FILTERS 14
FACELESS
One week.
Finals. Spring practices. He runs, he flies, he runs again.
Two weeks.
Spring practices. He runs, he flies.
He feels the pulse.
Fuck.
He lands, he runs again. Up the stairs, into his dorm. Phone and remote flying to his hands.
Twitter open. #PsychicSphere
30 Minutes. Singapore.
The sphere churns on. Just as clouds insinuate an afternoon shower a speck of red appears in the sky and the sphere freezes. Andrew, heart pounding, moves to an arm's length from the screen, eyes straining for detail, but the camera offers no more. The red speck connects with a tan speck and the former flies away after the latter vanishes.
He sits down on the floor, then lies down, eyes wandering the ceiling. The moment of excitement and relief has passed, there's something different now. A growing feeling that presses on his mind and emerges as challenge. Only ten figures in damages, how philanthropic. Only five figures in deaths, praise and thanks be to you, savior. Our refuge and our fortress, our shepherd who delivers us, for only ten thousand perished. Yea, you heard their cries, you raise the dead to the heavens, greater in the glory they bring to you, LORD.
Andrew sits up and wipes his eyes and chokes and coughs and breathes deeply and is back out the door, running.
Three weeks.
Year-end meetings, the last of the spring practices, the last team gathering, and last conversation with his coach. The championships are cheered, expectations are laid. Many look at Andrew.
There's a watch party at Heavener, the theater goes wild as Twelfth Overall Pick—Dallas Cowboys—Devaris Walker flashes on the screen and cameras show casinos through windows in the Nevada hall where Devaris, swaggering and sparkling blue-suited, makes his way to the stage in front of another raucous crowd, to dap with the commissioner and wink and grin as he holds the white-and-blue 1 jersey, a single finger pointed up.
Andrew glances at a clock and falls to sudden thrall. He sees the summer in front of him, of the trip to Texas and hugs and shaking hands with dark-haired dark-eyed faceless figures, Emilia beside him. He sees autumn, the ball spinning slowly through the air as his hands take hold and he runs, easy jaunts left and right to beat pathetic defenders better called statues and drops the ball in a great white rectangle, slate gallery forty yards behind. The winter that will not find him here. Spring and Fall, again, again. Standing suited in the antechamber at some venue in some city, waiting again for his name to be called and a procession made, to put on a hat and to dap with the commissioner and grin at a faceless audience.
Do you know what I am? Let me tell you. Will you hate me? I may hate myself, now. No, you see, I signed my name on a piece of paper when I was eighteen and when broken souls weren't taken by terror to swallow cities. I owed it to a school to catch a ball, and now that these old men promise me fortune I could rend from the very Earth my God-damned self I'm going to sign my name to another piece of paper and redshirt disaster as a red hat saves the world, thirty, forty, hey sometimes even sixty percent at a time. I slide the ring up the finger of a faceless figure and build my faceless family. At least I didn't get caught.
At least I didn't get caught.
He runs, and runs.
Four weeks.
Graduation. No spheres. Andrew stands for pictures with Devaris and Marques.
Devaris slaps his back and says "You made this happen."
Andrew brushes him off. "You did all the work, I just had to catch."
Devaris says "Yeah, I did all the work. That's why you got that trophy in Heavener."
A warm breeze follows them off-campus, to the house Devaris and Marques will soon no longer share, where jackets and ties are left and Andrew swaps Oxfords for Ultraboosts and an Uber is called that the three barely fit inside. The driver recognizes them and talks energetically, Andrew ignores this, and with knees force closed by the extended position of a brown leather seatback he instead looks at his phone.
They're dropped at an intersection of a street of another neighborhood and walk to a tall but not particularly wide three-story house, white with a large porch in the front. Devaris is mobbed at the steps, Andrew stays outside, walking around the house to the back where he's thankful to receive casual greetings by a group around a pointless fire. He reads a message from Emilia, she's at another house, another gathering.
Devaris comes out, Marques following, and the group cheers their arrival. He gestures a "Let's go" and leads them back toward the university, to the row of fraternities, endless figures at every one. Andrew again stays outside, there's a lit basketball court and a lonely ball and as he takes shots others join. Andrew considers going inside just in time for Devaris to find him and say "Let's get food" and now they're at the restaurant Emilia recommended so many months back, busy not-rush, Andrew with his back to the door, Devaris every-so-often looking up to wink and grin as he talks about pre-season camp. Another Uber. Another house. The one Emilia is at.
He's sitting next to her on a couch in the basement, baseball game on. Emilia says "So. . . you're going to be looking for an apartment soon, and I was thinking–"
Andrew feels the pulse.
Twitter open. #PsychicSphere
Just now. Bern, CH.
Andrew falls into his head, hearing nothing, eyes processing little.
He says "There's a sphere in Switzerland."
Emilia says something and squeezes his arm.
He fixates on the score bug, runs, base positions, outs represented as three transparent baseballs, none opaque, no outs. Bases transparent, no runners. Ball. Strike. Grounder through the hole at second. First base turns yellow. Next up, Ball. Strike. Looped into left, the runner was going, first and third are yellow.
Andrew says something. He can't remember what.
He feels her nails press lightly into the back of his neck. It could feel pleasant. She says something else. First-pitch swinging, base hit, a run crosses the plate, corners still lit yellow.
Her hand is on his thigh. She says something else. His phone is back in his pocket, his arm around her waist. Base hit, runners on the corners.
She says something pointed. Pop fly, runners can't advance. One out.
Andrew says "I'm not ignoring you."
"Maybe Redhat's on his way."
He feels her warmth. He sees the line where he cannot reach, where her skin begins, where heat flows and falls away. Strikeout. Two outs.
