- V -

* * * * *
         ". . . it's like everything keeps playing in slow motion in my head. And I want to shout and do something, but there's nothing I can do. I just have to sit there and watch. Just observe."
         "Don't feel so bad about it, I've got family where that's their only purpose in life basically. Well that and to annoy the absolute hell out of us. I'm sure you'll meet them one day."
         "What are you talking about?"
         "Whoa, hey keep it down there. Let's not get overexcited, nothing terrible has happened so far-"
         "Are you kidding, weren't you paying attention at-"
         "Shush, nothing irreversible . . . that's what I meant. Okay? Okay. Everything's going to be fine. All right?"
         "Oh God. Oh God. There's this . . . there's this nightmare I keep having, okay? It's . . . I'm just this ghost and I keep walking through crowds and it's people I know and they don't notice me at all . . . they can't see me and no matter how hard I try they can't hear me."
         "Well the funny thing about dreams is that they aren't real life. From what I've heard at any rate, being that I really don't dream. One day you'll have to tell me what it's like."
         "It's the . . . the most horrible feeling in the world, because . . . because all I can is observe and there's always something terrible happening and there's nothing I can do but sit there and just . . . just watch. That's all I can do. Just watch. I shout and I scream but nothing is changed, nothing ever changes."
         "Yeah but, like I said, it's just a dream-"
         "But that's not the scary part, you want to know what the scary part is?"
         "What's the scary part?"
         "When I . . . when I wake up, I don't feel horrible, I don't feel anything at all, really. I keep having this nightmare and . . . oh God."
         "What are you saying?"
         "That I don't see it as a nightmare until I think about it later. Deep down inside, I think that's what I really want . . . to just . . . I just want to stand off to the side and watch and not . . . not affect anything because . . . if I . . . if I never . . . try, then I can't ever . . . fail-"
         "C'mon, calm down. Nobody failed, all right? Have some coffee, it'll make you feel better."
         "What the hell did you guys do to me? I didn't even feel this way before. What did you do to me?"
         "Don't shout, dammit! And we didn't do a damn thing to you, okay? Not a blasted thing. You're doing it to yourself and you won't let anyone help you because you're a stubborn bastard. Okay? And I'm sorry if that's not what you want to hear, but I'm not telling you to feel this way and I'm sure as hell not making you feel this way."
         "Oh God, it's all going to hell, isn't it?"
         "Listen, you're just upset, it's been a rough night-"
         "Christ, it's all going to hell and I don't know what to do, I just wish someone would tell me what to do."
         "Well, last I checked, I was trying to give advice but no, no one ever listens to me."
         "Shut the hell up. Please. Just shut up."
         "Um, are you all right?"
         "No. I'm not. I'm not all right."
         "I want to help, really. Let me help. What do you want?"
         "Everyone and everything to just go away and leave me alone. Just for one night. Just once."
         "I can't do that for you. I wish I could. I really do."
         "I thought you could do anything."
         "Reports of my omnipotence have been greatly exaggerated, alas. I'm just as powerless as you are in some things."
         "I find that hard to believe."
         "So did I. But I learned. You will too. In time."
         "I don't think I can. I don't know if I want to."
         "It's okay, I'm afraid too."
         "What the hell are you afraid of?"
         "That I'll fail here. That we'll lose you to things we can't control."
         "And is that such a bad thing?"
         "Oh yes. I'm afraid it would very much be a bad thing."

* * * * *
         Tristian thinks that he should feel something upon pulling into the parking lot. Just something. At least some sort of relief that he managed to find a relatively close parking spot, from what he's heard in the past, such things are not easy to come by around here. Not that he wouldn't mind walking, if the night air holds out, if might be a pleasant night indeed and the fresh air would clear his head. There are so many things there that he wants to come to grips with that flutter around on little bat wings and gum up the works. Cobwebs in the cerebrum.
         Perhaps he should feel just a small sense of anticipation, that fluttering thrill that hits your stomach when you're not sure what's going to happen anymore, that you could be on the verge of something wonderful or something horrific and that no matter how you think about it, you're blowing it completely out of proportion anyway. The incredible expanding sense of self importance. But that's not the problem, that never was the problem. Tristian feels that he's getting the opposite of the ego. The anti-ego. Instead of centering on himself, he seems to have absolutely no consideration for himself at all. Defined only in relation to other people.
