Testament

1- Memories, like nightmares.

--

The ground quaked as the titans ambled about, destroying anything in their path. The old clock tower was melting, boiling away in response to the heat of the flames that immersed the city. I stood watching, riveted to the middle of the street. I would run, but where to? There was nowhere safe on the land, no sea could provide a barrier to these runaway deities, and the skies where filled with their brethren…

There was underground but…

I stared down at the manhole at my feet. In the darkness something stirred, and a deep sigh seemed to emanate from the hole. I screamed as the ground crumbled beneath me, something reached out from the shadows.

--

The nightmare ended abruptly, the foreboding shadows of the underground quietly shifting into the familiar darkness of the bedroom. The mad scramble to get out of bed that followed ended just as abruptly, as I fell and hit the floor hard. After a few moments of lying dazed on the floor, I righted myself and leaned against the bed to recover. My face and neck were damp with sweat, the result of such a disturbed and tumultuous dream. It played over again in my head, as I tried to convince myself that it was a dream, until I couldn't bare it any longer.

I retreated from the bedroom, not bothering to look back.

In the earlier days of my youth, I might have calmed myself by taking a drive, or watching the sands of an hourglass flow. In recent times I'd begun to find solace in my typewriter. Taking a seat at the desk, I lit a cigarette and took a drag as I brought my hands to the keyboard, playing the typewriter as one would an instrument. The tapping of the keys and the snap of mechanical whirring from the machine were my music. I stayed like that for some time, sucking on cigarettes and drinking the occasional coffee, the memory of the dream drifting in and out of my consciousness as I typed.

My wife arrived as dawn broke. Her face was by all appearances unmarked by emotion. It was an easy ruse, one that I had long learned to see past... in it I saw the traces of annoyance, the slight changes in her features that marked her mood.

"Dee," I pleaded, before she could start. My poor sleeping habits have always been something of a touchy subject.

"Why aren't you asleep?" Quiet. Contrite. Monotone, even... but still carrying that carefully hidden tone of accusation.

"Nightmare," I explained over the click of keys, "I'm calling in sick."

Her face changed once more. This time it was the gentle and very slight down turning of lips, a tightening of the areas around her eyes. "This is the third time this month, darling." There was a taint of sarcasm in her tone, and I could tell she was irritated by the fact I didn't stop typing to speak with her. It was poor manners.

"So what? There are plenty of stock articles for them to run. Besides," I added coolly, "they can find themselves another negotiator if they don't like it."

"You're a reporter," she corrected. I stopped typing and turned away, tearing the cigarette from my mouth. The motion broke her focus and brought undue attention to my newfound habit. "When did you start smoking?"

I didn't respond at first. Maybe I was sulking, and maybe I felt a little guilty. The evidence was quickly smashed into the ashtray on my desk, and I tried to act as if nothing had happened. It didn't work.

"When did you start smoking?" she repeated.

"Don't remember," I lied.

That didn't seem to work either.

"When you where younger--" Dee started, as if she were under some unsaid obligation to delve into the past.

"When I was younger, I was an idealistic idiot who made up rules on a whim, and disregarded them just as quickly." The outburst was uncalled for, but I was tired and grouchy and had heard enough of her condescending attitude. "I didn't know how the world worked."

I returned to the typewriter, tapping away at the keyboard at a more fevered pace. She stood there for a time, almost as if expecting me to address her once more. Before long she wandered off. Dee would to entertain herself however she saw fit at such an hour of the night. It was not my concern.

--

The coffee didn't keep me up for much longer, but I wasn't willing to return to the bedroom. I slept on the couch instead. The rest of the day was spent in an empty blackness, my sleep devoid of dreams and their meddling. I awoke as the afternoon was fading into evening, groggy and even more tired than before.

I stumbled into the kitchen, vague thoughts passing me by as I slowly became more lucid. More coffee. More Cigarettes. Take a drag, take a sip, sit, wait.

Wait for what?

