Shifted-Draft

“Just ask for a seat. I read a study on this, chances are you'll get it. Or you won't, and then you can mock me for it. Seems like a win-win situation for you.”

“She's really hot, and she has this convenient lack of personality that really soothes any issues I might have with abusing her dipsomania.”

“So then he said 'it's not you, it's, well, it's not me either. It's your sister.'”

The chuckle that accompanied that last quip was the last thing I overheard before I slipped on my headphones, the music already playing. Today's playlist was a blend of several of my favorites. I'd combined my usual jazz filled hiphop with my selection of depressingly angry rock, throwing in the soundtrack to a favorite game of mine, a war simulation that didn't take itself seriously, the soundtrack it was paired to was suitably and equally over-the-top.

I have a good memory. I entertain myself by glancing at one section of the train, closing my eyes and then counting how many people are sitting there. I'm rarely off by more than one sleep-deprived strap hanger. That's very impersonal though. What I find far more interesting is focusing on a single person. I'll remember all the aspects of their face, the shape of their nose, the color of their eyes, how much makeup they've caked on that day, how thick their eyebrows are, whether or not their lips are chapped, everything. Then I'll close my eyes and reconstruct them in my mind. But that, in itself, is hardly interesting. There's no challenge in reproducing what's already there. Instead, I'll modify the nose, change the eye color, maybe add a mole or two. Just as well, I don't have a photographic memory. I instead remember faces as a group of aspects, as a group comprised of a nose, eyes and a mole. This simplifies the modifications as I'm not bound to any artistic integrity I might have had if I could remember reality as it actually is.

It always astounds me how packed a train can be and, at the same time, how apathetically impersonal it is. I can stand close enough to somebody to smell their breakfast and yet not know anything else about them. I can be closer to strangers than I am to my family during dinner or to my classmates during lectures. In fact, if either of those two situations had people as close to me as they are right now, it'd be uncomfortable. But here, in the train as it passes over the bridge and the sun streams through the acid-scratched windows, I stand with my headphones set to an uncomfortably loud track that's just starting to build up its bass beat with a half dozen people within 3 feet of me. And I close my eyes, bringing forth from my memory the scenario that's around me.

The image of the blond girl standing in front of me pops up in my mind first, her face a blur for a moment before I set to the task of clearing away the mist. Her green eyes sparkle into existence, framed by her thin eyebrows. Her hair brightens in luminance as I trace its ends while remembering where they should fall. Over her shoulders and down past her bust, I recall. Her blue shirt comes forth as I trace hair past it, the curve of her bust traced and altered until I'm satisfied I have the proper dimensions. Almost as an afterthought, I add on the thin black strap of her bag, over emphasized in a pathetic attempt to make it up to myself for nearly forgetting about it.

I set about filling in the rest of the passengers around me, another girl standing next to the blond, her back towards me, the man to her left, one hand wrapped around a rail, the other clutching a book, the young man to my left, leaning against the door in a misguided attempt to fall asleep as the light shines in his face. I filled in the floor, a messy thing with a streak of black where a bicycle's tire had an unexpected meeting with a shift in momentum. I went back and made the blond girl's bust a tad bit larger. After all, if I'm entertaining myself, might as well entertain all of myself. The two men directly next to me were altered as well. I thought about how the high schooler to my left would look with more facial hair, superimposing the image of hair growing out of skin over what unfolded in my mind; decided that he looked worse for the wear with more hair, instead removing it entirely, having the hair simply fall out of the skin in my zoomed in view.

Predictably, I lost interest quickly. He fell through the floor, vanishing from the landscape. They all did, one at a time, timed to the beat now rattling through my head. Each time the bass struck and I could feel the vibrations meet in the center of my head, another passenger met their end in my apathy. This too grew boring. The apparitions left with little fanfare. Perhaps a more violent end would be suitable.

I opened my eyes. Everybody was still there. The high schooler to my left now wide awake, apparently having given up all attempts at sleep. The bookmark in the man's book changed places. The blond girl's actual attributes incited a twinge of disappointment. The sun no longer shines through the windows, we're underground now. That won't do. I close my eyes again.

