by S. Gates
You punch him lightly in the arm. "God, you're really trying to look like a complete d-bag, aren't you?"
He just laughs. "Don't be jealous of my swag, Dougie. It's not my fault you can't look this phenomenal in plaid."
The sushi joint is a little pricey, but as soon as you're served you realize it's worth it. Simon steals a few pieces from your plate, which prompts you to order nothing but shrimp nigiri and crab rolls. Perhaps it's a little underhanded to prey on his allergies to keep your food safe (especially when he's paying for it), but he makes such a hilariously disgusted face that you can't feel that guilty.
During lunch, you needle him between bites, “So, I’m not the only inhabitant of Casa de Glyndon whose dance card is conspicuously empty.” It’s only fair, you think, considering all the grief he’s given you for being unattached.
He scowls, poking at a piece of egg sushi on his plate with one chopstick. “You are not my wayward, stereotypically Jewish mother,” he said, words low and sullen. You roll your eyes and snort.
“Your own medicine doesn’t taste that great, does it?”
“Oh, fuck you. I’m just waiting for the right moment.” He stabs the piece of sushi with one chopstick and pops it in his mouth.
You can feel your eyebrow creeping up almost of its own volition as you eye Simon across the table. “That makes it sound like you’ve got your eyes on some poor schmuck, since I’m pretending to be your stereotypically Jewish mother.”
His scowl deepens and his black-framed glasses slip down his nose. He shoves them back into place with his middle finger. “You know what? No. I am not having this conversation with you. This isn't any of your business.” The cadence of his words brooks no argument; trying to push the matter will only result in him shutting down completely.
"Okay," you say. The sushi on your plate becomes your sole focus. "Consider the conversation not being had." He grunts a syllable of subdued annoyance, but he doesn't see fit to flip you the bird when he adjusts his glasses again.
The awkwardness of the conversation bleeds away once the meal has been paid for and you're both standing next to his car. Fumbling for the keys, Simon heaves the sort of sigh you normally associate with the chests of teenaged lovers. "All right, man, I'll play it straight with you only because you weren't a complete tool back there and I value your input."
If his stare were a physical thing, you're certain it would have bored a hole straight through your skull. Feeling as though you should make some sort of acknowledgement, you nod. Simon unlocks his door, slides behind the wheel, leans over to let you in. Once you pull your door closed, he starts speaking: "So, there's this guy, right? He's pretty hot, seems pretty nice, only hangs around work when I'm on shift. Seems a little interested."
While your initial assessment of his reasoning wasn't quite on the mark, the reason for his invitation to the drink-and-draw becomes clear. You fight down the smirk that tries to rise to your lips, knowing instinctively that Simon would only be offended by your amusement and probably clam up again. "Need some back-up? Want me to test the waters, maybe get his number? Proper wing-man style? Is he why you changed up your piercings and started wearing that necklace?"
"Ugh, I knew it was a mistake telling you," says Simon with a groan as he starts the car and throws it into reverse.
"No, no, no! I'm totally on board with this," you protest. "I'll hang out for the drink-and-draw and see what this guy's like. Won't say a word about you, won't mention you think he's cute. Not a peep."
Silence stretches out between you, Simon's expression refusing to soften.
Finally, you offer, "You're my best pal, you should know I'm not out to make your life miserable."
He nods. "I know, man."
It only takes a few minutes before you're back at the house, killing the remaining time until Simon's shift begins by playing more Diablo.
* * *
The bookstore where Simon works is what you consider a nearly impossible place tucked away on a shady side-street deep in the heart of downtown. From the outside, it seems like it would be no more than a tiny hole-in-the-wall establishment of no note, the only thing distinguishing its storefront from the others nearby being the gaudy neon sign. Its hours are displayed in lurid pink: open daily from 10:00am - 4:00am.
