you can.”
However, I’m as exhausted as I am exasperated. “My legs are jello.”
“I know, and I’m sorry; this is my fault.”
“No, it’s my fault.” I fight back yet another flood of tears.
“No, it’s not,” he swears to me, “and I’ll explain everything later. Right now it’s time to run for our lives one more time. Straight over those bushes to my car.” But I just wanna sit on the ground and weep uncontrollably. He (re)assures me, “Should you need a boost, I’ll be there.” Belief in him brews within my core. I summon my best look of determination in the face of grave peril. “Say when,” he says softly while his eyes loudly communicate so, so, so much more.
Yup, I think he must love me, too. Woo!
Sirens grow audible.
Fuggit. I ditch my slippers. Leggo. I barely whisper, “When,” then tear off toward The Nimster, and he sticks so close to me that it’s a wonder our legs don’t tangle and trigger a nasty spill. I feel really fast. Hell, my form is even extra on point; pretty sure. Whew, somebody, clock me.

Turns out, fearing for one’s life can be a useful motivator.

The big creamy van’s engine roars to life as the driver [assumedly Karen] smashes the horn while Francis exits the rear doors somewhat hampered by a limp, not sure why; in truth, he might’ve been injured prior to this incident. Anyway, uh huh, we’ve been spotted.
As we close in on the bushes, Atlas drifts closer to me. We’ll be at the predesignated obstacle in seconds.
Moment of truth.
With the graceful form of a professional [yeah, I’m feelin’ myself retrospectively], I hurdle the 3-feet-tall bushy décor—clean clearance, room to spare, landing in stride. I didn’t need his help, but should I have, I know that he occupied the perfect position to provide just enough of a boost (with a subtle one-handed lift on my tush).
Go ahead. Swoon all you want. Pfft.
But, seriously, why am I so concerned with why Francis is limping?

Perhaps we’ll solve the mystery later.

Glass shatters. Over my right shoulder, I glance back. Apparently the “lesbelonac” just jumped through a window on the third floor on the south side of Building C and now moves to intercept us via wildly angry, bounding lunges.
Atlas and I close in on his silly little car, but my pace slows since I’m running on fucking fumes, okay?
Still, mere seconds away.
Francis warns, “FREEZE!”
Yeah, okay, sure. We’ll just freeze, bruh.
The “lungelady” finds another gear. Shite, she’s gonna catch us.
That one needs a name already—hereby calling her Lisbet because that’s what my fingers just typed.
From the closest stairwell in the farthest building, bleeding and wounded, Severus stumbles out carrying Halcyon. Ew, gross, wrong on all the levels. Grimacing, he joins the pursuit.

This is all happening so fast.

Misfired on Lisbet’s trajectory and point of origin; mentally move it about an inch to the right. What up?
(*BSR: Budget Street Racer [didn’t have enough room to write “Nimminator”])
{I’m so stupid.}

A silenced gunshot bullet whizzes by my savior’s head. With a quick pivot and negligible sacrifice to pace, Atlas flings a throwing knife—like…where the hell he even got it, I have no clue—in the general direction of the shooter’s face.
Francis can only flinch as the knife narrowly misses his dome. He groans in pain as his injured leg gives way to muscular weight and his ass lands on the pavement. He aims uncomfortably, has no shot thanks to a sideways-parked moving truck, squeezes a few times anyway. Wasted shells. Probably just mad.
Two police cars arrive with blue lights blazing and sirens blaring.
Meanwhile Atlas, realizing that Lisbet will get to us before we have time to get in and speed away, instructs me, “Dive in the back seat.”
Dive?” I wheeze/half-yell.
“Dive,” he confirms.
Goddammit. More acrobatics on mushy legs.
Having spotted Severus about thirty meters away from our getaway car, a pair of overzealous, testosterone-/stupidity-fueled young officers jump out with weapons drawn. “Get down on the ground!” one of them barks. At least I think that’s what he hollered [due to nonexistent annunciation]. In my memory, what I heard was something like “GURDURNANAGRUN!”
Whatever. He was rightly nervous.
I dive headfirst into the back seat (without dislocating either of my kneecaps, somehow) while Atlas hops through the open window into the passenger side and reaches underneath the seat with his left hand then cranks the car with his right. It’s funny what all I remember so clearly. Details, man. Brains are nuts. Anyway, once the engine roars to life, he tells me, “Cover your ears.”
And then Lisbet launches into a furious dive-bomb as Atlas levels a sawed-off shotgun at her.
Yup, covering my ears and closing my eyes tightly to boot.
From a range of about five feet, Lisbet screams like a rabid banshee at the realization of her sudden misfortune as a heavy slug erupts from the barrel in a cacophonous boom and slams into her center of mass, rerouting her momentum and quelling the threat. She squirms and writhes across the asphalt surface.
The cops hide behind cover. “Shots fired! Need backup! Shittin’ fuck! Shootin’ shots!” Something like that—you know how first-hand accounts (don’t) work.
At the same time, Atlas nimbly slides behind the wheel and slams the gearshift into drive.
As the cops are trapped in confused chaos, Francis, just being a pissy assbag at this point, fires his handgun from the ground until his third/final shot finds the side of a hapless officer’s melon [the one who previously failed horribly at annunciation].
Severus tears off the other one’s head. Quite literally, I’m afraid.
I can’t un-see that.

