Complication

Chapter One

The drought was severe. Any amount of rain was a good omen. That is why all of Wind Quarry was happy to wake up to a wet and dreary day. Michael couldn't help but think negatively: Once on the hard dry ground, it would be a curse, a flash flood. It's not that it hadn't been raining in Wind Quarry, but always less than was needed. Over time, that had a way of adding up. 

Michael splashed down the sidewalk in an expensive pair of leather shoes. They were handmade, medallion tipped with an imprinted inlay: you couldn't find things like that anymore. They set him back four hundred dollars. What he liked most about them was the embossed logo on the heel that marked them as Bandolier, the same as his last name. 

His forty dollar briefcase was tucked tightly under his arm. A five dollar umbrella, bought only out of necessity, kept him dry from the shoulders up. He flagged a cab with his elbow and was surprised at how fast one pulled to the curb. 

In the shelter of the cab, he felt the uncomfortable dampness of his clothes. Dropping his umbrella to the floorboard, he assessed the damage to his shoes, shuddered and sighed. 

"I need to know where you're going," the driver said. 

"Twenty Forty Chestnut," Michael said. "Can you go fast? I'm already late." The driver gave a passive smile. 

"You got it, buddy. You're already putting me off my typical route."  

As the cab pulled away, its sway lulled Michael back into tired thoughts of his ruined shoes. He should have worn a different pair. 

"Raining out?" 

Michael looked over and saw that he was sharing the cab with a middle-aged man in a thin, tattered gray jacket. His stringy hair matched his coat and an overly polished pair of gold rimmed glasses clung to his face. He was dry. One side of his collar stuck up, a product of sloppy dressing. His back was hunched forward, his stubbly face pointed down into his lap. 

"Yeah," Michael said impolitely, lifting his arm to glance at his wrist. "Great." He slapped his hand back to his damp leg. "Do you have the time?" 

The strange man did a double take and looked up from his hunched position. "Oh, no," he said, "I don't keep the time." 

"Great," Michael said again. He wiped the foggy window and peered out into the rain. He heard windshield wipers and tires in the wet street, the steady draining of the sewer grates. The dark shape of an airship passed overhead, cutting through clouds of the same color. Michael was surprised that anything was flying on such a day, but everyone had a place to be, and it didn't matter what the weather was doing. It didn't matter what time it was either; he was already late for work, and Debora probably didn't really need him there anyway. 

"I'm Stanley," the strange man said. His words came out with a heavy breath. Michael turned back. 

"Stanley who?" 

"Stanley Post." 

"Michael Bandolier," Michael said. He offered his hand out of habit. He left it in the air unshaken for only a moment before pulling it back. 

"Oh, how rude of me," Stanley said, finally offering his own hand. Michael shook it skeptically. It was a weak, short shake. Along the edge of the man's coat cuff, Michael saw an unmistakable black band with eyelets. 

"Is that a watch?" 

The man stuttered. "Yes, this is- Yes. It was a gift. I'm afraid you cannot have it. It's all I have left." 

Michael almost laughed. "I don't want your watch. I want to know why you're too stingy to share the time." 

"Pardon?"