September 22, 2010
Dystopia.
The good thing about living in a living building was that you didn’t need to worry about door locks. You just had to worry about the door.
Adrian stared blankly at the featureless gray wall in front of him. “Jacob, let me in. I’m really not in the mood for this shit.”
An eyeball popped out of the wall. Not until I’m sure it’s you.
“It is.”
Really.
“Yes. Now may I please come in, or are you going to leave me out here until the feds come?”
Being stared at by a naked eyeball was fucking creepy. I’ll let you in when I’m sure of you.
Adrian’s cellphone buzzed. He flipped it open. “What?”
[you shouldn't be so hard on him]
“Francis?”
[who else don't mind this it's just the damage]
Silence descended. In the depths of Adrian’s mind, something stirred.
[so how is roland]
“Not good. Did you know they added a level to the biohazard ratings just for him?”
[level 5 biotoxins fatal to humans no known antitoxin/treatment multiple delivery systems including transference through environment]
“They’re keeping him in the most insanely secure facility I’ve ever seen.”
[so no go then]
…Wait, what?
“No. And, frankly, he’s more than half crazy over the death of his family; besides, as far as we know, Jacob’s not immune to him.”
Um…
[true true]
Silence came back. Jacob sucked his eyeball back in with a pop.
Adrian tapped his cane on the ground impatiently.
[we've agreed to let you in]
“Finally.” With a weird noise that was half twisting metal and half sucking wound, the wall pulled open. Adrian started forward -
[as long as you tell us who's possessing you]
- and nearly missed a step. “What makes you think anyone is?” Adrian asked nervously.
You’ve been sleeping, Jacob replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Wrong Door.
Roland opened the door and walked through. Only long experience as the Doorwarden’s brother saved his life.
Roaring winds howled up from the void below, more than powerful enough to rip houses to shreds. More than powerful enough to send a smaller-than-average man off the edge of a railing-less bridge barely wide enough for him to plant both feet side by side.
But Alice was Keeper of the Doors, and Roland was the one who always got stuck dragging her back for dinner, so when he ended up in entirely the wrong place and heard the furious howl of a wind that had only ever been impeded by this lonely little platform, he instinctively fell forward and wrapped his arms around the narrow metal path, clinging for dear life until the platform registered his heartbeat and the windshield went up.
Roland carefully pushed himself up onto his knees, trying not to shake himself right off the platform. He had no idea how he had ended up at the Empty Towers, but he suspected he’d just figured out where all those missing people had gone.
Somehow he didn’t think he’d find any survivors.
Family (Archer).
Naomi Whateley Archer settled down onto the sofa, stroking the cover of the book softly. Sometimes, a body just needed a break from grading all those silly essays, and she needed to remember why she taught literature in the first place.
She’d just settled back and cracked the cover when the door creaked open. “Mom?”
Naomi stifled a sigh and looked up as Roland shuffled in. Quick dark eyes took in the book and the steaming mug of special cocoa sitting by her elbow. “Sorry,” he said, backing out of the room.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Roland. Come here.” Naomi patted the cushion next to her.
Roland’s mouth jerked, but he obeyed, sitting down at the other end of the sofa and leaning forward so his neck didn’t brush the sofa back. Naomi took the opportunity to give him a once-over.
Only twenty-four, and already he’s getting stress lines. She pursed her lips. And he’s too skinny.
Roland was staring at her out of the corner of his eye, in that slantwise Whateley look he’d picked up from his grandpa. One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Done with the examination?” he teased.
“A mother’s work is never done,” Naomi replied, primly folding her hands over her book. “What’s bothering you, Roland?”
He exhaled explosively, and if his voice had been more directed, it would have been a snarl. “Nothing.” He clasped his hands together, and began picking at his gloves.
And Naomi, who was not his mother for nothing, knew exactly what was wrong. She laid her book carefully on the table next to her mug, wrapped one arm around her second child’s thin shoulders, and yanked him over sideways.
Roland yelped and instinctively struggled, but her bare hand on his face stilled him. “Kick your shoes off, Roland,” she said in that no-nonsense tone only mothers use, and he did, dangling his feet off the far end of the sofa.
