- III -

* * * * *
         "They're calling all the shots, they'll call and say they phoned, they'll call us lonely when we're really just alone, like a funny film it's kinda cute, they bought the bullets but there's no one left to shoot-"
         With a click that can clearly be heard over the humming thunder of the road, Brown shuts the radio off. "Hell, silence was better," he mutters, sitting back and jerking his seatbelt forward a little to loosen it. He feels slightly constrained in this car for some reason, he wants to be outside, has this mad desire to be sitting on the roof, arms thrown wide, feeling the air rushing through his hair, racing through him. Fighting time, fighting the speed of life. Not that it touches him. Not anymore.
         "You've got to learn to tune this stuff out," Tristian says to him, not taking his eyes off the road. It's dark and late now, as it tends to get and with the windows shut the other cars are silent and black humps sliding along the road. The opposing traffic are brightly light glowworms, joining together in a line to make a brilliantly dazzling snake, edging its way along the pavement to some unknown destination. "Else you'll just drive yourself crazy changing stations."
         Brown stares out the window for a second, leaning his head on his elbow on the window, watching the trees crawl past. "Nah, you need the right kind of music for night driving, you know? Just the right kind." He looks over at Tristian. "But only if you're driving alone. If you have someone with you, they always talk and ruin the mood." He glances at Tristian carefully to see if he appreciates the irony, but no response really seems to be forthcoming. Tristian makes him wonder and makes him worry. Some days they get along so well and some days Tristian acts a million miles away.
         Perhaps if they talk about common ground. That might do it.
         "Any special guests coming tonight?" Brown asks, keeping his tone innocent.
         "Guests?" Tristian gives a shrug. He seems to have patented that motion, made it his own. "I don't know, I didn't make out the invitations, the people who are normally there, I guess. And people that get dragged there by friends."
         "Like me," Brown replies wryly. His face turns somewhat serious. "That's not what I really meant though, I meant your other friends. You know. Are they planning on dropping in?"
         Tristian makes a face, taking a second to look at Brown. "I sure hope not, but I don't even think they're around." Something about the question is making him tense, Brown can tell, his arms are tight cables directing the wheel, hydraulics pumping and pushing, muscles jumping like live wires. He gives a small cracked laugh. "It's the last thing I need though. That would just make the night perfect." There clearly is something not saying, there are words piling up against a dam in his throat. Something he wants to blurt out.
         Brown thinks he know what it is, but he's not sure how to say it. Not sure if he wants to say it. The car is uncomfortably warm for him all of a sudden, stifling. Why can't Tristian ever make anything easy? But then he realizes that he's not being fair, there are a lot of things that Tristian no longer has any control over. While Brown's present and future remain open and free, he can imagine Tristian feels increasingly crushed by a past that has a physical shadow. He goes to turn the heat down but finds that it's not even on. God.
         "You . . . you heard about the restaurant, I take it," Tristian says suddenly, his voice quiet, soft almost casual. Like it was just some small incident, talking about how someone once spilled a glass of water and oh wasn't that so funny.
         "I did," Brown replies simply, staring straight ahead. Right now he has to force himself to get into a party mood. It's like he's in the car with two other people now and the heat is giving way to a wary, weary chill.
         "Just my luck, right?" Tristian says, smiling self consciously. "I mean . . ." and his words are rushing out, the obstacles cast away without regard, "I mean, how the hell was I supposed to know something like that was going to happen. I just . . . I thought that it'd just be a normal night, nothing out of the ordinary would occur and nobody would be the wiser." That jagged laugh again, sounding almost scary. Tristian is rushing somewhere lonely and absurd very fast, with the brakes gone. Brown wants to reach out and stop him, but he can't, he doesn't know how. "And now," and Tristian suddenly seems very small and his voice very far away, bad reception from a broken station, "now everything is different."
         "What did you tell them?" Brown asks softly, feeling more of a prod than anything else.
         "The truth, of course. What the hell else could I do?" Tristian has a desperate tone to his voice, a man backed into a corner by a situation out of his control and still finding himself forced farther into the wall. "He teleported them all back to their goddamn houses, Joe. You can't convince people they imagined something like that."
