Looking out - How not to suck

In a previous entry I flippantly referred to my motorcycle side mirror that was missing a nut, and how I was a huge jerk for not just getting it fixed since I knew more or less what I was doing and exactly what I'd need to get it done.

Well, riding home from work one day last week I heard the familiar sound of a small metal nut loosing from my bike and dinking it's way to the street below. Now, this noise could have been anyting: I could have run over a screw, or a car could have been clicking nearby, it didn't mean that my bike had just lost one of the precious securing devices that keep it in one piece. But I knew, somewhere deep inside, what it really was.

It wasn't until the next morning that I found out for sure. My mirror was now free to do as unsecured major visual apparatus usually do in moving vehicles: cause havoc. During a lean it shimmied a half-inch out of it's hole and I overcorrected for what had appeared to be the bike falling over by screaming like a little girl and riding nearly into a ditch. The rest of my ride was a disgruntled attempt to keep the mirror secured to my jacket without punching two new screw holes in my torso.

I want to make it loud and clear that I was literally taking my life into my own hands by not fixing this earlier: that nut could have ended up in my chain or wedged into any moving part of my bike that would have resulted in a short and likely fatal lesson in dancing with traffic. I managed to scrape by and didn't even check to see what had happened, putting myself in danger twice.

That weekend I took the freewheeling device and the freewheeling girlfriend in the car to home depot to determine the nut sizing and grab a socket wrench extension. Anyone who has worked on a bike will tell you the less often you need to dismantle things the better, and the extension would allow me to tighten it without taking apart the entire head.

Home depot is the only place where I have no shame in talking to a sales rep. I don't know if it has something to do with the inviting atmosphere of warehouse/dungeon or the cheerfully colored Halloween vests, I just feel secure among the 5-story tall bathroom fixtures and grow op hardware. I cornered the first terrorized employee in orange and grilled him for information on where to find hardware.

"Good day good sir. Might you point me towards the nuts aisle that I might repair this symbol of my irresponsibility?"
"What? Uh hardware is in aisle 9."

Off we went and shortly I had accosted another victim. He took the mirror with only my muted attempt to inform him of its metric nature in mind and quickly located the nut I needed. Before leaving I told him I appreciated his handling of my nuts and asked where I could go to find a socket wrench extension. This is not a remark that the hardware isle reps find humorous.

Final stop was the tool section where I shopped extensions for ten minutes. Did I have a Husky or Craftsman back home? Was there a difference? What if one of them was metric and the other was imperial? If I buy one and I'm wrong I'll have to go through the intense embarrassment of a tool return, which as we all know involves surrendering your man card to the authorities.

"Hi, I want to return this extension."
"Was it defective?"
"Uh, no."
A pregnant pause.
"Is there something wrong with the device?"
"Nope."
The clerk becomes suspicious. He narrows his eye and sizes me up. "Sir, did you purchase the wrong extension?"
"Possibly."
"Get out sir."
"But-"
"Sir, don't make me repeat myself."

Becoming bored of my silent reverie of several minutes (I'm prone to retreating into a fantasy world when I've been given too many options) my girlfriend finally got tired and pointed out a full metric set with a snake extension that was about the same price as the solid extension I was agonizing over. We then narrowly avoided the armed Home Depot security guards and absconded with the merchandise through trickery and deceit.

Pictured: Trickery and deceit

There's not much to it after that, I reinstalled my mirror and fitted the nuts on by hand before turning to my new best friend to tighten them up. The mirror is no longer a problem and I learned a valuable lesson about not procrastinating.

Note: I was originally going to end this with one of those goofy half-sentences like I can't ever finish anything but then two weeks later I peeked at my post drafts and noticed I'd never posted it, so I think that seals it then, no?

