by Alex Fall
Our group stepped inside the "foyer" area and Vick immediately went to the back of the room to open up a cabinet.
"Anyone for something hot to drink?" He asked.
"Coffee," Reggie requested.
"I'm fine. Oh captain, there's a malfunctioning skiff nearby that I spotted on the way here. Permission to get it back to working?" Asked Lori.
"Sure."
"Captain, anything to drink?"
"...tea."
"Do you have cocoa?" Sharon asked.
"Not sure, but I can look around," Vick replied.
"Gar, you're with me," Lori said.
"Aw, what?"
"I'm just a mechanic. You need to fix the HUD and readouts on this thing."
Wyatt groaned and pulled his coat back on, following Lori out the door.
"...Who are you?"
A voice, firm, unfamiliar, and extremely near to my proximity, raised my adrenaline level. Who is this? How did they get so close to me without me noticing? Reflexively, I pulled a pistol and swirled around to stuff it up my would-be stalker's nose. Except...no one was there. Wyatt froze when he saw me pointing a gun in his general area and Lori peeked in as well. Reggie jumped from being startled. Sharon backed away to Vick. Yet, there was no mystery person.
I don't understand...
"Captain?" Vick asked cautiously.
"A voice. Someone spoke to me."
"I didn't-" Reggie began to say.
"Who are you?" The voice repeated. This time, everyone went on alert.
"Who said that?" Wyatt asked frantically.
"Who are you?" It repeated, slower and more serious.
"Is that all you can say?!" I shouted to the wind.
A moment passed. "No it isn't. Now answer me."
"I don't talk to ghosts!" I shouted.
"Step outside."
I looked over to my crew and signalled everyone to stay put. Then I proceeded outside, thanking myself for wearing whatever armor I had left.
The safety flicked off for a plasma gun quite near to me. To my right, a woman with fierce, blue eyes and red hair held a bulky plasma handgun pointed at my face. Her presence aroused irritation within me. I'll have to hurt her for that. Behind her stood four men with assorted weapons. To my left were two men and another woman, also armed and ready. And to top it off, the green dot of a laser sight lined up on my chest. One of the men to my left seemed to be rubbing his temples, as if with a headache. Two of the men to my right had equipment suggesting they were bolts.
The woman's eyes narrowed when I looked her way. "Sapphire Eyes?"
Botches...
"What do you think?" I replied sarcastically.
"Huh...some way to speak to soldiers. No wonder you look hideous." She powered down her gun and relaxed her arm.
She's irritating. I'm going to have to make it clear not to push me. "At least I don't have badly dyed red hair."
I think she tried to glare at me, but it was laughable. She is quite the amateur.
"Yeah, she'll fit right in," spoke the man rubbing his temples. He looked up and snapped his fingers, and everyone but himself, the redhead, and the sniper disappeared from view. I was left with a minor headache as well.
"Excuse me?" I retorted, rubbing my own temples.
The man, middle aged, seemingly relaxed, and blonde with a short, whiskery beard, explained, "We've been told to keep an eye out for you. You're quite famous, you know."
"Start talking and start making sense," I growled.
"Captain, it's OK," Reggie said as he approached me outside. "I don't think these people are a threat."
"How do you figure that?" I asked aloud, holstering my handgun.
"Cause we heard whispers of a group of people who hung out on the fringes of town. Some kind of revolutionists or something," Lori added.
"Oh wow, you people are so misinformed."
I stepped up to the redhead's face, causing her to ready her gun again. "Then inform me, rodent."
* * *
"OK, now try switching between D and A notes slowly and smoothly."
Fake Arty, currently my figmental Cello teacher, watched and occasionally guided my hands. My notes were smoothing out and the speed of switching from string to string (without errors) was picking up. Last night’s events flustered me. I was stressed and I wanted to talk. I can't believe that I WANT to talk, but I do, yet he has me confined to cello practice. Why am I doing this?
I stopped playing. "Can we be done?"
"If it's necessary..."
I placed the instrument aside gently. I've been chastised far too many times for not handling it with care. Then I groaned as I rubbed my face. "I don't know what to think of these people."
"What people?" He asked innocently.
"Arty, you know what I'm talking about. You always know."
He simply stared at me with that smirk on his face. I knew that he wasn't going to respond unless I talked. In a battle of silence or willpower, I would win. However, this was a dream, meaning I had limited time. Also, it's futile to out-silence your own mind.
"Yesterday, me and my crew ran across some people. They claim that they are trying to remove whoever currently owns the city. That's supposed to fix a big majority of the problems with the Lessers and Greaters. But there's only twenty or so of them, and they want me to join their cause. My mind equates them as a Revolution kind of gig, but they say they are not."
I paused, trying to review everything I knew or heard about these people. Was this the group of people Bella referred to? The redhead's name is Nicolette. Is she the same one that gave Rod trouble? Have they been planning for me to join them this whole time?
"These people are not heroic," Fake Arty noted.
"What?"
"I am making you a hero. These people are not."
"Is that supposed to mean something deep?"