         "No. No you can't, I guess," Brown notes, rather stupidly. Nothing like that has ever happened to him, he's not sure what he can say, how he can even respond. What they must think of Tristian now, he has no conception, he has no idea.
         Tristian chuckles suddenly, a deep, more sincere sound than Brown has heard in a while. Must be something funny. Tristian glances over at Brown again and then turns back to the road, saying, "Want to hear something hysterical, Joe? You know what they told me, after they got back, you know, after it was all over." Without waiting for an answer or confirmation, he plunges on, "They said, they said that it was better that I wasn't there, because I probably would have killed the guy because I wouldn't have known what else to do."
         Brown has to smile at that. "Geez, they don't give you a lot of credit, do they?" He leans back deeper into the seat, feeling the atmosphere dissipating somewhat. They're going to a party tonight. He feels himself getting into the mood again, the spirit.
         Then Tristian has to go and ruin it again. "I mean, Joe, my God, I've never killed anyone before. Not a person, I mean, just, you know, aliens and I hated doing that." He seems to shudder in the fluctuating darkness. "To kill someone with the sword, I can't imagine ever doing that. I really can't."
         "I wouldn't worry about it," Brown responds, injecting cheer into his voice. Party party party, he keeps reminding himself. He claps the other man light on the shoulder, "Come on, pal, don't worry about any of that tonight. Forget about it for just one night and just enjoy yourself. Have a drink, relax, leave it all behind for once."
         Tristian seems to consider this. "Yeah, that's a good idea, Joe. I should really try that for once. Just forget. You know? Just forget it all for one night. I like that." He settles back a bit himself, and Brown hopes that his words have eased Tristian's mood a bit. It's not easy, he knows, Tristian can never escape what he is, while Brown's is just a job, granted a job with lots of perks and responsibilities, but it's still something he can just step out of and do normal things. What Tristian is, it colors his entire life, every step and every motion, every time he takes a breath in, their shadow is there, glittering, golden. If you know what to look for, you can see it. He's not sure he wants to though. Leave it all behind. Forget. Just for once goddamn night.
         "I'm glad you came along," Tristian says suddenly, somewhat fiercely. Brown is slightly taken aback by the emotion lurking behind this. "Really, I am. These last few months, it's been so strange and you're . . . you're really the only person I can talk to about any of this. Really. No one else understands, they don't even want to try." There's a longing and a pleading in Tristian's voice.
         Brown can understand that. There are times when his job makes him want to run shrieking into some hole and hide there forever. Some things he's seen are more beautiful than words can convey and some were of a type of horror that would make him vomit his entire day's worth of meals were he confronted with them right this moment. Good days and bad. It all depended.
         "Hey, that's what friends are for," Brown replies, a bit lamely he realizes but he knows that'll be good enough for Tristian and the sentiment was real enough besides. That's all that really matters in the end, when you come down to it. How much you really mean it. Then it doesn't matter how you say it or how you show it, as long as you try. He's come to realize that, but he thinks Tristian still has a long way to go in that respect.
         Tristian apparently can't think of anything to say to this, or whatever emotions are churning inside of him he's too busy fighting to say anything. Brown finds himself wondering if Tristian will be able to handle the party, if anything will help him somehow relieve the constant pressure he appears to be putting himself under. Anything at all. There's just silence in the car now, dark silence strobed by the flashes of carlights passing them. Shapes of cars slithering past, hunched figures behind the wheels, all the same shape, all the same outline. Eternally passing each other, never realizing who the other is. Brown used to sit in cars and wonder that, wondered how many other people you would know if you somehow managed to connect with them as you drove along, infiltrated their lives for that brief second of contact. More people than he'd ever know in his entire life. More than he'd want to know, frankly.
         A tickling thought calls for his attention and he feels that he has to say something. Anything to break this mundane velvet silence. Tristian has withdrawn deeper into his quiet, perhaps embarrassed by his display of vulnerable emotion, but Brown still has to talk, if only to hear his own voice.
