Into The Crucible

CHAPTER IV: Questions

JULIUS

Dawn had broken through the cold skies more than an hour ago. The bronze morning's rays split into shafts dispersed over the floor of the urban minimalist flat. They bounced off of the mirror as I observed my reflection for the final time.

Far below, the city of Las Espinas awaited.

I was no stranger to dealings before the sun had risen to its peak, but for this matter, it had been a personal choice. No time to lose. The night was tiresome and dragged out, stretched far and long over moments I spent in silence. From that same feeling I felt weariness in my body. I'd avoided rest, much to my own chagrin, and even if I wanted to I would not have the peace it promised. No, only this might satisfy it to an extent. A sheaf of newspapers lay on the coffee table, folded delicately as if I had not thoroughly read every article I could find.

Without turning off the lights, I exited the flat.

The swift descent of the elevator saved me from any time of contemplation. I didn't want anyone me accompany me. Just as well. Felix and Cecil would be of considerable service at the moment, but I could do this alone. Their service would be in better use for my children.

My children.

The thoughts of them filled the spaces between seconds. They were short and sparse, but no less crippling. What man could bear it without doubling over, I had no idea. More so repeatedly.

My daughter. My son.

It was like a wound that had only begun to close. A recent wound, still stinging when met with air.

A genial chime. As the elevator doors slid open, the number above it read: 42.

I steeled myself and crossed the grandiose hall. Several staff in beige and white blazers roamed across the beige and white tile floor. The time of daybreak kept the other residents of the complex bound to their beds. Good. I wished to be unnoticed as much as I can. Journalists were tiresome. There was no business, proper or otherwise, to be held, and I didn't need any eyes following my every step from behind a camera lens.

I needed answers.

The common lounge glowed warmly with a dozen buttery yellow pendant lights suspended from the intricate ceiling. It was large enough to hold a hundred people at once. A central octagonal atrium dominated the entire floor, walled by slender, freestanding four-sided columns that divided the space from the corridors running parallel to its sides.

Without breaking stride, I passed through the central gap in the columns that served as the entryway. The scent of fresh bread and brewed coffee wafted across the air. A single work adorned the room-a blocky, formless sculpture that resembled an upside-down seashell in all but shape. Solid color upholstery dotted the lacquered floor, gathered into clusters tucked away into intimate alcoves. None were occupied.

The opposite wall was all glass, tinted gray. Beyond it lay a mass of clouds of the same color, like the building charge of an avalanche. I reached the glass wall and pushed open the seamless double doors into a spacious balcony.

The whipping wind tried to pierce through my suit. I walked along the chest-high balustrade, towards where the glass wall shifted to cement. Here the gentle furniture became replaced by long chairs made of wood, the adornments changed from modernist art to a simple row of plants overflowing from their pots. Below me, Las Espinas began to stir.