To walk as though one

or, another fragment of Precipice

I just feel his warmth, the already comfortable silence outstripped by the hustle of a thousand people chatting, of vendors peddling their wares, of street merchants hollering that their stalls offer the finest escape from the oppressive damp and cold.

So it turns out that talking about not drinking coffee last week was somewhat stimulating. Thanks all who popped into that post and left a comment. You provided the caffeine boost that I needed.

I’m going to dip back into Precipice this week for another fragment of story, drawn again from Jisa’s perspective. I don’t like to excessively link out from posts, but for anyone new reading this (hello, I love that you’re here!) I wrote some background on this overarching fiction in this piece:

Notes from the edge

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This fragment takes place a little earlier in Jisa’s timeline than in the pieces I’ve posted before. It’s set a day after a secluded meeting in which she was asked to do something¹; a meeting that included a person she formed an instant bond with. The very same person she's about to bump into again.

I wanted to try and capture that feeling of rightness when that kind of connection happens. How things can just slot into place, feel suddenly normal even though it’s come out of nowhere, even more so when dashed with … feelings. I also wanted it to serve as a mini walking tour of parts of the fictional city of Siridan, which may sound drab but I hope isn’t :-|

The below chapter could be split this into two parts for the sake of a shorter read, but I feel it works better as one.

Anyway, I’ll stop and let you read on, which I hope you do.

I like the sense of intimacy that may have been captured here. If only I could draw like this. Serious note: I’m looking for illustrators, so if this is kind of your style or you have ideas, let me know! (Image credit: yet another from the AI of Midjourney.)

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“Jisa!” a man calls, grabbing my arm. I whirl and try to twist free, but then stop, paralysed. In front of me stands Zinn’s friend, the one he calls Cloud.

“Cloud,” I manage, finding my words and dropping my guard. “Trying to mug me?” I shake free of his grip, sidestepping a torrent of water that spurts from a gutter above.

“Sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t sure where you lived.”

“So you just walk the streets expecting me to cross your path?” I look at him. He’s soaking. Shivering, possibly.

“Something like that,” he shrugs, then smiles. It is coy, like so many of those flashed last night, that secret exchange when the three of us met. The same smile that kindled a fire still burning within.

For a long moment we remain like this. People from the evening rush jostle past, their movement a flash of washed-out colour as they transit beneath the endless glow of the city. “Strange,” I say finally. “Why not just ask Zinn? He could find his way to me blind drunk. Has done many times.”

Cloud shrugs again. “I,” he hesitates, and I see something in his eyes. What is it? What is that look? Is it nervousness? I wonder, and I could mock him for it—to do so would come so easily—but something makes me bite my tongue and just raise my eyebrows. “I didn’t want to ask him,” he continues. “I, ah, how can I put this? I didn’t want him to know I would see you. If I saw you, that is.” Cloud runs a hand through his wet hair, bounces a little from foot to foot. “I was beginning to think standing here a stupid idea. Zinn told me one time that you lived in Dridok, so I just picked a busy intersection. And look!” He motions towards me, then pockets his hand back into his coat.

“Right,” I say, sarcasm lacing my tongue. “You know”—I poke him in the chest with a finger, making him stumble—“I could think that fucking weird. Some guy I just met, stalking me, lying in wait.” I burn his eyes, but smile a thin smile.

“Harsh,” he says, regaining his footing. “True enough, perhaps.” He smiles too, lips curving upwards, leading me once again to those eyes. The deep green of each iris, the pupils a black abyss of … of something. I snap free from my thoughts, slapping myself mentally.

I am about to tease him, an attempt at regaining myself, when some commuter bumps into me, knocking me into the water that still streams from above.

“Watch where you’re going, you shaft-dweller!” I yell after him, cursing as water slicks over my hair and inside my jacket, down my back, the cold probing my spine. The man doesn’t turn around, he just keeps walking back to his home, or bar, or wherever the fuck he’s going in the evening crush.

“You’re soaked. Here,” Cloud says, moving towards me, unfastening his thick coat.

