Emergence: Chapter 61

With Keinam in the medical bay, and the communications down, Cinradahs felt alone in the battlefield. Since the Cloudships had begun an unrelenting attack on Empire, Adjeti and Corlen forces, the electricity in space, which he was sure shouldn't be happening, had wreaked havoc with the coms between ships; each was on its own. His internal communications within his flagship still operated, but they were filled with static.

Saiun thanked the gods that the Cloudships were slow, and thanked them again for the Corlens; without them, the Empire forces would have have had no chance. With them, they had hope. But as as another Warsphere was blown apart by a surge of lightning, he could feel the hope fading, ebbing away.

But there was nothing he could do.

“Keep firing!” Cinradahs yelled to the crew below the bridge. “Get all cannons blazing, we can take something out.”

Tarib hammered keys on his screen, relaying the order throughout the flagship. Mechanisms whirred and whined as the weapon systems sprung to life, raining fire down on the Cloudships below. Small explosions peppered the tops of the dome-like ships, but they kept coming. Bolts of electricity shot out, connecting with Adjeti Wing-Ships and Empire Peacemakers, tearing through them like a blade through flesh.

“Nothing's working sir!” Tarib looked to Cinradahs, as if he could help. “We're being slaughtered out there.”

Cinradahs sighed; he knew that their weapons would do nothing against ships formed entirely of gas. “We've just gotta hold on. Until the Orbans arrive, we have no chance.”

*

The medical droid finished welding Keinam's bones back together, leaving a strange warm pain in his side. “Thank you,” he muttered as the machine wheeled itself away again. Groaning, Keinam sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He sighed; he just didn't know what to do. His head was swimming from the painkillers, and he ached all over. He wouldn't be flying for a few hours at least.

Finally beaten.

The dominant thought that swam in his head was his one defeat in battle. Not even the Corlen Warspheres had taken him down before; these Cloudships were the toughest enemy he'd faced by a long way. He looked down at his hand, and gripped it with the other to stop it shaking. He stood shakily, the action pulling on his wound. Wincing, he walked over to the medical bay's viewport and stared at the carnage outside. His jaw dropped open as he watched the Cloudships decimate Empire forces, but he felt his chest clench every time a Wing-Ship was torn apart by the lightning bolts. The Wing-Ships' weapons did nothing, the Empire's weapons did nothing, and the Corlen Warspheres shattered just like the rest of the craft.

Maybe the Orbans can help.

Maybe.

*

Another flash blinded him, shattering a Peacemaker apart, and hurtling the remains towards Retlin. “Shit!” He slammed the control stick to the right, barrel-rolling out of the wreckage's way as a Warsphere shot past, clipping the side of his Wing-Ship, sending it into a violent spin. Swearing violently, he struggled to regain control of the ship, wrestling with the control stick until he brought it under submission. Breathing a sigh of relief, he watched the Warsphere as it sped towards the nearest Cloudship, opening up and breaking its spherical form, ready to smother it. Retlin's heart raced, rooting for the Warsphere as it drew closer and closer, expanding all the time. “Go on...” he muttered.

A bolt of lightning shot from the Cloudship, tearing straight through the Warsphere, shattering it entirely, the fragments blasting through other ships, either clipping their wings, or flying straight through them, annihilating them completely. The fragments that did not hit other ships joined the fellow Warspheres in a floating graveyard, leaving only more ruins and obstacles littering the battleground.

Retlin steered away from the Cloudships, back towards the flagship, narrowly dodging the wreckage of his comrades. He saw a few Adjeti floating alongside their craft, all sustaining injuries that would have killed them, even if they had been prepared for the suffocation of space. Retlin tensed, and his exoskeleton folded around him, covering his mouth and nose. The exoskeleton would protect him for any injuries in the ship's destruction, and the fact that it covered his mouth and nose meant that it would still provide oxygen for him, hopefully allowing him to survive the vacuum long enough for someone to rescue him.

He hoped.

*

Cinradahs paced along the bridge, head down facing the dull grey floor: he refused to look at the carnage outside. We're all dead. He wanted to run to flee, but he couldn't; there was no way to inform the other ships, he would just be...abandoning them. He sighed, and felt Saiun's ever-welcome hand on his shoulder. As a cold-blooded Quaren, Saiun's hand offered little in warmth, but it offered comfort and, just for a second, Cinradahs's mind went blank and he forgot his problems. But that didn't last.

He turned to Saiun and forced a half-smile. “Do you think we'll get out of this?”

Saiun looked down briefly, before looking up again. “If the Orbans get here, maybe.”

Cinradahs nodded. “Let's hope Keinam's idea works.”

“I don't see why not,” Saiun murmured, “the theory is sound.”

“You don't sound convinced.”

Saiun sighed. “The theory is sound,” he said with more conviction, “but I never thought I'd see the day where we were at war with a bunch of AI-controlled Xaosians, let alone a fleet of angry clouds.” He shook his head. “I can't trust what I think now. None of this is normal to me. Now to combat these murderous clouds, we're calling in a few telepathic near-extinct beings to deal with them, I have no idea if this will work, or what to think. I can only hope.”

“Four new ships in near proximity sir, coming out of L-Space now!” Tarib called.

Cinradahs felt his heart pace again.

The Orbans are here.

*

Standing in a Guardian warship, Strom, Ilisa, Sa'tui, and Ha'kuun entered the space around Narcsia and winced as they saw the battle outside. The images Cinradahs had sent them before the coms went down did no justice to the devastation Strom was witnessing. Ilisa, even after seeing the destruction of Raan, gasped in disbelief. This was a floating warzone, with floating ruins and floating casualties.

“What the fuck...” Ilisa whispered.

Ha'kuun looked down at her. “Silence. No distractions.”

Ilisa opened her mouth to protest, before she looked over at Strom, who shook his head slightly. “So, what do we do?” Strom asked.

Sa'tui pointed at the Cloudships. “We tear them apart, or push them back into Narcsia.” He pointed at two other Guardians materialising from L-Space. “The others will do the same when ready.”

Strom closed his eyes and wormed his consciousness through space, feeling the emptiness around his mind, the chill of the void, reminding him of the space above Raan. He shivered, before casting it aside; this was no time to be distracted. He reached out, ignoring the hard metal of the Empire and Adjeti ships, instead latching onto a texture he found unfamiliar. Soft and light, almost as though it wasn't completely real. Definitely not solid.

The Cloudships.

He could feel them spark and crackle just before they let loose their lightning, instantly shattering any smaller ships, or the Warspheres. Strom ignored the crackling and sparking and tightening his grip around the Cloudships.

And pushed.

