The Pillow Talk Revisited (Martin)

Hi shovel was broken.

The wooden handle had simply given up resisting the force applied to it and snapped into two halves with dangerously sharp (and quite splintery) edges that threatened to penetrate even his gloves.

There was nothing that would last, was there?

So Martin had, in lieu of other choices, gone shovel-shopping. At a supermarket. Filled with people. Why at a supermarket? Because... it was the closest spot to get them. And there were people there. Not a good point. Of course he could have gone to a hardware store, but that would have necessitated driving a car. A thing that he still shunned after his last experience. No driving anytime soon. These vile small things really needed to get save for carrying passengers first. Quite like ships. They too had taken their time before being really safe. And they had been quite safe a thousand years ago already.

Cars were different. The people had won. By a big margin.

But that was another matter.

He needed a shovel, but what he found, besides many families with little kids, instead was white and fluffy. Cream colored and down filled. Promising good nights and days on bright covers. There were pillows. Instead of shovels, he was in the pillow department. And eyes at the displayed goods with practiced disinterest. That was, until they started, perhaps directed by some youth beyond his sight, attacking him, flinging their white bodies at him with great force and in somewhat significant numbers.

It was time to find the shovel.

It really was.

And he pushed the pillows away. Flung them. Just get out of here?

There was laughter. Signs of amusement passed through the air like a telegraph. Just faster. And a little more direct. You could rip a telegraph in many little pieces. Burn it. Drown it. You could not do so with laughter. Honestly there was no reason to if you could simply... His eyes scanned through the falling masses of pillows and found the culprit that had induced this rather fluffy experience of his. (He shoved a pillow from his face first. Harshly.) And he found it to be... a little child. So no ripping then. Just a stern look to the mother who was already quite busy mumbling apologies to him and turning that wonderful shade of cochineal red that people payed money for to have their clothes died in. Now the womans clothes were quite modestly colored. But her face left quite a different impression as she turned away and the child had the guts... well children at these ages already had a gut at least... to wave at him happily.

Martins face was quite blank. Emotion: Missing. He just wanted to get a spade after all. Please. Just a spade.

He felt a little tired. Why had such things only happen to some timemancer and not to some young kid that would enjoy the experience of being buried in pillows?

A little sigh escaped his lips as he proceeded to make his way out of the pillowy mess. One or two mus have lost confinement too. There was stuffing on him. Not on his face though. Hopefully not on his face. He wiped it with a gloved hand carefully. On his clothes there were feathers. He did not mind them. He looked feathered. Not important.

And then there was the little boy. He was quite sure he had seen him around in school. Or maybe a boy similar to him. They all looked so similar. And it spoke to him. So, let’s have your professional opinion. As a man who was just struck by all these wonderful brands and stuffing types, which would you purchase? I was... a little overwhelmed by the selection.” Martin calmly proceeded to pluck a little round woolen something off his chest, before his steel blue eyes were focused at the little boy. They, those windows to the soul, were normally aptly named, but here was a distance in them. Something to be overcome? Something that changed. A mask maybe. The late teenagers voice was tinged by an accent of Germanic origin, though the exact country might put people at a loss at his stage of assimilation. Just a spade please? “Good day to you. I fear though that I will not be of great help here. The selection was.... too broad.” Through his pointed language one might discern the little dart of irony he had fired at the child that had left in her mothers car. A small one at that.

The steel blue jewels though, scanned again and the body bent down to retrieve one of the many fallen ones. Any one really to toss it at the boy. “This one might be....” He trailed off. A little too strong of a toss maybe?

The youth caught the pillow. Quite well actually. Until he dropped it. Like it was unpleasant. It had felt quite fluffy in his hands. And he was somewhat certain that he had not changed into a Medusa by accident. So the question was begging to be answered what was wrong with this young boy. A very big question. Especially since he very much recognized a little disturbing fact in his eyes.

Something shining on him like his own face in a mirror.

And he called him liar. In a very polite way nonetheless. Martin did not mind being called a liar. That was what he was after all. But the other part was somewhat unnerving. Those eyes.

He raised an eyebrow.

And he looked at the youth with a face inclined slightly to the right. It was a little shift in perspective. He needed a shift in perspective. Though it revealed nothing at all. Nothing he did not know already that was.

He labeled the child. Labeled it in a way he thought fitting very much, one of the many different drawers to put people in. This one read “Brat” in thick letters. Bold letters. Fracture type. It was filled with quite few names. He was not easily offended after all. It was a bad thing for a spy. A very bad thing.

At the mention of the Mansion the eyebrow fell as if it was tired, slowly going to rest, as his neck was returning his head to its original, natural position. Straightening it up again, stiffly standing there, back straight, he answered the question in words that were formed replacing a smile that had been creeping up on his face as it moved, as he moved forwards a few steps. “I am indeed from the Mansion. In fact I'm the Mansions Gardener and the spade broke, so I'm looking for a replacement tool here.” All the while he was talking, a pillow was creeping up on the leg of his acquaintance slowly, almost innocently. One of the many ones that had fallen down. It was moving by his will. Maybe his leg also had something to do with it. Parlor tricks. Move your hands and create diversion. Maybe he wouldn't notice then.

“My name is Martin. With whom do I have the pleasure of talking?” The pillow was still creeping. Creepily creeping. His talk was innocently accentuated with hand gestures. His eyes were cold. Like the kids. He was smiling. A pleasurable smile. A plentiful smile. His eyes were cold. Grown up pretense. And child demeanor. All in one, rolled into one. Does it have additional functions? Maybe making things cleaner? Clearer?

