A.Journal

Checks

1,165 checks

Challenging

A single missed thread in the neat chain at the hem.

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Underground caverns filled floor-to-ceiling with cultivation beds, fat larvae munching on mulberry leaves.

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Whistling a new melody into existence. A dance step in the mud. The rasp of a hand-plane against cedar. Wonders yet unmapped.

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Your old double has been known to have an unsettling effect on certain people.

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Superstitious at heart, you can almost see the shivers run down his spine as you stray into weird metaphysical territory.

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Smoke unfurls from his nostrils, like an ancient dragon.

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Women trained to elicit joy, to be polite and obliging, to please. It genuinely does nothing for him.

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His eyes acquire a ceramic-like quality. Brightly dead, impenetrable.

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Beyond the walls of the dingy bar, the city breathes.

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The image forces its way back to you -- the man's unblinking, obsessive stare, while on the bed Ramses convulsed uncontrollably.

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Massive? That's the second time you've heard about a majestic woman with a gigantic form. You must find out more.

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You ran right into that one.

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You are reminded of a ripe cherry tomato, about to burst between thumb and forefinger.

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Infused with transcendant meaning, somewhere between a symbol and the thing it represents, the junior negotiator's conception of the gap escapes definition.

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She's concerned, but she knows his limits.

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Voice somehow constricted, as though some heavy object really were pressing down on her chest.

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A pseudo-language stretching back centuries, cobbled together from imperial slang and colonial patois. You first learned of its existence after joining the Opera.

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A FETISHISTIC RESIDUE OF OUR ENEMIES' PAST, BACK WHEN THEY OWNED LAND -- AND PEOPLE.

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A possible rendezvous. Actionable intelligence.

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A poorly conceived, underbaked hodgepodge of old and modern Developed World languages -- mostly from Mircea and Ile-de-Söze.

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'Tomorrow night'. A battle arena.

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A tremor in his voice. Like a kid addressing his crush.

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The outline of a small alcove with seated patrons shimmers in your mind.

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You recall the faint clinking of glasses, just a few metres away.

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'Why twist the knife?', his gaze seems to say.

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Mind reading level: Tutorial.

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A joint would be quicker. No tobacco.

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Alright, that's got to be the last step.

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If there was any sarcasm in that phrase, it flew way over his head and directly into the Noscorrentes sea.

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He's gone. Audience, lost.

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We got places to be. Anywhere free from nonsense tech jibberish.

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Like millions of capillaries feeding a single, bloated vein.

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Picture a hundred guitars connected to a single amp, strumming all at once.

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A sudden, bizarre flare of hope.

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Even you have memorised the names of their cartoon wolves.

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You feel the weight of your fancy toy sword, suddenly.

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Symbols, repeated over and over -- a quiet process of attrition.

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Malignant growths, forever squirming against each other.

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Slick crimson river of parted sinew and cartilage. With the utmost care, two strips of membranous tissue are ripped from the surrounding meat and tensed over a wood tuning peg.

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Confirmed: fear is in the glands.

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Neither the friend you left behind years ago, nor the quivering wreck you found in his houseboat.

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None of his weight has been regained, but his movements are firm and his presence light.

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Awaiting his assignment, as promised, in the old haunt.

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A spectre in loose fabric, feeling out the contours of his own body -- just in case.

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The slightest vibration, ordinary human unsteadiness.

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Slowly populating itself with your crew members, around you the Fogged Mirror begins to take on the appearance it had five years ago, before your network collapsed.

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Empty of the other members of your old crew, the Fogged Mirror feels barren, infinitely distant from what it was five years ago, before your network collapsed.

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His silhouette flickers in the houseboat's dim lights. For a moment, all you see is a man untouched by the weight of your actions.

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A faint bleep on a sonar gone quiet for too long.

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A small promise, remade and unkept a thousand times over. 'Tomorrow', he'd tell himself, until the word meant nothing.