He knew he was straining, he could hear himself, but it sounded far away. The Cloudships gave resistance in their urge to push forward, and Strom could sense confusion and panic from the gaseous beings within. Sweat poured down face even as he felt the other Orbans helping, pushing the Cloudships as hard as they could.

The Cloudships began to move slowly backwards to Narcsia.

*

Retlin turned back around for another run at the Cloudships. He knew it would be futile, but there was little else he could do. Placing one of the Cloudships, a smaller one, firmly in his sights, he sped towards it, ready to fire everything he had as his allies shattered around him. The lightning annihilated everything it touched, sending shards of ships spiralling into oblivion.

And then they paused.

No lightning sprang from the clouds, and they stopped moving forwards. Retlin looked around the battlefield and spied three Guardian-class warships on the edge of the battlefield. The Orbans! He stopped the ship and circled back towards the flagship: he wanted to see what the Orbans could do.

The Cloudships began to move backwards, as though being pushed by an invisible hand back towards Narcsia. He imagined that the creatures inside, whatever they were, squirming, trying to resist the awesome power of the Orbans, who were likely out of range. Retlin stopped the ship to watch the Cloudships. Some had disappeared into Narcsia's atmosphere again, but most were still resisting, being pushed only slightly.

And then the lightning began again.

The largest Cloudship sprouted bolts of electricity, lighting up the darkness for but a second. “Shit!” Retlin roared, steering away from a nearby bolt. His heart raced, hands shook: he'd been too complacent.

Another flash. Something hit his ship's engines, and he fell forward on the impact, before the ship began to whine. One of the engines had been taken out. He swore again, picking himself up and trying to manoeuvre away from anything else that could harm him.

Another flash, and he felt the heat of the bolt tear his ship apart, before he was sucked out into the vacuum of space, hands flailing wildly as he tried to cling onto something. He managed to grasp a control stick, but that was torn from its place and hurled out of the disintegrating craft with him. Sound stopped; he heard nothing but his thoughts, and yet he could see everything. He tried to calm himself, but could only take shallow breaths: the exoskeleton would provide, but only for so long. Waving his arms, he prayed that someone would spot him.

Before it was too late.

*

“They're lashing out sir,” Tarib reported, “but we've got the bastards!”

Cinradahs watched as the Cloudships, still taking potshots at the the other ships, were forced back towards Narcsia. “We haven't won yet. But we can at least regroup and live to fight another day.” He turned to another technician on the bridge, he didn't know his name. “We got enough readings from the Cloudships?”

He nodded. “We might be able to come up with a way to fight back next time.”

“Good.” Cinradahs smiled at Saiun, who grinned back. “Your hope paid off.”

“It did.”

Something came through the combat-com; the static was clearing. “Sir!”

Cinradahs picked it up. “Yes?”

“This is Ilisa. The Orbans are still pushing the last of the Cloudships, but they are mostly retreating of their own will now. We have won.”

“Good.” Cinradahs nodded to himself. “Just keep pushing until they're all gone.”

“Sir!” Tarib called. “The Corlens, they've just...stopped.”

Cinradahs looked outside; Tarib was right. The Corlens had stopped, motionless in space. “What are they doing?”

“No idea.” Ilisa's voice came over the com. “Almost like something's disturbing them.”

“But what?” Saiun asked. “You don't think they're going to attack, do you?”

Cinradahs shook his head. “No, I don't think so.”

They watched the stationary Warspheres for a moment longer, until they all began to move again, launching as one away from Narcsia and the flagships. “Stay on them!” Cinradahs yelled to the techies below.

“I'm on them!” Ilisa yelled through the com.

“They've departed Narcsian space.” Tarib pointed at his screen. “We can't track them.”

Cinradahs watched the radar and saw a small Liberator emerge from one of the Guardians; Ilisa was giving chase. “We've got a scout on them, and in contact. Let's head back to New Orbus and lick our wounds. We're fighting three enemies here; the Xaosians, the Corlens and these...clouds.”

Tarib nodded. “I'll give the retreat signal.”

“Good.” Cinradahs looked at Saiun. “Let's go.”

*

Retlin watched as the final Cloudship disappeared back into Narcsia's atmosphere, helpless. They had won for now, at least. Ships roared past as they headed back to the flagship, and Retlin flailed and danced wildly, trying to get someone's attention, to get someone to pick him up again. His breathing grew more ragged and shallow with panic and fear, and he couldn't calm himself back down again. He could feel the air running out now as he watched the ships leave for New Orbus.

He closed his eyes as a single tear ran down his cheek.

Emergence: Chapter 60

Some said that, outside the arena and the pits, there was fresh air. While Ash could not truly remember “fresh air”, he had assumed that it wouldn't line his mouth and lips with grit. Whenever he spoke, sand went in, and didn't leave, getting stuck in his teeth and making a horrible grating sound.

They had slept in an alley for the night; while Ash usually had his night-terrors, Carnat was adamant that he had to sleep in the darkness this time. They were alone on a strange world, penniless. Carnat stole some food from a small bazaar, but his strange appearance made him easily recognisable. When Ash tried, it was evident that he hadn't got the art quite right; he'd barely made off with a few small provisions before being chased out of the marketplace, until he lost them by ducking into a dark alleyway.

Carnat looked at Ash's meagre plunder with a disappointed expression. “While I admit that this is better than the food cubes of the arena,” He picked up a small brown fruit and rolled it in his hand, feeling for the lumps that may contain parasites, “I can't help but feel a little...let down by this haul.”

Ash sighed. “I'm sorry, I'm just not cut out for stealing.”

“Or fighting.” Carnat reminded him, tossing Ash the fruit. “It's edible.” He noticed Ash's forlorn expression, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, don't worry about it; you'll get the hang of it.”

“Hopefully I won't need to.” Ash took a bite from the fruit, feeling the juice ooze out and run along his tongue, activating a new sense of taste he had obviously forgotten. “Damn these are good.”

Keinam grabbed another and took a bite, before nodding. “They really are. I retract my earlier statement of disappointment; you didn't do too bad.”

They ate in silence, finishing the fruit Ash had stolen. Once finished and full, hes nodded appreciatively to himself; he wasn't that bad a thief really, at least he'd chosen food well, despite not knowing a thing about the fruit.

“You feeling better now?” Carnat asked.

Ash nodded. “Yeah, refreshed and ready to go, I think.”

“Right.” Carnat edged out of the alleyway and looked around. “We need to head towards the spaceport.” He nudged Ash and pointed at a market stall across the street. “Grab us some of the cloth from there; your armour fits in, you're like a human arena guard, that's fine. My species however, is meant to be dead, I'm kind of noticeable. However, a cloak-sized bit of cloth is likely to be difficult to nick, so swap your bow for it.”

