11-03-2014, 09:18 PM
Dane never liked the smell of smoke. His lungs rejected the fume like a poison. But tonight, what smoke clung to the air was the dawn of a glorious day. The clouds of it kept the sun thin and filtered. The very birds lingered near their branches, unsure if the sky even remained beyond the fog.
Dane watched the news from the comforts of his apartment, still fueled by the thrill of his spectacle. His beloved symbol, the image over which he labored for days, circulated the screen. It filled the wall of his television as he flipped from channel to channel, flittering between red and blue siren lights. He fell asleep warm and happy, snuggling down into the folds of a bathrobe like it were a blanket.
The noise of American English bristled him awake. Dane fingered for the controls to tune him out, but the voice soon became familiar.
Dane slowly pushed himself upright. Disbelief and dismissal burrowed into his gut. Oakland's lies tunneled within like worms and agony followed.
"No."
Dane spoke quietly. He stood, bathrobe hanging loose around his frame. "No, you're lying, Oakland."
Hot tears pooled the corners of his eyes. What did he have to do to prove himself? He was not a charlatan! Nobody but Dane Gregory could have pulled off the marvelous event that was the night before! A Mockingbird cannot itself be imitated!
Torrents of power rushed through Dane until he became the center of a vortex that mimicked the destruction churning within. Walls pushed outward from the pressure. His robe flapped hard around his legs until red welts were left on his skin. He screamed through the sobs until a temporary release broke in his mind.
He walked away, feet crackling on the broken glass of his crumbled apartment, but he didn't feel the pain of their cuts. Only the pain of betrayal and ruined glory.
He had to find Oakland. He'd make him believe.
---
That evening, a man in newly purchased clothing walked alone up the cobbled street to Oakland's estate. His shoes stiff, new leather, his attire an arrangement of creams and blues. His hair was slickly combed to one side. He carried nothing on his person but a blank expression undistracted by the heavily guarded men surrounding him.
Dane was stopped at the gate, of course. Where he said nothing but instead held up a wrinkled, dirtied card, one he'd found in the gutter.
When the guard turned it over, he stiffened, and raised his gun.
Dane peered curiously down the barrel. "Tell him I'm here."
Dane watched the news from the comforts of his apartment, still fueled by the thrill of his spectacle. His beloved symbol, the image over which he labored for days, circulated the screen. It filled the wall of his television as he flipped from channel to channel, flittering between red and blue siren lights. He fell asleep warm and happy, snuggling down into the folds of a bathrobe like it were a blanket.
The noise of American English bristled him awake. Dane fingered for the controls to tune him out, but the voice soon became familiar.
Dane slowly pushed himself upright. Disbelief and dismissal burrowed into his gut. Oakland's lies tunneled within like worms and agony followed.
"No."
Dane spoke quietly. He stood, bathrobe hanging loose around his frame. "No, you're lying, Oakland."
Hot tears pooled the corners of his eyes. What did he have to do to prove himself? He was not a charlatan! Nobody but Dane Gregory could have pulled off the marvelous event that was the night before! A Mockingbird cannot itself be imitated!
Torrents of power rushed through Dane until he became the center of a vortex that mimicked the destruction churning within. Walls pushed outward from the pressure. His robe flapped hard around his legs until red welts were left on his skin. He screamed through the sobs until a temporary release broke in his mind.
He walked away, feet crackling on the broken glass of his crumbled apartment, but he didn't feel the pain of their cuts. Only the pain of betrayal and ruined glory.
He had to find Oakland. He'd make him believe.
---
That evening, a man in newly purchased clothing walked alone up the cobbled street to Oakland's estate. His shoes stiff, new leather, his attire an arrangement of creams and blues. His hair was slickly combed to one side. He carried nothing on his person but a blank expression undistracted by the heavily guarded men surrounding him.
Dane was stopped at the gate, of course. Where he said nothing but instead held up a wrinkled, dirtied card, one he'd found in the gutter.
When the guard turned it over, he stiffened, and raised his gun.
Dane peered curiously down the barrel. "Tell him I'm here."