Haruka of Hoenn
Rolling writer
- 297
- Posts
- 16
- Years
- Yes.
- Seen Nov 3, 2019
This one-shot is an idea that I've had for a couple days now, and literally just poured out of me. It's not a comedy, for a change, but it's nice to write something dark every so often. It keeps the balance.
I enjoyed this, and hope you will too. Here you go!
The human body is, if nothing else, a clock. From the minute we are born, our lifespan is preprogrammed into our DNA, each cell holding the information that tells it when to communicate, when to divide, and when to die. Within our bodies we hold our very downfall. The cells that hold us together, the same ones that keep us alive, are like ticking clocks, with each second coming closer to expiration. It's almost as if our time is on loan, and we know neither the day nor the hour when we will finally have to return it..
Life is a fragile balance, but just like everything else, it comes to an end.
What if I told you it could happen tomorrow?
Not far from the heart of Veilstone City is a neighborhood that the locals call the 'backwaters'. Here is where the excitement of downtown fades, replaced by the dim, cramped reality of city life — the roads are a worn, tired gray, and the roofs of shops droop from the weight of previous rain.
Among the other buildings stands a little hut nestled in between two trees. By the looks of it, it could have been someone's house, for there was a mailbox by the entrance (though unused) and a chimney that occasionally released wafts of homemade smoke through its vents. The wire fence that enclosed the property was low enough to jump over, but the owner did not need to worry about trespassers.
This was the home of Mira the witch.
Mira had always prided herself in her talents. And, for such a lone, withdrawn woman, she had many.
She had lived in the hut for as long as anyone could remember, though she was rarely seen by her neighbors. For the most part, the front door remained shut, and the windows curtained against the light, hiding any possible view of the inside. The lawn was overgrown, and a coat of unswept autumn leaves littered the sidewalk.
Her presence was marked by the light above her porch, which would light up randomly on some evenings, letting the world know that she was open for visitors. The light could remain dark for weeks at a time, or just for a single day, but when it did come on, it was never missed.
Mira didn't advertise her business, nor did she own a telephone with which to give directions. People simply came to her, and most of the time they were wayward travelers who had heard of her abilities, and simply wanted to witness for themselves what the conversation was about. Money, no money, she let them all in.
One of her talents was singing, and she would oblige to a song or two she had composed herself to dazzle her client. Mira's voice had been described as haunting, mysterious, and beneath the beauty it also had the power to lift a person's mood or heal a discomfort. A client would walk in with a headache, and would leave feeling at ease and uplifted.
That was usually enough, so most of her clients left within the first ten minutes.
Her other talent was tailoring, and people often came to her with expensive garments that had torn at the seams, or oversize clothing that needed adjusting. Mira would do it all, and every single time the garment would come out looking nicer than when it had been purchased. One evening, a lady had brought in a white wedding dress permanently stained with wine, and using a sponge with water, Mira had gotten it out, and fixed the torn hem afterwards.
Those clients would leave in half an hour.
Her third talent was also the one she rarely offered, and it involved the client sitting at her desk for hours. Occasionally, a person would walk in that seemed different from the others. An average person would see no correlation between a lost, wide-eyed child, a middle-aged woman whose will had been beaten out by the world, and a rich man with a perfect, starlit life. Mira did.
She did because it was her duty.
She would guide the client to the armchair in front of the table, and would reach for one of the notecards she kept handy by her side. She would talk to them, gaining random bits of information about their lives, and all the while she would be writing.
The final outcome would be two short lines of neat, precise lettering. At first, such a little tiny product would seem silly, given the hours it took to produce it. But within the lines, the message held a grave burden that outweighed the world.
The words differed from person to person. Mira would hand the card—folded—to the client. Her last words to them would be that, whatever they did, they should not open it. Better if they threw it away, and forgot all about their visit. And if their fingers did try to take a peek, they should immediately crumple it and burn it. Under no circumstances, she told them, should they read what was inside.
She made sure her client understood this. Then they would leave.
And she would wait.
On an August morning, a street that ran west through Veilstone's downtown was blocked off by police tape. When Officer Raleigh arrived at the scene, the crowd was already beginning to gather.
She closed the door of her police car and stepped outside, her metal toolbox bumping against her leg. The crime scene was bustling with activity. An ambulance was parked amongst several other police cars, a mix of policemen and EMTs patrolling the area. Raleigh nodded at them as she passed, on her way to the strip of yellow tape.