“What if I need it?” Ash's hand shot to it's place on his back next to the quiver.

Carnat fixed him with a patronising stare. “You may need it. But that would mean I wasn't doing my job.”

“Cocky bastard.” Ash muttered.

“Can't disagree.” Carnat considered. “But a compound bow would be useless against real Enforcers or guards with real guns rather than spears and weapons made for pissing off arena creatures. If we get into battle, I'll disarm a guy and give you the gun and hope you don't shoot me in the back”

“Fair point.” Ash couldn't argue. “Stay here.”

“Obviously.”

Ash walked through the street, keeping his head down in case anyone recognised him. He imagined they wouldn't, but Carnat had taught him to be careful and, after the morning's fiasco, he was inclined to use those teachings. He approached the stall and its accompanying damp smell, which Ash couldn't tell if it was emanating from the poor-quality cloth hanging from the top of the stall, the straw lining the floor which the owner stood on, or the haggard-looking Hak'i owner, who bowed his head on approach, which Ash repeated; a Hak'i mark of respect.

Ash looked at the cloth until he found one large enough for Carnat to conceal himself. “I'll take this one, please.”

The Hak'i grunted, but didn't move. “And how you paying for that?”

Ash unclipped his bow and quiver from his back. “A straight swap. This is good quality stuff, you can probably sell it and get more than any of this cloth is worth.”

The owner nodded. “Then why don't you sell it? In a rush or something?”

“Something like that.” Ash nodded. “Sound good?”

The Hak'i unhooked the sheet of white cloth for Ash, and exchanged it for the bow. “Thank you.” Ash said, bowing his head once more.

“Thank you.” The Haki examined the bow carefully, before stashing it on the straw floor.

Ash gathered up the sheet in his arms and walked quickly back to the alley, handing it to Carnat. “Thanks.” Carnat wrapped it round him, leaving only a slit for his eyes to see through.

“You've never looked so good.” Ash mocked, and he knew Carnat smiled under the sheet.

“Shall we get going then?” Carnat asked. Ash nodded; they had a ship to catch.

*

The Rat'hak spaceport was not as elaborate or impressive as Ash had expected. When he'd asked Carnat about them before, he'd described security guards and some sort of procedure to actually boarding a ship to ensure that the authorities knew roughly where people were. Rat'hak had none of that, just a few large patches of concrete in the sand which various shapes and sizes of ships were perched on.

“Well, this is underwhelming.” Ash groaned.

“I swear it used to be better.” Carnat said drily. “Genuinely expected at least a bit of security. Must have got confused with Narcsia or something. Ah well, stop complaining, saves fighting.”

“So, which ship should we take?”

“None.” Carnat said, an element of shame creeping into his voice. “I never really learnt to fly; we're gonna stow away in a larger ship, get off on another world.”

Ash was surprised; he'd never considered that Carnat wouldn't know how to fly a ship, especially the amount he'd claimed to have travelled. “Fair. Which one you suggest?”

“This one.” Carnat grabbed Ash's arm and dragged him to the largest ship. “This one is a long-range Prauvian cruiser. Theoretically, it means we'll be going to Prauw, or another human world. Far away.” He removed a panel from the outside and tinkered with the wires inside, which sparked before the boarding ramp came down with a hydraulic hiss. “Get in.” Ash obliged, scurrying into the craft. Carnat replaced the panel and followed, pushing a button on the inside to bring the ramp up.

“Where now?” Ash asked, standing awkwardly.

“Cargo hold, come on.” Carnat dragged him through the corridor, and into a small cramped room.

“There's not much room in here.” Ash complained.

“Not made for people, really though, is it?” Carnat remarked.

“True, but-” Carnat placed a hand over Ash's mouth, stopping him from speaking.

“Shhh.” Carnat commanded quietly.

There was a hydraulic hiss from outside; the boarding ramp. Then voices.

“So, we're headed to Prauw?” Ash recognised the voice.

“That's what the voices command, that's what we do.”

“That first voice,” Ash hissed, “That's the Dominort. The Hak'i Dominort.”

Carnat paused to consider. “I think it might be, yeah. Why isn't he using his own ship?”

“And the Corlens will follow you?” The second voice grew closer.

“Undoubtedly.” The Dominort's voice was full of conviction.

“Good. They'll subdue the Empire forces long enough for us to gain an upper hand.”

“They shall.”

Carnat's expression changed to one of fear and confusion. “The Empire forces?” He looked up at Ash. “The Dominort is using Corlens in a battle with the rest of the Empire...”

Ash took a deep breath to try and steady his beating heart. “And we're gonna be right in the middle of it.”

“Or...” Carnat trailed off.

“Or what?”

“Or we march out there and end this battle before it even begins.” Carnat looked deep into Ash's eyes. “We could kill the Dominort and stop them using the Corlens.”

Ash felt his eyes widen in fear. He wanted to say no, preserve himself. But deep down, he knew what he'd have to do.

He nodded.

Emergence: Chapter 59

Tors drudged through the sewer, clothes soaked and covered in shit; the stench was the worst he'd smelt. Emola followed, nose wrinkled. “Gross...” He muttered. Cane supported as she limped through the putrid pipes, waves of pain hitting her whenever she put pressure on her wounded leg. Pandora and Teriva had already gone ahead, leading the group.

“Why did you save us?” Pandora's voice echoed in the tunnel.

“I was hoping to help more of you.” Teriva replied, distracted by trying to remember the way through the sewers. “This is wrong. And the Xaosians are enslaving my people, I'm certain of it. They're using the Irinian Network to control people through their augmentations, so I disconnected mine from the Network.”

Kivina nodded. “You're right; that's exactly what they're doing.”

Teriva turned, her brow furrowing. “And what's your story? Shouldn't you be fighting with the rest of your people?”

Kivina shook her head. “No.” She took her helmet off and stared into Teriva's eyes. “The Xaosians do not fight of their accord; they are under command of...something else, through the use of Inducers wired into their brains. Mine broke in battle after we boarded the Narcsia Evacuation Ships,” Tors's head snapped round to stare in shock; he had no idea she'd actually fought the Empire forces before the Inducer broke.

“So, what's controlling them?” Cane asked.

Kivina sighed. “I'm not certain, but...I think it might be some sort of AI, an Artificial Intelligence. Whether it's acting for another party, or the programming's gone wrong, I have no idea, but...” She trailed off.

“We need to get off-planet.” Tors asserted. “We need to present this to New Orbus; this is bigger than just Xaosians now, they tried to fit us with Inducers too.”

