Arizona

The plane landed at 1:56am. The monster-hunting accountant got off before I did, and was gone by the time I got down the ramp. When I got out to the curbside, I found that the taxis were also gone, and the hotel shuttles had stopped running. ; the night was dark and quiet. I shouldered my backpack and started walking. The night was quiet, the desert air clear. A little while later pickup pulled onto the shoulder in front of me. It was a Chevy, almost as old as I am, in a two-tone color scheme, white and primer. The driver is a cute Mexican lady named Pickles, maybe early forties. There's also her nephew, a pale blonde Finn named Frans, in his early twenties, and two little girls, Lulu and Lila, maybe eight and six. Names, ages and relationships are conjectural--Pickles rattled off Spanish at machinegun speed, and I don't speak Spanish anyway. Frans spoke a language I didn't recognize, and the girls burbled nonsense talk quite happily.

Our fleet made for the harbor mouth, where the dhowery of the queen awaited. The goblin ships were quick and their sailors skilled enough, but their ships were for coasts and calm seas.  Their foes were pirates, fierce enough but undisciplined. Our men had learned their skills in a harder school, in the long blockade of the City of Tombs. We knew iced rigging and freezing green water over the bow, and the guns of the black-sailed ships, and iron discipline.
Their ships were in no formation, a loose mob. We formed line ahead, and Azcelon Tower led us into the midst of them. Our broadsides hammered them, and they broke. Half their ships sank or burned, and the survivors scattered to the three winds. In the Outer Harbor we anchored, and lowered boats to land the regiments and to bring back fresh water and fruit, and gold.

Trip to Arizona

   I don't notice anything strange when we land in DFW--but then again, it's DFW. With 150,000 travelers per day running to meet people, avoid meeting people, pick up luggage, or catch another plane, strange things are normal. When we get on the plane, though, it's hard not to notice the monster-sized guy in urban camo. He's so broad he has to turn sideways and shuffle back to our row, so tall that if he had hair, it would be brushing the ceiling. Over his shoulder is a duffel bag that's big enough to hold a couple of teenage girls, but when he stuffs it into the overhead compartment, I see gun muzzles. I don't recognize then at first, because this gun is not some dinky little pistol; we're talking about a weapon that would be suitable for knocking over a rabid tyrannosaurus,  and then polishing off a horde of zombies as an afterthought. The main barrel has a bore suitable for firing hypervelocity golf balls, with a 40mm grenade barrel above and a dinky twelve-gauge barrel slung below, where it can nurse an inferiority complex.
  Once he gets settled in across the aisle, I catch his eye. "Mind if I ask what you do?"
  "I'm an accountant."

 

Trip to Arizona

    I board the plane and get row 24 seat B. The girl next to the window is wearing a black tee shirt, black camisole, black jacket, black culottes, and pink high top tennis shoes. She has piercings in eyebrow, nose, lip, and four in her ear. Her hair is probably genuine ash blonde, with stripes dyed black. I'd say she looks like a goth, except her attitude is more of a particularly fearful mouse. When I say "Hello," she bobs her head but doesn't look up, doesn't make eye contact, doesn't say anything in reply. She spends the entire flight staring at the lower edge of the seatback tray.
    The man to my right has a cafe au lait complexion, dreads halfway down his back, sunglasses, pinstriped suit pants and a tangerine business shirt with French cuffs. He looks interesting, but he's asleep before the stewardess gets up for the safety briefing. It's the standard briefing, no humor, no razzle dazzle, which is understandable because it's 5:42am. I ignore it.
    The plane lumbers to the runway, thinks longingly about coffee or whatever planes think about, and then rolls forward and lifts off. We--including my irradiated and ionized self--go up into the four dimensional curved space matrix maze of interlocking flight paths. When we come down, it may be that I'm not on quite the same world line that I started on.

Trip to Arizona

  I'm the first one to go through the line this morning, and the Irradiator hasn't warmed up yet. I step through the gate, and my eyes flash violet, my teeth buzz, the hairs on my left forearm stand up, my prostate tingles, and my toenails flex. Aside from that, everything appears normal.
   The TSA supervisor mutters something to his minion about adjusting the machine. The minion sighs heavily, in a dramatic manner intended to convey, without quite crossing into insubordination, that he is the most underpaid, over-supervised, under-appreciated minion of all time. Given that the supervisor has not said "And this is the price of failure", nor cackled evilly, nor torn the minion's heart out, I'm not believing it. Although it is, admittedly, early in the morning; perhaps the evil supervisor just needs to get warmed up. The minion jabs at the control panel and beckons at the next person in the queue. I sit down where I'll have a view of the gate, as I put my shoes, belt, wallet, keys, pen, phone, laptop, coins, and other artifacts back into place.
   The next one is a weightlifter with an artificially blond mullet and Fu Manchu mustache, yellow muscle shirt and purple-and-black leopard spotted pants. He glowers sullenly at the minion, and steps into the gate. He doesn't step out; rather, after a brief indigo flash and a crackle of static electricity he, or his remaining soot, drift gently to the floor. I envision the dozen people coming through and getting soot on the soles of their pantyhose, socks, and feet, leaving trails of sooty footprints which lead to the jetway gates before fading out.

Trip to Arizona

    I get up at 4:14am and, by automatic pilot, stumble into the bathroom where I shower and shave. Pushing a sharp blade around my face at 4:23am is not the brightest possible idea but I won't be awake enough to realize that; as it happens, nothing happens. Volumes of hot water get me semi-functional; I dress, eat something, and drag my carry-on and backpack to the car. I consider getting a little more shut-eye on the ride to the airport, but decide it would be ill-advised, since I'm the one driving. I get to the airport at 4:57am, wave to all my adoring fans here to see me off, then turn stride through glass wall right next to the door. Oh, well, it'll be a little more business for the glaziers.
   I've already gone through the online check-in, so all that remains is to march in, remove my shoes, belt, wallet, phone, pen, backpack, laptop, coins, keys, and all other metal except that actually implanted in my body. And then, fatefully, I go through the security gate. At this hour of the morning, I don't consider all the consequences of me passing through a radioactive search-o-tron....

Restaurant 1

He got to the restaurant early, and waved five people ahead of him as he looked over the menu. Stasia hadn't answered the last text he'd sent, and he didn't know how quick the service was here. He decided to go ahead and order, rather than wait for her. The girl at the counter was less than half his age, chubby, with three green stars tattooed on the inside of her left wrist. He ordered a turkey panini with sharp cheddar and bacon, and sweet tea. The girl handed him a pager and asked his name; he told her "Kyril" as smoothly as if it were his real name.

He spotted an open table in the far back corner, and took it. It put his back to one man, a scholarly looking type who was engrossed in his laptop; of course, an agent would have behaved the same way. At the other table was a black girl, with a miniskirt than exposed too much of her legs, with a nursing textbook a notebook. A grandmotherly type between him and the door, not the type the opposition usually used, but you never knew. Couldn't be helped, and the other open tables were more exposed.

The pager buzzed in his hand, and he retrieved his plate from the counter and sat down facing the entrance. There were screens dividing the restaurant into sections, but there were enough openings in the screens that he could watch the door.

And there she was. In his eyes, her presence lit the room immediately, unmistakably. She wore grey slacks, a grey vest that demurely emphasized her narrow waist and small breasts, and white blouse. Her hair was a long straight splash of pale gold now, although in his mental image it had been curls. Her eyes looked tired, until she saw him and she smiled.