A/N: [Another] one for the Cillian Murphy fans. Could be sketchy (for which I apologize), but I'm pretty sure there'll be at at least a bit of intrigue, gore, and future-noir in the coming chapters. As always, thank you for reading, and welcome aboard!
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VIRAL
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Being: A Prologue
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The need for permanent, or at least semi-permanent, personal connection seemed to have faded with the advent of immortality: what, after all, did love represent if not a sense of being united with someone against the void of eternity, the inevitability of death? Now that said inevitability had been removed from the human equation, or was being pushed continually toward a retreating temporal horizon, love for love's sake had largely ceased to be. People rich enough— those who had all the time in the world— were in no rush to find the one; the poor hadn't the time for love.
Love. Not to be confused with simple carnal needs. For Timekeepers, set as they were socially inter-strata, a working class not wealthy but certainly not temporally destitute, love was typically a frivolity to be disregarded. Sex, on the other hand, was a need as basic as food or sleep.
Caroline Rawlins, Timekeeper. Average female height, lean with a Timekeeper's muscle, straight dark hair kept short. Eyes taiga-grass-green, facial features more symmetrical than beautiful. Wearing today, on her downtime, a blue scoop-neck t-shirt and olive khaki trousers. Leon saw her, her name, and her weapons status (None, per the metals scan) on the feed from his flat's security cam. He opened the door.
"Is it Friday, Timekeeper Rawlins?" he asked.
He wasn't joking; nor had he quite genuinely forgotten. Like many citizens his age, he'd become accustomed to thinking of time in terms of personal allocation, blocks of life, not as an arbitrary grid of months and weeks and days and their obsolete, mythic names.
Still, Rawlins smiled slightly, not quite showing her teeth, when she replied: "It's Friday, Leon."
Friday. One or two a month. His flat or hers. Conducive to longterm well-being: scheduled, agreed-upon physical contact— he found the word "date" shallow, if not repellent, the term "rendezvous" pretentious— with someone each of them could trust. They'd made the arrangement years ago. Leon ushered her inside, shut and locked the door behind her.
"Can I offer you a drink, Rawlins?" he asked.
Typically, she declined. But the day was abnormally warm for January. "Please," she replied.
In the kitchen, Leon poured two tall glasses of sun-brewed tea-over-ice, something he enjoyed more almost as a memory of a former life, so long ago had he acquired his taste for it. He drank his unsweetened; she stirred into her glass, amid a soft clinking of ice cubes, a single teaspoon of sugar. They stood opposite each other in the kitchen, watching one another drink, companionably silent. Rawlins finished first. She set her glass on the sideboard next to the sink.
"Thank you, Leon," she said.
She left the kitchen, strolled away down the hallway leading to the flat's one bedroom. She reached back to unhook the chain holding her ident tags as she went. Leon finished his tea and followed, unbuttoning his shirt.
In the bedroom, Rawlins pulled her t-shirt over her head. She folded the shirt over the straight back of the room's one chair; then, as Leon finished his last button, she caught him by the right wrist, turned him to face her, and kissed him open-mouthed. She still wore her bra, powder gray, laceless; her covered breasts brushed his exposed chest. She released his wrist, ran her palm down his flat hard stomach, caressed him. A variation in procedure: normally, he initiated contact. He found this highly pleasurable; his body responded quickly to her touch. In turn, in tender exchange, he broke free of the kiss to lick and nibble her throat, especially the sensitive spot beneath her right ear.
Rawlins shifted against him. "I'm ready when you are, Raymond," she murmured.
Also effective: her tone. Slightly hoarse, definitely receptive. Over the years, they'd honed their technique, the tactics of their arousal. Leon finished her undressing; she finished his. A gesture inherently sensual. Caring as well, and, in caring, pleasantly, effectively erotic.
Nude, Rawlins stretched out on the bed. Leon didn't follow. He let his eyes take her in, the lean lengths of her, the curves, the toned strength; he bent to nuzzle her neck, to indulge for a moment in her scent. He let his fingers trace her back, just to the left of her spine.
He felt her tremble. "Come here," she said.
Two words. So simple a command. It was Leon's pleasure to obey. Rawlins took his hand and drew him down; thus summoned, he shivered slightly in turn.
It was simple, clean, efficient, and intense. They'd long since established their schedule of dominance, their control give-and-take. On this particular Friday, he took her; after a brief rest, the two of them panting, relaxed, side by side on his bed, she took him. Afterwards, they indulged in a doze. She lay in his arms.
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As usual, Leon offered her something to eat. Through contacts and a bit of overtime, he'd obtained a decent-sized piece of steak. Ribeye. Real beef. In his boxer-briefs, in the kitchen, he cooked it for them. That, and green string beans he'd purchased from a zone's-edge farmer's market.
As Leon dished their food and set the plates and two glasses of filtered water on the worn Formica of the table top, Rawlins, belted into his old black terry bath robe, ran an evaluating hand across his trapezius muscles. "You're tense," she said. A simple, accurate observation.
"New case," Leon replied. He sat down, reached for three-inch-high metal silo that contained pepper blend. He could play the role of cynical loner and go silent, could wait for her prompts. All of which would be inefficient, a waste of time. "I'm waiting to hear from a contact. What might amount to a new type of fraud," he added, before she needed to ask. "Someone dealing in invalid time."
Rawlins seated herself opposite him. "I haven't seen a flash on that."
"It's not in the system yet."
Rawlins nodded, cut herself a piece of steak. "Invalid time. That could be a threat on any number of levels."
"The most immediate question, without further information," said Leon, as he reached for his water glass, "is how someone who deals in such a thing could stay in business."
"Inherently alienating the client base."
"Alienating— or killing." He sipped his water, watched her eat. "Do you want to sleep here tonight, Caroline?"
"No. I have an early flight to catch. An exchange program with Zone Eight." She looked at him evenly, as if evaluating his expression. Her own was friendly and frank. As always, she met his eyes. "But I certainly wouldn't decline an offer of dessert before I go."
Leon smiled.
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Of all the positions available to them, missionary always proved to be the most satisfying, for reasons Leon (who lay for a moment, in languid exhaustion, in Rawlins' arms after they finished) would just as soon not acknowledge. Rawlins left his bed reluctantly. She showered, got dressed. He saw her to the door.
For a moment, Rawlins hesitated before stepping into the hall. Leon thought he saw her shiver. She looked at him and said: "Take care, Timekeeper Leon."
"As always, Timekeeper Rawlins." He added, then, speaking almost without intending to: "You take care as well. Safe flight to Zone Eight."
"Thank you."
She left. Leon closed and locked the door, went back to the bedroom. He checked his phone for messages from his contact: nothing.
Eight-point-seven-five hours until the start of his shift. He set his phone to ring, placed it on the nightstand next to the alarm clock. He stretched out on his back on the bed, switched out the light.
Safe flight, Caroline.
He slept.
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