She was awaited there by Officer Damian, a face that was long familiar to her through her years on the job. He turned as she approached.
"Hey! Just in time," he said. "We've swept the area clean, so the body's all yours."
Raleigh smiled. "Wonderful. Let's go."
Damian pushed the tape aside, and they entered the boundary together. A crowd of civilians was gathered around them, watching her every move and chatting lightly as if the whole thing was a social gathering.
Raleigh pushed up her sunglasses and surveyed the scene.
The first thing she saw was the victim — an average-looking man in terrible need of a haircut. He wore a sweater and long pants, for the previous evening had been unusually cold. Now, he was sprawled uselessly in the middle of the street, his vacant eyes staring up at something in the distance.
The car that had done the job was parked carelessly on the curb, its bumper dented and lightly stained with blood. She paced around, avoiding the faint splatters of blood that were still visible in the pavement.
Finally, Raleigh went back to the man and knelt beside him. She lowered her toolbox and took out a pair of rubber gloves. They made a smack smack sound as she put them on.
"So what's the story here?"
"Well, at about five a.m. this morning, eyewitnesses saw a car speeding down this road," Damian said. "It was most likely breaking speed limit, but there weren't any officers around to see him. And apparently, while this guy was crossing the street, he got hit. Died on impact. We've got the driver in custody. He admitted to being intoxicated."
Raleigh sighed, shaking her head. "These DUIs are really starting to get me," she said. "And just when you think you're doing well with the commercials."
"Tell me about it. At least it wasn't a hit-and-run. It's good to know some people have the guts to confess."
Raleigh nodded. She examined the body gently, lifting the man's arms and turning his head with all the care afforded to a living person. Her fear of blood had long been expunged, but she still felt a combination of fear and pity when she looked into the victims' faces. Dealing with death for a career was strangely humbling — it made her appreciate how delicate life was, how easily a simple turn of events could change things permanently.
"Can you tell anything yet?" Damian said from behind.
"Nope. Just a broken arm." Raleigh prodded the man's ribcage. "No broken ribs. Neck's intact."
"That's strange. No one's died from any of those before."
"We'll have to wait for the autopsy to be completely sure what killed him. The driver might even get off the hook if the damage isn't bad. But honestly, for a car victim, he's in pretty good condition." Raleigh continued to examine the body, and the more she did, the truer her statement became. There were no fractures on his skull, and though there was a lot of bruising, there were no open wounds. The blood that had spattered on the street, then, where had it come from?
Finally, she withdrew her hands and put them in her lap. "Damian, this makes no sense. A man gets hit by a car, and there are no signs of internal bleeding, almost no fractures, and just a few bruises."
"What? What do you mean?"
"I don't think the car killed him."
"Then what did?"
"I don't know."
Damian looked at her. "All right. What about poisoning? Maybe he was already dying, and stumbled in the street by accident."
Raleigh shook her head. "Nope. If it were poisoning, it would show too." She looked back at the body, and her face softened. "I dunno, I guess his time just ran out."
Damian snorted. "Come on, don't get all religious on me now."
"What?" Raleigh's hand immediately went to the cross she wore on her neck. "I know perfectly well that people don't just randomly die, Damian. I wouldn't be surprised if the autopsy came back with an allergic reaction for COD, or like you said, poisoning. But you have to accept that there are some things you'll never know for sure."
She bent back over the body, reaching into one of the man's pockets. Her fingers closed around a wallet, and pulled it out. The man's I.D. was in the very front pocket, displaying his name and picture.
"His name's Walter Smith," she said. "Twenty-seven years old, resident of Veilstone." She put the I.D. back and continued to rummage. Unlike her wallet, which was stuffed with credit cards and bills galore, this one was completely empty. She flipped through pocket after pocket, finding nothing but a few empty bubble gum wrappers and old lint. When she got to the back pocket, the one where the paper money was supposed to be, she saw the most unusual thing yet.
She found an index card.
"What is it?" said Damian, at her sudden pause.
"He's a salesperson."
Damian threw his head back and laughed. "All right. I know you CSIs are supposed to be good at deduction, but how the hell did you come up with that?"
