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Chapter 1
© Copyright 2003 -
Crimson Dragon - All Rights Reserved
The incessant fans in the lab hummed like the drone of a million
cars racing down an unseen highway, somewhere hiding beyond the
precipice of perception. Oblivious to the background hum, his
fingers tapped the soft keys in an easy rhythm, eyes glued to the
glowing orange characters racing across the screen.
One more simulation. One more.
He sat back, glancing up at the round institutional clock mounted on
the back wall relentlessly passing the seconds. Midnight. Where had
the time gone? Somewhere between the stroke of six, and the time
when the clocks hands met, the witching hour had crept upon him.
He sighed, rubbing at his eyes until psychedelic stars filled his
vision. Slowly, he ran his teeth over his lower lip, his right index
finger poised over the large key marked "Return".
Return to where? He smiled, only for a moment.
"I need to return," he thought. His head filled with visions for a
moment, his body reacting to hazy memories. It had been so long, but
until it was safe, he could not risk damage. Not to himself, nor to
those he chose, nor to the reality surrounding him. While the allure
of time swayed him, his sense of self-preservation overrode the
haunting Siren call. He shook his head, freeing the cobwebs.
His finger touched the key, gently sending the computer into a
frenzy, numbers and letters scrolling like a freight train across
the screen, orange mnemonics racing into the night. He watched the
output for a while, then tore his eyes away. He sighed. No way to
really tell, but this simulation was going to end up as all the
others had. Abject failure. Right?
He lay his head back, eyes staring at the ceiling, letting his mind
wander. It would be so damn easy to visualise the images, the
equations of thought, allowing paradox to infuse him, to permit the
fabric of that around him to fade. But the black outs still
frightened him, even through the wonder. No, he couldn't risk
returning. Not yet. Not until this damnable box, with its damnable
simulations told him he could.
Suddenly, nausea overwhelmed his senses, the familiar sense of
falling, disorientation, helplessness. The clock on the wall
stuttered, the second hand pausing mid-arc, jumping forward
hesitantly, and then halting more solidly. Desperately, he
struggled, forcing his mind from the equations, the simulations, and
trace of Time. God, he was tired. The floor rose as the chair
overbalanced, his cry echoing above the clatter of the fans.
And then it was over, his heart racing, his temples throbbing. He
dry retched, his hands clasped over his stomach. Desperately, he
struggled to return, it was dangerous here, wasn't it? But nothing
happened. Nothing.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. The room spun for a moment, but then
returned to an even keel. The computers remained humming, the lights
still flickered noticeably overhead, the second hand of the clock
resumed its smooth clockwise path.
"Shit," the man mumbled as he righted the chair and sat down
heavily. His shoulder ached slightly where he'd connected with the
raised floor in the lab. Absently, his fingers massaged his biceps.
He shook his head slowly, clearing his mind. How had he slipped like
that? It had taken much more concentration last time to create a
secondary timeline. And he hadn't even been thinking of the
equations. Not really. His mind had wandered to Christi, and Jane.
Only briefly, as a pang of regret had begun to fill him, just before
the phenomenon hit. He couldn't have caused it. Couldn't.
Realisation dawned as the computer in front of him continued to spit
out its mindless diagnostics.
Someone else.
Who?
And that thought frightened him more than anything else.
The computer stopped its churning, the final line burning into the
phosphorus of the monitor.
His heart still hammering in his chest, his lips pulled into a
slight smile. The strange episode suddenly a dim memory, and with a
satisfied sigh, he flicked off the monitor.
His footsteps echoed through the building's empty hallways, as the
lights dimmed as he passed. And despite his hammering heart, he
actually whistled, the tuneless sound echoing down the empty
corridors.
Chapter 2
© Copyright 2003 -
Crimson Dragon - All Rights Reserved
She lay naked over the bedclothes, her bare feet idly rocking back
and forth through the air as she read. The steady beat of the shower
cut off suddenly, and she raised her eyes from the text for a
moment. At last, she sighed, pushing the book to the floor with a
clatter, its pages akimbo on the hardwood floor. It came to her as
a tuneless whistle faintly crossed through the closed bathroom door.
She shook her head, a line of resignation gracing her full lips. She
didn't want to do this. Not tonight. But no matter her loneliness,
no matter her desires; tonight was the night. Realisation had hit
her with the suddenness of a winter snowstorm. The book on the floor
stared accusingly up at her.
She carefully lay her head onto the pillow, her hands cradling her
cheek. With an effort, she stilled her feet, laying them carefully
to the bed sheets.
"You look good," John remarked as he stepped from the bathroom, a
towel about his waist. His hair was slicked to his head, still wet
from the spray, like some 60's greaser. A cloud of steam followed
him from the bathroom.
She smiled, but didn't feel the twinges that she'd felt when they'd
first met. Yes, she was warm, and yes, she enjoyed his company, but
John was ... well ... John.
His eyes flit to the book lying on the floor. As he bent to pick it
up, he grimaced.
"John ..." she began.
"A Brief History of Time? Stephen Hawking? A cripple?"
"John ..."
That was the other thing. He never could understand. He had never
understood. He never would understand.
She sat up, eventually folding into an easy kneeling position, her
thighs resting against her heels. Her body moved slowly and
sensually. His eyes rose from the book for a moment before dropping
back to it with a sigh. Suddenly, she was self-conscious, her arms
crossing, hiding her bare breasts, her legs primly together.
"Why?" he asked simply.
She considered for a moment, before answering.
"I need to, John."
"Need what? To be smarter than everyone else?"
She slowly shook her head. Her blonde hair raked across her
shoulders. No matter what she said, he wouldn't understand.
"What do you need to prove? Huh? It's just the two of us. A King
novel? A Straub novel? A freaking romance? That I can understand.
Anything but this shit."
"John ..." Tears began to well up in her eyes.
He stood smouldering at her. She inhaled deeply, conscious of her
breasts rising beneath her arms, confused by his anger. Perhaps he
could sense something, her reticence. Slowly, her fingers rose to
twirl around a strand of her hair. Her voice was quiet, almost
serene. This wasn't the first time she'd had to perform this dance,
and it wouldn't be the last.
"See this?"
John nodded.
"And these?" With an act of will, she pulled her arms from her
chest, and pointed to her bare breasts, her nipples crinkled.
John nodded again, but more flushed this time. She wasn't sure, but
the towel around his waist seemed to rise, just a little. She
controlled the flush of her own arousal, pouring freezing water on
it mentally. Her body only partially obeyed, but she continued
relentlessly.
"All my life, John, I've been the pretty one -- the Princess."
He shook his head, but then dumbly nodded.
"The blonde hair, the body. She can't have a brain, can she?"
He found his tongue. "But, you are beautiful, and you're smart. Why
this? Why more? It's never enough. Never." He pointed at the book in
his hand. "For Christ's sake, we just fu ... made love. Most girls
want to cuddle, talk. Not you. No. You read about astrophysics.
Fuck."
For just a second, she contemplated addressing that. She couldn't
remember the last time he had wanted to talk, afterward. Cuddle?
That was a laugh. Even though this time, he hadn't simply rolled
over and begun to snore, he had left the bed for the shower. In the
end, she held her tongue. Besides, she knew that this had nothing to
do with her wanting to talk or cuddle.
Guys would never change. Never. They all wanted the pretty one, oh
yes, but give her a mind? Nothing worked faster to pour that
freezing water on a relationship.
"John?"
At the sound of her small voice, he reacted badly. Perhaps, he knew
where this conversation was inevitably flowing. The book crashed
against the wall marginally missing the headboard that a mere hour
ago, her head had collided with in the midst of passion. The book
fell to the pillows, a few pages and the cover torn. His face
contorted with anger, the act of throwing the book seemingly
fuelling his emotion. She began to feel the first tremors of
uneasiness.
She picked up the book without looking at it, her fingers idly
caressing the cover back into place. She'd known it would come to
this, always known, it always did -- though usually minus the
petulant temper tantrum. She raised her eyes, fighting back hot
tears, wishing that she'd dressed while he'd been in the shower.
But then, she hadn't really planned on this, had she? At least not
this reaction.
"John ... I think ..."
"I'm sorry," he whispered. But she could see in the incomprehension
in his eyes, the denial, the insincerity. If he could grab the book
from her fingers, he would probably rip it into shreds before
stomping on it and lighting it on fire. But he didn't hate the book.
Oh no, not the book.
"I think you'd better leave." She re-crossed her arms in front of
herself.
For a second, she was sure that he was going to turn and leave her
room in the towel, but at the last second he snatched his jeans from
the floor, turning his back and slipping them over his hips. Despite
the tension, she couldn't help admiring his ass for the fleeting
moment that it was visible. An ass. That's all he was. She sighed.
His shirt hung loose from his shoulders, his hair no longer in
shining slicks across his scalp. He paused at the door.
She didn't know why her mouth always managed to get her into
trouble. Ten seconds, and he would have been gone from her life.
Ten, short, seconds.
"John?"
He paused by the doorway, hand on the knob. She could see, by the
set of his shoulders, that he was debating ignoring her, turning the
knob, leaving with a modicum of pride. Instead, he slowly turned.
The intensity of his gaze, bordering on rage, made her pause, but
only for a moment.
"Have a nice life," she whispered.
Her eyes darted to the clock on her bedside stand. The red
illuminated numerals there changed from 12:02 to 12:03. When her
eyes returned to the doorway, John was already half-way back towards
the bed, fists clenched and beginning to rise. Her unease began to
transform into fright. She began to feel threatened, unsure of
herself. A short scream escaped her throat, her hands rising from
her breasts to protect her face.
But it was far too late. The first blow sank easily into her bare
midriff, doubling her over, fighting for breath. Another scream
escaped her, louder this time. She tumbled off her knees, falling
half on and half off the bed, toes scrabbling at the floor weakly.
She looked up, cowering. A low whimper emerged as she pushed herself
backwards. A hand grasped her hair, pulling.
"Have a nice life with this, you fucking bitch."
He forced her to look up. With his left hand, he snapped the top
button on his jeans. To her horror, his penis floating in front of
her, erect and ready. She twisted, but her hair betrayed her.
Slowly, she returned her gaze to him.
"The problem with you, bitch, is that this," and the book appeared,
hiding his nakedness for a moment, jammed into her face. She tried
to back away, was unable to. The stink of newsprint filled her
nostrils. Slowly the book retreated from her face. Her eyes focused
on the print there.
"Time is fluid," she read from the paragraph so close in front of
her eyes.
"What?" John bellowed.
The bedside clock clicked silently to 12:05.
She raised her eyes, a sense of quiet anger, pain, serenity and
defiance filling her body.
"Time. Is. Fluid," she repeated monotonically.