Dodging Storms

A study in opposites: a computer tech programming websites next to a full-face white helmet, white armored leather jacket, black armored pants.
I hurry my gear on, throwing the jacket with the spine protector over a canary yellow polo. My wallet, phone, ipod, and car keys are nestled in the backpack beside 2 laptops and a kindle. A struggle later and it’s slipped over my armored forearm. I’ll be the most expensive thing on two wheels in a minute or two.
It doesn’t look great out, the clouds are a little too ominous, the air is a little too sweet for less than a mile off the parkway. It’s going to come down, and I’m not quite ready for slick roads on two wheels.
“Hold on, your backpack is open.”
“Are the zippers on the side? Can you put them there?”
“Huh?”
“Uh, can you pull the zippers around to the side? When they’re on the top it opens. I’ve gotten home two or three times and it’s been wide open.”
“Yeah.” He closes my backpack up and I can feel him pull the zippers over.
“Thanks man! Have a good weekend.”
I snatch my helmet off the desk and walk down the hall. It occurs to me that I look huge; the armor adds a good inch to my frame, riding boots add another to my height, and I’m moving fast. I smirk at the thought of secretaries hurling stacks of paper as they dodge me.
I wave to the security guard as I pass his desk then pull my helmet over my head, snug against my face. Every piece of gear is important, every piece protects. When I see someone on a bike with shorts and a wifebeater, I wonder how long they’ll have their skin.
My bike stands out among behemoth SUVs, a dwarf there in the center of its allotted space.
My visor collects tiny gems. The storm is here.
Grasping the right handbrake I throw a leg over and sit in the saddle, turn the key, and kick up my kickstand.
Ignition.
Now to dance.
I slip through the parking lot, weaving on the asphalt floor and slithering around cement islands. Is it coming from the West, or the East? How long do I have until downpour?
The light to the on-ramp is red and I can see traffic is stopped going East from my vantage point opposite. If I go left I can do a few traffic tricks and jump the gridlock, but I’ll miss the HOV entrance. And the rain is coming.
The light changes.
Now the race.
I pull around the car in front of me and take the inner lane, jumping to the speed limit with a throttle wring then jumping lanes again to get around an SUV napping at the newly changed light. If traffic is light at the overpass…
Bingo! I slip in before the light changes and ride the service road. Traffic is still backed up. What a mess.
I wring the throttle again and leapfrog a line of cars using the entry to cut off the traffic, nestling in to the highway and starting the slow migration left toward the HOV.
There’s that feeling you get in traffic sometimes, after you’ve made a decision you wouldn’t normally make because of some new data - a sign blinking ‘Two Lanes Closed Exit 53’ and you wonder how close to 53 you should go before jumping on to the service road to dodge the bulk of traffic - and I’ve got it.
Thing is, in the car I’d just be in for a boring crawl in climate control. On the bike I’ll be taking a shower. Soppy wet underwear in waterlogged khakis. Raindrops at 55 miles an hour hurt.
Should have made the left.
But, I’m not wet yet. Keep crawling. Still have time.
I look over at a woman in an SUV scowling at the backup. Everyone seems to notice when you look at them from a bike, or they’re always about to look at the bike and you only sometimes notice. She turns to me, looks down at my two wheels and gives me a snide look. You’re fucked. Yep.
The lane moves. We’re a good quarter mile off and I swing out to peer down the lane. It’s open, the cars are favoring the right. That’s an invitation, right?
A drop of rain on the back of my neck. Go!
The white striped pre-entrance zone to the HOV will be deadly in another five minutes, coated by rain and slick as oil. For now its an ally against the traffic. I pass over it like a bird gliding over the ocean. Before me the sky is open, bright and blue but behind it is dark, ominous and vivid.
The entrance opens and I transition, no one near me.
I pull the throttle all the way out and catch the wind like an open parachute: every gust shakes me, I lock my neck to resist the buffeting winds. The storm approaches, gnashing at my back. Always check the weather in the morning. Idiot.
Little gemstones populate my visor, headlights flash on in my mirror. The clouds dance above, wisps and tails twist like tendrils, a shadow growing behind. 56. 55. Exits and miles between. A midnight blue Honda Accord, a white pickup truck. I wouldn’t wish a white pickup truck on my worst enemy.
Green sign overlooking the lane. “Motorcycles Permitted”. Thank god.
It’s darker. Raindrops on my windscreen. You never know when the rain will make every strip of paint a frictionless plane. Coming up on a bumper and the HOV exit to my real exit approaches.
I dart over the dotted line and pull the throttle, popping up to 70 and jumping past about fifteen queued cars. The road at the head of the snake is clear, I swing out and migrate to the outside lane.
The sky roars, a fine burning slice of light in the dark behind me. There’s a particular way the front of a storm looks, like a haze masking the vehicles, the paint on each car a shade darker then they should be.
I jump into the entrance lane, discarding all pretense of politeness. I’m about to be soaked, you’ll all be warm and dry. Let me squeeze on by, I swear you won’t even see me in a quarter mile.
I come up on backup up traffic at the merge, pick my spot between two cars, and slow for it. But the car I’ve picked isn’t moving as traffic accelerates. Is he napping? I jam the break, slow to a stop beside him.
He waves, knows perhaps. Or realizes why I am urgently darting between the hulking metal death machines. I wave, throw into gear and move up a spot. No time for pleasantry's my good man. Storms to dodge and all that.
The traffic eases, unbinds. We move. Storms comes.
There’s my exit. What’s another traffic violation? Go!
The great round burn. Exit arc.
Green light at the intersection: Bonus time! Left turn and I’m parallel to the storm front.
Weave like a skier, burst like a sprinter. Those your strengths, wouldn’t you know?
A grand curve, a switchback. Heading back at it. Can you dodge something you’re driving straight toward?
Answer: Yes. Dodging storms.
Home stretch, coasting to my parking spot.
Cover it, protect it, engine’s burning hot.
But we’re safe and dry.

