The Endless Sea
By Darth_Maxx
"In the Endless Sea of beginningless Beginnings"
- Accurate translation of the first line of the Old Testament,
From the Hebrew
A man sat at a bar, wearing an immaculately pressed three-piece Armani
suit, his chin cradled firmly in his hand. Before him sat three full glases
of tequila, untouched. He was, after all, here on business.
The bar's other patrons occasionally glanced at him with evident curiosity,
taking into account the expensively-tailored suit, the handmade silk tie.
When their eyes rose to his face, however, they slid away, suddenly
captivated by some hitherto-unnoticed person or thing. There are some items
which the human brain simply lacks the capacity to comprehend, and one of
the ways it solves this problem is by simple distraction. What the mind
cannot know can hurt it, but only if it is stupid enough to allow
itself to be exposed to such a thing.
He felt, rather than heard, the Other's approach, and was not surprised at
all when the new arrival spoke from just behind his left ear. "Waiting for
me - sssssss?" The voice was low and hissing, echoes of a thousand million
screams contained within its scintillating undertones.
"Obviously."
The new arrival was dressed much the same as the man at the bar: sensibly
black suit, bleached-white shirt, patent leather shoes. His face, to one
capable of seeing it at all, looked as if it was chiseled out of the
blazing heart of a bonfire. "I will ssssssit." It was a simple statement of
fact, blatantly disregarding any sort of courtesy, an adress between
equals.
"Go right ahead, then."
In an instant, the Other was seated beside him. Reality snagged and
revolved around them, blindingly brilliant to someone with the right kind
of eyes, a delicate, forceful dance of point and counterpoint, suggestion
and argument. Niether party looked directly at the other, but they were
conversing on a level far beyond what poor, slow sound could carry. Across
the cosmos, telepathic sensitives groaned and rolled over in their sleep,
the fabric of their psyche momentarially the playground of forces far
beyond mortal ken, the base level of their universe being, slowly and
surely, redefined. After several minutes, the twisting slowed, then stopped
altogether. The Other reached across the bar and snatched up one of the
First's tequilas, draining it in a single swallow before moving on to the
second.The first man-form cleared his throat after a long, stretching
silence.
"It is settled, then?"
"Yessszzzzzz...." The hiss was excited and exhausted at the same time,
post-coital in its rapture. The flames in its eyes burned white-hot. "Are
all sssides ready?"
"We are."
"As are we."
"Then, all the pieces are in place."
"Yessssszzzzz..."
"And the deal must be sealed."
"But of coursszzzz."
The pair locked eyes for a moment, ice-blue to flame-white, and in that
instant, something timeless and eternal passed between them.
The second arrival extended one black-gloved hand, and the other took it.
As one, in the same chilling voice that echoed like the turning of a key in
a lock far beyond human comprehension, they spoke.
"It has begun."
And, one by one, they left.
*
It is no longer the educated opinion of mankind that the stars are small
pinpricks in the collander of some deity placed firmly over the heavens. In
"modern times", man has discovered that starlight is not the pure light of
heaven, filtering through, but instead the byproduct of fusion inside the
cores of giant, high-temperature balls of gas, thousands upon thousands of
miles away.
This is partly true. Starlight is not the light of Heaven, nor the light of
Hell, for that matter. It comes from Beyond : fusion, gas, supernovae are
all excuses, pathways. On some level, man knows that, no matter the
evidence, no matter the distance, the stars are gateways for something
simultaneously far greater and far more subtle than light or darknesss. On
some level, both apart from and akin to reality, the collander of sanity
has been placed overhead by the entire race.
At the same instant the deal was closed, something more than light crossed
over. It gleamed breifly like a distant jewel, hanging in velvety space for
a moment, then fell, swiftly and inexorably, towards Earth.
It fell...
*
Seryph Gibbons, former Avatar of the Universe, awoke in a cold sweat and
sat up sharply in bed, silk sheets whistling over one another to get out of
his way. The leather and gold grip of his katana felt calm, reassuring, a
reminder of what he was. He could not recall having consciously drawn
it.