Teriva nodded. “When I left New Orbus, there was no report about the Xaosian attack on the Narcsia Evac Ships, only of their attack on Raan-”

“Raan?” Cane's face fell, and he held a hand to mouth. “What happened?”

Teriva's eyes widened with the realisation that Cane was a Raanian, and her voice became smaller and less authoritative. “The Xaosians attacked, using a...superweapon of sorts. They threatened to destroy the world entirely-”

“Disa...” Cane muttered hopelessly, his mouth falling open and arms dropping uselessly to his sides.

Emola put a hand on his shoulder. “I'm so sorry Cane...”

“They might still be fine,” Pandora placed her hand on Cane's other shoulder, staring into his eyes, “Raan could have repelled them, fought back; we don't know what happened.”

“All you can do,” Teriva grabbed one of Cane's hands in her's and held it, “is hope. Because without that, the Xaosians will have taken everything from you but your life.”

Cane nodded silently, shrugging off the hands on his shoulders, and detaching his own hand from Teriva's grip. “Let's go.” His voice was almost a whisper, nearly drowned out by water dripping in the tunnels. “The sooner we get off this world, the sooner I find out.”

*

As they found the manhole leading to freedom, Tors figured they were lucky that Teriva knew the sewers beneath Irin's similarly-named capital, even without her link to the Irinian Network, the lack of which she claimed was like losing part of herself. Tors understood loss now; the creatures in the wind had shown him the meaning of despair. But they weren't at the front of his mind now; escaping this world was the main thing occupying his brain.

“Give us a leg-up!” Called Teriva, beckoning to Emola, who obglied, grunting as he supported her weight.

“You're heavier than you look.” He remarked as she fumbled for the release valve on the manhole.

“You really know how to talk to women, don't you?” She responded with more than a hint of sarcasm. “No, that's a fair observation; remember, Irinian's have metal fibres inserted into our skin at birth to protect us from the sandstorms. While the storms are nowhere near as frequent now, and we live in the domes anyway, it's just a tradition that gives us a chunk of dead weight to haul around.” There was a hiss and the valve released, the manhole springing open. Light poured through, and Tors averted his burning eyes from the blinding rays.

Teriva pulled herself up through the manhole and extended a hand down. “Let's go.”

Emola supported Tors, elevating him as Tors grabbed Teriva's hand. He grabbed onto the rim of the hole, and they both pulled him up, muscles straining as they did so. But he ignored the strain; freedom was near at last.

Grimshaw & Mortimer: The Burnt Man

Wesley Mortimer woke, just as he did everyday. He stretched as usual, groaned as usual and smelled the smoke in the air as usual.

“Wait a minute...” He muttered, before stretching his arms up.

He threw on a dressing gown, his brown one today; the black one was elsewhere, he wasn't sure where. He was certain it just disappeared overnight, but that was unlikely as his room's door was locked, and his window closed, and remained unbroken. He'd probably just put it in the wrong cupboard. Having no real urgency in his day, he checked his wardrobe, finding no trace of it.

He shrugged, before leaving the room and heading to the kitchen.

“Morning!” Grimshaw called to him. “How you doing?”

Mortimer scrunched his face up in disapproval. “That's a bit 1990s, isn't it?”

“Don't you mean 1890s?” Grimshaw asked, opening a drawer and rooting around in it.

“No, I mean the 1990s.” Mortimer called over the noise of assorted...well, he didn't know what was in that drawer, that was Grimshaw's drawer. “Just seems a bit off for some 1920s fiction.”

“Are we fiction? I forget.” Grimshaw wasn't paying attention, Mortimer could tell. So he ignored it and looked around.

“Wait a minute...”

Grimshaw looked abruptly up and stopped rooting around in the drawer. “What?”

“Something's not right this morning, and I'm not sure what.” He sat down at the table and watched Grimshaw closely as he went back to the drawer and withdrew something from it, throwing it on the bonfire.

“Wait a minute...”

“Is this about the bonfire?” Grimshaw asked, waving an arm at the burning pile of stuff.

There was a sigh.

“Why,” Mortimer asked, “Is there a bonfire in the kitchen?”

Grimshaw looked at it, waving his arm at it again. “You don't like?”

There was a sigh.

“The body on the table last week was one thing,” he paused, not for dramatic effect like anyone reading this may think, but simply to yawn, “but this is just ridiculous! Not to mention dangerous, what if it burns the house down?”

Grimshaw seemed shocked, his face had gone all weird. “It's next to the sink, it's fine.”

“So, if it gets out of control, you're just gonna pour water on it until it dies?” Mortimer rubbed his forehead, which was beginning to ache; he couldn't take this every freaking week.

“Pretty much, yes. Problem?”

“What if the sink catches fire?” Mortimer asked, genuinely a bit curious about his friend's plan.

“Oh, the sinks full of water. And you can't set water on fire unless there's some fracking nearby, and then its only because the water becomes mixed with methane.” Grimshaw answered quickly and rather dismissively, even waving his hand as if to dispel Mortimer.

“What's fracking?”

“I think it's a word people use instead of saying...” Grimshaw looked around quickly, before leaning in and lowering voice, “Instead of saying fuck.”

Mortimer was taken aback “Why does intercourse cause methane in the water? How, I mean.”

“I dunno, they must be doing it wrong. Or I meant that way of getting oil out from underground. Not quite sure really, but none of that appears to be happening around here.”

“The intercourse or the other thing?”

“Probably both; it's the 1920s, no-one has sex and, even if they did, we are bloody English, and will not speak of it!” Grimshaw sounded strangely patriotic.

“Oh, fair enough then.”

There was silence.

“Why is it there though?” Mortimer asked.

“Don't you like it?” Grimshaw sounded hurt.

“Please say it's not just there because you like fire.”

There was a sigh.

“It is pretty though.” Grimshaw observed. “But there is a practical reason for it; a man was burnt alive a couple of days ago, and I was observing the effects that fire has on clothing to see roughly how long he was burning for.”

“Why time it?”

“Oh, just to see if the suspect's alibi works out. Apparently, he was visiting his grandma around the time police found him, but the timing of him arriving there seems to be in question. So I'm burning some old clothes to both clear some room around the house and see how long it takes. Currently, the suspect seems to be in the clear.” He picked up a sleeve and threw it on the fire, taking note of the time.

Mortimer narrowed his eyes and stood up. “What was that?”

“Hmmm?” Grimshaw questioned without words, a universal way of asking someone to repeat themselves.

Mortimer walked slowly over to Grimshaw. “What. Did. You. Put. In. The. Fire.”

“Oh, just the last piece of that brown dressing gown you hate..” Grimshaw beamed at him. “Hope that's okay.”

