Grey roiled overhead. Rolling through the sweet metallic scented breeze the cracks of thunder echoed while Mr. Luminst shuffled the bulging keyring in his hands. "I'm sorry Mr. Zhir it will only be another minute. Somewhere in this crowded company your key is waiting for you!" His optimism wasn't lost in the barrage of rolling booms. The first stains hit the concrete beneath them and soon the staccato ensued. The overhang draped an uneven wall of rain behind them like some fogged glass puzzle; mosaic slides shifted allowing him brief windows of the Old Temple district in between their slivers.
Click. Were he not sure he'd seen it just three seconds ago he would have sworn that a U-boat hatch cried when the locking mechanism tumbled and the aged hinges croaked reminding him that they were in fact still there. "Here we are, so very sorry I hope you will forgive this minor inconvenience." Mr. Luminst gestured for him to enter and wrapped his stubby hands around the two vacant cases following him inside. Slate flooring spanned the small studio to the full-size glass doors leading to the balcony. The view was nice offering a glimpse of the city proper; the walls resembled concrete that had been doused in paint stripper and if he looked close enough he was pretty sure he could see studs evenly spaced between the rectangular slabs. Circles of stainless steel extended out of the flat plane and supported various glass fixtures: cabinets, shelves and inset lights. "At first when I heard you had planned to renovate the building I was going to suggest perhaps you try finding a more suitable location in New Haven. But now that I see what you've done with the place I--".
The thud of the two cases cut him off followed by the sound of a zipper. He stepped to the island near the kitchen which resembled the hueless floor and set down several folders. The label on top was easy to make out, Batten, MacLeod, sslehof, gel, the thicker the stack got the less legible they were. As Mr. Luminst drew closer and his mouth opened again Nero was quick to cut him off. "Please leave the key on the counter. This is your's." He extended an envelop that was fat.
"Sir.....this...." He stared at the contents then looked up. "This is too much." He extended his hand but it was too late. More folders, a corkboard and various bottles of whiskey were now on the counter as well.
"You better hurry if you want to beat the storm." He stood in front of one of the unmarred concrete slab rectangles and pulled out a piece of chalk before he began drawing what looked like a map of the city. "Thank you for your help today."
Incandescent
Re: Incandescent
Every morning he indulged in the one luxury he could never do without. Twisting the steel knob he stood savoring the short span of time of anticipation and release as the scalding hot water submerged him in complete bliss. Tingles spiked across a tapestry of sinew, muscle and bone; two splayed hands extended to the cool concrete interior of the shower stall and he tilted his head back closing his eyes. They raced through his hair like needles firing at his scalp, pricking along their competitive circuit before they trailed down his back. Blood rushed throughout his body, muscles relaxed and his breathing drew less labored but the feeling that returned each morning from the numbness of night was the spotting between near-excruciating pain and the blunted sting of the seething spray against his litany of cicatrix patches.
Loose tethers wove between the blueprints that some deity, real or imaginary(it didn't matter to him), had bestowed upon him and his line well before. Patches of the fibrous layers carved and cleaved through symmetric arrays. Steam rolled and blurred the smokey silhouette that remained of him until it flooded the entire room. Here he could see it again. Behind shut lids there was only red. At first he thought the lights had triggered. An eye full of shower water rectified that easily enough. His next memory was of Calantha. Plenty of red there but this was different. The oppressive heat was unlike mid day in the Yellow Waste or anything Cadentia had to offer. This was enough to grit his teeth and pop a knuckle the first time. Now he had discipline enough to avoid puncturing that delicate, wet epidermis with his fingers and instead gasped out and turned the knob.
"Thirty seconds...." His mental clock had finished ticking immediately as the water fleeted down the drain. The cool concrete always helped him ground himself after the ritual. Red. Stifling didn't do it justice. Another day of wondering and the unknown staring at him. What would M'Leia think? Maybe she had seen it. Maybe... never mind. He stepped out into the main hall and glimpsed at the elaborate mural looking back at him. The City Proper, flushed out to every alley way and each sewer entrance. There were the lamp posts, the known owners names etched beside in various indicators. Dripping on the floor he made his way over to the fridge and pulled out a glass of orange juice while he finished brushing his teeth.
On the muted television the red, black and white marque scrolled: EXPLOSION IN DOCKSIDE. He watched the procession of words scroll on by before he rinsed that mint out and plunged the sweet fruity nectar down. He looked to the new emails he'd received over night and as the crawl of purple bled into the sky it was only a matter of time until the orange and red and yellow would chase after in a trichromatic rainbow.
