Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.
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4
As you sit here reading and as I weave this narrative together, just as we speak, two journalists a span of a city apart are just about to open their doors and meet with the greatest news story of their lives.
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Antonio Carriedo is a man not quite made for the tense, fast-paced world of journalism. He figures since he is good at penning sonnets and ballads, he is a decent writer, but writers don't make the money unless someone constantly reads their writing. So he goes into university thinking that newspapers can't be all that bad and he likes to talk to other people so how hard can newswriting be, really?
So here he is, a fresh-faced twenty-six year old, lying on the ratty couch in his apartment with yesterday's newspaper over his face as he "mulls" over a story he's had writer's block for for at least two days. See as he breathes slowly, and how he seems to be turning over the facts in his head. Pay no mind to the soft snore-like sounds; they are only the sounds of a thinker.
His laptop is lying a couple feet away, on top of the messy coffee table. That table has not seen a coaster or even a cup for a year now – not after it has been taken over by rejected drafts and scribbled notes from a previous interview. Antonio is not a cleaner. If he searches hard enough, he might find the socks he thought he lost a couple weeks ago under the chaos.
The digital clock over the oven reads seven-three-five, although according to his watch, it is really one-four-one, while his computer would beg to differ: it's actually three-one-five in the afternoon, as the sun peeking through the curtains would agree to. The article is due in four hours and forty-five minutes. Antonio has gotten not but a paragraph into his deadline.
The doorbell rings.
The doorbell rings again, impatiently.
"I'mcomin'," Antonio slurs, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. For a moment, he wonders if it is eight yet – crap he missed his deadline – and the newspaper falls off his face. Ah, it's still light. Someone is at the door. He pulls his feet over the side of the couch and falls promptly onto the floor, chest first.
The doorbell rings again.
"Coming!" he calls, hoping it is not his editor. She will have his head for this. Charlie likes to run strict to the clock, and she will come into his apartment, first chewing him out for keeping it in such a pigsty before surveying his work so far and screaming at him for that. She may look like a pretty face in a dress suit and hair band, but she is a terror. "I swear I'll have it by eight!" he adds quickly, but whoever is at the door does not answer.
Antonio runs his fingers through his hair and hopes he looks presentable when he opens the door. There, standing at his doormat is a young man with rustic brown hair and a scowl on his face. He is wearing a white, hospital gown, in bare feet. Antonio wonders if he's run away, but that would be impossible. The closest hospital is five miles from here and the closest asylum is twenty minutes from here – and it's relocating. Oh man, it's relocating.
Antonio is about to close the door again before the crazy man can get in but something catches his eye: on the young, frowning man's neck is a dark violet tattoo, stretching from an inch or two below his jaw down to his collarbone – the number 4.
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Ludwig Beilschmidt pours himself a glass of beer. He puts down the bottle, watches it for a moment, before taking it and downing whatever is left. He sets the glass down on the kitchen counter for a future date.
He is finished with his articles. As he walks past his desk, feast your eyes on the cleanliness of it – admire the neat stacks of paper in their proper spot. Look at the Post-It notes that have numbers and times and dates, in clean handwriting. The computer is placed in its designated spot. Observe the fax machine, which Ludwig just used to fax his two articles to his office, three days before deadline. Now isn't he such a productive, hard worker?
The problem is, Ludwig is rather bored with the articles he has to write. There is only so much to say about the local supermarket deciding to sell local. This city has nothing to offer, he thinks. Officials have not been caught corrupted yet. In fact, the recent elections have not allowed any sort of leeway yet. Crime is not memorable, save for the teenager who tried to rob a drugstore with a water gun.
Ludwig thinks he will do some laundry, walk his dogs, and call it an early night when the doorbell rings.
He turns to the door, but he realizes he cannot see through the wood. Whoever can it be at this hour? Right; it's completely normal to expect visitors at four in the afternoon. It might be the old lady next door who will complain about his dogs. He takes a deep breath and thinks about what he will say. No, ma'am, Berlitz has not been out yet today, he is not the one who ran over your potted plants in the hall, and if you would, perhaps you should move them inside? But when he opens the door, it is not a woman, but a young, half-shy, half-eager looking young man. He has sleepy eyes and a stupid face.
"May…I help you?" Ludwig asks, quickly giving the boy a one over. White hospital gown, doped demeanor…he should get his keys and drive the guy back to the hospital. But the brunette wanders into his room as if invited and looks around. When he turns his head once, Ludwig catches a glimpse of something curious – a violet tattoo off a 4 on his neck, stretching down like something had sucked it off a clock and onto his boy's skin.
Blackie trots over and gives the boy a sniff. The visitor cries out as if he has never seen a dog before. Blackie gives him an offended whine and turns its nose and walks away. Ludwig keeps the door open. Maybe the kid will get his bearings and realize he should be on his way out. But the boy does not make any movement toward the door; instead, in the middle of his sitting room, he turns on his heels and looks at Ludwig.
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"You called me," the brown haired boy says. "So I came."
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Antonio wonders if that was supposed to be a double entendre. He also wonders why he has such a dirty mind.
"Well?" the brunette says, obviously miffed. "Aren't you going to let me in?"
