SMG4:// Apocrypha

Part 1: Aposiopesis

Ch 1: Welcome Back, O' Sleeping Dreamer

There is no wind tonight.
I'm standing atop a field of grass – farmland - a way's away from the highway whence I came. The cold grass beneath me feels like a thousand ice-water pens leaking into my foot. I meet the gaze of a collage of lights a few yards farther. It seems to welcome me, or just doesn't mind me trespassing. The ageing neighborhood before me feels so still. Even as I glide down the rolling farmland toward it, the air never speaks up. I anticipate. I expect a chilling wind to coil and dance around me and tell me that it's cold out tonight – that I should feel cold tonight. Yet, the dark-taupe sky forever holds its peace. I only know the temperature dropped when I touched my prosthetic arm. The metal knows cold better than me. There isn't even a moon out tonight.
I skid to the end of the hill and lean to my right, catching myself with my foot. I walk my bike up the earthen-brick steps connecting the hill to the neighborhood and mount again, pedaling hard into the street. I find myself surrounded by houses. Old brick-and-wood ones that rise out of the uneven ground like teeth out of gums. From the numbing silence rises the hum of a single incandescent streetlight. I hug the left side, staying under the flickering beam. When the glow is out of reach, I pedal to the next light, and the next. The road forks, and I turn left onto an incline. I pedal hard, using what little energy someone like me would have in the wee hours of the night. Once again, I glide down the hill, banking right this time.
I pull into a completely separate section of very small duplexes surrounded by an imposing metal fence. I don't make out the sign bearing the name of this place as I pass by. From the road, I open

the gate silently and skirt along the sidewalk into the centermost cluster. This section of the neighborhood is made up of buildings consisting of maybe 4 houses each in neat rows with sidewalks laid across each doorstep. I ride down the short main avenue, searching through the numbered rows. "Houses 3-6", That's what I was told.
I pass a duplex with graffiti on the wall and stop to read it for a moment. Someone wrote "Victory!" on the wall in words that could be read from a billboard. The white paint all looks bright and damp, so it must be new. Others chattered along to this new idea. One wrote, "She saved us!", in neon blue. Another wrote, "Zero's Dead, That's Good, Amen" in bright green. I even spotted "Rest in Power, Senpai", near the top of the wall in red paint. I continue pedaling. Who has time for this after all that's happened?
The four houses are connected by a small lawn juxtaposed by cement sidewalks. The grass looks wet from here, and the water seems to mist up into the air, making everything feel humid. These two- story brick apartments seem to hang over me like jungle trees in spite of their size. There's a formal- looking board on the center of the lawn with a directory to the apartments printed out on neat vinyl:

"House 3: ................. Mr. H. Kojima"
"House 4: ................ Mr. A. Otl & Ms. M. Not-Spletzer"
"House 5: ................ Mr. J. Fork"
"House 6: ................ Mr. T. F. DeGroot"

I won't examine the board for longer than I need to. I know my destination. House 4. Axol's House.

I slam the bike against the wall with more force than I need to, being tired and happy to be on solid ground for once. I flinch suddenly, realizing for a moment that that probably woke somebody up. My cheap sandals drag along the cement toward the door. Their mailbox is jammed full of letters, each of its own shade of blue – from baby to navy. Each step a pin drop, I step around a hive of packages and some cards unfortunate enough to have spilled out of the mailbox. On the other side of the door, wreaths and bouquets of flowers sit scattered on the bench by the window. I stand facing her door now, looking up at a house where two people used to live. My eyes well as thoughts force their way through. I lift my left hand to my face. The mechanical fingers twitch and whir, moving to a preset "point" function. Carefully, I hold the prosthetic arm to my face and wipe away the tears. I know that the water will probably rust the metal and damage the circuitry, but I don't care. I shouldn't be here, but she needs this more than I do.
The keyhole doesn't argue with me as I insert and turn the key. I open the spruce door to her living room. It's exactly how I imagined it would look like. The glow of streetlights reflecting on the blue walls of the room makes me feel like I am underwater. I leave my shoes on the entrance mat and set foot on carpet that has been smothered by Tatami mats. The couch on the left side is littered with pillows and plushies of all sorts. It's funny, really, the way his traditional Japanese furniture clashed so brilliantly with all the comfy kitschy little things she made him buy. In the center of the living room, there is a heavily used whiteboard, carefully erased except for the very top, where it dons its name: "AXOL'S IDEA BOARD: DO NOT TOUCH!". I turn to the wall on the right. A single katana hangs right-side up on a rack. One of the mall-ninja variety of course, and it has a little felt bunny charm on the hilt. Next to it, an old newspaper article is preserved on the wall, reading: "TO THE STARS AND BACK!: NOVA EXPLORERS REACHES 40 MILLION SALES IN 4 DAYS!" I take my phone out of my hoodie's front pocket and set it on the desk below the article. It flashes to life automatically, opening to the e-mail notification that sent me here.