0 comments/ 32142 views/ 6 favorites smokeSCREEN: bookTHREE By: Riven___Caulfield * * * in the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey / butane in my veins I'm out to cut the junkie / with the plastic eyeballs, spraypaint the vegetables / dog food stalls, with the beefcake pantyhose / kill the headlights and put it in neutral / stock car flaming with a loser in the cruise control / baby's in Reno with a vitamin d / got a couple of couches, asleep on the love seat * * * * * * The power runs on sunlight. Cypress told us that he wasn't used to using power indiscriminately like we do. But I prefer it dark. That's why I like guard duty. I can sit out under the stars for hours. It's just me and the sky. And strange as it sounds, I feel like I finally belong somewhere. All alone, under the stars. I fit. I'm a soldier, first. So while the others are flipping through magazines or playing board games, I'm up at my perch. I call it my perch because this was my post. Sitting up here, on top of the roof access. For the first six years or so I sat up here alone, a pair of binoculars and a high-power rifle in my hands, peering out into the dark for signs of Men. The wind is gentle tonight, and it's too hot out to keep my shirt on. I unclip the seven chunky black claspes and the white doublethick cotton slides off my shoulders, so I'm wearing only my tattered black knit sweater. Its ragged edges only come to the base of my ribcage, but that's too warm as well, and I pull it up to below my breasts. I kick off my boots – and my belt – I consider removing my skirt, but I remind myself; I am a soldier, first. But I pull it up a few inches and let the cool wind air my thighs. I lay back on the mattress I always drag up here in the summers and let the breeze caress me, closing my eyes and thinking of his. But he casts those eyes to Michelle as easily as he does me. All the things I lack are present in Michelle. She is a natural leader. She is calm. Practical. Self-sacrificing And she has the good of us all at heart. Things I'll never be. I spent my first thirteen years almost entirely in solitary. Your priorities are based on your situation. I sit up and hold the binoculars to my eyes, scanning the west for movement. Nothing. I grab my belt and remove a cigarette, lighting it before falling back down on the mattress. The roof access door moans open beneath me, and I quickly shrug into my cotton shirt. "Any movement?" "Long time no see, stranger. How're the fans working?" "It's no good when they're all blowing hot air back at you. You got any more of those?" "C'mon up, I'll give you one." "Cool." He jumps onto the iron ladder and quickly lands beside me, dropping to his knees and crossing his legs as he sits. As promised, I produce a smoke for him and he lights it, smiling contently at the dark city. Even though it's pitch dark, I swear I can still make out the blue. "Why do you come up here?" he asks. I tell him. This was my home. Is my home, maybe. "I spent more time with these stars than anyone in this tower," I tell him. "I earned my name up here." "How's that?" "We call this the Crow's Nest." "Huh. Y'know, I never thought of that." I shrug and lay back to stare up at the stars. "Don't know why not – it's pretty obvious." "We got he night off," he says. "Why are you pulling guard duty?" "I'm not. I just come here some nights." "Then why the binoculars and rifle?" "I just come here, but I might as well do a job while I'm at it." It takes him a second to think of what to say to that. "We're moving up the River Project," he says. "Start scavanging next week." Cypress has spent almost every day for the past two weeks locked in the security room with Phoebe. He hasn't spoken a word about any progress they're making, except to Michelle and Lisa. He takes his orders as a Tower member seriously. Which is why I'm suspicious he just brings it up. "That's good," I say. "Why do you mention it?" "Do you want to know about it?" he asks. "I don't want you to tell anyone, but there's some stuff I want you to know." "Like what?" He pauses and takes a long drag before continuing. "It looks like we won't be going straight south to the river. Going south and east – all the way to the Forks." "What? The Forks is like, three times as far. That's stupid, it-" "It's got the infrastructure that can handle this kind of power transfer, and two rivers right there." "Oh… okay." He pauses a long while before speaking again. I can tell he's fighting telling me. "It was always planned that if Westwood went down, we would recolate to the Forks temporarily. We've always got someone on a long-term post there, who's to return immediately if there's any unusual girl activity. Inside the Forks buildings we've got stores of food, weapons, ammo, everything. As soon as the Tower starts moving people in there to set things up, Westwood will know." "What if we block off his exits?" I ask quickly. My mind goes into tactical mode. Cypress only shakes his head. "When the guards change post, they travel silently through a known run on foot. But if there's ever something important to report, they're allowed to use a Dukati motorbike we have stored out there for emergies, and they're all trained for it. That thing hits two hundred klicks easy. Nothing's gonna' catch it." I nod. "This destroys everything," I say. He doesn't answer, he just taps his cigarette and looks up at the stars. "Why are you telling me this?" "Do you know what it's like," he says, "to know you have a duty to your job, to be a soldier for the Tower, but you knew it was just wrong? And by serving the Tower, you betrayed a higher authority?" I think about that for a while. "No," I say. "Not yet." He sighs. "Yeah, I didn't think so," he says. "So what's bugging you, then?" I ask. He holds out his hand and I stick another cigarette in it, and he chains it off the first before continuing. "Well… if that guard never saw us coming. If he was… neutralized before he was able to get to that bike…" "But that would be near-impossible, because no one here knows the patterns of someone guarding the Forks. Those guards probably know the Forks better than anyone." Cypress nods. "Unless… someone here does know how to take out that guard," I say. Cypress nods. "And there's no way you would tell me this, unless I was going to be in the first wave." Cypress nods. "How many?" "Two floors," he says. "Thirteen and half of Six. You'll have three snipers." "It shouldn't be a problem, then," I say. But he shakes his head. "You guys won't be out there for a few days – you're going to be stationed for a little under a month as security while we move in some equipment." "So…?" "So, let's say you do take the watchman out no problem." "'kay." "That a watchman has a shift, based on the moon. If you go out on a full moon, you come back when it's gone. If you go out on an empty moon, you leave when it's full. When that watchman doesn't come back on the full moon, Westwood's gonna' know something's up. They'll send more." "Ah. How many?" He shrugs and taps his smoke. "We never had a plan for that – it'll be up to Jessie." "So what's your moral dilemma?" I ask. "Phoebe wants details about Westwood security. Guard