I hadn’t meant to sink in so deeply; the rush was inescapable, as I pushed Stonewall’s brain to recite his memories. Nevertheless, it was useful. Inch by inch, I dug into his old stomping grounds. I wanted to see what dirt he had stepped in. Even as I rebelled against it, there was an insatiable urge to see the beginnings of the traits which had turned him against us, what had corrupted Jackson. Which parts of himself, to boot, he had removed, what good had been present. Which shoes had kept his socks clean, before his deal with the devil ensured they were never dirty.
My thought was collating the processes of his exposed brain, and I wasn’t linear anymore. I was a mess of reference, of analogy, of aphorism as I slipped into his first pivotal day.
It was late spring, perhaps May, as I stepped out onto pavement. There was an unexpected crispness to the air, and I tried to see what time of day it was, looking up towards the sun– instead, I kept walking. It wasn’t that I was immobile, that I had no control as before in Jackson’s mind; in fact, it was the very opposite. I had full control, and I did exactly what I wanted. It was only that as I tried to pull out my phone, to check the time, or where I was walking, that at the last second I realized I didn’t really want to.
I was halfway down the block before I put it together: my interests weren’t conflicting. The ones that were winning out just weren’t mine, because I wasn’t in my brain, I was in Stonewall’s. Specifically, I was in his memories, and therefore– were I in control, I would have stumbled at the realization– I was in his body. I could only see what Stonewall chose to look at, could only feel what he felt, and judging from his lack of interest towards his surroundings, he felt comfortable.
Stonewall had a gait at once relaxed and purposeful, looking straight ahead instead of down at the sidewalk in front of him. He walked this route regularly, and preferred to scrutinize the architecture of the building down the street. Either that, or he was restricting his field of view with intention. Either he chose to look at unspectacular facades, or he was avoiding looking down with disconcerting consistency. I guessed it was the latter.
Stonewall took a left turn and lengthened his stride as the horizon loomed higher and the road stretched to meet it. As he walked, he approached the smooth layer of early-morning fog coating the crest of the hill. A cautious sunbeam stabbed through it, splitting the street between a coffeeshop and a movie theater advertising The Room.
He never reached it.
Instead, he took a right onto another hill. He didn’t summit that one, either, but for marginally more dramatic reasons. One step, I was still trying to figure out where the hell I was. The next, those concerns were replaced by the gun barrel against the right side of Stonewall’s head.
“Okay,” he said, motionless. “You’ve got my attention.”
“Very gracious,” a crackling voice said from just-out-of-arms-reach.
Damn.
“Give me your cell phone and your wallet, and no one needs to get hurt.”
“Besides you,” Stonewall chuckled as he reached into his back pocket.
“Slowly,” his assailant responded.
“You’ve got it.” Stonewall produced a leatherbound trifold, flipping it open as he handed it over. “You know, there’s a nice picture in there of–”
The gunman pushed the pistol harder against his head, and I felt myself beginning to stumble before I righted myself.
“If this were night, I might laugh at that,” he said, extending a tentative hand. “But this is time-sensitive, so I’d like your cell phone.”
Stonewall took his Android from his shirt pocket –for the first time, I clocked his navy button-down and dark-washed jeans– and started to say something else, some deflection.
He was interrupted by another push at his right temple.
“I don’t think you understand,” the mugger said. “Quips will not solve this problem for you.”
“You know, your vocabulary’s very–”
“If you say another word, I’ll shoot you.” He lifted the cell phone from Stonewall’s outstretched palm.
There was a wordless moment, and then the pressure against my head vanished.
Stonewall waited a second, frozen in place, before turning to see the silhouette of a billowing grey coat disappearing down a narrow alleyway. He looked down that backstreet long after the criminal was out of sight, and I waited for the memory to fade, for the edges of my vision to dissipate into the dreamstate which comprised his brain’s geography. The world refused to cooperate. Instead, I stood with him as he searched the alley for something that would make it all okay. I was wrenched back into his brain only after he didn’t find it.
This, evidently, was the first experience which had pushed him onto his path of villainy. Useful information, but its acquisition left me drained. I no longer inhabited the memory –I could finally fixate on something besides its details, and reflect on its impact– and if the rest of Stonewall’s path was similar, I couldn’t walk it. It was only beginning to sink in, now that I wasn’t in the moment, that I had had a gun held to my head. Again. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t real; if I had control over my actions, I would have hugged my knees to my chest, but I didn’t, and I couldn’t.
I could only attempt to quiet my mind like the frozen snapshot I was suspended within.
Writings Of Orion 