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Google Doc started early- to mid-April.
His fingers curled against the faintly heated ceramic, nails clicking against the gray and green patterned surface of his mug while his eyes scanned the news article in front of him. More damages caused by the local terrorists--more shop fronts decimated, more cars and trash bins totalled. Another article about the same damages, pulled up on his slightly dimmed laptop screen, proclaimed it was monsters to blame for the events, not mere people. It wasn't people who put claw marks in solid stone.
As Cabhan sipped the simple dark breakfast tea, loaded with milk and sugar, peering at some of the photos he had up on a different site tab, he couldn't help but think that it was less likely claw marks, and perhaps more likely the lashing of weapons or perhaps some misfired magic.
Or perhaps they were from claws. He was hardly an expert. Yet. He had far more time now to learn.
The growing lull of Spring met him in dark jeans and loose, layered tops and ponchos that pooled around his frame and arms in beige, grey-green, and black. Now and then he shooed away the wandering frayed edges from his papers and away from his mug, only to be displaced once again when he'd lift a hand to push back at his bangs each time they'd fall from where he repeatedly tucked them at his ears. Now and then he considered the benefits of a haircut, but then, the notion of simply pinning his bangs back until they were longer and could be properly restrained in his hair tie was the more appealing option. But his hair wasn't the focus of his day--or well, shouldn't be--and he reverted back to skimming articles, blogs, and even nosed around in the comments sections where viable. Not that there was much to say in the way of intelligence there, but a few posted similar experiences in other places, different days, different times, and he jotted them down in a notebook he kept to one side of his table. More examples of the urban legends forming around the terrorists and monsters that lurked throughout Destiny City, and the various damages and disappearances supposedly related to them.
Not that any were founded, but the dots were there, and at least some of the public were pointing fingers. Even if only in online debates, forums, and magazines that were hardly mainstream. Though why he wasn't finding more reports in the usual reports and newscasts, he wasn't entirely sure. Government coverup? That's what some of the conspiracy theories were, at least, and as he took another sip of his tea, elbows pressed to the table and eyes narrowed over the rim of his mug, he had to at least admit it sure looked like they might be onto something this time.
Elex supposed that, by now, his mother would receive a call that Elex was not, in fact, in Rebecca's care. No, she would insist, Elex never showed up for his tutoring appointment. No, she didn't know where he would be. No, she did not see him acting suspiciously at school. Yes, she did see him at school. And no, she did not see him leave.
Because Elex Yorke never left the school campus. Faustite did.
And Faustite, Elex supposed, knew of a few more routes outside the school grounds than the typical fare. Faustite, for example, could exit through perpetually unlocked roof access points and depart from the tin-lined rooftop without incurring great injury. And, if the fancy so took him, Elex could visit a cafe with all the rest of his meeting obligations figuring that he remained in campus bounds. A shoddy trick, he figured, but a necessary one - ever more now, his mother clamped down on his freedoms with reckless abandon, and while he understood her plights in part, he succumbed to the siren song of freedom promised by power.
His first downfall, he supposed. His first trip along the line. And, as he received his cup of house blend black tea from the sales associate, he felt rather good about it. Vindicated, even, in that special juvenile way only read about in tawdry books or corny movie. But that vindication filled him with a sense of giddiness that left the otherwise neutral Yorke child in a rather good mood.
So when he cast through the sea of mismatched tables to find his own seating, he actually took pause when a newspaper embarked on its short flight towards the floor. He turned when he heard the paper touch down in a heap on the ceramic tile. He paused to retire his cup to the table to which the paper belonged, and stooped to pick up the escapist pages. And when he straightened to return them to their rightful surface, he instead chose to hand them back directly to the owner himself: a boy not much older than he, with unruly raven hair and bright blue eyes.
"You dropped this," he offered, as he looked to the upside-down headline. Printed in bold across the front page was a declaration of yet another death by the nightmarish monstrosities plaguing Destiny City. His interest piqued, and with the barest hint of a smile, he provided his own inquiry. "Looking for monsters?"
The fallen paper hadn't even registered in his mind, too caught up in the contents of the blog in front of his eyes and jotting notes down. It could have potentially sat there till whenever came time for him to seek a refill, or a bite to eat, or a stretch and slip off to the bathroom--whichever would come first, and force his boot to scuff against the paper when he finally budged. So when off-white and black moved out of the corner of his eye, Cabhan was taken aback for a small moment. Staring at the offered newspaper, he looked as if confused by its presence, and then after looking around to see it was his, he huffed as offended by it's daring to depart his table. "Thank you," he said brightly to the other dark-eyed youth at least, offering a cheeky smile that only grew at the question. Taking the newspaper carefully and folding it a bit to settle it back into a more secure place, he hummed a confirmation.
