A MAN WITH NO HOME
Tell me, sweet stranger, do you know the story of Normant Lumensky, the man from a mystical land universes away from Earth? Making an ark out of his chains, he turns from a prisoner of war into a fugitive.
A WOMAN AGAINST THE WOR...
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WE SALUTED THE NIGHT from a rooftop bar, drinking cocktails and eating chips that Jasmine had picked up from a grocery store down the street a few minutes ago.
Four days had passed since the atrocities that had taken place in Clairvoyant's office. Four days of me driving off into the unknown every night, cooking all the meals a luxury hotel would cook in a week, tending my garden, punching my bedroom's door, writing countless pages of schmaltzy shit to stop thinking about it. Nothing had helped. It was still there. That feeling of terror I could not quite describe; that fire in my chest that would not leave me alone even when I lay in bed after the fullest day; that rush of panic that grew heavier whenever I was alone. I moved forward, dragging my chains in the direction I liked most. But they were still here, with me, slowing me down.
It did not matter. Not tonight. Not when Jasmine, in her blue satin dress, was the duchess of the ocean and the jests between us hallowed whatever last bit of bad blood still lingered in the air. Mirth crept into her eyes each time we laughed, each time I got out of the closet the boisterous part of me. She liked it, as she liked—or at least tolerated—the filled with misery part of me. And I liked that about her. For she had not said anything about the way I could not really focus on anything or sit still. She had not made the atmosphere between us any more awkward.
We did not talk about anything work-related. We were adept at avoiding all the things that might ruin the vibe. And how could I bring up anything about Pioneers when she was radiant, willing to listen to me talk about that show I was binge-watching lately? I just could not.
"It's called Shameless," I said.
"Oh, I didn't know we were the inspiration behind a TV show. I'm honored," she joked.
I wanted to laugh too. I really did. But instead, I took a deep breath to settle myself. As for Jasmine, she took a sip from her cocktail to ward off the silence.
"So why did you want us to meet?" I asked.
She leaned forward, nimbly, as if she had been anticipating that moment for years. "I just wanted to clear some things up," she said, not even a teensy bit of hesitation in her words. "Are you okay with that?"
"Yeah."
"Are you sure about it?"
I chuckled. "Totally. Let's get this over with."
"Okay then." A pause followed, and I wondered if she was the one not okay with talking about business. Before I could say anything, she took a deep breath and started, "It's about that message you sent me a few nights ago. I'm sure you didn't send it because you were interested in joining our cause. I also know that even though Clairvoyant has sent you here to earn our trust and learn our secrets, you're not the type to obey. So . . . if you're neither serving Clairvoyant, nor wishing to destroy her, what is it that you want, Mr. Lanter?"
"I think the question here is what do you want from me, Ms. Nicholson?"
She pulled a full package of gum out of her white purse and slid it across the table. When I took one, she replied, "What I mean is that since you're not really serving Clairvoyant, maybe that's the perfect opportunity for us to start doing great things together. Far greater than the ones we will do to each other if we remain enemies. And since you've now learned of our plans, you can officially become one of us—if you want to."
