"So, you're saying that there is actually an Oz?" Pete asks.
/
Everything, eventually, goes back to normal.
Well… 'normal' being a very relative term to use in a world such as theirs; this isn't Main Street, after all – no green yards lined with white picket fences, no families with two-point-five kids, no lights turned out on another dull day of driveway gossip with the neighbors.
But everything goes back to their kind of normal.
/
"…Like, with the yellow brick road and the flying monkeys…?"
"No."
"Not even the singing midgets?"
/
This is normal, too - Pete saying things that can amuse and annoy simultaneously; Artie answering back in a bland and blunt manner. If one were to focus only on this moment, they might sort of forget about all those weeks ago. It would be as if putting a palm alongside each eye and narrowing the gaze.
A person could look at this singular moment in time and never catch a glimpse of the past.
/
"No singing midgets. No flying monkeys. No houses falling on anyone, except maybe on you if you do not let me finish." Artie states with a glare that is one part professional pain and one part familial exasperation.
Pete gets the hint, as usual, and holds his hands up in a weak defense.
"Hey, someone was bound to ask and it might as well be me."
Artie sighs. Pete levels a grin towards Myka. Myka's own lips turn up, briefly, in response.
/
Everything about this moment is normal for the three of them. Everything seems exactly as it once was.
Except, really, everything has changed.
They had a sliver of hope to hang the world on – a pocket watch held gently in Artie's hand - but the stem-wind refused to be turned. The hands kept on moving and the seconds kept on slipping by; time, as always, carried on and no one could stop it from happening.
Pete was right.
They had lost.
They lost the brick walls and the metal rafters that had become home; they lost thousands of artifacts – not even ashes to remember them by, only memories.
They lost countless miracles and they lost endless possibilities.
They lost it all.
/
"Go check it out. Do your job." Artie commands as he hands over blue folders to the both of them.
"Sure thing." Pete answers as Myka nods her head in affirmation.
Artie turns to leave but stops abruptly, looking over his shoulder with the same serious stare that greeted the two Secret Service agents so long ago.
"And don't put them on!" Artie sort of barks out the order before resuming his retreat.
"Yeah, Mykes, don't get any ideas…" Pete mutters good-naturedly.
"I think he was talking to you." Myka says as she starts to walk out of Leena's, not waiting around to listen when Pete calls after her.
"Hey! I don't know what you've heard but my feet are so not made for heels!"
/
This is how normal is supposed to sound and, so, they turn up the volume. Each one of them tries to drown out those other sounds – the falling of tears, the breaking of hearts, and the shattering of intangible feelings. Each one of them strives to be as they once were – and god knows they are failing.
It is the worry that clings to Pete's voice.
It is the tiredness that pulls at Artie's body.
It is the sadness that lingers along Leena's mouth.
It is the anger that colors Claudia's eyes.
It is the hollowness to all of Myka's movements; as if she were a ghost in her own life and when her fingers try to find purchase, she catches nothing but air.
So, they turn up the volume – up, up, up – until the sound of what no longer is around cannot be heard.
/ /
TBC