Labels. Caleb Swartz. Schwarz. Black. Caleb Black.

That child was in desperate need of labels in his mind. Asking for them. Desperately begging. Brat. That was the one he had given him. And he was just considering adding another one or two to that one. Add-ons. Additions. They make things more valuable, don't they? Like acquaintances. From the Store. Somewhat bought. He doubted anyone, not even the parents would pay for that child. Maybe get their money back, too? Was there a guarantee for that? I have a complaint. My child does not function.

Maybe it just worked too well.

Hormones were drugs after all. And drugs created strange behavior.

Especially in a child named Caleb Black.

He proceeded to follow the direction the child gave him, them, the two of them, while just wondering what it might be, that had just transpired. Either the child was more talented then it let on, or it was just a little bit strangely lucky, having knocked the pillow away from him by mere chance. Or a talent to make his own luck indeed. Which would not be an oddity considering its knowledge of the Mansion. There were few normals who new this much. So few ordinary people. And he was one of them. On the surface.

On the surface he was following the youths directions towards the gardening section, on the inside he was shivering. What was up with that kid? Wrong with it? His voice was so nice. Pleasurable.

“I see. Supreme pleasure to meet you then, your Excellency.”

Was there irony in his voice? Surely there was no irony there. Could there be?

“Did you know your name is derived from the word for 'black'?” Slow steps they were, away from the pillow. There was one being pulled along with them, carried by an arm. Somewhat odd, this child. Really mansion standard. And then there was him. Walking upright, head held high. The gardener. If he had been his parent, he would have just asked for his money back at the register. He really would have.

And there they were. Wooden handles and plastic handles. Steel and Iron and numerous other materials, some not even worth his consideration, were immediately dismissed, as if those experiments, the failed ones for gardening, had never happened in the first place. He seemed to be quite fascinated by the wooden handles, hands touching one here and there, controlling, touching, looking for something. Something special, while his voice replied, quite absently to the question that had been posed.

"Martin means warlike as far as I know." How fitting? And then there was stone. Warstone. Something to consider foresight by his mother? By his father? He knew. Nothing was certain. Had never been, would never be. The immortals eyes seemed quite attracted by the shiny metal surfaces of the new instruments, his instruments to be, eyes shimmering as if in a mirror, as he posed, still quite absently sounding another question. The newer models, dismissed by his hands, taking only the traditional ones into consideration for his money. If he bet his money on something... why wouldn't it be the old thing? After all he was one himself. Strangely his eyes were locked on his companion now, in the mirror of the metal.

"Do you know the Mansion well? I have never seen you there:"

Just innocent questions that begged to be asked. In neutral notes, tones, passed down from the elder to the younger. Such innocent little things as words from his lips. So absent his mind. It was not really. was it ever? He was right there, watching through a mirror, the reaction to his question. All the reactions really. He had time after all. So much time as he needed.

The... groping, caressing, searching yet continued on with a deliberation that would maybe be quite unnerving to youths with a short attention span. While he indeed did not touch all the spades, he searched on and on, narrowed down the parameters more and more, until a batch of three, all with strong and flawless wooden handles and strong metal heads lay before him. Trinity. It was quite unusual, but he stared at them intently, as if he expected two of them to return to their places by themselves. His hands remained at his sides now.

What a curious little boy he was. Really curious. He seemed to have been around the Mansion a bit. And he knew of the Xs. Not a big feat considered that they flaunted their existence. At least to the genetically favored part of the population. Much like another organization that was rumored to reside within a place called the sanctuary. Really curious this kid. "A relative of mine had died. I needed to go home and bury him." His words gave in no way away that he was lying. Not a single note out of place. Everything flawless. Maybe except for the slightly menacing grin that maybe dared him to question that story, maybe was just a memory. One he was somewhat fond of in some ways. What would he have done to Mr Belododia with a spade? a curious question. Nearly as curious as the child, th whom he now turned around. "I seem to have difficulty choosing as well." He commented on the trinity of metal in his front.

Blue eyes watching.

The shovel was taken into his hand. One look cast down, a single judging glance at the pricing tag. It was taken without any of the work, that had been done on the other ones, they made subject to, taken, held in his fingers, lifted by his glove. Taken into his hand, or whatever he had left of it, staying there by force, by his side, the left one. Quite natural. Quite non-agressive, non-threatening, non-interesting. Quite shovely. And not a trace of his interest in that thing to be found anywhere in his face. It was like something had shifted just a little. Back into a more normal mode maybe. Back behind a mask Martin would have said. If he ever talked about such things... and he never did. Behavior was so difficult sometimes. How was one to judge? All the time.

“Thank you.” such a polite tone, again, so flawless, that it was a flaw. It had a flaw. The grin was gone. “It is a good choice.” For someone who doesn't know a bit about gardening. Taking the most expensive implement seemed logical, did it not? Price equals quality? Necessarily?

His feet turned, as did his body, in the rough direction of the exit, where hopefully the register would await them both. Ladies in the waiting for customers, to carry home their newest goods. And goodies of course. He was hugging his pillow, that Caleb boy. Martin was carrying his shovel. Transactions pending. And as his feet went off, so went his tongue.

“Are you heading back to the Mansion too?”

Of course Martin did not drive. But who knows what this child might do? They were strange that way sometimes. And adaptable. Always adaptable. An amiable quality.