The Ghost of Shadows Pt. OneA Story by Nephelae The work-in-progress introduction to a mildly futuristic world in which children are bred to become government agents, raised in various programs to help attain geopolitical dominance. The Ghost of
Shadows He sat on the
weather-worn cement bench, digging at cracks with the nail of his index
finger. The lean male shifted his
weight, leaning his back against the dingy yellow wood slats of the Two Sisters
Restaurant, his frame covering up the old, advert. His head lulled to his
right, muddy brown-grey eyes tracing over the bright red letters that read “Hot
Boudin”. His stomach roared at the idea and a weak smile flirted across his
pale lips. A sigh before he lifted his wrist to check his watch. Haru lifted his right hip, digging in his
hand into the tight front pocket to retrieve a dark green, crumpled soft pack
of mentholated American Spirit. “Excellent,” he exclaimed quietly to himself as
he tried the package’s final offering and a small, black lighter. He dangled the
cigarette delicately between his lips, using his tongue to straighten it’s
placement before flicking the lighter and taking a long initial drag. Haru
shifted again, straightening his back and scooting back against the restaurant.
He exhaled through his nose, plumes of smoke clouding his face momentarily. He
flicked his wrist, looking at the watch. “Two thirteen,” he looked up through
the power lines at the puffy clouds amidst the bright blue sky. The wind picked up, the gust causing the
flaps of the open, flannel-patterned shirt to flop carelessly about his torso.
Haru glanced down, taking the cigarette between his index and middle finger and
pulling it away from his lips to flick the ash with the wind. Haru picked at
the lint clinging to the navy blue V-neck. His head lulled,
the wind picking up. Dust from the street flew up, swirling in a small dust
storm, before the wind dropped, smacking the cyclones down across Haru’s face.
He spit, using his free hand to dust his cheeks off in annoyance. A wayward
sheet of paper blew across his feet, clinging to his ankles as though it were
begging for attention. He stooped between his knees and pick up the crumpled
sheet. He moved his index finger along the corner, worn to a gentle softness by
time and exposure. Haru grimaced, looking into the face of the faded
age-progression photos. “Alisha Zhang,” he whispered to no one in particular,
“331750702.” He stared for a
few moments before balling the paper up and throwing it angrily in the
direction of the wind. “She’s no more than a blacked out number and an empty
coffin now,” Haru took another
drag of the cigarette, squinting at the sun. Haru examined his watch, his eyes
moving over the smooth black metal finish of the no-name device he’d purchased
in the French Market. Two fourteen.
He thought, sighing. There’s goes another
fifteen months out of my life. ‘It’s for the greater good. It’s to form a more
just, equitable world. He griped mentally. Same old political dogma, same old bullshit. Haru grit his teeth,
taking a few more drags of his cigarette before snuffing it out on the cement
bench, creating a black stain among the whitewashed cement and the streaks
green mold. He jammed the cigarette back into the package, sliding the lighter
in beside it with some force. His head lulled
back slowly, and his pale lids slid shut. The
city is big, I could just get lost. What would they waste for a 6.3? A two day
hunt…maybe, or�"his thoughts were interrupted by patrons of Two Sisters.
They exited nosily, thanking their host for the meal. Their accents thick,
unintelligible to many as they stumbled upon their thanks. Haru opened an eye,
examining them for a moment before reclosing his lid as they walked towards the
Quarter. “71463320901, 6.3.
Enter the vehicle,” a voice commanded with the casual authority of someone
longstanding in their position. The figure, an intake specialist by the name of
O’Hare, stood on the sidewalk across from Haru. Haru rose slowly,
jamming his cigarettes into his back pocket. For a few moments the pair stood
motionless, before Haru bent at the hip to align the hems of the skinny jeans.
O’Hare stood quietly still until the other male began to move toward the car. A
late model Crown Victoria with dark blue exterior and white District of
Columbia tag, O’Hare’s ride was a functional alternative to the standard black
SUV citizen’s had come to associate with government vehicle. O’Hare circled the
vehicle, opening the car with a stiff tug of the handle. He waited for Haru to
enter the car before shutting his door. Haru looked over at the other male,
extending his hand expectantly. The engine started smoothly and O’Hare pulled
away from the curb, motioning to the glove box. Haru pulled the handle and from
the compartment retrieved a small, green pill case. “Take two.” Haru
complied quietly. Haru looked out the window, the cool air moving through the
car vents causing his skin to prickle. Another week smile flitted across his
face as he watched the cityscape roll by. The pastel colors of the French style
houses beginning to blur as darkness crept in around the edges of his vision. Beside him O’Hare
shifted, switching on a radio. Mid-tempo music began to suffocate his thoughts.
