Category: Imagine – Finest Fiction

“‘My greatest strengths are adaptability, communication, and technical comprehension. I can offer expertise specific to this field and look forward to helping find solutions as problems arise. I’m perfect for this position because I have the skills, experience, and drive to deliver results from day one.’ Whoot!”

She pumps her fists, jumping up and down from her power pose. “This is gonna be great. This is gonna go great! They’re gonna love me and hire me on the spot. We’re gonna jive so well someone’ll mistake us for BFFs. Yeah!” Tossing out one final power pose, she snags her blazer and tosses it about her shoulders, striding out the door.

Leaving her hotel, she joins the crowd on the sidewalk proper. Navigating down the block, her eager expression starts to fade as she weaves through the thick throngs of people. “Excuse me, pardon me, sorry about that…” After several minutes of fighting the reverse direction of the tide of fish, she ducks under the awning of a skyscraper, sighing herself into a smile as she looks up at the sign.

Corporate, Inc.

Nodding to herself, she steps toward the door, reaching out her hand and opening it to walk through. Sliding her hands down her blazer, she grins broadly as she slowly turns her gaze from left to right, taking in the scene. She breathes deeply as she notes the people-barren, flavor-bereft scene before her. She nods, thinking quietly aloud, “They probably save all the decor for their offices. They don’t want to put anyone off too quickly; that’d be bad for business. That’s it.” Again nodding reassurances to herself, she breathes deeply and marches on.

Reaching the security station, she waves a friendly greeting. “Hello, sir. How are you today?”

“Name,” he says without looking up from the camera feeds.

“Oh, haha, right. Why, I’m Jane Smith, here for my interview for the corporate department of Corporate, Inc.” She laughs quietly, leaning on the security station wall.

“Jane Smith.”

She smiles broadly. “That’s right. And you are?”

He flips through papers attached to a clipboard. On the third-to-top page, he strikes out her name. Her eyebrows jolt, jaw dropping. “Take the elevator to the eighty-seventh floor; take a right; sit in the chairs; wait to be called.”

Swallowing hard, she nods her receipt of the instructions. “Oh. Yes. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Uh…” She steps back from the security station, again waving, big smile plastered on her face. “Have a great day, sir.”

Quickly strolling through the lobby to the elevators, she holds her hands together at her waist. Upon reaching the elevators, she pushes a button, then rolls back on her heels to wait patiently. Eyes darting about, she sees nobody; nervously, she starts to rock back and forth, puckering her lips, then inverting them, and humming.

But she can’t place the tune she’s humming; it’s just there. After several minutes of repeating the same few measures of music, she slows her hum awkwardly, picking it apart to analyze it piece by piece. Swallowing the music entirely, she bites her lips together.

The elevator dings.

“Oh,” she reclaims a grin, climbing on board as the doors open, spinning around to face the front and pressing the button for the eighty-seventh floor.

Someone else joins her in the elevator car, pressing another floor’s button.

“Oh, hello.”

The new occupant turns to her, looks her up and down, then exits the car.

She visibly deflates as the elevator doors close.

Riding up in silence but for the quiet dinging of the floor announcements, she swallows hard, yanking herself back into her interview mentality. You got this. They’re gonna love you. Chin up, buckaroo; they’re lucky you’re here!

The elevator stops at floor fifty-three, doors opening. She peers out. Nobody. The entire floor looks empty. Not a good feeling. The doors close, and the ride continues. After what felt like forever of torturous silence, the elevator finally slows to a stop on the eighty-seventh floor.

With a determined huff, she steps out onto the floor, takes a right, and sits in an empty chair. Pulling on a friendly smile, she turns to the candidate next to her. “Hello.”

The candidate looks at her, then turns away.

“Okay then.” She sits, hands on her knees, back straight. After several minutes, she starts to rock back and forth slowly. Hi, I’m Jane Smith. It is so nice to meet you! … Have I told you what I admire about Corporate, Incorporated yet? … My greatest strengths are adaptability…

They wait. Then she waits. Then her name is called, she pulls on her most winningest smile, and she goes in.

After about half an hour, she comes out, plodding to the elevator.

Face flat, she even finds blinking difficult and uneasy. She slowly punches the elevator button, then waits for the car silently. She doesn’t even pay attention to how long it takes to arrive. Stepping in, she finds herself elbow-to-elbow with several people, their only commonality being the direction which they are riding the elevator in. She taps the button for the main lobby, then shifts back toward the back of the car.

Then, it hits her.