         "Heh . . . you want to know something really funny? I think you'll like this."
         "Hm?" Tristian asks, his voice far away, as if being roused from some deep sleep. He seems to shake himself, and Brown thinks he really was asleep. Part of him wonders how Tristian was driving the car, if at all and then he stops that line of questioning before it gets too far. "Oh. What?"
         "Well you know how now I . . . regenerate and all that, and so when I first got it, it was hard to get used to." He rolls his eyes back and stretches in the seat, remembering. "I mean, the first time I died . . ." he shivers a little but then wisely decides not to say anything further on that subject. More cheerfully, he adds, "But I thought about, you know, the usual things that a single guy in his early twenties thinks about. And what those things might do to me, now that I was . . . different."
         "I don't even want to know," Tristian says, smiling a little. Perhaps he's heard this story, Brown can never remember who he tells these things to, but it's still amusing. Things you never think about.
         "That's right, the old demon rum and tobacco," Brown continues with a laugh. "I never really smoked when I was in school but I figured, hell, might as well find out. So on my first leave I stopped in this town and got a entire carton of cigarettes . . . and smoked the whole goddamned set."
         "Get the hell out of here," Tristian exclaims, almost letting go of the wheel to stare at Brown. "What the hell made you do that? What the hell were you thinking?"
         It's something in Tristian's voice that makes Brown laugh. It's the old reckless laugh, the one buried in memory now, of days when you could things without worrying about the consequences, when only the thrill and the rush meant anything. Now look at them, they've grown up, they've got jobs, as strange as they are. Responsibilities. It's all different now. But he can still hear echoes in his laughter and it reminds him of times past.
         "Oh, it was one of my first furloughs after I joined, and I was still trying to get used to it all, just trying to take it all in. So I have this entire carton of cigarettes, and here I am, having never really smoked a day in my life and . . ." he always pauses for a brief second in this part of the story, drawing out the climax, savoring the anticipation of the listener, waiting to deliver the impact, "smoked every last one in about two hours."
         "What . . . what . . . I . . ." Tristian, perhaps realizing that is starting to sound a bit repetitious, stops talking completely and just shakes his head, grinning. "You're a nut, you know that."
         "I was young and foolish," Brown quips, crossing his arms behind his head and leaning back.
         "Every last cigarette?"
         "Right down to the filter, my friend."
         "What . . . what the hell did that do to you?"
         "Hurt like hell, trust me on this. My throat felt like it was on fire. I started out lighting each one but by the end I was chain smoking them, my fingers and hands were covered in burns, my head was spinning like God had taken his hand and decided to cast me in the heavenly remake of the Exorcist. I must have vomited four or five times but I lost count after a while." He shook his head. "When I passed out, finally, I had come to the conclusions that this wasn't one of my finer moments."
         "I'll say."
         "Yeah, well, live and learn. I woke up the next day, or hours later, or something, I'm not even sure, and I drove myself to the nearest hospital and had them give me a chest x-ray, everything."
         "Nothing, I take it."
         "Nothing whatsoever. My lungs were as clear as the day I was born. Nothing at all to indicate that I had basically spent the last day deliberately setting them on fire. Certainly confused the doctors, who weren't sure what the hell I was there for." He grins and leans forward on the dashboard, shaking his head. The streetlights keep catching the outline of his head, tracing the contours of his face. Scanning. The droning hum of the highway is the perfect soundtrack to his words. Treads on road. Going over the same patch of tire over and over. "I was in a definite daze when I left the place, let me tell you. It wasn't until I got back to the hotel room and saw all those cigarettes and burnt out matches all over the floor that I realized that I wasn't in some weird dream." His smile, which has been creasing his face, fades. "It was real."
         Tristian gives a short laugh, more somber than anything else. "I still have that problem."
         "You're still new at all this, it'll get better in time," Brown tells him, hoping that he sounds reassuring. But really how do you reassure someone about something like this, when everyone you know is staring at you like you've grown another head that is spouting prophecies out the wazoo, when everything you know has suddenly been cast into a deeper, harsher light. When you're not even sure what you know about anything anymore. Brown's been there, to some extent and seeing someone else going through it isn't pleasant.