"Look." She handed him the card. The edges were frayed and torn, but the text was still legible:
Damian blinked, but the letters stayed the same. The note was written in purple ink, by someone who had obviously taken a rigorous calligraphy lesson.
"Why would someone keep a paper with their name and today's date on it?"
"Beats me," said Raleigh. "It looks like it's been in there for days, though. Almost like he's keeping an appointment with someone."
"An appointment to get hit by a car?"
Raleigh smiled. "I said almost. Maybe he just had an identity crisis."
"Yeah, that's likely." Damian chuckled.
Raleigh stood up and closed the toolbox. "Well, I guess there's nothing else to see here. Let's get this guy to the morgue."
"Yep."
They stepped out of the tape boundary, and the EMTs approached with a stretcher. Raleigh stood by as they wrapped Walter Smith in a bodybag and carried him off to the ambulance. Slowly, her awareness of the crowd returned. Many of the people were leaving, though some stayed to watch the ambulance go.
Behind them, something shifted.
Her gaze went back to the spot — an old, withered tree that grew beside a dirty hut. In its shade, she saw a floating body of a pokémon. It wore a large witch's hat, its frayed brim sprouting web-like tendrils that hid its body. Behind them, barely, she could see the light of two yellow eyes.
Raleigh's lips parted. "Whoa, look at that!"
Damian turned. "What is it?"
"It's a Mismagius! God, I thought those things were extinct!" Raleigh moved closer, and the line of people suddenly shifted, parting out of her way like liquid. The pokémon was not at all startled. Its eyes were fixed directly on her now, unblinking.
Damian stepped over beside her. "A Mismagius? No way. Where is it?"
Raleigh pointed. "By that tree over there."
Damian squinted. "I don't know what you're talking about. I just see the tree."
"But it's right there! Look!" Raleigh jabbed her finger at the tree, where the silhouette of the pokémon floated, its purple coloring making it as plain as day. She looked to Damian, but he did not appear to be at all affected.
"It's probably just your imagination. Come on, we have to get back to the station." He stepped back and beckoned.
"Hold on a sec. I'll take a picture." Raleigh turned back to the tree, her fingers searching for her cell phone. But when she found it and looked up at the tree once more, the Mismagius was gone.
Raleigh desperately scanned the property, hoping to see it drifting over the roof of the hut, but saw nothing. The bystanders were giving her strange looks, the kind you would give to someone who randomly took out their cell phone and started taking pictures of trees.
Flustered, she pocketed her phone and backed away from the tape. Her brain scrambled for answers. It could have been an illusion, a trick of the light — kind of like the water on the road that disappears when you approach it. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that her only breakfast had been a glass of juice. It could have been anything.
Still, the Mismagius had been there. Call her crazy, but Raleigh believed it with all her heart.
She went back to her police car, grateful once she was shielded from view by the polarized glass, and drove off.
Raleigh's car sped down the freeway, which was a long stretch of road that basked in full sunlight. The city's gleaming skyline loomed in the distance. As she drove, Raleigh eyed the reel of trees passing by, one elbow resting by the window.
Days like these always made her sleepy. Raleigh had no idea why, but bright, blue skies always had a lulling effect on her, making her want to crawl in bed rather than go to work. Not making things any better, the sun was directly overhead, casting a patch of heat right onto the steering wheel.
Unconsciously, she reached to wipe her forehead, and something prickly scraped her skin. Her eyes widened.
She was still holding the card.
"Shit!" Raleigh exclaimed, and brought her hand down into her lap. There it was, Walter the Salesperson, wrinkled from having been clasped in her sweaty palm for almost ten minutes. She had broken protocol. She had removed evidence from a crime scene, and even worse, tainted it with her ungloved hands, making a fingerprint scan impossible.
Raleigh's face paled, and she fell back into the seat, taking deep breaths. She looked again at the paper, watching the purple ink shimmer in the light. She thought of the Mismagius again, how its stare had bored into her skull, and suddenly felt very, very stupid. It had all been an illusion, and she had gotten carried away with it, like a little child mystified by something shiny. Now her cheeks reddened with shame.
She knew that the right thing to do was to bring it back, but what was the point? Grumbling, she shoved the paper into her pocket and drove on.