Haru half smiled, watching the street signs become blurs of colors. Eartha Kitt
purred in his ear, muddying his world as the darkness loomed.
C’est si bon
He pushed away
from the table, pale hands leaving quickly disappearing trails of moisture on
the brushed steel surface. He squinted, twisting his lithe frame away from the
table to allow his elbows to rest on his knees, head dropping to his chest as
he sighed deeply. The room around him was a blaring, sanitary white. The table
top gleamed under the yellow-white light of the incandescent bulb above, stark
against the polished white floor like a sinking ship. The young male stood,
jamming his hands into the rough cotton of the light grey jumpsuit and
meandered toward the dark sea of reflective glass against the left wall. His
feet drug as he walk, making a faint scratching song. The door opened
and a muscular figure entered. “Have a seat.” The man commanded coolly, pulling
out the chair from the opposite end. The male sat, placing his right ankle on
his knee. A half-pleasant smile passed over his face. “State your name. State
your Age. State your former location.” “Haru Setō, 19,
Isla de Luz.” He responded, his eyes searching the face of his interrogator. “Where
is Atticus?” Haru pushed his hand through fine black hair, stiff from a recent
haircut. He rubbed his face with his palm, his fingers flexed outwards to avoid
his face. “Handler ™0933’s
whereabouts are none of your concern.” The man continued with the interview,
not looking up from the file before him. Haru turned away
from O’Hare, digging under his nails, Haru’s hand brushed through his hair
again, his fingers pausing momentarily to pull at the longer pieces at the top.
He groaned, glancing O’Hare’s way. His eyes narrowed, the black of his pupil
contracting to reveal the muted clay color of his eyes. O’Hare requested his arms. Haru obliged,
tugging up the sleeves of the jumpsuit, to reveal seemingly bare forearms.
O’Hare pulled a silver item from the folder. Small and rectangular, the item
had two metal prongs on the end. “Are you my new handler?” O’Hare placed the
prongs onto Haru’s wrist, blue numbers materialized on his skin. The numbers 71463320901
appeared, beneath them a series of locations and the number 6.3. O’Hare pressed
his lips into a tight line and removed the item, placing it back in the folder
pocket. “I know you,” Haru tilted his head to the right, the dropped it to try
to catch O’Hare’s eyes. “State your
position and your deviation code.” O’Hare dismissed the question, placing a
small cube between the pair to record Haru’s responses. Haru straightened,
his hand running over his hair again. “71463320901, former designation ν09.
Origination series one, sir.” He responded, examining the cube between them. “71463320901 ν09, hereafter
referred to by personal pronouns, origination series one, was reacquired from the
Isla de la Luz expansion program with the expressed permission of the
International Defense Board, and the cooperation of Isla de la Luz Department
of Defense. I am expected to fulfil the minimum standards of this training and
comply with all regulations regarding upgrades. I understand that should I fail
to meet these standards and regulations, I will be subject to program dismissal
and the expunging of my record.” O’Hare swallowed and turned the thin,
electronic sheet toward Haru, sliding it across to him. “Press your thumb
here,” he motioned to the lower corner of the document. Haru sighed at the
formality, leaning forward to press his thumb on the document. O’Hare withdrew
the document and placed it in the file. “Smoke break?”
With a dismissive wave O’Hare stood and left. Haru stood after
the man left, pulling his jumpsuit down to reveal a thin black, cotton V-neck.
He tugged at it, accentuating the soft trapezoidal shape of his stomach before
he walked out, pulling a dark green package of cigarettes and took one,
allowing it to dangle from pale lips. Haru sauntered, a careless air to his
walk as he headed down the dimly lit hallway. He reached the doors and pressed
his hand to the sensor, his left forearm illuminating once more before a buzzer
sounded and he stepped outside. He squinted at the sun, pressing his hand
against manicured eyebrows to shield his eyes. Haru grimaced,
turning away from the small group to sit beneath a secluded tree. Haru sat with
his legs crossed, the black rubber tips of the tennis shoes he wore sticking
out from under him. He dug in an inner pocket, revealing the crumpled green
package of cigarettes. He placed with half smoked menthol between his lips and
lit it, exhaling after a few moments. He shut his eyes
and let his head rest against the trunk of the tree. Haru took a drag, feeling
the warmth of the cigarette’s lit end in his fingers, signaling the cigarette’s
impending end. He exhaled slowly, through his nose, taking the smoke in again
through his mouth. He repeated the action until the fire burned hotly in the
butt before he lifted his head, eyes open, and flicked the shell of a cigarette
to the side. Haru’s eyes lifted
to the silhouette approaching him. The figure kneeled beside him, sitting on
her feet. “Hello Haru, it’s been some time,” she said casually, shifting her
weight so she sat on her right hip with her feet tucked to the side of her.