I dismissed the stray thought. There were other things to worry about, such as sitting around feeling disheveled and exhausted. At some point or another I found myself seated at one of the stools by the counter. My wife seemed to materialize from nowhere, and speaking to me as she pushed a plate of food into my hands. The words themselves didn't make it through the fog of my mind, but the smell of breakfast did. I put my coffee aside and my cigarette out and ate, the stray thought nagging at me all the while.

Waiting. It isn't a bad life; it isn't a good life either. Simply wait until something happens or it doesn't. Either way you're all right... all you've got to do is wait.

"Dee," I said, poor manners dictating that I continue to eat, just as I had continued to work the night before. She glanced up from the stove, her face as placid as ever. Following my poor example, she carried on clearing away the dishes, and I found it strangely obnoxious.

I tried to revaluate what it was that I wanted to say. "Do... do you think we're waiting?"

"Waiting for what?" she asked, pragmatic as ever.

I paused, thinking it over. "Just... waiting. Not only us, but this entire city. We're just waiting."

She reflected on it for a moment. "If you don't know what it is you're waiting for, how can you know if you're waiting or not?"

I put the food aside and leaned back, staring at the bland colors of the wall. "I think we're waiting." She didn't respond, but then again, I hadn't expected her to.

--

The pipe in the basement was leaking, one drop at a time. Slowly and surely it would emerge from the pipe and fall down into the growing puddle on the floor. I didn't like the basement. Large and foreboding, it seemed to have a feeling of lacking to it... like a chair that a long dead friend used to sit in.

...and it was below ground, where...

Gritting my teeth, I resigned to fix the pipe. It was simple, just some tightening nothing more. I had made it down the stairs, wrench in hand, only to fiddle with the lights and spend a few moments looking for a step stool before getting to the leaking pipe. It was in those wasted moments that my feelings of unease built up.

I turned the loose bolt until it was tight, and stepped down. Casually dropping the wrench on the ground, I watched the pipe for further leaks, and waited.

The water was defiant, and it still squeezed through the crevices. I watched as another drop formed and went along on its inevitable path to the puddle. It was in that instant of contact that the light flickered, and died.

I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. There was nothing to be afraid of. I wasn't afraid of the darkness. It was only an absence of light, no monsters or vile deities lurked within. Pick the wrench back up and tighten the bolt a little more, nothing to it.

I hadn't seen where the wrench had landed, so I groped around in the darkness, eyes still shut. My hand touched the puddle, fingers trailing its wet surface; instinctively I withdrew my hand and opened my eyes.

My reflection was easily visible on its surface, but contorted by the waves caused by the water dripping down from the pipe. There was something else too, points of light reflecting from something. They looked strangely familiar.

The titan grinned at me from the dark, a smile made of light, tears of silver. It wept at the destruction it had wrought even as it laughed at the suffering of man.

I jerked back, leaving the wrench as I twisted around and fled. It was only a reflection, only a nightmare, just a coincidental pattern of lights and shadows, a random firing of neurons in the night. It couldn't harm me, it wasn't real... I fled all the same.

--

The clock ticks, the hourglass turns, the pendulum swings, and time passes. Hours like minutes, days like hours. The sands run down until there's nothing left, and then it's time for you to die. It's not a bad life, waiting. It's not a good life either.

Dee never inquired about my inability to fix the pipe, although I did earn an ever so slight questioning glance. A repairman was called, the burnt out light was replaced and the pipe was fixed without incident. The puddle in which the deity hid was wiped away without a second thought.

The nightmares came again; steady as the sands of the hourglass, jarring as the alarms of the clock. I didn't sleep the next night either. This time I didn't call in, and returned to work weary and dazed. The day wore on in a tedious daze as I sat at my desk, tapping on the keyboard, and sipping lukewarm coffee.

--

Officially, my position with Paradigm is called 'opinion column journalist'-- an arrogantly over stated title-- but it's always been negotiating to me. I don't simply relay the facts in dry indifferent prose. I give the people of Paradigm a complete picture, and then try to convince them of the truth.