patterns, weaknesses. Shit like that." "So?" "So I don't have a problem helping out the Tower, but I'm not happy betraying my own." It takes a long time for him to realize that was, perhaps, the wrong thing to say. Finally, his brow furrows and he says, "I'm here – I'm with you guys – but that doesn't mean I can break vows made previous." I just look out over the city. I'm boiling up. "So you keep your promises," I say. He nods. But I stand and pull on my boots. "And what about promises made to me?" I ask. "What?" I shrug into my cotton shirt and clip on my belt. "That night – that night at the safehouse. You…" "I never promised you anything." "That kiss was a promise," I tell him with narrowed eyes. "Of what?" I jump from the roof access and land on the roof, opening the door to the stairs. "Of something more than this," I call up as I slam the door behind me. I'm welling up as I descend to Fourteen, but I can hear the door open and slam behind me. For a moment, I'm sure I'm too far ahead for him to catch me, but he lands easily on the landing in front of me from somewhere above. His hand is raised to stop me, and he catches his breath before saying. "Explain," he says. "Explain what?" "What you're feeling." "Feelings? Feelings?" I nod. "That's what I want. I want some feelings. I want something to come out of you that isn't about… …do you have feelings?" I ask. I press my hand to his cheek. "How does this feel?" He bats my hand away. "Cut it out," he says. I stop, and regard him with a confused scrutiny. "It's Michelle, isn't it?" "It's no one." "Sophie." "No." "Did you move up the ladder? Is it Phoebe?" "No." "Then why isn't it me?" He just stares. "You saw Cat," I say. "You saved Cat. You met us all, then you picked me. You came into that room. And now, it's like you're not even part of the Floor anymore, Cypress! You're downstairs with Phoebe every fuckin' day doing God knows what, and no one has any idea what's going on, if you're like fucking her or what-" "Crow!" he barks. Perhaps I was rambling a touch. "Yes." "All that shit's over with." He counts on his fingers. "Michelle, Lisa, Sophie, Cat, everyone gets it – stuff like that isn't a good idea – they don't want to, and-" "Of course they want to!" I tell him. "Sophie goes on for hours about that kiss two weeks ago. Sure, Lisa and Michelle don't say anything, they gotta' be strong. But they look at you, Cypress. They all do. We all want to again. No one thinks you do. Not like we ever get a chance to see you anymore anyway, but-" "I'm doing important stuff for the Tower." "Fuck the Tower – your Floor is what's important. Don't you miss us?" "Yes." "You miss Michelle?" "Well, yeah." "Miss me?" He gazes calmly at me – his expression blank. "You don't get it," he says. "I am here because of the Floor. I am here because of you. I am a soldier of the Tower, and I will do what Phoebe says. If that means I have to spend nine hours a day downstairs with her so I can be with you guys for an hour every night, so be it." My eyes narrow. "Well then, solider, I suggest you stick to your loyalties and tell Phoebe about Westwood's weaknesses. The best way to defend your floor is with a good offence – and Westwood's time has come." I push past him and down the stairs. He doesn't follow. I don't look back, but I can hear him plop down on the stairs, and the sound of his Zippo. As I slam the door to floor Thirteen, I breathe a deep breath. I hate my period. * * * * * * i know your life is empty / and you hate to face this world alone / so you're searchin' for an angel / someone who can make you whole // i cannot save you / i can't even save myself / so just save yourself * * * * * * "SOUTHWEST!!" a voice booms over a megaphone. "SHOOTERS, SOUTHWEST." Down below, I can see Michelle pull up her sniper rifle and lean forward. A puff of smoke, a boom, and two hundred yards away I see a man blown off his feet, landing hard on the pavement. It looks like two teams of four – fairly ambitious, really. Now one of ours go down. And another. Another of theirs. I point my binoculars to the courtyard, and I see Cypress dashing for the gates. He mantles up the walls and jumps down, landing on the street outside and rabbiting away towards the men. "CEASE FIRE!!" Phoebe roars through the megaphone. "CEASE FIRE!!" Oh, fuck no. I leap from the perch and fly into the stairwell. By the time I hit ground floor I haven't heard any more shots, and my legs are burning. But I make my way up to Michelle and Lisa on the battlements, double-checking my shotgun. "What the fuck is he doing?!" I demand. "Phoebe sent him out – she's calling for a temporary cease-fire." "That's retarded! When they figure out he's come over here, they'll kill him!" "Look for yourself," Lisa says, handing over her rifle. I pull it up and squint through the scope – Cypress is talking to them. Two of them have guns on him. A tall one with sandy-blond hair is barking something at Cypress – he doesn't look very happy. Now Cypress shouts at him. I can't make it out, but the bass echoes off the nearby buildings and is just audible. And now Cypress talks to the others – the five remaining – and they all seem dumbfounded. Now Cypress turns, and begins walking back towards the Tower. And they follow. Now seven men stroll towards the Glass Tower, guns lowered. "Oh my God," I say. "The Gates!" Michelle shouts. Snipers gather around the front gates, and a congingent scurries down to form a wide half-circle around the still-closed gates. Soon we hear their footsteps, and Lisa shouts down to Phoebe; "I need an order, here!" Phoebe pauses and looks to Denise. Denise quickly produces a cigarette, lights it and hands it to Phoebe. "Open them," Phoebe says. The huge gates moan and whine in a duet as they swing slowly, heavily open. The seven men stand outside, and Cypress makes no move to enter, but says; "Anyone makes a threat of violence, or moves to touch anyone else, I'll kill you. Man or woman." And with that he steps through the gates into the courtyard. Slowly, the other six follow, led by the tall sandy-blond. For a moment we're all just staring at each other. "Cypress says… we thought you'd killed him," the sandy-blond starts. "Obviously, we spared him," Phoebe says calmly. "We've spared you so far so that you can deliver a message. The truth." "What truth?" "I told you," says Cypress. "There is no disease, it's-" "That's bullshit, man!" the sandy-blond shouts. "They're just chicks feeding you shit! How much have you told them?" "Crow," Cypress says, waving me into the circle. I step forward, and the sandy-blond raises his sidearm. In a flash, Cypress has smashed the gun away and is gripping the sandy-blond's shoulder, the edge of his sword hot against the taller man's throat. "Not again," Cypress says. "I'll kill you." I'm not sure if it's true, myself, but I wouldn't put it past our swordsman. One week ago yesterday, Phoebe gathered us and made the announcement that there was no disease. No one asked for proof – the rumour got out somehow, and the Tower was prepared to believe it. But no one else has seen one us touch him. I wonder why, today, he chose me again. Perhaps, given the danger of the situation, he