All the familiar characters pop back into existence, their memory persisting, sharpened as I focus on the various details. This time, I make sure to add the girl's bag, I adjust the location of the man's bookmark, I place a sombrero on the high schooler, solely because I can. Pleasantly, we're back on the bridge, the sunlight diffuse and permeating the train from every angle. I animate the characters in my play; none of them talk but all of them fidget. Right then, the track changed in my headphones, the lull in noise triggering a serene pause in the fidgeting crowd in my mind. The few seconds of inactivity have the effect of sending my thoughts wandering. How are the other passengers handling the swaying of the train? Wouldn't it be surreal if the railings swayed as well? Well, resonated, to be specific. But that wouldn't work, they're connected to everything else, they'd have to be separated. And so they were, the railing to my right floated by itself, resonating because I willed it to. That only lasted until the next track declared itself with a thundering crash, a sound I associated with disassociation. The railing burst apart into a cloud of metallic shards, each catching the sunlight in a different way. These fragments, in turn, vaporized into tiny particles, coming together to form a grayish mist of reflective dust. This was more like it. I knew the track that played now. I knew when it wound ramp up the power, when it, one time only, toned it down only to increase the magnitude of the subsequent surge, I knew it. And I intended to do it justice.

At the next clash of drums, I saw a wave of disintegration ripple through the train's cabin, the resulting particles falling away through the bridge into the water below. Its cessation took with it the advancing threshold of destruction, leaving my attention to focus on the cloud of dust that was, just moments ago, tons of metal, plastic and human flesh. How many molecules were there? What would immediately condense into that cloud? From all those people, how much fat was there floating in mid-air? How much protein? A flash of curiosity struck and, with it, an answer coalesced: a muscle came about from one of the concentrated portions of the cloud. Half a meter long, a spasm contracted it, pulling at invisible tendons only to tear itself to shreds as the music progressed. The chorus passed around again, taking with it another third of the train, this time from the opposite end. This was hardly interesting the second time around.

It would only make sense, there would have to be wind flowing through what was left of the cabin now. It would then follow that wind would sometimes gust up, especially at the altitude of the bridge. And what interest would a gust of wind be if it didn't take with it a handful of passengers who now had no railing to hold on to? Their stoic silence as they fell the dozen stories until they hit the water matched perfectly with the calm interlude that I had been waiting for.

My attention turned back to the blond in front of me. Her hair, now caught by the breeze, gracefully wafted about her as the tips began to evaporate. The muscles around her mouth budged, her mouth about to open. The oncoming barrage of bass spared me, however€, from whatever inanity I might have imagined her to say. She, along with the oblivious pair of the sombrero wearing high schooler and the dedicated book reader, abruptly changed her preference in the state of matter category, no longer holding my interest. A final gust of wind blew them away almost as soon as it was possible. The disintegration of their memories was complete.

My eyes opened to the bustle of a major station, with enough passengers stepping off the train to allow me a seat. Sleep did not elude me.

I opened my eyes, a sense of confusion washing over me. An absence of something made me feel naked, deprived of something I felt was customary and, even more than that, necessary. My wireless headphones were still on my head, I felt my wallet in my pocket, my phone in the other, my bag was on my lap, cushioning my elbows as my palms dropped from the cradle shape they’d been forced into by my forehead while I slept. Something still felt off, my music should’ve started up by now. I’d assumed I was in between tracks but the interval was too long by this point. Maybe I hit the pause button on accident while I slept, or the battery died. I hurriedly reached for my pocket, thrusting my hand in only to find a pack of card I’d forgotten about. More importantly, the phone wasn’t in there. It must’ve fallen out and been stolen, or I’d been pick-pocketed. The connection died when the train pulled away and out of wireless range.

“I need to wake up.”

In Progress- Short Story. Based on previous Rachel excerpt.

Circumstance

"Get up, Rachel." A voice intruded into my dreams, slowly solidifying. "Get up." A rather annoyed voice. "Rachel." It sounded again, increasingly aggravated. I felt a gentle push against my shoulder. Then another, and another and I awoke, my brow and nose damp. "Up? Get up, Rachel."

"What, wait, what, where, who are you?"

"You're in a hospital, of sorts. You've recently acquired a rather interesting ability. No, no questions, I'm not in the mood. Nor do I want to hear your sleepy string of pointless questions. Care for a coke?"

"Umm."

"I'll take that as a yes. Get your things together." I realized I was wearing a gown, my clothes, a frantic glance around the room later, were on a nearby chair. "I'll be back in five minutes, be ready."

Where was I? I looked around, not seeing anything noteworthy, the chair with my clothes on it, a window that showed only sky, a glass of water on the table to my left. Oh, he'd spilled a bit onto my face so I'd wake up. A hospital? Why? I felt fine. I didn't remember how I got there though. I was, I think, on my way home from class, walking through the park when I saw a man walking towards me, talking on his phone and then, I. And then I woke up with Mr. Coke crudely splashing my face with water?

"Ready?" came the tense question from outside the door. Had I been trying to remember for 5 minutes?

"No, one moment." I peeked under the sheets, yes, my gown was long enough to cover everything, got up and dashed to my clothes, pulled my jeans on as quickly as I could while hopping towards the door, at which point I stood with my back against it, threw off the gown and put on my shirt. I felt accomplished.