Ireland Friday August 10th - Ballybogey

Downhill Estate & Mussenden Temple - ***

The National Trust group is currently trying to conserve the grounds around the Mussenden Temple and Estate. Also inside is the Downhill Forest and a short nature walk.

The Estate itself is a sprawling stone fort on the road to the Temple and is easily one of the coolest things I saw in Northern Ireland. We tromped around the grounds. There was a wild viking running about on the walls trying to scare us as well, always a pleasure.

The Temple itself is a circular stone building on a cliff edge along the Northern coast and there’s probably only fifteen feet between the edge of the building and the edge of the cliff. I of course jumped on to it and ran around the outer perimeter trying to get some pictures but there wasn’t a lot to capture out there since I was clutching the wall and trying not to have a wee on to the shore.

We hopped a barred off fence into the Downhill forest and walked along the upper paths over the valley just taking in the extraordinarily beautiful day. The paths through the forest were not to be missed.

Dunluce Castle - ***

We probably picked the best day to visit this attraction and the best time of day (mid-morning) because there weren’t a lot of other tourists and we had plenty of time to line up fun shots amidst the ruins of this iconic castle. They have a looped video detailing the history of the castle as it passed hands among the Ulster, McQuillan, and MacDonnel families.

The castle is built on a stone peninsula overlooking the ocean on the Northern Coast. The castle proper is separated from the old town of Dunluce by a bridge that connects the two landmasses. Passing among the ruins really gets you thinking about the kind of conditions that people lived in, and it’s also a great place to take pictures of the coast. We separated and met up fifteen minutes later to bounce back and forth.

Go see Dunluce, if not for the natural beauty, for the fact that it’s a big part of Northern Ireland’s history. And, as always, beware the vikings lurking…

Carrick-a-rede Rope Bridge - ***

Carrick-a-rede is a short ride out from Dunluce castle and is a short hike from the parking lot to the bridge. Don’t forget to buy your crossing ticket before you leave or you won’t be allowed to cross teh bridge when you arrive! Along the way you’ll be treated to plenty of goats lounging along the path and great vistas of the bridge and your fellow pilgrims.

Actually crossing the bridge is completely safe but you will be queued and waiting for a short period as only eight people are allowed to cross at a time. Make sure to make an attempt at getting any crossing pictures you want in both directions, it will be considered rude to stop your fellow daredevils for the ‘perfect pic’.

The bridge leads to a smaller island with practically no safety fences; for the most part it’s just you and your finely tuned sense of balance (further honed by lingering hangover symptoms). The island, however, is beautiful and peaceful, we laid out on a grassy knoll and just soaked up the rare sunshine for a good half hour before turning back and snapping our last pictures of the fabled rope bridge.

Torr’s Head - ***

Something tells me this one is a nice secret ferreted away from the prying eyes of the public, because I didn’t remember coming across any information on it while I was searching for things to do in the North. I could be totally wrong though; the only reason we had any clue of it’s existence was because our hosts at the B&B raved about it long enough to catch our attention.