"Weird stuff is always happening in this city. There's a bunch of new urban legends popping up because of it, and I love hearing the stories people spin." There was no shame or hesitation for him as he spoke. No reason so far as he was concerned, after all. This city was festering with oddities. Glancing quickly around the cafe, he pulled some of his papers into a more convenient, and neater, pile, and gestured to the other side of the table with the empty seat. "I don't mind making more space, if you want to sit here." Sure Cabhan had monopolized the tablespace, but he tugged at his various news articles and printouts, organizing them in a far more compact style, and set his laptop on that, quickly freeing up a respectable portion of the table. It was rather rude to take up the whole space if he didn't need it. Of course, not all patrons were comfortable sharing space, and a few other booths and tables larger than his were occupied by lone customers. Made it rather troublesome for incoming customers to find a place to sit and linger, unless they were bold enough to request some space from someone already seated.
He could at least offer, and the other's drink was already on the table. Why not sit down?
"You don't need fantasy books anymore when you move here." Elex executed a quick survey of the remaining open spaces, found them wanting, and chose to seat himself across from the other man at his behest. His tea still felt too warm to the touch for his taste, so he let it sit and instead took to reading some of the bolder headlines upside-down. If it bleeds, it leads was still going strong judging by the apocalyptic, naysaying titles. He wondered, then, if they were forecasting the destruction of the city by 2020. How much humanity is still left in its bones?
He looked to the other boy then, all bright eyes and dark hair and s**t-eating grin. He looked well at home here, among stories of murder and missing bodies - of monsters. Stories of war machines, exposed by discredited news reporters and passed around like misprinted zines. Another story in a thin column was framed between a cheap love hotel advertisement and a wrongful imprisonment lawyer. Elex figured the placement of ads suggesting something about the reading base they targeted. But was this boy part of that demographic? Did he often edge his way into legally questionable territory, baiting the law to take him in for another night? Did he like playing himself for older than he was to rent a room by the hour?
Such thoughts proved of more interest to him than the newspapers collectively crying of Satan's uprising. "What's your name?" He asked coolly. Leaning back in his seat allowed him to take the boy into the context of his chosen surroundings - scents of different teas lingered in the air, the sun spilled brilliant across a heaped collection of newspapers, and he sat in the center of it with a green ceramic mug and no complaints in sight.
You're not much of a people person, are you?
"Some stories aren't printed in the newspapers. Would you chase them yourself if you could?" And what would you do if you found yourself staring down one of those very war machines, all teeth and hunger? Would you run? Would you stare into its jaws, transfixed until the end? Strange how self-preservation is more of a luxury these days.
He gave a small snort, shoulders shaking a little in his laughter. "No, but sounds like everyone around here listens to Nightvale, or maybe watched a few too many episodes of Twilight Zone, you know?" Or at the very least, the city was providing some writers some amazing stories to use, and didn't even have to twist much for a fantasy edge. "Conspiracy theorists are going bonkers over everything though. These monsters and terrorists are giving them enough fodder to last for the next few decades at this rate." Likely longer, as things progressed.
He sipped the slowly cooling milk lightened beverage in his hands, gaze flickering between the boy and the pages between them. How many disappearances were really because of the Negaverse? Were any thanks to… crap, what were they called? The Dark Mirror Court? Odd deaths without any real signs of lethal injuries were likely starseeds being taken, or perhaps someone getting carried away with energy draining--unless someone was going around with syringes filled with air bubbles. Which, could be possible, if they were illuminating all of the more supernatural, super powered options infesting the city.
Removing a mug-warmed hand from the ceramic surface, he offered it across the table, though had to set down his cup to move around the trailing ends of his pseudo-sleeves to keep them from knocking things over. "Cabhan," he said simply, still getting used to the new name that the baristas always miswrote as Cavan, or one of the teachers at Romano's mispronounced as Cab-han. Not many in America realized that bh made a v sound among some names, if they'd Irish origins.
"And you?"
If his new companion thought to scare him away with such tantalizing carrots, unfortunately Cabhan was not one to be drawn away from an interesting story. He perked up, head tilting a bit in question as he looked on expectantly. "Certainly. Most of the real stories are never brought to light, or whatever is posted in newspapers are just…" He shrugged, humming a bit as he looked to the ceiling, trying to pick his words. "...inaccurate, I suppose. Watered down versions. I try to find a bit more online, but even then. People exaggerate, or don't want to post too much, because they fear being mocked or no one believing them. Assuming they're not just flat-out fakes."