"Can I come in?"

I stepped away from the door, expecting it to open. "Yes."

"Great. Now come out, we've got to go." He handed me a bottle of coke as I stepped through the doorway. "I'll be brief. I don't want to be here today. Usually, we'd watch you..."

"Watch me?"

"Watch you for development and see if you contracted...

"Contracted?"

"Contracted the ability or not. In your case, and this is the first time we've seen this, you exhibited it in your sleep, saving us a great deal of hassle."

"Exhibited what?"

"Great, you're a curious one. Let's make a deal. You don't interrupt me and I get to finish my sentences? That sound fair?" He didn't wait for my answer before starting off down the hall. "Follow me. Here's what happened. One of us lost control and passed on his ability to you. You passed out, as everybody does. Realizing what happened, he made sure to bring you here. Got it so far?" I opened my coke in the momentary lull, the hiss of pent up gas sharp in the quiet hallway. I winced at the accidental impoliteness.

"Yes. But, what ability? I feel just like I always do."

"It's better to see it first hand, in all its splendor. That'll come later." We'd been passing by doors at regular intervals, finally stopping next to an entrance to a staircase when his phone began vibrating in his pocket. He picked up, glanced at the display, flicked it open with a thumb and brought it to his ear, his face betraying dismay almost immediately. "Yes, sir. Of course. And then I can leave? Okay. Ha." His face brightened up, mouth curling into a smirk. "Yes, I'll tell her. I'll be right there."

"Tell me what?"

"You didn't wonder how we knew that you had exhibited it in your sleep, did you? The room you were in had cameras installed, as does every other room for that matter. I was told to tell you that they are marvelous."

***

"You've got a new assignment, Mark."

"Oh?"

"Yea, a babysitting deal."

"Great. Why me? Are they at least capable, not like the dull witted hunk of lard I had to run through the paces last time."

"She's capable. Attractive, smart. Aced the tests we laid out for her. Most importantly, she's done previous work with an NGO."

"So she's a candidate for the African?”

"Yes," John said, "you'll meet her tomorrow, give her a bit of a demonstration, alright?"

"My usual?"

"What else?"

***

I stood in front a row of monitors, a keyboard and mouse laid out on the otherwise clear desk. John hit a switch I didn't see previously on the side of the desk and a panel of the desk slid back, uncovering a series of switches, labels too small to read from where I stood. John flicked the left-most switch, triggering the wall behind the monitors to split apart, revealing a gigantic open, empty room before us, basketball court markings on the floor. I walked over to the side of the desk and gazed down through the window, hearing another three clicks coming from John's fingers. The room slowly underwent a massive transformation. A row of bulls-eye targets descended from the ceiling, held firmly in place by curved metal rods. A dozen steel beams extended out of themselves in ever thinning sections across the width of the room, locking themselves into tiny hatches at the opposite walls. Another set of bulls-eyes popped up at the far end of the room. Moments later, three of the monitors flickered on, displays constantly panning camera feeds of the room in front of us.

“There are a dozen cameras in that room, each recording in high definition for later review. I can view any of them live from these monitors or review the footage later. The fourth monitor here,” he pointed the remaining blank monitor, “is currently displaying the feed from another room. The lights are off, so the camera can’t see anything.” John clicked the last button in the line-up while explaining the set-up to me. Moments later, a tiny microphone protruded from the desk. “I don’t know why they had to hide that. We gave the tech guys a bit too much money to outfit this room and they got a bit too happy.”

I ventured a question, still unsure of what exactly I was doing here and what the room was for. “Is this where I get to see it, whatever it is, first hand?”

“Yes. One moment.” He fiddled around with the mouse for a few moments, tapped the microphone and spoke loudly into it, “Mark, please report to the room immediately.”

I heard the command echoed over the PA system and, shortly after, Mark’s vulgar response coming from outside the door, “The room. What room? Could he be any less specific? Immediately. I would get there immediately, if I knew what fucking room I had to go to.”

“Mind opening the door and telling him ‘the fucking practice entry room,’ please?”

I opened the door, peered out, saw Mark, or I guessed it was him, as he was the only person in the hall, and figured that doing what John had said would probably be better for me than flinging a curse at Mark, who, by this time, saw me and was heading in my direction. I squeaked out “the fucking practice entry room,” my voice breaking mid-way through as I realized I made the wrong decision.

He continued walking towards me, slightly faster than I thought one could possibly walk, until he stood right in front of me, stared at me in my quickly averting eyes, and asked a simple question. “You Rachel?”

