“INTERROGATIVE” (Original)

She heard my footsteps as I walked through the wet grass, and turned to face me. “Jackie!” She said, beaming at me with those bright, blue eyes of hers. “There you are! I’ve been waiting for-” She checked her watch. “For twenty minutes! What the hell, man? You know I hate this weather. Wet, cold, cloudy…” She waited for me to say something. A few moments passed, and as she realized that I wasn’t going to, I watched her posture shift as her confidence started to leave her.

I sighed like she was the most annoying thing in the world.

“Gillian,” I said. “What do you want?”
“It’s Jill.” She told me.
“Whatever.”

I saw her wince. My attitude had hurt her, as I had intended.

“Well…” She began. I could almost see the doubts swarming in her mind as I watched her body language change and betray her anxiety. “It’s just, we’ve been going out for a while now, and I just wanted to tell you that- that I think-”

“Think what, Gillian?” I snapped.

She hesitated, and I watched her lips tremble as she struggled to reply. “I love you, Jackie.” She said. Her voice was barely a whisper.

I rolled my eyes and walked right past her. I didn’t look back, but I could picture her face as I heard her start to cry. I had hoped that I would feel some sense of achievement, but in truth, I wanted nothing more than to turn around and take it all back…

 

His head ached and the world around him seemed to spin at nauseating speeds. Old memories invaded his thoughts; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about Gillian, but now she seemed to be the only thing he could think about. He had hoped that he’d forgotten about that dreary day from so long ago, but like so many other foul memories, it had stuck with him, always waiting for its chance to resurface.

He opened his bleary eyes and saw the sterile, metal table to which he was handcuffed, then looked up, very slightly, and caught a glimpse of a woman standing by the door.

She was wearing a crisp, black suit, and he could see the sidearm underneath it. Fearing blue eyes and blonde hair, he didn’t dare look up at her face.

She sat opposite him and gently put a beige folder down in front of her, taking a moment to flip through its contents as he stared adamantly into his lap. “Mr. Campbell?” She said. “I’m Agent Carter, with the FBI.” She paused for a moment, but he gave no response.
“Jack,” She said, lowering her voice. “We’ve met before. Do you recognize me?”

“I don’t know any cops.” He growled.
Softly, she sighed, and became formal once more as she took a few photos out of the folder. “Do you remember why you’re here?” She said, sliding the pictures towards him across the table. “We found these in your car. These are very dangerous materials-”
“Nothing illegal.” He said.
“Not inherently.” She said. “But combined with your history of substance abuse, erratic behavior and violence, plus your arrest earlier today, I think you can understand why we’d be concerned.”

He said nothing, and tried to convince himself that her voice was absolutely not familiar.
“Jack,” She said. Her voice was quiet and her tone was soft, and that frightened him. “I know you’re anxious, but if you’ll just cooperate, I can help you-”
“Why would you ever help me?” He muttered.
She paused, briefly, then answered. “Why wouldn’t I want to help you?”
“You’d know why.” He said. “You’d know if you were her.”
“Why don’t you tell me the reason, Jack?”
“She hates me. She’d never talk to me. Not like you.”
“But how do you know that?”
“Because I know her! I know Gillian!”
“Gillian?” She said. “It’s just Jill, actually.”

He sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. That name, the way she said it, was straight out of his nightmares. “Stop it!” He snarled. “Stop it! It’s a trick! You’re not her! You can’t be her!” He struggled furiously against his restraints, but the table didn’t budge, and neither did the woman. She waited patiently as he thrashed, all the while avoiding looking directly at her. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and instinctively his head snapped to the left.

In the large, rectangular mirror embedded in the wall, he saw his own wild eyes and the tangled mess of brown hair that covered his head and face staring back at him. His own reflection was like a stranger to him, but that isn’t what stopped him.

She was looking into the mirror too. He saw her face, and couldn’t deny the truth any longer, no matter how hard he tried. She looked the same, after all, only a bit older. Her blue eyes were as bright as ever, and her hair was still that sunny kind of blonde. It was even the same length, though she wore it differently now.

“Gillian.” He said, as his feelings evaporated. “It’s really you…” He slumped back into his seat.
“It’s really me.” She said, nodding. “I need you to answer my questions now, alright?”
He told her everything she wanted to know, desperate just to talk to her.

“Thanks for that.” She said, finishing up a quick note and stuffing it into the folder.
“There’s so much more I need to say to you.” He said.
“Some other time, Jack.” She said, standing and packing up the folder. “I have work to do.”

“You’re leaving?! Wait! Don’t go! Not yet!” He reached for her as she walked away, but the handcuffs still restrained him. “Gillian! Please!”
She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him. “It’s Jill.” She told him, and then gently shut the door behind her.

“A STRANGE AND DISTANT FUTURE” (Revision)

Some minor changes to a previous story.

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Maxine walked down the wide, empty streets, alone and lost in her thoughts, moving at a listless pace. Her clothing changed its shape and colours, making subtle adjustments as she moved, reflecting her mood. It concealed her figure as, bitterly, she scorned the world around her, and blended with her environment as she wished for nothing more than to simply disappear for a while. Her top draped loosely around her shoulders, like a shawl, and reached up to cover her face like a scarf. Her skirt reached down to her ankles, and flapped freely around them as she walked. Even her shoes – like running shoes, but with no laces and lacking any designs; simple, white and inconspicuous – softened their soles to nullify her footsteps, easily heard in the near-total silence that pervaded this part of town.

She stopped, and stuffed her hands into deep, newly-formed pockets, just listening for a moment. Even as cars flew by, far overhead, there was scarcely any noise to be heard. The vaguely eerie near-silence made her somewhat uneasy. This was a city of millions, and yet, there were places that made it seem as though there was nothing alive on the entire planet. In places like these, she thought, it seemed as though a person could simply vanish. She leaned against a near-by wall, as pristine and colourless as the street, and looked up, watching the distant cars fly by in neat, orderly lines. They all moved at the same speed, and they were all the same safe distance apart, as though guided by some kind of invisible railway. And, in a sense, they were guided by an invisible force, as human drivers had long since become a thing of the past. She watched them as they passed, totally oblivious to the streets below them as they made their daily journey to and from the myriad of skyscrapers on the horizon, and wondered, idly, if anyone would miss her if she did somehow disappear. Or if anyone would even notice.

She sighed and slid down the wall, sitting on the straight, smooth sidewalk and shutting her eyes. Places like these were so isolated, so lonely. They reminded her of how incredibly alone she often felt. And yet, the crowded areas always seemed worse, somehow. Getting lost in a crowd of strangers, their minds and attention always far away, preoccupied with something far more interesting than walking, all marching to some mysterious rhythm that forever seemed to elude her understanding… It was an easy way to feel insignificant, irrelevant. Like one white pixel in a spread of billions, all culminating in a titanic blank slate. Here, at least, she was an individual.

Quietly, she sighed, and reluctantly opened her eyes just a crack. Something small, soft and round gently bobbed its way past her, moving along at an unhurried pace. It looked like a metallic tumbleweed, though that was where the similarities ended. It rolled, and sometimes hopped, down the street by its own volition, free from the influence of any breeze and guided only by the objectives handed down to it by the same invisible force that guided the cars along their routes.

Each bounce released thousands of microscopic robots that were housed inside it, putting them to work cleaning up the dust, the chipping paint and the rare few bits of litter that could be found on the street. And once they were done, they flew back to their tumbling nest, ready to deploy again. She watched it roll by, then shut here eyes again. The streets matter, she thought. But do I?