chose me because he realizes I'm expendable. Regardless of intent, he pulls off a glove and raises his hand. I do the same. We reach out. And touch. A communal gasp echoes through the crowd. "…dude," the sandy-blond says. "How long ago?" "Just over three weeks," Cypress says, dropping his hand and slipping it into a glove. "And I never felt better." "Then what…" "Jessie lied to all of us. All that shit they taught us at school – it was a lie, man." "Naw, man, you're brainwashed – look at you, you're all pale and shit-" "I've been indoors a lot." "FUCK that, man!" and now sandy-blond pulls up his knife, just in time to loose his arm at the wrist, and his head at the jawline. The body tumbles to the ground, the severed hand still clutching the knife, the face frozen in creases of anger. Cypress wipes the blade quickly with a cloth before returning it to his staff. He turns to the other men. "Anyone else?" The others don't look at each other – they look at the ground, they look down – they look within and reflect. "Remember when Cypress blew up your squad car?" one of the snipers asks. "That was you?" someone says. "That fuckin' squad car or yours was driving us crazy – all the distractions while you attacked elsewhere. But we could never figure out a way to get to it. Cypress figured it all out – your patterns, everything. Climbed into the courtyard between the guard shifts, planted a bomb he designed with a timer and got out before you guys had any idea he was here. All the shit we can't figure out… He's probably the sharpest mother fucker I know." The sniper looks to the others, and says, "Anyone gonna' suggest he doesn't know what he's talking about?" The others nod in agreement. "Not me." "But Jessie won't believe us," he tells Phoebe. "There's no way. …unless we had, like… proof." Cypress nods and turns back towards the gates, motioning to the others to leave, before turning back to us. "Looks like I'm taking a walk for a bit," he says. "I'll need a volunteer." We all look to each other, and Michelle vaults off the gate battlements to land beside him. "I'll go." "You sure as fuck won't," I say. "You're an Alpha, we can't risk you." "I'm an Alpha, therefor if it gets tight I'll be able to handle getting out." "That's bullshit and you know it." "Floor Thirteen! Down here!" Phoebe barks. We quickly congegate, and she whispers harshly; "Crow is right – we can't risk Michelle or Lisa. Crow will go-" "But-" "But they're both members of your floor, so the rest of you will shadow them from three hundred yards or so. We'll have them wait until sunset to leave. I'll have Floor Ten fill in for your work on the River Project tomorrow. This is our chance to end it – set?" "Set," we all say, turning to Cypress. "Call them in," Phoebe says. "And break out the beer and smoke – we'll have a feast of welcome. All weapons are forbidden, except on myself and our neutral swordsman. Someone clean up this body! Who's on med detail?" * * * I'm loath to say it – it's a great party. With all our arms laid down inside the tower, and the men's in a pile, somewhere visible, the thirty or so women and seven men attending enjoy themselves. Phoebe even allows Anze to set up a stereo in the courtyard, but she alone chooses the music. I stay over by the garden with Sophie and watch from a distance. Cypress weaves in and out of the crowd, like… a wolf. He moves like a wolf on his way to one destination or another. Trotting lightly, but with purpose. I've spent long hours watching him, and he never moves without some destination. If he does appear to be strolling randomly, it is still clear that his brain is humming. He's working things out. He's examaning the guards – the weapons – the shifts – the arrangements of the courtyard. He's considering military tactics against the old ones. And, perhaps, Westwood. He's trying to find a logical solution to the problems presented by the rising emotions of Floor Thirteen. Always with a purpose, always considering the consequences, always calm, Cypress moves through the crowd from one destination to another. Michelle – Phoebe – one of the men – Lisa in the corner – Saku, who has since become friendly with our swordsman. Always a destination. In the writhing mass that only serves as a backdrop for Cypress, men and women are, for the first time, touching. At first with tentativeness that turns, at times, to enthusiasm. But it is all a backdrop for Cypress. Everything else is blurry aside from him. When his back is turned, I know when he smiles because the muscles of his neck change in a certain way. Long hours spent. I think many things I would never say. But between you and I, I love him. I could not imagine a point where I might tire of learning about him. Learning everything about the child he was before the war. We're both Betas. Were we in the same class? Did he pull my hair at lunchtime? smokeSCREEN: bookTHREE Fourteen years ago, did the crafty cardboard box hanging off the front of my little desk receive a valentine, signed with his real name? I like to think it did. "You're fucked up," Sophie laughs. "Shut up," I sneer. "Smitten!" "Fuck you." "We have a smitten kitten, here – OW!" She crashes to the ground on the far side of the bench. "Shut the fuck up, SK8TER!" I bark, rising to my feet. The music beats on, but the writhing mass of a crowd is frozen, all staring. Through that still backdrop, Cypress quickly emerges and steps forward. He helps Sophie up, whispers something to her and shoos her back to the crowd. The crowd seems satisfied all is well, and they go back to fraternizing, while Cypress whips those big blues up to meet mine. "What's up?" he says. "Sophie's being a skeeze." "She was just joking around," he tells me. I narrow my eyes at him and raise an eyebrow. "How would you know? You were all the way over there." "I can read lips," he says. "Oh, what – you were watching the whole time?" "Yes." He finds two cigarettes and lights them. "Why?" I take a drag, and he shrugs, reaching out to graze my cheek with a finger. "'Cause I watch you, Crow." My heart stops. He flashes his grin. "C'mon – we'll talk about this later. I want you to meet Josh." "Who's Josh?" But I can hardly struggle against him – after all, his hand is loosely holding mine – and he leads me towards the crowd. He wolf-trots through it and we emerge somewhere in the center. He claps a tall, gaunt boy on the shoulders and spins him around. "Josh," Cypress says. "Meet Crow. Crow, meet Josh. Josh is the lad who shot Cat through the shoulder." Josh smiles a gentle, non-assuming smile. "And that old one," he says. I extend a hand. "Anyone who can shoot Cat deserves a handshake," I say. He freezes – eyes darting up to Cypress. Cypress just shrugs. "It's cool, man, I promise you. But up to you." Josh nods, hesitates again, then quickly grips my hand, smiling softly. "The old one too," I say. "Did that old one have like, sores on his face?" Cypress nods. "Yeah – why?" "Well, old ones from around here don't. And if the ones from the States have those sores…" "He was just a scout," Cypress says. "No, if he was a scout, he would have reported back as soon as he'd seen us. Why would he go all the way to the roof? He