And the world fell apart, for only a moment.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, she somehow realised
what had happened, and the wonder of it overrode the pain in her
scalp as she fell to the right. Nausea overwhelmed her, bright
lights danced in front of her eyes. John's hand released her with a
jerk of surprise as she felt her shoulder connect with the floor in
a flash of pain. For a second, John stood completely immobile over
her, not even breathing.
In a moment, it was over -- whatever it was, she couldn't hold it.
But it had been enough. She watched from her skewed perspective as
John, a frightened look upon his face, hurriedly pulled up his pants
and ran for her door. As he ran, she heard him mumble:
"What the fuck ..."
And then he was gone, her door slamming hard enough to dislodge her
Escher print, the impossible ducks merging and flying downwards onto
the floor, shards of glass settling in a pool beside her.
The girl gulped air, still fighting the nausea, fighting the pain in
her scalp and her belly and her shoulder.
At last the pain subsided somewhat, and she began to shake and
shiver as though she had emerged from a high fever, tears falling
unashamedly down her cheeks to pool against her skin pressed to the
floor.
"Oh my God," she whispered.
Chapter 3
© Copyright 2003 -
Crimson Dragon - All Rights Reserved
He didn't know what time it was. Way too late, or way too early.
Depends on how one looked at it, he supposed. The night beyond the
window remained dark and impassable. Sleep had refused to come.
Giving up, he slid his legs from the bed, gathered a bathrobe and
padded towards the kitchen without flicking on any lights. The
darkness embraced him, comforted him. As he leaned against the
granite counter-top, gazing towards the window, he contemplated
doing it now -- it wouldn't take much: a thought, some
concentration, a gathering of the fabric around him. And the world
would change, wouldn't it?
Ever since the computer screen in the lab had presented that final
blinking word, "Success", framed in glowing orange, he had been on
edge, nerves jangling, stomach in knots. Much as he'd known that he
required rest, like a child waiting for Santa, sleep had steadfastly
refused to descend upon his whirling mind.
His mind shifted gears with a visible grimace.
And what the hell was that blip last night? The force of the bends
in the fabric of reality had knocked him physically from his chair?
Was it someone else with his unique power? Or a freak of nature, to
which he happened to be the only one on the planet susceptible?
The time blip hadn't held, hadn't quite materialised into a new
timeline. Whoever, or whatever had caused it, an amateur. Could
such things be accidental? Natural? He didn't know. The simulations
hadn't answered that particular question, had they? They had never
been designed for that. He suspected that he wasn't the only person
who'd felt the effects of the blip. A clean one wouldn't have been
choppy, and would have been completely unnoticed by the population.
The one last night had been like seeing smoke -- proof that air
surrounds one, visible evidence. A clean transition would have been
sharp and clean, the population slipping into a state of suspended
activity and slipping out cleanly, no smoky evidence to suggest that
it had taken place. He might notice the transition, but only because
of who he was.
He tore his mind from the strangeness of last night. There were more
important things to do. Gently, he rubbed at his eyes feeling the
graininess. He yawned and closed his eyes for a moment.
Sleep simply wasn't an option. Not now. He could sleep after he
changed the world. Time forever, for that. Right? His eyelids
scratched with each blink.
The first rays of the rising sun peeked over the horizon, cutting
across the treetops like a knife through smoke. He blinked, rubbed
at his eyes, yawned.
Today was the day. After five long years, today was finally the day.
To hell with the anomaly.
Go to work?
There wasn't any need, but rerunning the simulation would be
prudent. He'd waited this long, he could wait until the computer had
rechecked the latest equations. That, also, would give the sun more
time to light the world. Darkness might be fun, he thought, but
daylight had some advantages. And besides, there were things to do
at work, weren't there? Fun things.
The sun greeted him, light separating through the glass as if it had
passed through a prism.
"Hello," he whispered.
The butterflies fluttered again in his stomach, but they were unable
to bend him from his course. After the sun broke free of the
horizon, he rose to his feet, making his way towards the bathroom.
The shower refreshed him, at least temporarily. This was going to be
a long day. He smiled as the warm water cascaded across his skin.
This might be the last time he'd shower alone, unless by choice.
This might be the last night he spent alone. Adventure beckoned.
After towelling off, and dressing in jeans and a T-shirt, he walked
over to the closet where he lifted a shelf. The dusty notebook lay
where he'd hidden it, five years ago. He brushed off the dust and
smiled. His thumb quickly rifled through the leaves of the book, the
first time since he'd squirrelled it away. All of what was written
within, the handwritten equations, the occult symbols, the
connections between Catholicism, Vishnu and Einstein, the
connections between the ant and the elephant, resided safely in his
head. The book weighed like a superstitious talisman in his hand. He
didn't need the book, oh no, but it felt familiar and safe, like a
old friend, light in his hands.
He slipped the notebook into his briefcase with a smile.
Five long years, broken by a single word burning on a computer
screen. The blip wasn't going to faze him. Not now.
It was still early, the sun having climbed noticeably, but not high,
in the sky above, its rays warming the spring morning. The sky was
a brilliant blue above as he stepped from the doorway, his step a
little lighter than yesterday morning. Dew reflected a million
sparkles of light from the grass as he moved, but he really didn't
notice it. The morning breeze swallowed his toneless whistle as his
feet carried him closer to his destination.
He glanced up at the sun, seemingly static against the backdrop of
blue. Motionless, but not quite. It would soon be still, he mused.
Yes, it was going to be a long, long day.
<---===***===--->
Ritualistically, she rose before the sun peeked out from hiding
behind the horizon. Perhaps, it was because her name mirrored the
sunrise, or perhaps it was merely habit, but she slowly made her way
to the kitchen of the small house as she nearly always did, not
bothering to dress. In the darkness, she waited for a cup of tea to
steep.
Her ribs ached above where John had punched her, her scalp felt like
a million pinpricks had replaced her hair. Slowly, she ran her
fingers from her bangs through the mild tangle to exit near the nape
of her neck.
Clutching the warm mug in two hands, she sank into the easy chair,
facing east. Patiently, she waited, goose-flesh gracing her skin.
"Dawn, my girl, why do you do this to yourself?" she whispered.
She didn't have an answer, and lapsed into quiet reflection.
She was tired -- hadn't slept a wink since John had left. At first,
she'd cowered on the floor, afraid that he'd return, knock her
around more. Then anger had set in, and she'd paused, her knees
pressing into the floor, her shaking finger ready to dial the last
digit to get the police rushing to her house. But in the end, she'd
been convinced that he was gone for good, and after double bolting
the doors, she had lain in bed, awake, listening to the house creak,
unable to sleep, trying to make sense of the skip, make sense of
John, make sense of herself, make sense of anything.
She shook her head, blonde hair peeking into the periphery of her
vision. Absently, her fingers pushed the stray strands of her hair
back behind her ear. The first rays of the sun kissed her bare skin,
illuminating the otherwise darkened room like a spotlight.
Dawn waited, clearing her mind.
The crucial astrophysics exam was today, but she struggled not to
see the ball of orange fire rising slowly before her as a mighty
sphere of hot gas, capable of incinerating anything in its path. The
star did not rotate around her, but rather following the universe's
laws, the Earth itself circling about the central feature of the
solar system, with her along for the ride. It seemed more real to
see it as a mysterious orb, propelled by the gods riding chariots,
endlessly revolving around her, day turning into night with their
passage -- the way the ancients had seen the Universe.
Some things weren't as they appear, were they?
Dawn sighed, her lips silently forming a litany.
"The sun. Not a star. The sun."
The mantra seemed to work; she felt more relaxed and with her mind
clear, she merely watched the dawn, her namesake, until the sun had
broken free, shining brightly in the blue spring sky above.
After a time, after the teacup had grown cold and empty, Dawn rose,
her bare feet leading her to the shower. Her fingers twisted the
single handle to its limit, the water temperature rising steadily
until she couldn't stand the steam, her bare body jumping from the
spray to huddle against the white tile, shivering at the kiss of hot
droplets. The sound of her moan echoed from the tiles as she
gingerly reached around the cascade, gently pushing the lever
clockwise until she could again stand under the waterfall. But only
marginally; her skin reddened under the onslaught of the water.
She glanced down towards her toes. Her eyes automatically averted
from the discoloration beginning to form just under her ribs, above
her abdomen. Her fingers, washing there, caused a slight wince, but
she continued, determined to wash every trace of John, of sex, and
of the night before from her skin. No matter how much it hurt.
After towelling off, and drying her hair, she dressed quickly in
jeans and a sweatshirt. Today should be warm enough to forego a
jacket, the spring welcome after the winter.
As she dressed, her mind began to churn. She permitted it this time,
her thoughts full of plasma, galaxies, gravity and time. Her last
exam. God, she was tired. She hadn't needed a sleepless night. Not
last night, of all nights.
She bent, picking up the book that had sparked last night.
Carefully, she smoothed its ruffled pages and placed it in its home
upon her shelf.
It was going to be a long, long day, she sighed as she slipped on
her sneakers and carefully locked the front door. The campus
library, a big sugar cube of a building, rose from the morning mists
in the distance. Today, she would walk. The walk might help clear
her mind, make up a little for sleeplessness.
The sun climbed into the blue sea above, as she brightly began to
walk towards the campus. The dew sparkled a greeting to her, her
feet leaving a trail in the front lawn. Beautiful, she thought. Her
ribs ached once as her cadence began to increase and her lungs
expanded, but she ignored the pain, concentrating on the simple act
of walking and the exam she was set to write.
Yes, it was going to be a long, long day.
Chapter 4
© Copyright 2003 -
Crimson Dragon - All Rights Reserved
Success.
Four times the word had graced the bottom of the orange monitor in
front of him. This last time, he'd pressed the "Return" key with
relish, smiling and waiting for the computer to churn out its
inevitable result.
His stomach in knots, he clasped his hands behind his neck and
inhaled deeply. The output from the computer scrolled up the screen,
on a journey to somewhere outside of existence. Of course, those
letters and numbers of diagnostics were composed of fleeting
electromagnetism, phosphors lighting and dimming with the passage of
time.
"But time is fluid, isn't it?" he mused. And then aloud, he
whispered to himself, his voice barely louder than the fans that
surrounded him. One word. "Success."
The butterflies in his stomach arose en masse, fluttering, making
him shake.
It was time.
He glanced at the clock.
12:18
Most people would be on their lunch, enjoying the warmth of the new
spring, enjoying the sunlight. Not Sandra, not her. She'd be
working industriously in her office across from the lab, but
everyone else. The world waited, blissfully unaware of this
unassuming man, sitting in front of the unassuming word.
"Success."
Without conscious decision. If he thought about it, he might second
guess himself. It had been long enough that he wondered if it might
have all been a wonderful, exciting dream.
