False Positive

“Toxicology is saying it was dexacyclypophine.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Time of ‘departure’ was 0900.”

“Why can’t we say ‘death’ anymore?”

“You know why.”

“Social Positivity Act of 2341.”

A wry grin appeared on the forensic officer’s face as they both stood over the corpse of a middle aged male.

“Next of kin was notified.”

“Were they notified in a ‘positive’ manner?”

The wry grin disappeared as the forensic officer starred blankly at the detective.

“You know… ‘GUESS WHAT?! GREAT NEWS! YOUR FATHER IS DEAD! HA-HA!’”

“I doubt it. I’m sure the standard government condolence card was sent.”

“What? No shitty balloons?”

“Mocking government procedures is a violation of the Positivity Act.”

“I can positively say, that Act, positively blows.”

“Okay,” the forensic officer replied, hoping to end what could be an illegal conversation.

“Wait..”

“What?”

“Did he just move?”

People of Matter (Chapter I)

A light wind traveled from the west, bringing a cool air to what was a typical warm coastal spring day. The breeze surrounded and lifted her brown hair from her shoulders in some sort of ethereal display. Her eye lids fluttered to keep her deep brown eyes safe from the breeze, but not long enough to escape the sun. The light seemed to expose her very soul and it was a moment that did not go unnoticed. An instance of magic rarely does.

He witnessed her seemingly glide to the veranda, alone. This wasn't his prey. She wasn't why he was there, but nevertheless, he was struck. Instantly he was faced with a conflict only he could bare witness to. There was something in the air that was pulling at his being as if he was simply flirting with the outer reaches of the vortex. Like a child, he extended his foot into the edge of the whirlpool, to explore its capacity; its strength.

Her voice, he could almost imagine it in his ears. He imagined a soft, calming sound; anything to counter what he was used to hearing in his own head. A siren, not of the emergency vehicle or alarm variety, but of the kind that entranced Greek sailors from their respective courses. In the place of shipwreck amongst the Sirenum scopuli, he would find home; a foreign concept.

For second, he looked in the reflection of the coffee decanter to get a good look at himself. At his white linen suit.

"Shhstop eht!"

"Sir."

"I… I know… the inner fachets of physhics! Twins paradoxeses! Hahaha!"

A drunk should never attempt an intellectual discourse with armed security, he thought. His "person of matter" was quickly out lasting his welcome and security was responding by applying a good amount of pressure to the back of the inebriated man of science's arm.

"Ooush!"

Being drunk at a dignitary's dinner party wasn't enough for the death penalty, but having a history of illegally exporting sensitive data to designated entities was. Dr. Hilion was a drunk party away from ending his own memoirs. Security had already contacted the police after the doctor's third martini, so the stage was set early.

They lifted him by his arms, leaving a three foot gap between the tips of his toes and the ground.

"My parents.. they did this to mee… at Disneyland onsh."

The doctor giggled. He actually laughed with certain execution almost an afterthought. The man in the white linen suit was amused, as he swiftly followed the security escort to the bunk house towards the back of the estate. Her eyes followed him, quietly.

The police waited just outside the ivy sheltered walls of 345 Whitestone Drive. The party had quickly moved on from the drunk doctor to Billy Idol's "Dancing with Myself."

"Old school," he thought.

The doctor's head was used to open the second set of French doors inside the bunkhouse. Away from peering eyes, security would make it a point to express their angst with the elitist culture they served on ousted party goers. His head made a wonderful crack in the French door's articulated wood panels. The wood panels created a wonderful gash on the doctor's head. Seven vodka martinis make for a wonderful anesthetic also provides the user a wonderful method for forgetting political and social transgressions. Blood, mixed with sweat, took a circuitous route down Dr. Hilion's tired face. He wasn't smiling any more.

The man in the white linen suit took one step into the bunk house and the hard wood floors gave him away. The nearest member of the security team turned around on his heels.

"Sloppy," the man in the white linen suit thought.

"Sir, you're not allowed in here," explained the security guard as the two holding the doctor stopped in their path to present more muscle in the room.

"Oh… I was told the gentleman's room was here. I don't think the pate' is agreeing with me, you know what I mean?"

"Sir, the bathrooms are in the house. First floor. Left of the greeting room."

"Thanks. What happened to his head?" The topic of conversation changed quickly to the drunken doctor's forehead.

"Accident. He's drunk."

The man in the white linen suit's eyes looked at the French doors that had some spattering of blood and an indentation.

"Looks like his head fits perfectly in that hole in the doors here. You guys taking liberties?"