wasn't a scout, he was…" "A scout for who?" Josh says. Cypress pushes a smoke at him and drags me away. "Find Lisa – I'll find Michelle – meet up at the Floor." "Alright." * * * * * * i wish i woulda' met you / now it's a little late / what you could have taught me / i coulda' saved some face // they think that your early ending was all wrong / for the most part they're right, but look how they all got strong / that's why i say // hey man nice shot / good shot man / that's why i say hey man nice shot / good shot man // a man / has gun / hey man / have fun / nice shot * * * * * * Cypress throws aside some candles and slaps a map down on the table. Lisa places a gun on the edge nearest her to keep it from curling, and they both light cigarettes. "Where's Michelle?" Cypress says. "I'm here," she calls behind me. "Goddamn, I wish we were Floor Two sometimes… what's going on?" "Alright – Cat's downstairs, right?" he says. "Yes." "Why was she out there that day?" "When?" "Five weeks ago – that first night night I let her go. Why was she there? Why were you guys going there?" "We were looking for her. Phoebe told us not to, but Cat never just runs off like that, so we went." "What explanation does she give?" Cypress asks. We all look to each other. "She never…" "Whenever we ask about it," I say, "she tells us she doesn't want to talk about you." "Why the fuck was she there?" Lisa says. "And why was the old one there?" Cypress says. "He was obviously with the ones in the South End – his face was all fucked up. So why does a Ceta from the Tower go the exact same hard-to-reach location as an old one from the group that happens to be the new power in the city? Coincidence?" he asks. "…or conspiracy?" I finish. "Why did Phoebe never have us make a move against the old ones?" Michelle says. "Why did she never send out more scouts to guage their capabilities?" "Phoebe didn't want you to follow Cat – meaning she was willing, for some reason, to break Rule Three." "Why would she do that?" "Maybe she didn't want you knowing why Cat was out there," he says. "Phoebe sent Cat…" I say. "…to meet an old one..," Lisa continues. "…for what purpose? And then why did she send us straight south to them?" "Is anyone here stoned?" "No." "So we're being rational?" "Yes." "What does this add up to?" "Phoebe has some secret alliance with the old ones in the South End," Cypress says. He just stares ahead. "Who here knew about this?" he says first. We all shake our heads. I realize I really don't know if I believe them. Cypress stands. "Then let's find Cat." * * * I whip the petite blonde by her hair into the wall of the kitchen, as Lisa and Michelle close in on either sides. Cat struggles to stand, but slips on the greasy floor and falls. Cypress pushes ahead of me, lifts her to her feet, and speaks, hot and harsh, inches from her face; "Why were you on the fifteenth floor of that apartment building five weeks ago?" he says. "Don't…" The tip of his sword trails up from her stomach to her heart. "…lie," he finishes. Cat sobs and pushes a clump of hair out of her eyes. "I was just there to confirm it – it was all Phoebe's plan, Cypress. I was just a messenger." "A messenger for WHAT?" he barks. "Cypress, calm down," Lisa begins, but he shouts back; "If Phoebe struck a deal with the old ones, what did she offer them?" He looks back to Cat. "What was the trade, Cat?" Now we all look to her, and she seems to make a descision deep down inside, before breathing deep and saying; "At first, the meeting was just to make our offers. They wanted twenty five of us in return for a truce. They wanted her to like… ship us out to them." "So Phoebe sent the six of us down there as a peace offering," I say. "What did they want us for?" "And seeing as they didn't get us – or anyone else in the Tower – what did they get from Phoebe – why have they been leaving us alone?" Cypress finishes. "I don't know," Cat says through tears. "You went down there with us, knowing these old ones were there – why not at least warn us?" "Phoebe told me if we were captured it would be okay – that they wouldn't hurt me," she sobs. Cypress sheathes his sword and stalks away, smashing a pile of plates to the ground. "They wouldn't hurt you…" he says. "What about us, huh Cat?" I say. "What about your fuckin' Floor? Rule TWO!" "If I didn't she wold have killed him!" Cat yells, pointing to Cypress. "She would have killed him right there! At least that way we had a chance!" Michelle leans in to the tiny blond and growls; "We – could – have – fucking – DIED." "Did you know what they were going to do with me? Did you know?" Lisa says. "What?" "I don't know – I don't know anything. I was just supposed to meet the old one, and then not talk about it… I was just a messenger… I was just a messenger…" I hear Cypress light a smoke behind me. "What do you think?" Michelle asks, looking to Lisa. "I think… Phoebe sold out Westwood." No more plates crash to the ground. I don't even hear him going – but I hear the doors at the end of the hall open and close. "What about her?" I ask, motioning to Cat. Michelle grabs Cat's collar and heaves her up – pressing her against the freezer. "You broke Rule Two, Cat," Michelle says, narrowing her eyes. "Now what are we going to do with you…?" * * * * * * get up / get up / put your body in motion / get up / get up / put yout body in motion // if you're curious and you've got the notion / man, do it /// just start the commotion /// * * * * * * I break out the main door of the Tower just in time to see Cypress throw Phoebe to the ground, and start dashing for the station wagon, calling for the other men. So much can change in ten minutes. As the engine roars and the car barrels towards the open gates, Cypress makes a quick stop for the men to jump in, before tearing off into the night. "Snipers!" Phoebe's calling. "Take out the tires! STOP THAT FUCKING CAR!!" Nobody's moving – they're all staring at Phoebe. I'm running for the gates. I'm not positive – but I think I'm calling after him. A few others are trying to stop me breaking free of the gates. They're clawing at me – dragging me back in. I hear Michelle's calming voice behind me – telling me to stop – it's alright. Nothing's alright. I thrash wildly, kicking out and dislodging my captors, bolting out into the street and turning west. "CROW!" Michelle calls. I think it's Michelle. But I don't look back. Soon the shadows have me. Soon I'm alone. Under the stars. By the time I've run a mile or so from home I realize all my weapons and tools are back at the Tower. Huh, I think. Oh, well, and press on. Turning back doesn't occur to me. I'll find him. * * * I'm crossing the park – going south of the river. I'll use what's left of the Moray Bridge to get back to the north side later on, then sneak to Westwood by sunrise. Now I crouch and stick to the side of a tree – watching the firelight dancing through the veil of trees a hundred or so yards ahead. So – we have a campsite. I didn't see the wagon abandoned anywhere – perhaps they hid it better than I imagined. Creeping forward, I now hear the fire crackling – still no voices. I sneak under a low fir tree and poke my head out into the campsite. Instead