"Success."
He didn't know why, but he watched the second hand sweep across the
face of the clock, ticking down the moments. It was so normal, so
utterly normal. He would change all that.
He was going to wait until the second hand touched the twelve, until
it pointed straight up.
Foolish, he berated himself. Foolish.
The second hand kissed the numeral nine and fell somewhere between
that and the ten. 12:18:47.
He closed his eyes, mind whirling, envisioning the images that had
haunted him for so very long. Images that graced the pages of the
notebook, his handwriting scribbled across its pages, still buried
in his briefcase. Equations, numbers, symbols, and thought became
meshed with the fabric of existence around him, air swirling for a
moment, static crackles permeating the air. He shivered
involuntarily as lights flashed behind his closed lids. Without
warning, nausea engulfed him and he felt himself falling. Falling.
Falling.
<---===***===--->
"What's the matter, Kate?"
The red-haired girl stood by her locker, her fingers idly swinging
the door back and forth, listening to its hinges creak. She turned
slowly; Karen, who had addressed her, stood a few metres away,
shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot. The other girl wore
a little too much makeup, and her skirt perhaps showed a little too
much leg. But she could carry it off, as could most of Kate's
friends. The other girl knew what the matter was, of course. Most
of the school probably knew.
Kate gathered in her breath, let it out in a long sigh.
"Darren ..."
Darren, had pursued her. He wasn't unusual in that. But she'd agreed
to go out with him a few times. They'd had fun, she was even
beginning to like the guy, more than she should, perhaps. The
problem with Darren was that he also pursued other girls, Karen
included. They hadn't been exclusive or anything, she hadn't wanted
that -- or at least she didn't think she had -- but then she'd seen
Darren kissing Karen before first period.
Karen nodded. "Kate, you know, don't you?"
Kate nodded. She wasn't angry at Karen, Karen was as much a looker
as Kate was -- but with blonde hair, not fiery red like Kate's. She
was going to miss Darren. At least a little.
"I didn't know he was going out with you. Honestly. I dropped him,
you know?"
Kate's voice was monotone. "You didn't need to do that."
Karen shifted her weight again.
"I did. And I wanted you to know." Karen paused for a moment.
Kate sighed, decided to stop torturing Karen.
"We're still friends. Don't sweat it."
Karen's face visibly brightened. "Go for a smoke?"
Kate shook her head, her hair dancing across her shoulders. She
pushed the locker door shut with her palm, her fingers engaging her
combination lock and automatically spinning the dial.
"I don't smoke, you know that," Kate admonished. "And you shouldn't
either. Makes you smell."
Karen laughed. "Doesn't seem to deter the boys, and I thought after
this morning, you might want to take it up."
Kate shook her head again. She knew a few boys that disliked the
smell of cigarette smoke, though to be honest she doubted if any
would turn down a date with Karen over it.
"I just want to be alone for a while," she said.
Karen nodded understandingly. "Catch you later, then?"
Kate sighed and waved her off. Karen was itching for a smoke, could
see it in her posture. At the wave, Karen walked swiftly down the
hall, grabbing a few others that didn't mind the stink as she
hurried down the hall. Her voice carried in the quiet corridor as
she rounded the corner.
"Yeah, she's still the same old Kate. She's okay ..."
Kate wet her lips, and walked slowly in the opposite direction,
towards the front of the school. The front doors swung open and the
fresh air swirled around her. The front of the school was usually
abandoned, the students favouring the back where there was a field,
and smoking area for the older students and staff.
The front of the school featured a few oak trees, and the main drive
leading to the school. Kate settled to the grass under one of the
oak trees, her fingers finding a stray leaf, perhaps left over from
autumn. Slowly, she began to tear the leaf along its veins,
listening to the slow drone of cars and the crackle of the brittle
leaf in her hands.
She'd miss him, a little. They'd had fun.
The transition was sharp, no smoke, no flashing lights.
The breeze stilled, the BMW passing down the road halted without so
much as a protest. The sun continued to beat down, but its slow
motion across the sky stopped as though the wings of Mercury had
been clipped. Kate, frozen with everything else, continued to stare
down at the leaf in her fingers.
Preternatural silence engulfed the universe.
<---===***===--->
She'd been up until all hours, unable to sleep, her mind awhirl. If
it wasn't Dean, it was Darren. If it wasn't Darren, it was math, or
science, or history, or French. Sometimes it happened; sleep refused
to cooperate, refused to descend, refused to permit her rest. An
overactive imagination? Hah. More like adolescent torment. Her eyes
drooped, her chin cupped in her hands, her elbows supporting her
against the scarred surface of the small desk.
Leigh sighed and tried to pay attention. She furtively glanced at
the clock, whose refusal to move more quickly vexed her. Class
should have finished at 12:15, lunchtime, and she was supposed to
meet Dean, and Janice, and Tim in the cafeteria for Euchre. She
didn't want them to start without her, but she supposed that they
probably wouldn't find a fourth all that quickly. It was 12:16 now.
Some geek had asked Miss Waters to explain something to do with some
old Greek guy, Pythagoras? At any other time, she might have been
interested in the discussion, but with the second hand relentlessly
sweeping, Leigh only wanted to get to lunch and forget about school
for an hour.
The hard green chair under her bottom numbed her. Her eyes began to
close.
"Come, on. Come on," she willed the teacher who obliviously stood in
front of the blackboard drawing right triangles and talking about
hypotenuses. The class was beginning to get restless around her. Her
attention faltered again and she forced her eyes to open.
Finally, the teacher turned towards the class, her eyes resting on
the clock for a moment.
"Unfortunately, it appears our time is up. Class dismissed."
The woman dropped the chalk to the ledge below the chalkboard and
dusted her hands as she walked back towards her desk, as the
students began to rise, some with utterances of relief.
The transition was smooth, even if inaccurately portrayed upon the
institutional overhead clock.
The second hand on the clock stopped mid-way between 12:17 and
12:18, nearly a full minute and a half inaccurate. The teacher's
footsteps quieted, the voices and movements of the students in the
class stopped with the rest of the world. Leigh halted halfway out
of her chair, her mouth open to speak some words to her neighbour,
her finger absently brushing a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear.
Preternatural silence engulfed the universe.
Chapter 5
© Copyright 2003 -
Crimson Dragon - All Rights Reserved
The green highlighter danced across the text book, underlining the
teachings of Freud and Nietzsche. The page looked striped, some
yellow, for caution, some green for important. The red marker lay to
the side of the text, unused, reserved for what the owner considered
bullshit.
The owner sat wearily at the reception desk, trying to ignore the
noisy passage of office workers arguing about lunch reservations,
office politics, and promotions. A blue baseball cap, emblazoned
with the word, "Security", held back her blonde hair, a neat
ponytail emerging from above the hat's plastic adjustment. Her
nails, impeccably red, held the green marker easily, guiding it
effortlessly over the words, her eyes scanning, and intelligent.
Every so often, she raised her attention to one of the six low
quality black and white monitors that surrounded her. Some showed
empty stairwells, some empty parking garages, some busy concourses.
After satisfying herself that all was normal, she continued to
underline paragraphs for a moment.
"Excuse me." The voice startled her out of her text. The marker
clattered to the ground, rolling across the marble to rest against
her left heel.
The girl looked up to find a rotund woman in a business suit leaning
over the counter, trying to read what she had been underlining. The
girl closed the book, forcing the woman to tear her eyes away to
regard her. The woman looked upset about something, perhaps,
irrationally, the fact that the girl hadn't been paying attention.
"Can I help you?"
It always took her aback when a stranger used her name; it always
took her a second to remember that she wore it pinned to her jacket
just above her left breast. This woman used her name almost
threateningly, taking note of it for possible future complaint.
"Andrea, is it?"
The blonde behind the desk nodded, the bill of the cap obscuring her
vision for a moment with each duck of her head.
"Can I help you?" Andrea repeated.
"I used to take philosophy myself," the woman pointed to the book,
but seemed less interested in the content as the fact that Andrea
had been doing something other than waiting on her. Andrea slid the
book to the side.
"Actually, it is a bit of philosophy and sociology."
She worked this job part-time. It helped with the bills -- allowed
her to take her college course part-time, and she could observe
people. Like this woman.
The woman nodded, but didn't seem overly interested. She finally
shepherded her question.
"Can you direct me to Blake and Sons?"
Andrea smiled, her practice smile. She made a show of looking up the
firm, but knew it by heart. From experience, she knew that if she
didn't clack a few keys on the terminal, people tended to doubt her
directions. Maybe it was because she was blonde, maybe because she
was a woman as a security guard, maybe it was merely because she
spoke quietly.
"The law firm?"
The woman nodded.
"42nd floor. Take the left elevator bank and ..." Andrea let her
voice trail off as the woman dismissed her and turned towards the
wrong elevator bank. Andrea shook her head, and pulled the book back
towards herself, opening it to approximately the right page. The
woman would be back, berating her because she'd failed to mention
the express elevators. She scanned across the monitors. Still
nothing amiss. At least nothing tangible.
The transition was smooth and sharp.
The phosphor of the monitors remained, but the images were
unchanging. The elevators silenced, the steady drone of footsteps
and conversation in the concourse ground to a silent halt. Andrea
paused as her fingers picked up the green marker, the cap half on
and half off the tip.
Preternatural silence engulfed the universe.
<---===***===--->
"I don't give a flying ..." her voice cut off as Tyler began to
speak.
"Your client, Monique, is guilty as hell."
"Guilty?" Monique exploded. "The guy wasn't even in the right part
of town. He hasn't even been picked up for a lousy speeding ticket.
Even a cop swears he was at a strip club out by the airport. So tell
me, how can he possibly have stuck a knife into a mob enforcer at
the zoo? Christ, don't you guys do your job?"
"Monique, calm down."
"Withdraw the charges."
"I can't do that, Monique."
She slammed down the phone and took a second to calm her breathing.
The crown could be stubborn, always had been. She simply didn't
like to see time wasted for the sake of being wasted. She sighed,
picked up the receiver almost ready to call him back up, apologise
for losing her temper. She knew that they couldn't drop a murder
charge, not legally anyway, even if it were a stupid one. Once the
charge was laid, it was going to court.
Instead of dialling, she placed the receiver back into its cradle
gently. Let him stew for a few minutes. It was lunchtime, she was
sure. Her stomach growled.
As she was preparing to rise, the phone rang. She picked it up with
a sigh.
"Tyler?"
It wasn't Tyler calling her back to beg her to be reasonable.
"Miss Pelletier?"
The voice sounded vaguely familiar. She glanced at the display on
the phone. It was the old man, Blake, himself.
