His hands raise out of his lap again, this time to explore the stool beneath him and test its substance. "...What?"
"Blake!" Galen's voice is hard enough to make the roving hands flinch and recoil. "Where--were--you?"
The image of a mustache shouting Russian flitted across his thoughts. "...Odessa... The massacre in 1905. But like "Battleship Potempkin," during the day instead of at night... " Blake's eyes clear somewhat, as if a film is being peeled away.
"Good, good, Sonny... And interesting... Someone after you must have modified things to fit Sergei's vision. A cinema buff no doubt..." Galen sits up in the easy-chair, hunching over his beard. "The precursor to the Russian Revolution on jump one, though... hmmm... and you certainly seem to know your history, Blake. That bodes well."
His eyes narrowing sharply, Blake leans forward to match Galen's pose, bringing their noses within inches. "What the fuck is going on?"
Galen snorts and crashes back to his relaxed position. "You really should have had some of the bourbon, Sonny. A must for our next session. Now give me a moment, if you would, while I try and remember how mine handled it. They don't give you much warning for this, you know. Just a sudden alert and order to be at such and such time with such and such-
Blake leaps off the stool, sending it careening back into the darkness as he spreads his arms wide with a violent fling. "Dammit, old man, stop dancing around the question and tell me what the fuck is happening to me!"
"Seems to me, Sonny, if fair's fair, that you have to ask me at least one more time before I respond. And... well, now you're starting to skip out on me." Galen put his hands behind his head in resignation. "Never good to make a jump riled up. Bad for the digestion, or at least it would be. Try and calm yourself before you go, Sonny. Can you still hear me? Remember your history, Blake!"
The void seems to collapse in upon him. Becomes a deeper nothing. He feels himself distorting, sputtering, imploding. A light flickers and fades.
"Remember--your--history!"
Emptiness.
~
Confusion is normal; you don't need to embrace it at this point (though you will later), but at least try and accept it for now.
Why can't I feel anything?
At this juncture you should be second-jump-in-transit. This one should be a little more substantial. Observe what you can, see what you can do.
Only these damn words... nothing else...
But remember, you're still acting on a trial basis: try not to make too much of a mess.
Not again... my stomach...
Have fun.
~
"Senate... Forum... another list posted... longer will this madness be allowed to continue?"
"Sounds like you think someone could actually change things if they had the mind to. Won't end until the old man gives out on his own; there's no one left who has the nerve... Need another Marius."
Blake shook his head gingerly, trying to make sense of the newest set of sounds and smells. Gradually, he risked opening his eyes to slits, and for some moments studied cobblestones so worn they were effectively a single sheet of brick.
"Another Gaius Marius? Are you serious? Have you forgotten the bloodbath after he got his cursed seventh consulship? That was worse than this lunacy, and that's saying something!"
"Maruis of twenty years ago, then. The memory the people so love: our beloved general who crushed the Germans."
Tunic hems swished by on all sides, the sandaled feet below them picking their way around his hunched form with an occasional curse or idle kick.
"See now, I always temper that with the memory of friends' heads spiked on the Rostra by the Marius of five years ago."
"Have you tallied the skulls lately? Sulla's already outstripped Marius by half, and he's nowhere near through. Old man will kill off the entire Knight class before he's done, laughing on his night walks all the while."
"I never disputed that Sulla's proscriptions may well be the death of the Republic."
"In that, at least, we're in agreement."
Uncurling tentatively, Blake waited for a brief lull in the sandals before trying to rise.
81 B.C.: Rome, Italy.
With a soft groan, he slumped back to the pavement.
"Mark that poor fellow over there, Curio."
"I see him. Ho there, Citizen! Can you hear me?"
Two sets of footsteps actually stopped in front of him. A hand shook his shoulder gently, and Blake did his best to bite back the whimper that mewed out nonetheless.
"Looks in bad shape; let's get him out of the traffic."
Three more hands encircled his limbs, and he shuddered in spite of the smooth lift.