The interior is warmly lit by primarily incandescent lighting. The door opens to a narrow foyer that leads to the landing of two sets of stairs. One set descends six steps to the cafe, while the other ascends ten steps into the bookstore proper. From the outside, it seems like the whole shop would be no larger than a modest town home, but the interior blooms as soon as you make it past the entrance. It becomes clear that the owner has lain claim to most of the rear half of the block and has lined it all in shelf upon ponderous shelf of used books.
Your favorite aspect of Simon's job is the smell that permeates the whole place: a pleasant mingling of worn paper and dark-roasted coffee beans. It's so rare for you to find yourself in the bookstore that the scent always catches you off-guard, and you find yourself standing on the landing for a few moments with your eyes closed to soak it in. Simon brushes past you, on his way to the cafe, leaving you to fend for yourself.
The strap of your laptop bag digs uncomfortably into your shoulder, so you adjust it and make your way up the stairs into the bookstore. While the cafe offers free wireless internet access, you'd rather spend your time picking through the shelves, at least for now. It has been far too long since you've just wandered through a bookstore with no goal in mind.
The store sees a surprising amount of traffic for a location so well-hidden, or so Simon once told you, but it's almost eerily empty on this particular afternoon. You can tell that the shelves haven't been organized in a while based on the stacks of paperbacks pushed somewhat haphazardly against them, waiting to be replaced (or perhaps placed for the first time, in the case of new trade-ins). Their labeling system is fairly intuitive, however, and it's easy to locate the historical fiction and fantasy novels that typically catch your eye.
It's easy to lose the few hours before the drink-and-draw to browsing books, so you do. It's almost as if you've got the entire book shop all to yourself: everything is quiet, and you don't see a single soul as you browse. It comes as a shock when, after three hours of solitude, you turn a corner and nearly run into a youth of about your height and build.
"Whoops, sorry," you mutter, eyes firmly fixed on the other person's shoes. They are leather boots, black and scuffed from hard wear, though you can't tell how tall they are once they disappear into the person's stone-washed jeans. Your eyes follow the line of the person's legs up, taking note of the ripped out knees, the chain ostensibly attached to a wallet, the spiked leather jacket, and then their face.
There is a moment in which your heart stutters as you meet the person's eyes. His face (it is certainly a young man) is almost the mirror of yours with only a few concessions made to his masculinity. It's what you'd imagined you'd look like when you were younger, stupider, and more prone to fantasizing about what you might be if you'd been assigned a different sex at birth. The young man's hair is artfully swept over one eye, and he wears it in the shaggy sort of undercut you'd never been brave enough to try, dyed a shiny black. You surmise that his ears must be pierced multiple times based on the amount of jingling you hear when he turns to look at you, but he has none of your facial piercings. Instead, he has a single ring in his septum. Several of the earrings on his exposed ear have feathers dangling from them.
He stands, frozen, as you examine him, muscles only twitching to arrange his face into a subtle sneer once you've had a moment to stare. Something that might be amusement (or possibly disgust) flickers across his features as he returns your regard. Finally, he says, "I'd been wondering if we'd have cause to meet. Of course, I had my suspicions, but..." He laughs, though it sounds more like the cackling of a bird than anything human. "Well, I suppose now I know."
His words drip with fake politeness, and you find yours
elf taking an involuntary step back. As if drawn by an invisible string, his feet shift in perfect mirror of yours. Before you're aware of it, the stranger has you backed up against one shelf, hands resting to either side of your shoulders. You fight down the urge to flinch: some part of your hindbrain recognizes it would be a possibly fatal mistake to do so. Instead, you meet his eyes.
They look almost like your eyes at first, a sort of dull gray-green flecked with brown, but they shift even as you're looking at them until they're almost like the inverse of Ori's. They're large and glassy like Ori's, but rather than being a dead black, they're a strange milky-white that reminds you of advanced cataracts or creatures whose eyes have atrophied from living in the depths of caves without light. "What the hell?" Your voice shakes only a little.