She turns back toward the front, slowly pushing herself to stand in front of the buttons. Just as the elevator doors start to close, a big grin plasters itself on her face, and she flails, hitting numerous elevator buttons. As the other passengers in the car gasp and reach toward her, she giggles mercilessly, yet joyfully.

I walk the quietest walk down the vacant hallway, always thinking we should’ve better matched up our schedules as I make my way to Fiends of Flight. As the sole class we couldn’t agree on, perhaps our schedules never would have matched as long as I insisted on learning about pixies and faeries, sylphs and sprites and he “refuses to waste time on such beasts.” But they’re not beasts; they’re often as intelligent as we are, albeit with a little less willpower to control their impulses and abilities.

“Hey faerie-lover!”

My foot falters; I bump into the wall, catching myself with my fingertips to prop myself up, continuing forward rather than facing my pursuers. I’m not interested in whatever new taunts or tricks they’ve come up with this week; I just want to get where I’m going. Head down, I clutch my books tighter, plunging forward. It’s only another hundred meters to class; I can make it.

One of them appears in front of me, smirking wickedly.

I yank back, stutter-stepping to keep my balance. My hood falls back from my head as I twist in place, identifying how many of the gang are here and attempting to find an escape. Two, four, six… eight. This week, eight have come to see how much it will take me to explode, and only two of them dare stand within the blast radius.

When I try to mind my own business, trouble chases me down.

“Off to class, faerie-lover? Running a little… late,” he steps toward me, crossing his arms, “aren’t you? I heard Professer Pixiedust doesn’t appreciate tardiness.” He clicks his tongue at me. “Tsk, tsk. Perhaps you’ll be put on notice again? What a shame that would be.”

“That isn’t her name,” I growl.

“Look at you,” they start to circle around, even the distant six closing in. “Do I detect a hint of protectiveness in your voice? About a professor? Oooh, sounds like someone has a crush.” I grind my teeth. “Maybe you should ask her on a date. I wonder where pixies like to go to eat… Do they even eat?” He turns to his companions, chortling and sneering then turning back. “Probably not. You might have to stick with drinking pond scum.”

My eyes flicker up as I fight my breathing to stay steady.

“All those faerie-types like that kind of thing, right?” He nods, a vicious upturn to the corner of his lips. “That’s good. Well, good for you and all of your faerie-loving friends. That’s pretty much what you are, pond scum. Not even your dreadful old pal – what’s his name?” He turns to one of his friends who shrugs and shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.” He turns back to me. “Not even that guy wants to hang around your kind.”

I close my eyes, focusing on my breathing.

“Nothing to say? Probably a good thing. You wouldn’t have anything intelligent to say, anyway, so why waste the energy? Better conserve it for when we start rationing again; your kind will be the last priority, you know. You might not even get rations after that incident last time with one of your little buddies trying to magick the whole lot of it off to a private stash. Thieves, the lot of you!”

My eyes bolt open, the flesh behind my ears flaming white.

A hand settles on my shoulder from behind. Instead of jumping to bite, I yank about quizzically. As the hand drops, I find, a hand-length away from me, a brunette with soft brown eyes spiked with jade. She grins gently at me. “Are you headed to class?” It takes hearing her voice for me to recognize her. Perhaps I’ve never looked at her before.

“Yes,” I nod, “Fiends of Flight. Class.”

“Of course, the transfer student here to save the day,” he jeers. “What a waste of time and space, the both of you. You and your fiendish friends should all just-“

“What did you say your name was again?”

I blink hard, facing her, seeing her. She grins, emanating hospitality, but my mind is still on the taunts of my pursuers. As I watch her, her eyes quickly pinch near-closed for a moment, then re-open as she twists her head. She knows. “Gabe. My,” I swallow hard, tugging my books closer to my chest, “my name’s Gabe.”

Her grin grows warmly. “Nice to meet you, Gabe,” she extends her right hand, “I’m Dezzy.”

As I focus on her hand, she holds it there kindly, and my pursuers seem to loose their luster. Cautiously, I reach for her hand; as my hand gets closer to hers, a member of the outer circle fades to non-existence. As I take her hand, another quickly disappears. As I shake her hand, yet another vanishes. “Nice to meet you, too.” Another evaporates.

“Head demons?”

I try to take my hand back, but she holds it firmly. I look at her hand gripping mine which is twice the size. Again, I tug, but she doesn’t falter, doesn’t even seem to notice that I yank. Unlike normal situations where I might become frustrated and even angry, I simply marvel at the audacity of such a small hand holding captive one such as mine. It takes guts to do something like that to someone like me.

