One More Normal Christmas
IKnowNothing
....What?
- Location
- I got lost so.....Where are we?
Christmas 1986, London England
It was quiet, all things considered.
The city of London felt almost asleep as the last hours of Christmas day came to a close. Yes, the day was filled with singing and partying and all that reputation destroying shit, but the night was turning out to be rather tame. Then again, Michael had taken a room in the part of town that was a good walk away from the closest bar.
A blessing and a curse, considering the thoughts plaguing him.
The apartment wasn't huge, but it wasn't small either. A single door leading into a small kitchen with an adjoining living room where Michael sat on one of two couches, putting his feet up on the coffee table. There's a small tv was propped up, always on and tuned into the local news stations. A set of stairs in the corner lead to the bedrooms. It wasn't what he was used to, but it had been his home for a while now.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
How long had he been here?
Two months, maybe a little more?
If he was still in his old profession, his peers would laugh at him. He always had complained about not seeing enough of the world when he was busy researching. Yet, here he was, in the city that held so much history that he couldn't even begin to study it all.
All that he'd done with his time here was memorize rotation patterns, buy the occasional snack, and pick his place to stay when everything happens.
Now, that's not to say as it was impossible for him to learn while he was here, it's just that his field lay elsewhere. In the numbers that most didn't like working with.
Yes, new technology can sweep through, and generations can raise and fall, but money would always retain its value. A long, complicated list of rules that shifted and changed almost as quickly as money moved between hands.
He didn't need to look far to see the first part of his contract. Stacks of paper stamped with dozens of different federal seals, organized into a dozen equal piles on the end of the coffee table. More was in one of the two other rooms the small apartment offered, totalling almost half a billion in US currency.
Enough money to buy a country.
Or start a war.
Michael let his head lean back against the cushion of his seat, but he still couldn't feel it. He hadn't been able to feel much, not for the last two years. He still could feel, he just needed to put more effort into making himself feel it.
And that effort would probably bring down the building and half the street.
That would have the triple effect of one; giving him a headache as the cops came in and started to blare their annoying sirens. Second; Richard would kill him for getting the money dirty while he was out working.Third and possibly worst of all, he'd wake Oliva.
Michael risks a small glance over his shoulder to the main bedroom. The door was open just enough for him to see black locks of hair hanging off the edge of a bed.
Still asleep, and without a single thing getting set on fire.
Thank the Lord for the small miracles.
And then curse him when you remember that those miracles didn't need to happen if things had played out just a little differently. If he hadn't walked out of that crash, and she hadn't been left on the street, neither of them would be here.
But that's how the world worked now.
Those that didn't deserve to keep going were given a reason without asking for it. Those that did ask for it got more than they bargained for.
It would continue, more and more until the world exploded.
Something needed to happen, some semblance of control had to be established. If not… then Michael would rather not think about the outcome.
The door to the apartment swung open, and Michael saw Richard. He gave him a wide grin, almost blinding Michael from the reflection off his teeth. He swaggered into the apartment, a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.
"Who's today's company?" Michael asks.
Richard set the two glasses down, popped the cap off the bottle and poured.
"Someone with a Strongbow," Richard jokes, "Hammond found it while he was buying supplies."
"So we're going even cheaper," Michael drawls, picking up his glass.
If it was possible, Richard's smile doubled in size.
"We have to prepare my friend, we can't afford any extra expenses."
Michael slowly looks over the pile of money not three feet from him.
"Sure," he says facetiously.
Richard keeps grinning like normal, passing a drink over to Michael, letting a few drops of alcohol drip onto the small coffee table. Michael gingerly picks up the glass, lazily raising it into the air. Richard raises his as well, only to down it in one gulp a second later.
Michael held himself back, looking out the window to the snowy streets below. A young couple was walking down the street. He couldn't tell, but they were probably smiling as they held one another close, keeping themselves warm through the snow.
"Not having second thoughts, are you Michael?"
Michael shakes his head.
