by John Hulme
Sunset Strip, Department of Public Works, The Seems
They say the most frightening thing for any artist is a blank canvas, but for a Master Scenic with his heart in the right place, it is but a playground for the imagination. The Maestro stood before a tower of white, surrounded by the materials of his ancient craft. To his left were cans containing indigo, lapis lazuli, violet, and cadmium yellow. To his right, jars of Emotion—Joy, Gratitude, even Bittersweet—which, when painted across the surface of the sky, could literally be experienced by anyone who took the time to view it.
“The way I see it,” said Fixer Drane as he looked over the Maestro’s shoulder, “it takes three minutes for the paint to dry, seven to roll the canvas for shipment, and six to get across the In-Between to Realization.2 That leaves you only thirteen minutes to paint the whole thing.”
Becker looked back over his shoulder where Set Dressers and Junior Scenics eagerly awaited their master’s commands.
“Can it be done?”
“I am Figarro Mastrioni.” The Maestro licked his fingers and began to twirl his mustache into a handlebar. “Zere is nothing I cannot do!”
With a single snap of his fingers, his minions were in action. They grabbed their brushes and cans while Figarro himself picked up a roller and began to lay a base of disappearing blue.
“Fixer Drane,” the Maestro stepped onto a scaffold that was slowly raised into the sky, “this friend of yours—ze one who needs ze Confidence . . .”
“Yeah, he’s a Briefer. Back when we were at the IFR, I was going through a very hard time because I was only ten and I was a lot smaller than everybody else. But there was this one guy, Harold—they called him ‘C-Note’—who was always telling me ‘BD, you got the skills to pay the bills!’ Things are tough for him right now, and his Case Worker wants to tell him the same thing.”
“Well, considering the issue of Time, not to mention what you have done for me this day . . .” Figarro flipped him a fat paintbrush, then pointed to a squeeze bottle of Confidence itself.
“Perhaps you would like to get your hands dirty as well?”
Los Angeles, California
Inexplicably, the bus had still not arrived at the corner of Marengo and Clement, where now over a dozen seething passengers waited for their ride. The only bonus was that the smog had lifted, clearing both the air and the sky above.
“Finally!” shouted Albie Kellar, as the local “E” slowly rounded the bend at last. A mock cheer went up, and people started to gather their things, but Anna stayed seated. She was hoping el tirano would get on the bus first, so she could make sure to be sitting as far away from him as possible. But as Albie started to get in line, his eyes accidentally drifted upward . . .
“Wow, look at that.” Painted across the horizon were the beginnings of a spectacularly setting sun. Streaks of blue, yellow, and purple wove in and out of a drifting web of clouds, seeming to bathe both the heavens and the earth below in a shade of magic pink. “Do you see what I’m seeing?”
Albie turned to the lady on his left, but she had beaten him to the punch. Anna’s eyes were already filled with tears, for if she tilted her head just right, the sky no longer looked like a sunset, but like waves crashing upon a shore. The sand stretched across the horizon and the foaming water looked so real you could almost smell the salt and hear the gulls squawking overhead.
“Es hermoso . . .”
On a shore just like this one, she had spent many a day with her grandfather, when she was only a child. Her abuelo and she would play hooky from work and school, collecting shells and talking about her dreams for the future.
“It is a big world out there,” the old man would say, pulling Anna close. “And it can be frightening too. But you must explore as much of it as you can, if you are to find out what is inside you.”
All these years later, Anna had forgotten what had inspired her to leave all she knew behind. But as the orange disc of the sun slowly dipped toward the west, she realized just how much she had already discovered—and that the adventure had just begun.
“I remember, Grandfather,” she whispered aloud. “I remember.”
“Remember what?”
Anna turned to see el tirano, Albie Kellar, staring down at her with a smile on his face and tears in his own eyes.
“Qué?”
“You said you remembered something . . . ,” Albie said to her in perfect Spanish, which he hadn’t spoken in years. “I remembered something too.”