Mortimer looked at the brown sleeve of his dressing gown. “I'm wearing the brown one, you clod!”

Grimshaw looked him up and down, and blinked in surprise. “So you are. Well, that must have been one, I suppose.”

“Are you fracking colourblind?” Mortimer grabbed the sleeve out of the fire and patted it down.

“No, but I figured that you'd be wearing the black one at night, and they all the same in the dark!”

“Wearing it at night...? Why would I wear it in bed?” Mortimer threw the useless sleeve back on the bonfire, which whooshed. “Did you sneak into my room when I was sleeping?”

Grimshaw shrugged. “I assume so, it was night-time.”

“Why didn't you just ask for it?”

“I thought you'd say no.”

“Then why,” Mortimer seethed, “did you just not burn something of yours?”

Grimshaw gave Mortimer a strange look, as if confused. “Because I like all of my stuff. You do not like some of your stuff. Ergo, we burn your clothes, not mine.”

Biting back a vicious retort, Wesley sighed. He knew he couldn't win this argument. “So, you're seeing how long clothes burn for until they reach the state they were on the body of the burnt man in order to test if the suspect's alibi holds up? Am I right?”

Grimshaw beamed and clapped his hands together. “Exactly right!”

Wesley looked at the wood on the bonfire, opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Problem?” Grimshaw's voice was strangely curt.

“Well, if you're burning with different materials, then your results won't be accurate.” Wesley waved his hands as if to address the ridiculousness of the situation, but the action only resulted in adding to it.

Grimshaw sighed. “Oh Wesley, you think I am some sort of fool? The suspect burned the victim using a broken-up chair from the victim's home, and doused them in pure ethanol, before setting the pile on fire.”

“How do you know?”

Grimshaw lit up; he loved showing off. “Well, I ran my finger along the burnt out remains, and took a taste: definitely burnt whiskey, I'd know that taste anywhere.”

Wesley's face twisted in disgust and intrigue. “Why?”

“Because the plot demands me to.” Grimshaw nodded to himself. “So, I took another chair from the victim's house, added some whiskey and,” he pointed to the still-crackling bonfire, “voilà!”

Wesley nodded. “I suppose that's fair. I assume we're taking these observations to Scotland Yard?”

“You assume correctly.” Grimshaw picked up a mug, dipped it in the water in the sink and poured it over the fire, which hissed. “Now get changed and ready.” Grimshaw repeated the action.

“Yup.” Wesley said, voice monotonous as he stared at the blackened, now wet, patch of carpet.

Grimshaw waved him away. “Well? Get on with it.”

Wesley tore his eyes away from the patch and trudged back to his bedroom, investigating the lock on the door as he did so; no signs of wherever Grimshaw tampered with it. He tutted and closed the door.

*

“So, do you have any other leads?” Stangerson asked. “We've got one guy,” Stangerson showed Grimshaw a photograph of a middle-aged man, “who's under suspicion, but that's all right now.”

“Not at the moment, no.” Grimshaw looked sideways at Wesley, who looked confused. “Another look around the crime scene would be appreciated.”

Stangerson sighed, before nodding quickly. “Yes yes.” He muttered, sounding troubled. “I'll get one of the boys to take you there.”

Grimshaw bowed his head. “Thank you.”

Stangerson turned to leave them, before looking back and nodding once. Grimshaw acknowledged this with a smile, before turning to Wesley. “What's wrong?”

“What happened?” Wesley looked around slowly, as if he was dreaming, or in some sort of trance. “I went to my room...and then I'm here.” His head snapped up to look Grimshaw in the eyes. “Did you drug me again?”

“What?” Grimshaw looked genuinely flustered. “No!”

“Then what happened?” Wesley asked.

“You got dressed, we came here, gave Stangerson the evidence and now we're about to go to the crime scene.” Grimshaw said slowly and clearly, annunciating everything clearly, before bending down to whisper in Wesley's ear. “The author used a transition so he didn't have to write all that stuff. Bit lazy really, you'd think he'd document everything in our lives.”

Wesley thought about it for a minute, before nodding. “That is lazy.”

“It is.”

*

Stangerson's “boy”, a young detective by the name of Joe, led them to the crime scene: a small terraced house in east London, cordoned off by a thin strip of tape, which proclaimed “POLICE DO NOT ENTER”. Joe led Grimshaw and Mortimer to the tape, lifted it for them and watched them duck awkwardly beneath it; Joe was only a short lad. Grimshaw reached for the door, which opened with the lightest touch. He turned to Joe. “Did you not close the door?” The patronising tone had crept back into Grimshaw's voice, and Wesley winced as he turned to see Joe's reaction.

“I'm certain we did, sir.” Joe's voice had a slight Irish twang to it which Wesley hadn't expected.

“Hmmm...” Grimshaw inspected the door closely, whipping his magnifying glass from his pocket. The lock was lined with scratches, and the door-frame was damaged; someone had forced their way in. “Did the murderer get in through the front door?”

“No sir, the back. And we boarded that up.” Joe responded, his voice getting quieter as he realised what Grimshaw was implying. He unclipped his truncheon from his belt and readjusted his helmet.

“Then someone else has been in here...” Grimshaw trailed off, beckoning at Wesley to follow. “Come. But be careful; they could still be here.”

“Do you think it was the murderer?” Wesley whispered to Grimshaw, not wanting to panic the young detective. “Coming back to clear up?”

“Quite possibly.” Grimshaw edged forwards slowly, noting the cobwebs in the corners and the mould on the wall; the victim did not live a good life. “Just be ready.”

Grimshaw pushed a door and opened and entered the...living room, he assumed. He put a hand out to stop Joe and Wesley going any further, protecting them from the worst of the sight. “My god...” He muttered, looking around.

Both the beige wallpaper and carpet were stained with splatters of red, puddles forming on the floor. Grimshaw gulped hard to force the vomit back as slowly entered the room, still holding his hand back to protect the others. Subconsciously, he knew they would be able to see the man hanging from the ceiling in the centre of the room, but at least their view was impaired. They couldn't see his face, which, where not covered in bruises, was stained with streaks of blood, still wet as they ran from six spiky letters carved in his forehead: KILLER. In addition to the words carved into his forehead and being hanged, the victim's wrist's were slit open, still dripping into two puddles beneath each limp arm.

Wesley pushed Grimshaw's hand down and stood next to him in silence as Joe ran outside and a grotesque retching sound followed. “What the frack...” Wesley slowly walked over to the body.

“Don't touch it!” Grimshaw realised that he was more forceful than he needed to be. “Evidence could be lost.” Grimshaw stared at the corpse's face; a middle-aged man, beaten almost beyond recognition. Almost.