Flustered, she nearly dropped the phone, but managed to catch it
before it fell from her ear.
"Mr. Blake?"
"Call me Phil."
"Er, Phil?" she tried not to sound nervous. It wasn't everyday that
the senior partner called up an associate, unless there was trouble
afoot.
"Can you come down to my office?"
She hesitated a moment. She'd been putting in long hours, had a good
client base, and beyond the occasional outbursts with Tyler, had
performed well in her time with the firm, had won far more cases for
them than lost in court. Was he going to fire her? Reprimand her?
She couldn't believe that.
Only one way to find out.
"I'll be right there."
She paused, long enough to run her fingers through her hair. She
wasn't a fussy woman, knew she looked fine without a lot of work.
But this was Blake.
When she opened the door, the view took her breath. His office,
spacious as one might expect from the head of one of the most
successful practises in the city, looked out over the harbour and
the cityscape. Another senior partner, James she thought his name
was, stood easily by a wet bar.
"Miss Pelletier, please sit down."
"Please, Monique," she said automatically as she sat.
The old man was approaching eighty, though it was difficult to tell.
He leaned back in the chair.
"I'm afraid I don't have much time," he said as he regarded her.
She though she might have seen a flicker of interest in his eyes,
but was probably mistaken. She gathered her jacket a little closer
to herself.
He continued. "I'm getting on in years." He held up a hand to
silence her automatic protests. "In this firm, we have a policy of
making sure that the brightest among us stay among us. There have
been some rumours of your leaving."
Monique slowly shook her head. Truthfully, she hadn't been thinking
of leaving the firm. Had intended to seek partnership. She was too
young yet, bordering on late twenties, but she'd excelled in the
courtroom, and in university, far outdistancing the remainder of her
class.
The old man smiled.
"Well, in that case, I hope that you'll stay with us for a few more
years to come. We have a big client, one that asked for you
personally -- do you remember Jeremy Fox?"
Monique nodded. Bright kid, but he had shoplifted some minor stuff,
been caught with a BMW that he didn't own, mostly from boredom.
She'd defended him, managed with a bit of luck and a softer judge,
to commute his sentence to a thousand hours of community service. At
first, she'd thought that the kid should spend some time in jail,
but he turned out to be all right, and had agreed to keep out of
trouble. She wondered if he was still boosting cars, and if it had
anything to do with this meeting.
"He's turned into a fine boy, parents think that you did a really
good thing with him. Credit you with turning him around."
"That's good to hear," she said, somewhat at a loss for words.
The old man paused for a moment. The tall man at the bar wandered
slowly over to stand beside the desk. He sipped at something that
looked suspiciously like a scotch neat.
Blake continued. "His parents own Fox Enterprises, I'm sure you've
heard of them. Been good friends of mine for years."
She nodded. She'd known that since defending their kid.
"They want you to represent them with a contract dispute. Minor
stuff, but worth a great deal of money to them. They're in the
right, as far as I can tell."
Monique shrugged slightly, wondering what this was all about. She
didn't need to be up here, rapping with old man Blake about a minor
contract dispute. Blake's time was worth ten times hers, and hers
wasn't cheap.
Blake smiled kindly. "And they understandably want to be dealing
with someone at the firm that is ... shall we say ... respected."
He paused for a moment. Monique, at a loss for words, said nothing.
"And so, while I can't promote you now, I wanted you to know that
within the next few months, I want to promote you to senior
associate."
"But ..." she began. Blake held up his hand. It shook slightly.
"You're young, yes. But competent, and I liked the way you handled
that Fox boy, too."
Monique swallowed heavily, her heart hammering in her chest.
"Senior?"
Blake nodded firmly.
"Senior associate. Partner in five years, if all goes well. You'll
be the youngest senior associate in the history of the firm, but I
think you'll mesh fine with it. Congratulations, Miss Pelletier."
"Thank you, sir," she whispered.
The tall man beside the desk spoke. "Can I offer you a drink?"
Monique slowly shook her head.
Blake smiled.
"If there's nothing else, Miss Pelletier, then ..."
Monique stood, her mind whirling.
"Congratulations, again."
Monique paused at the doorway, her hand on the knob. She nearly
turned and thanked the old man again, but in the end merely turned
and smiled. The old man smiled back.
In the corridor, she shook her head and could barely contain a quick
laugh. Her hand turned the knob leading back into her own smaller
office when the world fell apart.
The transition was smooth and sharp.
The office clatter, photocopiers, air conditioning fans, the low
buzz of conversations fell silent. Monique, like a statue, stilled,
her fingers halted in the motion of twisting the brass knob of the
door.
Preternatural silence engulfed the universe.
Chapter 6
© Copyright 2003 -
Crimson Dragon - All Rights Reserved
The girl sat huddled in the corner of the large, pristine, bedroom,
hugging her knees to her chest. The tears had mostly stopped rolling
down her cheeks, but they would begin again, soon enough. She was
surrounded by the stuffed animals of her childhood, teddy bears, and
tigers, and dolls all staring at her, sympathising as they always
did -- silently and with real compassion.
A noise, a footstep, brought her eyes to rivet on the brass
doorknob. Shadows, two shoes against the light of the hallway,
revealed themselves in the gap below the door for long minutes.
The girl began to shake.
"Please, no more," she whispered.
The doorknob turned.
A large man, in his fifties, entered the room. Somewhere in the back
of her mind, she knew that her friends, what few she was allowed,
had fathers that knocked before entering their bedrooms. Fathers
that didn't scream at them constantly. Fathers that didn't try to
force their daughters to become things that they didn't want to be.
Fathers that didn't hit them. Fathers that didn't touch them.
She shrunk back, trying to become small, wishing that she could
disappear, become invisible. Something.
"Nicole??" His voice rose in a warped singsong expression.
The girl refused to look up, refused to raise her eyes. It would
earn her a cuff, but that was better than the alternative, wasn't
it? Wasn't it? A single tear rolled down her left cheek, and she
sniffled softly.
He aimed the blow to hit her cheek where she'd been struck before,
striking the purple bruise that was beginning to form under her
right eye. Nicole screamed involuntarily, but quickly tried to
silence herself.
"No more," she begged. Her hands rose to protect her face, but she
knew that wouldn't work -- not for long. The next blow struck her
unprotected abdomen. The air whooshed out of her, and she collapsed,
silently sobbing, struggling to catch her breath.
The man stood there awhile, contemplating her from above. He nudged
her prone form with the toe of his expensive wingtips. When she
didn't respond, he raised his right foot and plunged it into her
ribs. She wasn't sure, but she thought she heard a crack. A
sickening crack. She screamed again, her hands pushing at the floor,
struggling to rise.
Slowly, sobbing, she rose, despite the ragged pain in her face and
body. She made it to her knees, her jean clad thighs resting on her
bare heels, hands resting upturned on her legs. She did not raise
her eyes.
She spoke dully, without emotion, but with the odd gasp.
"All right. You'll get what you want anyway."
She opened her mouth wide and closed her eyes, knowing exactly at
what height her mouth fell. No, she was nearly sure that most
daughters didn't have to contend with this.
He turned away from her, almost sulking, almost as if disappointed
that she'd finally broken, given in to him. Her hands rested easily
on her thighs, the denim warm. As he began to walk towards her bed,
his back to her, she began to shake. She willed the worst of it
back. God, her cheek throbbed, and she was nearly sure he'd cracked
a rib this time; it hurt to breathe, so she quickened her breathing
to short, fast bursts. Each inhalation drove slivers of pain back
into her lungs. Nevertheless, she tried to remain motionless on her
knees, her mouth open. Waiting.
It could be worse, she thought to herself. Oh yes, it could be
worse. She knew what worse was.
He rummaged in her bedside stand for a moment. Crazily, she noticed
that the red numerals on her bedside clock radio had flipped to
12:13. Almost time for lunch. Except that she knew the type of salty
liquid lunch she was going to get today. And that after he was gone,
how she'd purge him from her belly, despite the racking pain in her
ribs.
He returned with a pair of handcuffs swinging easily in his left
paw. She shuddered, closed her mouth for a moment letting the
saliva, what little there was, wet her tongue.
"I'll do what you want, you don't need to use those," she whispered.
He smiled then, and ignored her. Almost gently, he tugged her hands
from her thighs, behind her. She thought about twisting, about
climbing to her feet, running. But she wouldn't have made it. She'd
have risked it, if she thought he might kill her. But he wouldn't.
Oh no, killing her would be too easy.
Instead, she felt the cold bands of steel pressed cruelly into the
skin of her wrists. Holding her here. For him. She wasn't sure, but
she thought the steel might actually have broken the skin this time.
Suddenly, he was back in front of her. Without real thought, she
opened her mouth again, closing her eyes. She expected to hear the
inevitable sound of a zipper, slowly opening. Unless he made her do
it. Somehow, with her teeth perhaps.
Instead, the sharpness of his movement surprised her. A single
finger placed inside the throat of her thin blouse, lowering
suddenly and viciously, buttons breaking their bonds and scattering
about the room. She hadn't worn a bra -- wasn't even sure if she
still owned one. Her breasts and nipples fell into view, small
hills and valleys on her chest. Sometimes she wished that she didn't
have breasts, even the relatively small ones that she owned. Less to
hurt that way.
He straightened and leered at her. She shivered, and lowered her
eyes.
"Useless small fucking tits you got. Sometimes, I doubt if you're
even my fucking daughter. Fucking whore, your mother. Probably
fucked the mailman while I was away."
Oh, that it were so. But the family resemblance was too much, no
matter how much she wished it weren't.
"Look at me, you fucking slut."
She raised her eyes, obediently, her breasts jutting obscenely from
the fabric of her blouse, her hands secured behind her, mouth open
as if a receptacle for vile things. Knowing it might make things go
faster, might reduce the time he spent in here with her, she almost
unconsciously thrust out her chest, obscenely inviting.
"Now, Nicole. You've been home for a fucking year. I've had to
fucking support you while you try to make up your mind."
Her mind whirled. Had it been a year already? Had she lived through
this a year? It was enough to make her cry, completely oblivious to
the pain in her body. He got away with it because he was loaded.
Could bribe the Judges, the cops, if they were even interested in
him. And even if he weren't loaded, he had her, didn't he? Nicole,
the ultimate bribe. He was the upstanding rich citizen loaded to the
hilt. He could roll in cash, if he wanted. The mansion on the hill,
with its high walls, its thick walls, its ghosts, where nobody could
hear her screams, or if they could, they didn't care. Support her?
He could support a coven of concubines if he wanted. But he didn't.
Did he? Nicole felt like laughing and crying, all at the same time.
Why risk concubines, when a single daughter would do?
A tear found its way to her right cheek. When it entered her lips,
it tasted salty but clean.