She asked him what it was and Albie started to tell her, but the lump in his throat caught hard, and he found himself unable to speak. So he only pointed to the spot on the horizon where the last vestige of smog had somehow shaped itself into— “It looks like a sign,” said Anna.
“Doesn’t it?” Albie whispered, finally able to choke out some words. “Just like this old road sign in the town where I used to live.”
Albie tried to explain that he’d spent his twenties traveling the world, and how on the day he returned home to take a so-called real job, he’d scribbled “I’ll be back” on that road sign. But the fact that he’d never fulfilled that promise overwhelmed him with sadness and regret. Anna pulled out a small plastic bag stuffed with Kleenex, and was handing one to Albie when the local bus pulled to a stop.
“It’s about time!” grumbled several of the other passengers as they filed onto the bus. But for Albie Kellar, who normally would have been one of those grumblers, the anger that had marked his day had faded. All he wanted to do now was share his story with someone—if only to remember every last detail of the man he used to be, and could still become again.
“Thank you for the tissue,” Albie said to Anna as he followed her up the steps.
“No problemo, señor.”
Anna took a spot in the middle of the bus. She looked down at the empty seat next to her, then back up to the man she had once known as el tirano.
“Would you like to sit here?”
As the bus pulled away and disappeared into the night, one passenger remained seated on the bench. It was the kid with the hospital scrubs and the headphones—and even though the music was turned up as loud as it could go, he couldn’t hear a single note.
“Someone’s on their game today,” whispered Harold “C-Note” Carmichael, eyes glued to the sky. “Big-time.”
Only one trained in the inner workings would have been able to recognize that Rotating Dusk had begun, and Cases like Anna’s and Albie’s were playing out all across The World. But as he studied the Strokes of Genius that stood out like ornaments on a Christmas tree, Briefer Carmichael never considered that one of those Cases might be him.
Not only was med school a mighty challenge but Frau Von Schroëder—his closest friend from the IFR—had leapfrogged him and been unexpectedly promoted to Fixer. Though he was happy for the Frau, he couldn’t help but think that everybody in Fixing circles took it as a sign that he wasn’t good enough for “the best job in The World,” and he was starting to believe it himself. Until he saw something in the upper-right corner of the sky . . .
It was a sloppy dollop of a cloud, malformed and with not nearly enough Fluff. But what it did have was a massive burst of Confidence, all of which surged through his mind and body at once.
“I’m Harold C-Note Carmichael!” The Briefer rose to his feet and shouted to no one in particular. “Second-highest score on the Practical of all time!”
As C-Note remembered that triumphant day when he’d been granted his Briefer’s badge, he also reflected on the tenuous state The World was in. Whatever the words “specific and credible threat” referred to, it was definitely not good. But even though he wasn’t one of the thirty-eight who held the title of Fixer, thanks to this glorious Sunset, the pride of Baldwin Hills would be ready if duty called.
“39, baby! Your magic number is 39!”
C-Note was looking around for somebody to give a high-five to when he noticed something else in the sky, just below and to the right of his Conf
idence. It didn’t look like clouds, though. It looked more like letters . . .
“BD.”
A new feeling surged through C-Note. He reached down onto his belt and pulled off a small black device known as a Blinker. It came with a host of functionalities, one of the best of which was real-time messaging to anyone in the crew. He toggled down the Duty Roster to Fixer #37 and began to type in a text, “Thx! I needed tht.”
Harold Carmichael smiled and waited patiently for a response, which came only a few seconds later.
“No sweat,” texted back the Fixer known as Becker Drane. “Catch u on the Flip Side.”
1. All Tools copyright © the Toolshed, the Institute for Fixing & Repair (IFR), The Seems, XVUIVVI. For more information, please see: “Appendix C: Tools of the Trade.”
2. The process by which Goods & Services produced in The Seems are converted by the Fabric of Reality into aspects of The World.
1
The Golden Rule
Becker Drane’s life was pretty much always this exciting.