"It means they aren't as trustworthy as they'd have you believe. Yes, these people are looking to remove the bad ones in charge, but they aren't interested in the Dwellers."
I looked off at the distant mountains. "It feels like everyone has their own agenda."
"So, where are you now?"
"Looks like some place that got hit during the war. It's got some buildings nearby and part of an old war cruiser to give the campsite a walled in feel."
"Campsite?"
"Yes, campsite. We're all in tents."
"Sounds fun."
I groaned again. "It's not. It's freezing and miserable, the food sucks, and the place stinks like sulfur."
"You're just a bundle of joy, aren't you?" He asked.
"...shut up."
My figment sat down in the grass beside me. "So what are you going to do now?"
"I don't know...map the area, condition my body, get the stuff my crew stashed."
We sat in silence for a moment.
"Nicolette is a *cussing* *cuss,*" I threw in.
"Erin, that was unnecessary. Don't cuss."
"It's true. She's irritates me dry."
"You irritate her."
I scoffed. "What's her problem? Redhead stereotype?"
"Bad chemistry," he replied with a shrug.
"Don't talk to me about bad chemistry," I retorted, lowering my head into my hands and covering my mouth and nose with my fingers.
"Meaning...THEM?"
"Meaning it's getting close to that time of month..."
Fake Arty slowly turned to check how serious I was. "You...you still get those?"
I felt myself shoot him a glare. It wasn't a death glare, but it was definitely threatening. "You're my figment. Don't be such a guy about it."
"Sorry, I just thought that maybe, the stuff THEY did...and the..." I narrowed my gaze upon him. "OK never mind, on another note! You should practice cello when you're awake too."
A sarcastic laugh broke free of my lips.
"You'll get much better!" He pleaded.
"And how am I supposed to do that, wise one? It's not like there's fiel
ds of cellos lying around! And even if, and I mean IF, I find one, this is a dream! I can't do *cu-"
"Don't!"
We started at each other as I let the breath I was using to speak flow from my nose. "I can't do anything when I'm awake. I don't know how."
"You don't? I've been teaching you every night."
Seriously? This is childish. "No, it doesn't work like that! People don't dream about something and suddenly know how to do it."
Fake Arty's hand reached up and moved a strand of hair from my face. He then rested his hand on my cheek. "Please don't be upset. I thought I'd just make the suggestion. You never know until you try, right?"
That smile. His passively overwhelming demeanor. His hand on my check. It's getting to me...
"Stop."
"You're going to wake up soon," he whispered.
Fine, I'll play his game. "Please?"
His thumb stroked my cheekbone. "What's this? Manners?"
We paused to stare. I felt that...whatever it was, collect in the air again. Is this feeling coming from him or me? Or is that the same thing? After dreaming about him for so long, he almost doesn't even look like Arty. He bears a strong resemblance, he sounds like the real one, has his warmth, even smells the same. But maybe because of the way this Fake acts, the things that we've done that are locked in my memories, he does not register as the same person. My mental bias now tells me that this Fake looks different, even though he doesn't, and my mental bias...likes...this one more.
That feeling began to rise again, this time from within myself.
"The mind is an interesting thing, isn't it?" He noted.
I gently reached up, and plucked his hand off my cheek. Where his hand once was left behind a cool spot on my face, grasping for the warmth it had just been feeding off of.
"Please," I repeated.
"Oh, fine. But only because you asked so nicely!" He said with cheery gusto. "Don't forget to be a hero today!" He added, punctuating with a poke to my belly.
I stood, half playful, but half broiled by irritation. "I'm getting awfully tired of telling you to quit that!"
"Oh shoot! I thought you were about to wake up!"
"That's fine. It'll give me time to break that finger off!"
I spent the last few seconds dreaming of chasing the Fake through the trees.
The real world greeted me much less kindly than the dream world of Ilavoan. There was barely any light outside, as the sun had only just begun to rise. The cold air felt as if it clawed at my face because the heater had tipped over in the night and turned off. My mouth was dry from sleep meds, and to top it all, a subtle sulfuric scent lingered in the air.
I mentally prepped myself before leaving my cot. Dressing quickly to avoid the cold, I rubbed the hair from my face and noted how disgustingly greasy I was. I kept mental track of Sharon's filth level, due to the fact that her personal scent was very strong, but I neglected myself. All I could do was close my eyes in disgust and slip on another shirt.
Stepping over a sleeping Sharon and turning on the heater again, I made my way over to the exit of the tent. As I unzipped the opening, Sharon stirred in her sleep, but so did the guard outside my tent. Is this a sign of distrust, to keep a guard on me?
"Oh wow, you're up early," he said. Seems that he had just been sleeping on the job.
"This is normal for me. Do you have a shower or something?"
"A shower?"
I locked onto his eyes awaiting his answer. He seemed to freeze.
"Yes! A shower," I prompted after a moment.
"Oh sorry. It's just..."
"What, the way I look?" I stated, needlessly agitated. "Is that what it is?"
The poor guard broke gaze and looked for something to save him. "It's, uh...the showers are not exactly, they're uh, they're inside that building over there. It has working hot water."