Like Haru, she was dressed in a loose grey jumpsuit, buttoned up so the black
tee shirt. She smoothed the material of her jumpsuit, picking out small pieces
of dead grass. Haru blinked at her dumbly “Twelve years Haru and you still
treat me like a stranger.” The female grimaced at him. Haru glanced at
the small group, “Hello Amélie, it is nice to see you again.” He smiled at her,
straightening his legs before he pulled his knees into himself. Amélie smiling,
using the back of her hand to wipe sweat from her brow. She wrinkled her nose.
“Have you finished your intake?” Haru shook his head no and ran his hand
through his hair. “Mm, O’Hare is very precise. By the time you are finished,
the ring will be prepped. You’re lucky, they’re likely to have the first trial
loaded. It’s your favorite: city.” She nodded as she informed him, watching him
with stormy blue eyes. Amelie’s hair was
swept up tightly into a neat bun, a few stray strands of fine black strands
whipping onto her reddish-brown skin with the gust of thick air. Haru rocked his
hips, using the momentum to rise. He extended his hand, offering it to Amélie.
“I will see you then, Mé.” He pulled her to her feet, pulling the arms of his
jumpsuit up and buttoning the buttons. He pulled the smooth metal knob, hot
from the direct sunlight overhead. Haru moved down the hallway quietly until he
found the door leading to his interrogation room. O’Hare sat quietly, his hands
folded on the metal folder. His hair was neat, cut in a short fade, a similar
style to Haru’s. Haru nodded to the man, tilting his head to the right for a
brief moment as he considered the idea that he was tardy. “Was I timed?” he
asked quietly. “Come, Haru. You
need to have your vitals done and meet your assigned group.” O’Hare pushed away
from the table, scooting his chair in after he stood. He gathered his paperwork
and brushed passed Haru, leading the way wordless down the hallway. He stopped
at the room which dead-ended the hallway and inhaled quietly, turning. “Exam Room
Eleven is yours, your doctor will be in shortly. You will need to hold on to
this. After you’re done getting checked in, a Mustang will take you to your
squad. Practice Op will be later today.” O’Hare extended the folder to Haru. “Thank you, sir.”
He took the folder in one hand and turned to enter the room. “Oh,” he stopped
midway and looked over his soldier. Haru paused, ebbing in the midst of
indecision before shaking his head and entering the examination room, the door
closing behind him. He exhaled quietly
and took a knee, untying the laces of his right foot before repeating the
action on his left foot. Haru stood, stepping out of his shoes and pushing them
toward the examination table. His fingers worked at the buttons, shrugging off
the top of the jumpsuit and stepping out of the bottom. He matched the seams of
the clothing, laying it out on the table to smooth it out as he folded it. Haru tensed,
running his tongue along the bottom of his teeth. He raised his head slightly,
in awareness. He turned over his right shoulder, placing his palms firmly on
the table to raise the rest of his body up. His eyes bounced along the corners
of the door, tension building in his core. I
could do it, he tilted his head. He
wouldn’t expect it. My history is model. I’d have to do so with no struggle,
his head fell in the other direction. Haru imagined the attack, scrutinizing
the plausibility. He shook the
thought away, “I couldn’t leave her alone.” He muttered allowed, his words
bouncing in the cold of the room. He examined his surroundings. Pushed to the
side of the room sat familiar machine, dimly shining amidst the other gaudy
metal appliances. Haru lifted himself and scooted back, laying against the gentle
incline. The thin paper sheet rustled beneath him. His eyes moved listlessly, taking note of the various objects. He pursed his lips. “Doctor’s never come until the emergency is over,” he muttered now squinting at the ceiling. Haru felt himself beginning to drift, his chest rising and falling in time with the second hand on the wall clock. Haru shifted on the inclined table, his eyes again drifting to the machine in the corner of the room. He grumbled to himself, drifting into a tumultuous sleep. -To be continued- © 2015 NephelaeFeatured Review
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1 Review  Last Updated on May 21, 2015 Tags: fiction, sci fi, black writers, black literature, in progress |
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