“Don’t even—” I snap. “Don’t,” I repeat, warmer. “It’s fine. I'm used to it. And you’re cold enough already, I’d say.”

“You sure?” he asks, already re-buttoning the top notch so that it fits snugly back under his neck. “Let’s at least get inside, then.”

I think, then speak. “I can’t, I’m already late, I have to run Cloud, I’m sorry.” I feign a movement to leave—because I can’t help it, because I want this charade to play out a moment longer—but all the while I stare at his eyes and watch his face. That look of dismay, the slight frown and flicker of his lips; these tells are all I need to know, confirming everything, all the things passed between us last night as Zinn sat right next to us, unknowing.

“Oh,” he says, glancing to the side, uncertain.

“I’m fucking with you, stupid. Do I look like I have anywhere to go?” I lie, and in a move so alien to me that I startle myself, I walk two steps toward him, loop my arm through his and set us moving, to blend into the crowd that seethes past. “Come,” I say, and we merge, become carried in their sway, passengers of routine. As we cross the junction where Cloud had been waiting, he says nothing. I just feel his warmth, the already comfortable silence outstripped by the hustle of a thousand people chatting, of vendors peddling their wares, of street merchants hollering that their stalls offer the finest escape from the oppressive damp and cold.

We cross Ondorro Street and cut right onto Undorro Lane, silent in our path but with a steady heat growing inside the pit of my stomach. The laneway is a flurry of people, the busiest of the myriad alleyways so characteristic of the district. This is Dridok after all, the grovel hole of Siridan. The district that tries to rescue itself through its penchant for vendor food and night markets, for bustling bars and seedy dens. Many of the latter descend below ground. More still connect through tunnels. Most do not know of this, of course; the tunnels a relic of an era gone by, one that people would rather forget. Being so close—precariously so—to the edge of the Causeway, the vast once-river long drained of its water (long before my own life), has left Dridok tainted with all manner of wrongdoings that have inked their way into the city. The eras of smuggling, of drug wars, the fallout of digging too deep and for too long, the causes and consequences of The Ruin—these are things present throughout all of the city, but more so here perhaps. If only you look. There are networks of tunnels that connect dens like warrens, scars that moved all manner of contraband—drugs, of course, and weapons … but people, too. Some of those tunnels cut right out into nothing, an archaic entrance or a foolhardy exit that once would have sat far underwater. There is irony in the sustained rains being unable to ever quench that great riverbed. The bedrock just laps it up, sucks it down, funnels it away through the shafts we bored.

We keep moving, hugging the edge of the laneway, pushing our way through people stopping to snack or to warm their hands on electric braziers, passing those entering recessed kiosks that offer hot zirosh and freshly-baked dough-breads.

“You know this area?” I ask, breaking the silence. I look sideways to this man I am linked with, his stubbled laced with water.

“Not really,” he says. “I grew up on the other side.” Cloud flicks his head towards the towering buildings on our right, to where the Causeway lies hidden behind.

I nod. There is little social divide between the districts that flank the cavernous once-river—little reason for Cloud to guard his words as he speaks—though that was not always the case.

“Then you know not where we are going,” I say, looking ahead, stepping around puddles as my mind steps around words. The crowd is thinning as we approach the intersection with Tanner St, the threshold that divides Dridok from the looming presence of Moiety. Most of those still commuting—the ones that haven’t nestled themselves in for a drink someplace, down into some seedy hovel for seedier deeds—are people descending underground, off to ferry themselves to wherever they started the day. The shuttle entrance is ahead to our right, but that is not where I wish our path to go.

“I know not,” he says. “If I’m honest, I was hoping you’d suggest somewhere.” He glances at the watch on his wrist. “At least for now.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “I know a place,” I say. “Quiet. Dark.” My throat clenches as I say the last.

Cloud looks at me and I see words in his eyes just as a crowd spills from a nearby eatery, the open door a brief bark of noise. The smell of food wafts upon us, fried fish and poached fruits, the incense of mulling wine; but then it is gone, claimed by the air and rain. The crowd stumbles past, already intoxicated even though it is not yet evening. As the group moves out of our way, I press onwards, Cloud’s arm still linked through mine, and as I do he pulls me in, tightening our link. The warmth in my stomach leaps a notch, dropping that little bit lower.