Naomi aimlessly hummed a half-remembered lullaby and curled up around her boy, her quick dark child, the only one of her three children to inherit her own dark hair and her own slight frame and the Whateley eyes. She gently ran her hand through his hair, and over his cheek, and rubbed the back of his neck until he finally relaxed and fell asleep.
He didn’t snore, either, she thought. Truly a rarity in this house.
Michael poked his head in an hour or so later, back from the town hall. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of his son curled up in his mother’s lap, which turned into a soft grin at Naomi’s arch look.
“You can make yourself useful, man, and refill my mug,” she ordered softly, proffering the object in question. Roland fussed – exactly like he did as a baby, Mike thought, grinning wider – and stilled when Naomi raked her hand through his hair.
He took the mug. “Everything ok?” he whispered.
His wife nodded. “Just tired,” she said, nodding to Roland. And lonely, went unsaid; they had all come to recognize the peculiar neediness Roland had, that he himself had never noticed. “And I didn’t get to my book,” Naomi added, almost plaintively, eyeing the cover as if this was all its fault, for not being conveniently sized to fit in one hand.
God, but Mike loved his wife. “I’ll be right back with this,” he said, laughter lacing his tone, and at his wife’s slantwise glare he added, “And then I’ll read to you.”
Naomi, mollified, nodded. “Quietly, then. And the brandy’s in the other cupboard.”
And as Mike opened the door, Naomi’s quick eyes spotted two tall, fair figures in the hall beyond, and nodded at them both. Alice detached herself from the ceiling and skittered upstairs, but Beowulf hesitated, and Naomi smiled at him and blew him a kiss with a wink, just like he always demanded as a boy. He nodded in return, then, and grinned – so much like his father, Naomi thought – and followed his sister upstairs.
Roland twitched again, one hand curling in front of his nose, and Naomi laughed her own soft laugh and rubbed her thumb over his forehead and waited for her chocolate.
A mother’s work is never done.
It’s a Date.
Talia strolled by the park bench, whistling tunelessly, before stopping and backtracking when she recognized the figure sitting there.
Jacob, looking as woebegone as a coat and hat can, nodded to her.
“What’s up?” she asked, pushing wayward hair out of her eye.
If she could see his face, she suspected he’d be blushing. “Nothing.”
“Jacob…”
Jacob sighed. “I asked someone out, ok? And it… didn’t go well.”
“What, the date?”
“The asking,” he corrected mildly. “I don’t know why I even bother,” Jacob added. “Not now that everyone’s seen…” He trailed off, shyly waving one arm in mimicry of a tentacle.
Or maybe it really was at the moment. Not like anyone could tell, under that get-up. Talia mmmed in sympathy and dropped onto the bench next to him, watching bright little birds squabble for the sheer joy of arguing with their neighbors.
The silence was rather comfortable, and Talia almost felt bad about breaking it. “Pick me up tomorrow at seven, then, and we can haggle about the restaurant later. You’re paying, though,” she added at Jacob’s bewildered stare.
Jacob, in a fit of stunning wit, said, “Huh?”
Talia bit back a giggle – the last thing he needed was to think she was joking. “You. Me. Date, tomorrow.”
“Um, um… ok? What about Roland?”
“First, it’s not like we’re going out or anything.” Jacob grumbled something suspiciously like denial under his breath and Talia glared. “Second, he’d approve anyway. And third, if you wanted, I could drag him along.”
“Sorry. Got a library conference tomorrow in Boston.”
Jacob squawked and buried his head in his hands. Talia turned, grinning, to survey her sort-of boyfriend. “Hey! We were just talking about you.”
“I know,” Roland said, slouching against a tree in that particular manner of his. “I was eavesdropping. And Talia’s right,” he archly informed Jacob. “You need to go on a decent date for once.” Jacob shot him a dirty look, which was pointedly ignored. “It’s not like the ones you had before were all that spectacular.”
“So I’m just supposed to accept a random pity date?” Jacob’s tone was surprisingly even. “Look, you’re my friends, and I get what you’re trying to do…”
Talia bit her lip. Oh, damn.
Roland stalked forward, leaning as close in as he could without having to worry about accidents. “No, dumbass. It’s a friendly date. You’ve known us for how long? Do you really think any of us,” and that particular stress somehow encompassed very specific people, “would insult you with that kind of insincerity?” Jacob blinked, and Roland added, “Go. Have fun. And pictures or it didn’t happen.” With that, he turned on his heel and stalked off like only Roland and pissed off housecats can do.