Wesley caught Grimshaw looking. “You alright, Lewis?”

Grimshaw nodded. “Yeah...it's not like it's real, anyway.” Wesley cocked his head in vague agreement. “But this man...he was Stangerson's second suspect, the one in the photograph he showed me.”

Wesley looked at the corpse in disgust; maybe he deserved this. “You think we've got a vigilante running around?”

Grimshaw nodded. “That, or just another killer. Either way,” He gestured around the room as Joe re-entered, “I think we're out of our depth here. Scotland Yard should take it further now.” Joe nodded, and left again, presumably to fetch help. “For us, Wesley,” Grimshaw said solemnly, bowing his head, “this case is closed.”

Grimshaw & Mortimer: Detectives

Wesley Mortimer woke. The morning shone through parted curtains, blinding him in his dazed state. Shielding his eyes, he rose, and wobbled slightly, steadying himself with his free hand on the bedpost, before getting dressed slowly with all the grace of...well, he didn't know, it wasn't his job to come up with similes. Outside, the sound of wheels echoed, clattering over cobblestones with a slight err to the usual pattern. Moving away from the house, he thought, remembering the missing cobblestone down the street.

Stumbling through the brown-walled kitchen, Wesley pulled a chair from under the kitchen table, before slowly sinking onto, yawning as he did so. Rubbing his eyes, blurred vision cleared and something slowly came into view. His brow furrowed. He blinked. And then he stood slowly up, hands shaking as he backed away from the table.

“Grimshaw?”

His companions face appeared behind him, shortly followed by the rest of his body. “Ah, good morning!”

“No, Grimshaw...This is is not a good morning. Why,” Wesley sighed, exasperated, “is there a corpse on the kitchen table?”

“Oh, the same reason for the skin in the kettle.” Grimshaw pointed at said kettle, which whistled away on top of the stove. “Tea?”

“No thanks.”

“Shame.” Grimshaw almost pouted. “Have you seen the magnifying glass?”

Wesley looked at the kettle, and quickly voiced a burning question. “Why?”

“You remember Henry Herman?” Grimshaw tossed a slice of bread aside, delighted to find his magnifying glass lying beneath.

“Yes, missing chap.” Wesley cocked his head, leaning forward to watch Grimshaw pour most of the contents of the kettle onto a small china plate, and the rest into a cup, which he stirred with the magnifying glass's handle. “What are you doing?”

Wiping the magnifying glass dry, Grimshaw observed the small bubbling square of boiled skin he'd poured onto the plate. “Well, it appears that Stangerson's boys have proved moderately adept for once. You probably heard them leave.”

“Yes.” Wesley took a deep breath. “But why is his corpse on our kitchen table?”

Grimshaw waved his hand dismissively at Wesley. “No room on the floor. Anyway, it's on a cloth, it's fine.” He took a sip from his cup, pausing briefly. “Mr Herman's skin certainly gave this tea an extra flavour.” He took another sip, placing the cup gently down next to the stove. “Hand me a knife.”

Wesley grabbed a knife from the next chair, and swapped it with Grimshaw's magnifying glass, taking care to hold it by the lens and not the still-dripping handle.

“Thanks.” Grimshaw muttered, before slamming the knife down onto the square of skin, cleaving it in two and cracking the cheap china.

“What are you doing now?” Wesley moaned; he hadn't intended it to be whiny, but there was only so much he could take.

“This man,” Grimshaw explained, “was found floating in the Thames earlier. Obviously he died – hand me the magnifying glass – recently, as his skin is not much paler than I imagine his usual complexion to be.”

“So, why do you have it? Him, I mean.” Wesley placed the magnifying glass back into Grimshaw's outstretched hand, taking the knife from him.

“Because of the – thanks – nature of the wound.” Grimshaw observed the skin with the glass again, pointing at the wound.

Wesley bent to look at the wound closely. “Well, it's a stab wound, but the skin is...blackened? Burnt, maybe?”

“Hence the skin in the kettle.”

“Wouldn't that just boil the skin?”

“Well, yes.” Grimshaw nodded enthusiastically.

There was a brief pause.

“Am I missing something?” Wesley wanted to shout at his companion, to release the tense knot in his stomach, let the annoyance out.

“Yes, you are. You forget also, that I wanted tea. And boiling was close enough.” He looked coyly at Wesley. “Killing two birds with one stone.”

Wesley looked confused. “Is that expression around in the 1920s?”

“Yes, it's been around since Hobbe used it in 1656.”

“Oh, wow.” Wesley nodded appreciatively. “I thought it was a post-World War Two thing.”

“Don't be stupid. There'll never be a second world war.” Grimshaw tutted as only an Englishman could.

“Why do I put up with you, Grimshaw?”

“Because I pay your rent, Mortimer.” Grimshaw reprimanded as he walked out of kitchen, sliding into polished shoes and grabbing his hat and cane.

Wesley followed him like a sheep after an insufferable dog. “Where are you going?”

“Scotland Yard.” Grimshaw said, opening the door and strolling out into the street. Above the door, a brass plaque read:

“Lewis Grimshaw

Private Detective

Kate Mortimer nee Grimshaw

In Loving Memory”

“Right.” Wesley stuffed himself into shoes, slamming the door behind him before he could lose sight of his companion.

“Indeed.” Grimshaw raised his hand. “Cabbie!”

*

The cab stopped outside Scotland Yard, just like a cab should have. Whenever he got in a cab, Wesley couldn't help but think of Jefferson Hope. He'd never dare voice that though, just in case nobody got the reference.

“Thank you, kind sir!” Grimshaw called to the cab driver as he handed him a tip and walked away, Wesley following.

“Kind sir?” Wesley hissed at Grimshaw. “Must you be so patronising?”

From the look Grimshaw gave him, Wesley almost expected a flat-out “yes”. Instead, Grimshaw remarked, “Any man who is prepared to endure vast amounts of hardship to aid others must be a kind of gentleman.”

“By that logic, I'm a kind sir...” Wesley muttered.

“Aren't we all?” Grimshaw asked.

Wesley did not answer, for it was rhetorical.

Grimshaw strolled into the building; doors were no barrier, or else his presence caused them to shuffle to the side out of discontent. Policemen turned to stare, and the tapping of typewriters paused in his wake.

“Stangerson!” Grimshaw called as he approached the grey-haired Chief Constable, whose desk was littered with paperwork in complete ignorance of in-trays.

Stangerson turned to face him and rolled his eyes. “Grimshaw.... Lovely to see you twice in one day!”