It’s a ways off the beaten path and we got a little lost on our way. Never fret, however, as stopping basically anywhere and asking something will bolster your confidence in short order. Once you leave the town proper you’ll encounter a series of blind, harrowing turns on roads that are not much wider then your average smartcar. Those will take you practically to sea level you’ll arrive at the landing for Torr’s head.

It’s a small parking lot with a dilapidated 3 story building flanking it which opens a hike at a worse grade then the ride down. You’ll be in for a good stagger up to the bungalow at the top, but if you make it there on a clear, cool day it’s worth every step.

The small building had, at the time I was there, a ladder up to the roof which you can climb up to look across the ocean. That day we were actually able to see the next destination: Scotland!

Ireland Thursday August 9th - Ballybogey

Leaving The Villa Maria was upsetting, it was our longest stay and we had an awesome room, the proprietor was an amateur photographer and we walked out every morning to pictures of all her wonderful trips along the walls. Ireland is, unfortunately, meant for this level of activity. Stay in one place and really enjoy it.

We had a long day ahead of us and unfortunately there isn’t much to say. We were driving all the way from Galway to Dublin then up through to Northern Ireland. We were ambushed by the conversion to the pound at a gas station with a broken ATM! Luckily I had the foresight to take ~30 pounds out when we did our money conversion. I’ll be doing a separate post on how to get around Ireland by car to better explain how this went, but suffice to say we lost a day and many hours to this drive.

Take it in parts if you must, trade with your other driver if you can legally, and get some soft serve at the midway point, just for your own sanity.

Side note - Northern Ireland stinks! No, just kidding, but we did happen to visit during the one month out of the year they are allowed to harvest animal dung. We had some very stinky drives because of that.

Kilmail Country Chalet - ***

The country chalet is hidden away off a main road inbetween a few nearby towns and, as advertised, is centrally located to most of the main coastal sights. You can stay one day over in this area and trust yourself to the owners. We took their advice several times and even pegged on a sight at the end of the trip that really tied everything up perfectly.

Portrush - **

Cute little town that we stopped in for dinner. A big pain in the butt at dinner time though! Most of the places had more then a forty-five minute wait. We ended up finding a nice restaurant on the second floor of a theatre that had some good food.

Giant’s Causeway — ***

We took the advice of our hosts and checked out Giant’s Causeway that night. The causeway is a natural phenomenon created by volcanic activity off the northern coast creating several huge clusters of stone pillars you can climb on and take pictures from.

There's also a cultural center at the top of the path that leads down to the causeway. While we were there it was closed but it looked very modern and sleek and I'm sure there's a ton of information there. We would normally had to pay for parking but there was no one there for it besides two guys who were clearly employees but couldn't be arsed to have us pay since they were on their way out. Hey, I'm not complaining!
 A friendly tip though: the big clusters of yellow flowers are called Ragwort which happens to be poisonous.

Do not try this at home, Vikings only

So unless your significant other is like a viking or something, and they find the flowers haunting the area to be cool and wants you to pick some, you may want to inform them that those flowers are toxic. (Seriously though, you can’t really hurt yourself with these unless you’re eating them fairly regularly. But I think I’d play the straight man on this one)

Ireland Wednesday August 8th - Kinvara

Galway - **

Galway was a chill town with an active medieval quarter we wanted to check out along the way. We had planned for a little time to putz around and check out the shops in the area. I know Janet got her money’s worth in slammin’ dresses and there was a pretty cool Army Surplus store in the area. The quarter got pretty busy with performers and I think a major Irish (euro) soccer team was there kicking a ball around and taking pictures.
Parking was a bit of a nightmare and at one point between arrival and lunch I had to run back to the car to move it and put more time in. It’s a pretty busy place and if you’re not there early or at the right time, I’m not sure how you’d really find parking.
All around there were kids and adults setting up with instruments and singing. Once of the nicest places to eat turned out to be here. There was a small bistro at one end of the quarter where a young girl had set up shop across the street. We picked out this restaurant because the menu sounded good and it was a beautiful day.
We spent probably a good two hours there, listening to traditional irish folk music from a variety of instruments (she cycled through bagpipes and a flute). Sitting in the open-air restaurant and reading a book on the Kindle turned out to be one of my clearest memories of my time there.