The stranger leans in–he's taller than you, and can press his nose to the crown of your head–and sniffs. "You reek of the Lightless Realms," he says, breath ruffling your hair. "One supposes that shouldn't be surprising, since you wear It's mark, but it's almost like you've bathed in It. How... entertaining," and the way he spits out the word tells you that he finds the situation anything but. He grabs your left hand and pulls it up above your head, fingers brushing the silvery band Ori gifted you. It burns.
He shifts his weight and drops his head to rest near your ear. "Were I you, precious pet, I would abandon this trinket, return to your petty concerns, and forget entirely about the Sightless One. I can personally guarantee that will significantly improve your quality of life before the end."
You jerk your hand out of his grasp and shove him back with a firm push to his chest. The ring on your index finger glints as it makes contact with his shirt, and he stumbles, milky eyes widening in surprise. A half-smirk, half-sneer settles on his face. "Cute," he drawls, but he makes no move to close the distance between you again. "You're adorable. So precious. When I've ascended, I'll remember you. I want to tear the flesh from your face and wear your bones. They are so darling."
"The fuck, man!" The words come out in an angry huff, despite the curling feeling of dread that's pooling in your gut. "You can take your fucked up cannibal bullshit and shove it. Who the fuck says shit like that?"
The stranger's expression remains unchanged, but he shuffles back to sketch the parody of a sweeping bow. "By your leave, I introduce myself. In other tongues I am known as First Harbinger, Breaker of the Seals, and the Taloned One. You, delectable little lamb, will know me as Lucien. It is a most laughable moniker all things considered, but I wear it as well as I can." His earrings jingle as he straightens, and he takes another step back. "I hope that you give some thought to my words, precious child. While I wouldn't hate to ruin you so soon, it would hardly be sporting of me."
Before you can respond, he slips back around the corner that you'd been about to turn when you nearly ran into him. All you can do is stare after the stranger dumbly, blinking twice. It occurs to you to follow him only after you've been gaping in his wake for several seconds, but when you turn the corner, the aisle is deserted.
A part of you isn't sure why you expected anything different. The stranger was far too over-the-top to possibly be real, you rationalize, and you still have at least one more visit with the neurologist before you're in the clear. Admittedly, you're pretty sure that will change when you mention to her that you've been hallucinating without the assistance of the co-codamol.
You heave a relieved sigh and adjust the shoulder strap of your laptop bag. The lack of people amongst the shelves suddenly feels oppressive and unwelcoming in the wake of the stranger, so you head back toward the cafe to set up your computer and take advantage of the free wireless internet.
The cafe is not yet packed, but you find it difficult to locate an unclaimed outlet and end up sitting at a small, round table near the middle of the room. The furniture has been arranged to accommodate a clear area where you know the models will stand once the drink-and-draw begins, which leaves little room between tables in which to move around. You end up stuffing your laptop bag under your chair once you've set it up.
You spot Simon behind the counter, and he brings you a small iced cappuccino. Evidently, it's his revenge for your earlier shenanigans with the sushi, because he knows you hate coffee when it's cold. You pull a disgusted face, but you nurse it anyway out of spite.
Gaming takes up more battery power than you're willing to sacrifice when you don't have an outlet, so you content yourself with passing the time browsing a few forums and news sites. The tsunami that nearly obliterated parts of coastal California is still hot news, which is only to be expected, but your favorite forum (an imageboard with an entire sub-forum dedicated to horror stories, conspiracy theories, and urban legends) has exploded since you last felt well enough to stare at text on a screen.
Most of the chatter, unsurprisingly, is apocalyptic in nature: hypotheses about the end of days, the next natural disaster that will wipe out humanity, the collapse of world governments as you know them, fairly standard fare all things considered. It's all largely overreaction in your opinion, but somewhat entertaining to read (and most of the users have posted amusing cartoons or cute, unrelated cat images).
One apocalyptic thread in particular holds your attention, set apart from all the others by the quality of art that the user chose to post alongside their text. The images all seem to be original work, small digital paintings rendered in grays, browns, greens, and reds, depicting Lovecraftian horrors of all sorts, each signed in the corner "SilentHarper17."