Not only did he have “the best job in The World,” but on the day he turned thirteen, Becker’s allowance doubled, his bedtime was pushed to “it’s up to you,” and his need to sneak into PG-13 movies was rendered obsolete. Best of all, he had finally hit a growth spurt, transforming him from a small kid with old-school corduroys and shaggy hair to a medium kid with old-school corduroys and shaggy hair. But although his newfound lank granted him an extra gear on the soccer field and an added measure of respect from the Melvin Sharps3 of the world, it didn’t mean that all was well.
The stresses of leading a double life had definitely begun to wear on him. Becker’s grades had continued to suffer— dropping precipitously close to a C-plus average—while the pressure of having to save The World every six weeks or so had caused him to drop a few pounds and have noticeable bags under his eyes. His parents and teachers constantly asked him if everything was okay and he knew the unspoken suspicion centered around a host of possible maladies, including but not limited to: the Internet, video-game addiction, male anorexia, and clinical depression.
Much harder to deal with was the strong sense of disconnect that had slowly wormed its way into the Fixer’s life. When Chudnick and the Crozier boys wanted to trade MP3s or talk about girls, it was like he just couldn’t join in the fun. He tried to confide in his co-workers from The Seems, but even though they were cool and interesting, they were all much older than he. In fact, the only regular kid that Becker could be honest with was his brother, Benjamin. But even that was tainted, since the seven-year-old believed The Seems was just an intricate fantasy world that his brother had dreamed up.
Sooner or later, Becker needed to find someone to talk to— and he knew who he wanted that someone to be.
The Atrium, The Big Building, The Seems
“Five minutes, mates!” A voice with a familiar Australian accent echoed over the loudspeaker. “Five minutes till we’re back!”
Becker polished off his Dazzleberry muffin and admired the glass-enclosed atrium. This was the lightest and airiest part of the Big Building, used for conventions and cocktail parties, and it was filled with all sorts of custom-designed flora that the Department of Nature had been kind enough to donate. Intermission was almost over and Becker was preparing to head back for the Monthly Briefing when a voice whispered from behind the Zen rock garden.
“Drane—over here!”
Becker turned to see a scraggly janitor, casually mopping an already clean spot on the marble floor. He was wearing a Big Building jumpsuit with a Blue Collar around his neck— signifying that he was a master of the custodial arts—but anyone who knew would know that Brooks was in The Know.4
“I thought I said after the meeting,” Becker replied, peeking over his shoulder to make sure no one else was looking.
“Sorry, kid.” Brooks dipped his mop back in the slop. “You’re not my only customer.”
Becker strolled over to the rock garden as if he’d just noticed a diamond wedged between two stalks of bamboo.
“Did you get it?” he asked.
“The question is, did you get it?”
Becker took another cautious peek over his shoulder, then reached into his Toolkit. But instead of producing one of the Toolshed’s finest innovations, he pulled out a white bag with an onion-heavy smell emanating from somewhere within. “Of course I got it. The System’s open 24/7.”
Inside the bag was a California Cheeseburger and an order of fries (salt, pepper, ketchup) from the White Rose System, the best fast-food establishment in central New Jersey and arguably the entire World.5 Brooks tore off the tissue paper wrapping and inhaled half of the burger in a single bite.
“Ahh . . . that’s what I’m talkin’ about . . .” A look of sheer bliss was covering the janitor’s face. “SeemsBurger just doesn’t have that extra . . . umph.”
This was the truth. Though the Seemsian Food & Drink Administration had done its best to replicate fast food—one of the few creations that The World can call its own—it had never quite perfected the ratio of grease to Love. And while the Fixer hangout known as “The Flip Side” produced a mouth-watering burger, it was more of a gourmet experience.
“I held up my end of the bargain,” Becker reminded his contact. “Now you hold up yours.”
“Take a Chill Pill, Drane.” Brooks cleansed his palette with a swig of vanilla shake, then pulled something from his pocket. “I got what you need.”
It was a small circular cartridge, with the letters “JK” written on them in white Sharpie marker.
“How is it?” asked the nervous Fixer.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be happy with the merchandise.”