         "We're here," he says, suddenly, superfluously. Brown appears to have been resting his eyes but he's sitting up straight and opening the door of the car in almost one smooth motion. Tristian doesn't even remember him unbuckling his seatbelt. Not that it would matter to Brown anyway, he's beyond things like that.
         "Did I ever tell you," Brown says as he exits the car, "that I have perfect pitch in time and space?" Tristian can only see his torso now, since he hasn't gotten out of the car yet. Brown's a dark silhouette against a dark sky, a constant contrast to his demeanor.
         "Is that supposed to mean something?" Tristian asks as he gets out of the car, lifting his head over the roof of the car. Brown is staring at him across the expanse, with the grin of the devil himself.
         "It means," Brown replies as he takes a half step back from the car, his arm lashing out and slamming the door closed, his entire body twisting in opposite reaction to the circular effort, "that I know exactly where I am at all times." The slammed door echoes into the empty night with a racket like a muffled gunshot. "And right now," he exclaims, throwing his arms out as if trying to catch something falling from the sky, "I'm right outside a party!" He stops and grins again at Tristian.
         Tristian throws him an arch look, shaking his head slightly. Crazy bastard. "I think you're enjoying this more than I am."
         "Why the hell not?" Brown tells him. "It's not like I get much chance to hang around normal people too often, now, is it?" As he says this, they both go around the car and meet at the center. Both of them stand there for a second and regard the near wall of apartments that greet them. Some of the windows are lit, some are not. Behind some of them they can hear the far away beats of faint music, a station not quite in tune. In others they can see moving shadows, some blending into one shadow, slowly shifting, wavering. Each windows seems to hold the promise of a different adventure caught between the walls, something extraordinary where before there was only the mundane. It's the suggested implications, it's a tentacle wrapping around them and teasing all at the same time.
         Brown sticks one foot out at a right angle to his other foot and places his hands in his pockets. Casting his gaze around the row of apartments he says, "Impressive sight, ain't it?"
         "We've both seen better," Tristian remarks, setting off toward the right apartment. He's only been there a few times already, he might have helped Will move in but he's not sure. Sometimes details leap out crystal clear, set in ice, and sometimes they work only as hazy ocean waves. The distinct memories never seem to be ones that he really wants to remember but it only seems to work that way. With him at least. Most of time it seems to be just be his problem, no one else seems to have any problems. Look at Brown, Tristian thinks, he's actually died before and that doesn't weigh on him. Tonight he's a man without concerns, a man free of all expectations other than the ones he sets for himself. Tristian wonders why he can't do that, why he can't just let it go for one night. For just one goddamn night.
         "True, true," Brown is commenting, racing a half step ahead of Tristian, each step more of a leap than a walk. He doesn't move so much as dart from point to point. "But it's all relative, wouldn't you think? It's all about atmosphere." He stops dead, turns his head upward and staring almost straight up at the rising wall of apartments and windows and doors. "In the daytime this probably really isn't that impressive, but the night just adds that extra special something." Hands still in pockets, he turns to Tristian, staring at him and at some point out beyond him. The road down below, or a place that couldn't be seen. "Think of if someone took a picture of this scene right now, the two of us standing alone in the parking lot," he gestures to include the apartments, "this great building behind us." He points a finger at Tristian and then the sky. "There's a moment to be captured here, my friend and we're too dense to realize it."
         The apartments are on a small hill and there's a network of stairs leading up to the many entrances. Taking what's behind door number one. They've reached the stairs now, Brown still ahead of Tristian, apparently knowing where he's going even though Tristian has told him nothing, not even an apartment number. Blind leading the blind and neither really caring. Let's just see where it goes. Let's just see.
         "Appears to be some poetry in your soul tonight," Tristian notes. His breath floats out ahead of him, clouding and then dissipating. It's apparently cold out but he's not feeling it. He wants to think that it's the jacket he's wearing. That has to be it.
         "Can't help it," Brown replies over his shoulder, neatly bounding halfway up the stairs two at a time. "It's just nice for once to not have to worry about shooting people. Or getting shot at. C'mon, don't tell me that it's not nice to take a night off, so to speak."
         "If you say so," Tristian says with some hesitance. His words feel they're bundling up against the inside of his head faster than he can say them. "Frankly, between you and me, I just want to get this over with."
         "You know something Tristian," Brown says, galloping up two more steps before stopping and facing Tristian, a quizzical expression lathered over his face. He leans on the railing, marveling at Tristian from above. "I don't get you, you've got no enthusiasm for this at all. Hell, half these people aren't going to know who I am and those that do probably won't remember me and I've got more spunk in this than you do." His eyes narrow, the tilted eyebrows already asking a question. "There has to be some part of you looking forward to this. Honestly, Tristian, there has to be something."