Knappogue Castle Banquet - ***

To start the experience you drive in from an entrance far from the castle to a verdant green lawn lined with trees. Your first glimpse of the castle through the trees and the grounds are beautiful, I remember turning to the girlfriend and flashing her a shit-eating grin, proud of my ingenuity in finding the site. Once you’re squared away and parked you get to tour the gardens right outside of the castle. There’s also a separate garden you can check out early on any night the banquet is open so I’d suggest getting there early to check it out, we were told only good things.
Unfortunately we missed the other garden because we got there late but I had a great time just taking pictures outside and checking out the area. We were decked out for the experience in our Sunday bests (Janet wore one of the dresses she got in Galway and I had on the best sweater in existence).
We were ushered into a small room shared by every other tourist in County Galway. The show begins in this first room where you’re handed a complimentary cup of mead and given a little time to talk. We had a great time chatting about the Cliffs which we had so recently conquered and hearing about all the other things the people around us had been doing. They opened up with a choral piece about the show and the castle then moved us on to the main banquet room.
The food was delicious and they keep you placated with a never-ending supply of red or white wine for the duration of your visit. Throughout the meal right as you get tired of talking with people they start the show which involved more singing, dancing and folklore. Janet and I agreed that though the show bordered on goofy sometimes, it was fun overall. I liked it enough that I’d trust Shannon Heritage sites with a night of my vacation again.

Unfortunately at Knappogue we also had our car hit by someone. We didn’t catch them and had to call the Gardai to get a police report. They were prompt despite the obvious fact that we were tourists, did the normal ‘ask them questions to see how drunk they are’ thing and were generally pleasant. The Gardai get ***!

Ireland Tuesday August 7th - Kinvara

Cliffs of Moher - ***

 

Wow. Just, go. The parking is what costs you at the cliffs, the area is tastefully developed with a few artisan shops in the entrance area and a small cafe/cultural center a little beyond it for the hungry tourist. All along the developed tourist area are small points you can peer over the edge of the cliff and get some cute pictures.
There’s also a small lookout tower there up the steps that gives a great view of the tourist area and Atlantic Ocean. I’ve heard that they’ve had some difficulty with invasions in that area of the Irish Viking variety.
You’ll know the edge of the tourist area when you find a series of ‘No Trespassing’ signs, others begging people to ‘Seek Help’, and ‘Unstable Cliff Edge’ warnings. After all, it’s trespassing, and illegal, and no one I know would ever ever do something as foolhardy and dangerous as the 5.4 mile cliffs hike to the old quarry and further past that to the ancient stone lookout tower with the rotted out floors and crumbling edges on the dirt path that comes within an inch of plummeting, horrifying death. No one at all.

Unfortunately I’ll just have to use these pictures from someone who totally isn’t me that did the hike, sat down at the stone tower, ate an orange with his girlfriend Janet, then walked back along the path again. This guy probably dawdled in the quarry area with the visitor-made stone piles and added a few of his own before continuing along the cliff edge taking pictures and generally making a mockery of his own fear of heights.
So I definitely think the guy who did that hike would advise anyone interested in doing it to only do so in extremely good conditions, probably for them to leave in the morning on a day with a good weather forecast. The day he went he probably got back just in time for an incredible downpour to start which is just like the day before when he tried to get in later in the day. And he’d probably say if you’re planning to hike the cliffs to grab something from the cafe before you leave, but I know you would never consider something so foolhardy.

Ailwee Cave - **

(I am not cut out for cave pictures! Boo!)

This little cave was discovered in 1944 but remained the secret of it’s discoverer for nearly 30 years until 1973. It was developed from there into a small but intimate tour with a small gift shop in the area of several minor attractions on the way to/from the Cliffs. If you’re curious and you want to check it out I say go for it, but you’re not really missing anything if you don’t.

M'asal Beag Dubh Ba Restaurant, Round 2 - ***
Main Street, Kinvara, Co. Galway

Just delicious. Their pizza was awesome and we sat for more Olympic coverage.

Dungaire Castle - ***

Dungaire Castle often runs castle banquets but we were already signed up for one way in advance so we skipped over this aspect, but I’m sure it would have been a great experience. Instead, after a beer and some delicious food, we stopped off at the nearby parking lot and hoofed it over to the castle while stalking some teens. We walked the grounds around the castle and just appreciated the architecture of it, wishing we had a bit more time to really enjoy it.