My editor is a clipped and stodgy man of fifty or so, with the conviction that he has all the wisdom of the world. Not the carefully collected wisdom that earned through years of studying and education, but the rough and jaded street smarts that comes from a life of struggle. He'd never set foot outside of the domes. What could he possibly know about difficulties?

He was a bought man-- the type who realizes it is on the coattails of others that his comfortable existence rides, and is unwilling to do anything that might endanger it. Rejecting controversial articles written by a resentful employee was no problem, which is why I wasn't exactly eager to see him.

I walked past the latest pretty blond secretary, purposefully ignoring her as I entered his private office. Yet another attractive woman to adorn the building, I sometimes wondered if he actually slept with them, or just kept them around as an ego boost. The latter would fit better into his neatly ordered clockwork world.

The room was dimly lit, packed with shelves and cabinets; each neatly labeled and precisely placed. A single desk dominated the décor, with my editor behind it and an uncomfortable looking chair in front. He'd been waiting, thumbing through a large binder with an indifferent expression.

After a moment he motioned for me to sit down, and then set the binder down on the desk. "This," he said, looking at me for the first time, "is a collection of copies for every article you've written for the Paradigm Press." There was a carefully placed pause, as if he expected me to say something. "Half of them have required substantial editing, a quarter were not run at all. What do you think about this?"

There were quite a few thoughts I had about the subject, but they were mostly inappropriate and not very gentlemanlike.

After a brief silence, the editor leaned forward, peering at me through the darkness, the creases on his face furrowing in annoyance. "As you are undoubtedly aware, Paradigm Press is a subsidiary of the Paradigm Corporation."

Of course I was aware. The Paradigm Corporation. Everywhere I go, that name haunts me... in this city it is God, State, and Enforcer. For so long I'd disowned the Paradigm Corporation, and now I was simply another one of their employees. What had caused me to go down this path? Was it that Rosewaters resignation hadn't been the fatal blow I'd hoped it would? Or had I always been part of it in some way? Even in the years of my dispute with the company, I had accepted more jobs from subsidiaries like Paradigm Press then I cared to admit.

"The Corporation does not believe in digging up memories for distribution to the general public," he goaded, leaning back into the chair. "You, on the other hand, seem to have little problem with it."

"Paradigm itself spends much time and money investigating memories," I snapped back.

"...and it does not publish it's conclusions." He returned, matching my anger with a calm, reasonable tone.

"Then why should Paradigm have any say in what's published here? There is freedom of speech and press." I knew this was skirting on dangerous ground, but the built up resentment was getting the better of me.

"We are still a subsidiary. Regardless of our relationship to the Corporation, we are inclined to agree with them. The memories of the past are not something to be taken lightly, and certainly not something to be serialized for the daily consumption of the masses."

"So, that's it then... Paradigm has a monopoly on truth? It figures, they own everything else in this city." I glared at him, unabashed. "Including the people."

The editor smirked sublimely. "You don't seem to understand that your job is at stake here."

I bit my tongue.

"One of your recent articles has caused some... discomfort among the executives. As a result, we reviewed your records and came to the conclusion you needed confronting."

I tried to remember which article that was, but my mind drew blank. "What choice do I have? Shut up and be a darling little reporter, or get thrown out?"

"Hardly. There are those of us at Paradigm Press who recognize the need for reporters like you. Reporters who can shake things up, and keep the people interested in the news." He waited a moment, to let this sink in before continuing. "We've decided to give you a paid vacation, a chance to think things through. What happens afterwards is up to you. Return and give up this nonsense about memories, or retire. In fact," he shut the binder with a thump, "you're well overdue for it. We offer a generous retirement package."

"Can I refuse? Quit?"

"No one would stop you, but think of what a waste that would be. I personally would prefer if you decided to stay on with us. You are a popular communist, 'Mr. Negotiator'."

"I'll think about it," I managed, gracelessly standing and starting out of the room.

"By the way... about that article," he persisted, stopping me in mid-step. "It's multipart, yet you've only submitted the first segment. Tell me, have you finished the others?"