of a company of healthy young men are four old ones – three men and a woman. They sit around the fire silently, staring into it. None of them speaking. Now a walkie-talkie comes to life with a burst of static and staccato language; "Bobby! You guys set up?" One of the men stands and lumbers over to the CB radio, picking one of the sores on his face as he grabs the mouthpeice. "Fuck off – we're eating." "Are you in the forest yet?" "We'll get there before sunrise," Bobby says, flicking away something he discovered in a sore. "Be set by five," the voice on the radio tells him. "And be ready to run – when it all starts burning, these winds might change." Burning? * * * I dash up the Park Bridge to Portage Avenue and skid to a stop in the middle of the street. I look east – home. I glance west. The old ones are burning the forest. It's late summer – fall is just beginning, and it hasn't rained in over a week. The forest will go up quick. I turn to start walking west, but I'm taken off my feet by someone and pulled off into an alley. They set me on the ground and throw me into the brick wall – a hand at my throat. "What the fuck are you doing here?" "Old ones! In the forest – they're going to burn it!" Cypress stares at me long and hard. "…shit. We never thought of that." "What?" "The power runs on sunlight – if they burn the forest, Westwood won't have the spotlights at night." "They won't be able to see what's coming," I say. "What did Phoebe do?" "I told her… some stuff about Westwood. But I never told her about the power system. Now they have everything they need…" "Cat must have," I tell him. "Floor Thirteen knew – you told us." He lights himself a cigarette and slumps to the ground. "Everything's fucked. Phoebe… Phoebe still doesn't get it, y'know?" "Well… c'mon, Cypress, it's pretty smart of her. The Tower stays safe and our only other enemy is taken out." He closes his eyes. Perhaps this was the wrong thing to say. "Westwood isn't our only enemy, they're our only possible ally. The old ones have almost twice as many people as either of us do – once they've disposed of Westwood without Tower intervention, they'll turn on us. The only way we'd stand a chance is together – but no one fucking gets that." He stands and sucks hard on his smoke. "Get out of here – get back to the Tower." "Where are the others?" I ask. "They took off in the wagon back to Westwood – put the place on high alert." "Why are you here, then?" "To tell you to go home," he says. He's serious – but it's not all he has to tell me. His eyes are huge even in the darkness. "Then I'll probably never see you again," I say. "That ain't cool." "I know, he says, but that's…" "That's the furthest fucking thing from cool! You can't just leave!" "This is the way it-" I kiss him. I kiss him very, very soft. "…the way it has to be." And the kiss turns harder. And we're gripping each other so tight. "Just stay," I whisper to his ear. "Just stay…" He takes my face his his hands and leans back, staring at me. "Just stay." He closes his eyes and holds me again. "Just stay." * * * * * * i would die for you / i would die for you / i've been dying just to feel you by my side / to know that you're mine i will pray for you / i will pray for you / i will sell my soul for something pure and true / for someone like you i would burn for you / feel pain for you / i will twist the knife and bleed my aching heart / and tear it apart i will lie for you / beg and steal for you / i will crawl on hands a knees until you see / you're just like me i would die for you // i would kill for you // to be close to you // to be part of you // cause i believe in you // i believe in you // i would die for you. * * * * * * In the center of Assiniboine Park is a castle, complete with a courtyard and a bell tower. When I was a child, I remember my mother would take me on walks to the park. I thought the Queen lived in that castle. Now Cypress leads me through the ruined first floor of that castle, and up the bell tower. Halfway up he silently opens a closet and motions me inside, before proceeding the rest of the way up the stairs. Now a conversation ensues with someone upstairs – another man, judging by the bass. One man comes back down the stairs, and continues on. Soon Cypress opens the closet and grins. "We always have someone posted up here – he's running home to warn them about the forest." Up the stairs, we discover a small bedroom with black partitions around the windows – so someone can look out the window, but the light from within will not escape. From this tower, you can look out over nearly the entire Assiniboine forest. "Great location," I tell him. "Didn't we have this…" "Eight years ago," he nods. "We took it the summer of year five." He turns up an oil lamp in one corner and takes his gloves and boots off, finding a cigarette. "Right, year five – when Claire almost challenged for the leadership," I say. "Year five? Why didn't she wait until she was old enough to really kick Jackie's ass?" "Well, it was year five – she had to make it that year." "Why?" he stares at me blankly, not lighting the cigarette that hangs from his lips. I begin unfastening my boots. "In the Tower, we decided on a pseudo-democracy. Jackie started off as the leader, but she said that she didn't have to lead forever. On year one, an Alpha from Floor One could challenge. On year two, an Alpha from Floor Two and so on…" "Why hasn't Michelle or Lisa challenged Phoebe this year, then?" "Neither of them ever learned how to play." "How to play what?" "Chess." He stares at me blankly. Finally, he lights his smoke. Even in the dim light, his eyes are too blue. His shoulders fill out that heavy sweater perfectly – strong but lithe, he stands with an uneven, healthy posture as he stares. "Chess?" he echoes. "The challenge is a chess game? I almost had to kill Claire, and the leadership challenge is a chess game?" "We don't think the best leader is the best killer," I tell him. "The best leader can plan strategically. Make tough choices. Win without sacrificing an undue amount of pieces." "…yeah, that makes sense," he says, preparing the bed. He stops, looking up at me. Those huge blue eyes. "Wanna' see something cool?" he asks. I shrug, but he goes over to a corner of the floor and yanks up one of the boards. "While you were up on that roof access? I was here – half the fall, every fall, for years. Sometimes the Forks, too." He throws the board aside and reaches down, pulling up a large duffel bag. "What is that?" He dumps the contents of the bag on the hardwood floor. Books of all varieties tumble to the floor and flow forth in a white, yellow and brown tide. "Books," he says. "That's what I did up here all those years. I read. Annnd…." He searches the pile and picks out a particular hardcover book, flipping through it. A familiar logo is on the book, though I don't recall what it is. "I met everyone. Sort of. A lot of people look really different now. I can't find you – for example." He hands the book over. "It's a yearbook from our elementary school," he says, pointing to one picture. "There's me." "Oh my God…" I cover my mouth. It sounds rediculous, but Cypress was too cute as a little