Corona Gale, 11.1.1
Note: this is an alpha release of Corona Gale. Much like Sprites, Jets, and Elves, it only exists as a first act with no ending and has a lot of rough edges. You can see other chapters by following the Corona Gale tag.
A gale was a storm. Easy. One less thing to figure out. Her google search earlier came up with no real alternate meanings, nothing mythical or sinister. She moved forward. Her feet fell light as she jogged toward…what? She jogged toward what? She wanted to beat what? She wanted to smash in what? She wanted to save what? She wanted more of what? What was she doing here? What was she trying to prove? Why hadn’t she just quit already?
Of course, she knew the answer to that.
Kate checked a map. The bridge was a room away. She would get there in two minutes. She could almost see the door. She slowly turned the last corner, wary of a last guard. She peeked. She saw the door, oak, large, and probably bolted. Could she kick it in? She felt like she could. She hadn’t felt better in weeks. Kate only ever got this contact high when she fought. There was nothing else like it. Old relationships sometimes got her temper up to this level, but with Ollie she’d been calm. He was perfect.
“Ollie,” she said. “I’m coming home to you, you patient son of a bitch.”
She saw the door, and knew whatever was on the other side, that’d be it. Either she would beat it and win, or she would lose and die, along with everyone else on the ship, as soon as the water decided to stop lifting up and away. The ship vibrated all over now, the water’s roar almost deafening, even on the inside.
She thought of Ollie. She wanted to kiss him, and hug him, and feed him, and call him George. She wanted to be at him, on him, as close as possible. She wanted him to make her feel like fighting did, and she would transfer that feeling to him and never need to fight again, never take on another gig, never put her life in danger, never stop another manic street preacher, just let them go and burn themselves out. Let someone else do it. Let someone else try to be half as good.
Kate decided, right then and there, to make it work with Ollie. Even on the brink of death, in the middle of a scientific damned impossibility, facing down some kind of magic—whatever was happening, she sure as hell didn’t understand it—all she wanted was to let him in. Her reception was dead, but she sent him a text anyway.
—I don’t want the last text you ever get from me to be an emoji, so, here goes
—I love you
—I love you in numbers. I can count the ways and I can make lists of things to compare it to but I’ll let you decide.
—I love you in feelings, in images I can’t describe and won’t try because it’s magic
—I love you and I want to be with you, and before right now I didn’t think that could work
—I love you and I am in trouble and you can’t save me
—You don’t even know. I can’t even begin to tell you
—But it’s okay. I will explain all of this away. I will put on my disguise and you will be convinced
—I’ll say I was just tired. I was so tired. Shhhh.
—I love you so much I come up with my best lies just for you
—I love you in onomatopoeia. I’m making a noise right now that you would laugh at. I promise.
—I love you in technicolor.
Her fingers hurt, and the ship rocked, so she put her phone away in her inside breast pocket and took a knee. She was going to rush the door, shoulder it down, get the jump on whoever was in there, and somehow save the entire goddamn day.
Kate rushed forward, nerves of adrenaline hitting steamed carpet Her favourite workout song played in her head. She saw red, alarming, bloody, total, siren on a lost level.
The door creaked. These fucking designers, man. They cheap out on materials. The bridge was supposed to be accessible. It was locked, though, and Kate felt the steel on her shoulder, which throbbed after impact. Still, she got most of it. She took another run at it and burst through, landing on half the door, cracked thin plywood. It was almost like a stage door, meant to look good and impress people barely paying attention.
Kate picked herself up, dusted off her jacked, and pulled a few shards of wood splints out of her hair. It didn’t take her long to spot the man. He was looking right at her, sipping a cocktail.
“I could have let you in,” he said, his voice echoing in the small room full of dials and radios. “All you had to do was knock.”
Kate stood agape. The man she saw was shorter than her, thinner. He was dressed in a dark, fitted suit, with a white tie and mauve shirt. His shoes were wingtips. His pocket square was folded in a way that would have been too difficult for most people born in the last fifty years. His hair was slick back, black, with a sheen.
“Fuck, you look like an asshole,” Kate quipped.
He sipped his cocktail. Kate smelled bourbon. “Would you like one?”