RAM 10 page excerpt

A Cold Day in Sanctum

The Sanctum is cold.

Men before me would describe the air as biting, say that it sapped your energy making you dull and less impulsive. The streets are largely empty of activity. The walk is lonely even when there are others to share it.

I pull my flat cap down over my eyebrows to spare my face some of the Siberian routine, flip the collar of my pea-coat then force my hands deep into the woolen pockets. These are the things I do to keep warm, or at least the things I do to assure myself that I am doing all I can.

I glance back and see a woman behind me, her cloche hat low and long scarf wafting in the wind. I feel a sort of camaraderie with the lady; we each cut through the icy drafts to make sure our station would remain functioning throughout the endless winter. Section 8 would not be the station that fails. We should have been a team but are just two strangers fighting climate wrapped in composite thread and apathy.

I turn to get a better look at her; long blonde hair tucked in to her jacket, a pale hand clutches the lapels together. She wears long woolen pants and her legs move like engine pistons, tap-tap-taps on the pavement.

I trudge on, the buildings I pass uniform, just one level stacked upon another several stories tall. It seems even the designers themselves wanted no emotion evoked from the study of their craftsmanship.

I could be a Sanctum Architect. Place red brick across a lot. Cement it. Brick and mortar stairway to a pale blue door (the dullness of primer). Two windows per level, spaced out equally. Separate the ceiling and floor with a small ledge, not large enough to stand on. Drop a flat roof on it.

There's an abandoned play park in front of the facade, full of rusting metal hanging rails. The paint is dirty, chipped and molting. I turn to comment on it to the cloche, think better. On occasion I think too much, not thoughts of great import but just the peculiar kind that you hear rather than experience; and for it I feel a wash of guilt.

A bright yellow bell flower clings to life in the cracked asphalt ahead. It pleases me to consider that even here nature might find a way. It gives me hope that somewhere flowers bloom.

Movement from the alley. I already know what it is, but I look anyway.

They are standing just inside, staring out at us with vacant eyes. They wear what they can forage, pale blue jumpsuits from the station shredded and sewn to sate their urge for creativity. A mismatch, a riot of fabric and many colored dyes.

A girl at the front has a tattoo of a tiger across her right cheek, its fangs bared and hovering over her eye while its front paws rested on her upper lip. Almond eyes and skin tone and small in stature, with long black hair tied in a ponytail. She has a club.

A young man stands behind her. Gauges in each ear lobe stretch them to a thumb's width. Spikes stick out the thin bridge of his nose and he has short blonde hair. Tattooed down the length of his throat are black plates like body armor. He holds a chain.

The last boy is the shortest with dark skin and hair. He is a little wide for a punk, but dressed and punctured all the same. His dark eyes smolder, and tattooed across his forehead are characters of a forgotten tongue in white. He has his hands tucked into the shredded jumpsuit but I can still see the jagged frame of brass knuckles.

My heart races. Punks. They watch me walk, watch me watching them. Evaluating. Deciding. The blonde sneers.

“Run!” I yell.

Flooded with adrenaline I pound the pavement. Buildings rush past me, empty alleys between, but I don't hear anyone else. My lungs burn and muscles turn to steel cable, but still I run; each breath is fire, each step pain.

Then I'm doubled over and panting. I make it most of a city block before realizing the girl isn't with me. The chain rattles in the distance.

I look back and see the punks moving in like a pincer, engulfing her in shadow. She makes a desperate noise as she limps away from them, the injured fawn snapped at by hyenas.

I'm running back. Why am I running back? Why does it feel wrong to abandon her? A question every step. Everyone moves in slow motion and I feel each moment pass me as I undo my escape. They surround her more, she's inching toward being consumed. I have to save her, I have to do something.

They see I'm returning then stop and focus on me, the chain swings uncertainly.

“Run!” the cloche pleads.

I stop beside her. “Get to the station.”

“Better listen to her chav,” growls the blonde with the black metal plate tattoos.

The cloche grabs my arm and only wastes a second trying to pull me along, the punks gather their wits and stalk towards me. I scan for anything that could be used as a weapon. Nothing. And nowhere for me to run without putting the girl back on the chopping block.

They are scavengers and move cautiously. The blonde walks straight on, the girl to my left and the dark boy to my right. I'm in their pincers, and the chain is whirling.