boy. "Wait a minute… where's Michelle?" "Back here." "Where's Sophie and Cat?" "Oh, they're… flip back a few – there." "Wow…" There we all are. Thirteen years ago. Little boys and little girls grinning for the birdie. Our little heads combed to perfection, complete with little bows and shiny little shoes. The boys wearing little ties. Little suit jackets. "Sophie has green eyes," I laugh, staring hard at the picture. "I know – you never see them under that toque." He's sitting on the bed beside me, grinning. "Show me Lisa…" He flips ahead a few pages. There she is. Next to Saku – they look like best friends. I flip back one page to where the Betas should be. "Where am I?" I ask. "I don't know – how long was your hair then?" "To my butt," I say. He points to a little girl with long black hair, wearing a Catholic school girls' skirt and a white cotton blouse. I look down at my tattered skirt and cotton shirt. "I guess things don't change too much," he says, standing. "Were we in the same class?" I ask. "Pretty much – but we're not in the same picture." "Look at me smiling…" I say. For a moment, I feel a torrent of emotion. Things I'd forgotten how to feel. It rushes through behind my ears for a breif moment, pressing at the backs of my eyes. They fill with tears, and I slam the book shut. "Show me you again," I say. He turns two pages and points. A little boy with choppy spikes of hair grinning, as if he knows something we don't. A crisp white dress shirt, plain black pants. Cuff links. Blue eyes. Holding a vibrating up of fruit punch. Standing in front of me. Shaking. "…I remember you," I say, touching the picture. "…you were the kid who asked me to dance." "Yeah, but you wouldn't," he laughs. "I wanted to," I tell him. "Really?" "Every little girl wants a boy to ask them to dance." "Everyone hated me at the school – they called me the Freak." "I had the biggest crush on you," I say. He's staring at me again, perhaps trying to decide if I'm lying. "I'm serious," I tell him. "I remember you 'cause you switched over to our class halfway through 'cause you were having trouble with grade three, right? And then they switched you up to grade four…" He's just nodding. "What the fuck was that all about?" "I had uh.. behavioral problems," he says. "They thought the grade three was too much for me, so they put me in grade two. Then their I.Q. test came back, and they thought I like, wasn't being challenged in grade three, so they moved me up to grade four the week before the field trip." smokeSCREEN: bookTHREE "If you were in grade four – why were you on the field trip?" He shrugs. "My dad had paid for it when they threw me back in grade two," he says. "I wasn't supposed to have been on that bus. Freaky – that's me." "I really did have a crush on you," I say. "Why?" "You were different." He sets the book down on a bedside table and lays back, on top of the covers, staring up at the celing. "What happens in the morning?" I ask. "You go back to the Tower, I go back to Westwood," he says. I lay down beside him, my head resting on his shoulder. "What happens tomorrow?" "Westwood falls," he tells me. He has no doubt of that, and he lights a smoke in libation. "And what will I do?" I sit up and stare down at him. "Most likely, you'll be with the twenty or so others starting on the River Project tomorrow." "That's not fair-" "Westwood's gonna' be attacked on account of me," he says. "I'll be there." He's made up his mind. I flop back down beside him and stare at his face. "Then tell me stuff," I say. "My father was an ex-Bhuddist monk," he says. "'Bhuddist'?" "This ancient eastern religion – very calm. He was also like, an eigth level black belt and he knew all kinds of swordplay and shit. He taught me how to use a sword when I was five." "Is that where you got your sword?" I ask. "That's not my sword," he says. "It's my father's. He lived in Hong Kong until China took over in ninety-nine, then he moved back here where me and mom were." "What did he do there?" "I don't remember." He turns and looks at me, smiling, cupping my cheek. "What do you remember about your family?" "It was just me and my dad," I say. "I think my dad was like, a banker or something. He worked a lot, but he spent all his time with me on the weekends. Otherwise I had this babysitter who took care of me." "Did you like your babysitter?" "She was kind of stupid – always wanted to watch cartoons." He grins at me as he strokes my hair. I can't help but smile softly back. "Maybe she thought you wanted to watch cartoons," he says. I shake my head. "I told her I liked NYPD Blue, but she never believed Dad let me watch it." "You liked NYPD Blue?" he laughs. "What was your favorite show?" I say, grinning now. "South Park," he says. I wrinkle my nose. "Typical man." He sits up and climbs on top of me, just like I did that night at the safehouse. "Typical?" he says, grinning down at me. "What's typical about me?" I shake my head. "Only South Park," I say. He leans down and lets his cheek stroke mine. I can't help but sigh. "I wish you'd just stay," I tell him. "Why do you have to be so…" He's kissing me. "…honourable? Don't you ever think about just-" He's kissing me again. I may be kissing back a little. "-just taking care of yourself?" He stops kissing my throat long enough for me to catch my breath, and for him to say; "Ultimately, I'm going back for selfish reasons. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't go back, therefor I'm only doing it to avoid my own guilty conscience, which is at it's base selfis-" I'm kissing him, now. Kissing his throat. "…what are you doing?" he asks. "We might never see each other again," I say, pulling off his overshirt. "And there's one or two things I want to try." "Like what?" he says. I pull off his undershirt. The slash across his stomach is nearly healed, along with the gash on his back. "Gimmie a second… it's a work-in-progress," I say, undoing the chunky black clasps on my cotton shirt. "Are you sure about this?" The soft cotton falls from my shoulders and I toss it aside, crossing my arms to pull the sweater up and over my head. He's staring at my eyes – I'm staring at his. "Sure about what?" I want to let my eyes trail down. I want to look at him – but I won't look down until he does. Only he doesn't look down. He leans forward and kisses me again. He lifts my sports bra off and gently pulls me down to him, and for a long while we lie like that – enjoying the sensation of our skin pressed together. His fingers walk up my hip towards my ribcage. "This one?" he says. "Barbed-wire fence at the old military complex," I tell him. "Here?" "Hm… that one must be new. What's this one from?" I point to a scar just shy of his heart. "Oh… when we were just kids, Jessie took one of dad's blades and was fucking around with it. He said he was gonna' stab me in the heart." He shrugs. "Not quite." "Jessie – like the leader of Westwood Jessie?" "Yeah." "You were friends? "Brothers. Well – same mother. He doesn't seem to remember shit about my dad, though." "Wait…" My fingers slide down his chest, across one of his curious man-nipples, and down to his navel. "…technically, when the war happened… you were in grade