         Tristian gives a half hearted shrug, no real feeling involved, it's just something you're supposed to do when faced with questions like this. The featured apathy, the projected lack of care. Don't comb your hair or iron your clothes and walk around with an expression of world weary regret and you've got the look all sewn up. "Just not a party person, really. I guess. Never really was." Another shrug, cheerless smile. It's all in contrast to the setting. "Sorry, Joe."
         Brown shakes his head now, something akin to pity in his face but deeper. He can understand, Tristian supposes, he can see where others can't. Tristian feels ashamed acting this way around Brown, as if he has no right to, the man has lost his parents, took a chance on his entire life, seen everything he knew contradicted and yet he can face it with relentless cheer and a stubborn refusal to let the world win. Always have the last laugh, even if it's just giving the middle finger.
         Brown turns to go back up the stairs, figuring that Tristian is still following, which he is. Without turning around he says, "Then for the life of me I don't know why you even bothered to come, Tristian, unless you just felt like bringing me to a party, which is all nice and everything but not if you're not going to stand around and be miserable all night." He runs a hand through his hair, his breath a milky mist around him, shaking his head again. "I just wish I-"
         And then he stops. Stops short and jumps back down a step, actually, nearly running into Tristian, who takes a step back for some space. Some air. It all closes in some days. There's a crawling realization on Brown's face suddenly, as if doors in his head have opened and lost knowledge has become commonplace again. His expression wavers between vague surprise and stunned fixation.
         "God damn, I can't believe I almost forgot about that . . ." Brown says slowly, looking at Tristian, then staring at him again as if seeing him for the very first time.
         "What?" Tristian asks just as slowly, feeling himself peeled like an onion, all the layers falling to the floor in bloody shreds.
         "You . . ." he stops and runs his hand through his hair again, collecting thoughts, reordering the words, slapping the sentence together, "you told me once about a girl, who . . . God why can't I remember her name . . . some girl that you had thought about asking out or something . . . or . . ." he's staring at Tristian again, making him feel very uncomfortable. Brown looks like someone who has just solved a mystery of Gordion proportions. "That's it, isn't it?" he adds in an almost hushed voice. "She'll be here tonight, won't she?"
         Tristian manages to keep his face relatively free of any sort of expression, any sort of hint. He steps forward and past Brown, nearly shoving him out of the way, gently but still forcefully. Brown lets himself be shoved, he doesn't care, he's got something here.
         "Probably, she'll be here," Tristian responds, feeling that some sort of reply is deserved. "Not that it really matters."
         "Why?" Brown asks, amusement lacing the edges of his tone. "Too chicken to go for it?"
         "She's with someone," is all Tristian says. He leaves it at that, figuring that will end the conversation. They've reached the door finally, a good solid metal door. Tristian places a hand on it to steady himself, feeling the chill of the metal seeping into his hand. That's right, feel something, goddammit. Anything.
         "So?" Brown replies with what Tristian imagines is a straight face, only smiling and holding his hands out as if to ward Tristian off when the other man turns to give him a withering look. "Geez, just kidding." He leans back against the railing and whistles a jaunty tune, hands in his pockets. Tristian rings the bell, faintly hearing the buzzer. Even more faintly he can hear the thumping roar of the music. Hopefully someone will let them in.
         "So someone jumped the gun on you, eh?" Brown comments, almost to himself. "Too bad."
         "Not really," Tristian replies. "I doubt she would have gone for it anyway." He lowers his voice, a bare whisper, stripped of any kind of emotion. "And I sure as hell wouldn't bother now. Not these days."
         Brown claps Tristian on the shoulder in a friendly gesture. "Just point her out to me, Tristian. We've saved the Universe, this'll be nothing." He gives another grin drenched in mischief. "Besides, if all else fails, that'll be a great pickup line."
         Tristian ducks his head to avoid letting Brown see the reluctant grin running across his face. "Shut the hell up, Joe."
         He can hear footsteps now, running down toward them. Saved. Finally.
         Brown's still talking, taking his idea and running with it for all it's worth.
         ". . . can see it now . . . hey there, there's only thing I like better than saving all life as we know it and that's-"
         Mercifully the door opens and Tristian dashes in before he can hear Brown finish.