Abruptly, there was a noise. Though soft and somewhat distant, in comparison to the faint white noise of the cars it was a strong and clear. She opened her eyes as the scarf-like fabric around her face and neck folded over itself, slithering along the side of her face and forming a cup around her ear. She heard a man’s voice, though she couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. There was also music, playing quietly in the background as he spoke. Surprised and intrigued, she got to her feet and eagerly hurried towards the source of the noise, the fabric around her ear sliding onto her shoulder and simply disappearing into it.

Her long, black hair spread wildly behind her as she ran. She passed by dozens of old little buildings, tightly packed together, dimly lit and with shuttered doors and windows all pristine and intact. What little colour remained on their various signs was faded, and all the rest was grayscale. She rounded a corner and skidded to a halt. Across the street, among the continuous chain of shuttered, gray buildings, was a disruption. She stared, mesmerized by this almost otherworldly concentration of bright, warm lights and rich, varied colours. She wandered closer and was met by a distinct and enticing scent that, while it tugged at distant memories in the back of her mind, remained unknown to her.

A single, wooden table with two matching chairs was set out in front, on a terrace of sorts, flanked by two long rows of empty flowerbeds. The terrace led into a small building, indistinct in its shape or size from those that surrounded it, but standing out dramatically in almost every other way. Its wide windows and large, glass doors lacked any kind of shutter. The interior was well-lit and filled with the vibrant colours of its wooden walls and flooring. A large sign at the top of the building read – in bold, white letters against a dark green background – “CAFÉ.” Abruptly, memories came flooding back to her. That scent, it was fresh coffee.

A staple of a bygone era, hardly anybody seemed to drink it anymore. People no longer craved that burst of energy it provided, and the enormous farms that had grown the beans had long ago closed down and faded away. Still, every now and then, someone caught up in nostalgia or romantic feelings for the previous era would manage to brew up a fresh cup or two. Max recalled fond memories of sharing a cup with her great-grandfather many years ago, when she’d been just a small girl. That was when she’d first started taking an interest in the pre-transition world. Had it not been for that coffee, she might never have found the street she was currently on.

The voice and the music were coming from a TV: a rectangular screen, almost two-dimensional, hovering in place, in mid-air, next to the singular table. A news anchor was displayed on it, speaking into the camera, giving a preface to the upcoming story. She hadn’t watched the news in months, if not years, though she recognized the anchor. But hadn’t he retired many years ago?

She pulled out one of the chairs, sat down, and took a moment to look around. In the pre-transition world, she had learned, sitting at a table like this, at a place like this, had been considered a privilege of sorts. Something earned and traded for, and yet, taken for granted. And now, the whole experience was obsolete. Interesting to no one, except perhaps to her. She stared into the table, she absently picking at the newly-formed buttons on her shirt. Her clothes had rearranged themselves again, as she had been running. Her loose, shawl-like top had formed into a short-sleeved, collared blouse, and her skirt had shortened to her knees, though their colours still took cues from the environment. Her previously gray top, of an ambiguous texture and material, was now auburn and silky, with her skirt turning a darker shade, matching the table and chairs. In another time and place, she might have worried about getting cold, but the weather always seemed to be mild, and even the wind seemed to have forgotten about old streets like these.

A number of questions ran through her mind, though none of them seemed to have a clear answer. Why was this place active? Why was it alone? After a moment, the TV caught her attention.

“… We are joined now by Dr. Marika Tsung, a leading expert in the field of A.I. research. How are you, doctor?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“As I understand it, you were among those chiefly responsible for the creation and implementation of the ‘Master Control’ A.I. system ten years ago.”

Maxine scratched her head. This news was very, very old. What was it doing on TV?

“For those of you who don’t know, ‘The System,’ as it is commonly referred to, is an advanced resource-management advisement program that takes in information from every government-run or affiliated factory from around the country and calculates the most efficient possible means of operating these facilities and distributing their products, displaying its results to the President. It is set to revolutionize the field of logistics, as I understand it.”
“Hardly. The capacity of Master Control goes far beyond logistics the optimization of factories. It takes in much more information than that and comes up with far more in-depth solutions. Oh, and that’s a common misconception, actually. The System does not give advice. At least, not anymore. These days, it simply takes action.”
There is an uncomfortable pause.
“What are you saying, exactly?”
“What I’m saying is, Master Control has been operating autonomously for the past nine years.”

The sound of wooden chair legs lightly scraping against the floor of the terrace abruptly took her attention away from the screen. And then, to her surprise, there was someone sitting across from her. A young woman, much like herself.

She wore a white dress shirt, stiff and fully buttoned up, along with black, pleated skirt. She made eye-contact only very briefly, offering a shy smile before quickly glancing away, but her brown eyes seemed somehow kind and sympathetic. Her short, brown hair was tied back in a tight bun, completing the look that went with her demeanour; formal but unassuming.

“Hello,” said the woman, uncertainly. “I’m Lana.”
“Maxine. Er, Max. Hi,” she replied.
A short silence followed, and the TV could be heard clearly again.

“Are you saying we’re no longer in control of our own destinies?”
“I’ve never really believed in destiny, to be honest.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, doctor.”
“Very well then. The short answer is simply ‘yes.’ I think you’d be surprised at how predictable we humans can be.”

“So, um,” began Lana. “Is this your place, or…?”
Max shook her head. “I was going to ask if it was yours.”
“I was just out for a walk. Then I stumbled onto this place,” said Lana.
“You were just walking around?” asked Max. “All the way out here?”
She herself often walked around places like these, though this was the first time she’d ever met anyone else doing the same. It would be nice, she thought, to have someone to go on walks with.

“I kinda like Old World streets like these,” said Lana. “They’re always so isolated and quiet, like they’ve been totally forgotten by the rest of the world.” The way she described them, wistfully and affectionately, the empty streets sounded like a wonderful place. Max watched as Lana’s bun seemed to loosen itself, letting her hair hang loosely by the sides of her head.
“I’ve always thought of these as sad places, personally,” ventured Max. “There used to be so many people here, all the time, back when people used money. Now there’s never anyone around, so the streets just seem… I don’t know. Lonely, I guess.”
“You think streets get lonely?” said Lana.

“Well, I mean…” Max put a hand on the collar of her shirt, preventing it from reaching up her neck to hide her reddening cheeks. “Is that stupid?” she asked, tentatively.
Lana shook her head and laughed. “Maybe they are lonely,” she said. “But at least we’re here, right?” She smiled and, relieved, Max smiled back.

Lana’s dress shirt loosened and changed, forming a yellow t-shirt with a slight dip at the neckline as her skirt changed into blue denim jeans. Max’s blouse changed too, losing its buttons and changing to a light shade of sky blue, with her skirt turning white to match.

There was a pause, and the TV cut in again, briefly distracting the both of them.

“If what you’re saying is true, and we’re now all living under some kind of… Machine dictator-”
“That’s such a crude and small-minded way to envision it.”
“Yes, well, regardless, what kind of life can we expect under the influence of The System?”
“Let me put it to you this way: human happiness, human well-being, is as important a resource as any other, so far as Master Control is concerned. Expect it to be managed efficiently.”

“Hey…” began Max, slowly turning away from the TV. “Since this isn’t my place, and it isn’t yours, do you think… ?”
“Do I think an omnipresent, omniscient, artificial superintelligence…” Lana said, starting to laugh, albeit uncertainly. “Set all of this up? Come on, that’d be crazy!” she said. A moment later, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, she added, in a quiet voice, “right?”
“Yeah, of course,” said Max, shaking her head. “It’s got to be a coincidence. I mean, why would it do that for me? Just because I was feeling a little down, a little alone…”
She trailed off, but after a moment, Lana spoke up.
“A little isolated, irrelevant, lost…” she concluded, softly. “Maybe it wasn’t just for you.”
Max pursed her lips, briefly, then spoke up. “Whatever all this is,” she said. “I’m really glad to have met you. It’s nice to finally have someone to talk to.”
“Yeah,” said Lana. “Likewise.”

