#its whats to filter out the tobacco being burnt so you can smoke a cig.

[liveattheauction]

A Story with Mutants: Chapter 1, kind of

Hey, here’s a thing I’ve been working on forever. It’s an old project that I revived recently and have been working on in my increasingly small amounts of free time. I’ve got a little more than this written but I only wanna post the first part here, mostly so that a particular friend of mine (hi, Marten!) can read it. I’d love to hear what you guys think of it! I don’t even have chapter titles. It’s very unedited.

[Chapter 1, I guess]

The roof of the First Lupei Bank stood a few stories taller than all the surrounding buildings except one, a fifty-something story modern skyscraper misplaced among the old concrete and steel blocks. Its mirrored windows cast back the grey skies with a veneer of rain. Below the streets gleamed in puddles, passersby shedding their coats at the return of the sun, the rumble of traffic muffled by the height. It’d be peaceful if not for the industrial AC unit rattling. Sheinberg shrugged off his jacket, breathing deeply. “I love it up here,” he sighed warmly as he stepped out from the stairwell. “About as private as one can get in the historical district.” “Doesn’t seem very private,” Shiloh muttered, following behind him. Sheinberg leaned against the concrete edge, narrow shoulders lifted and elbows settled on the wall. “Too much interference. The AC’s too loud, the other buildings are too short, and that big one there is a news station—twenty-four seven broadcasting, radio, satellite, everything.” “That’s… very basic.” “Well, there is more.” Sheinberg pulled a small box from his pocket. “But no fun in telling everything, is there? You smoke?” “I do, actually.” Sheinberg held out the box and Shiloh accepted a cigarette with a nod of thanks, placing it between his lips to draw his own lighter. “‘S a dying habit,” Sheinberg muttered through the filter. He cupped a hand against the wind and puffed a few times, smoke swirling against his palm. “I mean, rightly so; it’s a killer. But it’s nice to have a smoking buddy now and again. How’d you get into it?” “Old teenage habit,” Shiloh murmured. “You?” “Similar. So.” He cast Shiloh a wry, knowing grin. “Let’s talk first impressions. Tell me, were you expecting a black man?” A flicker of surprise crossed Shiloh’s face, noticeable only as a spasm among the freckles around his eyes, but it was quickly smothered by a chuckle. “I admit, I was expecting an old Jewish man.” Sheinberg laughed too, cigarette bobbing between his teeth. He slipped it between his fingers and spoke with smoke on his breath, “I get that a lot. I get that look—you hid it pretty well, you sly dog—that little blink, the head nod, the ‘oh, okay, it’s like that’ look. You know what that is?” He waited for Shiloh to shake his head. “It’s called cognitive dissonance. Old psychology concept from the fifties.” Shiloh blew smoke through his nose. “Post-war, then?” “No, man, nineteen-fifties. Which,” he said, waving his hand, “I guess is also post-war. But World War II, not three. The idea is that we have a set of preconceived notions of what the world should be, a bias of expectation. You hear you’re coming to meet Samuel Sheinberg, middle manager of a bank chain, you think old white guy in a yarmulke, yeah? You think big nose and curly hair and all those other things that you’d be called racist for voicing.” Shiloh snorted, grinning faintly. “What?” “I’m Jewish.” “Are you?” “Partly. Though my grandfather.” He waved Sheinberg on, lifting his cigarette again. “Go on.” Sheinberg shrugged. “I know you’re Irish—see, there’s the other side of it. No cognitive dissonance when you hear a name like Moil—Maloi—” “Maoilseachlainn?” “That. That’s Irish if I ever heard it. Then you walk in, freckled all to hell, pale as the dead, speaking with an accent. All you’re missing is the red hair and a flask. You are a perfect fit with my idea of your average Irish ex-pat.” He clamped the cigarette between his teeth and reached into his jacket pocket, holding it out on his arm. “Which, if you’ve come this far, you are not.” “In many ways, I’m not,” Shiloh murmured, a smile ghosting about his lips. Sheinberg pulled out a little red card and draped his jacket on the concrete edge, leaning back onto it with his elbows, and rolled the card across his fingers like a coin. “I didn’t bring up hundred-fifty year old psychology concepts for no reason,” he warned. “That moment when things aren’t exactly what you expect—that’s a definitive moment. You can learn a lot about someone by how they respond to dissonance. And it’s not just when people aren’t stereotypes, it’s anything: situations, information, even actions. What do you do when you act against your own beliefs?” “Is that rhetorical?” Shiloh asked. “No. Dead serious.” “I imagine most people don’t do that.” “But they do, every day.” He waggled his cigarette between his fingers. “Smoking, for example. At the end of the twenty-second century, between vapor alternatives and the health crisis and climate change and all that shit, smoking tobacco nearly disappeared from American soil. The last major generation of smokers died of lung cancer. It was kept alive by traditionalists and historians, nothing more. If you ask someone if they smoke, most of the time you get, ‘Don’t you know that’s bad for you?’” He took a long drag and spoke with smoke whirling on his breath, “Ever tried to quit?” “Once or twice.” “You obviously didn’t succeed. So, tell me, Shiloh: when you picked up that first cig after weeks, maybe even months, of sobriety, what