When one realizes that they have done something wrong, and no one is around to see it, their mind begins to spin with paranoia. The dead weight of her cell phone against Raleigh's thigh became unnerving, for what if somebody were to call and ask about the card? Of course, no one called, and no one would, but her heart was still pounding.
In an effort to distract herself, Raleigh pushed the button for the radio, letting a newscaster's voice fill the silence.
"... aaaaaand we're seeing nothing but sunny skies over Veilstone City, which will continue throughout the week, ending with a slight chance of showers on Friday. High of eighty-seven, low of seventy-nine. Winds are calm. Everything looks good on the satellite images, so now it's only a matter of getting outside and having a good time!"
Raleigh leaned back, letting out a long sigh to steady herself. Sunny. Maybe she would go to the park when she was off duty.
The announcer continued.
"Now we move into the latest news from the downtown! Folks, this is the last week for the sale in J.K's Everything Store! They've got slippers, high-heels, sandals, everything a shoe-lover can dream of! Prices will be 30% off for the whole week. Sale ends on the twelfth, so hurry up!"
Raleigh made a turn, and the announcer's voice disappeared in a sudden swarm of static. It faded slowly, and Raleigh heard a faint pop.
"Next on Sinnoh News Net, we have the Berry Guru! It has been reported that on Route 215, someone's Oran plant is in bloom. How lovely! The flowers do seem to be doing well in the sun. I am currently counting the berries... one... two... three... four... five! Five berries!"
She frowned. Her palms were starting to get slippery, and the patch of sunlight on her skin was beginning to tingle. Keeping her eyes on the road, Raleigh wiped each of her palms on her lap, and turned the air conditioner up a notch.
"Residents are strongly advised to take advantage of this lovely weather. Go outside for a change. Follow in the footsteps of our heroic berry planter and go on a planting-spree of your own. If you don't, then you're a couch-potato sucker!"
Raleigh's eyelids drooped. The heat was rushing in with more magnitude now, despite the air conditioner's sputtering efforts. The funnel of cool air was doing absolutely nothing as the heat swarmed around her.
"The weather isn't guaranteed to stay the same... The world's just like a ticking clock—ticking clock after all. Right this minute, somewhere in this wide world of ours, someone's life is about to change. Big time.
"Five berries!"
It was then that Raleigh became aware that she was dizzy. Her head had lolled completely to the side, and the moving road in front of her tilted, bursting into blossoms of nauseating color. She fumbled for the brakes, but she could only get her foot to prod uselessly against the mat.
The radio made another lurching noise. It sounded like someone choking. The announcer's voice rose to a gleeful trill.
"Listen up! It has also come to our attention that there have been sightings of wild MISDREAVUS in Route 214! They're all over the place! On the trees, in the lake, in the swings... even in the trees! So if you've always fantasized of being surrounded by MISDREAVUS...
"... or of owning a MISDREAVUS...
"... or wearing them on your head...
"Folks, if you're a true viva-MISDREAVUS kind of person... then head on over to Route 214 today!"
With a silent rush, the road, the car, the radio — it all disappeared. Her hands left the wheel, and her whole body was swept up, drawn up like a ragdoll in the darkness.
Ticking clocks, we're all ticking clocks.
Two yellow eyes appeared from beneath a wide brim. The Mismagius grinned, revealing rows of shiny, carnivorous teeth.
I am Mira, reader of fate, teller of time.
A purple, floating body appeared from the gloom. It was withered and ancient, and it held a blank card in its hands.
From the minute we are born, our lives are decided.
We are nothing but sand that falls into the darkness.
Behind the Mismagius, Raleigh's eyes focused on a giant hourglass filled with white sand. The top half was almost empty, falling to the bottom in a feeble trickle. Looking closer, she realized that the flakes were not sand at all—they were images from her life, a whole thirty-two years' worth of memories mixed together in a pool. She could see that there wasn't much left.
The same time flows...
It flows in you.
The final grain of sand was sucked into the vortex, and then her sight escaped her.
Nine days later, a woman was discovered dead in her apartment. She had been young and pretty, though by the time they got to her she was slouched over her dining table, a knife thrust through her stomach.
Her death had been ruled as a suicide, though none of her friends or family could fathom why she had done it. She had been perfectly happy, they said, and never expressed anything that could have let them onto this. The only evidence the investigators found was a written note that had been shoved in her pocket, curt and tiny like the expiration date on a bottle:
I enjoyed this, and hope you will too. Here you go!