“I used to get them,” she confesses. “There are more effective ways than running.”

I nod, moreso because I don’t want to disagree with someone with this much courage than that I actually know what she’s talking about. I don’t have head demons, I reason to myself, I have pursuers. Then I look up: there are only two left, and both of them look pretty paltry. My gaze meanders back to hers. “Right.”

She grins. “They’ll disappear altogether soon. For now, let’s get to class.”

“Right,” I nod, swinging back in the proper direction. She keeps hold of my hand, stepping with me and swinging it loopily as she goes. As we make our way to class, I look over and wonder who she is to dare to touch me at all, let alone without my permission. Dezzy. Her name is Dezzy. A grin starts to form on my face, funny though it probably looks on me.

As we near the classroom, she turns to me. “See you on the other side!”

She slips away from my hand, gliding to a back corner of the room with a single open desk. As I make my way toward the front of the classroom, to the only seats still vacant, I watch her dissipate.

Alarm blaring, she reaches over and turns it off, quickly jumping to her feet.

Too quickly.

The world spins, and she grabs her bed for support. Closing her eyes, she shakes her head slowly. Not again. With a deep breath, she re-opens her eyes and stumbles cautiously forward, steadies herself, then continues. She prepares for the day with a gentler touch than yesterday.

Still, it’s worse than she thought: her head keeps swirling despite using every trick she’s come to learn over the years, and the dizziness is compounding the otherwise annoying issue. Mid-shower, she sits on the floor to calm the tides stirring in her head. A moment turns into a minute, one minute turns to several. Finally, as the water pumping out of the shower head starts to cool, she warily stands, rinsing off as swiftly as possible without worsening her condition. Turning off the water, she dries off, tugs on her robe, and makes her way back to her room.

The sun has started to rise, and the east-facing window greets her harshly, forcing her to stagger backwards. Blocking the rays of light with her hand, she ambles to the window and yanks the blackout curtain to properly cover the sunlight. She turns back to the dark room, eager to get on with day preparations only to find herself falling back into bed with the world twisting and spinning around her. Closing her eyes leaves the faded navy blue imprints to dance on her eyelids.

Just another hour, she tells herself. Maybe this episode will go away by then.

Sighing, she realizes she has to cancel a meeting; she can’t drive like this even if she were stubborn enough to try. She shoots off a text, brain too wonky to even time it to send later at a more appropriate time, and rolls over, tugging the blankets over her.

But sleep fails to come. First, she’s too cold, so she piles on the warmest of blankets from the end of her bed. Just as she starts to feel comfortable, she’s suddenly too hot. Tearing off all of the blankets does nothing to help, and the room feels stuffy and stale. Clambering out of bed, she opens both windows, eyes closed as she stands in them to catch a few snowflakes on her nose. Needing the fresh air but suddenly feeling weak, she crawls back into bed.

She tries to get some rest, but it refuses to visit her. So she pauses, turning her thoughts away from everything, even sleep, and rolling over as though to finalize that decision. She stares at the wall, then closes her eyes only to find the wall still before her, and asks God to talk through this silence. Her body continues to complain – it’s too hot, or it’s too cold, or it’s both too hot and too cold, or the sheet is crumpled, or the room is too dry, or the windows shouldn’t be open, or there isn’t enough fresh air. Still, she waits, not even knowing what she wants from her comforter.

Her phone buzzes; she resists the urge to reach for it. Several minutes pass, then it rings; she reaches over and silences it, then rubbing her face and wondering why that person would call her, especially at such an early hour. Another minute passes promptly followed by another phone call. Again, she reaches over and silences it, noticing it’s a different person that she’d been meaning to speak with. Not now, she closes her eyes, I’m not even sure I physically can speak right now. Besides, why all of this attention so early?

She glances at the clock. It slowly whirs into focus for a split second: 0938. She groans: her restful hour somehow turned into restless three. Worse yet, when she sits up, the world continues to spin, and now it also pulses, forcing her back to her pillow. Gratefulness overtakes her as she closes her eyes: at least today is a holiday; not all of the errands will get done, but at least she doesn’t have to explain this to her boss.

The thankfulness soothes her, quieting her nerves and allowing her to fall to slumber.

“Alpha team is clear! Bravo team, what’s your status?”

“… Clear.”

“Charlie team-“

“Clear.”

“Delta team.”

“Clear.”

“Echo -“

“Contact! Contact!”

“Move, move! You know the drill: one fireteam per squad stays vigilant in place, everyone else converge. Move!“

Rapid fire covers the sounds of footpatter, brass clattering to the ground.

