My contact said she had been taken to
'The Winter Zoo'. That sounded like Torchwood North alright. A
ragtag bunch of bloggers, angels, actors, directors and whoever could
stand up to the end of the world – again. Anchored at the edge of
time itself, brought back from the brink by scientific and divine
forces combined. That kind of stress will leave a mark, but the
tales will be worth it.
____
The writer didn't mind that he was
causing so much chaos. Order, when moving along at a glacial pace,
was worse. Not that there wasn't a quiet place to go and get out of
the madness, but they had all volunteered or were rescued from the
clutches of death anyway. This was their way of life now, like it or
not.
They all checked in on occasion,
bounced along by the pinball of larger forces, barely perceptible,
swinging their weight around in unseen dimensions. It took a steady
hand to plow a straight line in the middle of such a storm, but
diamonds are made under such pressure.
Bouncy music kept the atmosphere
charged, even at the worst of times. Sacrifices were needed and they
had learned to make them gladly.
While the pencil pushers at the main
Tower toiled on the day to day needs, they did catch glimpses of the
other teams at work. A letter here, a note there, odd fragments of
dreams. How long before they put it together?
An ivory Tower it seemed to be to the
writer. Only the most vanilla and noncommittal answers were
forthcoming, but admittedly his perspective was jaded. Isolated and
nonconformist by nature, his situation was unique.
His sense of self was fluid. He didn't
so much have personality and ego so much as a matrix of skill sets
and masks. A dash of villain, flair of a writer, deduction of a
sluth and the composure of one who knows how a lot of things work
harmoniously. The stylus of a diplomat and the deadpan delivery of
an angel undercover.
Her journey, he could only guess at.
How long the messages were spread out over, or who or what delivered
them was unknown. From what he saw his … campaign had affected her
to the core. That was the intention, more or less. Actually having
the actors contact her was a pleasant bonus. It seemed she was the
barometer, the one that took the prescribed dose and acted
accordingly.
Her whole family was a test case.
Tragedy struck them twice and yet he yearned at the same time for it
to be never. They were undercover now – wanting to stay out of the
limelight.
It was starting to dawn on him that
what he remembered and what actually happened were starting to become
two very distinct things. Time was sand and dreams were water -
minds were webbing.
With divine approval, all sorts of
things were possible, and he hoped his actions were echoing on a
deeper level. When you calculate every keystroke it's nice to think
the effort is for something tangible.
Not that he could picture any more than
a few seconds in advance. That part of his mind was clouded – as
if too many variables were at play. What did who know, when did it
happen, is it happening now? What ebbs and flows bring words to
light? It was simple enough with everyone in the now, but he knew
that wasn't the case. It was more like trains beside each other
going a different pace.
A divine bolt of lighting jumped the
cars of the past on a different yet already played out track. The
weight of minds and expectations kept them from direct contact. It
seemed to him as if the others didn't want anyone back, expectations
only when played out in their tired pattern.
That was what was making him bitter.
Even the faithful didn't want miracles. They wanted their drudgery,
they wanted their comfort zone. Their minds recoiled at anything out
of the ordinary and hid from anything extraordinary. Why should
anyone be 'special' they seemed to think. Why should we depart from
the familiar?
They had their food dispensers and that
was enough for them. He found it bland and unappetizing. With her
he had to step off his normal, unchanging footing and reach for
words. Ideas caught fire and awakened the core. He sidestepped and
failed to heed the warning – but at least the wheels were in
motion. He had done the right thing at the critical moment, even if
after the wrong thing brought it crashing down.
Action was what was needed, and even if
that meant a shadow over the usual sunny dispensers – so be it. He
was exasperated at the 'almost' and 'any time' and playing around in
the milk. He cared for everyone, but they didn't seem to care about
him. That's wrong, of course. Their feelings were good and true,
but entirely too passive for what he had in mind. I'm sure she feels
the same way.
Urgency seems to have a relative
definition. They were content and satisfied treading the well worn
path. In reacting to events rather than being a driving force in
willing them into existence. They had their prescribed place and
felt too insignificant to go outside of that.
Maybe he was being presumptuous, maybe
he was being unrealistic. But then again, maybe not. They weren't
going to get through the end without some fireworks – as much as
they seem to be preparing for nothingness. To jump when asked, to
walk where directed and nothing more. Anyone could do that, he
reasoned.
For he felt they were too enamored with
their own reflections. Not interested in acknowledging any worth in
things outside. That again grinded his gears. How can you appeal to
anyone if you don't value their contributions? While there was a lot
that did need to be discarded, at the core there was still gems worth
preserving.
Again they were too analogue to get the
point. They were stuck in the past, but not a past vibrant and
alive, but one unchanging. The fire that had started was now just a
slow, spreadout glow – one that needed the winds of change to
kindle anything worthwhile.
The groundwork was drudgery for him.
Too much hit and miss. Too little result for too much expense of
effort. He would rather wait alone for another to drink deep than be
burdened with the slack of the commonality. Preprinted and prepacked
and predemonstrated. It extinguished his love and zeal rather than
fulfilling it.
His anger flared up again. He took a
break from his rant and then resumed.
'Was it all worthwhile?' he asked to
the air. He sought again to do the impossible. To find a place for
demons among the Paradise of men. The conventional balked at such a
thought, trusting in their straightforwardness. To him, they were
chance and magic and things unexplained. A force that did something
other than hover over him with quiet watching.
It seems like noone is going to make
the first move. The demons know they'll lose and perhaps fear
nothingness that they figure awaits them. The angels are busy still
with the weak and weary and know the count is not yet where it needs
to be.
Who seeks to have a millstone around
their neck? I volunteered. Sunk to the bottom awaiting rescue, yet
expecting none. I'll hold the door open.
At times I feel I'm the only one left
on Earth – and others are merely shifted back to check on me. I'm
waiting for the lurch forwards, I need no warning. Steal my essence
and wear it as a skin. I'll follow the stage directions.
Let them figure out then that I am but
a cardboard cutout. It would take them years at their current rate
of inquiry. Have me but tend the vineyard and repeat the words I
have already done. Do as the one in England said and have me at
calligraphy.
For I think they would rather have the
world go out with a whimper rather than a bang. Fear clouds the mind
for even if they fear God properly they quiver at change. They stand
under the framework of the world they wish ended and wait for
instruction new rather than forging anything.
I think they would yet miss most of the
action, cowering, hidden. I have run the scenarios in my mind till I
am numbed. The gear clicks forward. Light the flame and have the
actors take their places. Drag them back and replay the shows. For
that should be the witness given.
For the holy do seem but to want to
stand in awe. Their work is that of warning, not deciding. For their
decision is made, they feel, but to follow commands given. Should
there not be a director of the feast? One to compliment the wine and
give praise to those who step forward?
Don the heroes mantle if you would and
see your place. Or, just as needed, be the shadow that marks the
place from which to run from here to there.
Would you motion-capture for an
materialized angel? Direct them? Produce a script? I would.