Flight

A narrow hallway stretches out in front of me.  Recessed halogen tubes hum softly and cast a gentle, gloomy light over the doorways to either side.  In the distance I can see movement, a figure, but I can’t make out a face or much in the way of details.  I see suggestions of movement and a hint of shape, a woman.  Is she moving toward me, or is that, too, in my imagination?

In the distance I hear the plaintive cries of my compatriots, gently calling out for release; freedom, or perhaps just death.  I don’t know how I managed to get this far without anyone seeing me, and every step I take unmolested further suggests the idea that this is all part of some game.  

Rigid with fear, I try to discern if the woman has seen me.  Do I run?  There is nothing behind me save the hope of oblivion, but if it is her, the way forward could only be worse.

I see a defective light, and I crouch in the shadows its inadequacy casts.  My body, broken, scarred, quiets its incessant complaining as I lean against the wall in a moment of tense solace.  In the distance I see her open a door and walk inside.  The door closes with a gentle click, and I seize the moment, push myself up, walk.  I force myself to relax, to walk and not run, for the noise would surely alert her to my flight.  As I pass her door I hear a gentle sobbing from inside, and I bite back my own tears.

I see streetlights ahead.  I must not flee, but walk confidently out of the door.  I hunker down into my coat, hunch my shoulders in an attempt to hide my face.  As I step over the threshold, rain batters my face and the sounds of distant thunder roll past me.  A breeze washes over me, and I shiver in the cold darkness of the city.    

One of them walks towards me, past me.  I feel certain that my bruised face and bare feet must give me away, but my presence is ignored.  Shaking, I trudge softly through the rain, to the gatehouse in the fence.  The guard seems uninterested, flicking through a dog eared magazine with one hand, a flashlight pointed at its pages with the other.

Head down, I push onwards and out into the city streets.  They are deserted, but for a few late night drunks and drifters.  I feel at once exhausted and more alert than ever, adrenaline pushing me further than I think my body can go.  I turn down an alley, reeking with rubbish and animal waste, in an effort to cover my tracks.

Then it happens, in a moment that seems to take forever but could only have lasted an instant.  From the gloom a body appears, large, imposing, and bears down on me.  The blue lights appear in my vision again, and the face of a man twice my size is briefly illuminated as one hand grasps the blade of a knife he wields and the other reaches for his throat, tearing out his windpipe and I watch with fascination as his eyes grow wide and the life fades from them.

Before his body has hit the ground I am away, past him and back into the illuminated safety of the streets, wiping blood on my coat and now running, running far, running hard, running fast.  I somehow find my way home and creep around the back to break a window.  I climb through the shards, cutting my hands and feet and slink to the bedroom, upstairs.  My heart slowing now, I lock the door and wedge a chair against the handle.  On the bed, I sink into a fitful but gratefully received sleep.

In the morning, it all seems like a nightmare.  My hands are clean, and I lie in my bedclothes.  I begin to question the reality of what happened, when I see the picture on my dresser.  The bloodied, wide-eyed face of the man I killed stares at me, and I turn over the picture, somehow knowing how the message will read.

“Congratulations.”

Simmer

Carefully, with gloves on, I place the cheap, disposable phone into a clear plastic bag.  I take the knife from the hob, it's blade glowing dully in the half light of the evening, and use it's heat to seal the bag shut around the phone.  It's important that there is no way to trace it to me, no DNA evidence left behind.

Back to the hob, I gently stir the liquid in the large stock pot, being careful not to displace any onto the hob itself.  Despite using the largest pot I could find, it's still dangerously full.  With the greatest of care, the liquid is spooned laboriously into small bottles about 10 centimetres high, each capped with a small immersion heater.  Strapped to the side of each of the bottles are the bare bones of another disposable phone, wired into the heater.  At the moment, the phones are off; after all, safety first.

At my laptop, I peruse the map I have already committed to memory, running through the route in my mind for the thousandth time.  Lobby (bin); hallway (plant); bathroom (cistern); office (ventilation); elevator (up one floor); second hallway (bin); break room (cupboard); stairwell (up three floors); balcony (don't jump).  Carefully, I close all the open files, delete them from the memory stick, remove it, and smash it under foot.