A little drone pushed its way out of the café’s wide, glass doors. It was, essentially, just a long, white tray. It had four small rotors, one on each corner, with a little camera at the front of its underside, behind which was an extendable arm with a small claw at its end. Balancing delicately on the tray, were two cups of coffee.

The drone floated its way over to the table and placed both cups on the table, one for both of its occupants. Max and Lana watched, wordlessly, as it then turned around and went back inside. And shortly after, the lights in the café went out.

“Tranquility” (Original)

From her office on the Tranquility Space Station, high in orbit above Earth, the Terran ambassador stared out the window, with her arms crossed behind her back, down at her marvellous blue home below. “And so you see, ambassador…” she continued, briefly catching sight of her stern expression and red Diplomatic Corps uniform. “The Sol Federation will not longer stand for the Sirian Union’s political gamesmanship.”

She turned around to face her guest, who said nothing. “Well?” she demanded. But no reply was forthcoming. She slammed her desk with her hands. “What do you have to say for yourself, ambassador?!”
“Bark!” said Ambassador Azunn.
“I don’t understand?! Oh, I think I understand the situation quite well! I understand that the galaxy is tired of being pushed around and strong-armed into trade agreements that only benefit you and yours!”
“Bark!” replied Azunn. “Bark, bark!” He jumped up onto the desk, fluffy tail high in the air, wagging wildly, and scampered towards her.
“Wait, no-!” But it was too late. He jumped on her, knocking her onto the ground…

And started licking her face. “No! No, bad! Down!” said the Terran ambassador. “Ambassador, please! Restrain yourself! No one must know of our secret love affair!”
“Bark!” said Azunn, between licks.
“Down! Down, I said!” After a brief struggle, she managed to push her fluffier counterpart away. “Sammy, sit! Sit, boy!”

Sammy, the fluffy white Samoyed – or rather, Azunn, the fluffy white sirian – was a good dog, and so sat himself down on the grass by the plastic picnic table. Or perhaps he sat down on the polished, synthetic-marble floor by the Terran ambassador’s genuine Verandi Neon Tree-wood desk. “Now stay! Stay!” said the Terran ambassador, standing up and brushing herself off. “How am I supposed to practice for my future career – I mean, my current career – when you keep jumping on me or running off?!”

Azunn just stared at her, panting happily and with his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. “Maybe I should just invite Susie over…” she said, though in her heart she knew that Susie would probably just want to play House and not deal with the complex world of galactic diplomacy. “Whatever, let’s just reset. Come on, Sammy! Er, Azunn. This way! Sit on the bench, boy! Just like before!”

“Bark!”

“FEDERAL” (Revision) (Excerpt)

Get the whole thing on Smashwords!
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/633738

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Placidtown, Upstate New York.
August 17.

Two federal agents walk into a bar.

It’s the third one they’ve visited today, and clad in their tidy black suits, they look quite out of place against the backdrop of the bar’s regular customers: a decidedly blue-collar crowd of burly men, most of whom sport a beer gut, a thick beard or both.

They approach the bartender. “You folks lost?” he says.
Miller shrugs. “What makes you say that?”
“You don’t look like you’re from around here, and we don’t exactly get many visitors…”
“But you’ve had at least one,” says Carter. She pulls out her phone and shows him a picture. “Natalie Marsh. Passed through here a couple of months ago. Did you see her?”
The bartender shrugs. “I see lots of people, don’t remember all of their faces. Especially not from months ago.”
“There was a pretty big commotion after she went missing. Her face was all over the news for a while. Take a closer look, maybe-”

“I haven’t seen her,” he insists. “What’s it to you, anyway?”
Carter pulls out her ID and flashes it at him. “We have reason to believe she was kidnapped, and that this is the last place she stopped at before disappearing.”

“Feds, huh? I don’t much like feds. Big Government shouldn’t be sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong,” he mutters. “But it doesn’t matter, because I meant what I said, alright? You done wasting my time?”
Carter shakes her head. “I don’t think you understand,” she says. “I don’t mean to say that this town is her last known location, I mean your bar is. Multiple witnesses who remember seeing her around have told us the same thing, so let me ask you again: did you see her?”

The bartender shuffles his feel a little bit. “Well, I mean, y’know…”
“I’m losing my patience, and I’m starting to feel like you’re holding out on me. Maybe you’d like me to charge you with obstruction of justice? Or better yet, how about I just detain you? I can keep you for up to 3 days without even specifying any charges.”

He puts his hands up. “Alright already! I just forgot, is all! No need to be hasty.”
Carter smiles, and waits. The bartender takes a breath and wipes a bit of sweat off his brow. “Yeah, I saw her,” he says. “She had a beer, waited around a bit, then left. That’s the last I saw of her.”

“She talk to anyone while she was waiting?” says Miller.
“Yeah. Dave Cooper, a regular. He’s right over there.”
“Thanks for cooperating,” says Carter. “Have a nice day.”

“You sure grilled that guy,” Miller says, as they make their way over to the indicated table. “But you were bluffing, right?”
She shrugs. “Obstruction charges probably wouldn’t have held up in court, but on the other hand, it’s not exactly hard for us to detain people these days.”
He shakes his head. “It shouldn’t be so easy,” he says. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“I don’t make the rules, Miller.”
“But just because we have that power, doesn’t mean we should use it.”
“If we aren’t using every tool at our disposal, if we aren’t doing our best, we aren’t doing our job,” she says. “Now, are you David Cooper?”

A heavyset man is sitting at the table before them, joined by a handful of others. They and their thick, coarse beards sit hunched over a few pints of cheap beer, glassy-eyed and chatting quietly. Upon hearing his name, however, David straightens up and clears his throat.

“Uh, yeah, that’s me. Something I can help you with?”
“I’m Special Agent Carter and this is my partner, Special Agent Miller,” she says, flashing her ID at him. Then she takes out her phone, and shows him the same picture she’d shown to the bartender. “This is Natalie Marsh. We have reason to believe that you were the last person to talk to her before she disappeared.”
“I remember her,” says David, nodding.
“I don’t suppose you have any idea what happened to her, do you?” says Miller.

Before David can reply, one of his friends speaks up. “I’ll tell you what happened to her!” he declares, standing up.
“No, Steve, c’mon man, don’t-” begins David. But it’s no use.
“It was the Butcher! Butcher Bill!” Everyone else at the table groans, but Steve continues on unabated, even as he starts to gently sway from side-to-side. “The story goes that he’s been around since colonial times. He was a criminal, a real bad one, executed by the Spanish for heinous crimes. Murder, rape, all of that! They dumped his body out in these very woods and denied him a proper burial, just letting the wolves and birds feast on his corpse. But his spirit was so evil, that Hell itself spat him back out! And now he roams the woods, stalking unwary wanderers by day, and hunting them by night. He chops up his victims and scatters their bits all over, just letting them rot under the sun! It’s what he did to the Spanish, and it’s what he did to that girl! God help you if you go out there looking for her.”

The ensuing silence is long and uncomfortable. All of the man’s friends at the table hide their face or look away. “I see…” says Carter, starting to smirk. “So he’s a ghost, huh? That’s funny,” she turns to Miller. “Didn’t the guys in that other bar say he was a werewolf or something?”
He nods. “I think the first version we heard was the most plausible; the one where he was just a psychotic recluse. Personally, I’m still hoping for a version where he’s a vampire.”
She chuckles. “By the way, the Spanish never colonized New York.”
“Sure they did!” hollers Steve. “But Butcher Bill’s spirit wiped them out, so there’s no record of them!”