8.23.09
The human body is, if nothing else, a clock. From the minute we are born, our lifespan is preprogrammed into our DNA, each cell holding the information that tells it when to communicate, when to divide, and when to die. Within our bodies we hold our very downfall. The cells that hold us together, the same ones that keep us alive, are like ticking clocks, with each second coming closer to expiration. It's almost as if our time is on loan, and we know neither the day nor the hour when we will finally have to return it..
Life is a fragile balance, but just like everything else, it comes to an end.
What if I told you it could happen tomorrow?
—
Not far from the heart of Veilstone City is a neighborhood that the locals call the 'backwaters'. Here is where the excitement of downtown fades, replaced by the dim, cramped reality of city life — the roads are a worn, tired gray, and the roofs of shops droop from the weight of previous rain.
Among the other buildings stands a little hut nestled in between two trees. By the looks of it, it could have been someone's house, for there was a mailbox by the entrance (though unused) and a chimney that occasionally released wafts of homemade smoke through its vents. The wire fence that enclosed the property was low enough to jump over, but the owner did not need to worry about trespassers.
This was the home of Mira the witch.
Mira had always prided herself in her talents. And, for such a lone, withdrawn woman, she had many.
She had lived in the hut for as long as anyone could remember, though she was rarely seen by her neighbors. For the most part, the front door remained shut, and the windows curtained against the light, hiding any possible view of the inside. The lawn was overgrown, and a coat of unswept autumn leaves littered the sidewalk.
Her presence was marked by the light above her porch, which would light up randomly on some evenings, letting the world know that she was open for visitors. The light could remain dark for weeks at a time, or just for a single day, but when it did come on, it was never missed.
Mira didn't advertise her business, nor did she own a telephone with which to give directions. People simply came to her, and most of the time they were wayward travelers who had heard of her abilities, and simply wanted to witness for themselves what the conversation was about. Money, no money, she let them all in.
One of her talents was singing, and she would oblige to a song or two she had composed herself to dazzle her client. Mira's voice had been described as haunting, mysterious, and beneath the beauty it also had the power to lift a person's mood or heal a discomfort. A client would walk in with a headache, and would leave feeling at ease and uplifted.
That was usually enough, so most of her clients left within the first ten minutes.
Her other talent was tailoring, and people often came to her with expensive garments that had torn at the seams, or oversize clothing that needed adjusting. Mira would do it all, and every single time the garment would come out looking nicer than when it had been purchased. One evening, a lady had brought in a white wedding dress permanently stained with wine, and using a sponge with water, Mira had gotten it out, and fixed the torn hem afterwards.
Those clients would leave in half an hour.
Her third talent was also the one she rarely offered, and it involved the client sitting at her desk for hours. Occasionally, a person would walk in that seemed different from the others. An average person would see no correlation between a lost, wide-eyed child, a middle-aged woman whose will had been beaten out by the world, and a rich man with a perfect, starlit life. Mira did.
She did because it was her duty.
She would guide the client to the armchair in front of the table, and would reach for one of the notecards she kept handy by her side. She would talk to them, gaining random bits of information about their lives, and all the while she would be writing.
The final outcome would be two short lines of neat, precise lettering. At first, such a little tiny product would seem silly, given the hours it took to produce it. But within the lines, the message held a grave burden that outweighed the world.
The words differed from person to person. Mira would hand the card—folded—to the client. Her last words to them would be that, whatever they did, they should not open it. Better if they threw it away, and forgot all about their visit. And if their fingers did try to take a peek, they should immediately crumple it and burn it. Under no circumstances, she told them, should they read what was inside.
She made sure her client understood this. Then they would leave.
And she would wait.
—
On an August morning, a street that ran west through Veilstone's downtown was blocked off by police tape. When Officer Raleigh arrived at the scene, the crowd was already beginning to gather.
She closed the door of her police car and stepped outside, her metal toolbox bumping against her leg. The crime scene was bustling with activity. An ambulance was parked amongst several other police cars, a mix of policemen and EMTs patrolling the area. Raleigh nodded at them as she passed, on her way to the strip of yellow tape.
She was awaited there by Officer Damian, a face that was long familiar to her through her years on the job. He turned as she approached.