"Maybe they do." Elex swung his foot restlessly under the table. "Isn't it easier to doubt than to believe? Amazing how this city attracted so many who are so willing to pin their credibility on monsters and supernatural gang wars. It's almost like there's something to that truth after all." What do you know, I wonder?
He wondered, briefly, if there would be a Destiny City in a few decades. Cities rose and fell like waves.
Elex watched with no small amusement while Cabhan unearthed his hand from layered clothes, a pancho, his own drink, and the scattered articles. To find that his fingers were covered in fine newspaper ink came as no surprise. And while Elex kept his own fingers clean and well-trimmed, he reached to give the hand a shake regardless. "Elex Yorke." Trained habit left him no pause between first and last name, in which he could reconsider offering the latter. His parents considered surname a necessity if one was to be taken seriously in the world, yet so often, no one knew the last name of Yorke. Maybe it was wishful thinking, or maybe they never thought that far ahead.
"Interesting name. I haven't heard anything like it." Yet Cabhan looked no different than most of the native denizens of DC - so where was he from? An absent accent offered no clues. Perhaps his parents just wanted him to be special.
"I suppose," Elex echoed in Cabhan's doubt for newspaper accuracy. A small smirk threatened to worm its way out onto his lips. "'If it bleeds, it leads; if it burns, it earns.' Maybe they want to print the darkest stories possible. Maybe it's not much of a story." Elex tapped nails to his teacup, considering. This was no topic of conversation his mother would condone, he knew. His brother would've shut down such a conversation, too. Cabhan, however, sat across from him as if swaddled in all the freedom on Earth. Oh, how he wanted to be so unrestricted…
"It's easy enough to find other people's stories. They're printed all over the web and newspapers like they're church pamphlets on Good Friday. But what about seeking your own story? It's just a step outside and the whole world opens out to greet you." To swallow you whole.
The blunt wording sent small prickles of interest and excitement along Cabhan's arms and spine, laughter lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes as he continued to behold his new companion was utmost curiosity. "Doubt can also be an attempted facade to protect those who do believe, and simply don't want to face the reality of their situation. Or belief can be an equal mask to try and gain any grain of prosperity or status that can be swindled out of the circumstances." Leaving his mug on the table, he fished for supporting evidence, digging up some fliers for protection against terrorists and monsters! wanna-be companies. Groups, rather, and he looked nothing less than bemused as he passed them along. Following that were religious pamphlets of different creeds and organizations proclaiming the current events were due to the spiritual and moral weaknesses of the city and its inhabitants. "Each are happy to sell you a service of some variety, for modest fees or payment plans. Curious how effective any would actually be."
Realistically? Not remotely. Unless these were being backed by agents actually trying to take advantage of the situation. Which wasn't a bad idea, really, if one was strapped for cash.
The shake was met, and Cabhan gave a friendly squeeze, perhaps continuing the contact a hair longer than politeness dictated as he took in the other's name. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Elex," he responded warmly, before the cheeky grin was back on his lips. "Any connection to Yorkshire? Sorry if that's a distasteful joke in any way." He meant no offense to the other, and withdrew his hand to not risk any further unintended awkwardness or repulsion, finding himself further delighted by the waves and turns of the conversation that was growing. Apparently one can meet very interesting people in simple cafes these days.
"Irish decent," he laughed merrily to the interesting name concept. "You'll likely find a lot more interesting names if you ever catch yourself in a neighborhood or publishing that focuses on Ireland or Irish descent." It was a forming concoction of an identity. Built out of wisps that dribbled in his mind, barely out of reach. Though he still hadn't decided if he should have living relatives, or say they all were deceased, or perhaps traveled to Ireland without him to familial lands, but he was enjoying weaving together his own story.
A story that was beginning to enter a new world of intrigue, and his smile was as wistful as a cat lounging in a patch of sun as Elex questioned of seeking his own. "That's my goal, in due time. It's only the fools that rush in without attempting at least some research before they begin their searches and experiments, however." He leaned back a bit in his chair, looking out over his laptop and collected sources. "Be they fake, or real, these stories are a start for that research. Learn what I can of others' accounts, like any good folklorist would do, and then conduct my own queries and experiments to see how much of them hold any water, and which ones dissolve into nothing." Bright blue eyes lifted and he quirked a brow at the lad across from him. "Do you have any stories to share? Or are you interested in crafting your own..?"