David clears his throat. “We’re, uh, sorry about Steve,” he says, glaring at his friend out of the corner of his eye. “He’s had a bit too much to drink…”
“Fine,” grumbles Steve, his face turning red as he sits back down. “Go looking. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Anyway,” David continues. “I don’t know what happened to her. I gave her some directions, and the rest was small talk while she finished her drink.”
Miller takes out his phone and starts jotting down notes. “Where was she heading?”
“Just back to the highway,” says David. “Oh, but I know someone you should probably talk to, though: Dean Thompson. I’m a friend of his mother’s. Weird kid, pretty sure he’s into drugs, too…”
Carter raised an eyebrow. “Why do you think we should talk to him?”
David shrugs. “About a week ago he came home in rougher shape than usual, going on and on about having seen some girl tied up in the woods. That what his mom told me, anyway.”

“Interesting…” mutters Carter. “Do you happen to know where Mr. Thompson is now?”
“Sure,” says David. “I just saw him a couple of minutes ago. I think he’s hanging around the old park. It’s just down the street, you can’t miss it.”

“A STRANGE AND DISTANT FUTURE” (Original) (Full)

She walked down the wide, gray, empty streets, alone and lost in her thoughts, moving along at a listless pace. Her clothing changed its shape and colours, making subtle adjustments as she moved, reflecting her mood. It concealed her figure as, bitterly, she scorned the world around her, and blended with her environment as she wished for nothing more than to simply disappear. Her top draped loosely around her shoulders, like a shawl, and reached up to cover her face like a scarf. Her skirt reached down to her ankles, and flapped freely around them as she walked. Even her shoes – simple, white and inconspicuous – softened their soles to nullify her footsteps, easily heard in the near-total silence that pervaded this part of town.

She stopped, and stuffed her hands into deep, newly-formed pockets, just listening for a moment. Even as cars flew by, far overhead, there was scarcely any noise to be heard. She disliked the vaguely eerie near-silence. This was a city of millions, and yet, there were places that made it seem as though there was nothing alive on the entire planet. In places like these, she thought, it seemed as though a person could simply vanish. She leaned against a near-by wall, as pristine and colourless as the street, and looked up, watching the distant cars fly by in neat, orderly lines. They all moved at the same speed, and they were all the same, safe distance apart, as though guided by some kind of invisible railway. And, in a sense, they were guided by an invisible force, as human drivers had long since become a thing of the past. She watched them as they passed, totally oblivious to the streets below them as they made their daily journey to the myriad of skyscrapers on the horizon, and wondered, idly, if anyone would miss her if she did somehow disappear. Or if anyone would even notice.

She sighed and slid down the wall, sitting on the straight, smooth sidewalk and shutting her eyes. Places like these reminded her of how isolated, how incredibly alone she often felt. And yet, the crowded areas always seemed worse, somehow. Getting lost in a crowd of strangers, their minds and attention always far away, preoccupied with something far more interesting than walking, all marching, nearly in unison, to some mysterious rhythm that forever seemed to elude her understanding… It was an easy way to feel insignificant, irrelevant. Like one blank pixel in a spread of billions, all culminating in a titanic blank slate. Here, at least, she was an individual. Though, she sometimes wished she could be neither.

Abruptly, there was a noise. Though soft and somewhat distant, it was strong and clear compared to the faint white noise of the cars. She opened her eyes as the scarf-like fabric around her face and neck folded over itself, slithering along the side of her face and forming a cup around her ear. She heard a man’s voice, though she couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. There was also music, playing quietly in the background as he spoke. Startled and intrigued, she got to her feet and hurried towards the source of the noise, the fabric around her ear sliding onto her shoulder and simply disappearing into it.

Her long, black hair spread wildly behind her as she ran. She passed by dozens of old little buildings, tightly packed together, dimly lit and with shuttered doors and windows all pristine and intact. What little colour remained on their various signs was faded, and all the rest was grayscale. She rounded a corner and skidded to a halt. Across the street, among the continuous chain of shuttered, gray buildings, was a disruption. She stared, mesmerized, by this almost otherworldly concentration of bright, warm lights and rich, varied colours. She wandered closer and was met by a distinct and enticing scent that, while it tugged at the back of her mind, remained unknown to her.

A single, wooden table with two matching chairs was set out in front, on a terrace of sorts, flanked by two long rows of empty flowerbeds. The terrace led into a small building, indistinct in its shape or size from those that surrounded it, but standing out dramatically in almost every other way. Its wide windows and large, glass doors lacked any kind of shutter. The interior was well-lit and filled with the vibrant colours of its wooden walls and flooring. A large sign at the top of the building read – in bold, white letters against a dark green background – “CAFÉ.” Abruptly, memories came flooding back to her. That scent, it was fresh coffee. She could scarcely remember the last time she’d had a cup of coffee. Nobody seemed to drink it, anymore. Nobody needed it.

The voice and the music were coming from a TV: a rectangular screen, almost two-dimensional, just hovering in place, in mid-air, next to the singular table. A news anchor was displayed on it, speaking into the camera, giving a preface to some upcoming story or other. She hadn’t watched the news in months, if not years. Most days, there hardly seemed to be anything to report on.

Calmly, almost automatically, she pulled out one of the chairs, sat down, and was struck by an odd notion. There had been a time when sitting at a table like this, at a place like this, had been considered a privilege, of sorts. Something earned and traded for, and yet, taken for granted. And now, the whole experience was obsolete. Interesting to no-one, except, perhaps, for her. She stared into the table as she absently picked at the newly-formed buttons on her shirt. Her clothes had rearranged themselves again, as she had been running. Her loose, shawl-like top had formed into a fairly ordinary blouse, and her skirt had shortened to a more practical length, though their colours still took cues from the environment. In another time and place, she might have worried about getting cold, but the weather always seemed to be mild, and even the wind seemed to have forgotten about the old streets.

A number of questions ran through her mind, though none of them seemed to have a clear answer. Why was this place active? Why was it alone? After a moment, the TV caught her attention.

 

“… We are joined now by Dr. Marika Soong, a leading expert in the field of A.I. research. How are you, doctor?”
“Fine. Thanks.”
“As I understand it, you were among those chiefly responsible for the creation and implementation of the ‘Master Control’ A.I. system ten years ago. For those of you who still somehow don’t know, ‘The System,’ as it is commonly referred to, is an advanced resource-management advisement program that-”
“Oh, that’s a common misconception, actually. The System does not give advice. At least, not anymore. These days, it simply takes action.”
There is an uncomfortable pause.
“What are you saying, exactly?”
“What I’m saying is, Master Control has been operating autonomously for the past nine years.”

 

The sound of wooden chair legs lightly scraping against the smooth, stone floor of the terrace abruptly ripped her attention away from the screen. And then, to her surprise, there was someone sitting across from her. A young woman, much like herself. She wore typical summer clothes, just a short-sleeved shirt and some pants, brightly coloured, and she had brown eyes that seemed somehow kind and sympathetic. Though, what was most fascinating about this stranger was her hair: short, neat and neon-blue.

“Hello.” Said the woman, uncertainly. “I’m Lana.”
“Maxine. Er, Max. Hi.” She replied.
A short silence followed, and the TV could be heard clearly again.

 

“Are you saying we’re no longer in control of our own destinies?”
“I’ve never really believed in destiny, to be honest.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, doctor.”
“Very well then. The short answer is simply ‘yes.’ I think you’d be surprised at how predictable we humans can be.”