Almost as soon as I regrettably answered “yes” Mark waved his hand in between us, a foot away from me. An excruciating immediately pain shot through my chest as if someone had slammed a book against it. I stumbled back into the room, losing my breath.

“Flashy, yes? Too flashy? You asked for a demo, John.”

John sighed in what I hoped was disgust, “just go to the entry room.”

***

The fourth monitor flickered, then steadied as I focused on Mark’s bright red hoody, a splash of color against the gray floor, what looked like a soft gray chair and the metal table in front of him. He stood there, looking directly at the camera. “What are my options?” he asked, his voice coming clearly through a speaker to my right.

John fiddled with the mouse again and zoomed the camera into the table, “open the top drawer, pick whatever and however much you want. Make this good.” This time his voice only sounded in the Mark’s room, no longer routed to the PA system. Mark opened the top drawer, revealing a bowl of ball bearings, two solid metal knives with a ring on one end and their accompanying sheaths nearby and, lastly, two pistols with four magazines surrounding them. “Make it look good Mark, please.” Mark grabbed a handful of ball bearings, tapped a button on the wall to his left and step through the still opening door into the large room, immediately appearing on two of the other three monitors. The small room’s camera feed, still zoomed in, showed the remaining knives, pistols and their ammo, and the mostly full bowl of little metal balls. “First phase, Mark, once you’re ready.” Standing in the middle of the room, he alternated between staring at all the cameras, occasionally chancing upon the three that were being displayed on our monitors.

“I’m ready, what’s first?”

“The targets in front of you.” Mark didn’t move quickly, instead, he poured some of the ball bearings into his pants pocket and held the remaining few out on his left palm.

“Rachel,” he yelled, “watch this.” With that, one of the metal spheres levitated above his palm, his right hand drawn back, waving around as if he was putting on a magic show. “Which one should I hit first?”

“Go ahead,” John whispered, “pick.”

“The one on the left.”

Immediately, Mark’s right arm locked into place, forming a perfect line between the target, the hovering sphere and the flat of his palm. An instant later, a bell rang and John moved one of the cameras over to the target, now with a little glittering indent at its center. “Which one next, Rachel?”

“Challenge him,” John requested.

“All of them, of you can.”

Mark poured the bearings into his right hand, “seriously?”

“So you can’t.”

With that, he was off. His right arm swung forth, hurling the dozen bearings at the two targets that were the closest to each other, setting off two bells. He brought his arm back in, only to swing it out a split second later, a third bell rang. He held out his left palm again, twitched his right hand twice, two more bells rang. “Satisfied?” I could easily see his grin, zoomed out as the camera was.

“What just happened?”

“And this, Rachel, is why we record this.”

I saw now, in slow motion, what Mark had done. First of all, he hadn’t poured all the balls into his right hand, he’d kept three in his left hand, tightly closed into a fist. So that explained the last two targets. What about the other target? The feed continued in slow motion. Ah, a knife. Mark had a knife, just like the kind I saw in the drawer, in his left hoody sleeve. It slid out, as if on cue. Marked simply grabbed it from his left wrist and let it fly on its way to the target in one fluid motion. “Wow” was the only thing I could come to say.”

“Now the higher targets, please.”

“How’ll he reach those, John, they’re angled up, away from him, he’d be on their level or arc it up there or…” I stopped talking as I saw Mark begin to float up in the air, slowly turning head over heels, his face inches away from one of the horizontal bars at one point, until he touched down on the ceiling, his hands resting on his hips.

“Now, John?”

“Any time you’re ready.”

Midway through John’s reply, Mark’s right hand shot forth, a metallic blur accompanying his pink flesh. His arm barely moved as he picked off every target with slow, controlled shots from a pistol, again, the same sort as the one in the drawer. “But he didn’t take any from the first room.”

“Luck favors the prepared. The prepared favors knives and his right hand.”

***

Mark was an excellent teacher. While lacking his flair, Rachel quickly matched his level of control. She preferred a gun for target sessions, having an easier time with it than she expected, the ability allowing for the management of recoil and more precise aiming. “You’re ready.”

“For?”

“Our overseas operation.” Rachel had heard of it, knew that they were involved in humanitarian aid in Africa, employing their rather unique skills to negotiate with local warlords. They’d flat out bribe the lords in return for safety and protection instead of harassment and corruption. As a result, their efforts were more successful and they enjoyed a certain degree of freedom and security usually absent from such situations. Certainly more secure than her previous noble excursion.

***

Rachel peered out of the metallic frame, gingerly taking her first step down the plane's steps as she inhaled her last breath of African air and involuntarily welcomed the bullet into the crevices of her gray matter. The resulting stain on the airplane took far too long to remove.