Becker already was, and couldn’t wait to pop the cartridge into his Blinker. But before he could find a quiet corner, an eighty-three-year-old South African woman cheerily waved from across the room.
“Come, dear,” said the Fixer known as the Octogenarian. “Time to finish up.”
On the other side of the atrium, the rest of the Duty Roster were filing back toward Central Command for the second half of the Briefing.
“Thanks, man,” whispered Becker to his shady cohort. “Same time next month?”
“Bet,” replied Brooks, polishing off the rest of the Cali Cheese. “And next time grab me a pork roll too.”
The two confidants shook hands on the deal, and Becker was about to rejoin his fellows, when his growling stomach forced a final request . . .
“Lemme get a fry.”
Central Command, The Big Building, The Seems
In the basement of the Big Building, some five hundred floors below the Powers That Be, was the fortified ops center known as Central Command. Here, highly trained personnel monitored the health and well-being of The World on a moment-by-moment basis, making the final determination of whether or not to send in a Fixer (and Briefer) when a problem arose. And it was also here that each month the entire Roster gathered in the Conference Room to discuss any new or pressing developments.
This month’s meeting had been pretty much business as usual, concentrating on a recap of last month’s Missions and the ongoing transition from the Door system to the newly ratified Skeleton Key™, which had revolutionized how commuters traveled back and forth between the worlds. Instead of searching for a series of scattered portals, they could now insert the handy Tool anywhere in the Fabric of Reality and open a seam directly into the In-Between. The only problem was, the group charged with phasing out the antiquated Doors was the same group who used them most often.
“I don’t know about you guys,” chirped No-Hands Phil, Fixer #36 on the Rotation. “But if I have to seal up another one of these Doors, I’m gonna apply for a job at Home Depot!” Phil’s feet were kicked up on the conference table and his eye patch barely hid his prickly attitude.
“They would never hire you, Phil,” retorted Tony the Plumber, #22, hands resting on his generous belly. “You have to not be a jerk.”
Becker cracked up at Tony’s diss on Phil. Though #36 was undeniably one of the most talented Fixers on the duty roster, his personality left a lot to be desired.
“Now, now, gentlemen,” the Octogenarian soothed the warring factions with her always sunny disposition. “We’re all on the same team here.”
The side door to the conference room abruptly swung open and in walked a Fixer in her twenties, with double-braided pigtails and flip-flops on her feet.
“All right, mates,” said Cassiopeia Lake, “the meeting is back in session.”
For three years now, Casey had been the bearer of the Torch—an eternally lit flame that symbolized the unofficial leader of the Fixers—and thus it was her job to run the monthly Briefings.
“We only have one item left up on the docket, but it’s probably the most important, so please pay attention.”
Frau Von Schroëder, at #38 the newest of the Fixers, whipped out an old-fashioned Briefing pad, but Becker leaned over and whispered in her ear.
“Don’t worry about taking notes, Frau.” He and the German mother of three had been Candidates together at the IFR and had become pretty tight. “They’ll send you the minutes over your Blinker, so you’re better off just tuning in.”
“Danke, Becker,” said the Frau, feeling like a freshman on her first day of class. “Lucky I am sitting next to you.”6 She tucked the pad back into her Toolkit, then quietly waited for Fixer Lake to continue.
“As all of you undoubtedly know, a certain ‘underground organization’ has been sticking a poison-tipped thorn in our sides for some time now.”
A murmur of agreement ran through the crowd, for all of them at some point or another had faced acts of sabotage perpetrated by the shadowy movement known as “The Tide.” Fixer Lake flipped over a white grease board on which was ominously drawn the image of a black cresting wave—foaming and ready to crash upon the shore.
“Jammed-up fans in the Wind Tunnels. Locusts in the Color Fields. A corked and blown-up Rain Tower.” One at a time, she removed photographs depicting these Tide assaults and tacked them on the board. “With increasing audacity, this insurgency has sought to undermine operations in The Seems in ways that have continually threatened the integrity of The World. And yet, their agenda remains unclear.”