"The end of the world IS coming," SilentHarper17 writes in their initial post, "and it's not going to end the way you all think. I know what's going on. I know why that earthquake happened. SHE told me. But I'm not gonna listen. I want to fight back. Ask me questions. The more people who know about this, the more likely it is we can stop it." It's accompanied by an image, lovingly rendered, of a girl: she appears likely no more than seventeen or eighteen, her face is ashen and cast in sickly greens and yellows, her eyes are like smouldering holes burned into the digital canvas, and her smile is not unlike the bared teeth of a wolf. You can't help but shiver while looking at it.
Quickly, you scroll past the post to the string of replies. In the spirit of many pseudo-anonymous web forums, many of them are sarcastic, skeptical, or just plain threatening. Few people seem willing to take SilentHarper17's offer seriously. After five posts, one anonymous user responds, "all right i'll bite. enlighten us o wise silentharper, what da fuck is goin on?" Attached to the post is a picture of a pug puppy with its head cocked to one side.
The response is almost immediate, leading you to believe that this one, at least, was likely pre-typed and simply copied into the reply box as soon as someone asked the question. "Before I start," SilentHarper17 types, "let me disabuse you of a few pretty gigantic misconceptions most of you probably have. First, the Judeo-Christian god as Westerners know him either does not exist or does not give two shits about what is happening. Second, this goes for pretty much every common deity I can think of, actually. Third, and here's the big one, folks, JUST BECAUSE THESE GODS DON'T SEEM TO EXIST DOES NOT MEAN THAT OTHER GODS DO NOT EXIST.
"The universe is really fucking old and really fucking big, and Lovecraft was half-right about the idea of elder beings that are so far beyond human understanding that they may as well be gods in their own right. And those things have been moving across the universe for aeons, taking whatever they want and twisting it. It's become a FUCKING GAME to these... THINGS.
"And that's what's about to happen to Earth. These 'elder gods,' for lack of a better term, are coming. That earthquake in the Pacific wasn't natural tectonic shifting, it was one of the first shots in their sick game. Things are going to get a whole lot worse before they get better. IF they get better.
"See, here's the thing, the game has RULES; SHE told me. They're pretty complicated and I don't get them and I guess I never will because they were made up by consciousnesses more foreign and older than anyone can really imagine. But the point
is: when they find a new planet they want to play with, they have to follow a protocol before they can take it. (inb4 "what if they cheat?!": they don't cheat because cheaters get eaten, and not even elder gods wants to spend the rest of eternity in the belly of another.)
"Anyway, there's a bunch of rules, but the big one is this: in order to claim a planet, they need an avatar. In order to get an avatar, they have to send a tiny shard of themselves down to the planet to court someone into AGREEING to be their avatar. The key thing that works in our favor is that THERE IS A TIME LIMIT. Once the countdown starts, SHE said, we have a little over two months before time's called. All we have to do is make sure no one volunteers, and we're safe."
The subsequent responses are predictably vicious, some accented with "cool story, bro" image macros, others with more colorful epithets. One user scoffs, "Pretty short-sighted of you to assume that you could reach all the potential avatars by posting in English on an American-hosted message-board." SilentHarper responds, "At least I'm trying, which is more than could be said about YOU."
A few users ask questions, and SilentHarper answers them. You find most of the information uninteresting and derivative; it's pretty obvious that SilentHarper17, whoever they may be, is a fan of Japanese horror and Lovecraftian stories. You have little use for either, though the thread manages to keep your interest based on the reactions of the other participants, and the increasing anger SilentHarper professes toward the non-believers.
About half-way down, a new user posts under the handle "Marionettestrings." "That's Alena Flesh-Stealer, isn't it? Mine told me about some of the others. He told me about what they do. He thought it would make me want to accept his offer, but it doesn't. It just makes me want to ruin everything for them. For him."
SilentHarper's response comes a few more posts down, accompanied with another picture of the girl with burnt-out eyes. "You're not alone. Did he tell you how many more of us there are?"