"Whoops."

Time for bed.

-

"Mornin'!" the guard at the office.  He always was too cheery for my tastes.  I smile politely, and throw what appears to be an old sandwich packet into the bin. 

-

The wind is in my face.  I take a long draw on my cigarette, and toss the butt over the balcony.  I make the call, tear open the plastic bag, and let the phone fall to the alleyway below.  Unsurprisingly, it smashes.

Ash

The fire spread through my mind, faster than it was spreading through the house.  Neurons flared, pathways burned, and I watched the destruction wrought by my own hands.  I talked softly to myself; the plan was proceeding as - well, as planned.


In my hand was the crystal chalice she had given me for our fifteenth anniversary.  A cocktail of barbiturates, methadone, and absinthe glimmered softly, the liquid swirling lazily inside the glass as I rocked from side to side.  I hummed our song gently, and took another sip of my drink.  She looked so serene.


Flames danced in my eyes.  The fire had really taken hold now, floor and furniture ablaze.  I winced slightly as I heard the first crack of supporting beams but watched the ceiling fall in, bringing down the contents of the room above and showering me in sparks.  I took one last look at her face and left.


I took the back door, through the alley between houses, and began meandering along the road.  The night's darkness cradled me like a blanket while I stumbled forward.  At the end of my street I glanced back at the old house.  Flames danced in the windows, a sad ballet performed in tribute to the immolation of my home.  I continued onward, to the church.  Forgiveness awaited, perhaps.


I wandered through the graveyard and sat at the plot where her ashes lay.  From my pocket I pulled the now slightly charred photograph I'd held as I watched the fire, my fire, cremate the ghost of the life we once had.  The same photograph I'd held as her body was consigned to the flames eight years ago.


Before I lost the will, or the ability, I dispatched the contents of the chalice and lay my head on her grave.


[Original image by Davy Kelly http://www.davykelly.co.uk/2010/09/photographing-fire/]

Insecurity.

"Password."

Worst password ever.

"Welcome, Qwerty Monkey Jesus."  the security gate intoned.

I hate this place.  That is quite possibly the worst code name ever.

"Love money."  the gate again, testing my knowledge.

"Freedom, ninja writer!"  I replied.

Awful.  Just awful code phrases they use here.  Whatever happened to snow falling only in winter?  This is the worst intelligence agency ever.

As usual, I stepped through the metal detector with half a dozen knives concealed about my person, and as usual nothing happened.  I looked over at the security guard asleep in his chair, snoring through his hat.  As I passed I punched him, hard, in the stomach.  He awoke with a violent jolt, and fell forward to lie crumpled on the floor.  I made a mental note to do the same to the recruitment manager.

The elevator played terrible music as I stood in silence with various suited administration staff.  As the door opened I noticed the recruitment manager waiting to enter, and slugged him as I passed.  The various administrators stared in shock, but knew better than to confront me.  Probably somthing to do with the butterfly knife I was waving around absentmindedly.

I watched disorganised people running about as I strode between desks towards the operations managers office.  Apparently he had a new mission for me.  Great.

I looked him dead in the eye.

"What."  I'm terse.

"Your mission is to run surveilance on my wife.  I'm almost certain she's been cheating on me.  Probably because I fooled around with her sister, but she doesn't know that.  Anyway, I don't know where she is, so find her."

"She's behind you, Bob."

I'll admit, I smiled a little as I watched Mona abseil past the window and shoot him just as he turned around to see her.  Whoops.

[ This story was inspired, in part, by the top ten passwords leaked from Yahoo! Voice today, noted here: http://blog.eset.se/statistics-about-yahoo-leak-of-450-000-plain-text-accounts/ ]

Endgame

Horror.  That seemed an appropriate response.  Not only had Cedric’s youngest daughter slain his best knight, but she was now poised to take him into the arena.  There were a few options on the board in front of him, but he’d lost control.

The queen was a weak piece in meta-chess.  She was kept close to the king as a last resort, not as a hiding place for an electric canon.  This terrifying power now had him in her sights.  Full roam of the board, too.

Jarret thought long and hard about his next moves.  There was no specific time limit, but good manners dictated that you didn’t keep your opponent waiting.