Jacob and Talia looked at each other. “Seven, you said?”
Talia nodded, then shrugged and stood. On impulse, she kissed his cheek. Jacob nodded to her, and settled back on his bench, watching her go over the top of his scarf.
And he tucked the little kiss away, down in the muddle where he kept the dreams.
Miskatoon.
The people of the Valley speak among themselves a language they call Miskatoon, but which is more properly called Miskatonic creole, and is derived from the several languages spoken by successive waves of trapped settlers, most prominently bands of Algonquin, a shipful of Irish, and at least two groups of English. A few phonemes suggest a Dutch contribution, but this is unverified, and it is equally likely that the English cognates simply began returning to their Germanic roots when exposed to the fuller vowels of the other two parent languages.
Today, Miskatonic creole is still taught to children and widely spoken amongst the native inhabitants of the Valley, but thanks to the international prominence of the University and the increasing interaction with the surrounding United States and the broader international community, it is being increasingly abandoned in favor of proper English, and is discouraged in the children of new residents and among the university students. Several prominent families of Arkham, though, do still speak it and write it, using an orthography derived by their ancestors centuries ago, most notably among them the Archers and the vast Bauer-Greenwood clan, and it is notable that it is, according to the bylaws, an accepted language at the University, and no student may be penalized for utilizing it even in class or for term papers, and no staff is permitted to favor proper English. That said, no student in recent memory has made this an issue, and the student body as a whole uses correct English in their academic dealings.
(Scribbled in the margins: Well, no student except Roland.)
September 21, 2010
A Simple Question.
Brightly lacquered nails, garish in the stark light, flicked imperiously against the cover of the book. Roland knew who it was even before the snap! of the bubblegum.
Suppressing a sigh, and the urge to take off a glove, Roland closed the novel. “What?” he snapped.
Pandora Wesson stood leaning one hip against his desk, half turned away. Nonchalantly, she examined her nails, blowing an obscenely huge bubble, inspecting the acid green for imagined flaws.
The minutes dragged on.
“What?” Roland was in no mood for her nonsense.
Pandora’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “You’re so impatient,” she said, sounding for all the world like a petulant child. “No need to be rude.”
“I have work to do, Wesson. What. Do. You. Want.”
“You weren’t working when I came in here, so don’t pull that line on me, Roland Archer. And I’m here to ask if you mind me marrying your brother, so stop being an ass.”
Roland, all ready to deliver a scathing retort, closed his mouth abruptly at that last bit. “What?”
Pandora’s plump lips, emerald green today, curled up in a genuinely amused grin. “Is that your word for the day?”
“Huh?”
She tapped her nails on his desk in irritation. “I. Want. To. Marry. Your. Twin. Are. You. O. K. With. That.”
“Um. Have you told him this yet?”
Pandora snorted.
Roland settled back. “You’re not asking me permission, are you?”
“Hell no. He doesn’t need your permission to marry anymore than you need his, or Alice needs either of yours. Besides,” she said with a wicked grin, “Wulf should be asking my family.”
“So why are you even asking?” Seriously, Pandora Jane Wesson existed just to get on his last nerve.
Pandora sighed, then turned to face Roland fully. Planting her hands flat on his desk, she leaned forward, fixing him with the most serious look he’d ever seen on her face. “Because if Wulf and I do marry, you and I will be in-laws. And you and your brother are very close, and I won’t get in the way of that, and unless I want to have a long-distance marriage I can’t get away with avoiding you save at reunions and funerals, so I want to know if you’re okay with this.“
Roland pressed his lips together. “I don’t like you, Pandora,” he said, pettily gratified to see her eyes widen at his use of her given name. “You’re obnoxious, loud, and too chirpy by half, and you keep popping your damn gum. But for some inexplicable reason, Beowulf’s inordinately fond of you, and if I can tolerate you being on staff here, I can tolerate you being married to my twin. Besides,” Roland added dryly, “there’s a cot in the back office.”
Pandora grinned again and patted the back of his hand. “So now that that’s settled…”
“Uh, what?” Roland asked, slightly disconcerted.