"No, but certain details still aren't sitting too well with me."
Despite the heavy tone, Richard shrugs off his worry.
"We're doing what's necessary Michael, don't forget that."
"Hiroshima and Nagasaki were labelled as necessary back then," Michael reminds him, "but we're still wasting time arguing if it really was."
"I don't think anyone's going to argue whether or not this is necessary," Richard says, his voice going low.
Michael found himself shaking his head.
"History isn't black and white."
"And the Nazis did nothing wrong?"
Michael actually winced, in surprise, not pain. Richard set his glass down, gets off his seat and takes a few small steps towards the window. He presses his hand against the glass, watching his breath collect on the sheen. He let his eyes wonder eventually landing on the couple that Michael had seen earlier.
Michael indulged him, watching the two as they waited for the double-decker bus. The woman nearly trips on the wet staircase, but she's caught by her partner. The close call draws gasps from everyone on the first floor of the bus. Someone claps, the bus driver extends a helping hand, but everyone gets on the ride. The doors close and the metal machine makes its way to the next stop to pick up the next freezing passenger.
As they leave, Richard barks out a laugh.
"Look at them," he says, awe and disgust mixing their way into his voice, "Something as simple as falling to the ground is worth the commotion and comment of everyone within earshot. It's rather pathetic, isn't it?"
Michael shrugs.
"Normal people can have normal problems. It's the world we live in."
"But we don't live in a normal world anymore, do we?"
Michael gently let his gaze shimmy up towards Richard. The man leans against the window, letting his arms cross over one another. His smile is gone, a knowing sneer taking over.
"People can't just walk to their place of work these days, they can fly. And what's the point of having the newest car or tv when some kid can make the Manhattan Project look like something out of a second-grade science fair? Soon, people are going to accept that. It's kind of exciting, isn't it?"
"Even if it is, we can still wait like everyone else."
Richard doesn't hold back his laugh, making Michael sink back into his chair and take a drink. He watches as Richard reaches into his jacket, and pulls out the Book.
You'll seldom hear anyone within their little group talk about the journal under any kind of name. No one had seen the contents except for Richard himself. Every day, without fail, the man was looking through, reading and memorizing the contents. He must have read through the entire book a dozen times, and that was just for how long Michael had known him.
Apparently, he got the book after a grateful donation from a friend of his. Michael had never met this friend, nor had he gotten anything out of Richard about him other than that he could be trusted with what he gave.
Whatever it is that he wrote down in that journal, it was what managed to keep everything going smoothly for these last few months. Finding Michael, Olivia, Hammond, Elizabeth, Jason, acquiring funds, moving to London without a fuss.
Everything was done because of that little Book.
Michael takes another sip of his drink as Richard skims through the pages. He gets to the back and snaps the book closed.
"Well, what's the fun in waiting?"
He puts the Book back in his jacket and after a few quick steps set himself back down on the couch. He pours himself another glass and smiles.
"So I'm going to be moving our little party forward a few days."
Michael grips his glass to the point that it nearly shatters.
"You're joking," he breathes.
Richard shakes his head, his expression serious for once.
"Not this time."
Michael slowly nods as he lets himself look towards the small pocket in Richards jacket. He puts a hand protectively over the spot and winks.
"Don't worry, this wasn't written down," he says.
He takes his glass, and downs the liquid faster than a shot, only to pour himself another drink seconds afterwards.
"Isn't that a bad thing?" Michael stresses.
Richard stops pouring, his drink only half full.
"Probably," he admits, "But waiting around isn't going to help anyone."
Michael shakes his head solemnly.
"They won't like you going off script."
Richard lets out another laugh.
"Tell me something I don't know," he chuckles.
He takes in the half glass of liquid, blinking away the buzz and letting his head fall back on the couch cushion.
"They'll complain, worry, then they'll go along with it like they always were going to."
Then, he reaches into his jackets other pocket and pulls out a conductor's baton. Richard lazily swings it in the air, bringing it down to tap out a four beat rhythm.