did you feel? When you knew you were breaking a promise to someone important, maybe yourself? You knew it was bad for you. Still is. Why’d you still do it?” Shiloh studied his half-burnt cigarette, sheltered from the wind by his shoulders. “Several reasons, I suppose,” he said thoughtfully. “Stress, mostly. You must know my line of work.” “Yeah, and I can’t blame you for any vice. But that’s not my question.” “It’s not, is it?” He sighed and looked up as if the sky held answers. “If I’m being honest, I felt guilty. Disappointed in myself. I managed to justify it later—to myself, mostly—but at the time I just needed the indulgence.” Sheinberg nodded slowly, cigarette loose in his lips. “That’s dissonance. Your own actions in opposition to your own beliefs and all the facts supporting them. So you justify.” He took the cigarette from his mouth and gave the red card another roll across his fingers. “It’s largely situational and I get that, but you get the concept, yeah?” “I do.” “Good. You see where I’m going with this?” “I have a sneaking suspicion.” Sheinberg flicked the card across his hand, pinning it with his pinky and index finger over the two between to show off the ram’s head logo. “What do you know about the Ramheart Outpost?” “Less than you, I’m sure.” “Once again, that’s not my question.” Shiloh took a long drag, held his breath as he snuffed his cigarette on the concrete, and sighed smoke through his nose. “I know it operates as a brothel,” he said lightly, “for a number of reasons. But my interest in it is primarily as one of the largest and most secure mutant sanctuaries of the country.” Sheinberg paused. “Go on.” “What do you want to know?” Sheinberg simply waved a hand, urging him on. “The Ramheart, as I’ve most often heard it called, is located somewhere in the city of Lupei and serves as a major entry point for a global network of sanctuaries and asylums for mutants. I’ve been to several others—Cardiff, Chicago, the Mojave—but none as large or as connected.” Sheinberg waved further. “I’ve got an approximate location on it, but—” “Listen, Mawlsee—Marl—fuck—Shiloh. We just had a conversation about psychology and emotion. Don’t play me for an idiot, Shiloh; you know I’m the Ramheart’s gatekeeper and you know I don’t care about what data you’ve scrounged up from chasing us. I’m not here to judge your spying abilities. I’m here to judge you.” He dropped his cigarette without taking his eyes from Shiloh’s and smothered it with his shoe. “What do you think the Ramheart is?” Shiloh stared him down without expression—for such a vibrant face, all freckles and cheekbones and fine brows, it was amazing how well he could keep it blank—and spoke with a stiff neck, voice loose and honest, “The Ramheart is a refuge for those without refuge. A banned people whose very existence is tied to the worst forms of organized crime. It is a gateway to other mutant sanctuaries, and I suspect that’s often why it’s sought, but it is first and foremost a provider of some simulacrum of a normal life for those for whom that can never be a reality. It is, by multiple definitions, an asylum. It is also—and forgive me, this is a personal interest—an enormous operation with clients around the globe that still manages a level of secrecy unheard of by even the most successful intelligence agencies. I don’t seek the Ramheart for personal reasons.” “I know,” Sheinberg said quietly. Shiloh nodded. “You’ve given me the runaround better than some of the mutant-makers I’ve found, you know. That’s as great a compliment as I can give.” Sheinberg leaned in slightly. “That’s. Not. My. Question.” “I seek the Ramheart Outpost because one of the mutants there is relevant to my mission, and you know already that I can’t tell you more about that.” For a moment, Sheinberg was silent. The cigarette smoke still ghosted about their feet, their last wisps crawling along the quarter-inch of windless space before being caught up and lost in the updraft. A car honked below and a dull voice called back angrily. “Okay,” Sheinberg said thinly, spreading a hand on the concrete ledge and drumming his fingers. “Let’s try something else. You know anything about history?” “You’re too general.” “You’re dodging me. We’re talking about mutants, so I pretty obviously mean mutant history. What do you know about it? And don’t”—he held up a hand quickly—“don’t give me names; I could not give less of a shit about who you’ve tracked and brought down. Tell me why you had to do that in the first place.” Shiloh stared him down. The man could cut glass with those eyes. “You really don’t understand why we’re here, do you?” Shaking his head, Shiloh pulled his lighter out again and a box of cigarettes of his own. “I don’t understand what you want, that’s for sure.” Sheinberg rolled his bony shoulders out to his wrists, a single fluid motion, and steadied his stance as if readying for a debate. Unperturbed, Shiloh lit another cigarette. “World War III. It starts there and should’ve ended there. You know mutants were weapons at first, right?” “Still are,” Shiloh murmured threateningly. “Not often. They started as just beefed-up humans, you know. Little genetic enhancements to make them better killers. Then people started making them more animalistic, bigger, carnivorous, real monsters. Those were weapons, Shiloh Starts-With-An-M. We’re fuckin’ lucky they didn’t survive that long.” He watched Shiloh’s hands hide in his jacket pockets shamelessly. “The Second Geneva Convention banned the technology in war but nowhere else—common misconception is that it was banned all over then and there, but it