CHAPTER ONE
They were on the roof. It was cold and snow had been falling earlier in the day and when they came up here they had to clear out a space in the snow. Michael and Sarah were drinking: cheap beer, whiskey straight from the bottle, a glass of wine between us.
"I love it up here," she said, pulling closer to him. He didn't say anything, but he put his arm around her and she laid her head on his shoulder.
"Have you decided yet?" he said, finally, after too much silence. She looked up at him, pulled away slightly, imperceptibly.
"Yeah," she said.
He waited for an answer, but she said nothing. She pulled away and took a beer and chugged it quick. She chucked the can over the side of the roof, and it landed in the open garbage cans. She smiled, in spite of herself, and he did too. She looked at him, and their smiles faded.
"I'm gonna go to Georgetown in the fall," she said. For a second, he couldn't breathe.
"Georgetown?" he said, "I didn't know that was an option."
"They have the program I want," she said.
"Minnesota has pretty good programs, too," he said.
"I want to go to Georgetown," she said, and she leaned back and laid on the roof, hands behind her head, staring up at the stars.
"Okay," he said.
They sat there in silence. He looked out at the landscape, taking it all in. The area around Michael's house was populated by pine trees, all now heavy with snow. You could just see the edge of the commercial center of town, still full of lights but empty of people, and Michael ached for something he couldn't put into words.
He downed a beer, quickly, and tossed the can over, and it missed the garbage and landed about thirty feet away. He leaned back on the roof, and looked up at the sky. The sky was full of stars; very little light pollution allowed an incredible panoramic view of the sky most nights. One star, straight in front of Michael, got brighter and brighter and brighter and then it streaked across the sky and crashed, with a crack, into the forest just beyond the hills.
I shook Sarah, and she woke up.
"What, Michael?" she said, and then promptly fell back asleep. He sighed.
He carefully climbed over her, and stumbled inside. Michael could barely put one foot in front of the other. He grabbed his car keys, and went to the garage keypad. He stared at it for a moment, and punched a few keys, but there was no response. Michael punched a few more keys, and it beeped angrily. He stopped punching keys.
His bike was leaning against the porch railing and Michael hopped on unsteadily. He pedaled towards the forest, weaving back and forth across the small two-lane that cut through the center of town.
He did love his town. He does love my town. He was born here and though he didn't want to die here it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Michael loved the amount of grass and trees, loved the cleanliness of the place in winter. In his weakest moments, like those in which I steered a bike through quiet streets, he even loved the smallness of it. Being cozy is on the knife's edge of being cramped, but he felt okay for now.
The last bit, up the hill to the forest, was straight up hill, and Michael paid for my illicit drinking. He felt heavy and weak and at the top of the hill. He fell sideways off his bike and vomited all over the grass. He stood, brushing my knees, unsteady. Michael couldn't get back on my bike.
He left it, and I walked into the forest, on the footpath. He wasn't sure how deep the thing had crashed, but he was super excited. Maybe they'd let him into Georgetown too if he found a new alien species or some shit. Or maybe Sarah'd go to Minnesota, for some reason. Regardless, he was gonna find that goddamn thing that fell from the sky.
He was tired, and drunk, and almost missed the crater. Michael had one hand on a tree branch as he drunkley stepped into the black void of the giant hole in the ground and fell on his ass. His hand had a grip on the branch and it stopped him at the top of the embankment and ripped skin from his palm.
Michael stood up slowly. His hand hurt. He stared into the crater. There was something at the bottom. He sat down again, and slid downwards. his feet hit something hard, and with what little light came through, it shined. He reached out and touched it; cold, and metallic, and a lot of it. This close, he could see pieces all over the place. It was a suit of armor, Michael realized. It was red and silver and black –– he had seen this before. He'd seen a version of this before. Everyone had.
He found the head, the helmet, and put it over his head. It lit up, an interface projected right in front of his eyes. Numbers scrolled by that Michael did not recognize.
Reassemble? it wrote.
"Yes," he said.
There was a humming, and the scattered pieces started flying towards him. The chest piece came first, and knocked him into the dirt. He struggled to sit up and then the legs and the arms and the rest all hit him at once and it knocked the breath out of him. The interface went dark.
He heard three beeps, and it came back online. The interface was different, and simplified. The cursor appeared, and it blinked in front of his face before it began writing.
Are you a previous user? It wrote.
"No," he said.
What is your name?
"Michael Beachtree."
Age?
"18."
There was a low hum, and it vibrated as the suit stood up on its own. This was too much for Michael.
User is underage, and without classification. Would you like to go home?
"Yes," he said, nodding inside the helmet.
Understood.
The suit took off, flying high, and then going straight to Michael's house.
"I left my bike," he said. The suit didn't respond.
It flew me over the town. It was a different view from this high. Things looked so small, and ugly; roofs are not pretty things no matter what you do. He could see a few people, coming out of bars and our one night club, heading for home or hotels.
He could see his house before long. Michael could even see the Christmas lights, blinking red and blue, even from a few miles away. It was-
Christmas lights? In October?
The suit stopped, on a dime, midair. The blinking cursor appeared again.
Police are at the Beachtree residence. Proceed?
"What?" Michael said stupidly.
The police were called to the Beachtree residence fifteen minutes ago, on a report of a falling death. Proceed?
He couldn't breathe, suddenly. He knew. Oh my god. He knew. He had left her up there, as drunk as he was, and she-
They are looking for one suspect, Michael William Beachtree, who is missing from the house. Proceed?
Michael didn't know what to do. They floated in mid-air. He couldn't breathe, he was gasping for air, his throat was shut, he clawed at the suit and tried to get free but he couldn't do-
He started to cry. The blinking cursor put line of text after line of text in front of his blurred eyes but he couldn't understand it. Michael couldn't understand it. he had made a mistake.
"She's dead?" he said, stupidly again, already knowing the truth, trying to find some loophole or some words that would allow him to go back-
"Michael," a voice said, clear as day, with a crisp British lilt. It shocked him out of his tears.
"What?" he said.
"I'm going to take you away from here," the voice said, and the suit turned around and started flying him away.
"I have to go back!" he said, almost screaming, his voice catching in my throat.
"They will arrest you for murder, Michael." the voice said.
"It's my fault!"
The voice didn't respond, at first. There was silence, and then he heard a sigh.
"My name is Jarvis, Michael. I'll keep you safe. I promise."
Michael didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. He began to cry again and he hung limp in the suit as it flew him away, far away, towards a future he had never wanted, alone.