The tapping stops, and Richard raises one finger off the baton.
"But then there's you… and you're not going to just sit back and roll over like the rest of them, are you?"
The tip of his finger hums and the light in the back of the room begins to flicker. A second later, the edge of his finger starts to glow gold. Michael let his free hand grip his seat a little tighter, his knuckles going red and white as the glow gets brighter.
And brighter.
And Michael's armrest snaps under the pressure of his grip.
Then, the colour of Richard's finger just blinks out, and Michael let out a breath he didn't remember holding in.
The hand and baton fall to the cushion with the rest of Richard's arm. He leans forward, sighs, and forces out another laugh.
"So what's it going to take to get you to play along?"
Michael grips his glass a little tighter. If Richard notices, he didn't react. Not that he would, there wasn't much that Michael could do to the man. Not when his other hand is still hidden by his jacket, and the light behind him still hadn't stopped flickering.
Michael let his eyes wander, and eventually, they settle on an open door and a few strands of black hair.
It didn't take long for a price to worm its way into him.
"If things go south, we're out," Michael says, "Both of us, no questions."
Richard gave the open doorway a side glance. His baton tapping against the seat cushion as he hums to himself.
For a brief moment, the lights go out entirely.
Then they come back and stay on.
"Done," Richard promises.
Michael lets out another breath as Richard moves the bottle a little closer to him.
"I didn't know you hated the idea that much."
"It's not that," Michael says quickly.
Richard waits and Michael shrugs.
"It's not that I don't think it should happen, it should. I'd just rather have a life afterwards."
Richard purses his lips and shrugs for the millionth time tonight.
"Fair enough," Richard admits.
He pours one last glass, lifting the small container for a toast. Leaning as far as he dared, Michael accepts the toast.
For the first time tonight, Richard smiles a grateful smile.
"Merry Christmas Michael," Richard says, tipping an imaginary hat to him.
Michael raises his glass and throws it down with a single gulp.
"And happy new year," Michael whispers.
It was quiet, all things considered.
The city of London felt almost asleep as the last hours of Christmas day came to a close. Yes, the day was filled with singing and partying and all that reputation destroying shit, but the night was turning out to be rather tame. Then again, Michael had taken a room in the part of town that was a good walk away from the closest bar.
A blessing and a curse, considering the thoughts plaguing him.
The apartment wasn't huge, but it wasn't small either. A single door leading into a small kitchen with an adjoining living room where Michael sat on one of two couches, putting his feet up on the coffee table. There's a small tv was propped up, always on and tuned into the local news stations. A set of stairs in the corner lead to the bedrooms. It wasn't what he was used to, but it had been his home for a while now.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
How long had he been here?
Two months, maybe a little more?
If he was still in his old profession, his peers would laugh at him. He always had complained about not seeing enough of the world when he was busy researching. Yet, here he was, in the city that held so much history that he couldn't even begin to study it all.
All that he'd done with his time here was memorize rotation patterns, buy the occasional snack, and pick his place to stay when everything happens.
Now, that's not to say as it was impossible for him to learn while he was here, it's just that his field lay elsewhere. In the numbers that most didn't like working with.
Yes, new technology can sweep through, and generations can raise and fall, but money would always retain its value. A long, complicated list of rules that shifted and changed almost as quickly as money moved between hands.
He didn't need to look far to see the first part of his contract. Stacks of paper stamped with dozens of different federal seals, organized into a dozen equal piles on the end of the coffee table. More was in one of the two other rooms the small apartment offered, totalling almost half a billion in US currency.
Enough money to buy a country.
Or start a war.
Michael let his head lean back against the cushion of his seat, but he still couldn't feel it. He hadn't been able to feel much, not for the last two years. He still could feel, he just needed to put more effort into making himself feel it.
And that effort would probably bring down the building and half the street.