         "What about the other demon?" Tristian asks, suddenly, almost playfully. Brown figures that interest in a good sign, even if it is at the small cost of some of his dignity. Ah well, like the man says, live and learn. Learn and live.
         "Ah, alcohol," Brown sighs. "That's a whole different case altogether, I'm afraid."
         "Oh? How so?"
         "Well," Brown says, easing into the sentence, "it appears that I can't get drunk. Not easily, at least." He gives a quiet, almost reflective laugh. They've come so far, it seems and the world just keeps turning relentlessly. "I wasted a lot of pay learning that little lesson. Apparently I metabolize the stuff quickly, I have to really knock it back to have any sort of real effect." He grins at Tristian, teeth shining in the dark, the night turning his eyes into bright canyons, "Not that I still don't enjoy the occasional glass, mind you."
         "I'll bet," Tristian replies. At some point they've turned off the exit, Brown can't remember the point when they did so, but he imagines that Tristian knows what he is doing. The two of them are just sitting there now, lost in whatever thoughts they might choose to think. Brown chooses to stare out the window, watching the flickering patches of trees and sky, playing with each other, seeming to vie for the same portion of air. An almost peaceful feeling settles over him, and he's not sure why he feels that way. There's nothing special about this time, he's merely riding in a car at night, down the highway, silent and grey.
         It's the moment, he figures. His life has been filled with nothing but conflict and action lately, shifting from one confrontation to resolution and back to confrontation again with no pause in the proceedings, no time at all, an ironic comment considering his position. It's the silent moments that make up a life, he thinks to himself. The times when you can just sit and ponder and muse and perhaps come up with answers and probably wind up with more questions. Questions. Answers. It's all the same in the end, just different paths to the same place. You need both to get anywhere, but when you have both, what's the point in continuing.
         He suddenly turns slightly to stare at Tristian, seeing the tight set of his jaw, the grim posture, flush against the seat, and feels a stabbing shock of fear for his friend, a helpless irrational sensation. In some moments, all the pieces that have been floating in the air suddenly drop with severe gravity right into place and the fog on the road clears before you. The moments that you wind up hating the most.
         Light plays over Tristian, softly, probing, aging him right before Brown's eyes, poking into wrinkles, working in cracks, dimming the eyesight, stiffening the muscles, dulling the senses. It's happening right there in front of him. In that sudden grasping second that clutches right into his chest, he realizes what he's been trying to deny all along, what he'll now attempt to drown and forget for just one night.
         They're all moving, sliding running away from me, he thinks. Something is stinging into his eyes and he wants the horrible thought to end but he can't make it go away. Moving far away and I'm just here, standing still.
         They'll reach the end. One day. And I won't. I'll never reach it. Not anymore.
         And in the dark he finds he can't breathe and he gasps something out, wanting to cry, remembering the innocence rending moment, the inevitable one where you realize that one day you're going to die.
         Everyone.
         But him.
         "Joe? Are you all right?" Tristian asks suddenly, his voice full of concern. Just like him, to be like that. To be like that when he has no right, no goddamn right to be like that.
         "I'm just great," Brown forces out finally, his voice a harsh ghost, separate from his body, pulling his emotions back together, thrusting his thoughts behind him and managing to keep it all from spinning out of control. "Why wouldn't I be great? We're going to a party, right?" His voice sounds too reasoned, too forceful but he doesn't care. Just for one night he's not going to care. He's going to take it all in and store it away and remember it for them. For the rest of their lives.
         "But what's this," Brown says, leaning forward, his face all cheer, his eyes a haunted echo, "we don't sound like we're going to a party." Impulsively, he grabs the radio dial and cranks it on, turning it up until it sweeps away everything else.
         "All I need is a TV show, that and the radio, down on my luck again, down on my luck again, I can show you, I can show you, some of the people in my life . . ."
         And by the second, ragged chorus they're both joining in, singing along. Because it's there. Because they can. Because, in the end, there's no reason not to do anything else.
         "It's driving me mad, it's just another way of passing the day . . ."