"Hey! Just in time," he said. "We've swept the area clean, so the body's all yours."
Raleigh smiled. "Wonderful. Let's go."
Damian pushed the tape aside, and they entered the boundary together. A crowd of civilians was gathered around them, watching her every move and chatting lightly as if the whole thing was a social gathering.
Raleigh pushed up her sunglasses and surveyed the scene.
The first thing she saw was the victim — an average-looking man in terrible need of a haircut. He wore a sweater and long pants, for the previous evening had been unusually cold. Now, he was sprawled uselessly in the middle of the street, his vacant eyes staring up at something in the distance.
The car that had done the job was parked carelessly on the curb, its bumper dented and lightly stained with blood. She paced around, avoiding the faint splatters of blood that were still visible in the pavement.
Finally, Raleigh went back to the man and knelt beside him. She lowered her toolbox and took out a pair of rubber gloves. They made a smack smack sound as she put them on.
"So what's the story here?"
"Well, at about five a.m. this morning, eyewitnesses saw a car speeding down this road," Damian said. "It was most likely breaking speed limit, but there weren't any officers around to see him. And apparently, while this guy was crossing the street, he got hit. Died on impact. We've got the driver in custody. He admitted to being intoxicated."
Raleigh sighed, shaking her head. "These DUIs are really starting to get me," she said. "And just when you think you're doing well with the commercials."
"Tell me about it. At least it wasn't a hit-and-run. It's good to know some people have the guts to confess."
Raleigh nodded. She examined the body gently, lifting the man's arms and turning his head with all the care afforded to a living person. Her fear of blood had long been expunged, but she still felt a combination of fear and pity when she looked into the victims' faces. Dealing with death for a career was strangely humbling — it made her appreciate how delicate life was, how easily a simple turn of events could change things permanently.
"Can you tell anything yet?" Damian said from behind.
"Nope. Just a broken arm." Raleigh prodded the man's ribcage. "No broken ribs. Neck's intact."
"That's strange. No one's died from any of those before."
"We'll have to wait for the autopsy to be completely sure what killed him. The driver might even get off the hook if the damage isn't bad. But honestly, for a car victim, he's in pretty good condition." Raleigh continued to examine the body, and the more she did, the truer her statement became. There were no fractures on his skull, and though there was a lot of bruising, there were no open wounds. The blood that had spattered on the street, then, where had it come from?
Finally, she withdrew her hands and put them in her lap. "Damian, this makes no sense. A man gets hit by a car, and there are no signs of internal bleeding, almost no fractures, and just a few bruises."
"What? What do you mean?"
"I don't think the car killed him."
"Then what did?"
"I don't know."
Damian looked at her. "All right. What about poisoning? Maybe he was already dying, and stumbled in the street by accident."
Raleigh shook her head. "Nope. If it were poisoning, it would show too." She looked back at the body, and her face softened. "I dunno, I guess his time just ran out."
Damian snorted. "Come on, don't get all religious on me now."
"What?" Raleigh's hand immediately went to the cross she wore on her neck. "I know perfectly well that people don't just randomly die, Damian. I wouldn't be surprised if the autopsy came back with an allergic reaction for COD, or like you said, poisoning. But you have to accept that there are some things you'll never know for sure."
She bent back over the body, reaching into one of the man's pockets. Her fingers closed around a wallet, and pulled it out. The man's I.D. was in the very front pocket, displaying his name and picture.
"His name's Walter Smith," she said. "Twenty-seven years old, resident of Veilstone." She put the I.D. back and continued to rummage. Unlike her wallet, which was stuffed with credit cards and bills galore, this one was completely empty. She flipped through pocket after pocket, finding nothing but a few empty bubble gum wrappers and old lint. When she got to the back pocket, the one where the paper money was supposed to be, she saw the most unusual thing yet.
She found an index card.
"What is it?" said Damian, at her sudden pause.
"He's a salesperson."
Damian threw his head back and laughed. "All right. I know you CSIs are supposed to be good at deduction, but how the hell did you come up with that?"
"Look." She handed him the card. The edges were frayed and torn, but the text was still legible:
[FONT="]Walter Smith – Salesperson[/FONT]
[FONT="]08.23.09[/FONT]
Damian blinked, but the letters stayed the same. The note was written in purple ink, by someone who had obviously taken a rigorous calligraphy lesson.