"Make up your fucking mind, you fucking useless whore."
I've made up my mind, she screamed in the security of her mind. I'll
do anything to get away from you. Even go to the damn medical school
you want. Anything. But she'd told him that. Every day since she'd
been home. Every day that she'd been on her knees here, hurting and
wondering if it would ever end.
Slowly she closed her mouth, the dryness not alleviating this time.
Her mouth felt like cotton filled it. Oh yes, she knew what that
felt like, too.
"I'll go to medical school. If that's what you want. I'll go," she
whispered.
Without warning, his hand emerged like a snake, biting her again,
same spot on her right cheek. The pain flared like a living
creature, eating at her, dissolving her nerves like venom. The
scream erupted involuntarily, her hands twisting in the harsh metal,
trying to protect herself. She was sure that she could feel the
faint wetness of blood tricking down her left hand.
"I'll go," she whispered. Knowing what was expected of her, she
opened her mouth again. Wide. She closed her eyes.
Maybe he'll go away. Maybe this time, he'll be satisfied. Maybe.
Maybe.
She cried out as his fingers pinched her exposed nipples, one and
then the other, but the sound of her voice was low and guttural,
almost like an animal, almost like ... if she didn't know better,
she could have mistaken it for the sounds of passion, if she'd known
what passion was. The man probably would take it as a sign, but she
couldn't stop her throat from betraying her misery.
The clock flipped to 12:19, perhaps running a little fast.
She closed her eyes again, her wrists fighting the bonds futilely.
After a moment, she heard the beginning of a slow noise, the
unmistakable sound of a zipper lowering mere centimetres from her
closed eyelids. Yes, she knew that sound well. Had nightmares about
it.
Please no. Not again.
"Fucking whoring slut," he whispered, his breath hot against her
ear. His fingers trailed along the side of her left breast. She
flinched at the touch. "Cunt." He straightened again, the ugly smell
of his breath retreating from her face. Nicole tried to open her
mouth a little wider.
The transition was smooth and sharp.
The low moan of the wind died outside her window. Nicole's low moan
of pain and prayer silenced with the rest of the world. The man's
hand paused halfway down, the zipper stopping on its journey south,
slow and steady. The pain eased in Nicole's cheek, but not long
enough to register on her mind. The involuntary shakes of her body
ceased, her bare breasts frozen from quivering in pain and
resignation.
Preternatural silence engulfed the universe.
<---===***===--->
Dawn shook her head in bewilderment. What kind of question is that?
She whispered to herself, surprised that nobody looked up from being
hunched over exam papers writing furiously to see what the low sound
from the back of the room was.
"Name your favourite nebula? Why is it your favourite?"
She shook her head, rereading the question, not quite believing it.
Immediately, her mind began to wander. Crab? Horsehead? Planetary?
She glanced up at the clock on the wall. Thirteen minutes to go
before the exam was done. Would it be better to go over the
remainder of the exam, checking her answers, or write a quick answer
to the nebula insanity?
She sighed, began writing something, anything, about the Horsehead
nebula. Professor was probably trying to rattle the students, those
who answered anything picking up some extra credits. And she could
use the extra credits, she knew. Damn John. Being this tired for an
exam wasn't helpful, but she thought that she would pass despite it
all. She simply didn't have a hope of getting an excellent mark, as
she normally did.
She glanced up at the clock again: 12:18.
The transition was smooth and sharp for most of the world.
Dawn felt the static, as though lightning was going to strike her,
before anything else became apparent. She looked up sharply at the
sensation, nearly crying out alarm despite the quiet surroundings.
In the end, she clamped her lips together and waited for the
electricity to dissipate. Around her, she sensed the fabric of the
universe bending and rolling in tortured, silent screeches. She
glanced up at the clock on the wall, again. It read: 12:18:47. The
second hand stuttered, hesitated, skipped one second, then fell
back.
Vertigo infused her, and the nausea, similar to the previous
evening, crept through her body, causing her to double over, hands
pressed weakly into her belly. Her nose pressed insistently into the
desk in front of her, the smell of paper and ink wafting up at her
from the intermittent graffiti. This time, the nausea didn't
subside, but continued to rip through her belly like a tidal wave
upon a quiet ocean. She gagged, but managed to control her purging
reflex. Only marginally.
Her scream echoed for a moment through the room, but nobody looked
up to see what the disturbance was. Her pen snapped as her fingers
involuntarily flexed with a strength that she doubted that she had.
A blow, like a punch from a martial arts instructor, knocked her
without warning from the bottom numbing chair. Her exam paper
remained rooted to the desk as though her departure were that of a
insubstantial ghost. Her breath knocked from her lungs, she hit the
floor and lay as still as the remainder of the world.
The students and the proctor for the exam stared impassively,
through frozen eyes, their limbs frozen, writing, or stretching,
looks of exam concentration on their faces. All fell silent in the
room.
Preternatural silence engulfed the universe.
After a moment, a low moan broke the silence. The little finger on
Dawn's right hand twitched, her staring eyes flit against her
eyelids. Another low groan escaped into the silent world. But that
was all. Despite her struggle, Dawn passed out, blackness, blessed
blackness, descending upon her.
Chapter 7
© Copyright 2003 -
Crimson Dragon - All Rights Reserved
It was done, the world as quiet and serene as he remembered it. It
was the quiet of emptiness, the silence of solitude. It was the
silence of a world unbound by the ravages of time.
The fans surrounding him had fallen quiet from their restless and
incessant clatter, the air conditioning of the building silent and
calm. If his calculations were correct, he and the bubble he had
cast around himself, were perhaps the only matter in the universe
that existed in a normal time frame.
After a long ten minutes, he finally picked himself up off the floor
where he'd been thrown by the force of the universe bending around
his body. Nausea trickled slowly out of his belly, leaving him
gasping, but conscious. His ribs ached, and his lungs felt like they
were on fire, but he was alive. The symptoms of time shifting were
transient -- he'd experienced them before and knew that they would
subside in a few minutes.
The ride had been bumpier than last time -- perhaps the changed
parameters, perhaps a factor of age. He was five years older than
the last time he'd attempted this, after all. He was far from old,
only in his mid-twenties, but time was cruel, even to the young.
While he could feel the difference, a more complete mastery of the
time surrounding him -- more stability -- he could also sense time
slipping around him. It would take mental energy to keep the
universe in this state, if not outright attention. But what a state!
Slowly, he climbed to his feet. The room spun for a moment, but
eventually righted itself.
He began to laugh, softly at first, but then a roaring, almost
insane laugh. The giggles held him in their grip for a few more
minutes before he finally settled down and stared at the computer
screen, frozen in time, the phosphors still showing the last
calculations.
"Success," he whispered.
He staggered over to the door and automatically extended the time
bubble that surrounded him to envelop the door so that it opened at
the press of his hand. The hinges creaked -- a sound he'd never
heard from this door before, what with the cacophony of the fans and
the building noise. As he walked out, and the door fell outside of
his sphere of influence, it snapped back to a closed position
without so much as a sound.
In the washroom, he crouched by the sink consciously avoiding
allowing the fixture to enter a normal timeframe. The drip from the
faucet hung, mid-air, not wavering, not falling, frozen with the
rest of the world around it.
Cause and effect, he mused. The universe protects herself, oh yes.
He hadn't fully understood the intricacies of time manipulation,
still didn't quite understand why and how the universe protected
herself from paradox, but she did. Why did the light of the sun
shine, even though its nuclear fires were frozen? Why didn't he fly
across the room when the Earth stopped spinning beneath him, in a
violent show of Newton's veritable laws of motion? Why could he
extend the time bubble that surrounded his body to encompass the
sink in front of him, hot and cold water emerging as though the
pipes leading to it weren't frozen in time?
Cause and effect bent to accommodate. It had nothing to do with him
and his control of the dimension of time. He shook his head. No. It
was in the nature of the universe to prevent paradox, and these
unusual occurrences were merely a manifestation of that. Strange
things happened when one played with time. Thankfully. Otherwise, he
couldn't exist here anymore than he could exist without food, water,
light and air.
Cause and effect didn't always work as they should. He had to
remember that. The universe could be a strange place.
Could a particle be in more than one place at once?
He smiled. Ask Schroedinger's cat. And that happened in normal time.
The universe protected herself, even when she was bent and formed to
his will. But she had been designed for that. Oh yes. He didn't
quite understand it all, but more than he had five years ago. He had
more control, this time. No question. Even if he was rusty at the
wheel.
He extended the time bubble that separated him from the true
timeline, the primary timeline. The bubble expanded, the sink
intersecting with his control. The drip fell with an audible splash
into the sink and disappeared, as if everything were normal, down
the drain. He turned on the taps, waiting for the water to warm a
little. He gasped as tepid water splashed his face. Feeling
refreshed, he dried his face with a paper towel quickly. The towel
blinked out of his timeframe as he released it from his time bubble.
Litter control, he smiled.
He crouched in front of the sink again. Every minute or so, a drip
appeared, fell, and disappeared. He glanced over towards the
urinals. Johnson, as always wearing an uncomfortable looking suit,
stood in front of the far commode, staring blankly at the wall in
front of him. Johnson was as motionless as the rest of the world,
forever stuck penis in hand, peeing for eternity. Or at least until
the universe was returned to primary timeline.
"Have fun, Johnson," the man at the sink whispered, surprised that
the echo of his voice had not returned. The room remained stuck in
frozen time swallowing the sound as surely as a soundproof chamber.
Technically, the universe continued along the primary timeline, but
so slowly that it would be imperceptible to anyone on the secondary
timeline. His calculations had borne that titbit of information.
The first time through this portal, he had thought that the the
universe had stopped around him, though he could control bubbles of
time, varying time rates within. But the universe had to continue,
if at a pace that would make a snail look like it were moving at the
speed of light. She had to maintain some timeframe, or she would
collapse. Take away a dimension, and the universe would cease -- at
least as humans perceive it. Paradox couldn't survive complete time
cessation. But even if he lived to be a thousand years old, and was
able to maintain control over the universe for that long, Johnson
would move perhaps a millimetre, as would the faucet drips.
This secondary timeline was what happened if the transition was
smooth and sharp. Not like that amateurish attempt last night by
unknown forces.
His head snapped up and he glanced over his shoulder as if expecting
a cloaked figure to be standing there, a conscience regaling him
with admonishments:
"Naughty, naughty. Shouldn't play with Mother Nature."
He shook his head. There was no such figure. Couldn't be. He knew
that. He was the only creature moving on this timeline, or if some
alien life force had avoided the time shift, they were far too far
away to affect him.
He closed his eyes, probing outwards, sensing the flow and ebbs of
time. His perception flowed a long way, but there were limits.