The game that followed was a reactive response to Cedric’s queen.  Jarret moved piece after piece in front of himself as the young witch crushed rooks beneath torrents of water, and split bishops asunder by way of demonic apparitions, all the while casting sidelong glances in his direction.  Short on pieces, Jarret sent a pawn to fight the queen.  He grimaced as Sophia had him cut his own belly open, and strangle himself with his intestine.

“Well now brother, it seems our game is almost over.”  Cedric chuckled, sliding his queen to the opposing king’s square.

Silent, Jarret stood and walked to the arena, grasping the sword hung across the back of his chair.  He slung the scabbard across his shoulder.  Stepping into the arena opposite Sophia, he drew the sword and tapped its tip on the ground.

“I always thought myself your favourite uncle.” he said sadly to Sophia’s smiling face, and watched with just a hint of satisfaction as her eyes widened at the sight of the flames coursing up the blade and across his body.  His eyes narrowed.  “I weep for you.”

A Family Affair

“Your own daughter?  Are you mad, Cedric?”

Cedric glared at his brother.  “In war, sacrifices must made to protect the kingdom.  I would ask no less of her than of any of my subjects.”

Jarret stared, wide-eyed, as Sophia was dragged struggling into the arena.  The stewards threw her to the floor, and slammed the gate shut behind her.  Opposite her, the knight looked questioningly at Jarret, who simply nodded affirmation.  Sophia picked herself up from the ground, and dusted her heavy velvet dress off.

Horns sounded, and the battle commenced.  The knight began to sidestep towards Sophia, swinging small circles with his sword.  Copying his steps as best she could, her dress hampering her retreat, Sophia circled away from the knight.  She watched him warily, eyes narrowed.

Growing impatient, the knight ran forward, swinging lazily at the princess.  She dived, falling to the floor.  Grinning to himself, the knight swung overhead, down at the princess, but she rolled out of the way, grunting.  The knight made mocking stabs towards her as she shuffled backwards on hands and knees.

Jarret sighed to himself and began inspecting the board.  He knew that when the knight killed Sophia it would be his turn, and he would of course send the knight in for Cedric.  There was no love lost between siblings in this family, but he’d expected more of a challenge.

The sound of thunder broke his reverie, and surprise caught him as he looked first to Cedric’s ecstatic face, then to the arena to see Sophia upright, six inches off the floor, feet dangling, one arm pointing to the now writhing form of the knight as lightning repeatedly struck his body.

Cedric clapped excitedly, shouting encouragement to Sophia whose face creased in concentration.  “Bravo!  Encore!”

Shit, thought Jarret.

Theatre

“Knight takes bishop.  Check, perhaps.”

“Hmmm.”  Cedric looked at the board, the hint of a frown creasing his forehead.  This was an imposition, but nothing he couldn’t recover from.  On the board it appeared he might have lost his second bishop; in the real world that correlated to his better advisor now being unmasked, and heading to the arena with Jarret’s best knight.  The two would fight for the position on the board.  Cedric enjoyed meta-chess, but was starting to suspect his opponent was bluffing, preparing for something greater.

In meta-chess one put up people, one’s own servants, soldiers, advisors, as collateral against the pieces in the game.  When a piece on the game board would take another, players sent their corresponding men to fight for the space.  It was unlikely that the knight would lose, and hence Cedric wouldn’t bank on keeping the square.

“You seem to have me by the throat, brother.” Cedric murmured to the man opposite him.  “Well played.”

“You know full well this game never goes according to plan.” Jarret replied over the brim of a wine glass.  “Let us at least enjoy the entertainment.”  He sat back in his chair, expression inscrutable.

Cedric sighed, and watched disinterestedly as Jarret’s knight gutted his own advisor.  The man was brutally quick, finishing the fight in minutes.

A smile pulled at one corner of Jarret’s mouth.  “Check.”

Cedric sighed, and made an exaggerated show of studying the board.  After several minutes of silence, he picked up his queen and moved it to the knights square.

“Queen takes knight.  Check also, perhaps?”

“A woman against my best knight?  You must be feeling bold-” Jarret began, falling silent at the sight of face being revealed before him.

“I believe you know the princess Sophia, Jarret.”