“How long were you waiting?” I ask. We move as one, our pace now steady, our feet synced in steps.

Cloud laughs. “A while,” he admits. “A little while.”

I smile to myself, using my left hand to push back a strand of hair caught between my eyes. “You flatter a girl,” I say.

Cloud laughs again. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll take flattery over you being weirded out.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I still think it’s fucking weird.” I nudge him sideways, a little playful tussle. He knocks me back, keeping his gaze ahead.

We round the corner onto Tanner and then cross, the ground traffic light here. Overhead cables, relics that have never been removed, sit tangled between poles that flank a once thriving road. On the other side, I guide us into a small alleyway cut into one of the buildings. This is Moiety now, an altogether different place. Here the buildings are giant blocks, a mixture of strange architecture built into the existing rockmass. Buildings here weren’t so much erected as engraved, carved, faceted.

“Where were you headed, anyway? Before I saw you, I mean,” Cloud asks as we move through the alley, escaping the rain at last. The way is arched and overhead the passage is lined with dusk-red tiles, some broken and exposing the underlying rock. In places, water drips from the ceiling.

As we move farther down the vaulted alley, the cloying sickly-sweet scent of rootdrop becomes evident, the smouldering narcotic emanating from vents that pepper the walls. A couple ahead—another couple, for that is how my brain already wants to think—pass us in the opposite direction, engaged in intimate discussion.

“Just out,” I half-lie, scrunching my nose. I am no great lover of rootdrop, but the decision to come to a darkened bar where I know the residue sits burning seemed automatic as my mind raced through options. We will talk. We have to talk, I know. At first comes talk.

“Just out?” he asks as I steer us inside and down the few steps that lead into this hidden gem. As I suspected, we are all but alone.

The Undertow is a cavernous expanse, a grotto carved into rock leaving small recessed seating along each wall. The centre of the room contains a bar, dimly lit, a soft yellow glow catching on each bottle, jar and glass. A few couples occupy the nooks along one edge, but as expected—hoped, I find myself realising—most are empty. Even at its peak, this is a place of intimacy and privacy. Two things I have never desired more.

“Something like that,” I say, mirroring Cloud’s own words. Already these few breaths of rootdrop make me want to talk, to say more. “Come on,” I say. “What’ll you drink? Beer, zirosh, pure arianth?” The words pour from me and I clench my jaw. These first few minutes are always the worst. Once my brain adjusts, numbs itself, talk will be fluid, exhilarating, controlled.

“You pick,” Cloud says, pursing lips together, a smugness there as no more words come out. This affects you more than me, that looks says.

I nod to the barman, a man named Juke, clamping my own mouth shut.

“Sure, Jisa,” he says back, looking first to me, then Cloud. He lowers the glass he had been polishing and logs our presence onto a tab.

I move to place my finger on the scanner, but Cloud stops me. His hand is wrapped around mine, I realise. “Think I’m going to let you pay?” he says, registering his own payment. We linger like this a moment; for too long, I wonder, or not long enough?

“Take a seat,” Juke says, tilting his head toward the rear of the bar, to where the empty corner sits in near darkness.

Cloud nods, then moves from the bar, his hand tugging on mine.

“Let’s go,” he says without looking back.

“OK,” I shiver. “OK,” I repeat and move to follow.

---

And thus this piece closes. If you made it this far, thank you. I appreciate it. Jisa appreciates it. Cloud probably appreciates it (he likes to keep his emotions somewhat behind those eyes and that name-that’s-not-his-real-name, so I can only assume he appreciates it. We’ll say that he does, though.)

SLAKE exists and continues to exist because of you, the reader. Thank you, dearest readers, you are the best. If you’d like to leave a comment, you know what to do.

1. The same something that leads her to seek Warv to make her something (it’s all about the “somethings”, this story!), if you happen to have read those fragments.