The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley

I Fought the Law - 10/29/04

Friday, October 29, 2004

I should be glad that I'm alive. Actually... I guess I am already glad. 

If I'd known, really known, what that was going to be like before I did it, I'm not sure I could have gone through with it. Call me Weak-Kneed Huntley if you want. Anyway. Back to the beginning, as I must. 

I decided to fly solo on my, uh, mission last night. Rence wanted to come along, but I didn't want to risk  him getting hurt again (his arm isn't even fully healed yet). Not to mention that my plans required some amount of stealth, and one person can be sneakier than two. 

I told him to keep Naomi company when she got back from her shift at Alexander's and to watch over her. He complained, but in the end went along with my instructions. Or so I thought. 

So I headed into downtown, alone, at around nine o'clock in the evening, as Rafael had instructed. The day had been overcast but mild for fall, and the mildness persisted into the evening. I was on my way to the office-heavy area south of Dupont, near Farragut. 

Do you know where I mean, if you're a regular in D.C.? I'm not going to say here which building I went into specifically, but I’m talking about the area with all the cute little shops and restaurants on the street level (Connecticut, the middle-of-the-alphabet lettered streets, and so on)— and floors and floors of anonymous office space directly above them. 

Haven't you ever wondered what all that space was for? Ostensibly law firms and the like, but it's always seemed to me like a good part of the space is... unaccounted for.

Sometimes I've even had the feeling that all those Starbucks and Cosis are intentionally there at your eye level, like a glamour, so you won't think to look up and wonder at what's behind those rows and rows of blank windows above your head. What a perfect commercial handshake. The Starbucks and Cosis occupy prime real estate and rake in the business, and their upstairs neighbors can do whatever the hell they please. 

Well, last night I discovered what was in the upper floors of one of those buildings. 

I stood outside a certain shop a couple of blocks from the doorway I wanted and waited there. A few minutes later, a silver appeared, dressed in the fake-cop duds of a security guard (fake-fake-cop, in this case, I guess). 

He walked toward me, didn't stop walking once he'd gotten to me. On his way past, he discreetly dropped a little envelope into my palm. When he was gone, I headed in the direction of my doorway, opening the envelope as I went. Inside was an access card, and a small slip of paper with a number on it. On the reverse side of the paper was a strange symbol—but a familiar one.

I knew it. I knew it from my collection of symbols that I’d drawn over and over again. I’ll give you an approximation here, but the real thing is—twistier. Slimier, somehow. When drawn correctly, it seems to move. I don’t want that kind of accuracy living in this journal. [see image]

Rafael had said they’d be giving me a tool to use against my enemy. Something in addition to the knife. Could this, somehow, be it? Why did they never give me the whole picture? 

I palmed the card and slid it through the reader when I reached the doorway. Unzipping my coat to reveal my dress shirt and tie, I stepped into a small, shining lobby with a (human) security guard at the desk, who was reading a lad mag. I didn't even look at him, just walked briskly to the bank of elevators and hit the button. If you act like you belong, you can belong.

The elevator brought me up several floors and then I abruptly punched a button, struck by a thought. I stepped into the darkened law offices of— let's call them Dewey, Cheatham & Howe. Just because I'm a cut-up. A laff factory.