The first thing they saw was an angel heralding them in — or out. “Duncan is good,” said one to the other. “He knows what to see when it looks back at him.” The other didn’t respond, waiting for something better.
“Ahh yes, that’s much better today Mrs. Fox,” says airport assistant vice manager for human interactions Stephan Spaceboy, checking the weight board.
“Miss,” she says. “Actually: Ms.”
“As you wish, *Ms.* Fox. Now. What can I do you for?” Stephan taps his foot nervously against the floor under the desk. Return visits by avatars usually mean trouble. It means they are looking for something. Or somebody.
“Yes, I think I’m ready to talk about Pink again. I hear…”
“… she’s here, yes.” Stephan tries to act casual while looking away from her. He glances out the office window in what he knows is the direction of Pink’s lair, as he calls it. Who is she with now? He doesn’t want to know.
In her own office not 100 meters away to the south, Pink was asleep at her desk, dreaming she was young and, well, alive again. Tom Banks had brought her a vase of flowers, saying he was sorry he had to kill her but it was his role in life. Similarly dead Frankie “Beige” Brown sat across from her, giggling at the conjunction of Pink and Tulip outside on the plane and inserting, “Lips are like one pink,” between snickers. Going further back in time, Doogie Martin was staring at a snow filled tv he’d just mounted on the wall and mumbling something about Aspinwall. It was all being swept away in the (white) noise, all the sorrows put behind her. Then she wakes up.
One thing remains, but silent or at least very low.
Duncan pauses in his examination of Eveningwood. 300 address at the western edge of town: where had he seen this before? And a “ROOST – Jasper Landing TALL Fence” over there — interesting.
Duncan would keep going, but he would never return to Our Second Life as he crosses the boundary between real and imaginary on the other side of the 300. Virtual I meant there. Real and virtual. He was a black man inside the sphere; he never knew what hit him.
“Oh *I* see. Field *on*. As in some kind of activated force field.”
“Spherical in nature,” he added.
But who were these people inside this darkened cinema on the edge of realities? They stare into the screen as if a window.
(to be continued)
“Ahh, you see how easy the Owl is to spot in this area?”
“I think I’m done with the Southwest,” I opined, having explored it extensively yesterday, airport (Half Moon) included.
“As you wish,” she answered.
But on a large peninsula just to the east, more mysteries arise. ROOST?
But nothing to do with ROOST homes examined before that I can tell.
I can only check the multi-sim build remotely, since access to the public has been cut off, at least temporarily. I will landmark and return. W-eird.
W: “You said it!”
He found himself playing this game in an arcade. They’d sent Hidi back home, saying the place, this Eveningwood, was too dangerous for a gal like her, all tempting and such. It was a job for a man, they said. A black man. “Me?” he asked, knowing the answer. The look in Buster’s eyes told him. “Me,” he answered himself. Thus: here.
He’d never heard of The Smipsons but he was told to play the game with the little yellow fellow named Bart. He needs to be fast on his skateboard to outrun all those giant tigers, Duncan thought, seeing the kid soar through the air like a bird or a plane.
If only he’d learned Roman numerals before entering that zoo.
“Yelloo!” Homer Smipson said in greeting. Duncan had his clue.
Peter Oesso upstairs, in contrast, had nothing.
She stood as if in the middle of time, taking it all in. This Hitgal, I believe. Selling corndogs for the pick’n. Or was it cornogs? And whatever happened to that vow to have less questions in this here blog? Hmmm?
Someone approached her, slightly hobbled. “I lost my cane. Can you help me find my cane?” Dr. Mouse.
She was very helpful, unlike the other one. She would help me in getting to my destination, this (he checked the nametag): Mae Baleia. I wonder if that’s Russian? I wonder… if she has a husband. *I* could be her husband.
“Dearest,” she calls over in her undetermined foreign accent, coaxing him out of his daydreams. “You’ll have to move on. I have other customers to deal with.”
“I was like ‘blublublu’, and he was like ‘eyoweyoweyow’, and then somebody jumped in and shouted, ‘Stop the plane!’. It was the pilot — Tickie — blue fellow. The pilot made the plane after all; 1 to 1. Jen Saunders held up the index fingers of both hands here. Stan Gunderson realized she would be of no help in getting to his destination.
I speculated that the community knew about The Diagonal. W’s first foray into the region produced a default landing point of 181/181, which placed her in this almost impossibly and certainly impractically weighty clock tower. 558 prims! Certainly we must question whether prim/ land impact count is managed effectively here, which may actually bode well for a more penetrating examination.
She found a place to catch up with the local news and find out more about the town. Lots of changes, lots of updates. And a statement: if a building falls on you DON’T PANIC. Our crack hospital team will patch you up in no time. Hidi looks up into the rafters with this. This one seems sound enough. She’ll stay a bit longer, have another cup of coffee and read some more. Apparently the local police force is hiring. Maybe she could work as a beat cop to pay what is obviously going to be expensive rent here. Local general hospital hired new chief administrator; you can legally purchase weed here: local pot shop has just been taken over by the Greentree family. Wasn’t she just reading about Greenforests somewhere? And then, to finish off, an advice column by Aunt Auntie. Oh dead, Hidi thought. This town promises to be more than expected! Something about playing rough then playing nurse, dot dot dot.
The house fronting the pool was currently unoccupied, and at 900 a week rental may remain so for a while — *I* certainly can’t afford it. What quickly caught my eye: the “Briar Wick House” was created by a company called ROOST. Check out their logo:
Despite the wall between us, the dog next door kept barking at me. I knew I would need a new dis-guise. I decided a black man might do the trick. I called in Duncan, who was, after all, part of the crew; on the payroll. His VHC City apartment was back on the radar, ward George still in tow. But George was too young to be sent to this place, this paradise of sorts. I worried about him meeting the wrong kind of Adam and Eve, ones guided by the snake instead of the God. For this was a fallen place at the rotten core of it (Apple). Marty was still with me; we were still flying high. I decided to stay in the air for a while. The oxygen, although thin, was free up here. We’ll leave the storytelling to others. Goodbye for now! (zoomm!)
“Okay Gee Cat,” I requested from above. “Try to figure out why one pool is restricted and the other not. From your unrestricted position of course. And try to ignore the dogs.”
“Cat,” he channeled from below in his haughty tone. “One is a cat. Like me. Dis-guised as a dog.”
We had our first big clue.
“I was sudden-ly at two more pools, un-restricted this time,” he wrote later after following an all important lead. “A dog pa-trolled the one over the fence. I was safe! I was *in*.”
I looked at the island from above. I guess I can see the resemblance: 2 blue pools substituting for 2 blue eyes, obvious reference to the Arkansas-Missouri polarity as well that centers our US of A. One closed (restricted property) and one open (unrestricted). And the little pool there I was floating in: a (sideways) mouth of sorts? What is the island saying?
Since we were merged as a ship Marty wasn’t there to answer me. I would have to call in yet another.
“Bow wow wow!”
Maybe this wasn’t the best outfit for the situation.