 

“So, um,” Began Lana. “Is this your place, or…?”
Max shook her head. “I was going to ask if it was yours.”
“I was just out for a walk. Then I stumbled onto this place.” Said Lana.
“You were just walking around?” Asked Max. “All the way out here?”
She herself often walked around places like these, though this was the first time she’d ever met anyone else doing the same. It would be nice, she thought, to have someone to go on walks with.

“I kinda like streets like these.” Said Lana. “They’re always so isolated and quiet, like they’ve been totally forgotten by the rest of the world.” The way she described them, wistfully and affectionately, the empty streets sounded like a wonderful place.
“I’ve always thought of these as sad places, personally.” Ventured Max. “There used to be so many people here, all the time, back when people used money. Now there’s never anyone around, so the streets just seem… I don’t know. Lonely, I guess.”
“You think streets get lonely?” Said Lana.
“Well, I mean…” Max put a hand on the collar of her shirt, preventing it from reaching up her neck to hide her reddening cheeks. “Is that stupid?” She asked, tentatively.
Lana shook her head. “Maybe they are lonely.” She said. “But at least we’re here, right?”
She smiled and, relieved, Max smiled back.
There was a pause, and the TV cut in again, briefly distracting the both of them.

 

“If what you’re saying is true, and we’re now all living under some kind of… Machine dictator-”
“That’s such a crude and small-minded way to envision it.”
“Yes, well, regardless, what kind of life can we expect under the influence of the System?”
“Let me put it to you this way: human happiness, human well-being, is as important a resource as any other, so far as Master Control is concerned. Expect it to be managed efficiently.”

 

“Hey…” Began Max, slowly turning away from the TV. “Since this isn’t my place, and it isn’t yours, do you think… ?”
“Do I think an omnipresent, omniscient, artificial superintelligence…” Lana said, starting to laugh, albeit uncertainly. “Set all of this up? Why would it do that? Just for us? Come on, that’d be crazy!” She said. A moment later, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, she added, in a quiet voice, “Right?”
“Yeah, of course.” Said Max, shaking her head. “It’s got to be a coincidence. I mean, why would it do that for me? Just because I was feeling a little down, a little alone…”
She trailed off, but after a moment, Lana spoke up.
“A little isolated, irrelevant, lost…” She concluded, softly. “Maybe it wasn’t just for you.”
Max pursed her lips, briefly, then spoke up. “Whatever all this is,” She said. “I’m really glad to have met you. It’s nice to finally have someone to talk to.”
“Yeah.” Said Lana. “Likewise.”

A little drone pushed its way out of the café’s wide, glass doors. It was, essentially, just a long, white tray. It had four little rotors, one on each corner, with a little camera at the front of its underside, behind which was an extendable arm with a small claw at its end. Balancing delicately on the tray, were two cups of coffee.

The drone floated its way over to the table and placed both cups on the table, one for both of its occupants. Max and Lana watched, wordlessly, as it then turned around and went back inside. And shortly thereafter, the lights in the café went out.

“FUTURE” (Original) (Part 4 – Final)

Lana shook her head. “Maybe they are lonely.” She said. “But at least we’re here, right?”
She smiled and, relieved, Max smiled back.
There was a pause, and the TV cut in again, briefly distracting the both of them.

 

“If what you’re saying is true, and we’re now all living under some kind of… Machine dictator-”
“That’s such a crude and small-minded way to envision it.”
“Yes, well, regardless, what kind of life can we expect under the influence of the System?”
“Let me put it to you this way: human happiness, human well-being, is as important a resource as any other, so far as Master Control is concerned. Expect it to be managed efficiently.”

 

“Hey…” Began Max, slowly turning away from the TV. “Since this isn’t my place, and it isn’t yours, do you think… ?”
“Do I think an omnipresent, omniscient, artificial superintelligence…” Lana said, starting to laugh, albeit uncertainly. “Set all of this up? Why would it do that? Just for us? Come on, that’d be crazy!” She said. A moment later, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, she added, in a quiet voice, “Right?”
“Yeah, of course.” Said Max, shaking her head. “It’s got to be a coincidence. I mean, why would it do that for me? Just because I was feeling a little down, a little alone…”
She trailed off, but after a moment, Lana spoke up.
“A little isolated, irrelevant, lost…” She concluded, softly. “Maybe it wasn’t just for you.”
Max pursed her lips, briefly, then spoke up. “Whatever all this is,” She said. “I’m really glad to have met you. It’s nice to finally have someone to talk to.”
“Yeah.” Said Lana. “Likewise.”

A little drone pushed its way out of the café’s wide, glass doors. It was, essentially, just a long, white tray. It had four little rotors, one on each corner, with a little camera at the front of its underside, behind which was an extendable arm with a small claw at its end. Balancing delicately on the tray, were two cups of coffee.

The drone floated its way over to the table and placed both cups on the table, one for both of its occupants. Max and Lana watched, wordlessly, as it then turned around and went back inside. And shortly thereafter, the lights in the café went out.

“FUTURE” (Original) (Part 3)

A number of questions ran through her mind, though none of them seemed to have a clear answer. Why was this place active? Why was it alone? After a moment, the TV caught her attention.

 

“… We are joined now by Dr. Marika Soong, a leading expert in the field of A.I. research. How are you, doctor?”
“Fine. Thanks.”
“As I understand it, you were among those chiefly responsible for the creation and implementation of the ‘Master Control’ A.I. system ten years ago. For those of you who still somehow don’t know, ‘The System,’ as it is commonly referred to, is an advanced resource-management advisement program that-”
“Oh, that’s a common misconception, actually. The System does not give advice. At least, not anymore. These days, it simply takes action.”
There is an uncomfortable pause.
“What are you saying, exactly?”
“What I’m saying is, Master Control has been operating autonomously for the past nine years.”

 

The sound of wooden chair legs lightly scraping against the smooth, stone floor of the terrace abruptly ripped her attention away from the screen. And then, to her surprise, there was someone sitting across from her. A young woman, much like herself. She wore typical summer clothes, just a short-sleeved shirt and some pants, brightly coloured, and she had brown eyes that seemed somehow kind and sympathetic. Though, what was most fascinating about this stranger was her hair: short, neat and neon-blue.

“Hello.” Said the woman, uncertainly. “I’m Lana.”
“Maxine. Er, Max. Hi.” She replied.
A short silence followed, and the TV could be heard clearly again.

 

“Are you saying we’re no longer in control of our own destinies?”
“I’ve never really believed in destiny, to be honest.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, doctor.”
“Very well then. The short answer is simply ‘yes.’ I think you’d be surprised at how predictable we humans can be.”

 

“So, um,” Began Lana. “Is this your place, or…?”
Max shook her head. “I was going to ask if it was yours.”
“I was just out for a walk. Then I stumbled onto this place.” Said Lana.
“You were just walking around?” Asked Max. “All the way out here?”
She herself often walked around places like these, though this was the first time she’d ever met anyone else doing the same. It would be nice, she thought, to have someone to go on walks with.

“I kinda like streets like these.” Said Lana. “They’re always so isolated and quiet, like they’ve been totally forgotten by the rest of the world.” The way she described them, wistfully and affectionately, the empty streets sounded like a wonderful place.
“I’ve always thought of these as sad places, personally.” Ventured Max. “There used to be so many people here, all the time, back when people used money. Now there’s never anyone around, so the streets just seem… I don’t know. Lonely, I guess.”
“You think streets get lonely?” Said Lana.
“Well, I mean…” Max put a hand on the collar of her shirt, preventing it from reaching up her neck to hide her reddening cheeks. “Is that stupid?” She asked, tentatively.