I paused, considering the question. "No," I said before quickly retreating from the office, stumbling out the door and nearly colliding with the secretary. Courtesy required a mumbled apology as I moved with ever increasing haste towards the exit. I remembered what article I'd submitted. A 'multipart' never intended to go beyond the first half, I expected it to be intercepted... not out of any memories contained, but rather from it's absurd content.

It had been a transcription of my nightmare, the stalking visage of the vile titans.

I practically ran out of the building.

--

I exited the press offices at a slower pace, winded from my retreat. The artificial sun glared down from above like a stage light. I closed my eyes and wondered what it had been like before this city lost its memories... when the sunlight was real, freely giving its light and warmth to all.

For a moment, with my eyes closed, I pretended that the warm glow came from the real sun. The shade was from trees, massive and flourishing, rather than the imposing shadows of construction that populated the domes. Everything would be all right in the end.

I wasn't convinced.

Something touched my hand, and the memories of the basement came rolling back. I snapped my eyes open, prepared for any number of imaginable horrors... anything except for the pretty blond who stood only inches away. It was the secretary from Paradigm Press. She was smiling, her face uncomfortably close to my own.

Startled, I jerked backwards. How had she managed to catch up to me? Was this a disturbing new twist that my editor decided to add to his sweet little set up? I glared at her suspiciously.

She returned the glare with an offended look in her eyes, but made no comment. Instead, she stepped aside, allowing me a clear view what was on the curb behind her. It was an obnoxiously pink sports car, quietly awaiting a driver and passenger. I stared for a moment, a growing feeling of unreality gnawing inside as I turned to look at the pretty blond secretary once more.

It was her. Her car. The two of them impossibly unmarked by time.

The angel had reentered my life just as abruptly as she had left it, and I was frozen without any way to manage. She walked around to the drivers' side of the car and opened the door, unimpressed by my shock. "Well, are you going to get in, or are you just going to stand there?"

I got in.

--

The car was an overpowering assault on the senses-- the lush pink upholstery, the faint, clinging smell of smoke, the upbeat jazz playing softly on the radio. It was just as I remembered, the same feel, the same driver. Unwilling to look at her unnatural youth, I stared down at my hands instead, folded uncomfortably on my lap as they were. She pushed down the gas pedal and we started down the streets of Paradigm.

It was obvious why I hadn't recognized her. She was the same woman, just as blond, just as voluptuous. Not a wrinkle or gray hair adorned her. Over such a gap of time... it was impossible, not even my wife remained that well preserved.

"It's been a long time," I finally managed.

"It has," she agreed, not taking her eyes off the road. "You've changed."

"You haven't."

There was an awkward silence, an unbearable one. I cleared my throat after a few moments. "Where are we-"

"So, you're a reporter now?" she interrupted.

"I'm a negotiator."

"Sounds like you're really enjoying it. Did your wife make you take that job? It does seem a little out of character for you."

"No, I-- well. Damn it. Where are we going?"

"...I can imagine it now. She'd look at you, with that dour face, and say 'you're done playing hero'."

"I was the one who took the job. She was against it."

"You're a terrible liar." Her voice was cold, lacking the charm and sincerity it once had. So at least one thing had changed, and it wasn't comforting. If I looked into the mirror and saw her eyes, would they be as cold and empty as her voice?

"I wasn't lying." It was, at least, partly true. I didn't like this reunion; it was digging up uncertain memories filled with fear and confusion.

"Of course. What's the real reason?"

"...A letter a dead man sent me." I tried to clarify. "It was a part of his will..."

"What was in it?"

"Mostly prattle about memories and imagination, empty talk about an old mans passion and 'negotiating with the people.' Trying to convince them to see the world through another light, to search for the truth."

"How did that turn you into a journalist?"

I laughed, realizing how little my explanation clarified. "It was after you left. I had abundant time to think about my life, and I guess I just slipped into the role."

"Mmmn." She nodded to show her understanding. "Was that all?"

"Yes," I lied.