Elex accepted the distributed flyers willingly, taking a moment to peruse each and check the backs for further information. The phenomenon wasn't unfamiliar to him -- disaster situations often provoked flights to safety in religion, support groups, or other affairs -- but to hold the effects in his hands… Elex felt the weight of their finality against his palms. He often thought they were stories, simple explanations given that he never expected to witness in person. But now he lived in a place where a siege perpetuated itself, and those affected sought those very sources. "Which do you think it is?" He looked from one pamphlet to the next, weighing religion against protection, then glanced toward Cabhan to meet ice blue eyes. "Are they protecting the sincere, or feeding the guilty?"
As Cabhan continued to speak, both on his own name and Elex's potential relations, he wondered if Ireland ever suffered the problem of monsters. If England ever met a supernatural teen. If any of the rest of the world knew the type of conflict that now existed in Destiny City. And what of attacks of times past? What about Rwandan genocide? What about family annihilation cases overseas? Did Cabhan come out to the city to pursue such dangers, or flee his own? What would the Irish say of it, if anything at all? Thought compounded its interrogatives until he nigh lost the thread of conversation.
He set the flyers aside afterward, one stacked atop another neatly. The table space felt rather cramped with use, and the piles therein looked roughly organized in their own slipshod manner. "My family is from England," he conceded. "My grandfather moved to America when computers started to reach the market. He still buys Yorkshire tea to burn my brother." And, in part, him.
By Cabhan's spread of research, Elex suspected that Cabhan knew the goings-on of the city rather well. The variety of sources each spoke their own piece, often to vastly different lengths for the same story, and left much in the way of questions. Cabhan looked well on his way to filling those questions. Elex folded his arms against the table and sat up straight from his lean over the pamphlets. "Do you have a blog?" Where else did folklorists publish? Academic papers sprang to mind, though those were often locked behind paywalls. His own school seldom permitted a glance into the realm of academics unless for more traditional pursuits -- biology studies, chemistry reports. Folklore -- even anthropology -- strayed beyond its scope. Blogs held less clout, but more accessibility.
It's a rug's job to lie. "I'm not interested in crafting. Only experiencing." He looked from newspaper to pamphlet to the back of the laptop. "I want to be a part of the story."
Considered the options posed, a glint of white as he bit at his lower lip. But the corners of his lips were upturned, a trickster's amusement a the ill fortune of others. "Why not both?" He gestured vaguely to the papers Elex held. "Some might be sincere, believing their work honorable and true, trying to aid the people to the best of their perceived abilities. But I'm willing to bet most are nothing more than modern day snake oil salesmen." Though he was curious to test the different methods, see if perhaps any might have been supplied information by the Negaverse, or if even old superstitions had some ring of truth against beings such as youma. Not that he expected such results, but…
A single brow rose in interest that the other asked if he had a blog. Searching for a scrap paper that he tore from the bottom of a page not fully taken up by printed text, he wrote out WorksofAngell, and beside it YouTube . Tumblr. "Still looking for other avenues to post and publish online, but it's been a fun start. If you do take a peek, I'd appreciate any feedback!" His cheer was genuine, always enjoying advice for how to improve his content or presentations. He had a good number of videos and posts up now, mostly of explorations and voice over videos with more detailed descriptions of stories of folklore from different cultures he'd researched.
But there was an interesting statement. To be part of the story. "How would you go about it?" There was no hint of mocking or jest in his tone, simple curiosity. He supported his chin with the palm of his hand, elbow on the table, his attention focused solely on the youth before him. "How would you become part of such a story?"
Elex frowned down at the clandestine scrap of paper handed to him. Don't you carry a pad of paper? It read off a listing of online accounts, hungry with the promise of a signal boost. It wanted for attention, for promise as another one of many upstart journalists looking for a lifetime break. "I'll take a look." What would Cabhan find? What would he choose to publish? Would it do him any good, or would it attract unwanted attention?
Elex pulled his iPhone from pocket and dutifully entered the details off the scrap. He pocketed it afterward, laced fingers, and looked back to Cabhan.
His conversation partner looked like he was having fun. Joy and interest pulled lips taut into a wide smile. Vivaciousness permeated him for how he often spoke so animatedly. Such a naked expression of cheer was rare and foreign; usually men learned to conceal all parts of themselves untenable to cultural expectation, but Cabhan neglected that rule. No, he spat in its face in a laid-back, easy defiance. He was brave for that, and Elex appreciated its rare presentation in someone close to his age. Maybe they'd see more of each other, and Elex could glimpse more facets of someone different from the rest.