"Alright, you're trespassing… and you're annoying." The 6'2" security ogre elevated his chest in the ancient art of physical intimidation. The man in the linen suit's hand was quick as it wrapped around the back of the large man's skull, grabbing a full head of hair. Momentum carried his hand, head in grasp, southward where the man in the white linen suit introduced the security guard's head to the French door. The meeting was less than cordial, as the guard's forehead driven through all but two wooden slats on the door.

Consciousness, like common sense, escaped him.

The other two guards quickly dropped the hopelessly immobile doctor to the ground. They didn't speak a word, but the extendable night sticks spoke of violent prose.

"Roses are red, and I will be black and blue," he quipped to himself. Initially, he knew no one was interested in humor, but the doctor laughed. His sense of humor returned.

The guards attacked in tandem, flailing away with their night sticks. They needed more training as their attacks eliminated two lamps and a rare Chinese vase filled with a rare person's ashes. Their desecration caused one of them to lose their footing on the ash covered corner of the room. The man in the white linen suit ducked under a flying night stick to deliver kick to the side of the downed man's head.

The third member of the dignitary's security team decided to alert the police instead of engaging in any kind of close quarters combat. He ran, wildly, towards the back entrance, stumbling on his comrade's night stick. The night stick was jammed into the French door, causing it to violently swing away and back into the face of the escaping guard. The guard fell back against a foyer table which was the inspiration for an unscheduled nap.

The doctor, looking up at the French doors from his comfortable location on the ground, announced: "Fifst time… the Frenssh… won anything!"

In The Hands of a Child

He looked at her knowing full well that he shouldn't. It was forbidden for so many reasons; their past, her standing in society, his future, the lives of those around them. His eyes tried desperately to catch hers. They flirted with her cheeks, her mouth, and returned quickly to her eyes. At that moment in time, there was nothing more he wanted but for her to see him… again.

The procession made its way through the filthy downtown street. Flanked by gunmen of various size, strength, and scars, the collection of VIP's walked cautiously towards the hotel. Any pedestrian ignorant enough to approach was met with a violent suggestion to redirect their path. The child beggars, the Untouchables, were thrown to the ground even before they could meekly offer their handcrafted goods.

A gunman smashed a child's glass flower under his foot. A single act of brutality that destroyed a two credit trinket, but also crushed the spirit of a child. In the shadows, the angst grew. You could smell it.

She looked into the crowd. She felt him. Their eyes met for a brief second, during which she blinked. A blink that represented a greeting, a touch, a discussion, intimacy, and familiarity; inspirations. It had been many years since they last shared any moment, but their memories were as fresh as the rain that now poured on them both.

He smiled. No one could have seen it under the scarf that shrouded his face. His eyes told a million tales. Another tale was to be written within the following seconds. Twenty other pairs of eyes glanced at him from the crowd. They waited for the sign. A simple gesture that would unlock and open up the buckling gates of a decade of suffering.

The rain permeated clothing and now began to creep onto the cold steel that was hidden underneath the urban urchins' rags. The combination of water and steel provided a very distinct smell in the air. A smell that the gunmen should have recognized from the Kanton years. They failed to notice the scent and it was to be their undoing.

"Please don't," she thought to him. "There are children here. It won't turn out the way you wish it to be." She called to him without uttering a sound, hoping that he would hear her; that he would reconsider. She begged him not to bring Hell down on that street.

"I love you. I miss you. Please don't."

His blood was speeding through his veins as he focused on his target.

"Silus, you've got the three on the left," he whispered. Silus chirped his understanding. "Gold, you guys have the doormen. Be quick." A tone was heard in his ear piece acknowledging the command. "I've got their lead. Everyone else, put it on them as soon as I shoot."

The group of VIP's began to ascend the stairs to the hotel slowly as the rain forced itself upon the thoroughfare. He aimed just above her left ear, a path that would take his round to the back of her "caretaker's" ear.

He thought, "Forgive me. If there's anything I could ask for from you, from now until the moment I expire, is that you forgive what I'm going to do. If you were to never love me again… just tell me this is okay."

"I love you. I miss you. Please don't."

He took in a breath and held it. Exhale. The routine had begun as he took a second breath and held it. Breath control is key to a sharpshooter's accuracy… inhale… hold… fire. His heart rate was slowing and he was in the final throws of assassin's euphoria as he applied pressure to his weapon's grip at his side. He began to raise the weapon slowly as not to alert the gunmen or those around him.

The rifle's muzzle slowly rose from his ankles. He was ready. View to a kill. The rifle continued it's ascent when it's progression suddenly stopped. An Untouchable, a toddler, had managed an iron grip on the muzzle with her free hand; her other hand firmly in the loving hand of her mother.

The rifle was made useless.

"Flower. Flower," she repeated.