"Uh," Antonio says, because for all his skills with words, speaking is one of them. The boy scowls at him, and pushes past him into the apartment. Upon stepping in, he sees: exhibit A, the sink of dishes that Antonio has not touched for a couple days; exhibit B, a pair of boxers sitting on top of the television; exhibit C, a mess of tree pulp hammered to sheets that Antonio calls his 'office'. Now gape upon his face, which has contorted to something a mixture of surprise and revulsion.
"You are disgusting," the mysterious unnamed boy says.
"No, I'm Antonio," Antonio says, pressing a smile to his face, because he believes that reacting to bad news with a grin solves most of the problem. Optimism. It's good. "Antonio Carriedo, full time journalist for XY News. Nice to meet you."
The boy stares at him.
"You don't have a name," Antonio asserts. It would have been a good time then to say it, but since the boy didn't, Antonio only has to assume the obvious.
"Yes, I do!" The boy shouts, and Antonio squints, because he swears the boy's feet left the ground. It must be his imagination. It's still his imagination when the boy floats up to the ceiling, crossing his arms with a pout. "It's Romano. Romano Vargas, you bastard, and you'd better remember that." The gown droops downward like drapes someone stupidly attached to the ceiling. Any observer, such as you, might notice the pervert Antonio try to inch his way under the flying boy, Romano. Romano's back sticks to the ceiling, like a figurehead.
"That's cute," Antonio says, thinking he sees a tomato pattern underneath the white, while the flash of the violet 4 catches his eye again. Romano's face turns red and he falls to the ground with an unceremonious thump!
"You could have fucking caught me!" Romano yells into the floor, lying there in a heap.
"Romano Vargas," Antonio says, squatting down to poke at the brown mass of hair. It is very soft. "You still haven't told me why you came here."
Romano removes his face from the hardwood floor and looks up at Antonio. The journalist sees the golden brown – like fresh French toast – eyes and it makes his Spanish blood boil. The eyes watch his hand return to its body from the brown hair and for a moment, all signs of malice disappear from Romano's face. "You called me," he repeats. "So I came."
Antonio's dirty mind rewinds.
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"I'm sorry," Ludwig says politely. "But I'm afraid I did not call for…anyone today."
The brown haired boy shakes his head, smiling gracefully. "No, not like that. Not anything like a physical call. Oh! I forgot. You don't know my name, right? I'm Feliciano. Feliciano Vargas!" He hops over from the middle of the room, all morphine in his blood apparently disappeared. You, like Ludwig, might be afraid by this whiplash bipolar behavior. "Please take care of me!"
"Ludwig. Charmed," Ludwig replies. It's curt, but how else can he respond?
"Now before they let me out, they told us to connect to channel five A-B-3-6-7, frequency seventy, and when I did, I got your wavelength." Ludwig takes a deep breath. This boy must be a hippie. Only hippies or aliens said things like this.
"My wavelength?" Ludwig asks, hoping he isn't encouraging this strange behavior, but he is. You, dear reader, should see that.
"Yep!" Feliciano chirps. "It's a gold, reddish black color." Those three colors cannot even mix, Ludwig thinks. "So I tracked you and I found you." He looks around the room. "You live in a nice place." As his eyes scan the room, Ludwig sees the violet 4 again. It is like a beacon on his skin.
"Where are you from?" Ludwig asks, watching as Feliciano wanders into the kitchen. On second though, he follows the boy too. "Showing up like that." What the hell. He is bored. Gott knows he needs something to do, something to write about. Even if this doesn't make the papers, it's enough for kicks. He thinks.
"That place," Feliciano says, knowingly, emphasizing that like Ludwig knows what that is. He does not dare speak more of it. Feliciano sees the glass of beer for later on the counter and takes it. Then he drinks it. Ludwig's despair at the loss of a saved drink is palpable. "This is weird tasting," Feliciano comments after he drains the last drop, the foam settling on the bottom. "What's it called?"
"Beer."
"Ooh, it made my stomach feel funny," Feliciano said, suddenly dropping the glass. It tears through the air and smashes onto the ground. The sound makes him jump. Ludwig starts to get the dustpan. One of his glasses, gone.
"Don't touch it," Ludwig warns, as he sees the boy is bending down to pick it up out of his peripheral vision. "You might cut yourself." He turns for a second to pick up the dustpan and when he turns around, Feliciano is standing there, holding a completely new, sparkling glass in his hand. Ludwig stares. He swore he heard the glass break. He swore he saw the glass break.
"Don't worry about it," Feliciano laughs. "I have it covered."
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As all of this is happening and you have just been reading about it, a certain company in a certain part of the world issued a code red warning because four pairs of their tests have just escaped. Each of the four pairs have similar origins in which they are either twins or from similar lands. Because the company is worried about its public relations and this has been a breech of their top secret project, they spill the information to an underground network of informants and just as are you reading this very word, your neighbor has just gotten a call from the person above him in the calling chain and he or she will in turn call another to broadcast that eight dangerous, unruly individuals are now in the public sphere and must be brought back under their custody.
Who knows; maybe that phone call is for you.
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Note: I was curious about this sort of style so this fic is experimentation – no pun intended. I got this idea strangely at work, which has nothing really to do with numbers. I'd like to know what you think: does this second-person-first-person-combined narrative work? Thanks for your comments!