I have never fought anyone in my life. With fists raised, it all comes down to this, surrounded by detritus and violent outcasts.

“Come on,” the girl taunts in a high voice, “hero!”

I feint at the blonde and all three take a step back. “Piss off you brats!”

They've almost surrounded me now, and when they have they'll regain their confidence.

My heart thumps.

A bead of sweat drips down my forehead.

Now!

I rush the blonde and punch as the chain lashes my arm. An elbow across the girl's chin, but where's the-

My rib shudders

“Feel that chav!”

I double over, choking down gulps of air, then throw a haymaker into brass knuckle's gullet. He collapses, clutching at his windpipe, the blonde sprawled behind him.

The girl-

The club strikes my back and I collapse.

“Fucking hero!” Then giggles.

I'm turned on to my back and feel a seizure of pain. All sound fades into a low hum. My vision focuses and the dark boy stands over me massaging his throat, smirking. He straddles me, then raises his fist.

“I'm gonna enjoy this, chav.”

The first punch lands directly in my cheek.

The second glances off my forehead.

The third does not come. There's a scream but it's distant and quiet, then another voice joins.

My cheek feels swollen and I gingerly touch my face; the skin is pulped and covered in blood. I wipe the humor from my eye and turn to the source of the noise.

The blonde has the chain wrapped around the dark boy's neck and he's pulled it so tight that the others back is grotesquely arched. The girl has her arms wrapped around the blonde's chest while she sobs and screams. There's spittle on his lip and he's baring his teeth in a twisted smile, pulling a one black plate edge over the crest of his chin.

His eye swollen shut, I meet his stare. We hold the gaze for an interminable length then he drops the chain, still staring. Eyes on me, he drags the dark boy away as the girl pleads with him.

Then it is the street and I for a time, the usually silent building faces howl as the wind whips between them. A bitter zephyr dances between the walls and flows over me, warmth wicks away and my senses dull. In this moment, it spares me some pain.

The familiar sound of helicopter blades reach my ears and I shakily crane my neck. A round, rotored metal Eye camera floats over the street; a ball of metal suspended between two hoops of banded steel. It rolls implacably fast and bobs wildly before zeroing in and approaching me. It hovers there and stares – if you can call it that – with perverted solemnity.

I lay on the ground feeling the creeping pangs of agony wash over me as the wind chills my bones. The Eye, apparently satisfied that I would not be moving, leaves me to myself after a minute's long consideration.

Finally, some peace.

I'm drawn back to consciousness by the sound of the segmented Protector boots meeting concrete, like momentary chatterings of metal teeth.

I look toward them through slits, the Protectors dark blue metallic armor draws light into it. Cut like muscle contours, the torso flows into the hardened metal legs and arms. They carry comically oversized jet black GT1120 assault rifles, safety always off.

My chest shakes along with my heart, but I stay on the ground and hope for empathy. The sound of static follows a gravelly growl. “`Are you awake?”

Ironic question. With great effort, I reach a hand in to the air.

“Collect him,” the Protector says.

Two Protectors walk to either side and lift me off the ground. Pooled blood runs down my forehead and drips from my brow to the street below. I feel like I've been run over by a truck and it's all I can do not to cry out in pain. They carry me over to the captain who produces a small machine that blinks bright lights in my face then dings.

“Hmm. You're supposed to be at Section 8 monitoring station. What happened?”

“Punk attack.”

“Did they take anything?”

“I... didn't check.”

“Why didn't you run?”

“What?”

“According to your physical profile you could have outrun them. Why not?”

It was a good question, one I had no answer to. The only thing that's understood here is self-preservation, and I wasn't sure what motivated the return. I remain silent with my head hung.

“Bring him to the Station.”

It's warm. I look up, we're inside the monitoring station. I must have passed out during the trip. The foyer is decrepit and dirty, covered in torn posters exalting the Sanctum. Everything is tan with brown trim except for grated metal security doors that block access to the upper floors. Before us are two steel portals and the Protector swings the doors open.

The security checkpoint's walls are covered in embossed metal criss-crossed with raised scars, the halogen bulbs and white marble floors make the blood dripping from my face a bright crimson. On the left side recess sits three monitors behind a protected desk, all staring at me with wide eyes and while whispering amongst themselves.