"Why would someone keep a paper with their name and today's date on it?"
"Beats me," said Raleigh. "It looks like it's been in there for days, though. Almost like he's keeping an appointment with someone."
"An appointment to get hit by a car?"
Raleigh smiled. "I said almost. Maybe he just had an identity crisis."
"Yeah, that's likely." Damian chuckled.
Raleigh stood up and closed the toolbox. "Well, I guess there's nothing else to see here. Let's get this guy to the morgue."
"Yep."
They stepped out of the tape boundary, and the EMTs approached with a stretcher. Raleigh stood by as they wrapped Walter Smith in a bodybag and carried him off to the ambulance. Slowly, her awareness of the crowd returned. Many of the people were leaving, though some stayed to watch the ambulance go.
Behind them, something shifted.
Her gaze went back to the spot — an old, withered tree that grew beside a dirty hut. In its shade, she saw a floating body of a pokémon. It wore a large witch's hat, its frayed brim sprouting web-like tendrils that hid its body. Behind them, barely, she could see the light of two yellow eyes.
Raleigh's lips parted. "Whoa, look at that!"
Damian turned. "What is it?"
"It's a Mismagius! God, I thought those things were extinct!" Raleigh moved closer, and the line of people suddenly shifted, parting out of her way like liquid. The pokémon was not at all startled. Its eyes were fixed directly on her now, unblinking.
Damian stepped over beside her. "A Mismagius? No way. Where is it?"
Raleigh pointed. "By that tree over there."
Damian squinted. "I don't know what you're talking about. I just see the tree."
"But it's right there! Look!" Raleigh jabbed her finger at the tree, where the silhouette of the pokémon floated, its purple coloring making it as plain as day. She looked to Damian, but he did not appear to be at all affected.
"It's probably just your imagination. Come on, we have to get back to the station." He stepped back and beckoned.
"Hold on a sec. I'll take a picture." Raleigh turned back to the tree, her fingers searching for her cell phone. But when she found it and looked up at the tree once more, the Mismagius was gone.
Raleigh desperately scanned the property, hoping to see it drifting over the roof of the hut, but saw nothing. The bystanders were giving her strange looks, the kind you would give to someone who randomly took out their cell phone and started taking pictures of trees.
Flustered, she pocketed her phone and backed away from the tape. Her brain scrambled for answers. It could have been an illusion, a trick of the light — kind of like the water on the road that disappears when you approach it. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that her only breakfast had been a glass of juice. It could have been anything.
Still, the Mismagius had been there. Call her crazy, but Raleigh believed it with all her heart.
She went back to her police car, grateful once she was shielded from view by the polarized glass, and drove off.
—
Raleigh's car sped down the freeway, which was a long stretch of road that basked in full sunlight. The city's gleaming skyline loomed in the distance. As she drove, Raleigh eyed the reel of trees passing by, one elbow resting by the window.
Days like these always made her sleepy. Raleigh had no idea why, but bright, blue skies always had a lulling effect on her, making her want to crawl in bed rather than go to work. Not making things any better, the sun was directly overhead, casting a patch of heat right onto the steering wheel.
Unconsciously, she reached to wipe her forehead, and something prickly scraped her skin. Her eyes widened.
She was still holding the card.
"Shit!" Raleigh exclaimed, and brought her hand down into her lap. There it was, Walter the Salesperson, wrinkled from having been clasped in her sweaty palm for almost ten minutes. She had broken protocol. She had removed evidence from a crime scene, and even worse, tainted it with her ungloved hands, making a fingerprint scan impossible.
Raleigh's face paled, and she fell back into the seat, taking deep breaths. She looked again at the paper, watching the purple ink shimmer in the light. She thought of the Mismagius again, how its stare had bored into her skull, and suddenly felt very, very stupid. It had all been an illusion, and she had gotten carried away with it, like a little child mystified by something shiny. Now her cheeks reddened with shame.
She knew that the right thing to do was to bring it back, but what was the point? Grumbling, she shoved the paper into her pocket and drove on.
When one realizes that they have done something wrong, and no one is around to see it, their mind begins to spin with paranoia. The dead weight of her cell phone against Raleigh's thigh became unnerving, for what if somebody were to call and ask about the card? Of course, no one called, and no one would, but her heart was still pounding.