A few stragglers still clung to his bare skin as he descended for the fiftieth time. Wear and tear had slowed him down. The average estimate when it had occurred was that it had rapid aged his body. The gravity of the toll haunted him every day; each descent his elbows led open rebellion. They threatened or promised to splinter free from that skin prison one day, his muscles warred with his biological clock and eventually they too would win out- devouring themselves and leaving him a decrepit excuse of a being. Each day before dressing he pushed back the doomsday ticker as well he could. There were occasional signs: a grey sliver to be plucked, metal tasting warm in his mouth and more recently what he had dubbed The Red Visitor. It was all connected as it had always been and would always be. The Inheritance was fickle and varied from generation to generation. Many were grateful not to have been bequeathed by Zhirs of past and there were mornings where he swore beneath his breath.
But every time the temptation came to his tongue his eyes caught side of those unfurled tentacles drawn of chalk against riveted concrete. Checkered lines snaked and rolled over the imaginary dunes of Cadentia and by now there were seven large X's scattered across the paths. Arduous labor couldn't come close to the engineering that had required. Close. So close. He could feel those fatigue toxins flooding his arms and he lowered himself to that cold concrete and stared at the ceiling. Get up. There's work to be done. He groaned, his limbs argued but he rose again and lumbered to the closet. Now he faced the hardest trial of the day: what to wear?
Loose tethers wove between the blueprints that some deity, real or imaginary(it didn't matter to him), had bestowed upon him and his line well before. Patches of the fibrous layers carved and cleaved through symmetric arrays. Steam rolled and blurred the smokey silhouette that remained of him until it flooded the entire room. Here he could see it again. Behind shut lids there was only red. At first he thought the lights had triggered. An eye full of shower water rectified that easily enough. His next memory was of Calantha. Plenty of red there but this was different. The oppressive heat was unlike mid day in the Yellow Waste or anything Cadentia had to offer. This was enough to grit his teeth and pop a knuckle the first time. Now he had discipline enough to avoid puncturing that delicate, wet epidermis with his fingers and instead gasped out and turned the knob.
"Thirty seconds...." His mental clock had finished ticking immediately as the water fleeted down the drain. The cool concrete always helped him ground himself after the ritual. Red. Stifling didn't do it justice. Another day of wondering and the unknown staring at him. What would M'Leia think? Maybe she had seen it. Maybe... never mind. He stepped out into the main hall and glimpsed at the elaborate mural looking back at him. The City Proper, flushed out to every alley way and each sewer entrance. There were the lamp posts, the known owners names etched beside in various indicators. Dripping on the floor he made his way over to the fridge and pulled out a glass of orange juice while he finished brushing his teeth.
On the muted television the red, black and white marque scrolled: EXPLOSION IN DOCKSIDE. He watched the procession of words scroll on by before he rinsed that mint out and plunged the sweet fruity nectar down. He looked to the new emails he'd received over night and as the crawl of purple bled into the sky it was only a matter of time until the orange and red and yellow would chase after in a trichromatic rainbow.
A few stragglers still clung to his bare skin as he descended for the fiftieth time. Wear and tear had slowed him down. The average estimate when it had occurred was that it had rapid aged his body. The gravity of the toll haunted him every day; each descent his elbows led open rebellion. They threatened or promised to splinter free from that skin prison one day, his muscles warred with his biological clock and eventually they too would win out- devouring themselves and leaving him a decrepit excuse of a being. Each day before dressing he pushed back the doomsday ticker as well he could. There were occasional signs: a grey sliver to be plucked, metal tasting warm in his mouth and more recently what he had dubbed The Red Visitor. It was all connected as it had always been and would always be. The Inheritance was fickle and varied from generation to generation. Many were grateful not to have been bequeathed by Zhirs of past and there were mornings where he swore beneath his breath.
But every time the temptation came to his tongue his eyes caught side of those unfurled tentacles drawn of chalk against riveted concrete. Checkered lines snaked and rolled over the imaginary dunes of Cadentia and by now there were seven large X's scattered across the paths. Arduous labor couldn't come close to the engineering that had required. Close. So close. He could feel those fatigue toxins flooding his arms and he lowered himself to that cold concrete and stared at the ceiling. Get up. There's work to be done. He groaned, his limbs argued but he rose again and lumbered to the closet. Now he faced the hardest trial of the day: what to wear?
Who is online
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 0 guests