Buildup be damned—death happens instantly.

NJ [Nimmy Jeutron—forgive me if this parenthetical clarification insults your intelligence; I don’t know what’s obvious anymore] transverses the parking lot recklessly as a sense of perplexed desperation takes hold of me. “What the fuck is happening and what’s with all the fucking fangs and why are you so fucking strong?” Yup, I’m panicking.
Mentally, his hands are too full to answer, but with a telling glance back my way, he offers something to the effect of: “Hang in there, baby girl. Answers are forthcoming.”

Are they ever.

And, oh, my heart.
Atlas slams into second gear and punches the gas. Vroom! Off we go, outta the lot, onto the highway, just as another vehicle—an American-made hybrid, probably a rental—squeals its tires while drifting sharply onto the road in hot pursuit.
Somehow now both Lisbet and Severus, each significantly injured, are chasing us on foot, but the gap widens comfortably.
I zero in on the hybrid tailing us, and my immediate recognition of the single occupant elicits an uncontrollable surge of tearful emotion. Darrell Dent again. Hate that guy.
“We’re okay,” Atlas promises.
I don’t know if I’ve ever cried this much in one day and I didn’t even start until around half past nine tonight.
Thirty seconds after that, Atlas runs a red light and turns left/north onto another highway. Mere seconds later, Darrell takes the same turn far more aggressively and almost wrecks.
“He’s catching us,” I cry faintly. But I dunno.
HOW SHOULD I KNOW ANYTHING RIGHT NOW?
“We will not be caught tonight.”
“How do you know??” I have never been this whiny, I swear.
“Because no vehicle that might give chase can travel faster than this car.”
“This thing!?” I must’ve shrieked.
“Put your head back against the seat.”
I do it. Right then. No questions asked.
Atlas then opens the center console and flips a cool blue illuminated switch which provides an exhilarating burst of speed that would’ve resulted in terrible whiplash without his courteously shared forethought.
The distance between the vehicles expands quickly as this intentionally apparent “POS” speeds beyond any and all pursuers’ radius of observation.

For now.

I watch out the rear windshield as we zoom toward safety. It’s almost mesmerizing. I realize that he’s right: we will not be caught.
Not tonight.

No way in hell.

Not on this Knight’s watch.
Was that dumb? Perhaps. But I couldn’t resist.
I’m trying to become more human, remember? Sue me.
Too, in a painfully tragic twist of events, Unkie Sev has come into possession of Halcyon.
This might be the closest I’ve ever come to crying.

Oh-so officially, our reality has been upended.
We are both in full-blown disbelief.
This is a special level of grief.
Not to mention deep relief.

Thierry’s tears begin to dry as a highly relevant thought commandeers her curiosity and sparks the million dollar question: “Who are you?”
A great question, that. The greatest, even.

Even greater still, who are we?

In this moment, I know not where to begin.
“My name is Atlas.”
Dunno what else to say.

Pro tip: when in doubt, begin at the start.

On the spot, I fall in love with his name.
“Atlas”? Are you fucking kidding me?? I’m dead.
Yet…I’ve never felt more alive.
Oh, hi.
(Yes, you. Hi.)

Let’s be allies!

As for me?
At long last, I’m who I was born to be.
I could’ve been no one other than myself.

Same could be said of anyone.

Shoot fire—I should buckle up.
And so should you.
Yeah, get cozy.

Because that was nothing compared to what’s coming.

Soon.

II.