That would have the triple effect of one; giving him a headache as the cops came in and started to blare their annoying sirens. Second; Richard would kill him for getting the money dirty while he was out working.Third and possibly worst of all, he'd wake Oliva.
Michael risks a small glance over his shoulder to the main bedroom. The door was open just enough for him to see black locks of hair hanging off the edge of a bed.
Still asleep, and without a single thing getting set on fire.
Thank the Lord for the small miracles.
And then curse him when you remember that those miracles didn't need to happen if things had played out just a little differently. If he hadn't walked out of that crash, and she hadn't been left on the street, neither of them would be here.
But that's how the world worked now.
Those that didn't deserve to keep going were given a reason without asking for it. Those that did ask for it got more than they bargained for.
It would continue, more and more until the world exploded.
Something needed to happen, some semblance of control had to be established. If not… then Michael would rather not think about the outcome.
The door to the apartment swung open, and Michael saw Richard. He gave him a wide grin, almost blinding Michael from the reflection off his teeth. He swaggered into the apartment, a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.
"Who's today's company?" Michael asks.
Richard set the two glasses down, popped the cap off the bottle and poured.
"Someone with a Strongbow," Richard jokes, "Hammond found it while he was buying supplies."
"So we're going even cheaper," Michael drawls, picking up his glass.
If it was possible, Richard's smile doubled in size.
"We have to prepare my friend, we can't afford any extra expenses."
Michael slowly looks over the pile of money not three feet from him.
"Sure," he says facetiously.
Richard keeps grinning like normal, passing a drink over to Michael, letting a few drops of alcohol drip onto the small coffee table. Michael gingerly picks up the glass, lazily raising it into the air. Richard raises his as well, only to down it in one gulp a second later.
Michael held himself back, looking out the window to the snowy streets below. A young couple was walking down the street. He couldn't tell, but they were probably smiling as they held one another close, keeping themselves warm through the snow.
"Not having second thoughts, are you Michael?"
Michael shakes his head.
"No, but certain details still aren't sitting too well with me."
Despite the heavy tone, Richard shrugs off his worry.
"We're doing what's necessary Michael, don't forget that."
"Hiroshima and Nagasaki were labelled as necessary back then," Michael reminds him, "but we're still wasting time arguing if it really was."
"I don't think anyone's going to argue whether or not this is necessary," Richard says, his voice going low.
Michael found himself shaking his head.
"History isn't black and white."
"And the Nazis did nothing wrong?"
Michael actually winced, in surprise, not pain. Richard set his glass down, gets off his seat and takes a few small steps towards the window. He presses his hand against the glass, watching his breath collect on the sheen. He let his eyes wonder eventually landing on the couple that Michael had seen earlier.
Michael indulged him, watching the two as they waited for the double-decker bus. The woman nearly trips on the wet staircase, but she's caught by her partner. The close call draws gasps from everyone on the first floor of the bus. Someone claps, the bus driver extends a helping hand, but everyone gets on the ride. The doors close and the metal machine makes its way to the next stop to pick up the next freezing passenger.
As they leave, Richard barks out a laugh.
"Look at them," he says, awe and disgust mixing their way into his voice, "Something as simple as falling to the ground is worth the commotion and comment of everyone within earshot. It's rather pathetic, isn't it?"
Michael shrugs.
"Normal people can have normal problems. It's the world we live in."
"But we don't live in a normal world anymore, do we?"
Michael gently let his gaze shimmy up towards Richard. The man leans against the window, letting his arms cross over one another. His smile is gone, a knowing sneer taking over.
"People can't just walk to their place of work these days, they can fly. And what's the point of having the newest car or tv when some kid can make the Manhattan Project look like something out of a second-grade science fair? Soon, people are going to accept that. It's kind of exciting, isn't it?"
"Even if it is, we can still wait like everyone else."
Richard doesn't hold back his laugh, making Michael sink back into his chair and take a drink. He watches as Richard reaches into his jacket, and pulls out the Book.
