The night was dark and still. It was warm in Old City, unusual so late in the fall. The flower shop had been displaying fewer buds, more leafy green plants that were meant to be kept indoors. A large potted plant that could be set in the corner of the office that, on a cold winter's day, was meant to remind one of the Bahamas. The poinsettias, resting on elevated blocks were nothing but stalks and green pods, waiting for another month before they began to bloom. Christmas cactus and spider plants hung in planters near the top of the illuminated window. The shop was closed but ever the entrepreneurs, the owners had chosen to bathe their produce in a wash of sun lamps regardless of the late hour.
The light from the bay window bled out onto the darkened sidewalk, casting long shadows off the bench and bus stop sign and out into the street. A lone figure sat in that light, closed in on himself, leaning forward with his elbows to his knees, hands tucked in toward his stomach. As if he were cold. As if the air around him was frigid.
He wore a dark three piece suit. Professional enough, off-the-rack, stylish despite the name tag glued to his right lapel that truthfully read "My name is Jeff". Dark blue jacket, light blue shirt, matching trousers. The only pair of black socks that he owned, gray and blue striped tie. On its own the suit looked black, but not beside the actual black of the portfolio he'd carried around most of the day. Amongst the many doubts that rang through his mind that small difference came to the surface. Could it have been that offset, that tiny shift in the color spectrum that turned the investors away?
All during the festival he'd kept a close eye on his competitors. None of them had matched their portfolios. Almost all of them had been dressed in muted and dark professional clothing. None of them were models or clothes horses. Maybe that had been the problem. Maybe he had blended in too well.
Around him the air was still. There were no voices of shoppers, or traffic on the street. Other than the ill visited flower shop this corner of Old City had little to no attraction but for the bus stop at which he waited. It was early in the evening too. Those that could revel were out on the East End, or in the Theatre District or at one of the three hundred and twelve drinking establishments within city limits. Or they were home. A place that he desperately wanted to be at the moment.
The day had been one long failure and he was done with it. He was preparing himself for a short night. Something alcoholic once he got home, to put him to sleep, as many hours of shut eye that he could manage before he had to be up the next morning. Dressing in a uniform that he detested and returning to a job that drained him of all his potential every hour he spent there.
He hated the job. Just the thought of crossing the linoleum and brick threshold, spending eight hours under florescent light listening to the same list of complaints, questions and mindless babble…made him sick to his stomach. He felt even worse now, given the way the festival had gone. It was always that way with him. He would feel hope when another festival approached, excitement at the beginning, tense and angry self-beratement after hours of having his creations over looked or ignored, and when he could take it no longer, the acceptance of failure, defeat, and the horrible return to his apartment, to his job, to his life.
It wasn't that long ago that this cycle had nearly destroyed him. That had been the drug faze. First one thing, prescription pills, things that he could take off the shelf at work without anyone noticing. Then another…the sort of thing you have to have connections to get. Connections from the university, from other pharmacies. Working in a high end store pharmacy had been a blessing then. It'd taken him a year to realize what he was doing to himself. His therapist told him he was one of the lucky few. So many that get into the drug scene never come out.
But he'd escaped. He'd gone to a clinic, some new place in the tropics that he had finagled his way into. He'd been fixed up, he'd been drained out…in only a week he was back on his feet. An empty core of a man, but once again in control of himself.
While he sat on the bench, still waiting for the bus, he rolled down a sleeve and traced his fingertips along the veins sprouting from his wrist. It hadn't been that long ago. The tiny scars were still there. But someone from the clinic had turned him on to these festivals…Inventors Festivals. Monthly gatherings of young scientists, creators, revolutionists. Anything from entertainment to theoretical physics, new laundry detergent solutions to cures for cancer. There was an entrance exam one had to pass, and everything you intended to bring to the festival had to be properly represented, and cleared by the board.
But there would be investors; company's looking for the next stars of the Home Shopping Network or the Gadget Channel. People looking to the future instead of the past.
It was the director of the clinic that told him about it, he'd grinned through his tan and said, "Something to do whenever you think about de drugs again," with his thick Germanic accent.
It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
The bus came, groaning to a halt, hissing as the brakes activated and the door swung open. Jeff stood, grabbing the portfolio and letting it hang loosely at his side. He almost felt disdain for it as he climbed up the steps, dropped his fare into the collection box by the driver then swung into the first seat. The bus was mostly empty. That should have occurred to him as odd.
He'd only caught a brief glimpse of the young man near the very back, the dark haired woman sitting at the halfway point to the right. He hadn't even really looked at the driver, hidden behind a sheet of dark plastic that was meant to protect him from less than friendly passengers. If he had he might not have boarded the bus. He might also have demanded to be let off the bus when it left the scheduled route, turning west and then north instead of south.
He only really snapped out of his daze when the window was suddenly filled with the towering buildings and architecture of Historic Old City. Most of the buildings belonged to the oldest families. They were behind thick gates and top of the line security fences. Their occupants and their reason for still existing were a mystery that only the richest of the rich knew. The bus turned toward the ramping driveway of one of the largest estates and paused there and Jeff finally looked around. The driver, not much more than a shadow, was leaning away from the plastic screen mumbling something into what had to be a radio. The dark haired woman had moved closer, now sitting only a seat away and staring right at him. She had blue eyes, very lovely blue eyes.
Jeff felt his heart speed up, and could smell his own sweat. He jumped when a throat was cleared right behind him and the young man who had been at the back of the bus leaned forward, now seated directly behind the would-be-inventor. Jeff shifted in the seat, moving to the very edge and leaning away from now two pairs of eyes directed solely at him.
"I-I uh.." Jeff blinked and swallowed around a dry throat, his gaze snapping back and forth between the woman and the man. "I think I should get off the bus now."
"I really wish you wouldn't." The woman said, with a surprisingly clear English accent. Her lips perked in a calm smile, her eyes never losing their focus on him. She was polite about it, but there was an unmistakable sense of command there. Jeff got the feeling that it was in fact best for him to sit in his seat, and do nothing else. He looked to the young man, who appeared to read his mind then nod in agreement. Yes it would be best to do as the woman said.
The bus moved again, driving through the gate that Jeff had missed seeing open. From there they traveled along a brief tree lined drive then around and toward the back of the giant structure that he didn't remember noticing before this and he had lived in Old City most of his life. Tall spires, turrets, cathedral windows, a castle and a mansion and a church all molded artistically, somehow, into one giant structure that loomed in the darkness. He only had a few glimpses before the road turned, descended and pulled the bus into a pitch black tunnel.
The close walls amplified the sound of the engine but he could still hear his heart beating erratically. All that the bus's lights illuminated was the road and seeing the asphalt sweep by told him nothing. He stood, swaying with the motion of the bus, took two steps forward into the aisle, clinging to the seat back, felt a pinprick of pain in his upper arm seconds after a hand closed over his wrist, then blackness.