"He's a slight fellow, isn't he? Could do with a little of Clodia's cooking, I'll warrant."
"Tunic looks well-to-do, though. Wonder if he hasn't had a run-in with Sulla's damned bounty hunters."
Lucius Cornelius Sulla, after setting the dangerous precedent of using Rome's own legions against her, forces the Senate to extend his dictatorship indefinitely.
The swaying paused briefly as a door creaked open, resumed, and paused again as hinges squealed shut.
"He's lucky to have anything above his shoulders if he did. Either way, though, he'll have shelter here. Standing up to that monster has to start somewhere."
"Ahh, but do you have more than words in you?"
"Just lay him down on the table there."
The mild impact was still more than enough to make Blake scream. Pain welled up, and he sank downwards.
"We're losing him! Go, Bulla! Quickly, now! Fetch Clodia. Citizen? Citizen!..."
~
His onetime mentor and longtime rival Gaius Marius finally dead, Sulla sets about reordering the Republic in his own vision.
Shaking his head to rid it of the unwelcome text, Blake woke to a homely, middle-aged woman's face, a visage that smiled so warmly he could not help but respond with a dazed grin of his own.
"Awake now, I see. Good; you're sturdier than you look. But you could still do with some bread, child. Baked it myself not two hours ago."
Sitting up cautiously, he let out a small sigh of relief on finding the pain gone. He still felt disoriented, but the closeness of the room was more cozy than claustrophobic, the woman's scent of kitchen revitalizing. "Thank you."
In addition to radically altering the constitution, the aging general begins eradicating his political enemies by proscribing them, publicly declaring their lives and property forfeit as penalty for treason.
The first bite was more vigorous than Blake meant it to be, and ultimately ineffective: the words remained. But the bread was wonderful, and gone within seconds.
Chuckling in a lighter, higher-pitched tone than that of her speaking voice, the woman motioned for him to hand the plate back. "I'll bring you some more, then."
She was gone in a billow of skirt before he could respond, leaving him to reconcile the little he had seen and heard with the blurbs invading his head.
When bounties are offered for whereabouts of the damned, the ensuing backstabbing and headhunting spirals the city into chaos.
The smell of fresh bread entered the room several seconds before the old woman. "Here, child."
"Thank you again, but... "
"Eat. I'll brook no argument."
Blake tried to push the plate back towards her as respectfully as possible. "It's wonderful-- "
"Chew."
A young Julius Caesar, one of the many proscribed, manages to be one of the few to escape.
After contemplating her expression--decidedly cold and contemptuous now--he slowly reached for the top slice.
She nodded her approval but made no move to go, apparently intending to watch every mouthful.
When Blake began to visibly slow down on the last piece, the woman grunted and eased the plate away. "You'll feel better now, child." Her smile was back, and so was the high-pitched chuckle. "Mercy, but how you needed that. Now, I'm Clodia. What will you b
e answering to?"
Sulla's absolute power, authority so total the old tyrant could walk the streets of Rome at night without fear, is not an example Caesar soon forgets.
He hesitated for a moment, waiting until his thoughts were purged of intrusions. "...Brutus. And, I'm sorry... knock on the head... but is this Rome? Are we really in Rome?"
Clodia looked at him skeptically. "The Subura is as much a part of Rome as any other, 'Brutus', even if it is doesn't smell as good as Palatine Hill and all its fancy manors. Not what Master Curio's accustomed to, but it will serve until he can pay back his creditors." She turned to go, lifting the plate off the bed as she did so. "I'll leave you to your rest."
"Clodia, I -- "
"Sleep, child." The old woman swept out of the room, slammed the door shut behind her, and left Blake alone with his confusion.
~
He woke to what seemed blinding light, slowly realizing as his eyes adjusted that it was only the dim glare of stars. Blake listened quietly before making any movement, noting that the house as well as the world outside seemed remarkably, unnaturally still. More so than he would have expected for any city, at any time of day or night, much less the bustling metropolis that was Rome in the first century B.C.