actually took ‘til 2069 for the general ban to be signed by every country. This incredible military technology to alter genomes however the hell you so choose suddenly passed from government to private hands. That’s where the more artistic mutants came from that inspired the ones you track today. The twenty-first century anthropomorphic fantasies. Did you know, Shiloh that in the 2050s, the mutant population of the United States was almost as high as the population of African slaves before the civil war? Millions of specially-made, designer, often intelligent beings passed around like shiny new toys. Guard dogs, sexual objects, pets—ever heard of Red Norton? He was a mutant actor made specifically for a series of horror movies in the early 2040s—who existed solely as property. They never had any rights to take when they were made illegal. It was like rounding up assault rifles after the ban.” Shiloh’s expression was dead. “You know, some bars and cafés host trivia nights. You’d be a champion.” “As soon as the ban went into effect,” Sheinberg continued, cutting over the last of his words, “traffickers started scrambling for the mutants. I’m sure you know more about that than I do, Mr. Tracker. What you might not know is the schism it caused among the global trafficking networks—who would move mutants, who could keep them, who’d deal in their technology. The Ramheart was one of the first underground sanctuaries and it split pretty quickly with the rest of the trafficking network. You know the name Marise Williams?” “The cryptographer, yes.” “The same. She founded it right before she died.” Shiloh took the cigarette from his mouth. “That I didn’t know,” he admitted, pointing with it. “It’s her work that started the incredible web of secrecy that you’ve been navigating for… how long now?” “The better part of two years.” Sheinberg drew himself upright, spreading his arms. “And here you are.” “Yes.” “Looking for one mutant in particular.” “Yes.” “And not for personal reasons. I can only assume, from what I know of you, that they’re connected to one of the traffickers you hunt.” “That’s as much as I can tell you.” Sheinberg put his fists on his hips, tapping a foot. “I don’t like it. I don’t at all.” “Does that matter?” Shiloh asked, cigarette hanging forgotten in his fingers. “My intentions are not to harm the mutant, only to question it. This might be important to you but, to me, this is just another part of another investigation.” “Does that matter?” Sheinberg retorted. He rubbed his cheek and sighed. “Listen. I’m torn on you. I can tell you don’t mean harm to my organization, but you’re… I think you’re a force of nature, man. You religious?” “I am.” “Right, Jewish.” “No, Kirian.” Sheinberg grimaced politely. “The Odd Gods, huh?” “Does it bother you?” “No, but I really don’t know much about it.” Rubbing his chin, he queried, “You guys have a chaos goddess, right?” Shiloh nodded. “Alad, goddess of both order and chaos. I—consider her my patron deity, even among the pantheon,” he added hesitantly. “I consider myself an agent of her peace, balancing the natural chaos of the world.” Sheinberg stayed silent and Shiloh dropped his cigarette, smothering it with the toe of his shined leather shoe. “I don’t often talk of my religion.” “I can tell,” Sheinberg said gently. He blew his cheeks out in a sigh. “All right, Shiloh. I’ll cut you a deal.” He held out his hand, the red card pinned to his palm, and Shiloh shook it. “I’ll grant you access for one night and one night only; you go straight to the mutant you’re looking for, make your contact, and get out. Not that I think you’re one to linger. And”—he held up a finger—“if the mutant doesn’t want to go with you, you have to respect that.” Shiloh nodded. “Those are fair terms. I can’t promise that I won’t contact your network again, though.” “Contacting us is fine, just leave the poor buggers at the Ramheart alone. They’ve been through enough.” He let go of the red card, letting it flap against Shiloh’s palm, and took back his hand. “Good luck, Shiloh.” “Thank you.” Without warning or explanation Sheinberg rubbed his nose and said, “How familiar are you with the history of tobacco? Fascinating crop. A quintessential item in American trade for centuries.” With a small snort of amusement, Shiloh pocketed the card. “Do go on.” Sheinberg swung his jacket over his shoulder and led the way back to the stairwell, chatting blithely and emptily of colonial American trade policy as they reentered the building. The rooftop seemed to sigh, relieved of tension, and the AC unit rattled once when the door closed. A rooftop away, a different AC unit opened and a slim figure stepped out carefully. She straightened her shirt over the listening device and made her way inside. In another building, a less subtle eavesdropper lowered his amplifier from the open window, grumbling about audio quality. The sniper atop the skyscraper lowered his weapon in relief and the sniper trained on him half a district away finally relaxed her grip on her own gun. Contact made, mission complete; Shiloh emerged from the bank a few minutes later and caught the downtown bus on the street corner. Sheinberg watched him leave from his office window, worried truly that he’d let on to too many secrets, shown too much vulnerability, damned himself with his nerves. A scarecrow playing brave to the tornado. He rubbed his nose again—maybe he should quit smoking.

#my writing #I'm gonna tag this as #DART #it's short for Don't Actually Read This which is what I named the file #mostly out of shame #it was my first ~romance~ story #still is