But it was close, a nagging hiccup in the time continuum. Where? He
could sense it, but couldn't quite pinpoint it. Or smooth it. A
person? Had to be within this city, somewhere, that much he could
tell. Someone else able to protect himself from the time shift? An
accident? Or a natural anomaly. The hiccup was slight, probably
nothing. Maybe the change in parameters had allowed a tree to escape
the time shift, a local phenomenon. Nothing to worry about anyway,
he was sure. No other person could have followed him into the time
shift. There was no way.
Satisfied, he turned away, rose from his crouch. As he turned
around, he gathered the time bubble towards himself, almost like a
second skin. He turned, hand on the door ready to pull it towards
him to escape from the dreary bathroom. He had other things to do.
The drip, suspended between spout and drain hung silently in the
air. Johnson, oblivious to the state of the universe continued to
stand stiffly at the urinal, peeing forever.
Smiling, the man pulled open the door, and stepped out into the
office. No printers whirred, no announcements scattered through the
air, no secretaries gossipped, no constant hum of the air
conditioners greeted him. The silence was almost eerie. Time to
fill that silence, he mused.
In a flash, he could free the room from its time bonds, play with
whomever he liked. But that wasn't necessary, was it? He needed
practice, was rusty in controlling the universe around him, but he'd
climb back on, didn't need to prove himself to the anonymous office.
Too many people to keep track of. Not yet, anyway.
Like a bicycle, he thought, as he strode purposefully down the
carpeted hallway. Once you learn, you tend not to forget. The time
bubble controlled by his mind, the one that let him breathe and
move, almost automatically extended and encompassed what was
required for action -- doors, floors, rooms. It was like breathing
-- unconscious survivalist instinct.
The door in front of him was closed, as it nearly always was. The
name emblazoned on the glass: "Sandra Winters".
Sandra Winters controlled his department, controlled what money
flowed in or not, funded the labs, the research. Or not. He doubted
if she was even aware of his existence -- perhaps his face,
certainly not his name. She never ventured into the labs whose
experiments she influenced -- both negatively and positively.
He hesitated for a moment, a thought nagging at him before he opened
the door. He'd forgotten something. Something important. His
fingers pulled back from the handle without turning it.
Quickly, he ran back to the lab. His briefcase snapped open with a
practised ease. He'd almost forgotten that he'd placed it in there.
The gun felt like a long lost companion in his palm. He wouldn't
need it, he couldn't be hurt here, at least not yet; he didn't need
it for protection, but it would help with Sandra, he was sure.
He walked more leisurely back to Sandra's office, the gun
comfortable in his right hand. His finger stroked easily along the
trigger. It was loaded, and ready, though he doubted if he'd have to
fire it. He continued back towards the closed door, walking slowly;
he had all the time in the world, didn't he? Patience. Patience. He
halted for a moment, glancing about the frozen office. He sighed
with pleasure. He'd returned.
This time, he didn't hesitate at the doorway. He was somewhat
surprised that the door wasn't locked, but it swung open easily at
his urging. He closed the door behind him.
Sandra was sitting at her desk, telephone to her ear, probably
talking to a client. Her eyes were downcast, watching her fingers
upon a pen. She was writing something on a pad. The man wandered
over, peering over her shoulder. Her hand obscured most of what she
was writing, but he truthfully didn't care what it was. What he
could see showed a precise hand, her letters feminine and neat.
He touched her cheek, but recoiled as his finger met the cold hard
surface that was her skin. Outside of time, her skin felt like
concrete -- cold concrete. He hurried back towards the doorway.
She was an attractive woman, well dressed, and fit, but she wouldn't
stand out in a crowd. Her face while attractive, was plain and
freckled. She didn't wear much make-up. Her blonde hair was up,
pulled back from her face with a practical, but attractive clasp.
She was in her late twenties, perhaps early thirties.
He returned to the doorway, leaned back against the glass. She would
be fine to practise with. Fine to play with. For now.
Until he needed to choose, Sandra would do just fine.
Chapter 8
© Copyright 2003 -
Crimson Dragon - All Rights Reserved
He inhaled sharply, almost as if expecting a sharp pain. Then, with
an effort, he extended the time bubble to include the office. He was
careful to keep the time bubble from intersecting with anything else
-- only to the door, but not beyond.
Her voice continued as if she'd never stopped.
"... physics experiments, we're going to need ..." her voice trailed
off as she realised that the sound issuing from the receiver was
unusually blank. She dropped the pen with a clatter on her blotter,
and turned towards the phone. Puzzled, she depressed the switch
where the handset normally rested. When that failed, she jiggled the
cradle a few more times. Slowly, she returned the handset to its
home.
Finally, she raised her eyes and jumped, backing her chair away from
the desk before catching herself.
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in. Can I help you with
something?"
He remained leaning against the door, the gun hidden behind his
back. He watched her silently for a moment.
"You work down in the lab, don't you? Can I help you with
something?" she repeated, a touch of irritation entering her voice.
Nonchalantly, he allowed his right hand to lower, the gun pointing
towards the floor. Her eyes were drawn to it, like a hypnotising
cobra.
"Sandra?"
Slowly, she looked up, fright beginning to enter into her eyes.
"What? What do you want?"
He hesitated for a moment, watching as her right hand began to move
carefully and smoothly towards the phone on her desk. His answer
stopped her hand, for a moment.
"You."
Her face registered her confusion, but the lines of a frown began to
form between her eyes. Her hand lifted the receiver.
"Security isn't there," he spoke softly.
Emboldened by his words, she quickly moved the handset to her ear,
puzzled by the lack of a dial tone. She depressed a button on her
phone, which even from the door he could read marked as "Emergency".
He supposed that this counted as an emergency. At least for Sandra.
After repeatedly punching the button, she gave up and returned the
telephone to its cradle with a quiet clatter.
"What do you want?" she asked warily. Her eyes darted about the
room, but always returned to the gun idly present at his right side.
"You," he answered again. "I don't like to repeat myself."
She backed the chair away from the desk a little further.
"Me? Why?"
He smiled, moved away from the door a little to lean against a
filing cabinet.
Instead of answering her, he gestured towards the door with the gun
barrel. Her eyes followed the movement.
"Go on," he said. "Try it. I won't shoot you for trying."
Looking confused, she rose to her feet. He watched her. She
wouldn't look too bad naked, he thought. Not bad at all.
She watched him warily, eyes on the gun. He deliberately aimed it at
the floor, well away from her. She edged around the far side of the
desk, fingers trailing against the surface.
As she reached the edge, she bolted, her feet carrying her to the
door in two quick steps. Her movements were faster than he'd thought
that she could move in the pumps she wore. Fear can instil ability,
he mused. She was screaming before the door had even opened.
"Help! Help me, please. He's got a gun!"
As she moved through the door, she sensed the danger somehow, tried
to pull back, but wasn't successful.
Air, full of molecules, became the equivalent of a solid when
trapped in a timeless state. Sandra managed to twist, but still hit
the invisible wall of air far harder than he'd expected her to. With
a startled cry, she bounced, sprawling backwards into the room in an
undignified heap.
She lay stunned for a moment on the carpet, before regaining her
senses. She crawled to the doorway, touching the frozen air with her
hands, confused, but still yelling to an uncaring world.
"Please, someone. He's. He's got a damn gun."
Her small fists hammered at the strange solid air, uncomprehending.
And suddenly the gun was there, pressed almost tenderly into the
nape of her neck. She stopped screaming and her hands fell to hang
limply and unthreateningly at her sides.
"They can't hear you, you know," he said simply.
She didn't turn, only whispered.
"Please don't shoot me. I'll give you whatever you want."
He laughed gently. "What do you think I want?"
"Money?" she said almost hopefully. "My purse is under the desk.
Take whatever you want. But please, please don't shoot me."
The gun retreated, and she relaxed a little, daring to turn around.
His back leaned against her filing cabinet, the gun now trained on
her, but not overly threatening. Still, she was sure that it could
be adjusted and fired well before she had risen to her feet. What was
she going to do? Scratch him? Bring nails to a gunfight? She
searched his eyes for a moment. Yes, he would shoot her, if she
tried something stupid. Of that, she was nearly sure.
"Sandra, Sandra, Sandra. I've already told you what I want."
She shivered, and her voice nearly broke on the word.
"Me?"
He nodded slowly, motioning at her to rise to her feet. Sandra
slowly shook her head negatively, as if denying that this was
happening to her.
"Sandra, dear?"
She looked up, fright evident in her eyes. She wanted to scream at
him that she wasn't his "dear", but she kept her lips pressed
together. He continued, his voice carefully monotone.
"I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. I won't kill
you, maybe shoot you in the hand, or the leg, and you'll think you
are dying, but you won't be. But I think it might be easier if you
simply did what I tell you."
Sandra shivered.
"What do you want me to do."
"Stand up, for starters. We'll have to do something about that
memory of yours."
She hesitated. That gun was still aiming at her. She didn't know if
he could use it, would use it, but his eyes seemed serious. She only
hesitated for a moment, then slowly climbed to her feet. Unsteady on
her feet, she swayed uncertainly. Her hands remained motionless at
her sides.
He watched her for a few minutes, like a cat watching a mouse.
"How did you ..." Sandra began, her voice wavering.
He smiled enigmatically. "Time is fluid," he said clearly, though
his words made absolutely no sense to her.
Sandra shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her fingers
began to fidget, but still he watched her. At last, he seemed to
find a decision, one she probably wasn't going to like.
"You believe that I'd hurt you if I wanted."
She nodded, afraid to speak.
"And you'll do whatever I want."
She nodded again, her eyes glued to that damnable gun. He waved it
towards her, smiling at her flinch.
"I don't want you to freak out," he kept his voice level.
"I don't want to die," she said simply. A tear began to form in the
corner of her eye. The man seemed to notice the wetness near her
eyes, seemed to hesitate for a moment.
Finally, he nodded.
"Good, Sandra. Good girl."
She hadn't been referred to as a 'girl' in a long time. In a way, it
seemed almost reverent, not demeaning. Not from the gunman. Strange.
He inhaled deeply, letting it out in a long sigh.
"Sandra, I want you to give me your clothes."
She started, stepped back as though slapped. Her mind whirled,
couldn't quite believe that he'd said it, but knowing that it was
so. She hadn't let her mind investigate this possibility. Why else
would he want you, she thought hysterically. She shook her head
slowly from side to side as if denying it would help her somehow.
The tear escaped from her right eye to lazily track down her cheek.
"Please no. I don't want to be raped."
He laughed gently while she backed up another step.
"Sandra, I have no intention of raping you or anyone else."
"You don't?" She desperately wanted to believe him. So desperately.
But he was holding a gun on her, wanted her clothes.