The images that had began pouring into his head after Clodia left had cinched it; montages of such vividness that Blake could no long deny his current reality. Legions marching against Germans, Italians, and then themselves, togaed noblemen shouting hoarsely before being knifed from behind -- he was caught up in the fall of the Republic. At a pivotal point, after the first civil wars but before the total unraveling...
His stomach growled -- he must have been out for awhile. Clodia had apparently been in sometime during his slumber; four more slices of bread and an earthenware mug of water sat atop the end-table. He ate and drank as noiselessly as his greed would allow. Sated, he moved to set the mug and plate back on the table, stopped, stared, and blinked in disbelief.
A trick of the light, no more. His addled mind playing tricks on him. He needed a better look.
The window revealed itself to be no more than a hole in the wall veiled by a sheer cloth. A moment of brief clambering saw Blake on the street, silhouetting his arm against the moon as he rotated his hand back and forth at the wrist.
Smooth as a baby boy's, like it had never known a day's work. And stained a darker brown, giving the skin an almost wooden hue. The day the car... hit him... he had been sun starved, pale and freckled, with fairer hair, finer hair. Not these coarse black tendrils littering his forearm. Had he been taller, too? Heavier?
A soft laugh echoed down the line of darkened buildings.
Brutus scrambled to the closest doorstep, struggling to control his panting. Not willing to risk creaking hinges, he pressed back against the wood as a bent figure tottered into view.
The robed form gradually sharpened into a bald old man whose shadowed features looked increasingly gruesome as he drew closer. Blake's labored breaths stopped of their own accord; what may once have been a beautiful face was now a pockmarked horror, ravaged by some terrible disease. But the mouth still looked... wise. Even kind, set as it was now in a pensive expression.
The old man stopped suddenly as he drew even with Blake. After a moment of terrifying nothing, the same quiet laugh came rumbling up, eerily strong for such a crooked form. And Blake felt something snap inside him.
His emotions flashed from fear to anger to rage; questions demanded answers where there were none, confusion sought release. With a growl that rapidly swelled to a yell, he sprang from his corner and rushed forwards.
A twang vibrated through the air, and Blake froze in mid-lunge, staggered back, and fell to his knees and then his face as the pain exploded through his ribs. The arrow snapped beneath him as he slumped against the cobblestones, its feathers whispering as they slithered across the smooth brick.
"Hold, Soldier. Sheath your sword; the bolt served him well enough."
A rough hand tightened around his neck.
"You don't want me to finish him, Dictator?"
"I would look on him first, Milo."
"As you wish." The hand squeezed harder, rolled him over, and let go.
He shuddered, his mouth filling with a sweet acid.
"Smallish man, but brave it seems."
Blake's vision began to glaze over, blurring the ravaged face into two overlapping visages, one of health and one of sickness.
"And not of this era, it would seem." ... English?... He tried to reply, and managed only a broken gurgle.
"Better luck next jump, Shifter." The voice switched back to Latin. "I've seen all I care to, Milo."
His sight failed.
"Yes, Dictator."
Another blade pierced his ribs.
~
Log, second entry:
The pain's fading... quicker this time... how do I turn this "log" off?... tunic's gone... and my hands are pale again... He spoke in English... called me "Shifter." In English...
Are you there, Galen? Was that you in "Rome?" Did you enjoy killing me? How many times is that, now? What did I do-
A flickering again... Galen?
~
"Galen?"
"None other, my boy." Galen's snowy beard flounces in rhythm with the pogo-stick beneath him. The old man maneuvers expertly towards Blake, a tank top and biker's shorts hanging loosely off his boney frame. "First things first: you are the metaphysical law of all you see here, Sonny." He gestures at the emptiness before bringing both arms to rest atop the stick's handles, no longer bouncing but instead balancing perfectly five feet away.
Taking his hand away from his ribs, Blake stares hard at Galen, eyes blazing.
"Just enjoying the last days before my retirement. Don't worry; you'll be at least as eccentric when your time is over. But where were we. Ah, yes. My favorite part. Wish for a monkey.
