Just Waking

I'm just waking up to the world around me. Has it really been this long? Where am I going and what am I doing? Just walking along I guess. Help me. This is a collaborative blog. Contributors' main blogs are linked below.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Oh bloody hell...

You may want to refresh your memory...

If your're just joining us, go here and read upwards.

*****

Gregor shoved the photo back into the pack. Vertigo struck again as the dark room closed in, still reeking of the explosives and carnage from the night before.

Must get out.

Have to think.

Twins.

He slung the backpack over his shoulder and leapt over the balcony railing, deftly landing on his feet like a cat and crept away silently into the night.

* * *
Back at his apartment, Gregor sat in a bathrobe with his eyes closed as if to shut out the images of bloody clothes, pleading eyes, and worn photographs. A bar of Ivory had washed away most of the smell, and the nausea had passed by the second scotch. He held the glass up in front of his face and swirled it gently, letting the rich amber liquid spinning around ice cubes hypnotize him into a state of tranquility.

This wasn't going to go away. Whoever this girl—girls he reminded himself were, they were the key to something or why else would he have gotten that phone call. But key to what? Was she indeed and innocent victim, in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was she connected to the operation somehow?

Or worse, what if she was connected to him? The thought made him shudder.

Something wasn't right. There was a disconnect. Say a man walks to work the same way, every day, for months and then one morning stops and wonders, "was that sign always there like that?" He knows something is different, varied, or out of place, but isn't quite sure what. Gregor felt as if he were looking at a fake Mona Lisa, but not able to say how he knew it was a forgery. It was a nudging sensation that was growing into a full blown gnawing. His object d'art was people, places, and details, and using them to make decisions in the blink of an eye, but here he missed something.

How could their intel have been so wrong? The people at OPS are never wrong. There was no ambassador there. It was almost as if they'd walked into an ambush—but it was too sloppy. If they wanted to take out Gregor and Johansen they could have easily done so with the explosives which they obviously had. Instead they engaged them, why? The answer was in his mind somewhere.

"Help me."

The plea was fainter but still there, clouding his judgment. So was the drink, Gregor decided and stood; the shift in weight made his knee crack. He carried the glass over to the kitchen sink, where days of dishes sat with crusted oyster sauce and rice. He thought back to the morning before, when he looked at the image of a pathetic, washed up man in the mirror. Twenty years ago that man would never have lived in filth; every hair was in place, his shirt pressed, and the sunglasses he wore hid a twinkle that could charm his way though a locked door, not eyes red from drinking himself blind. That man never slipped. Things had to change, now. He poured the scotch into the sink with a ceremonial flourish and dropped the glass into the pile where it shattered.

"Fuck." So much for grandeur.

Gregor reached into the sink to pick out the bigger shards, and sliced his finger along a jagged edge in the process.

"Dammit!"

A drop of bright red blood now marred the snow white terrycloth robe. Gregor stared at the splatter pattern.

Blood spatters
They came out hot.
Flash bang.
(Angel eyes.)
Check the street.
(Look at his face!)
Take aim.
(He paused and smiled.)
I know him.


Gregor wasn't sure whether he felt anger, repulsion, or fear; it was probably all three at once. He began to pace about the small apartment, now ignoring the cut and the droplets of blood that still fell from it. Alex Portrivov. How did he manage to find him? Did he escape or was he released? It had been, what, over ten years since he left him to rot in a Pakistani prison? It was a fate Alex should be grateful for since Gregor could have and would have killed him with his bare hands for what he'd done…

Oh Aaliya, you always deserved so much more.

Portrivov's presence at that apartment building only meant one thing: revenge. He was here to settle a score. Now Gregor just had to figure out how deep it went. Did Alex get himself involved with these radicals knowing that Gregor would be the one coming after them, or is this completely unrelated? Was the girl with him?

Angel eyes.

Aaliya's eyes.

Monday, February 13, 2006

a brief intermission

Ok, I was away this weekend. I just went through and re-read all the posts, copy/pasting pertinent info for continuity and to try to tie things together as I advance this thing.

Ambassador and family being held? Innocent runaways in the apartment below? Grenades exploding and floors collapsing? Stray bullets to the chest? The coin? I had him remembering her from before? I've inherited a logistical nightmare!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAHHH.
*deep breath*
Ok. Better now.

This may take me a few days. LOL Any thoughts or suggestion are welcome via e-mail or IM.

Monday, February 06, 2006

Illumination

The room was dark, but Gregor could make out the 12 foot diameter hole in the floor. Light from the corner street lamp bled through the plywood covering the downstairs windows, allowing just enough illumination to give a slight perception of depth.

Fighting back a sudden and familiar feeling of vertigo, Gregor leaned against the wall just inside the doorway and let his eyes adjust.

“How is she alive?” Gregor thought. The answer had to be here.

He carefully skirted the drop-off to the first floor and stopped at the spot where he first saw her eyes. Emotions welled up and a shudder shook him.

“Head in the game, Gregor.” He whispered. “What did you see…”

Images of last night came back to him in spurts, he ticked them off like a beatnik poem:

Her eyes.
She wasn’t one of the targets.
What was she doing here?

Weapons firing!

Duck, evade.
Foot is still intact.
Re-acquire target.

Clear Shot, take it!

Shot is wide…something else is hit.

Weapons firing!

Duck, evade.
Clambering footsteps below.
Targets are escaping.

Radio for sit-rep from support on street.

Check for stragglers.
Angel eyes.

Dark spot on her shirt is growing.
“Help Me.”
Angel eyes, staring, vacant.

Gregor stared through the hole. He knew he’d hit her in the chest with his wide shot. All the other weapons were aimed high, his aimed low. She collapsed just before he left the hole to give chase. She died last night, he was sure of that.

Gregor pulled his eyes from below and scanned the rest of the room. Nothing. Everything in the room was either blown through the windows or fell through the floor. Including Johansen.

Moving to the stairwell, Gregor listened. Two agents out front, but were there more inside? He waited and heard nothing more than jets passing in the distance. Cautiously, he descended the bullet riddled stairs. The hand railing was completely destroyed and the structural integrity was barely enough to keep Gregor from falling through to the basement. Every groan of the steps made Gregor wince. The night and his nerves amplifying the sound so much so that, to him, it was like playing a tuba in a church.

When he reached the foot of the stairs, Gregor stopped and listened once more. He heard the muffled voices of the two agents outside. The words he could not make out, but the tone was of jovial banter. He had gone un-noticed.

He entered the room where he had found Angel Eyes and what was left of Johansen.

The flash memory returned…

No targets.
Angel Eyes, still vacant.
Johansen.

Johansen Torso here.

Johansen legs there.

Check pulse.

Johansen Dead.
Use radio.

Check Angel eyes.

Pulse.
None.
Something shines in her outstretched hand.
Coin.

Gregor looks down on where her body was. The floor and scraps of charred dry wall stained with her blood are still there, untouched, unmoved.

Glancing around, Gregor notices that his room is different from the others he’d seen. This one looked "lived" in. Someone had placed magazine clippings and travel brochures on the walls. This girl was living here and none of his team had known it. A runaway, perhaps? He continued to search.

There were two sleeping bags on the floor, against the inside wall of the room. One had a backpack, not so hidden under one corner. Inside, Gregor found a change of clothes, a notepad, and a worn and faded picture. The notepad was full of sketches and scribbles which Gregor couldn’t make out in the dim light of the room. He couldn’t make out the picture either, so he moved to the closest boarded up window and held the picture in the light.

It was of two young girls standing next to an older man, probably their Grandfather.

Then it was as if Gregor had been hit in the gut with a baseball bat.

“Twins.”