He shook his head. The gun never left her.
"Listen ..." she began, her voice wavering. She searched her memory,
but her mind refused to give up the information. She unconsciously
crossed her arms across her chest. "I don't even remember your name.
I'm sorry."
"It's not important," he replied, infinite patience infusing his
words.
"Please. Take whatever you want -- the purse is under the desk.
Please."
He stepped towards her, eyes carefully on her face. She backed away
until she felt the wall, under her inspirational poster that
proclaimed "You can do anything you set your mind to." The wall
pressed into her back solidly behind her. He approached her, but
stopped outside of her reach, not invading her personal space. She
shook, knowing that attacking him was useless.
"I have cash," she whispered. "I can get more."
He laughed again. "I don't want money, Sandra."
She regarded him for a moment, wishing the wall would open up and
swallow her whole.
"If you aren't going to rape me, then why?" She watched his eyes,
hoping to see the hint of a lie. There was none.
He smiled.
"Sandra, look around you. This is my world now, there is no one,
just you and I here. I could freeze you, you know?" She didn't know,
but she nodded anyway. "I could tie you up, no problem, and do
whatever I pleased with you. I could cut your clothes from you. I
could rape you while you struggled in the ropes." The statement
seemed to bring a sparkle to his eyes, but he continued, his eyes
somewhat truthful. "I don't want to rape you, I just want you to be
naked. Okay? I won't rape you."
No, it wasn't okay. Not with her. She trembled.
The gun suddenly was pressed under her chin, its cold barrel
indenting her skin. His hand remained steady holding the weapon
against her chin. She shook, but he didn't. It was as if he'd done
this before, was used to controlling women.
Slowly, resignation flowed into her veins. As he released the
pressure on the underside of her chin, she nodded slowly. He moved
back, watching her closely.
She allowed another tear to trace down her face as her fingers rose
to tug at the first button at the throat of her blouse.
Chapter 9
© Copyright 2003 -
Crimson Dragon - All Rights Reserved
"I don't want to do this," she whispered. Her fingers halted after
the first button had released.
He smiled gently, and spoke kindly, in contradiction to the gun he
still held on her.
"Sandra, I know. You've been nude before, every morning in the
shower. Every morning before you dress. In front of lovers,
doctors."
She shook her head.
"But ..."
Again he spoke knowingly. "But not in front of a strange man waving
a gun around. Would this make you feel better?"
He tucked the gun into his waistband. Sandra was sure that he could
retrieve it and shoot her before she'd taken two steps, but it did
make her feel better, so she nodded.
"You've been naked before, and it won't be forever. You won't even
remember it." His words made little sense to her, but she was beyond
arguing. She accepted his words, and continued to unbutton her
blouse. A flush overtook her face, but his eyes seemed to remain on
hers instead of watching her bra slip into view.
Her blouse, and then her slacks tumbled to the floor in an untidy
heap. She worked her shoes through the fabric, stepping carefully to
the side. She re-crossed her arms in front of her, looking up
hopefully.
"Satisfied. I did what you want."
He grinned. "Sandra, you must know better than that."
She did. He wouldn't be satisfied until she was standing there buck
naked, shivering.
"Please. My purse ..."
He motioned at her to continue. She sighed, willed back another
tear, and worked her arms up behind her, fumbling with the clasps to
her brassiere. She hesitated for a moment before slipping the straps
from her shoulders, holding the thin white fabric to her breasts
protectively.
"Please?"
He shook his head patiently. She took a deep breath, and finally
dropped the cloth to the ground to join her pants and her blouse.
This time, she wasn't able to control the blush, could see it rising
across the tops of her breasts.
"Sandra?"
She looked up, but immediately dropped her eyes to the floor.
"Lower your arms."
She shook her head.
"I don't want to hurt you. You will lower them eventually. Get it
over with." His voice was kind, belying the words that tumbled from
his mouth.
She gathered her courage and dropped her arms from shielding her
breasts.
"Oh god," she whispered.
"Panties, too."
Knowing it was useless to beg, she slipped her thumbs into the
waistband of her plain cotton briefs, and slipped them down her
legs. Her right foot flipped the wispy cotton into the pile. While
she stood, hands at her sides, she pressed her legs together in an
attempt at modesty. She suspected that her modesty was in for a
shaking.
"Shoes. Jewellery."
She looked up sharply. For some reason, losing her shoes, standing
barefoot in front of him seemed worse somehow than removing the rest
of her clothes.
"Shoes?"
"Naked, Sandra. I want you bare."
"Why? Please, why?"
He didn't answer her, and she suspected that even he didn't know.
She was beginning to believe that he wasn't going to rape her. He
wouldn't have waited this long, wouldn't have asked her to remove
her shoes and jewellery if rape was on his agenda. She was already
accessible, if he'd wanted to rape her, after all.
"Why?" she repeated. "I'm naked, aren't I? All the important parts
hung out for you to see." But his eyes were on her face, not her
body.
"Shoes," he repeated firmly.
In other situations, people saw her bare feet all the time -- in the
pool, at the beach, even walking around the house. But to be
barefoot here, in her office, in front of him? With a sigh, she
worked the pumps off with her toes, hesitating with the first, and
nearly kicking off the second. Without any hesitation, she worked
the watch off her wrist, the necklace from her throat, and the
earrings from her ears. She held the various gold metal in her palm,
offering it to him. Maybe he wanted the gold, not cash? He motioned
her to put in on the desk -- didn't take it.
Moving naked, in the office, surprised her, the sensations of the
carpet against her bare feet, the air moving around her skin. She
dropped her jewellery in a pile beside her blotter. So ordinary,
wasn't it?
"Satisfied, now? Can I get dressed?"
"Oh no, Sandra, you look much nicer naked. Honestly."
In a strange way, she was flattered, but not enough not to wish that
he'd let her clad herself again.
"Please?"
He shook his head.
"Clean up the clothes, Sandra. Give them to me."
"Huh?"
"You heard," he said with a little more threat in his voice. He
pointed towards the heap of her clothing. The pile looked too small
to have wrapped around her nudity.
Slowly she moved to kneel beside her scattered clothes. Her fingers
quickly folded the fabric as if it had emerged from the wash. Soon,
she had a stack lying in front of her on the carpet. She picked it
up and turned on her knees, her clothing cradled in her arms.
"Thank-you," he remarked. He'd watched her perform the ritual in
silence, and as she turned, he retrieved her clothes from her arms,
placing them on the file cabinet. Somehow, it made it worse, seeing
her clothes there, so out of place, so close, and yet so far away.
Sandra slowly climbed to her feet, her arms re-crossing
automatically across her chest. Her nipples, hardened by the cool
air, pressed into her forearms. He didn't force her to lower her
arms, this time.
"Why me?" she asked simply.
"Because you were here."
"You work here. In the lab, don't you?"
He nodded. He seemed to be humouring her, almost allowing her to
talk for a minute.
"You know me, even if I don't remember you, right? Have you been
planning this long? Have I done something to deserve this, withheld
pay, withheld funds?" The man remained silent. Sandra took this to
mean she was on the right track. "I. I can't control funds. If they
aren't there, they aren't. If I've done something to offend you, I'm
sorry. God, I'm sorry. I'll redirect funds to your program.
Somehow. I'm so sorry."
The man looked up, staring into her eyes. She involuntarily fell
back a step.
"No, Sandra. You haven't done anything to me, or my department. I'm
doing this because I can, and because most of the women in the
building aren't ... my type. You won't remember this. I promise. It
isn't happening."
But it was happening. The air against her bare skin reminded her of
it every second.
"I've done nothing to deserve this? I was in the wrong place at the
wrong time?"
Somehow that made it worse. She was innocent, but somehow still
naked and shivering in her office with a damn gun pointed at her.
"Right place at the right time," he said quietly.
She shook her head. "No."
He smiled, as if her opinion didn't really matter. She supposed that
it didn't. Not really.
"What do you want from me?" she asked quietly.
"I want you to crawl."
"Crawl?"
"On all fours."
"You're kidding. Why?"
He smiled again. "Sandra? Why isn't important. Not really. If you
want for this to end, you need to crawl for me. Once around the
office."
"Crawl," she repeated incredulously. "That's humiliating."
He nodded slowly. Oh, he knew. His hand fell to the butt of the gun
in his waistband. Suddenly, she was certain that she was getting off
easy, that this man was capable of hurting her, of controlling her
in far worse ways than to ask her to crawl around naked on the
floor.
A ball formed in the pit of her stomach, but in the end, she fell to
her knees, and rocked forward, hands and knees on the carpet. Naked,
she began to crawl slowly around the perimeter of the office,
breasts swaying beneath her, tears falling silently.
He watched her moving intently, a smile of remembrance on his lips.
When she completed the circuit, her knees ached, and her biceps
tingled with the unaccustomed motion.
"Can I get up now?" she asked.
Instead of answering, he moved towards her. On her hands and knees,
she couldn't move quickly enough to avoid him. His hands tugged at
the back of her head, and in surprise, she watched as her blonde
tresses fell to hang, unbound, beside her face. He released my hair,
she thought. Why?
In a moment, his hand was entwined in her hair, lifting it from
shielding her face. He tugged, and Sandra cried out in pain,
beginning to rise off her hands to alleviate the pressure. Then she
noticed that the pressure had a direction. Sure she would be
punished if she rose from the crawl, she threw herself forward to
follow the makeshift leash of her own hair.
"Please," she gasped. "That hurts."
He loosened the pressure on her scalp, but only a little. Slowly,
she crawled to the doorway. The intent was clear. She was to follow
him like a pet being walked, a naked, crawling, dog or cat. She
could feel the hot flush of blood rushing into her cheeks, and she
choked on relief that her face was hidden towards the floor.
Suddenly, she realised in which direction she was crawling.
Oh God, not into the main office. While she had been naked and
crawling in her own office, door closed, and somewhat private, while
embarrassing, she thought she could handle it. Not outside. No.
She balked, pulling back despite the pain his hand in her hair
caused. He tugged once, causing her to cry out in pain, but then
relented. She suspected that it was a mistake, but she rose to her
knees as best she could, her hair still grasped in his hand. His
form was close to her, too close.
He seemed to recognise the problem.
"Sandra? There's nobody but us. They can't see you out there, and I
can't leave you in here."
"Please. Let me go. I'm not a dog."
He tugged on her hair, hard, forcing her to fall back to a crawling
position. She cried out, again, but managed to stifle the real
scream that threatened to rise from her throat.
He paused after opening the door. Please let the invisible wall
prevent us from leaving. Please.
"If I want you to bark," he said ominously. "You'll be a dog."
And she believed him. Oh yes, she believed him.
