Goodnight
Somewhere unremarkable in the
Heart of America
From there, for them all, came another day’s worth or travel. For Matthew, Zephyr, and Angeline, it was by car, over hundreds of miles. For Abigail it was a hike, long and arduous in the company of men who were not as fit as her, but who had the proper shoes for it - which quickly showed. Siobhan too found herself hiking - though there was a certain amount of illegal train hopping between the legs of the journey by foot which made things easier, and perhaps more familiar.
All of them, with all their different treks, with the different company they kept along them, had one element in common.
The destination.
Through another of the Violet Underground’s blue tunnels - sometimes called the subway, sometimes called the gates, sometimes called nothing in particular at all - they would all find themselves in one of an undisclosed (and potentially unknown) number of refugee hubs.
In particular, it was a place called Goodnight.
What the mages had found themselves in was dubbed ‘Goodnight’ only by its current inhabitants. To the uninitiated, it was an abandoned shopping mall; a large, overgrown complex tucked some respectable distance away from a sleepy midwestern town called Woolbridge. The mall itself was close enough to the town to be convenient, but far away enough to make the visiting of it an event in and of itself, one where you bring your friends and family into the car and intentionally make the trip there.
It had been repurposed by the Violet Underground now, and those who lurked in its shops and stalls were either lost and confused, or busy with the influx of new arrivals. Even with all the people in it there was some reverent air about the place that was usually reserved for churches and libraries. Whilst some dilapidated maps still stood to cheerily tell you the way, power was reserved for the most essential lighting needed. It gave a vastness in the night-time gloom that made Goodnight seem to be a labyrinth of consumerism.
It was littered -
swollen - with memories.
The remnants of a bustling, lively hangout spot hung from the arches and sat dusty and silent in innumerable corners. Down the darkened corridors, your footsteps reverberated so one man became a crowd all by himself. Every so often an old claw machine would croak out the death throes of its cheery jingle; the arcade was laden with dusty boxes of flickering lights and tinny, electrical tunes that sang out hauntingly across the sprawl. It felt like your mind, so attenuated to such places being full of life, filled in the gaps and made the draft whistling through the automatic doors sound like the whisper of distant conversation. The whiff of fry oil persisted still in the food court - and from the right angles, the escalators looked like they were moving.
At the very front, with its beige pillars and shattered glass facade and faint smell of ancient ambition, there was a sign above the entryway. Once upon a time, it must have said something painfully cliche - but now all the words had fallen down and broken, save for two.
“Good-“
“... night-“
Like half heard murmurs spoken by nearly dying men; fading, quiet, easy to overlook; solemn, living, and in their own way, proud.
Such was the nature of Goodnight, and the organisation invading its halls were acutely aware of the weight of intrusion into this time capsule from the eighties. In a way, it was a little bit alive - but to most, to those who didn’t know where to look, to the uninitiated, it was just dead and still and forgotten.
The main hall of the centre was packed with people, gathered around in little circles, clinging to whoever they recognised - or, failing that, whoever seemed safest. The air was almost alive with an invisible electricity, the spark of fear generated by maybe a hundred terrified magicians electrifying the air in a probably-mostly-metaphorical sense, dominated only just by the noise of fearful murmuring and anxious chatter. It was a refugee camp, and there was no hiding it.
Around the edges of the crowd men and women were patrolling, handing out food and drink, keeping an eye on the survivors of the January purges. Another patrol line beyond them was moving in and out of the abandoned stores, keeping an eye on other things entirely, setting up camping beds and makeshift cots, and preparing for whatever was to come next. Every now and again the scene was punctuated with the arrival of another group, or an individual. Sometimes the Bootleggers bringing the refugees in were sent back out after giving their reports - sometimes, they weren’t.
Things went on, a chaotic nonroutine supported only by the apparent experience of the people directing it, until a man in a waterproof jacket hopped onto a box and raised his voice about the din.
“Everyone, can I get your
attention, please! My name is Rory, and I am the guy representing the people who brought you here!” His face was hard, and stubbled - much like his head, which had been shaved not long ago from the looks of it. A ripple of murmurs spread through the people, like a pond struck by rain.
“We are the Violet Underground, an organisation dedicated to detecting and saving magically active people from the Federal Occult Enforcement agency and their partners worldwide, and you are
safe with us! Many of us are mages ourselves, and we don’t want to be dragged off by the government any more than you do. You’re going to be safe with us, no matter who you are!”
As he rounded off the speech - short a speech as it was - somebody in the back whooped, and the people handing out food started to clap and cheer. The applause spread through the crowd in that way that applause does, even when you’re not sure why you’re clapping, until eventually another man stepped up and held his hand up for silence. This man was shorter, with more hair, and a softer face than Rory’s.
“Alright. We’re going to be assigning beds in the next couple hours, just for the time being until we can get something more permanent sorted for you all - but in the meantime I want all the Bootleggers to come give me their reports, I want any medical issues reported to Dr Loukanikos over there, and I want everyone to try and get some rest. There are toilets available all over, most of which have been restored to working order, and I’m pleased to announce that one of our guys has managed to rig up a shower block in the west wing!”
A more genuine cheer and applause went up at that.
The speeches ended unceremoniously, conversation fading back in to replace them as naturally as anything.
From your vantage point at the back of the hall, nearest to the empty clothing store whose dressing rooms you’d appeared in after the most recent jump, the whole scene was as visible as a landscape painting - and, in its own way, just as picturesque.
Around you were the most recent arrivals, and the Bootleggers who’d brought them all - yours included.
A gangly hillbilly kid in running shoes, a boy racer decked out in colourful stringy bracelets, a taekwondo bus driver in a hoodie, a ballerina who could turn peoples hands into moss, and an ethnically ambiguous drifter-grifter, all being looked after by a vet with a bad knee - at least until he had to go with the other ‘leggers to submit a report.
If you hadn’t come within smiling distance of death a day or so ago, it would seem like a creative set up for a hilarious punchline.
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