and looked around, understandably wary. Lou went into a sneezing fit, which he does whenever there’s an overload of magical energy. If Jackie had been setting a trap, I was pretty sure we’d just sprung it.
But there didn’t seem to be anything wrong. People were still walking down the street, chatting. A homeless man was sleeping on the sidewalk, half blocking it. The breeze was warm in my face, laced with the odor of diesel fumes and gasoline.
I stopped at a café and picked up a latte to go. It was terrible, weak yet bitter, like something that might be labeled “coffee-style beverage.” I drank only a few sips before tossing it in a trash can. You assume that anyone can make a decent cup of coffee, especially in San Francisco, but I guess not. That’s one reason we all have our favorite places.
I continued on and fell behind two young men, one tall and blond, the other shorter and Hispanic-looking. We were all walking at the same pace, and I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation. I was close enough to catch the words, and it was standard Mission District conversational fare.
“He said he’d call, but he hasn’t yet,” said the tall one.
“Typical. What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. I thought we made a connection. But now he’s playing it all cool and disinterested.”
“Or maybe he’s just not that into you.”
Lou meanwhile was cutting back and forth across the sidewalk, casting around as if for a scent. At first I thought he was confused, but I’ve learned to read his body language pretty well, almost as well as he reads mine. He wasn’t confused. He was annoyed, but I didn’t understand why.
I refocused on the two guys ahead of us just in time to catch the second one saying, “Or maybe he’s just not that into you.” Either his vocabulary or his thought processes were rather limited. That was what I thought until after some idle chatter, the blond guy said, “He said he’d call, but he hasn’t yet.” And the response came back, “Typical. What did you expect?”
This was bad. It wasn’t a real conversation at all. They were on a conversational loop, providing mere background noise like extras in a film.
I stopped and sat down to think on the stoop of a deserted store with dust-caked boards nailed over the window. The parade of Mission types trooped on by, and the more I watched, the more I realized that was exactly what they were. Types, not individuals. Stereotypes, like a bad Hollywood film.
In fact, now that I paid attention, the street had the air of a movie set. The entire scene had the feel of a staged reenactment, complete with actors. Not bad actors, but actors nonetheless. Nothing rang quite true. When I looked up at the street sign on the corner and saw the word “Valençia” was now spelled with a cedilla, I was only mildly surprised. Not only was the sign different, but modern Spanish doesn’t even use that mark anymore.
I wasn’t in the Mission anymore. I was in a singularity—one of those odd constructs that mirror the real world, but aren’t entirely real themselves. I was no stranger to such things—the last time I’d been in one, there were no people around, but no two are quite alike. I’d managed to escape with the assistance of Lou—and some helpful wolves, my totem animal. The wolves had since abandoned me; why, I don’t know. And the magical talisman that helped call them had also become inert. A shame—I could have used their help from time to time.
I’d also been to several places that weren’t constructs at all—more like alternate dimensions. I’d found some on my own, and some I’d been thrust into. Some of them were as real and complex as our own world; others were a weird amalgam of real and not real. The entire cosmology of such things was far beyond me.
Jackie had set me up for this. She must have seen that her death illusion hadn’t thrown me off the trail after all. She had some real talent, and a surprising
But there didn’t seem to be anything wrong. People were still walking down the street, chatting. A homeless man was sleeping on the sidewalk, half blocking it. The breeze was warm in my face, laced with the odor of diesel fumes and gasoline.
I stopped at a café and picked up a latte to go. It was terrible, weak yet bitter, like something that might be labeled “coffee-style beverage.” I drank only a few sips before tossing it in a trash can. You assume that anyone can make a decent cup of coffee, especially in San Francisco, but I guess not. That’s one reason we all have our favorite places.
I continued on and fell behind two young men, one tall and blond, the other shorter and Hispanic-looking. We were all walking at the same pace, and I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation. I was close enough to catch the words, and it was standard Mission District conversational fare.
“He said he’d call, but he hasn’t yet,” said the tall one.
“Typical. What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. I thought we made a connection. But now he’s playing it all cool and disinterested.”
“Or maybe he’s just not that into you.”
Lou meanwhile was cutting back and forth across the sidewalk, casting around as if for a scent. At first I thought he was confused, but I’ve learned to read his body language pretty well, almost as well as he reads mine. He wasn’t confused. He was annoyed, but I didn’t understand why.
I refocused on the two guys ahead of us just in time to catch the second one saying, “Or maybe he’s just not that into you.” Either his vocabulary or his thought processes were rather limited. That was what I thought until after some idle chatter, the blond guy said, “He said he’d call, but he hasn’t yet.” And the response came back, “Typical. What did you expect?”
This was bad. It wasn’t a real conversation at all. They were on a conversational loop, providing mere background noise like extras in a film.
I stopped and sat down to think on the stoop of a deserted store with dust-caked boards nailed over the window. The parade of Mission types trooped on by, and the more I watched, the more I realized that was exactly what they were. Types, not individuals. Stereotypes, like a bad Hollywood film.
In fact, now that I paid attention, the street had the air of a movie set. The entire scene had the feel of a staged reenactment, complete with actors. Not bad actors, but actors nonetheless. Nothing rang quite true. When I looked up at the street sign on the corner and saw the word “Valençia” was now spelled with a cedilla, I was only mildly surprised. Not only was the sign different, but modern Spanish doesn’t even use that mark anymore.
I wasn’t in the Mission anymore. I was in a singularity—one of those odd constructs that mirror the real world, but aren’t entirely real themselves. I was no stranger to such things—the last time I’d been in one, there were no people around, but no two are quite alike. I’d managed to escape with the assistance of Lou—and some helpful wolves, my totem animal. The wolves had since abandoned me; why, I don’t know. And the magical talisman that helped call them had also become inert. A shame—I could have used their help from time to time.
I’d also been to several places that weren’t constructs at all—more like alternate dimensions. I’d found some on my own, and some I’d been thrust into. Some of them were as real and complex as our own world; others were a weird amalgam of real and not real. The entire cosmology of such things was far beyond me.
Jackie had set me up for this. She must have seen that her death illusion hadn’t thrown me off the trail after all. She had some real talent, and a surprising
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