“Indeed.” Grimshaw seemed oblivious to sarcasm, Wesley had noted; an egotistical mind generally was. “A great day this is for you, to be graced by presence, as well as having the case of Henry Herman practically solved.”

Wesley swivelled to face Grimshaw, and he could feel lines of confusion etched onto his face.

“Really?” Stangerson seemed enthusiastic now. “Who did it?”

Grimshaw shrugged. “We don't know.”

“Do you have any leads?” Wesley could hear the annoyance in Stangerson's voice.

“Not-” Wesley began, before Grimshaw cut him off.

“Of course,” Grimshaw beamed, “the murderer is careless, shown by the disposal of the body; floating in the Thames? Not smart. He must then live near the Thames, as he wouldn't want to travel far from home in this winter's cold and pouring rain. Judging by the time he's been missing, Henry must have been kept somewhere out of sight, suggesting an attic or basement. Also, the surname “Herman” is German, so we could assume that the murderer lost either friend or family during the war, and wanted some sort of revenge.”

“That really doesn't narrow it down.” Wesley tried to say it gently; he knew how worked up Grimshaw could get.

“Also, note the wound. A very large incision; not made by a standard knife, no. I can assume that the murderer is a professional who uses knives in his business.” Grimshaw folded his arms, as if the case was over.

“You assume, do you?” Stangerson asked carefully. “Guessing is not the same as evidence.”

“Assumptions from evidence are not merely guesswork.” Grimshaw abruptly turned away, and walked out of the building, Wesley staring after him.

Stangerson looked at Wesley, who shrugged. “You know what he's like.”

“I know.” Stangerson sighed, “I'll look into what he said, and send a courier around later.”

“Thank you.” Wesley turned and ran after Grimshaw, who was strolling down the street. “Wait!”

Grimshaw paused and turned. “Ah, Wesley. You caught up.”

“You left me behind!” Nameless faces turned to him for all but a second.

“I never asked you to come with, you just followed.”

Wesley spluttered, before realising that Grimshaw was right. “Fine....”

“What did Stangerson say to you?” Grimshaw asked.

“He said he'll look into what you said.” They began to walk again. “Where are we going?”

“To where the body was found.”

“But Stangerson said-”

“The police are too slow.”

Wesley tried to keep up with his much-taller companion's larger strides, and soon found himself short of breath. Everytime... “Are we walking there?”

“Yes.” Grimshaw answered flatly, “Problem?”

“Can we not get a cab again? I've got plenty of change here.”

Grimshaw sighed. “Wesley, you know in films, where people ask “why didn't they just get the bus” or something foolish like that?”

Wesley nodded hesitantly.

“Well, the answer is usually something to do with better film-making or story-telling.” Grimshaw explained. “And while this is neither – in fact, the 1920s don't even have films with that content – it operates on the premise that we don't want to do the same thing twice.”

“Alright, whatever, let's go.” Wesley was sick of Grimshaw's crap.

*

The Thames rippled in the morning breeze. Grimshaw's cane was pointing at a specific point. “That,” he proclaimed, “is where the body was found.”

“How do you know?” Wesley asked, in awe of his partner's deduction.

“Stangerson showed me on a map earlier.”

“Oh...”

“Anyway, we're looking for a butcher.” Grimshaw's voice held a level of certainty about it.

“How can you be of sure of that?” Wesley regarded him with suspicion, expecting another trick.

“Heat and knives! Of course it's a butcher. The stench of death and the sounds of customers would easily hide Henry's cries for help, or any stench from his body. Most butchers have a basement for storing stock, and Henry was likely thrown in there. Obviously, in the month he's been missing, he would have been fed, so a place where food originates from would be a perfect source.” Grimshaw grinned. “There is one, not far from here, we'll start there. The investigations begin!” He tucked his cane under his so he could rub his hands together.

Wesley shook his head. “What if you're wrong, Lewis?”

Grimshaw's face twisted in confusion. “You never call me Lewis.”

“What if you're wrong?” Wesley asked, louder this time.

“Well...” Grimshaw paused, looking lost just for a moment. “Well, then we go back to see if Stangerson's courier has visited.” He nodded to himself. “Yes. Come on!”

*

The British flag hung over a window of the butcher's, with the other displaying a selection of meat, none of which Wesley was able to identify.

“I've got a good feeling about this one!” Grimshaw smiled.

“You said that about the last three.” Wesley huffed.

“This time is different!”

“You said that about the last two...”

Grimshaw shot Wesley a scathing look, before entering the store, a bell ringing as the door opened. He looked around, taking in every detail: A fire and stove behind the counter, as well as a knife rack; murder weapon there? Probably. Floor is chipped in multiple places: general wearing of feet eroding the ground, or signs of a struggle. Proprietor is bald and clean shaven, so no hair will fall on either meat...or corpse.

“You need a hand?” The butcher asked.

Grimshaw walked towards him as Wesley entered the store. After nodding at Wesley, Grimshaw smiled, and said “Ah, Guten Tag!”. Wesley winced at the barely-passable German accent while Grimshaw watched the butcher's reaction. Eyes widened. Lips tightened. Eyes squinted back again, and body language became closed, shifting back and crossing his arms. Gotcha! “My friend, Henry Herman. You seen?”

The butcher's eyes darted unconsciously to the knife rack, before saying with a shake in his voice, “Never heard of him.”

“Are you sure?” Grimshaw asked, accent returning to usual now. “Because he's been stabbed recently, and you glanced at your knife rack at the mere mention of his name?”

For no more than a second, the butcher's eyes darted left and right, before he reached for a knife. Wesley darted forwards, and Grimshaw lashed out with his cane, hitting the butcher around the head. With a cry the butcher fell, with another blow winding him and knocking him to the floor. Grimshaw stepped over him, noting his name. “Sir butcher, you are under arrest for the murder of Henry Herman.” Grimshaw smiled. “Anything to say Wesley?”

“Nothing much.” Wesley shook his head.

There was silence.

“Grimshaw?”

“Yes?” Grimshaw kept the end of his cane on the butcher's face, ready to lash out if he tried to escape.

“Do you think we'll ever be as famous as Holmes and Watson?”

“We could do with the cash, couldn't we?” Grimshaw nodded, considering it.

Wesley agreed, despite it being rhetorical. “But do you?”

“No.” Grimshaw shook his head. “They've got a much better author.”

Emergence: Chapter 58

Olaf's chest was stained with blood, still erupting from the hole in his heart, which still throbbed slowly, pumping the final spurts onto Strom's hands. Jolting his hands away, Strom stared, open-mouthed at the wound. Ilisa wailed nearby, but he could not see her in the endless darkness. No stars burned through the incomprehensible infinity around him. “Olaf,” Strom muttered, “No no no!”