You'll seldom hear anyone within their little group talk about the journal under any kind of name. No one had seen the contents except for Richard himself. Every day, without fail, the man was looking through, reading and memorizing the contents. He must have read through the entire book a dozen times, and that was just for how long Michael had known him.
Apparently, he got the book after a grateful donation from a friend of his. Michael had never met this friend, nor had he gotten anything out of Richard about him other than that he could be trusted with what he gave.
Whatever it is that he wrote down in that journal, it was what managed to keep everything going smoothly for these last few months. Finding Michael, Olivia, Hammond, Elizabeth, Jason, acquiring funds, moving to London without a fuss.
Everything was done because of that little Book.
Michael takes another sip of his drink as Richard skims through the pages. He gets to the back and snaps the book closed.
"Well, what's the fun in waiting?"
He puts the Book back in his jacket and after a few quick steps set himself back down on the couch. He pours himself another glass and smiles.
"So I'm going to be moving our little party forward a few days."
Michael grips his glass to the point that it nearly shatters.
"You're joking," he breathes.
Richard shakes his head, his expression serious for once.
"Not this time."
Michael slowly nods as he lets himself look towards the small pocket in Richards jacket. He puts a hand protectively over the spot and winks.
"Don't worry, this wasn't written down," he says.
He takes his glass, and downs the liquid faster than a shot, only to pour himself another drink seconds afterwards.
"Isn't that a bad thing?" Michael stresses.
Richard stops pouring, his drink only half full.
"Probably," he admits, "But waiting around isn't going to help anyone."
Michael shakes his head solemnly.
"They won't like you going off script."
Richard lets out another laugh.
"Tell me something I don't know," he chuckles.
He takes in the half glass of liquid, blinking away the buzz and letting his head fall back on the couch cushion.
"They'll complain, worry, then they'll go along with it like they always were going to."
Then, he reaches into his jackets other pocket and pulls out a conductor's baton. Richard lazily swings it in the air, bringing it down to tap out a four beat rhythm.
The tapping stops, and Richard raises one finger off the baton.
"But then there's you… and you're not going to just sit back and roll over like the rest of them, are you?"
The tip of his finger hums and the light in the back of the room begins to flicker. A second later, the edge of his finger starts to glow gold. Michael let his free hand grip his seat a little tighter, his knuckles going red and white as the glow gets brighter.
And brighter.
And Michael's armrest snaps under the pressure of his grip.
Then, the colour of Richard's finger just blinks out, and Michael let out a breath he didn't remember holding in.
The hand and baton fall to the cushion with the rest of Richard's arm. He leans forward, sighs, and forces out another laugh.
"So what's it going to take to get you to play along?"
Michael grips his glass a little tighter. If Richard notices, he didn't react. Not that he would, there wasn't much that Michael could do to the man. Not when his other hand is still hidden by his jacket, and the light behind him still hadn't stopped flickering.
Michael let his eyes wander, and eventually, they settle on an open door and a few strands of black hair.
It didn't take long for a price to worm its way into him.
"If things go south, we're out," Michael says, "Both of us, no questions."
Richard gave the open doorway a side glance. His baton tapping against the seat cushion as he hums to himself.
For a brief moment, the lights go out entirely.
Then they come back and stay on.
"Done," Richard promises.
Michael lets out another breath as Richard moves the bottle a little closer to him.
"I didn't know you hated the idea that much."
"It's not that," Michael says quickly.
Richard waits and Michael shrugs.
"It's not that I don't think it should happen, it should. I'd just rather have a life afterwards."
Richard purses his lips and shrugs for the millionth time tonight.
"Fair enough," Richard admits.
He pours one last glass, lifting the small container for a toast. Leaning as far as he dared, Michael accepts the toast.
For the first time tonight, Richard smiles a grateful smile.
"Merry Christmas Michael," Richard says, tipping an imaginary hat to him.
Michael raises his glass and throws it down with a single gulp.
"And happy new year," Michael whispers.