With a groan, he twisted his hips and swung his legs over the side of the
bed, rising easily. His robe was drabed unceremoniously over a nearby
chair. Automatically adopting the gliding gait of the master swordsman, he
flowed over and grabbed it. He was halfway through putting the thing on
when he realized that the sword was still in his hand. Muttering an oath,
he sheathed the katana, then moved to his small tatami mat, placed
unobtrusively in one cleared corner of his bedroom. Bowing solemnly, he
stepped onto it and assumed the seiza position, back straight, legs bent
double beneath him, hands on thighs, eyes straight. His breath was a low,
even rythym in the dark room. In. Out. Streetlamps through Venitian blinds
traced horizontal shadows across his face. A car passed on the road
outside, headlamps briefly blinding before it moved on.
That dream- there had been a dream, hadn't there? Something about stars...
a bar... a warning... it was all fading away so swiftly....
He was still sitting there when the sun rose four hours later.
*
It fell...
*
Sam, Fourth Horsemen of the Apocalypse, awoke quietly. There was no
transition from the calm silence of sleep he had allowed himself to fall
into to the blinding brilliance of reality. In one moment, he floated in a
soft embrace of self-crafted sleep (for the Horsemen do not need to sleep
as do ordinary mortals, but do so when it suits them), and in the next,
sparks blazed in the black abyss of his eyesockets. He was awake.
He was awake, and he was troubled deep in the bone. The Scythe leaned up
against the wall across the room, simultaneously both ten feet and a mere
thought away. It gleamed hungrily in the soft, strangely hollow moonlight
that filtered through the windows of the Guildhouse. It too had Changed,
although no other being in all of Creation could sense it, not even the
oh-so-sensitive Brothers. Deep inside the shimmering, Planck-thickness
blade, something hungry had awakened, staring out eagerly at the world like
a ravenous wolf at cornered prey. He could feel that same hunger growing
slowly inside of him, almost obscuring the dim pain, as if half-remembered,
the meager shadow of what Pestilence felt Below.
Quietly, taking care not to disturb the subtle wards and detectors laid by
generations of Brothers through the walls and notional dimensions that
comprised the Guildhouse, he extended his senses, searching through the
soft skein of space and time for the change that had awoken him, hoping
against hope that it was not what he knew, in the heart of his heart, it
was. He raised his arms, threw his head back, and searched for a long
minute.
Finally, he relaxed, arms dropping once more to his sides, head
straightening resentfully. He was right. Damn it all, but he was right. The
Change was there, too small to be detected by virtually anyone, but still
there all the same, staring smugly at him from the depths of quantum
reality. Someone had sealed the Deal. By all the demons of hell!
He needed to clear his head. He needed a ride.
One black-clad arm blurred out to snatch the black and white macrame
YinYang keychain resting upon the bedstand. Soliss would be furious, to say
nothing of the others, but he needed some time alone, especially now. The
Scythe gleamed, and he grinned. There was no cause for worry. After all, he
would leave a note.
*
It fell
*
Stell woke with a groan, a headache, and a vague sense that she had just
been witness to something Important, not to mention a faint, vile taste in
her mouth. She tried to wedge her eyes tight against the light of the
rising sun, but to no avail, the light creeping between her lashes and
worming its way into her brain, the glorious song of the new morning.
The nearest free object to her was an empty coffee mug on her bedstand.
With a flick of her wrist, she threw it at the light, thankfully (and quite
intentionally) missing the window altogether. The cup hit the wall with the
brittle crash of broken ceramic. Angrily, she flung up one hand to block
the light. "All right, all right, I'm up. Why don't you shut the hell up
for once? Some of us would like to be able to sleep through sunrise."
Limbs heavy as if stuffed with lead, she pushed herself up, planting her
feet firmly upon the off-white shag carpet and forcing her body to stand
and walk towards the bathroom. Three steps later, she was sprawled on the
floor, the room spinning crazily around her prone form. Shaking her head
ruefully, she rose once more, and, with the willing support of the wall and
her bedside table, made her way into the waiting bathroom.
Oooohhhhhhh.... one too many Tequila last night, I suppose.... was
all she had time to think before her stomach hurtled up into her throat and
she hurrieldly stumbled the last two steps to the toilet, spending the next
several minutes regretting her brief but earnest visit to Alphonse's Bar
down on the corner of 3rd Street the night before. Hands shaking, she wiped
her mouth on a wad of toilet paper, rinsed it out with water from the sink,
and staggered, feeling slightly relieved, into the shower. Half-blind, she
reached out and twisted one of the crystalline knobs, tensing herself
reflexively.
