Post by jackalope on Oct 20, 2012 7:49:28 GMT -5
Ultimate Ex Machina #0: Smoke and Mirrors
The heat is killer. It's midday and the sun is directly overhead. Mitchell keeps a wary eye out for any glint of metal in the distance. Supposedly the area's been insurgent-free for months now, but what the media preaches seems to not to have got though to the terrorists. Maybe we just need better translators, he thinks. The hills are a slug, pitted with pothills and sheer climbs. The marine seems to have no trouble leaping from foothill to foothill. Mitchell on the other hand, well he only just passed basic training.
“It supposedly appeared from a couple of hundred feet in the sky, 'ccording to locals. Burned green like a meteorite they said.” The marine shakes his head grinning, “Course they make up any shit to fuck with us.” He looks at Mitchell who is just catching up. “Might be a trap, some sort of bomb.” As Mitchell's eyes become wide, from behind his goggles, the marine starts out again. “Then again might be nothin'.”
As they reach the ridge they both accept it's not nothing. The sand within the crater has become black glass. In the centre a small green box glows intermittently.
“Shit.”
Mitchell walks past the mouth-open marine, pulling out a Geiger-counter. He turns back, “It's not radioactive, but you should probably step back.” Continuing towards the box, he pulls on a set of reinforced gloves. Kneeling he leans in close. No seams or buttons. The glow was a regular pulsing, like a heartbeat. Holding his breath Mitchell Hundred reaches towards the box. Suddenly it's whining, a hum screeching through his mind.
Whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
*
He wakes panting. For a moment he can only hear his own heartbeat, thudding like and industrial factory. It's just past 3:30 in the morning. The green numbers glowing on the bedside clock hurt his eyes.
“DIM.”
Rotating his legs out of bed, he pulls off his T-shirt which is wet with cold sweat. He rubs his eyes. Metropolis is a city that never sleeps; even with the dampeners he has set up he can hear it. He stands. Letting his bare feet take his weight, he stumbles forward across the wooden floor. His room opens out into a large open plan area, huge windows taking up one whole wall. It's raining.
Silently he walks between his sofas towards his own refection. There, with his bare chest he can see the scars, lines of green nodes stretched out like branches of a tree. Tracing his finger along one of them, he can feel the slight current. He clenches his jaw. The city looks beautiful from the height of his apartment. Down Bessolo Boulevard, giant signs playing ridiculously huge advertisements, the Daily Planet globe rotates slowly, Centennial Park in the distance, the lights from china town, he can even see what looks like huge bird flying through spotlights in the distance. Or maybe it's a plane. He shakes his head, smiling.
He steps back to the couch and picks up a joint, then wanders to the kitchen counter.
"COFFEE ON." The coffee machine starts to grind coffee beans and boil water. He clicks, pointing at the Television which lights up, showing the WGBS newsfeed. He opens the draw, pulling out the lighter. He clicks it, once, twice. He shakes it. “FUCKING WORK.” The light catches, flame rising high, he burns the end, puffing. Raising an eyebrow, he looks to the large silent screen.
"LOUDER."
The volume increases. The overnight news cycle is showing repeats of the day’s news, crime is down, thanks to Luthor's little project. Fuck, he thinks, if only all the rich bastards would find it convenient to help the poor. He'll have to probably give him an award or something. His campaigners will want him to soak up the good media before the re-election next year.
“How many other devils’ hands am I going to have to shake before this is over?” he whispers to himself. Catching his reflection, he knows the answer already.
As the coffee starts to fill his cup he drags deep on the joint, trying to get the hazy buzz he desires. He hears Councilman O'Donnell's voice playing from the debate from the day before. “Mayor Hundred thinks that he has the right to force hard working business owners to spend their own money, and that of the hard working tax-payers of this great city, in pursuit of a hippy pipe dream. Wind turbines and solar panels? Doesn't he really think this will fly in these trying times?”
Frowning, Hundred clicks his fingers and the channel changes. A protest. “Death to America, the people chant, amassed in outrage over the viral video's offensive conten...” He clicks again. A giant lizard strides across Tokyo, the feed reads live. Click. A teen shooting in Central City. Click. Birds fall from the sky.
"OFF."
Tipping out the remaining coffee he sits down on the long leather sofa. He lies back and tries to concentrate solely on the rain. Smoke wafts through the open air above him. He stubs out the remaining joint and closes his eyes. “Don't dream,” he whispers, “don't dream.”
*
Icarus floats close to the sun and dips.
On top of a great tower he stands. A multiverse rotates around him. Or he's rotating. He's perched precariously on the globe. The Daily Planet. Mitchell squints and the clockwork angel flaps its mighty wind up wings.
“The Architect asks of the Plan.” The angel's words are golden, tracing in the space between them in a strange foreign script.
“I'm trying.” Mitchell says. His words spill out green.
The Angel shakes its head. “The Architect says you must complete your tasks. Too much relies upon it.”
Mitchell is crying now. Blood runs to his chin. The clockwork angel opens its mouth once more and chirps. Again, a ringing chirp.
*
Mitchell wakes. His phone is calling. He rolls onto the floor and stands. He walks to the bedroom. The temptation to make the damned thing explode is tempting. Sliding open the lead-lined cupboard, he opens the cell phone.
“Mayor Hundred? You wanted to be woken- it's 5.45 and you've got the Grenning meeting at 7.”
“Thanks Journal.” He shuts the phone.
“A new day in the City of Tomorrow.”