Mindslice

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.

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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.