Olaf's eyes snapped open, only darkness within, no whites in his eyes, neither of the hazel orbs that were there before, but a deep dark void. His mouth opened and he screeched the words “Avenge me!”

Strom's eyes flew open and he jolted upright, panting. Something flew across the small room and shattered against the wall. Sweat covered his forehead, and he could feel it on his chest. Swinging his legs around, he got out of bed and went to investigate the shattering. On inspection, he found shards of glass next to the wall, and a trail of water leading to it. Did I do this? His heart was still beating from his nightmares, but he'd caught his breath at least.

“Strom?”

He looked around at the source of this strained, half-aware voice. “Ilisa. It's fine.”

She got out of bed and put her hand on his shoulder. “You having the nightmares?”

Strom closed his eyes, and Olaf's face flashed in front of him. “They're all about him. Him and all the others who died.” He looked into her eyes and saw the sadness there, matching his own. “Do you not see him?”

Ilisa hung her head, averting her eyes. “No.” Her voice was unusually small. “I don't dream anymore.” Her voice cracked. “Not after my parents...” She trailed off.

Strom put his arms around her, pulling her close. “At least we've got each other still, eh?”

Ilisa pulled him tight to her. “I thought I lost you.”

Strom kissed her forehead. “I don't think I ever said thank you for saving my life. For this new body. Even these...abilities the Orbans gave me.”

Ilisa looked at the broken glass. “You do that?”

“I lost control.” Strom felt embarrassed, and he felt his face grow warm. “I need calm to control it. Sa'tui is gonna help me with that.”

“Good.” Ilisa detached herself from him and stood up again. “It was good of them to give us this room.”

The room, while small, was comfortable. The bed in the centre of the room was certainly more than satisfactory, and Strom had fallen asleep as soon his head hit the pillow. Or maybe that was due to Ha'kuun's centuries-old pills. There were some strip-lights on the ceiling, but no windows; there was no point having them in the Orbans' underground facility.

“They have to put us somewhere though, didn't they?” Strom paused. “Still can't get used to this new voice.”

“The lack of the accent will save me a fortune on elocution lessons.” Ilisa teased.

“Hey!” Strom chuckled. “I thought you said it was cute?”

“I lied.” Ilisa said matter-of-factly. “Pissed me off.”

He shook his head and chuckled. “Yeah, whatever.” He looked at his hands. They looked exactly the same as they always had done, identical. But he knew that they did not belong to him, they were alien to his mind. Even his mind was alien now, with its newfound abilities. Ilisa was watching him, he could see her concerned look out of the corner of his eye; he'd seen that look all too many times over the years, but usually it was his own doing. “Have you ever felt like your skin is... not your skin?”

Ilisa sighed. “I think we all do Strom. You'll get used to it.”

He nodded and smiled to keep the façade. No. You don't know how this feels, knowing you're not you, not who you were yesterday.

A knock on the door broke the ensuing silence.

“Come in!” Strom called, standing next to Ilisa.

The door slid open to reveal Sa'tui. Strom knew that, as he was part Orban now, he should be able to accept these...creatures, but they made his heart rush when he saw them. Their jet black skin, the disproportionate arms and body. And the faces. Strom knew that his mentor's and his savior's faces would haunt his nightmares one night, the thin patches of skin covering empty eye-sockets being just one of their bizarre plethora of facial features.

“Strom, Ilisa.” Sa'tui's voice echoed in their heads again; Strom was already used to this, and he accepted Sa'tui's voice more than he had his new flesh and blood. “The Empire forces need you in their war efforts.” He paused, before correcting himself. “They need us. The Orbans, and any pilots.”

Strom exchanged glances with Ilisa, before they nodded to each other with the same sinking feeling in their stomachs. Strom had hoped that the war would be over for him.

Maybe it was only just beginning.

The Box

The Box was my home.

We lived in harmony: I clapped, and it would move; The Box clapped, and I would move.

Most of the time it was dark. It was always lonely. I sat on a bench. There was a bench in my box. It wasn't there before, until it was. I liked the bench; it felt smooth, unlike the rough wood you might find on a park bench. Sometimes, the hard wood was uncomfortable, but it was better than the cold floor. I hated the floor.

Once there was a snake.

A red and black fiend, it was. It did not hiss, but merely say the onomatopoeic word; “Hiss”. I looked at the serpent, and it stared back at me, its dark eyes gazing into my own. It blended into the floor, with only its red stripes glaring at me through the darkness. “Hiss?” it said, cocking its head.

I cracked its skull beneath my steel-capped boots and it said “hiss” no more.

The Box was mine, and mine alone. No-one else knew where my Box was, but me. Sometimes even I wasn't sure where it was; I can't go outside. “You cannot leave,” The Box had said. I could hear the outside; indiscernible voices, footsteps, traffic. I thought it was raining once; I could hear something tap-tap-tapping on the sides and top. No water came through, though. Maybe it wasn't rain.

Once there was a windy day.

The box trembled and fell on its side, throwing me across it. I landed, hard, on the wall...the floor...top? I wasn't sure, but The Box would not stop moving and only the deafening whistle from outside could be heard. I was in pain; covered in bruises, scrapes and blood.

Since then, I didn't know where in The Box I stood; it was impossible to know, all the sides were identical in their coldness, their blandness and their darkness. Possibly on the port-side. It didn't feel like starboard.

The Box was kind to me; it was my friend. At night, food would come from nowhere, even if it was half-eaten, dry and cold. Obviously The Box wanted to try some first. Sometimes I felt it didn't need to eat, but obviously it did.

We weren't always friends.

Once, The Box clapped.

I had only met The Box for an hour or so before I moved in. It was a week later when it clapped. The sides of The Box buckled inwards, before expanding outwards. There was a huge BANG, like an explosion, from outside. I looked around, my heart beating faster than it had before. The sides of The Box rushed inwards, and I threw myself to the ground, hoping that they wouldn't crush me. They did not, but the pain of it made me wish that they did. Bones cracked and strained, maybe even broke; I don't know, I'm not a doctor. The walls rushed out again. I breathed a sigh of relief. But then it continued. Clap. Clap. Clap.

But that's behind us now. We were fine after that. Sometimes it clapped when it was annoyed with me, but it never hurt me as much. Sometimes I clapped. I don't think I hurt it but it shied away from the sound, the top shooting higher up for a moment, making the sound echo around The Box.

I got off of the bench and crawled across The Box as part of my exercise regime. I looked back at the bench, which was not there. I ignored its absence and sat on the floor.

And as I sat on the cold, hard floor, I heard a voice, clearly this time:

“Spare change sir?”