"AAAAH!" The scream shattered the heavy calm of the apartment, punctuated
by a drawn out period of spluttering and splashing about as the shower was
turned off, the rippled-glass door popped open, and a waterlogged pair of
panties and a bra dropped out onto the white tile floor. Brushing her
orange hair back from her face, Stell grumbled softly to herself. "Silk,
too... Why does it always have to be the silk?" The valve squeaked as she
opened it again, hot water pelting her face and (now) naked body in a
refreshing, urgently soft rythym. She stood there for a minute, hugging her
shoulders against the brief heat, then relaxed, lathered up her hair, and
started to work.
Several minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom wearing a soft, fluffy
white robe, white towel wrapped around her hair. Now free of the grips of
her hangover, but still moving on autopilot, she padded across the bedroom
floor and into the kitchen, wincing as her feet touched the cold tile. A
bag of instant from the cabinet, hot water from the countertop sink, and
seconds later, good old Mister Coffee was chugging away. She retreated back
to her room, to arm herself for the day.
The closet was already open after her hurried decision to meet some of the
boys from work at Alphonse's around eight last night. The robe fell softly
to the floor and she paused for a moment in her underwear, regarding the
array of fabrics before her. Finally, she chose a respectable dark red
business suit, skirt cut just above the knee, a white blouse and a jacket
to match the skirt. Sensible stuff, really. She had a meeting with the
O'Donnely people again today, didn't want to look shabby, of course, but at
the same time, looking to sharp wouldn't be a good idea, either. Keep
people on their toes, that'swhat she always said. When assembled just
properly, with a slight change in her walk, a bearing slightly more
subdued, she looked almost exactly like a young girl right out of law
school, something which, she remarked with a vixen's smile, she certainly
was not. Heels, of course, not to high, but not flats either.
Professionalism.
Mr. Coffee's plaintive buzz from the kitchen broke her out of her momentary
reverie, and she turned without a break in her stride, the fabric of the
clothes feeling at first foreign and strange, then finally an accepted part
of her body. The coffee smelled delicious (straight black, French Roast),
looked delicious. It even made that delicous, almost nonexistant bubbling
sound as it emerged from the lip of the pot and fell into her waiting mug.
She could feel time calling at her, but held it off for a moment more.
There was something about the first food of the day that demanded her to
savor it, take in the sweet, bitter flavor and exult as it rolled down her
throat in little rivulets, relish the soft smell in her nostrils. Her eyes
closed briefly with the pleasure. Then, and only then, did she allow the
outside world to intrude enough for her to check the time on the kitchen
clock.
"Holy shit!" Dark brown liquid burned her skin as it sloshed over the rim
of the mug. She turned swiftly, grabbing her car keys off the kitchen
table, and was out the door in a second, noding with hurried satisfaction
at the barely audible click as the automatic lock engaged. No matter who
you were, these days you kept your door locked in the City. It probably
said something about society, but she had neither the inclination nor the
time to divine exactly what that was. The keys jangled on the end of their
gleaming chrome chain, a sensible compass resting at the other end of that
chain, cradled protectively in her palm. The sharp click-clack of her heels
accelerated swiftly as she ran as best as she could down the light green
hallway to the elevator, a slender finger sharply, repeatedly jabbing the
"Down" button.
Safely inside the elevator, having done just about all a normal human could
do to speed herself to work, she allowed her mind to wander. It was a very
large mind, and powerful, and as such, wandered quite a bit when she
allowed it to. She brought the mug up to perfect red lips and sipped in a
blissful lack of thought.
Her last words had been, "Holy Shit!"
The word "Holy" wandered around aimlessly through the halls of her
consciousness, peeking in doors and looking for something to pair off
with.
- The television, four nights ago. A movie. Towards the end :a man in a
white suit, talking to an annoyed man behind a bar. "So, I think I'll
have... a holy bartender!" -
Now, there was a good movie. At least some people still knew how to make
fun of religion these days... The word "bartender" floated through her mind
in search of something to connect with... There had been a dream, hadn't
there, about a -
A bar.
Two figures.
A Deal.
Falling.
Muscles all up and down her back stiffened involuntarially. She had to
focus very carefully upon her hand to keep the mug from falling to the
floor tiles of the elevator. Good ceramic was expensive, and she was
already one mug down, after being awake for all of half an hour.