Inside the building. What that translated into was that there was an older structure, possibly an old gym, that was halfway structurally unsound, but the other half contained a showering hall. The water heaters had been restored to working condition thanks to the group of Greaters now housing me. The tile floor was bitterly cold against my bare feet, and the first wave of water felt right at the freezing point, so I avoided the room in its entirety, fully clothed, until I could feel the heat and see the steam coming from the room.
A hot shower was like a blessing. The warmth pulled me in an embrace. Even after I finished cleaning all the grime, grease, and blood off my body and shampooed the gunk from my hair, I was content to stay in the shower. The warm water flowed over my battered, stiff body as if it cared for me, as if the water was alive and saying "It's alright Erin, we're finally together again." Long after I was clean, I remained in the shower, cranking the heat up and sitting on the shower floor leaned against the wall. I forgot how much I missed something as simple as a shower. It was the first time in weeks I began to fall asleep without the aid of sleep medicine, and undoubtedly I would have, if someone hadn't banged on the wall outside the room.
"Did you die in there?! Or do you just want to use the hot water up and make sure we have none?"
Nicolette...
My mood sank upon the sound of her voice. I stood and walked out of reach of the water to begin drying off and getting dressed in fresh clean clothes. Once I rounded the corner to see her leaned up on the wall, the irritation sparked on her face.
"Aw, you? What the *cuss?* You just left the water on?!" She shouted.
I stopped by her side, put my hand in her shoulder, and quietly said, "Don't cuss."
She narrowed her blue eyes and swatted across the back of my head. I threw her in an arm lock.
"Uh...should I come back?" Asked a man holding a towel and change of clothes, standing at the entrance to our room.
"No, I was leaving," I declared.
Nicolette spat at me as I left. My anger burned and every fiber of me was ready to turn around and break her nose. The only reason I didn't was because I heard Fake Arty's voice in my head.
My body still felt relaxed from the shower, but the cold seemed out to take its revenge for wetting my hair. I bundled in my long fleece lined coat, even pulling the hood up for maximum protection from the elements. Wandering through the camp and keeping track of it in my mental map, I found Sharon eating at an open tent. This must be a sort of mess hall tent.
"Hey, there are showers here. You need to take a shower after you're done eating."
"Yes ma'am. But...Why?" Ugh, kids.
"Because you're grungy."
"What does that mean?"
"Dirty. You stink."
"That's mean!"
"I know. Now hurry up and finish eating so you can clean yourself."
"I didn't expect you to be the type to have children," an older man's voice commented from afar. This man, Rick, was the unofficial leader of the "Revolutionists." True, he was old and a tinge frail (it may be that he required a cane to walk that instilled this idea in my mind) but for an unspoken reason, everyone in the camp followed his word like law. I recognized by his speech and level of alertness that his mind at least was still keen, and if the camp has managed to keep from being erased from existence, he was unquestionably good at tactics. Nonetheless, his appearance was seemingly gentle. His eyes were cool and it seemed that half of his mouth has heavier than the other, leading him to half smile and half speak. He kept closely trimmed facial hair, if I had to guess, because total shaving was brutal on his skin. His thin, unworked body added to the un intimidating nature he kept. And perhaps most remarkable of all; this man is Nicolette's dad. The resemblance was scanty.
"She's not my child."
"So you simply take care of her?"
"Something like that," I replied, shifting my sights from him to the girl. "Go take a shower."
As Sharon quickly obeyed without question, Rick watched in sober silence.
"I hear my daughter has taken a liking to you," he said, shifting subjects.
"Poor
choice of words." I turned around to gather a meager breakfast.
"Heh, I know. Nicolette can be...perplexing to deal with sometimes. But I feel that I should inform you -"
"You're loyalty is first to her because she is family, I get that. But you don't need to worry about me. I won't be a problem causer..." I paused and cut my eyes to the side at him for added weight. "Unless...you plan on causing ME some problems."
"Of course not, of course not!" He chuckled. "I believe you to be an asset, not an enemy."
Rick still had trouble looking directly at me. I know it was because he found my appearance unsettling. Even more noteworthy, I found his words sketchy. "If anyone crosses me, I will not hesitate to-"
A brief flash of Fake Arty telling me not to be so violent flared up in my mind. Why do you always come up at the worst times? Shut up you!
"Kill them." I finished my own sentence fluidly, without evidence that some personified figment of my imagination was nagging at a conscience that I didn't have before he came along.
"My...sounds intense. Just try to take my daughter with a grain of salt. You two don't get along so well, and you're both quick to take offense."
"I'll do what I can..." I mumbled as I sat down to eat at the only table within the tent. Rick dismissed himself and I was alone for the moment.
This bread tastes like *cuss...*
And Arty, stop telling me not to cuss!
Part 18
Tents.
City.
Colorless sky. This is not Ilavoan.
"Did your day go well?" Fake Arty asked.
"Where am I?" I asked, bolting upright.
"The camp you sleep in."
"Why aren't we in Ilavoan? And why is my cot outside the tent?"
Fake Arty shrugged. "At least its warmer here than when you're awake."