“Sitrep!”

“Delta team leader took a hit.”

“Delta?”

“Fast to respond, slow to check the corner.”

“Delta team, get your leader to a medic; Charlie team, cover us. Echo team, what else?”

Sweat drips from their helmets as the Echo leader pulls his head up to look at her. “Else?”

She literally bites her tongue to prevent lashing out. “How many? What armament? Are we looking at well-trained guerillas or are we trading fire with our own soldiers who got lost on the way to the rendezvous?” He blinks hard, eyes falling as he grips his rifle more firmly. “Think and talk, Scolnar! Time is of the essence!”

He stutters audibly, wiping his face as he wriggles where he stands. “Uhhh…”

She grits her teeth, glancing at her watch. “Charlie team – clear the room!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Use cans! We know someone’s in there.”

Three of Charlie team yank tear gas cans from their belts; the last one slumps slightly and puts it back with a soft whine as the others send their cans flying. Condensed air sprays out as the canisters sail into the adjacent room, clunking on the floor as all the soldiers hold up against the outside walls.

“Bravo team, lead us in!”

“Yes, ma’am! On me!”

“Alpha team, back ’em up!”

“Roger!”

Clearing the door, they take the room. A youth stands near the far wall, ankles and wrists crossed; he yawns.

“Time!”

The lights flicker on.

He smirks. “I told you this level wouldn’t acquiesce so quickly, chica.”

She sighs. “Depends on your definition, gringo,” she scowls, “but according to the language of the task, we did win.”

“Balderdash.”

“‘Isolate and neutralize the threat.’ We had you down to the room, gassed the room, and all but had you in cuffs. You were dead to rights, sitting on your laurels at the window; doubly so given in a real life scenario a sniper would’ve taken you out.”

“You know the rules, chica.”

“Stop calling me that. And yes, I do know the rules, and unless you were hiding a suicide bomb, we won.”

“But you don’t know that I wasn’t, do you?”

“Actually,” she raises her eyebrows, “we do, because we did a scan before breaching the house; no dice. Also, no vest and no apparent trigger, so, yeah. Thanks for playin’, but either up your game or accept defeat.”

“Let’s let the judges decide.”

“Always. They have the script.”

Stripping off their gear, they remove the magazines, clear the blanks out of the chambers, and set the rifles down in the recently-reappeared container, meandering away to make room for others.

The speaker system blares on. “Sorry,” the older female voice echoes in the chamber, “we believe the foe intended to have a bomb challenge at the end, but it isn’t explicit in the script, and the terms for victory were technically met. Therefore, we render our decision thusly: the clearing company won the bout. Now,” she chirps more sternly, “off to dinner, all of you. You’ve been running simulations all day; at least pause for some nourishment, and preferably for some sleep as well.”

Gritting his teeth, he shakes his head to loosen his tension. Then he looks up, offering her his hand. “Well done.”

She grins weakly back. “Thanks,” she shakes his hand, “we have a great team.”

“Mmm,” he nods. Releasing their grips, they walk toward the exit together. “My team is still better.”

“Hah!” She laughs aloud, shaking her head. “Compare the datasets from our respective runs. We did better across the board.”

“Yes, while I was away.”

“Oh, balderdash. You’re good, but not spectacular. Your team was better without you,” she smiles playfully.

“We’ll show you up tomorrow, don’t you worry.”

“I’m not worried.”

Racing down the hall, she nearly plows into her best friend, shoes leaving squeal marks during her stop. She waves a paper and envelope in front of his face, closing his locker to get there. He takes a step back, scowling. “What’s that for?”

She beams. “I got in.”

His face drops, then he blinks. “Wait, what? They already got back to you?”

“Yes! Tychus, I got in!” She jumps up and down, eyes tight with glee, whinying with delight.

He hides a disheartened sigh in the commotion, yanking on a supportive face and smiling, trying to hide the pain. He nods, forcing himself to focus on the happy parts of the news instead of the part that tells him he’ll soon be without his friend. “Congrats, Marie; I’m happy for you.”

Clutching the letter tight to her chest, she shakes with delight. “Thank you! I knew you’d share my joy with me. Victory wouldn’t taste nearly as sweet without you.”

With a scoff, he raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, I bet.”

Breathing deeply, she re-opens her eyes. Her smile fades. “Tychus? What’s wrong?”

Always paying attention… “The irony of that statement hit me just right. Don’t mind me.”

“Irony?” She blinks repeatedly. “Tychus, what are you talking about?”

