Melancholic Monochrome City
A man, covered in rags as dingy and dark as the alleyway he sat in, blended in to the black and white backdrop of the City at night. A streetlight above gave no golden glow to the silent street. The light was flat. It flickered, faded, a melancholic morendo in monochrome, and extinguished. The old man let out a wail of sound, pressing the colors of a lost home, a lost family, a life forgotten, out into the grey night. The song had no words, but it needed none to tell the story of sorrow and regret.
BANG!
The ragged figure let out a small whimper—that was all—and fell to silence. Anyone who heard the sound in the modern neighborhood around would think it was someone clapping two trashcan lids together. As the echo of the shot ebbed into silence, and the streetlight came back on, flooding the two agents with light.
Cooper tucked his gun back into his holster. There was no pleasure on his face. He glowered angrily at the residue of color still hanging in the air—it was nothing more than a faint mist, a ghost of a song that tinted the grey alleyway blue.
“Jesus, Cooper,” Steele said, flipping the corpse over with the toe of her boot. “You didn’t have to shoot him. There wasn’t any contract on him.”
“No one’s going to miss him,” Cooper said in monotone. “He’s a nobody. Good riddance, I’d say.”
“Waste of our time.” She stalked pass Cooper, and continued down the street. She looked over her shoulder, her long dark hair sweeping over her back. “You’re reckless.”
“And you’re impatient.” Cooper grinned, following his partner down another alleyway. November Street was still at this time of night. If Steele didn’t know better, she’d think that it was deserted. But no… the run down apartments were full of people, even if they were empty of life. Several of these buildings were “static”, the occupants permanently locked in whatever November day they thought it was. It was easy to tell these rooms apart. The blinds were all drawn against reality. Still, November was usually a busy month. Steele jumped up onto the fire escape ladder and pulled herself up onto the metal stairway.
“I just want to get this kill over with,” she sighed, as she clanked her way up the flights of the apartment complex. “I don’t want to miss my dinner date.”
“A date? With who?”
“Not you.”
“Come now, I’m––”
Steele pressed a finger to her lips as they sneaked up the stairs. They moved silently, their presence was only a flickering shadow in the night as their black coats flapped around them. She hopped through an open window into one of the studios, and gestured for Cooper to follow. This apartment was empty save for a chair in the corner; the spider webs clinging to it caught moonlight in their threads. The hallway was equally deserted. The light bulbs that stuck out of the ceiling shed little light on the shadowy walls, but metallic numbers gleamed from the doors. 93, 95, 97…
As they approached door number 99, they slipped out their guns, methodically switching off the safety, a melodic click sounding in their ears as they held the handle firmly, squeezing the trigger just enough to feel the creak in their bones. They exchanged a glance, a short nod, and Steele pressed her gun against the doorknob. No need for subtlety. BANG! Shards of metal shattered inward as the door blasted open. The force of the shot sent a ripple of noise through her arm, a shudder, and the two killers stepped into the room, guns high, as the splintered door crashed against the wall.
It was empty.
“Ah shit,” they both said in unison.
With eyes like hawks or prowling dogs they swept over the room, taking it in. A cot lay against the right wall with tangled sheets and bundles of clothes that spilled out onto the floor; through the door to the left was a tiny kitchen, and a table coated with papers and books; directly across from them was a single window that looked out into the night, with a radio resting on the sill; and the only chair in the room was seated there, supporting a guitar case that was splashed with silvery moonlight. Cooper moved to the table and scattered the papers about.
“I guess he lives alone,” Cooper muttered, glancing at a book before tossing it behind him. “Movie ticket stubs, loose change… it looks like he sticks to this Era. Here’s a photo…”
He held the glossy photograph between thumb and forefinger. Two people stood in front of a building, a man and a younger boy. Even in the garish contrast of an over-exposed Polaroid there was no mistaking that boyish face. Copper slipped the photograph into the inside pocket of his jacket. It rested against his now-tucked away gun, as a silent reminder, or good luck charm. “Looks like it’s going to be a long night.”