four?" "Yup. Bunch of assholes in that grade, let me tell you." He's stroking my bare shoulder – little starbursts of energy tumble through my system. "But… you were grade four?" "Yes – why?" "That makes you higher in rank than Michelle. Or even Phoebe." He leans down, now and kisses my stomach. It tickles – sort of. "So what? I'm a Beta – whatever." "Not whatever… this is…" His lips are approaching my breasts. When I pulled off his shirt, I didn't have any plan per se, I just wanted to feel his skin. Now that he's feeling mine, I am for a moment troubled over whether to feel exposed or accepted. For a moment I'm judging myself. But now Cypress is gently sucking at my shoulder, his arms wrapping around my slender torso and holding me. "This is important," I finish, finally. "You see thing clearly, Cypress – the guys can't, Phoebe can't. I mean, maybe Michelle can, but-" I'm kissing him. I want to stop talking. But it might be too important. "You're technically an Alpha for Floor Thirteen, you could challenge Phoebe for-" Now he's kissing me. I take a hand and press it to one of my too-small breasts, hooking a leg around his hips. "We'll talk about this," he says, pausing to kiss my jaw and chest. "…when I get back to the Tower." "If you get back to the Tower," I remind him. Suddenly, his face is before mine, those huge blue eyes staring down at me. Something is pulling at me. "When I get back," he says, pressing a hand between my legs. My hand grips the flesh of his back and I reach up to kiss him again. Something is calling to me. "How do you know to do that?" I gasp – my hips, for some reason, rise to meet the hand that presses against my skirt. Something draws me in. "Books," he whispers in my ear before kissing my cheek. Kissing my lips – staring in my eyes. Something keeps me here. "Are you alright?" he asks. I smile. I nod. I kiss him again, and now he draws back, sits up, and grins down at me. I automatically cover my breasts. I may even be blushing, but I can't tell. "Cut it out," I tell him. "Do you like how I look?" he asks. That seems like such a strange thing to say. "Yes." He grins and puts his hands on his hips. Finally, I let my eyes scan his torso. I would say he has a swimmer's physique if I thought he spent any great amount of time in the water. Slim hips – broad shoulders – defined but not unwelcoming muscles. I let my arms fall from my breasts, and cross them behind my head, staring up at him. "Do you like how I look?" I say. He nods, smiling softly. His hand reaches down to cup my cheek, and he nods again. "Yeah," he says. I reach down and cup one of my breasts. "You don't think too small?" I say. He shakes his head. "I can honestly say, the most beautiful breasts I've ever seen." I laugh and smack his shoulder. "The only breasts you've ever seen." His hand trails down my throat, and he cups my other breast, stroking it softly in circles. Even in the warm air, it becomes tight. I reach my slender hand up and stroke his nipples. "Why do men have nipples?" I ask. I don't expect an answer, but of course he has one; "All vertebrate embryos are inherently female," he says. "They simply require the right hormone at the appropriate time in development to make them male." I burst out laughing. "How do you know that?" "Remember that movie Jurassic Park?" "The dinosaurs." "Yeah. It says so in that movie." "That all…" I don't remember the term. "Vertebrate embryos." "Yeah, all start off female?" I say. He nods. "Oh, aren't we so fuckin' smart?" I grin. He shrugs. "I remember movies." "Tell me about the mysterious road if you're so smart," I say. He flops down onto the bed beside me, lazily stroking my shoulderblade. "What mysterious road?" "You said… complex things were down some road. Tell me about it." He shrugs. "Sex," he says. But he's still staring at my eyes. "Tell me about it," I say. "Well… it's sort of a natural progression of having feelings," he says. "Apparantly, everyone has these feelings and when time to have sex comes, they know it and it happens." I narrow my eyes accusingly at him. "How cryptic. You know exactly how to do it." "I might have an idea." "Might?" "Maybe." "Hmm?" "Iffy." "Possibly?" "A chance." "A good chance?" I think I may have him on this one. He just shrugs and says, "A pretty decent chance." "But you don't want to…" "S'not that I don't want to, it's… is that how can you know you want to if you have no idea what it is?" This pisses me off. I climb on top of him and pin his wrists down. "Don't talk to me like I'm some fucking Ceta! I'm twenty years old – I just don't know anything about sex that isn't a lie. And from what I hear, it's supposed to be fun." "That's not how it works – it's not a school lesson, it's love-" he starts. "That's what this is," I tell him. I lean down and kiss him, softly, brushing hair out of his eyes. So blue. "Are you scared at all?" he asks. "Sure," I shrug. "But I trust you." "What if I don't trust me?" He's genuinely terrified of hurting me. "Then trust my judgement," I grin. "And I trust you." He stands up on the bed and pulls me to my feet – his strong arms wrapping around me and holding me there. For a while he just breathes softly on my bare shoulder, his lead bending down to touch mine. And now he realizes I've undone the buckle on his belt. He's working on the buckle on mine. It's all so insane. It doesn't make any sense. But I want him to see me. All of me. I believe, for this shining moment, that I am utterly accepted. Here, alone, high above it all. I'm back on the roof access, staring up at the stars. Maybe that's it, I think to myself as he kisses down my stomach, between my breasts, unclipping my belt. Unfastening my skirt. We were always alone. As the skirt drops from my hips, I soak in the room where Cypress spent so many nights. While I was staring alone up at those stars, he was staring alone into the depths of some mysterious book or another. I fall back onto the bed and reach up... trailing my fingers down his chest to his old patched cargo pants. "You were in grade four…" I grin up at him. "You were smarter than all of us." "They don't know what I was," he tells me. "I might have been just extra, extra slow." I've never tried taking off someone else's pants before – it's becoming something of a struggle. "No, that's another thing that sets you apart from the rest of us. Another reason you should be the one to lead us all, I mean that's so obvious-" He pushes my hands away and crouches, his eyes hovering next to mine. "I'm not interested in leading anyone," he says calmly, but with the clear tone of never wanting to discuss this issue again. But I can't concieve of this. Surely, Cypress, with his mind built of razor steel, can see what his attributes add up to. "But, it's so clear, Cypress…" "It's not," he says. "You're not thinking clearly. You're thinking like someone who's trying too hard for the happy ending. There's no such thing as a happy ending. Only happy beginnings. Now forget the lies – forget the shit – take what you know to be true of the world." And now he leans forward even closer, narrowing his eyes. "Do you really believe in happy endings?" Now I must admit to being taken aback. But I