The Protectors wave a security badge at the checkpoint reader and one of the monitors makes a slight movement, the door buzzes and they continue through.

The marble transitions into riveted metal plates and catwalks. The room has opened up into an expansive suspended open floor, a series of floating administrator/observational units above us accessible from a stair on the right. Near the top of the building are a series of skylights and windows set into a vertical section of ceiling, casting the main area in dull light.

Machine cases rumble on the lower ground floor, each the size of a train car and covered in the industrial grease/dust mixture that's created over years of maintenance. Not many monitors get mechanic duty among the machine casings, so the one access to the lower floor is set off to the opposite side of the administrator stair.

I groan as the warmth that welcomed me to the building eats away at the numbness that makes my injuries tolerable. The monitoring stations branch off around the periphery of the cavernous room, small platforms haloed by brown metal railings, a single console at the rear of each. I can see my station looming, empty.

They throw me against my console and I cling to it, pain wracking every fiber. I can see a needle in the red and reach out to make an adjustment-

My stomach convulses, I vomit at my feet and nearly collapse. They struck me.

“Stand,” one commands.

I hold the console and slowly drag myself up until I'm perched upon it, the pain unbearable. I try not to shake as they crowd around me, breath raspy with artificial taint.

“You have a job to do citizen.”

I look over at the panel, only able to see one gauge at a time. There's another indicator in the red and I try to adjust it, miss the switch one... two... three times. I hear the rubberized glove tighten on the rifle just as I manage to hit the switch.

“Carry on.”

They do not care what state I am in, nor should they; Protectors are apathetic as any of us. The only difference is that it is their job to keep things running smoothly as much as it is my job to monitor these machines. Just jobs and identities, one monster. Another wave of nausea overtakes me, I lean on my damaged arm and it collapses.

I'm falling but then there's arms wrapped around my chest. A soft voice whispers in my ear, “I can't hold you up, you need to help!”

I grab the console and pull, slowly rising.

“Are you okay?”

I shudder, the feeling of knives in my spine. “No.”

“Why did you do that?”

“What?”

“Why didn't you run?”

I turn and see the cloche, now cloche-less, holding me. Her eyes are the most striking pattern of green and blue I've ever seen, her face is soft and pale, her lips full and red. Perfectly straight blonde hair falls to her shoulders.

“Unask the question.”

“You can't work like this”

“I have to. Why do you care?”

“I... you saved me from those punks. I owe you.”

Rotten nonsense. “Do your job and we'll call it even. You should get to your station before something goes wrong.”

“I only need to press those buttons once in a while, you know that. I checked everything before I came over.”

“How did you know where I'm stationed?”

“I've seen you walking here before. I was going to talk to you this morning. You seemed... like you were in a hurry.”

“I was late meeting some punks for a fist fight.”

She stays quiet for a few seconds. I can feel her arms around my rib cage, supporting me as I breath shallowly. “I... I'm... sorry. I'll go,” she mutters, releasing me.

“No, wait,” I start, but I can't hold myself up and slump over the console. The sound of her shoes striking the catwalk echoes lightly as she walks away then abruptly stops. I look to see what stalled her.

She has not stopped suddenly without reason, there was nothing stopping her from going further. In fact, she had merely reached the end of her journey. The station right next to mine.

The girl whose name and face I did not know, the relative stranger I'd risked my life for, was practically my cube-mate. She had neither hunted nor trekked to find me; we were strangers in a three-meter bubble, I ignorant of her entirely. She was right there, every day? My stand against the punks had crossed a chasm of indifference. Now a person three meters away, one I never noticed, had real concern.

I'd crushed it, damning her with my aggravation.

This is not normally one of my concerns. It is not of us to invest in relationships to one-another. Yet I feel... regret.

“I'm sorry,” I push myself up until I am leaning heavily on the console. “I'm in a lot of pain.”

She half-turns towards me with a look of surprise as her hands glide across the console to the edge of the railing and grips it with pale fingers. “Do you want help?”

There's a tingling sensation on the nape of my neck, and I nod.

Her teeth sparkle in the dull room, hands come together. “I'll be right back once I've checked everything.”

I watch her as she operates the panel and double-checks the console. Time passes slowly then, the throbbing pain radiates in my back and arm. If only the wind would chill me again, but then the girl comes and is standing beside me, and her warmth is more inviting.