Dancing In the Shadows

-Original Fiction-

Last Glass

A 555 side story
by Pookie

Sometimes I wonder why things are the way they are... why we create such complicated webs of deceit around us... why sometimes that weird person who always makes you miss the elevator one day decides to hold the door for you?

“Thank you,” I say a bit breathlessly as I step into the tiny elevator.

He just nods and punches in his floor. Floor twenty-five: I know it quite well from the number of times I have watched the elevator go all the way up and all the way back down.

“Twenty-seven please,” I ask with a small smile, half-surprised at how my mood has livened with just that small act.

“That’s just above me,” he points out, talking more to himself than anyone else.

“Well almost, yes.”

“Sorry.”

“For?” I blink at the man, confused by that single word.

I look at him carefully trying to notice if anything is different with him today: same pair of washed down pants and suit; same old stripped tie. His short grey hair is neatly brushed as usual and his beard is impeccably trimmed. At his feet is the bag he always places carefully – as though his life depended on it really – to the ground as the door closes…

My eyes grow wide as I stare at his feet where the bag should be.

He must have noticed my stare because he looked from his feet back to me apologetically.

“Ah, forgive me, I did not mean to stare,” I suddenly stammer and look away.

“No, you are right to notice my bag isn’t here…” he looks at me and seems to hesitate for a moment. “Would you like to come over for a drink?” he asks rather unexpectedly.

“Sure. Got some good whiskey?”

“The best.”

Silence falls upon the small elevator as the numbers slowly keep rising until the twenty-fifth floor.

“This way if you would,” he tells me pleasantly as the doors open and we exit.

I am surprised to see his apartment was actually right beneath mine – well two floors beneath mine but the layout was the same, at least when it came to the walls. Everything else in the apartment seems surreal.

From every imaginable corner, vials and bottles and beakers are stashed, some boiling on ingeniously designed burners. In a corner, hiding what seemed to be a large desk are piles and piles of paper and notes. All in all, definitely a most impressive set up, and also quite illegal to possess these days. Conducting your own type of research was never looked upon kindly by those in charge.

“Why are you showing me this?” I ask as I walk through the room, looking at each of the various experiments running.

He disappears into the kitchen wordlessly and returns promptly with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Not bothering to answer my question he makes a little bit of room around the table and pours me a glass. “Not much to sit in I know but still, make yourself comfortable,” he says politely.

Against all common sense I nod and take a seat. I look at the liquid in my glass as it gently swirls before gulping it down

“Fifteen years…” he whispers in a tired voice.

I look up and wait for him to continue.

“Fifteen years I’ve been experimenting… trying to find a solution… Fifteen years now completely pointless…”

“Pointless?”

“They have always known what I was doing here…about this research of mine, about how I wanted to take them down…”

That first sentence explains more than enough. What was the point of researching against someone when they knew exactly what you were doing? They can so easily make you research into the wrong direction by feeding you certain information, or better yet – they can make your research support them in the end.

“Have you concluded whatever research you are working on?” I ask after having poured myself another glass.

“Almost. The final piece of the puzzle is almost solved.” He taps his forehead suggestively.

“You don’t want it found,” I say, not at all a question.

He just looks at me and nods.

“I can’t turn you in.” I stand up abruptly. “I will not throw away fifteen years of your life down the drain like that.”

“You have to though. Aren’t those the regulations you work under? They know you are here, don’t they?”

I freeze and my hand instinctively clamps on my side as I look at him helplessly.

“You knew. You knew I worked for them. That’s why you never let me on the elevator. That’s why you invited me today…”

“I’m so sorry…”

“No!” I start for the door when a sharp pain courses through my body, electricity ripping my side apart. I fall to my knees, choking and grunting at my own stupidity. They would rather kill me than let me walk out the room without reporting him. That’s one of the guidelines after all, isn't it?: Report all suspicious activity immediately.

“Call them. Please…” I hear the old man almost beg me.

There isn’t much one can do in face of such pain. I can feel tears forming in my eyes as I reach for my phone. The instant I flip it open and press the red ‘Report’ button the pain disappears.

I lay panting on the floor for a few seconds, trying to regain my senses and my mind, when I hear him say in a very emotional voice, “Thank you.” I catch the sound of a familiar click and look towards him in horror. I never hear the detonation, only his words again as he slumps back into the couch. “Thank you…”

With some effort I stand up and turn towards the door. Before I step outside, I turn back and look at his smiling face.

“The name’s Nathan. You were right old chap; it was hell of a whiskey…”