In an effort to distract herself, Raleigh pushed the button for the radio, letting a newscaster's voice fill the silence.
"... aaaaaand we're seeing nothing but sunny skies over Veilstone City, which will continue throughout the week, ending with a slight chance of showers on Friday. High of eighty-seven, low of seventy-nine. Winds are calm. Everything looks good on the satellite images, so now it's only a matter of getting outside and having a good time!"
Raleigh leaned back, letting out a long sigh to steady herself. Sunny. Maybe she would go to the park when she was off duty.
The announcer continued.
"Now we move into the latest news from the downtown! Folks, this is the last week for the sale in J.K's Everything Store! They've got slippers, high-heels, sandals, everything a shoe-lover can dream of! Prices will be 30% off for the whole week. Sale ends on the twelfth, so hurry up!"
Raleigh made a turn, and the announcer's voice disappeared in a sudden swarm of static. It faded slowly, and Raleigh heard a faint pop.
"Next on Sinnoh News Net, we have the Berry Guru! It has been reported that on Route 215, someone's Oran plant is in bloom. How lovely! The flowers do seem to be doing well in the sun. I am currently counting the berries... one... two... three... four... five! Five berries!"
She frowned. Her palms were starting to get slippery, and the patch of sunlight on her skin was beginning to tingle. Keeping her eyes on the road, Raleigh wiped each of her palms on her lap, and turned the air conditioner up a notch.
"Residents are strongly advised to take advantage of this lovely weather. Go outside for a change. Follow in the footsteps of our heroic berry planter and go on a planting-spree of your own. If you don't, then you're a couch-potato sucker!"
Raleigh's eyelids drooped. The heat was rushing in with more magnitude now, despite the air conditioner's sputtering efforts. The funnel of cool air was doing absolutely nothing as the heat swarmed around her.
"The weather isn't guaranteed to stay the same... The world's just like a ticking clock—ticking clock after all. Right this minute, somewhere in this wide world of ours, someone's life is about to change. Big time.
"Five berries!"
It was then that Raleigh became aware that she was dizzy. Her head had lolled completely to the side, and the moving road in front of her tilted, bursting into blossoms of nauseating color. She fumbled for the brakes, but she could only get her foot to prod uselessly against the mat.
The radio made another lurching noise. It sounded like someone choking. The announcer's voice rose to a gleeful trill.
"Listen up! It has also come to our attention that there have been sightings of wild MISDREAVUS in Route 214! They're all over the place! On the trees, in the lake, in the swings... even in the trees! So if you've always fantasized of being surrounded by MISDREAVUS...
"... or of owning a MISDREAVUS...
"... or wearing them on your head...
"Folks, if you're a true viva-MISDREAVUS kind of person... then head on over to Route 214 today!"
With a silent rush, the road, the car, the radio — it all disappeared. Her hands left the wheel, and her whole body was swept up, drawn up like a ragdoll in the darkness.
Ticking clocks, we're all ticking clocks.
Two yellow eyes appeared from beneath a wide brim. The Mismagius grinned, revealing rows of shiny, carnivorous teeth.
I am Mira, reader of fate, teller of time.
A purple, floating body appeared from the gloom. It was withered and ancient, and it held a blank card in its hands.
From the minute we are born, our lives are decided.
We are nothing but sand that falls into the darkness.
Behind the Mismagius, Raleigh's eyes focused on a giant hourglass filled with white sand. The top half was almost empty, falling to the bottom in a feeble trickle. Looking closer, she realized that the flakes were not sand at all—they were images from her life, a whole thirty-two years' worth of memories mixed together in a pool. She could see that there wasn't much left.
The same time flows...
It flows in you.
The final grain of sand was sucked into the vortex, and then her sight escaped her.
—
Nine days later, a woman was discovered dead in her apartment. She had been young and pretty, though by the time they got to her she was slouched over her dining table, a knife thrust through her stomach.
Her death had been ruled as a suicide, though none of her friends or family could fathom why she had done it. She had been perfectly happy, they said, and never expressed anything that could have let them onto this. The only evidence the investigators found was a written note that had been shoved in her pocket, curt and tiny like the expiration date on a bottle:
[FONT="]Hanna Raleigh – Medical Examiner[/FONT]
[FONT="]9.01.09[/FONT]