“What’s your brother’s ring size?”
Oranges.
“I’m not eating it and you can’t make me!“
Heads snapped around at the uncharacteristic outburst, but unusually, Martin didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he was glaring most poisonously at the fruit in Liza’s hand.
Liza looked incredibly confused. “Ok, then,” she said, popping the orange segment in her own mouth. One corner of Martin’s mouth twitched downward in disgust.
Roland started to giggle.
Heads immediately started swiveling back towards the other end of the cafeteria as the giggles turned into outright guffaws.
“Mind sharing the joke?” Beowulf asked, watching in bemusement.
Roland ignored him. “You do know most oranges aren’t bitter, right?” he called, before dissolving into fresh giggles.
If anything, that just soured Martin’s mood further. “‘s what those bastards in Valencia keep saying.”
Later.
It’s hard to like an uncle who’d been scrupulously absent your whole childhood. That’s me and Uncle Roland in a nutshell. Mom was always after me to be nicer to him, but, honestly, I don’t recall ever meeting him until I was twelve. I mean, I knew who he was – he’d been pointed out to me before, when he’d come ’round the house or we’d go to the Library – but whenever he saw me, he’d find some convenient excuse and slip away.
So you can understand why I think he’s a jackass, Mom’s excuses for him aside.
And honestly- what’s with her, anyway? Even I know Uncle Roland despises her; everyone in Arkham knows he’s loathed her since she came here for college. But Mom still takes his side all the time. Jeez.
I didn’t know why I was thinking about him, but I’ve got enough of a knack, as Gramma puts it, to not be too surprised when I passed by the Field and saw him sitting slouched against Dad’s headstone.
Figures. It’s a bright, clear day, not a cloud in sight, and so of course I have to run into Uncle Roland. He’s like some depressing anti-vampire, I swear.
He raised his head and I saw the weird feverish glitter of his eyes, and it was my turn to try and find a bad excuse to leave. But I’m like Mom, I suck at dissembling, so I just sort of skittered off. Not my best moment, there.
A hand yanked me onto the roof as I approached the school doors. I tried to ignore Aunt Alice and set about fixing my collar, but she’s freakishly strong and just grabbed my chin and turned me to face her.
I’m eighteen. I’m on the freakin’ football team. And Aunt Alice, who comes up to my chin, can sling me around like an empty potato sack.
“You need to knock this shit off,” she said.
“What?” I asked. But feigning ignorance doesn’t work with any member of my family.
“This thing you’ve got against Roland. You’re hardly being-”
“Being what? Reasonable?” I snarled. I immediately felt bad about it – being angry at my aunt is like being angry at a woebegone kitten – but it was like she’d set a match to a fuse. Once I’d started I couldn’t stop. “You want me to be all buddy-buddy with a guy who ignored my existence until I was twelve? Who still won’t come near me?”
She sighed, clapping a long-fingered hand over my mouth almost absently. “You know why that was. And yes,” she said, glancing sharply at me when I made a muffled objection, “he carried it a bit far. But you’re old enough now to look at things from more than just your own hurt perspective. Your uncle’s always been extremely wary of small children. You being who you are, it just made him even more cautious, to the point of paranoia. He made me or Talia handle all the gifts he sent you – he never so much as came in the same room as them – because he was utterly terrified he’d somehow contaminate them.”
Something in my expression must have settled, because she took her hand off my mouth before continuing, “And it’s not sane. None of us ever said it was. But we also have no way of knowing if you’ve inherited your father’s immunity, and the only way to test it is fatal if you didn’t. You didn’t see him,” she added abruptly. “He was there when your father was killed, which is why he’s so paranoiacally obsessed with you now. And he killed your father’s murderer by breathing in the man’s face.”
She settled back on her heels, elongated hands clasped around her knees, humming a bit before looking over at me. “Did your mother ever tell you Roland got the first blow in? Before the guy even killed your dad, that is.”
I felt hotly numb. I’d never heard this before. I couldn’t bring myself to shake my head, but Aunt Alice was always good at reading me.