Steel placed her hands on the worn wood of the chair, only half listening to her partner. Careful not to disturb the balanced guitar, she took a seat and glanced out of the window. In the dead of night, the City of All Cities was a maze of streets, half illuminated by light. Here there were modern, brick buildings all around, but further out towards the horizon the buildings broke down, streetlamps were replaced by flickering lanterns and the roads unwound. It almost seemed circular the way the older Eras pushed out, like a ripple in water.
She turned on the radio. It was entirely out of place in this barren, poor room. Radios weren’t exactly the most commonplace device. There were hardly any stations that truly functioned, and even then most of them were on constant loops. Fiddling with the dials, she searched through the static for a station.
“…Betrayed by the guards? First caller, what do you have…”
“…A beautiful Sunday morning folks! Come on down…”
You can tell a lot more about a mark by their routine, she thinks, looking out the window like he must do every night. Jack Inkpen, why do you stare out your window?
“…Murder at august 18th and Main Street, suspects still…”
Her eyes scanned the street, taking in Jack’s view while she turned the radio dial absent-mindedly. Who stares out the window but poets, dreamers, and hopers? Someone longing for something… there was a reason her own curtains were always drawn. Sometimes you know that what you’ve got is all you’re going to get. She took in the edges of the street below, the dirt spots on the window, the smudges…
“Where the fuck does he get all this sheet music?” Cooper said from across the room. “It’s not even in English… Piu mosso?”
“…We’ll return next week for more installments…”
The moonlight glanced the windowpane as she tilted her head, revealing words traced in the glass. Steele brought her lips close to the cold window, and clouded it with her warm breath. The fog spread, revealing the echo of a single word marked upon the glass.
“…Cult Radio, your only source for open-feed music, 24 hours a…”
“The Resonance…” Steele breathed, tracing the letters with her free hand.
“What?!” Cooper jerked his head towards her, dropping the stack of papers in his hands.
“I don’t know, it’s written––”
“No, the radio! Go back a bit.”
Steele frowned, paused, and then a flash of realization crossed her face as she looked down at the radio. Turning the dial back through the buzz of static, she searched for that harmonic voice again.
“…That’s right my keen-eared friends, up next we have a recorded track fresh from the underground. Put your hands together for Voodoo Economics with Blue Night…”
A man, covered in rags as dingy and dark as the alleyway he sat in, blended in to the black and white backdrop of the City at night. A streetlight above gave no golden glow to the silent street. The light was flat. It flickered, faded, a melancholic morendo in monochrome, and extinguished. The old man let out a wail of sound, pressing the colors of a lost home, a lost family, a life forgotten, out into the grey night. The song had no words, but it needed none to tell the story of sorrow and regret.
BANG!
The ragged figure let out a small whimper—that was all—and fell to silence. Anyone who heard the sound in the modern neighborhood around would think it was someone clapping two trashcan lids together. As the echo of the shot ebbed into silence, and the streetlight came back on, flooding the two agents with light.
Cooper tucked his gun back into his holster. There was no pleasure on his face. He glowered angrily at the residue of color still hanging in the air—it was nothing more than a faint mist, a ghost of a song that tinted the grey alleyway blue.
“Jesus, Cooper,” Steele said, flipping the corpse over with the toe of her boot. “You didn’t have to shoot him. There wasn’t any contract on him.”
“No one’s going to miss him,” Cooper said in monotone. “He’s a nobody. Good riddance, I’d say.”
“Waste of our time.” She stalked pass Cooper, and continued down the street. She looked over her shoulder, her long dark hair sweeping over her back. “You’re reckless.”
“And you’re impatient.” Cooper grinned, following his partner down another alleyway. November Street was still at this time of night. If Steele didn’t know better, she’d think that it was deserted. But no… the run down apartments were full of people, even if they were empty of life. Several of these buildings were “static”, the occupants permanently locked in whatever November day they thought it was. It was easy to tell these rooms apart. The blinds were all drawn against reality. Still, November was usually a busy month. Steele jumped up onto the fire escape ladder and pulled herself up onto the metal stairway.
“I just want to get this kill over with,” she sighed, as she clanked her way up the flights of the apartment complex. “I don’t want to miss my dinner date.”
“A date? With who?”
“Not you.”