"Didn't I tell you to stop lying? You really are awful at it. Stick to the truth, it suits you better."

"I'm not lying."

...but the memory was already bubbling to the surface. I fought desperately to put it back down, to think about something else and forget. Forget the bad and remember only the good. To wait forever, wait and die. It's not a bad life; it's not a good one.

"Are you really that afraid?"

I glanced up to the rearview mirror. I could see her brilliant blue eyes in the reflection, their piercing gaze searching my secret thoughts.

It was just an illusion. I wasn't afraid. Fear is an illogical emotion for which there is no basis. I shook my head, trying to clear the haze.

"You are afraid," she observed, chuckling slightly.

I remember, I lie, but the truth is always present... haunting me like the ghost of a man hiding behind a mask. "There was a short story, a parable."

She was wrong, I wasn't afraid. How could I be afraid of a story? It didn't make any sense, and yet... "It was about a little boy who wanted to go to his grandfathers' house. He wanted to learn the knowledge of the world. And, well, there's this dark and terrible forest in-between his house and his grandfathers. His mother doesn't want him to go, and he's terrified of the forest, but he goes anyways."

She seemed shaken. "How does it end?"

"It doesn't."

--

We rode in silence for a while after that. I tried to speculate where she was going, but the route was an unfamiliar one. Strange, that there are only so many roads in this city, only so many paths one can take... I should know them all by now.

Retelling the story from the letter left me disordered. I tried to sort out my jumbled thoughts, only succeeding to come back and back again to the question I'd asked my wife. "What are we waiting for?" I muttered, releasing the words that were running through my head. "What are we waiting for?"

"Death." The Angel responded. It was hard to tell whether or not she knew that the question hadn't been directed at her, or if she cared either way.

"Death?" I asked.

"It's the only thing that's guaranteed to happen eventually."

"Why?" I wasn't sure what it was I was really asking.

"Why death?" She didn't quite understand the question either. "Or do you mean, why are we waiting?"

I shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Her cold smile seemed to creep up again. "That depends. Are you trying to dig up the truth about this city?"

"It would be a worthy assignment for a reporter."

"I thought you were a negotiator."

"And I thought you were going to answer the question."

She shook her head. "Don't waste your time, negotiator. You can't dig up the truth of Paradigm in this condition. Fear won't let you." Quickly changing the subject, she continued. "We're almost there."

"I'm not afraid. Now answer the question," I demanded, increasingly annoyed by her toying around.

"Are you going to try to fight against fear? It's a fight you can't win. Fear's been around since the beginning, long before even this city existed. It holds a power greater than me." She glanced over her shoulder at me. "That's the answer to your question. It wouldn't be this way if I had any real say in it... but I can only direct people to the right course, not force them to do what I want."

Unable to help it, I burst out in laughter, my hand reaching up to my forehead as my body shook. "And what course of action is that? Tell me, are you guiding them to the light, or seducing them to the dark?"

"I'm that type of Angel."

"Which type aren't you—Demonic, or Celestial?"

There was no response. The laughter subsided, drifting off into an uneasy silence.

"Angel," I asked again, earnestly this time, "what are you?"

"I'm just an ordinary woman."

Her answer set off another round of laughter. How could she show up one day, ageless and acting as if she'd never vanished a lifetime ago, talk of fear as if she chatted with it on a daily basis, and claim to be nothing but normal?

There was an abrupt stop. "We're here," she announced, her cold voice wavering. I glanced out the window, half expecting to find myself in some other world...

"This is where we started," I stated incredulously. "This is the Paradigm Press."

"Back where we started, no wiser, no happier. Just a little older, and a little wearier. It's amazing how many journeys end like this. A little sad too, don't you agree?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. It doesn't mean anything."

It was just like her assertion that she was ordinary. Of all the things I should feel, it was concern that came foremost. "Are you alright?"

"Just tired." She didn't elaborate, and after a moment I reached for the door. "Before you go, I've a favor to ask of you."

"Yes?" I half expected her to ask me to stay, to join her on another uncomfortable ride around the city.