Still, despite their seeming urgency, these thoughts were merely the
chattering backcurrent of normality, clinging on desperately beneath a tide
of startled, profound numbness. Something had happened, something drastic.
Not just drastic in your ordinary sense of the word, but drastic
nonetheless, the kind of drastic that lives behind challenges and duels, in
the heart of every killer. But, she reflected, still not having quite
accepted the message inherent in the half-shaped dream images (for dreams,
no matter how convincing, tell lies far more often than truth), even that
was not quite it. This was the kind of drastic that drives ordinary,
generally normal and likable people toterrible extremity. Stell searched a
little deeper in her incomplete memory of the dream, and her eyes snapped
open in sudden revelation.
She Knew.
There was only one thing to do, now.
When the elevator door opened, she had not moved, her eyes staring straight
ahead, a thoughtful expression in their depths. She stepped out into the
garage.
<CENTER*
Stell drove a sleek, black and silver Shelby GT, white leather interior,
engine souped up as best as money could buy, polished by Stell herself each
week until the enamel gleamed. She loved the car; it was one of the very
few indulgences which she allowed herself, and no matter where she worked,
no matter what continent she lived on, the Shelby ended up there before her
first week of residence was elapsed. Ever since she started her current
job, there hadn't been much moving to do, which only made life that much
simpler. The coffee mug rested in one cupholder, and, to the outside world,
she was perfectly composed, not a strand of hair out of place. On the
inside, however, it was all she could do to resist slamming on the gas and
hitting the boosters all the way to work. She didn't know how much time she
had.
A sharp turn on 31st Street, a few barreling right-angles down back roads,
and she pulled to a screeching hault in front of the Greenpeace - Norton
Legal Action Fund's headquarters compound, a fenced-in tan, ten-story
building surrounded on all sides by several acres of caerfully maintained
parkland. There were only two ways in or out of the compound, one of which
she pulled up to even now. The man on duty, a small, round, dark-skinned
individual dressed in a decorationless, light-blue rent-a-cop uniform,
leaned out the window of his security booth even as she rolled down her
own.
"In a bit of a hurry today, Miss Aurora?"
She shook her head gently, reddish-gold tresses dancing tantalizingly about
her shoulders. The name was Aurorae, but Americans seemed to have such a
problem with that last, soft 'i' sound. Still, now of all times, one more
try wouldn't hurt anything. "Aurorae, Charlie. Stella Aurorae."
"Whatever you say, Miss." He turned back to his computer, punching a few
keys to clear her through. A sudden thought blazed through her head, and
she spoke without realizing it.
"Charlie, do you have a family?"
He paused, taken aback by the unexpected question, one eyebrow cocked up
curiously. Finally, he found hsi wits enough to speak. "Why, yes, ma'am. A
wife and two kids, in Harlem. Why?"
She blinked, and was silent. For a second that stretched on into eternity,
Charles the door warden looked into her eyes, and felt something dark,
deep, and, despite all other evidence, ancient, coupled with the quiet,
frozen control of a deer staring into car headlights. He was suddenly
struck by a desire to be close to his family, and far away from the city.
Barely controlling the subcutaneous shivering that travelled through his
muscles at the speed of light, he nodded, then took three tries to depress
the gate's opening control.
Stell drove through and parked the Shelby in her reserved place, about ten
steps away from the gaping doors. Her walk was gentle, like the swaying of
boughs, but hurriedly purposeful as she crossed the sidewalk and shoved her
way through the glass portal. Eyes automatically locked on the elevator,
disregarding the obviously interested stares she (or rather, her body,
which were two essentially different things) attracted as she strode
briskly across the tile floor, not even noting the lush, beautifully
designed lobby. Seconds after she arrived at her destination, the gleaming,
silver doors parted and she entered the beige-carpeted lift car, one finger
firmly depressing the "Penthouse" button. She only hoped that Ketrick was
in his office, and not out on one of his infamously ill-timed hiking
trips.
When the doors opened, they revealed a compact, utilitarian antechamber,
complete with three leather waiting chairs, a dark plastic desk, and a
secretary, wearing so much make up she might as well be similarly made of
plastic, behind said desk. "Good morning, Miss Aurorae." Every syllable was
precisely articulated. Someday, Stell reflected, she'd have to examine one
of these secretaries closely, and figure out if they were really human, or
simply complicated robots. So far, none had given her any degree of proof,
one way or the other.
