Harmon Rottlage
It’s reticent.
It lies in the sun and moon and stars.
It watches us and pretends to be a god or gods.
It’s always there.
Do we l͜ov̡e̸ it?
Or do ̷we̷ f͘e͡a̢r ͞ít̡?
Cold.
It is
all cold. Far too so.
Cold, enveloping a mass. A great and powerful mass covered in vestigial tendrils, becoming dark and withering, their stems crumbling and falling into an unseen abyss that emanates from below. But is the cold that causes the withering? Or something else? Something greater, something… something that watches. Constricts.
Kills.
Harmon hears the sounds. Through the people. Through their devices. Friends calling friends to talk about the withering. Children calling their parents, begging them to come back home. They all talk about menial things, with the bids for safety and comfort peppered in between the chatter. He doesn’t understand half of it, the other half he pictures so vividly in his head that it spits fire on his nonexistent eyes. The burn teaches him – how far he can walk in the scape of connectivity before he must away from that beautiful, wretched place. He is thankful for the burn, and his fear of it lulls him to sleep every night, fending off the twin colds outside. But the burn is not a twofold cloak. For the tangible realm, the walkabout place… he carries a wool blanket. Wraps it around himself.
It’s snowing today. On the ground. In his head. The two stark visages are separated by a line of static, metal, and flesh.Passersby do not see the scared, frail thing underneath the torn shroud. They see a hapless, destitute runaway scrounging through trash bins and abandoned buildings. They don’t see him, but he sees them. All of them, through the most inconspicuous little device tucked between the fabrics, in his spindly fingers. It is not always the same device – a regular camera, an old phone, it changes every day. He notices, but at the same time, he really doesn’t.
Every now and then, he walks by a closed-off establishment, and he can see through the security cameras inside with what little energy they still possess. Often, he sees nothing. Other times, he sees dead folks, in varying states of decay.Harmon’s walking along the sidewalk by The Devil’s Advocate now. He doesn’t turn his handheld vision towards the patrons inside, those string-less shadow puppets and ne’er-do-wells. One of them looks out the window, half-paying attention to him, eyeing a woman across the street instead. Harmon sees the monochromatic spectrum humming silently in his tucked away phone. Messages to and from friends and acquaintances, all very fetid with ill will.
Darrows is gone. NEST got to him. I’m out.
All the words and sentences and paragraphs mean so many things but Harmon can never put them all together. He just forgets them two or three steps later. He just forgot who Darrows is, but that other word. NEST. NEST. NEST…
“Nestnestnestnestnestnest-“
Harmon mutters the word over and over under his breath for a moment. He stops the moment he passes by a trash can, filled to the brim. It looks freshly packed, not much snow on the lid. He walks over to it, gently takes off the lid and tosses it aside, tears open the bag and picks through it, bits and pieces of discarded food filling up the space between his hands. He brings them to his cracked, bloody lips and grates the nourishing filth into his mouth with his rotten teeth. It was sickening, but not to him. Did he get sick? He forgot, didn’t he? He forgets how to cough and his lungs vibrate as he makes a low, retching sound. He stops, and then he continues to eat. Moments pass before he finds nothing else on the top the pile. He attempts to dig through the trash but it tips over, and he has no idea. The noise it makes upon impact frightens him, and he runs back to the sidewalk. He brushes past a man holding his phone, texting someone. Harmon sees the words and he’s yards away from him.
Are we gonna do this festival thing?
r u kidding? No fucking way with all the metas gonna be there
It’s not really that dangerous, is it?
It fucking is and im not going. I hope nest goes in and wrecks the whole thing before some meta starts shit
Maybe you’re right. Should we do something else around then?
Being out when the thing is happening is bad news just stay home
Will you come over?
No im locking myself in when it starts. You should to
Harmon stops for a moment. Was there a festival? There was a festival, wasn’t there? There was… will be? He… The words danced around in his head, fumbling, falling over the edges, tripping on the metal. Is there going to be a festival? He never went to it before. It was always in another place. It could have been in another universe as far as he was concerned. He would never go. Was there ever a festival? Festivals are always so full of people. A festival in Black Fall would be full of meta-humans. So many meta-humans meant NEST would be keeping a tight hold on them. NEST would be at the festival. NEST would…
Is there a festival happening later?
Harmon is still standing there, thinking about the festival, about NEST. The loop runs around and around in his head until he hears a crash in the distance, followed by screams and gunfire. Is it NEST? Is it a gang? Is it... is it NEST? He doesn't ask the questions. He runs, his feet kicking up snow, more and more words pouring in and out of his head. It shifts back and forth from deadly, hate-filled whispers to loving shrieks and shouts.
He runs for home.
It’s so cold.