[…]

“FUTURE” (Original) (Part 2)

Her long, black hair spread wildly behind her as she ran. She passed by dozens of old little buildings, tightly packed together, dimly lit and with shuttered doors and windows all pristine and intact. What little colour remained on their various signs was faded, and all the rest was grayscale. She rounded a corner and skidded to a halt. Across the street, among the continuous chain of shuttered, gray buildings, was a disruption. She stared, mesmerized, by this almost otherworldly concentration of bright, warm lights and rich, varied colours. She wandered closer and was met by a distinct and enticing scent that, while it tugged at the back of her mind, remained unknown to her.

A single, wooden table with two matching chairs was set out in front, on a terrace of sorts, flanked by two long rows of empty flowerbeds. The terrace led into a small building, indistinct in its shape or size from those that surrounded it, but standing out dramatically in almost every other way. Its wide windows and large, glass doors lacked any kind of shutter. The interior was well-lit and filled with the vibrant colours of its wooden walls and flooring. A large sign at the top of the building read – in bold, white letters against a dark green background – “CAFÉ.” Abruptly, memories came flooding back to her. That scent, it was fresh coffee. She could scarcely remember the last time she’d had a cup of coffee. Nobody seemed to drink it, anymore. Nobody needed it.

The voice and the music were coming from a TV: a rectangular screen, almost two-dimensional, just hovering in place, in mid-air, next to the singular table. A news anchor was displayed on it, speaking into the camera, giving a preface to some upcoming story or other. She hadn’t watched the news in months, if not years. Most days, there hardly seemed to be anything to report on.

Calmly, almost automatically, she pulled out one of the chairs, sat down, and was struck by an odd notion. There had been a time when sitting at a table like this, at a place like this, had been considered a privilege, of sorts. Something earned and traded for, and yet, taken for granted. And now, the whole experience was obsolete. Interesting to no-one, except, perhaps, for her. She stared into the table as she absently picked at the newly-formed buttons on her shirt. Her clothes had rearranged themselves again, as she had been running. Her loose, shawl-like top had formed into a fairly ordinary blouse, and her skirt had shortened to a more practical length, though their colours still took cues from the environment. In another time and place, she might have worried about getting cold, but the weather always seemed to be mild, and even the wind seemed to have forgotten about the old streets.

[…]

“A STRANGE AND DISTANT FUTURE” (Original) (Part 1)

Here’s a sci-fi story I wrote! Pretty pleased with it, overall. I’ll probably post a revised version eventually, and that’ll be as a whole. But for now, this version will be in parts!

Enjoy!

—————————–

She walked down the wide, gray, empty streets, alone and lost in her thoughts, moving along at a listless pace. Her clothing changed its shape and colours, making subtle adjustments as she moved, reflecting her mood. It concealed her figure as, bitterly, she scorned the world around her, and blended with her environment as she wished for nothing more than to simply disappear. Her top draped loosely around her shoulders, like a shawl, and reached up to cover her face like a scarf. Her skirt reached down to her ankles, and flapped freely around them as she walked. Even her shoes – simple, white and inconspicuous – softened their soles to nullify her footsteps, easily heard in the near-total silence that pervaded this part of town.

She stopped, and stuffed her hands into deep, newly-formed pockets, just listening for a moment. Even as cars flew by, far overhead, there was scarcely any noise to be heard. She disliked the vaguely eerie near-silence. This was a city of millions, and yet, there were places that made it seem as though there was nothing alive on the entire planet. In places like these, she thought, it seemed as though a person could simply vanish. She leaned against a near-by wall, as pristine and colourless as the street, and looked up, watching the distant cars fly by in neat, orderly lines. They all moved at the same speed, and they were all the same, safe distance apart, as though guided by some kind of invisible railway. And, in a sense, they were guided by an invisible force, as human drivers had long since become a thing of the past. She watched them as they passed, totally oblivious to the streets below them as they made their daily journey to the myriad of skyscrapers on the horizon, and wondered, idly, if anyone would miss her if she did somehow disappear. Or if anyone would even notice.

She sighed and slid down the wall, sitting on the straight, smooth sidewalk and shutting her eyes. Places like these reminded her of how isolated, how incredibly alone she often felt. And yet, the crowded areas always seemed worse, somehow. Getting lost in a crowd of strangers, their minds and attention always far away, preoccupied with something far more interesting than walking, all marching, nearly in unison, to some mysterious rhythm that forever seemed to elude her understanding… It was an easy way to feel insignificant, irrelevant. Like one blank pixel in a spread of billions, all culminating in a titanic blank slate. Here, at least, she was an individual. Though, she sometimes wished she could be neither.

Abruptly, there was a noise. Though soft and somewhat distant, it was a strong and clear compared to the faint white noise of the cars. She opened her eyes as the scarf-like fabric around her face and neck folded over itself, slithering along the side of her face and forming a cup around her ear. She heard a man’s voice, though she couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. There was also music, playing quietly in the background as he spoke. Startled and intrigued, she got to her feet and hurried towards the source of the noise, the fabric around her ear sliding onto her shoulder and simply disappearing into it.

[…]

“FEDERAL” (Original)

Here’s the story that previous post refers to! Maybe I’ll post a revised and/or extended version eventually. For now, though, enjoy!

————–

Upstate New York.
June 20^th, 2035. 5:00 PM.

He is painting again. He has been painting all day, but no matter how much time he spends on any one canvas, he can never seem to complete the picture. Two figures occupy his mind: An Eve, who commits the first sin and makes all men who descend from her sinful by nature, who must be punished for her unholy crime, and an Archangel, a vengeful servant of God come to cleanse mankind of its sins. And yet, even as they consume his every waking moment, they elude his vision. He sometimes sees them in his dreams, but as soon as he wakes, the clarity is gone. Sighing, he takes his latest attempt off the easel, and gingerly leans it up against the wall: Another faceless, colourless, vaguely feminine outline against an empty background, just like all the others. He hoists himself up out of his seat, despondent, and heads to his bedroom to pray for forgiveness and clarity. Before he gets there, however, there is a knock at his door.

He freezes. For a few moments, he remains still and silent, just listening. No-one has ever come to visit him before, not since he built this house, so many years ago. The knocking comes again. He wanders over in a daze, and opens the door. He is greeted by a young woman.

“Hi, um, sorry to bother you.” She says. “My car broke down just up the road from here, and my phone doesn’t seem to get signal out here. Do you have a landline or something that I can use?”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. The Lord, he thinks, has seen his struggle and sent him the clarity he needs. This girl shall be the Eve he has been searching for.

“Yes… Yes, of course. Come in.”

 

***

 

Federal Bureau of Investigation Field Office: Albany, New York.
August 15, 2035. 7:35 AM.

“6th Floor.” Chimes the elevator. “General Assignment.”
The doors slide open, and Jill Carter steps out. A long, wide corridor greets her, with doors to various offices lining the wall to her left, while the wall to the right is austere and white, broken up only very occasionally by a window or an unremarkable painting. It is still early, and the place is quiet, but the buzz of activity – typing, walking, talking, and so on – grows at a slow-but-steady pace as more and more people file into work.

She brushes the blonde bangs of her short hair out of the way of her blue eyes and straightens out her pristine, black suit-jacket as she walks, briefly disturbing the tiny, golden cross around her neck. She makes her way over to her office – which, like every other Special Agent, she shares with a partner – and is surprised to find him waiting there, leaning against the far wall, leafing through a folder. “Miller?” She says. “What are you doing here?”