"Get me a cigarette. There's a box in the glove compartment."

It was not what I'd feared, and I stared at the glove compartment for a few seconds before opening it and grabbing the half empty box of smokes. I handed her one, and hesitated. She produced a lighter from her coat pocket and lit up, then offered the lighter to me. I silently took one of the cigarettes and took her up on the offer.

"You have changed," she said, after I'd returned the lighter.

"So have you," I replied, taking a drag on the cigarette as I opened the door and climbed out. No sooner had I shut the door, than the Angel flew off in her obnoxiously pink car.

She'd parked over a manhole to let me out, and my gaze settled on it as the car disappeared into the distance. It would be so easy... I could just open the manhole and climb in, find out what was really going on in the city. I could find the reason for my nightmares.

I'm not afraid. Why should I be?

I took a step forward.

A deep sigh emanated from the underground, and something stirred in the darkness.

I took several steps backwards, and then turned and walked away in hasty retreat from the manhole. Overhead, the clockwork sun puttered along on its motorized track.

--

The buoyant light of the afternoon had faded into the brooding darkness of evening. I walked through the barren rooms of my house, reflecting. The riddles brought up by the Angel, the dark reflection in the basement, the Titans that haunted nightmares... were they memories?

It didn't seem so. They were not dusty, meaningless, like the memories that stirred within me as I stalked the hallways. These were something else. The living personifications of the past.

I scowled at myself. What past? There was no past! There was no point on dwelling on things long buried; it was better to focus on the future!

Some part of me conflicted, without a past there is no future. If the entire history of the world could be wiped out in a single fire-filled night, then a person's legacy could not extend beyond death. Life would be nothing more than a fleeing moment of existence, a short pointless wait before being thrust once more into the void.

I heard the faint sound of my wife's piano. She was playing some obscure classical tune. The noise shook me from my vague meandering thoughts on existence and forced me to contemplate the more immediate problems of the here and now. I still had yet to tell her that I'd be accepting a forced retirement. I needed to find some way to break the news without her forcing the truth of the ultimatum out. If she did, there was the danger that she might talk me into taking it.

But when I reached the foyer she barely glanced at me, focusing instead on the music. It was an oddity and I paused at the door. Perhaps she was just waiting to finish that particular song? But when she wrapped up the tune, she led straight into another.

Unsure of what to make of this behavior, I decided to ignore it. I walked into the room and found my way to the desk and typewriter. Taking a seat I noticed that something was off; it was somehow transformed, different. It took a while for my sleep-deprived mind to catch on.

"This isn't my typewriter."

The music stopped. "Do you like it?"

My old typewriter had years of wear and tear, and while this one had seen its fair share of use, it was in better condition. The brand name displayed on the front coincided with my style of journalism. It looked lighter and classier than my old clunker.

I reached over to touch it, but the chair twisted out from under me. I fell over backwards, the chair toppling and hitting the carpeted floor hard. My wife glanced up from her piano for the first time. "You could have said you didn't like it, there was no need for theatrics."

I shifted around and rose to my elbows. "I like it. That was an accident, forget it."

She watched as I stood up and righted the chair, and our eyes met. I tried to read the slight expression on her face, but it was difficult to register. Concern? Fear?

"What's the occasion?" I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear the answer.

She turned away. "You don't remember?"

I hadn't slept in two days, and any sleep before that had been dubious at best. I tried to remember, running through dates of every sort over and over, but no answer came.

"It's our anniversary," she explained in a voice steadily flat even for her.

My mouth opened and closed, and my mind ran off into several different incoherent directions. It was jumping for a solution, to come up with something, anything to resolve this situation. There were no answers, and I stood their choking on my own folly for several seconds. "Dee, I'm sorry, I..."

"It's alright," she said, her hands returning to the piano keys. "It doesn't bother me."

We didn't speak to each other for the rest of the night, and I retired early. My bed-- nightmare-ridden as it was-- was comforting. The dreams at least were a problem that I was familiar with, a dilemma in which I knew where I stood.

--