am, first and foremost, a pessimist. I have never seen our swordsman speak with such a… clearly manipulative intent. Why would he intentionally turn such a warm situation into something so dark? My mind clicks. To take my mind off the original question. Which poses the obvious answer. "Why are you afraid of leading?" I ask. This hits him as if it were an actual punch, and he leans back until he has to brace himself on his arms to stop from falling fully to the bed. "…what?" he says finally. "I can work this out…" I whisper, leaning back and closing my eyes. "Don't work anything out – I'm asking you to let it go." He's kissing me. My lips. And I'm thinking. Cypress was actually grade four when the war happened. That puts him, in rank, above all Tower Alphas and Westwood Thirds. He's kissing my throat – gently sucking. I've always thought of my skin as too pale, but he whispers something about how he loves the feel of it, before proceeding to my shoulders. I can work this out. Cypress intentionally told everyone he was in grade two when the war ended – he could have automatically lead them all, but he wanted to be a Beta. Why? I hear a zipper and the shuffle of clothing, before a blanket closes over us both. His skin is soft, warm, easy against mine as he drapes an arm over me and kisses my shoulder. My eyes are still closed. I can work this out. Therefore, the decision to never be considered for the position of leader was made when Cypress was seven years old. Probably, before the war ever happened. He pushes the hair away from my face, and I can't help but smile. Nuzzling my cheek, he squeezes me gently. I can't work this out. And bless him, he is trying hard enough to divert my attentions. I finally open my eyes to find his just before me. "There we are," he grins. I smile back sweetly. "Where else would I be?" His smile softens into a look, dare I say, of love. Though I can't say I'm positive of my expression, I expect I'm looking at him the same way. "How do you feel?" he asks. "How did you feel the first time you killed someone?" I know this seems like a strange question in response, but Cypress sees that my A will lead to a B. "Truth?" "Truth," I nod. "I was disturbingly comfortable with it." I nod. "Me too." "Everyone else freaks out or pukes or something – I just went home and cleaned the sword." I nod. "Why are we different?" I ask, cocking my head to the side. He kisses me softly, closing his eyes for a moment. "So you're saying you're very comfortable with me?" he asks. I nod. "Do you think we are different?" I say. "I think, if there hadn't been a war, we would have been actors." "Actors?" "The people in movies. People who observe and can catalyze emotions in others, so they can accurately recreate them later on to manipulate people. Now some of these people – on average one out of a hundred, actually – just don't feel emotions like others do. Often these people are very intelligent, often men, they're called sociopaths." "Soh-see-oh-paths." "Right." "We're sociopaths?" he kisses my shoulder again – one of his hands cups a breast, and I'm beginning to give myself over more to the sensation. "Well, fuck if I know – I just read all that shit in some book. I'm just sayin' maybe you and me were cut from the same cloth. Maybe that's why this is comfortable." My fingers trail up his muscled back, knotting themselves in his dark hair as his mouth, suddenly and without warning, closes around my left nipple. "Whoah…" I breath light, quick gasps. "…that's cool…" Now one of his hands trails down my stomach, across my hips and thighs – lightly stroking my skin. Cypress must have read all kinds of books. "Tell me about you," I say as he kisses circles, tighter and tighter around my right breast. "Tell me something." "I was born in Calgary," he says. "Where's that?" "West of here." He's kissing my stomach, still stroking my thighs – his lips are crossing my hipbone. In a moment he will… he's kissing my throat, and I grin. "I got another question for you," I say, crawling on top of him and draping his face in my hair. Kissing him. "Shoot." "Why did you let Cat go that day?" He grins his easy grin up at me. "Well that's the sixty-four million dollar question, isn't it?" I grin back. "If money were still around," I say, bending down to kiss his chest. "So men do have nipples, huh?" I lower my head and gently nip one between my teeth. "Ow!" But he laughs, too. "Well what good are they, then?" I say, kissing his ribcage and stomach. I want to… My hand is on his legs. In my mind, I do a tapdance of rationales between sheer curiosity or gut instinct, before reaching further- He's kissing me, and my arms drape around him as we fall back down into the sheets. "Someone has to touch someone," I tell him. His fingers ice-skate up my back, and I shivver regardless of the warm evening. "Alright, lay back," he says, pushing my shoulder gently. "How come I don't get to touch you first?" I grin. He smiles smoothly back, but I can already feel his warm hand moving easily down my tummy, cupping softly between my legs. "If madam has any complaints…" he says, and a finger softly, slowly slides up the length of my sex, daring just close enough to the top to stir something on the edge of extreme. "No complaints," I gasp, reaching up for a headboard that isn't there. Perhaps I've been sleeping on a military issue bed too long. How does he know how to do this? I cock my head to the side and think. And why do I trust him to? A voice darts in; because you love him. Now I'm moaning, clinging to his torso as two fingers stroke me. I'm raking his back – squirming. Something takes over. It's amazing. Another voice barks at me; you just want to believe that. But he's kissing me. I'm gasping, my hips are starting to rise of their own accord to meet his hand. The voice barks again; you could never love anyone. I will the voices away and grip his head firmly, kissing him deep as I slide my hips down and push up, driving his fingers into me. I cry out. I think, but I'm not sure. I'm crushing his face to my breast, and all the while his fingers – stroking – pumping – pushing the waves higher. Faster. Stronger. Deeper. And now I know I'm screaming. Now I'm gasping. Now I'm sighing. His arms are draping around me, and I can smell my sex for a moment. We fit like a pair of forks layed together, but on their sides, and I smile as his breath teases my ear. My brain is de-fuzzing. Everything's becoming clearer. "That was wicked," I grin. I spin and reach an arm down. His eyes jump in surprise, but my slender hand has already found him. For a moment I just hold it, weighing it, squeezing it under the sheets. It's softer that I'd thought. And I am struck, for a moment, with the knowledge that I am the first and only tower member to do such a thing. To risk such a thing. Cypress is just smiling at me. I stroke it once, testing – I find the tip, and observe his reaction. Looks like pleasure. Might be pain. I stroke again – pleasure. Annnnd repeat… I lay down beside him, my elbow on the bed, a hand propping up my jaw as I slowly stroke him. He's staring at me, smiling. "Tell me how it feels," I say. "What's it like?" "It's good… for one…" he says.