Chapter 45

Shade

Still in his fine charcoal-grey suit. In a different park, this time, he sat on the cement by the foot of a bronze statue. The statue depicted a dignified man grasping a book as he sat at attention in a chair. Shade wondered who this person was, and how many people he had killed to get a statue of himself like that. And was he still alive? Shape didn’t even care enough to read the plaque. It wouldn’t matter for long anyway.

He had finally located one of the heroes. Now he just had to kill him. Killing one should be enough. Can’t have a hexagon with only five sides. Can’t try again if the time hero is dead.

Yes. He would finish it, here and now. He knew Black was out there somewhere. Black wanted to break the Machine. Well, that would work too. That would stop the cycle. But so would this.

“Don’t you think so?” he asked the statue. “A story cannot continue if its key characters are dead. Or, say, forcefully extracted from their Narrative.” He looked up at the statue, one eye shaded by his broken sunglasses. “What if someone went back and killed you before you could do what really mattered? What if they did?” Shade’s voice dropped low. “Who would ever know? How would anyone ever know if someone’s story is cut short?”

The statue did not respond. Shade took a closer look and saw, to his immense amusement, that the name of the dignified metal man was Black. Greene Black, even.

Shade grinned up at the sky. Clouds gathered above. He looked around. People strolled about. Most of them appeared busy. But were they really? They probably thought they were. They probably didn’t know any better.

Shade noticed a small creature near his leg, watching him. A squirrel, crouching, sniffing hopefully at the air. Perhaps expecting some morsel of food?

“I can do you better than that,” he said to it. “How about a morsel of information?” Shade tapped his broken sunglasses, the solitary lens covering his left eye. “You know, people think I’m called Shade because of this silly thing. But actually it’s a color reference, like ‘tint’ or ‘hue.’“

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

It looked like the squirrel understood. “Of course,” Shade continued, “the real reason I have that name is just because someone gave it to me. When they thought me up, I suppose? When I became part of the story? I have to say, I don’t mind it. Though I would have appreciated a last name in addition. The shades are nice, though.” In his left eye, through the dark lens, he saw the squirrel scamper away to a nearby tree. In his right eye the squirrel remained stationary for three seconds before scampering away to the tree in exactly the same way.

“Someday I’ll find the other lens,” he told the statue, leaning back against it once more. “That’s what I always thought. Won’t happen now. Maybe another iteration will succeed. I wonder how many there are.” He closed his eyes. “Well. It has to end sometime.” That’s what he always told himself. It all had to end, right? It began, and therefore it must end. But the question lingered: do stories ever really end? What did ‘the end’ even mean? Sometimes he grew cold thinking about this.

He shook off these thoughts and stood. He could change it. He could. And if he couldn’t, then Black certainly could. Someone had to. For all their sakes.

Time to kill Eric Walker. Sorry, kid.