SECOND DRAFT: Hard Bank Left

29

Six weeks passed in a sort of somber silence for Graham. The Holidays came and went without event. Krys usually took great care with the winter celebrations, needlessly decorating and bustling and insisting on an exchanging of gifts. The lack of her decor haunted the halls of the week the WindSong like a lonely ghost, or at least it would have, could Graham remember what it was like to have the garlands wrapped around every railing and the holly and the small pile of presents in the laundry room. No, there were more pressing things at hand, not the least of which being getting those memories back in his head.

Celeste followed him around everywhere, whispering in his ear, reminding of things and where they were and what to do. He felt strongly that his new catch phrase had become "Celeste, why?" She always had ready answers, or that is to say that he had answers ready: the real him.

For nearly a month, neither of them talked to Krys, save in greeting or to acquire necessary information like answers to "should I make you some food too?" or "could you pass me that?" Krys was kind in giving him space. She spoke to him often, but it was more like speaking at him than anything. He didn't really know what she got up to most days, but more than once he had seen her coming down from the greenhouse so he assumed she tended to the plants.

While Raide took her sweet time recovering, Graham set his collective minds to work on a solution, one that would not cost him more memory. The solution they came up with was simple, elegant really: create another housing unit, like Celeste's, but one designed to travel in some sort of protective carrying case. It would communicate with him via a sort of headset, hear with an ear piece, see through a camera in his glasses. It would advise him. He would advise himself, like a disembodied voice that only he could hear.

The work proved just as brutal as the initial creation of Celeste and her initial housing unit. First he had to cannibalize Celeste's old unit, she no longer had any need of it, besides, she never liked the green glow of it - that had been Graham's decision not hers. But it wasn't as simple as that, he had to devise the carrying case, make sure he could wear it without damaging it.

The best solution would be to keep it off his back - he had a tendency to be on his back more often than he cared to admit, especially in a hostile situation. The next solution would be to put it on his hip, but he worried about the wires tangling. The two parts of himself decided it would be best to put it in some sort of breast pocket device or something that fit around his neck or over the shoulder. The breast pocket design stuck, he certainly had enough coats with a breast pocket to accommodate the design.

Protecting the casing was easy enough. His coats would have to be lined and padded, but that wouldn't be a problem. The trouble lay in reducing the size of the housing unit. There simply wasn't enough space in a breast pocket to contain all the little pieces necessary to have his brain operating at full capacity. He thought to broaden his jacket pockets, but he knew next to nothing about tailoring. He'd have to ask Krys, not a task he was looking forward to.

Whatever semblance of a working relationship they had managed to develop didn't account for him asking her for favors, not yet. She did offer favors to him regularly, but always of her own accord and usually it had something to do with food. Not to mention that, from what Celeste had told him, they hadn't worked together on a project in some time. If he invited her in on the matter now she may offer further help. This was a conversation he had to prepare himself for. He wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to refuse.

Graham stood from his work station, leaving one of his coats and the overlarge, experimental housing unit on the workbench. A sudden chill came over him and he decided against leaving the coat on the table. He pulled it on, turning up the collar to protect his neck. He then reached to his right where an elegant, black cane leaned, waiting to be retrieved. The pommel was a silver raven, the black wood a solid oak stained to its dark hue. He leaned on it heavily as he walked, his as of yet to be healed knee giving him more trouble that day than most others. Descending the stairs proved difficult, he had to rely on the narrow walls to support him, having no real place to out his cane as he proceeded.