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x_projectBecause I was bored. Little longer than a drabble, little less than a short story. Fun with second-person narration and lyrics.
Where would you rather be?
Anywhere. Anywhere but here.
When will the time be right?
Anytime but now.
You repeat this to yourself when you look in the mirror. But this is where you're needed. Your father needs you.
You don't look a lot like him, you notice, peering closer. You have his hair, gone white at an early age. Maybe something in the cant of the nose, the edge to the cheekbones. Where his skin is lined with age, yours is still smooth, though a little weathered. You're resistant to friction and windburn, but not immune. Moisturizing soap lathers up, scraping away the vestiges of stubble before the mirror can even begin to start fogging.
Wilderness of mirrors, world of polished steel
Gears and iron chains turn the grinding wheel
I run between the shadows; some are phantoms, some are real
The info drop is complex and simple at the same time. A junk email deciphered gives you the location and the time. A double cloverleaf interchange in Arizona. You're bypassing traffic, tracing the thin white line along the edge of the freeway, swerving only to avoid the occasional trucker dozing off for a second at the wheel or an overweight highway patrolman hypnotized by the readouts on his radar gun.
You smile, doing 412 in a 55.
A film canister with an X marked on the top in black marker. Anyone else would miss it, but your eyes can pick out details like none other. You can count raindrops as they fall, outracing the storm without even getting wet. In the flash of lightning you read the message before it disintegrates from air resistance.
You've made INTERPOL's Most Wanted list. Congratulations.
Wilderness of mirrors, streets of cold desire
My precious sense of honor, just a shield of rusty wire
No one asks you where you've been, your father's errands don't need to be discussed with them. As for him, he knows you inherited your mother's wanderlust, but you always speed to his side when he calls. He trusts you. You're the only blood family he really has left, after all.
He tells you of his ideals, and of locations and methods. He entrusts you with his secrets, because he's proud of you. When no one else looks, he places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently and calling you "my son".
You encode his information into a message, and speed off to hand it over to his enemies.
You're saving the world.
Move fast. Talk faster. Trust no one who can't keep up.
The case had been tried by the jury inside
The choice between darkness and light.
The world moves pretty fast, Pietro. You just have to keep one step ahead.
Where would you rather be?
Anywhere. Anywhere but here.
When will the time be right?
Anytime but now.
You repeat this to yourself when you look in the mirror. But this is where you're needed. Your father needs you.
You don't look a lot like him, you notice, peering closer. You have his hair, gone white at an early age. Maybe something in the cant of the nose, the edge to the cheekbones. Where his skin is lined with age, yours is still smooth, though a little weathered. You're resistant to friction and windburn, but not immune. Moisturizing soap lathers up, scraping away the vestiges of stubble before the mirror can even begin to start fogging.
Wilderness of mirrors, world of polished steel
Gears and iron chains turn the grinding wheel
I run between the shadows; some are phantoms, some are real
The info drop is complex and simple at the same time. A junk email deciphered gives you the location and the time. A double cloverleaf interchange in Arizona. You're bypassing traffic, tracing the thin white line along the edge of the freeway, swerving only to avoid the occasional trucker dozing off for a second at the wheel or an overweight highway patrolman hypnotized by the readouts on his radar gun.
You smile, doing 412 in a 55.
A film canister with an X marked on the top in black marker. Anyone else would miss it, but your eyes can pick out details like none other. You can count raindrops as they fall, outracing the storm without even getting wet. In the flash of lightning you read the message before it disintegrates from air resistance.
You've made INTERPOL's Most Wanted list. Congratulations.
Wilderness of mirrors, streets of cold desire
My precious sense of honor, just a shield of rusty wire
No one asks you where you've been, your father's errands don't need to be discussed with them. As for him, he knows you inherited your mother's wanderlust, but you always speed to his side when he calls. He trusts you. You're the only blood family he really has left, after all.
He tells you of his ideals, and of locations and methods. He entrusts you with his secrets, because he's proud of you. When no one else looks, he places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently and calling you "my son".
You encode his information into a message, and speed off to hand it over to his enemies.
You're saving the world.
Move fast. Talk faster. Trust no one who can't keep up.
The case had been tried by the jury inside
The choice between darkness and light.
The world moves pretty fast, Pietro. You just have to keep one step ahead.
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Date: 2006-01-28 05:15 am (UTC)