Cabhan's question caused Elex to pause. The words caught in his throat, thick and sticky, beyond the scope of his tongue to scrape them out. He scoffed at himself. Is that all it takes? Legs shifted beneath the table as he sat up more fully, as he bought time to roll out belligerent words. "Look for it. Find it. Confront it. Putting it to words makes it all sound so trite," he admitted. "I'm not sure. My brother would say I spent too much time reading out of newspapers.
"What would you suggest?"
Perhaps some vaguely cynical part of him had half-expected for Elex to pocket the paper, and never glance at it again. It was his wonder then, and his delight, to see the other pull out his cell and simply enter the information in. While it was just good manners to accept the business cards and such, to actually copy it down? My. If nothing else, the day had put him into a wonderful mood, to say the least.
He might get actual feedback for once, at that. Few were the comments or messages he received on either platform that actually gave him constructive criticism for his work, or questions to delve deeper into. While he appreciated the bit of support he was getting from those who read or watched his works, it wasn't what he was after. He wanted to find more stories, test more of the unknowns. That black and green pen, hidden beneath layers of cloth, was in and of itself such an unknown, and the being it brought about. The question was, could he use that to chase more answers, and publish such things, without risking the ire of his General or others..?
Had everyone ever try to bring cell phones or other recording devices into the Hall of Shadows or the Rift..?
His own thoughts took him on a slight detour, but when Elex shifted in his seat and slowly drew out the response, Cabhan's gaze cleared of its glaze and refocused with all its unwavering weight. "Trite?" His laughter was easy and breezy as the playful smile on his lips. "Not at all! I would call it classical, if anything--in a good way. Why do people always return to the classics, after all? Something in them resonates, lures them back, and thus the classics thrive." Still he hummed, leaning back a little in his chair as he pondered the toss back. "I suppose, if I can give another classical response?"
The youth gave a shrug, the easy smile forming an edge vaguely visible as he tilted his head--a challenge, dangled on a string. "Actions speak louder than words, in the end. If you want to be part of such a story… what else can be done but fashioning the pen from any materials you can, the paper the same, and write it yourself?" Another hum, and he cast a thoughtful glance at the work that separated them on the table. "I suppose I must be a hypocrite, hm? Perhaps I need to begin writing my own accounts as well, rather than just the memories of others. Would you like to join me some time?" The question was sudden, no hesitation or edge, but a simple offer made to someone who seemed to be of a similar mind.
Elex couldn't deny that something endured in old literature. Beowulf was made into a movie. The Iliad and the Aeneid were each studied extensively by sophomore year of high school. Dante's Inferno, the Shakespearean works, the Bible each saw print and reprint and cultural integration in a society that existed hundreds of years beyond the context of their making. Something in them spoke to a human condition, and that condition endured from the years of the stone wheel to the years of the iPhone. That Elex should find himself compelled by such 'classic' notions affronted him a little, but he tried to swallow it.
It slid like dishwater down his throat. His annoyance humbled him, however. He appreciated the way it burned in his chest. "You're right," he admitted. When was the last time he conceded to anyone?
Elex touched the torn paper absently. he pushed it around with slim fingers until it fit a perfect angle with the corner of the table, then deliberately turned it to an ugly, obtuse angle. The pad of his finger drifted along the torn edge, testing its serrations, feeling the flesh and veins beneath the paper's surface. Cabhan's handwriting danced along the top in a heavy scrawl.
The youngest Yorke kept eye contact with his company, even as he spoke. His eyes weren't dull, nor were they particularly dispensary of emotion. Fashion the pen, the paper, and write it yourself. Make your circumstances. "If that's all it takes," he returned with pleasant interest in the repartee. "It's easy to drift through without leaving your mark. Tourists do it every day. They take their selfies…" He paused only long enough to reach for one of Cabhan's photographs, "on beaches, on bridges, with great stone monuments in the background. They dwell on how much a trip changed them. But no one ever thinks about how they could change a trip." No one ever thinks about how they can touch the world.
He released the photograph, and it fell flat on the table. "I'll join you." Elex spoke with an easy certainty. They met only once, but that livened the agreement rather than detracted from it. Cabhan was a charismatic mystery, with a name from oceans away. He'd seen just as Elex had seen. He wrote of wonders not fully understood. And he moved in that peculiar way that projected his confidence through a room, that confirmed his own certainty. He was open-minded, willing, and motivated. Elex could spend time with him and not later regret it. They could mark and be marked in each other's company.
Then Elex could finally start his dialogue with the world, beyond the tinny restlessness of its perpetual monologue.
kaefauxxx
and fin!