“Come now, I’m––”
Steele pressed a finger to her lips as they sneaked up the stairs. They moved silently, their presence was only a flickering shadow in the night as their black coats flapped around them. She hopped through an open window into one of the studios, and gestured for Cooper to follow. This apartment was empty save for a chair in the corner; the spider webs clinging to it caught moonlight in their threads. The hallway was equally deserted. The light bulbs that stuck out of the ceiling shed little light on the shadowy walls, but metallic numbers gleamed from the doors. 93, 95, 97…
As they approached door number 99, they slipped out their guns, methodically switching off the safety, a melodic click sounding in their ears as they held the handle firmly, squeezing the trigger just enough to feel the creak in their bones. They exchanged a glance, a short nod, and Steele pressed her gun against the doorknob. No need for subtlety. BANG! Shards of metal shattered inward as the door blasted open. The force of the shot sent a ripple of noise through her arm, a shudder, and the two killers stepped into the room, guns high, as the splintered door crashed against the wall.
It was empty.
“Ah shit,” they both said in unison.
With eyes like hawks or prowling dogs they swept over the room, taking it in. A cot lay against the right wall with tangled sheets and bundles of clothes that spilled out onto the floor; through the door to the left was a tiny kitchen, and a table coated with papers and books; directly across from them was a single window that looked out into the night, with a radio resting on the sill; and the only chair in the room was seated there, supporting a guitar case that was splashed with silvery moonlight. Cooper moved to the table and scattered the papers about.
“I guess he lives alone,” Cooper muttered, glancing at a book before tossing it behind him. “Movie ticket stubs, loose change… it looks like he sticks to this Era. Here’s a photo…”
He held the glossy photograph between thumb and forefinger. Two people stood in front of a building, a man and a younger boy. Even in the garish contrast of an over-exposed Polaroid there was no mistaking that boyish face. Copper slipped the photograph into the inside pocket of his jacket. It rested against his now-tucked away gun, as a silent reminder, or good luck charm. “Looks like it’s going to be a long night.”
Steel placed her hands on the worn wood of the chair, only half listening to her partner. Careful not to disturb the balanced guitar, she took a seat and glanced out of the window. In the dead of night, the City of All Cities was a maze of streets, half illuminated by light. Here there were modern, brick buildings all around, but further out towards the horizon the buildings broke down, streetlamps were replaced by flickering lanterns and the roads unwound. It almost seemed circular the way the older Eras pushed out, like a ripple in water.
She turned on the radio. It was entirely out of place in this barren, poor room. Radios weren’t exactly the most commonplace device. There were hardly any stations that truly functioned, and even then most of them were on constant loops. Fiddling with the dials, she searched through the static for a station.
“…Betrayed by the guards? First caller, what do you have…”
“…A beautiful Sunday morning folks! Come on down…”
You can tell a lot more about a mark by their routine, she thinks, looking out the window like he must do every night. Jack Inkpen, why do you stare out your window?
“…Murder at august 18th and Main Street, suspects still…”
Her eyes scanned the street, taking in Jack’s view while she turned the radio dial absent-mindedly. Who stares out the window but poets, dreamers, and hopers? Someone longing for something… there was a reason her own curtains were always drawn. Sometimes you know that what you’ve got is all you’re going to get. She took in the edges of the street below, the dirt spots on the window, the smudges…
“Where the fuck does he get all this sheet music?” Cooper said from across the room. “It’s not even in English… Piu mosso?”
“…We’ll return next week for more installments…”
The moonlight glanced the windowpane as she tilted her head, revealing words traced in the glass. Steele brought her lips close to the cold window, and clouded it with her warm breath. The fog spread, revealing the echo of a single word marked upon the glass.
“…Cult Radio, your only source for open-feed music, 24 hours a…”
“The Resonance…” Steele breathed, tracing the letters with her free hand.
“What?!” Cooper jerked his head towards her, dropping the stack of papers in his hands.
“I don’t know, it’s written––”
“No, the radio! Go back a bit.”
Steele frowned, paused, and then a flash of realization crossed her face as she looked down at the radio. Turning the dial back through the buzz of static, she searched for that harmonic voice again.
“…That’s right my keen-eared friends, up next we have a recorded track fresh from the underground. Put your hands together for Voodoo Economics with Blue Night…”