Kazuhira Miller is a man somewhat older than herself, though he holds the same rank, and is very clearly of Japanese descent, though he was born and raised in Ohio. He is tall and fit, with short, black hair that is greying prematurely. He wears a black suit that is not unlike her own, but as always, he wears a rather conspicuous bright red tie along with it.

He looks up, and smiles wryly at her. “Pretty sure I work here, Carter.”
“Yeah, but you’re early.” She says, shutting the door behind her. “You’re never early. Usually you’re in at the last minute.” She chuckles. “Did your wife kick you out last night or something?” As she talks, she goes behind her desk and produces a key from her pocket, which she uses to unlock the top drawer. Opening it, she is met with the sight of her belongings: her sidearm, her badge and a pair of handcuffs.

Miller puts a hand to his chest and feigns offense. “How rude.” He says. “I got up early today because I’m as ambitious and dedicated as anyone else here.”
“Uh-huh.” Says Jill, flatly, as she retrieves her weapon. The weight of the black, standard-issue handgun is comforting, and she tucks it into the shoulder-holster that rests by her left side, under her suit.

“The fact that my neighbour’s dog started barking its head off at 4 AM and didn’t shut up until 6 has nothing to do with it all.” Says Miller.
“Purely a coincidence, I’m sure.” Replies Jill, snapping the badge onto her belt, by her right hip. The handcuffs also clip onto her belt, at her back.
“Anyway, unless you’re planning a one-woman raid of the Administration level, I assume you’ve already figured out that we’ve been assigned a new case.” He shuts the folder and waves it at her.
“Yup,” she says. “Lay it on me.”

“This is a suspected kidnapping.” He says, opening the folder back up. “Our victim is Natalia Marsh, 23, from Maine. Seems pretty ordinary: no record, no obvious connections to anyone with a record, decent attendance at school, lives at home with her folks… Says here she was taking a year off college, and planned to go on some road trips.” He flips through a few of the pages. “Doesn’t look like she went anywhere too interesting, though. Not on her last trip, anyway. The planned route she gave her family says she was only going to go as far as Wisconsin, though the last place she called her parents from was Vermont. She disappeared a bit less than 2 months ago, and the case went cold. State Police departments in and around Vermont are still running ads to get her face out there, but so far, no luck.”

Jill walks over to him, to read the file herself. “She didn’t bring anyone with her?”
“Nope.” Says Miller. “By the looks of things, she brought herself, her car, some cash, and whatever she could fit in the trunk.”
“And her parents just let her do that?” Says Jill.
Miller shrugs. “Apparently. The psych profile assembled by the initial investigators suggests she is, or was…” He runs a finger down the page, and starts reading aloud when he finds what he’s looking for. “‘Independent, and highly adventurous.’ So she probably insisted on going alone.”
“You’re skipping the part where it says she’s also naïve and trusting.” Says Jill. “Anyway, if the case went cold, what’s changed?”
“We got a tip.” Replies Miller. “An anonymous one, but still. It’s promising.”

 

 

Upstate New York.
August 10^th, 2035. 2:00 AM.

Ordinarily, Dean would not venture so far outside of town, and certainly not so late at night, but he owes money to his drug dealer, and Roberto is very scary when he is mad. Just slightly scarier than the thick woods on either side of the dirt road on which he now walks. He is hunting for a car, or more specifically, a nice hood ornament that he could sell to pay off at least part of his debt.

He jumps at every rustling leaf or snapping twig as thoughts of wolves, bears, mountain lions and even Bigfoot fill his paranoid mind. Old stories of “Butcher Bill, the mad old hermit” keep resurfacing in his mind. Wasn’t the Butcher supposed to live in these woods, just outside of town? Dean shakes his head, and tries not to think about it.

He knows how unlikely it is that he’s ever going to find a car out by in woods, but just as he is about to give up and go home, the clouds uncover the bright, full moon, and he sees an unmistakable shape in the distance: a car, pulled over by the side of the road. He makes a dash for it, but doesn’t get far. Faraway screams freeze his blood, and as he reluctantly turns his head, he sees a little footpath through the trees.

Despite being on the verge of wetting himself with fear, he makes his way down the path until he reaches a clearing, and sees a small, old house on a hill. He sneaks just a bit closer, equal parts curious and terrified, and the front door flies open. A girl falls out, bloody, screaming, and with ropes around her ankles. For just an instant, they make eye-contact. He sees the abject fear on her face, the immense desperation in her eyes…

And he runs for his life. But not before seeing the silhouette of a man, standing in the doorway behind her… Butcher Bill. Who else could it be?

 

Interstate Highway 87.
August 15, 2035. 11:35 AM.

“I can’t believe you’ve never watched it.” Says Jill. “It’s a classic show!”
Miller rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. It sounds kitschy and weird.”
“What’s with you?” Replies Jill, a bit defensively. “‘The X-Files’ was a great show. Shut up.”
He chuckles. “Why do you like that show so much, anyway? You weren’t even around to watch it. It aired in the 90’s, didn’t it?”
“It came back in 2016.” She says. “I caught the first few episodes, liked them, and looked up the original series online.”
“Don’t tell me you joined the FBI because ‘The X-Files’ inspired you?” He laughs.
Jill shrugs. “Well, that wasn’t the main reason I joined, but… Well, 16-year-old me was looking for a role model, and I guess I found one in Agent Scully.”
“Isn’t she the skeptical one?” Says Miller. “Wouldn’t that mean…” He motions to the cross around her neck.
“Hm? Oh, well, I haven’t gone to Church in years.” She says.
“But do you still believe?” He asks.
She gingerly takes hold of her necklace, and considers for a few moments.
“Yes, I suppose I do…” She replies, softly.

There is a lull in the conversation. Their inconspicuous, silvery sedan – an unmarked FBI vehicle – glides down the highway alongside a smattering of other cars.

“Anyway, let’s get back to the case.” Says Jill. “What were you saying earlier?”
“I was saying that our anonymous tipper went so far as to give a pretty good description of the woman he allegedly saw, and it lines up with all the information we have on our victim, Ms. Marsh.” He says.
“Too bad he wouldn’t specify where he saw her. What was it he said to the hotline operator? ‘No-one would believe me?’”
Miller pulls out a tablet-computer from the briefcase resting on his lap, and turns it on to look at the transcript of the call. For security reasons, the hardcopy versions of case files were not allowed out of the offices. “He says: ‘you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’ Looks like he says it a few times, actually. What do you suppose he meant by that?”
“Not sure.” Says Jill. “But I guess we’ll find out soon. This is our turn.”

 

 

Placidtown, Upstate New York.
August 15, 2035. 12:00 PM.

She pulls into a parking lot near the edge of town, and after a moment, they both step out. The town is so small that it’s possible to see from the North end of it to the South end, just by standing on the main street that runs through it. “Placidtown, New York, USA.” Says Miller, still holding the tablet as he walks around the car to stand next to her. “Almost exclusively lower-middle income residents, numbering only around 1500 people in total, and most of them are employed in forestry.” He motions behind him. “Hence the thick forests all over the place. So, where do you want to start?”

“I suppose the first thing we should do is check in at the…” She looks around for a moment. “Where did you say we were staying, again?”
He gives her a weary smile. “A bed & breakfast. Owned by a local family, as I understand it.”
“Wonderful.” She says, flatly. “And you spoke the local police, right?”
“If you mean the County Sheriff’s Office, then yes.” He says.
Jill sighs. She’s worked with County Sheriffs a few time in the past, and none of them have ever been particularly helpful. “Let’s go meet our hosts.” She says. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to start asking around.”

 

Placidtown, Upstate New York.
August 17, 2035. 3:30 PM.