“I’m not even sure Dora knows. Your uncle’s always had the odd problem of being fast on the uptake, until he’s upset,” she continued. “He’d figured out what the man was up to, if not the specific target, seconds after he entered the room. And he did get in the first blow – and promptly broke two fingers on the guy’s body armor and was unceremoniously chucked across the room.” She sighed, shifting on her perch, and I began to realize how uncomfortable this conversation must be for her. “Whoever this guy was, he was well-informed. There wasn’t an inch of skin visible, and even after he’d killed Wulf and Roland had gone completely berserk on him, he couldn’t get through the fabric. Couldn’t work his fingers past a hem or a cuff, couldn’t tear the damn stuff. The guy ran him through, but I doubt Roland ever noticed, and it freaked the guy enough to give your uncle a second’s breathing room, and he took it. Exhaled straight into the guy’s nostrils.”
“You were there.” I sounded even to my ears like a stunned rabbit, but Aunt Alice just gave me a grim little smile.
“I was. I was climbing down the wall behind the guy, actually, and would’ve gotten him in another few seconds if Roland hadn’t poisoned him first.” She looked at me for a long moment. “Roland was there when you were born,” she said, “I remember him, standing as close as he could to the nursery window without fogging it with his breath, watching you in your bassinet. He was the one who finally talked your father into actually getting some sleep – your dad was way too excited, and kept chattering about you to everyone he ran across. Your uncle actually held you a bit when you were an infant – only at your dad’s insistence, sure, but he was always afraid you’d accidentally touch him and he wouldn’t be able to stop you. But he’d sing silly old showtunes to you, and you’d laugh and laugh, and roll off his hands onto the rug, and laugh until he’d sort of helplessly join in. Even after your dad died – he never missed a game, and he hates football. He rants about the stupidity of it after every game. He’s never missed a birthday or a Christmas. He’s got copies of all the articles on you and all your school portraits and report cards that your mom shared with him. He keeps the wonky mug you made him in kindergarten on a shelf above his desk and cleans it every day – he won’t drink out of it so it’ll last longer. He even hid in the back by the doors at that disastrous school play. He loves you, Chris,” she said, more solemn than I’d ever seen her, “and I know you don’t believe that and you don’t remember that, but it’s true. He’s gone a bit stupid with old promises and paranoia and the madness your father’s death brought out in him, but he thinks the world of you. If he’s been distant, it’s because you’re all he’s got left of his twin, and he’s terrified of losing you.” Like he did your father hung unspoken between them.
Aunt Alice watched me with her weirdly luminous eyes. “I’m late for class,” I said.
Sighing, she helped me off the roof.
I didn’t want to think about what she’d said. I didn’t want it to make sense, but it did. I didn’t want to feel sorry for my uncle, or understand him, but I did. And I hated it as much as I hated my aunt’s unspoken criticism. You’ve been a real brat, Chris-my-boy.
But their birthday was coming up, and ok, I had no idea what to get an uncle I barely knew, but if it’s the thought that counts then maybe he wouldn’t mind a random visit from his nephew.
People always told me I was so much like my dad. Maybe it was time for me to start acting like it.
April 10, 2008
Rats.
Roland had never seen the gray man before – which was kind of odd, since his family knew everyone in both Arkham Town and East Arkham, even the uni students. There was something odd about the stranger, too.
I’m a fine one to be judging normalcy, though, Roland thought wryly. He turned to pay the cashier, then looked back.
The man was right behind him. Roland took a step back, but before he could move any more, the stranger grabbed his arm and pulled him close.
“The rats are coming,” he hissed into Roland’s ear. “They’re in the sewers. Soon they’ll be in the walls. You can’t stop them coming.”
Roland pulled away. “What are you talking about?”
“Ask about the rats. Ask about the storm drains, and the missing women. Ask about the Bauers. And talk to your professor.“
With that, the man went hazy, and vanished. Roland blinked. At a touch on his shoulder, he spun.
His twin stared at him, one corner of his mouth curled in laughter. “Skittish, much?” Beowulf asked.
Roland glared. “I’ll tell you later. Do you remember where Professor O’Neill’s office is?”
“Sure. It’s in Granddad’s hall.”
“Come on.” Roland marched off. His brother ran to catch up.
“What’s the rush?”
“Rats,” the younger Archer twin replied, quickening his step.
He could hear squeaking coming from the sewer.