"I'd like to see Bill."
"Hold for one moment, please." An unseen button was pressed, and the
secretary spoke again. "Miss Aurorae to see Mr. Ketrick."
Moments later, the intercomm buzzed welcomingly. "Send her in."
William Ketrick, for all the money he handled as head of Greenpeace's
Norton LDF, had managed to, by all appearances, remain mostly uncorrupted.
His office was Spartan compared to the rest of the building, consisting of
a two wooden chairs and a plain, store-brand desk. The only concession to
executive luxury visible was the wafer-thin "Cleo" laptop, used solely for
notetaking, that rested unused upon the desk's corner.
Bill himself was a medium-height man, built like a bull, with powerful,
muscle-corded hands and an owl's piercing gaze, black, Asian-ethnic hair
cropped close to his skull. Despite the imposing appearance, however, Stell
had worked with him long enough to know that he was a softie inside, a
person who really cared about the work he did. His voice was full and
round. "Stella! How was your vacation?"
"Fine, thanks." She paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to phrase
her reason for coming to the penthouse.
"Is something wrong? It's not about the O'Donnely meeting, is it?"
Well, nothing for it but to tell him, now. "William," her use of his full
name prompted a questioning rise of the eyebrow, but she pressed on, "I
need to leave."
His jaw went slack, but he hasdn't got to his current position by being
slow to counter. "Vacation? Certainly. I'll schedule some time-"
"No, William. I have to leave now, and I can't say how long I'll be gone."
The look of concern on his face only steeled her resolve. "I'm sorry. I
really can't tell you how much I don't want to have to do this, especially
now, when we're all so stressed, but I need to go."
"But why-"
"Just think of it as a... family... affair. I'm sorry, but I really can't
tell you anything else." The hurt look in his eyes tore through her to the
heart.
"Stell, if you're being pressured into anything.... We can fight it. I'll
bring the whold Fund down on their heads, if that's what it takes."
"It wouldn't do any good, Bill. Thank you, though, for your offer. I can't
tell how long I'll be gone, or if I'll ever be back, but-"
He shook his head sharply, his profile briefly sillhouetted against the
bright sun. "We'll be waiting, Stell. You're the best person we've got,
there'll always be a job open for you. Whatever this is, I know you'll be
back. There's not been a man made that could get the best of you."
Impossibly, ludicrously, her eyes burned, a single tear streaking like a
molten coal down the elegant curve of her face. It hurt to see him like
this, hurt to think what was just around the bend. She stammered, "T-thank
you," and ran out of the room as fast as her legs could carry her, not even
noting the secretary's shocked stare as she barreled into the waiting
elevator. At the door to her car seconds later, she was still holding back
those frustrating, irrational tears.
"Come on, girl, get ahold of yourself!" Door closed, keys in the ignition.
The engine thrummed powerfully, deep in the carbon-steel block. Tires
screeched in protest as she peeled out, barely having to pause for the gate
to open. Charlie had seen her coming, seen the muted fire in her eyes, and
opened the gate before she was within three car's lengths of it. Tires
squealed as she pulled out onto 31st. Anger and fear warred inside her, the
brief, comfortable numbness fading into a world of total, crisp and
undeniable reality.
Power flowed inside her. A single tear fell upon the delicate, silk weave
of her skirt. Through gritted teeth, she spoke, a single word, but with a
force stronger than a thousand atomic warheads behind it: the power of her
will. "
*
Lt. Robert Collins, NYPD, currently assigned on traffic duty, felt,
rather than saw, something pass in front of his speed trap. He glanced down
at the LCD display of his radar gun, blinked to clear the sleep out of his
eyes, then looked again.
"Jimmy?"
"Yeah..."
"How fast can these guns shoot, you think?"
"I think it's somethin' like 300 miles an hour."
A pause.
"Umm... Why?"
"Never mind. I must be seeing things." With that, Robert pushed the "Reset"
button and sat back to watching. James never saw the small, glaring red
infinity symbol that glowed upon the infinitely black screen.
Stell was gone.
And beyond the world, Something continued to Fall.
Darth_Maxx