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an aside from the real world
Mar. 17th, 2004 02:05 am| johnson got out of the the grimy bus and into the grimier street. he'd been wandering around the city, seemingly aimlessly, for hours. to the untrained eye, it looked as though he'd been going in circles. he hoped it was that way for the trained eye, as well. it wasn't easy to follow an agent, but there were ways. he had left his car back at the dispatch center. they could trace that. he left his cellphone there as well. they could trace that, too. he'd left his watch, his identification, his credit cards, and his high school ring. he wasn't sure they could trace those, but he had to be careful. the only things he hadn't left were his sunglasses and personal handgun, holstered under his left arm. the fact that those could most likely be traced was a risk he had to make due with. the sun had sunk long ago, and night in the city was always very dark and cold. he was already in a seedy area, and steam hissed up from drain pipes and sewer covers, giving every street a sinister feel. he found the old building and, hitching his suit jacket up to conceal a quick check on his sidearm, he strode up the cracked-cement stairs to the worm-eaten, puke-green door. the door's glass had been shattered some time ago, and before that the lock had been split. the door barely hung on its hinges, and offered no resistance to his broad shoulders. it was dark inside, hollow like a thing long-dead. it smelled of piss and worse things. he could hear the sounds of rodents coming up from the basement, and scratching noises from the word floors upstairs. he mounted the sagging steps, which groaned threateningly under his bulk, but they held. he held no light, maneuvering by memory alone, and beady eyes glared at his intrusion from the deepest shadows. he'd never lived here. definitely not. this wasn't even his neighborhood. they would know enough to search everywhere he ever lived, everywhere he ever schooled, everywhere he'd ever bought jerky from, for signs of deviance. they were meticulous, and anything that could be a mark against him would be. no, he had no connection to this building. it was one of many run down building in one of many run down neighborhoods, and with any luck they would just as soon burn it as look at it. room two-sixteen. he laughed a singled chuckle in spite of himself. there was no special significance to the number, and thinking otherwise was deviant. perhaps another room would be better, after all. he went in, the partially-opened door creaking ever so slightly as his shoulders brushed past it. he was a patch of darkness in a room of shadows. three paces to the other side of the room, the follow the wall to the corner. a chip in the wall allows for a single fist-sized chunk of cinder-block to come away from the rest of the wall with the sound of stone against stone. and inside the hollow there, on a single shred of paper, words in black ink which he could read more from familiarity than the meager light that seeped in, like syrup, through the dirt-stained window. Who Watches The Watchers. he had had a friend in the union once. just once. another agent, going by the name of smith. johnson knew it wasn't his real name; he'd never met an asian man named smith. smith had been an agent on the front lines for years before johnson joined the union. he was one of those agents who didn't have a past, their life simply began at age twenty-six, with no family, no friends, just the union. he was efficient, very efficient. he made the machines look compassionate. he was a good agent. things went well with smith at the head of their cell. he kept deviant activity under control, set a good example for the other members. even turned down a promotion to stay with his men. after that, though, things shifted a little. smith was always a little jumpier, a little quieter. there wasn't a big change, no wild-eyes or crazy accusations. he was still as efficient as ever. he was still a good agent. one day, late at night, smith woke johnson up. no words, just shook him awake, and then clasped a hand over his mouth for silence. he gave johnson that slip of paper then, pressed it into his hand and curled his fingers around it. then he left. they said he went mad, that his years of service on the front line, seeing so much deviance, finally got to him. they say there was nothing to be done, and that he'd been put down. then all the members had been evaluated and reassigned to different posts. johnson never had another friend after that. it was dangerous. |