She says "Andrew?"
He looks at her and into her eyes and she leans forward and he begins to accept this but he stops her in a start, waking in a plummet, sudden panic, his mind finally breaking through to say THIS WILL NOT END WELL.
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He pushes her back and stands up and says "I can't be here right now."
Emilia stands and says "Why?"
He turns toward the stairs and says "I'm going home."
She misses in a grab for his hand and pleads, "Llévame contigo."
He stops at the base of the stairs and looks at her and says "I can't."
He's up the stairs and out of the house, running.
A block over when he hears "Hey, Drew!"
He doesn't stop.
"ANDREW FUCKING BLACK!"
Devaris is behind him and gaining. Andrew considers sprinting, but he slows and stops. Devaris reaches him and without pausing begins to shout, "What the fuck was that? I see you tearing up the stairs and I look down them and I see Emilia crying."
Andrew is pacing, he can't speak.
Devaris' eyes narrow. "What's going on?"
Andrew shakes his head.
Devaris curses. "Seriously, what is it with you? You hate parties, you hate chilling with us. You just made your girlfriend cry. I hear you've been running like fifteen miles a day. Man I was pumped when you announced last year but, what, who are you? All this, and what–"
Andrew is suddenly angry. "'And what?' And we won every game. You're about to be starting for the Cowboys, and fucking what."
Devaris looks at the ground. "Yeah man, I know. You got that trophy. But the season's been over for months, I figure we'd, y'know, be friends in the meantime."
Andrew says "Dev, you're a good guy, and a great football player, but football is the only reason I'm here."
Devaris looks at Andrew, his own anger rising, "Wow, thanks. Football's it? Really? Why do you want to play so bad? What's the point of being who you are if this is what you're going to do with it? You might as well be a robot that's only switched on for games."
"That's not it."
"Then what is?" asks Devaris.
"Didn't you feel your phone go off? The sphere in Switzerland? How long can this go? Hopefully Redhat's blasting through the sky to get there but is that what we have to do now? Wait and pray a single guy shows up while everyone else stands around completely fucking helpless?"
Devaris says nothing.
Andrew says "Don't you get it?"
Devaris looks away again and shakes his head, but it isn't disagreement.
"This isn't the government and you know it. Maybe, maybe it was at first, but it's gotten away. Even if other Controllers show up and stop the spheres, so fucking what? How many more people are going to die?"
Devaris looks at him. "Why is this your problem?"
"It's everyone's problem. We have to find a solution, that's what I have to do. It's better than nothing. Play football and make money and fund a solution. Or something. . . anything else."
Devaris has an incredulous look, then he's bent over, laughing, "You want to save the world! I been calling you a robot all year and it's because you fucking are! Sent from the future to play football so good you bring peace to all mankind. Jesus, you're making me feel bad because I like to fuck."
He keeps laughing, and he walks up and puts a hand on Andrew's shoulder. "I don't understand you, but when we finally play each other for real and I kick your ass, I'll write a check to your foundation. No joke."
They go back to the fraternity, there's a mob around a television. Yankees at Rays, packed house. Five in the top of the eighth, bottom eighth, two answered so far, bases loaded. Crushed to the far catwalk. Both houses erupt.
Marques catches up with them at a diner. They stay until the bar crowd shows.
Outside, Devaris says "Answer your texts," and sticks a hand out, "Thanksgiving?"
They shake, Andrew says "Yeah, Thanksgiving. Good luck at big boy camp, guys."
Andrew stands outside Emilia's apartment building. He sees her figure, lying in bed, her form curled, he thinks her knees must be pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. He could stand here and open the balcony of his dorm and put everything in the bag and bring it here and go to her apartment and show her. He could simply walk into her apartment, opening every lock along the way, and actually show her. Or he could look again at the message already typed on his phone and press send and never see her again.
He runs, he flies, he runs again. Up the steps, through the mudroom, into the kitchen. The house is quiet, his family sleeps. He leaves his bag on the kitchen island and skips the stairs on the way to his bedroom. He lies down and stares at the ceiling.
His mother's alarm rings. As she makes her way to the kitchen and examines his bag, he joins her. "Hey, mom." he says, walking into the kitchen.
She hugs him. "Good morning, when did you get here?"
"Last night."
She makes coffee and sits beside him at the table. He enjoys the quiet next to her. Eventually she asks "What's it like up there, when you're in the sky?"
Andrew smiles. "It's incredible, every single time." He repeats. "Every single time. I'll never get tired of it, I could stay up there forever and it's just Gainesville. I have these silly fantasies where I'm in a real city like New York or Chicago or even Los Angeles. I got a taste of that when I was in Mexico City but I didn't get to appreciate it. Maybe I'll get too again soon. I want to."
His mother places her hand on his cheek. "I love you so much, Andrew."
"I love you too, mom."
She finishes her coffee. He talks about Devaris and Marques, about tickets for the Thanksgiving game–"He'll be able to get you tickets?"–"Yeah, he's going to be starting for them."–and about his exams, the spring practices and end-of-year meetings and plans for his apartment. He doesn't talk about Emilia.
"Dad's up."
James comes down the stairs and into the kitchen. His parents kiss, his mother goes back up the stairs. The conversation with his mother mostly repeats with his father.
They eat, his father watches a recent clip of Redhat and says "We knew you weren't the only one."
"Yeah." says Andrew. "I just didn't think it would break like that."
"What do you think of him?" asks his father.
"He's doing everything I should be doing." says Andrew.
"Now that he's out there, your burden has lessened–"
Andrew cuts his father off. "No, dad, it's raised it."