To begin a tale

or, another fragment of Precipice

Hello, lovely reader.

Another fragment of Precipice has been etched onto the page. These fragments represent short pieces that, should you decide to flit across them and push them around, begin to form a larger story. You can find more here.

When I set about writing these, I didn’t want to limit myself to a linear process, in part because I have felt so much resistance to writing an opening for the backstory of our protagonist Jisa¹. It’s been a block, something not quite right.

Well, it just so happens that this could be that very first fragment.

Many darlings were slain in the editing of this post. Lettered corpses clutter my desk, their last grasps a cloying snatch towards their friends who remain on the page.

Image courtesy of DALL-E 3.

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We sit in the shadowed corner, silent except for the shift of my eyes. The barman—Deek himself, possibly—bobs his head to monotonous electronica as he tends our order. Against the far wall, a group of shaft workers stand untalking in their post-work stupor, still wet in dirt-blackened jackets.

My fingers itch for the drink not yet in my hand, so my eyes wander once more. We make a curious trio, Cloud, Zinn, and I; two who are now three, joined for a task unspoken. With Zinn, I have teetered on the brink of destruction, flirted with ruin, scraped by through some marvel of equilibrium. Our friendship—if that is what one labels the idiocy of the past decade—is inked into me like the etchings down my arm. But this other? This man called Cloud who sits here now … It’s not his real name, I know. An apt one, most sure, but a lie, something false, as inpenetrable as the story of his youth. Who is he, truly? What purpose has brought him to a city no longer his? Zinn has told me near nothing, little details emerging over the years, trickling like a river on the cusp of drought. He has spoken only in fragments, pieces, minutia, darting around facts as though they hold some terrible secret. To pick away at their childhood seems like picking at a scab: some bits may come free, smooth and healed, but what’s left underneath can still bleed.

Zinn raps his knuckles on the table, snapping me away from thought. “Well?” he asks, fidgeting with an impatience both frustrating and endearing.

I say nothing, cast my eyes back to Cloud. There is an air to him, a confidence offset by something unknown, some intrigue or inner depth given away through the portals that are those deep green eyes. He has short hair, black as midnight, a steady jaw with a shadow of close-cropped stubble framing a mouth that smiles—subtly, like a cat—even when still. He wears a deep-blue suit of some semi-synthetic material with a grey shirt underneath, and on his feet are shoes of a dark brown fabric. It’s an old look, not common down here. For him, though, it works.

And still I find myself looking, trying to assess whether to trust, what he wants—the crap my brain likes to do endlessly—but each time I am undone by those eyes, that smile. A curiosity is inside me, ignited by this man who sits here right here in front of me.

Right in front of me.

Calmly.

Smiling still.

And looking now, at me!

I cough, find myself sputtering into a question. One that had coalesced on my tongue as Zinn and I strolled here through the alleys of Jont, rain steaming off the ramshackle vendor kitchens that litter the district’s streets.

"What exactly is it you do up there?" I say, flicking my eyes to the ceiling.

Cloud laughs. “A little blunt, don’t you think?” He grins and it carries throughout his features, up to those nebulous eyes.

Zinn’s toe connects with my shin. A heavy whack of disapproval. I scowl a What? at him, narrowing my eyes before returning to face Cloud. “Sorry, just curious.”

He makes to speak, but at that moment our drinks arrive, glasses chinking down, the barman glancing at each of us before walking away, head still bobbing.

Cloud and I share the same taste: fermented zirosh served with orange rind and a dash of miaz for that extra punch, all poured over ice. The thick kind, chunky and large. Even Deek's can get that right. He grasps his drink with both hands, inhaling and taking a mouthful. I mirror him, and after he swallows I see his eyes light up and then close, the edges of my mouth creeping into my own private smile. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to say anything.

“You’ll make fast friends, you two,” Zinn says, stepping into the silence. “You’re cut from the same crap in your appreciation for that shit.” He looks at me and then Cloud, rocks on his chair and takes a long sip of beer before continuing. “I thought they caught you importing zirosh? What happened with that?”

Cloud smirks and settles with his back to the wall. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He winks at me, allows himself another sip.

I do the same, unable to respond, suddenly unsure of who I am.

“Anyway,” Cloud says, fondling the edge of his glass with his thumb. “I do a lot of different work.” He shrugs. “It’s not important. What is, though, is what Zinn’s told me of you, Jisa. Good things. Talented things. You can trust me, is what I mean. You can lower your guard.”

I frown. Is it that obvious? I take another swallow, happy for the burn of zirosh to distract from the foreign heat that has found its way to my cheeks. I try to cover it, try to slink into my seat, try to feel more like myself all before my eyes are drawn to his. “Alright, barrier lowered,” I manage.

Zinn exhales a long sigh. “Fuck me, Jisa. This is hilarious. As I said a million, billion times: you trust me, you trust Cloud.”

“Shut your mouth, idiot,” I snap. “I’m a naturally cautious girl.”

Zinn tilts his head back and erupts with laughter, slapping his hand down on the table. “That is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your lying little mouth. Cautious?! Your life is the opposite of cautious!” He drains the rest of his beer, lets out a long belch and motions to the barman for another.

Cloud is watching us, fascinated like this is some game. He looks to me, raising an eyebrow, expecting a response.

“Fine,” I say, turning my glass with my hand as I feel some confidence set back in, aided by the zirosh that continues to ignite my throat. “How about cautiously reckless?” As I say the last I curse my stupid eyes for once again finding their way to Cloud’s.

“Whatever,” he says, his own outburst already forgotten. He waves his hand at Cloud. “Do go on, old friend.”

Cloud nods. “I, well … I can move freely,” he says. “I don’t need to tell you that, of course. Obvious enough.” He laughs, his attention dropping to his hands. It is a shy, coy laugh, one that changes him. He looks up at me, unsmiling. “A rare privilege, I know.”

My fingers move across the table’s edge, feeling at the marks and ruts of countless patrons. “I guess I have a lot of questions I shouldn’t ask right now.”

“Another time, I hope,” he says, and in his voice I hear something, something that kindles an idiotic warmth inside. I glance to Zinn, worried he can somehow tell, but he sits oblivious, too busy rubbing at his jaw as he watches the barman bring over his beer.

“OK,” I manage, raising my voice, deciding. “I trust you. Tell me, then. Tell me why we’re here.”

Cloud looks to Zinn and Zinn nods. He leans in over the table and I can’t help but do the same, finding myself close to him, close enough for whispers. “There’s a job,” he says, voice low. “Not strictly a job, but a—”

“You’ll get paid, is what he’s trying to say,” Zinn interjects. “In that sense, it’s a job. A lot of credits, squirrel.” He whistles, raising his eyebrows.

I frown at Zinn for his remark, doubly so for using that stupid name. But inside, I feel the relief. I need credits. I desperately need credits.

“What kind of job?” I ask.

Cloud leans closer. “Tell me, Jisa,” he whispers. I can taste the air around him, the scent of him, can see the individual hairs that course from cheek to cheek and frame those lips, ever-smiling. I can see the deep green of his eyes as he speaks, as his words unravel what is to be asked of me.

“Tell me what you know of Vi, Jisa. Tell me what you know of a building there called The Kernel.”

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Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this then a Like, a Comment, and/or² a Share all go towards giving Jisa the education she deserved as a child me not letting Jisa fade from memory. Her story is an emergent thing. I’m most grateful if you found something in her words.

1. Also possibly because I have no idea what I’m doing.

2. Like the Star Wars show I still haven’t watched. Sorry Sam!