His brows lower even further. "Wish for a monkey?"
"Well done, Blake, that is what I said. Now, let's see it." The old man nods expectantly.
Blake breathes in, out, and charges, bending low like a football player starting a tackle.
Galen snaps his fingers and a ten-by-ten square of gorillas appears to his left, dancing the Charleston. Taking both hands off the pogo handles, he directs with one index finger while closing Blake's gaping jaw, stopped short only inches away from his own, with the other. "I suppose gorillas are technically apes, or at least so the anthropologists would classify them. Odd lot they are... but that's beside the point... which is that this 'void', as you call it, is your own personal playground. You're the genie here. Now live up to it: concentrate and make those prancing primates stop for the good of us all."
Freed from immobilization, Blake slouches back, does nothing, says nothing.
"Your age, Blake, not your shoe size." Galen suddenly starts spinning, gaining speed with each rotation on the pogo stick. His beard flies up level with Blake's nose, whirling just an inch beneath before Galen grabs the tip and throws it back behind him. "Focus, Sonny. Close your eyes if it helps. Seems like that's how I started."
Blake shakes his head, watching incredulously as the gorillas start twirling in time with the old man, a hundred and one furry blurs amidst the black.
"Just try, Sonny. Quickly now, before they all have heart attacks. Easier on the point of a pogo-stick, you know."
Biting his lip unconsciously, Blake stares for several moments before slowly closing his eyes. His brow furrows, his hands clench, unclench, and clench again, his breathing comes in rapid breaths. When a bead of sweat drips from his nose onto his chin, he collects himself and looks again.
Galen reclines before him in the easy chair of before, dressed in the same neon-suit with a glass raised to his lips. "Not bad, Sonny, not bad. Though I do miss those fellows already. But keep it in mind, Blake. You control the all and the everything in here; it's yours to mould. Now conjure something comfortable to sit on and we'll chat in wha
tever time you have left."
Blake stares for several moments at the point where the gorillas just were before shaking himself and closing his eyes again. Upon opening, he finds himself stretched full length in a silk hammock, the ends floating on either side. He sways gently to no breeze.
Galen throws back his head and roars. "So you do have a sense of humor, Sonny. Not bad, not bad at all. Oh my, I haven't laughed like that in ages. Ahem... now, questions?"
The momentary wonder at manipulating his surroundings begins to wear off. Anger and bewilderment return. "...I'm dead, then."
"Most definitely."
"And did you just kill me?"
Galen leans back slightly and takes a sip from his bourbon. "Now that I wasn't expecting. Care to explain?"
"I was hoping you would."
"Humor an old man, Sonny, or we won't get anywhere."
It takes several moments and deep breaths before Blake can respond in an even tone. "The dictator Sulla, just before ordering my death, called me a 'Shifter' In English."
Galen spews bourbon into the void, the droplets diminishing rapidly as they fall from sight. His laughter jiggles the folds of snowy beard into furry waves. "You tried to kill an epicenter, didn't you? On your second jump? Wait Sonny... whew, but that's rich on so many levels. Blake, stop wasting time."
Blake keeps walking into the dark, eyes locked straight ahead.
"Have it your way then, Sonny. Did you like my brief, though? I assume it's still mine, or you wouldn't have died like you did. But a real mover and shaker on the second jump... almost unheard of. I didn't try and kill Mussolini until my seventh." Galen appears on Blake's left, keeping pace in the levitating easy chair as he refills his cup.
Immediately turning the opposite direction, Blake finds the old man sipping directly in front of him.
"Coincidentally, though, that was my old mentor, Philip. Retired as a Roman power-monger... a lot less relaxing than I'm planning. That's how he recognized you, though; Shifters can see each other for what they are." Galen laughs again.
"Oh my, Sonny. So rich... but you can't kill, Blake. First rule. Shoot, stab, burn, hang as hard as you like; it's the only thing beyond you. Not your purpose."