The carpet moved silently past her eyes, stretching forever, as she
crawled over the floor, following the pressure from her hair,
transmitted incessantly from his fingers.
Chapter 10
© Copyright 2003 -
Crimson Dragon - All Rights Reserved
The invisible wall disappeared as they passed through the doorway.
Sandra flinched as she tested with her fingers to ensure that her
head wouldn't smack headlong into it as she struggled to catch up to
the constant tug on her scalp.
But it wasn't there, and she passed through the opening and into the
silent world as if there had never been an obstruction. She avoided
raising her eyes as she moved methodically and as quickly as she
could, her knees pumping and arms working in unusual harmony.
The journey ended when the pressure of his hand in her hair abated,
and the blonde strands fell beside her face like a shroud. After a
few minutes, she dared to raise her eyes. Confusion set in for a
moment; she wasn't used to seeing cubicles from this angle. Sandra
nearly rose to a kneeling position, and then thought better of it.
God, where was he? She twisted her head, caught a glimpse of him
behind her. She flushed, and tried to press her thighs together.
Either way, she knew, he was getting a perfect view of her.
She sighed. He was getting a view no matter what. Christ. Making
her crawl. Through the office.
She tried to ignore him. She had been led to Melanie's office, where
she remained in the middle of the cubicle. Melanie was a secretary,
a temp, perhaps a college student, brunette, long legged and
attractive. Sandra idly wondered why the gunman hadn't chosen
Melanie over her in the first place. The desks were cluttered, and
Melanie, hand frozen while pushing a mouse, stared at an unmoving
computer screen. Sandra knew the girl, at least in passing -- she'd
been hired recently, was overworked with the cutbacks that were
taking place. They'd been introduced once; Sandra may have passed
some typing her way a few times. She couldn't recall the girl's
last name.
Sandra's shoulder registered a soft touch. She'd expected his
fingers to be hard and calloused, but they weren't. She looked up
to find him crouched beside her.
"Get up," he instructed her.
With relief, she rose first to her knees, then she climbed to her
bare feet. He guided her to one of Melanie's desks.
"Sit."
Sandra looked at the cluttered desk, began to shuffle some of the
paper to make room to sit on the desk.
"It doesn't matter," he remarked with a sweep of an arm. Papers,
pens, and various office supplies fell with a clatter that made
Sandra jump, her breasts jumping with her.
"Sit," he said a little more impatiently.
Sandra stepped gingerly through the clutter now littering the floor,
trying not to step on any tacks or sharp pens, and pulled herself up
to sit on the higher surface. The gunman was investigating Melanie.
With his back turned, maybe she could ...
"Sandra?"
His voice surprised her and she looked away guiltily. Could he read
her mind, too?
"Not a smart idea."
She shivered, and re-wrapped her arms around her chest. At this
point, it was more to control the shivers than to avoid showing off.
He'd seen her body, from all angles. Christ, she'd had to crawl for
him. Seeing her bare breasts now, simply wasn't a huge deal anymore.
"She new?" he asked.
Sandra nodded. The gunman avoided touching the frozen secretary;
Sandra didn't know why. But she was sure that the girl wasn't aware
of them.
"What's wrong with her? Is she alive?" Sandra asked innocently.
"She's suspended. As you will be when I'm done here."
Done here? What the hell did that mean? Instead of asking important
questions, Sandra asked the one that related more to her situation.
"When will you be done?"
The man laughed a little. "Time doesn't have a lot of meaning. At
least not to you."
That remark made no sense at all, but she didn't dare ask again. He
was inspecting the frozen secretary again.
"Who is she?"
"Her name is Melanie. She's a temp, I think."
The man nodded.
"She's cute."
Suddenly, Sandra suspected that the girl was going to regret being
"cute".
"Do you want to see her naked? Then you wouldn't be the only one,"
the man said with a smile. Her answer wouldn't make any difference,
she knew, but she tried anyway.
"Not particularly." Sandra glanced back at her open office door.
Her bra, her panties, her blouse, and her slacks were folded up
neatly, lying on the filing cabinet. And her shoes. She wiggled her
bare toes, her shoes were lying back there, too.
Suddenly, she had a vision of what she looked like before the phone
had gone dead. He'd watched her, like he was inspecting Melanie,
maybe even touched her. She shivered.
"I want you, Sandra, to pay attention, but I don't want you to say
anything. Nothing. Understand?"
His voice startled her, but she nodded automatically.
The frozen secretary wasn't frozen anymore. She moved the mouse for
a moment, and then realising something was amiss, she glanced
around. Melanie's eyes widened at the sight of Sandra, naked, arms
across her bare breasts seated on her desk, office supplies strewn
across the cubicle.
"What the hell?" Melanie uttered before her eyes fell on the man
calmly pointing the gun at her chest. Melanie's mouth clacked shut
at the sight of the gun. Sandra knew exactly what the girl was
feeling.
"Melanie?"
The girl whirled in her chair, facing the gun.
"See Sandra?"
"Miss Winters?"
The man nodded. "I want you to take off your clothes, too."
"Excuse me?"
"Melanie? See this gun? I haven't had to use it yet, but I can, and
I will."
The girl didn't hesitate as long as Sandra had, perhaps motivated by
the fact that Sandra was already naked, that the man could force her
to remove her clothing through ... persuasion. Perhaps, Melanie
wasn't as shy as Sandra. In the end, Melanie stood bare and
shaking, as she tried to protect her modesty with her hands. Her
clothing littered the carpet at her bare feet, similarly to the way
Sandra's had after she'd been forced to strip. Only the man wasn't
making Melanie fold her own clothes, or remove her jewellery, and
she wasn't on her hands and knees. Yet. The man let her hold her
hands up to shield herself, for the time being.
The gunman turned to Sandra. "See, she's naked too."
Sandra afraid to talk, simply nodded. Melanie began to sob, her bare
body shaking. The gunman ignored her.
"I want to show you something, Sandra."
He reached forward, pulling the girl's hands from shielding her bare
breasts. Melanie resisted for a moment, but then allowed the man to
reveal her nudity.
"She's cute -- no beauty, but cute enough. Sandra, I want you to
know. I could make you have sex with her."
Sandra blushed, and tried to control the shivers.
"Please no," she whispered.
Melanie echoed the sentiment, pulling at her wrists. But the gunman
held her calmly.
"She'll forget everything."
Sandra shook her head, her hair dragging across her bare shoulders.
"Get down on your knees."
Both girls began to lower themselves to the floor, but the gunman
stopped Melanie with a finger under her chin. Sandra dropped, her
thighs resting against her bare heels. Papers and pens littered the
floor near her bent knees.
"Melanie? I want you to choose. Face, Stomach or Sex."
The girl shook, tears still falling from her eyes.
"What?"
"Choose!" The man roared into her face. She flinched, stepping back
until her bare thighs touched her chair. Sandra recoiled also at the
force of the exclamation. The girl hadn't provoked that. Watching
the gunman more closely, Sandra couldn't see real anger there, only
a calculating menace, perhaps meant to throw the naked girl off
balance, not give her time to think. It worked.
Without thought, the girl's lips formed the words: "Face. Oh God."
Without hesitation, he brought the gun up and aimed it into her
face. For a sick second, Sandra was sure he was going to kill her,
blood and brains about to splatter her bare skin. The kneeling girl
flinched, hands beginning to raise to ward off the oncoming
onslaught of gore.
"God, no. Sex! Sex! I'll have sex with you. With her. Whatever you
want. Don't kill me." Melanie was babbling, anything to stop this.
"Leave her be," Sandra whispered. "Do whatever you want with me."
The gunman turned towards Sandra. "I thought that I told you not to
speak."
Sandra clamped her mouth closed with an audible snap. She wanted to
apologise, wanted to stop this. But she didn't. Couldn't tear her
eyes from the man and the naked, cowering secretary.
And then, without warning, he reversed the gun, bringing the handle
down against Melanie's cheek in a pitiless arc. Melanie collapsed in
a wail of pain.
Sandra was on her bare feet, charging before her brain had a chance
to kick in, hands curled into angry fists.
"You fucking bastard." Her voice sounded like someone else, someone
brave and clothed.
Melanie had collapsed in a heap at the gunman's feet, sobbing
uncontrollably into her hands, drops of crimson falling between her
fingers.
"My teeth. Oh God, my teeth," the girl wailed.
Sandra stopped short, the barrel of the gun jammed between her bare
breasts.
"Shoot me, then," she whispered fiercely. She closed her eyes, sure
that the next sound she heard would be a bullet ripping through her
exposed ribcage.
After a time, she noticed the wailing at their feet had halted, the
world had returned to an eerie silence. The barrel of the gun
remained pressed into her skin, but the bullet never ripped into
her. When she opened her eyes, she blinked in bewilderment. Melanie
had returned to her chair, her clothes re-materialised upon her
body. Her mouth was whole, and the girl obliviously stared at the
unmoving screen, hand again rested on the mouse.
He let her move away from the gun, though she could sense that it
remained aimed at her bare body, somewhere. Sandra walked around
Melanie carefully, reaching out with a tentative finger to touch the
corner of Melanie's mouth. No blood, no expression of pain, nothing
to indicate that the girl had been naked and pistol whipped only
seconds before. Sandra pulled back her finger from the cold,
hardened flesh of Melanie's lips with a cry of dismay.
"She'll be fine. It never happened. For her."
Sandra nodded slowly. Somehow, she didn't understand how, but
somehow, it had never happened. Melanie had never been naked, hadn't
suffered the blow. But she had. She HAD. A vision of Sandra,
returning to her own desk, continuing on where the phone had
dropped, mindlessly trying to secure funding for the new lab
projects.
Somehow, when this was all over, it was gone. She hadn't crawled.
She hadn't begged. She hadn't stripped for this stranger.
His voice cut through her thoughts.
"It isn't suitable language for a lady."
She looked at him in bewilderment.
"Huh?"
"Fucking bastard."
Sandra cringed. "I'm sorry. I didn't ..."
"I'm a bastard. Surely," the man spoke quietly. The gun never left
her heart. "But 'fucking', that isn't something that should come
from a lady's mouth, is it?"
Shocked, Sandra nodded dumbly. "I'm sorry." After a few minutes, she
continued. "I won't remember any of this, will I?"
He smiled, tucking the gun back into his waistband.
"Will you?"
He smiled again, enigmatically.
"Is this happening? To me?"
"Sort of," he replied. "By the way, I won't punish you for the
outburst, only for your use of the word 'fucking'. Do we understand
each other?"
She nodded, tears beginning to form.
"I just want to leave," she whispered.
She sank to her knees to the carpet, in the spot where Melanie had
fallen. Because, she could hurt until he released her. That much
she knew.
"Soon," he said, looking down at her naked kneeling form. "Soon."
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