The Monroe family, who owned the local B&B, were very nice people, though they quickly began trying Jill’s patience once they learned, to their astonishment, that she and Miller were federal agents. Both parents and their 3 kids kept asking her if she knew what really happened in Roswell, or if she knew who really killed JFK. The father, in particular, repeatedly pressed her for answers regarding various 9/11 conspiracy theories he’d heard. They never seemed to be satisfied with “I don’t know,” so eventually she gave them some ominous-sounding throwaway line about “national security” and “classified materials,” and they backed off for a while.

Interviewing the locals yielded mixed results. A few of them, when shown pictures of the missing girl, were sure that they’d seen her around before, right around the time she was reported to have vanished. A few of them had even talked to her. Apparently, she had stopped in town for a quick meal, and to stretch her legs. Nobody seemed to know what had happened to her after she left, however. Some said she headed back out, towards the highway, while others claimed they saw her heading in the opposite direction.

Mixed in with all the useful information was an unusual recurring theme, usually retold to her by drunk people or teenagers, but also occasionally by ordinary, sensible townsfolk. It was a local legend about a hermit who lived in the woods just outside of town. ‘Butcher Bill,’ they called him. All of the details, however, and even whether or not he was actually a human being or some kind of creature, varied greatly between retellings, so she didn’t put much stock in the stories.

On the 3^rd day of their investigation, as they were conducting interviews around the South end of town, they ran into a peculiar young man. He seemed to be about 19, and by the looks of things, he was quite a slob, and probably unemployed. He kept shuffling his feet, shifting from one foot to the other, stammering and looking all around – everywhere but her eyes – as she spoke to him. He said his name was Dean.

He was scared, he knew something but was hiding it, and he was on the verge of spilling his guts. All of this was as plain as day to Jill, and the only things she’d done thus far were introduce herself and ask if he had a minute to talk to her.
“Have you seen this woman?” She asks, showing him a picture of Natalia Marsh.

He freezes up, and his eyes fixate on the photo. “Uh, well, uh, I dunno…” He says.
She frowns at him, and her tone becomes stern and harsh. “Have you seen her, or not?” She asks.
He clenches his teeth for a moment, then sighs deeply. “Yeah,” he says, resignedly. “I’ve seen her. Just a couple of days ago, actually. I called it in, too. You’re not gonna believe me, though…”

 

 

Essex County, Upstate New York. Just outside Placidtown.
August 17, 2035. 4:00 PM.

It takes some time to get to where they’ve been directed. The bumpy, narrow path slows down their car considerably, and it is sometimes hard to see the road beneath the shadows of the many tall trees that flank it. Nevertheless, as they round another twist in the winding, scenic path, there is an unmistakable shape in the distance: a car, pulled over by the side of the road.

They pull up to it, and it is filthy, covered in leafs, dirt and bird feces. And yet, it is otherwise intact. The windows are unbroken, and the interior is untouched. “I guess nobody’s been out here in a while.” Says Jill. They check the car’s license plate against their file: it’s a match. This is the victim’s car.

They get out of their car, and while it takes a few moments of searching, they soon find the obscured footpath Dean has told them about. The strange, old house on the hill – more of a cabin, really – is right where he said it would be. “I’ll knock.” Jill whispers, as they approach. “You stay back. Be ready for anything.”

She walks up to the door, and Miller stands back, a few steps behind her, resting a hand on the gun holstered by his hip. She glances back at him, he nods, and she takes a breath.
“FBI!” She announces, pounding the door with her fist. “Open the door!”

After a moment, the door creaks open, just a bit. A ragged, middle-aged man peers out at them.
“Sir,” says Jill. She flashes her I.D. at him. “I’m Special Agent Carter, and this is my partner, Special Agent Miller. We’re with the-”
“You!” Says the man, beaming at her with wide eyes. His voice is weak and hoarse, and it makes him sound very old. “You’ve come! At last, you’ve come!”
She stares at him, blankly. “… With the FBI.” She continues, uncertainly. “We have reason to believe that-”
“Come in!” He says. “Yes, yes, you must come in!” He turns abruptly, and leaves the door open behind him.

She reaches into her jacket and tightly grips her weapon, then cautiously follows after the man. Miller walks in behind her. The house is dusty and very nearly dilapidated. The window sills are covered with dead insects, and many of the floorboards and warped and bent.
The man leads them into a small room. It is empty, save for the covered easel in the centre of it. Wordlessly, he pulls the blanket off the easel, revealing his latest work. As soon as she sees it, Jill’s eyes widen and she recoils.

It is a portrait of an angel, standing at the gates of Eden, with black, feathery wings spread out behind it, and a flaming sword in its hands. At its feet, being cast out, is a woman. Eve, battered and terrified. The angelic figure, with its blue eyes and a vengeful expression, isn’t looking at her, however. It looks out, towards the viewer. And this figure, this angel, looks exactly like Jill.

“How…?” She begins, breathlessly.
“It is a message.” Explains the man, proudly. “From God, of course.” He points to the tiny cross around her neck, which she quickly covers up.

She steps backwards, knocking open the door to an adjacent room. The room is as dilapidated as the rest of the house, but there is something different about it. It is crowded with paintings, stacked up on either side of the door, all portraying Natalia Marsh as Eve: speaking with the serpent, committing the first sin, hiding from God…

A faint noise alerts Jill to the fact that she’s not alone. She turns, and in the far corner, sees a woman. She is curled up, naked, cowering, and tied to an old radiator by a rope around her ankle. The girl looks up at her: she is Natalia Marsh.

Jill takes out her weapon and points it at the man. Miller does the same. “Put your hands up and get down on your knees!” Says Jill.
The man looks at her, confused. He starts to protest, but she doesn’t let him.
“KNEES!” She shouts.

As he starts to get down on his knees, she turns to Miller. “Book him. I’ll get the girl.”
He nods, and a second later, she rushes over to Natalia. “Ma’am, we’re federal agents. We’re going to get you out of here.” She takes off her jacket and drapes it around Natalia.

“You’re safe now.”

 

 

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION FIELD REPORT.
SPECIAL AGENT CARTER, GILLIAN K.
CASE No. 5331876.
Albany, New York.
August 19, 2035.

 

EXECUTIVE SUMMARY: Victim is Marsh, Natalia R., 23. Suspect is Logan, Benjamin T., 42. Suspect faces 12 counts of assault and battery, 3 counts of rape, 1 count of unlawful confinement and 1 count of kidnapping. Court date is set to be September 21^st, 2035.

[…]

ADDENDUM: Regarding the so-called “supernatural prediction” found in Exhibit C (suspect’s artwork): Medical examiners, in attempting to determine whether or not the suspect is mentally fit for trial, have determined that he possesses an eidetic – or “photographic” – memory. In addition, follow-up investigations conducted by the Essex County Sheriff’s Office and the New York State Police have revealed multiple witnesses who claim to have seen the suspect in town between the hours of 12:00 PM and 4:00 PM on the 15^th of August.

With this in mind, it is my belief that the suspect caught sight of Special Agent Miller and I as we walked through the town on the 15^th, and for whatever reason, clung to that image of me, which he then reproduced in his paintings. There is, therefore, nothing “supernatural” about this case at all, with the suspect’s actions being motivated by his severe and untreated schizophrenia, rather than any kind of Divine Intervention, as he has claimed.

Regarding statements made to police by material witness Thompson, Dean D., 19: Despite the witness’s anonymous tip leading directly to the reopening and subsequent closing of the case, due in large part to a detailed description of the victim provided by the witness, both suspect and victim deny any such escape attempt having occurred at any point in the week prior to our arrival. The witness, however, maintains that his given statements are all true.

I do not, at time of writing, have any explanation for this occurrence.