The soft hum of jazz rolled through the Rompa bar, curling its way around the tables and chairs. A drunk Opifex gent, perched on a barstool near the front bobbed his head in time to the music between sips, serving to spill most of his drink onto himself. Behind the swinging door to the kitchen I could hear the shouts of the short order cook and manager getting into it with each other. The growing noise didn’t seem to bother the hulking bartender as he methodically polished shot glasses, one after another. He glanced my direction and smiled the same grin he’d been tossing my way for hours; warm and curious.
You see, I was waiting for something, and I wasn’t willing to leave till I’d discovered it. I had wasted just over three weeks. Wandering in the snow and ice of Penumbra, I had tried to freeze it out of myself with no success. It had only managed to disappoint; me, my friends, and the other Dreamers. Nothing was different inside my head; nothing at all.
In front of me I had sprawling piles of paper that I sorted, stacked, un-stacked and re-stacked compulsively. The edges of my mind felt frayed. Old photos, news articles some so worn they had yellowed, love letters, lists, notes – bits and pieces of my life. I tingled with a sense of urgency; notepad clutched in one hand, a strong cup of tea in the other. I stared at the piles before me – just as I had been for hours. I waited.
"Why?” “You need to get out more, Kate” “You should try a vacation.”
I’d heard it all, countless times over the last year. I started to wonder if I had looked all this time like I now felt, like my collapse was eminent and everyone around me could see it. It wasn’t a collapse though, not that had me so preoccupied. Explosion; that had me far more worried. Something, something just was so very wrong. I needed to find an answer and fast; the Truth. My Truth. I hope to find it here in this booth with my stacks, studying the mess of papers where running in the cold had failed.
Frustrated. Yup, totally and completely. I close my eyes for a moment, leaning into the faded red and green fabric. I can feel myself, standing on a ledge, totally uncertain if what I need to do is jump into something new and unknown, or turn back and be safe. Shaking my head, I mutter, “Messages.” That should cheer me up, at least as a distraction. Flipping my comm line on, I sift through each one: Junk, junk, more junk, advertisement for implants… and a message from Fingahz? I thought he was dead. I should have known not to assume that about a fixer, especially that fixer; would have to be hearty married to Pax. Chuckling to myself I fired back a short reply –
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To: Josh Fingus
Hey, long time no see. Buzz my comm some time; I’d like to hear about where the hell you’ve been. Damnable fixer! Call me if you need anything.
Curiously, -- Kate
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Clicking the line closed again it was just me and the pile. Woman vs. Pressed Plant Pulp: I squinted staring it down, and for a moment thought it squinted right back. You’re losing it Kate. Sighing and picking back up my tea I steeled myself. It would be, another, long night.