“Nothing; never mind. Just,” he grins firmly for her, turning to face her as he shoulders his backpack. “Just, congratulations… and don’t forget about the little people.” He starts down the hallway.

Her face contorts; she follows him. “What an odd thing to say. Should I already be working on my closing night speech?”

“What?”

“I get the distinct feeling we’re not talking about the same thing.”

He pauses, turning to her, eyebrow cocked. “College?”

She laughs aloud. “No, the spring musical! I did well in the callbacks and got a role!” Shaking her head, she balks. “I just sent in my top tier applications last week; I doubt the schools even know I exist yet. Is that what you’re worried about, Tychus? It’s only autumn! We have the rest of the year to figure out next year.”

“Says the one getting into the Ivies.”

“Pffft,” she waves him off. “I didn’t even apply to any of those schools, much to my mother’s chagrin.”

“See,” he raises his palm, “who even uses the word ‘chagrin’ while talking to friends?”

“Uhm, I do,” she points out, “and you do, and anyone who likes fun words does. Are you seriously upset about my using the fun words in my vocabulary?”

“Nobody uses ‘fun’ words but you, Marie.” He raises his arms and then drops them, turning to continue down the hallway.

Her brows furrow and she shakes her head. “That’s not true. Plenty of people do – including you.” As he starts, she follows him. “Tychus, what’s going on? Did you not get your applications out? There’s still time. Can I help?”

He tosses a hand in her face, pausing them both. “No. Drop it.”

“Drop what?”

He grinds his teeth, looking away.

“Why are we trying to cross a river when we don’t even know if that’s the right direction yet? Talk to me, Tychus.”

Exhaling hard, he turns back to her. “This is our last year together.” She opens her mouth, but quickly closes it, forcing herself to let him say his piece, his whole piece. “We both know we’re not going to the same school. Maybe we’ll send each other Christmas cards, but we won’t see each other after graduation. I’d like to just enjoy the time we have together before letting the inevitable come between us.”

She waits patiently, but he’s done. Clearing her throat quietly, she bites her cheek. “I’d like to start my speech by pointing out that I better get to see you each Christmas ’cause we’ll both be here regardless of where we end up.” He rolls his eyes, but a smile creases his face. “I need to mention that it isn’t necessarily inevitable, but even if it ends up happening, that won’t be the end of us. It can’t be. I’ll still need you, Tychus, whether I end up in Boston or Cambridge, Seattle or Beijing.”

His head whips around. “Did you really apply to schools in Beijing?”

She grins. “I applied all over. The point is that geography isn’t the point: we’ve got all sorts of tech to stay connected, so while it won’t be the same, it won’t be signing the death certificate of our friendship, either.”

He nods. “You should’ve applied to Oxford.”

“I considered it, but I know that I love Cambridge from my summer there, and I don’t know that I could make a trip to test out the aura of Oxford. Besides, I think I’d generally prefer to stay Stateside but do a semester abroad; my Cambridge application was more an ode to the wistful past than an honest belief that I could even get in.”

“Where else did you apply?”

She eyes him, careful to note the slight tilt of his head to his left side, the one slightly-dropped eyebrow, the tense shoulders. “Not now; we can talk about it after class, maybe while you’re deciding where you’re applying to so we can end up at the same school.”

“Not likely.”

“True; most schools are unlikely to take two awesome candidates from the same school. We’ll need to devise a plot where one of us graduates somewhere else before we can hope for that plan to work.”

“You,” he nods, “are insane.”

“We should be able to end up in the same city even if you don’t want to take such drastic measures,” she assures him, chin held high as she leads the way to the classroom. “In the time we have after your applications go out, we’ll need to work on my acceptance speech for the Grammy Awards.”

He laughs. “You’re acting in a school play; I doubt there’ll be talent scouts here.”

“Unless we apply to a music school and invite them to our performance!”

“‘Our performance?’ Marie, I didn’t even try out for the production. I’m not going to be in it.”

“We shall see about that. But first,” she lifts her eyes to the door in front of them, “well, I suppose first is class. But second!” She smiles as he laughs at her antics. “Second is we make sure you’re putting your name in for the schools you’re interested in. Once that’s done, then we can work on the school play. Savvy?”

Smirking, he shakes his head at the floor. “There’s just no dimming your optimism, is there?”

“Nope.” He laughs, and she smiles. “Instead, let’s get the work party started so we get where we want to be.”

He nods, turning toward the door and reaching for the handle. “I hear that.”

“Tychus.”

He pauses, turning to her.

She smiles. “Thank you. We’ll make it through this.”

He smiles back, opening the door for her. “We always do.”