Machia Veil Timeline

9 am, June 24th – Main gates, Lunaston Manor, Breakwell, Surridge

Nate stood rooted to the spot. He shielded his eyes from the costumes and the vibrant purple and green facade of the house. The buildings in that area defied gravity, leaning and twisting at unnatural angles. Despite its grandeur, the manor was open, with no security gates or walls to keep people out. Only guards at the door and cameras. As the guests arrived, the air filled with a pungent aroma that reminded Nate of Pandora, one of his mother’s eccentric friends.

The elaborate costumes were a burst of colour and creativity, with patterns growing more intricate.

The press pit was a beehive of activity, with press fighting for the prime position.

What is my strategy? Nate paused. I have to slip through undetected. A side window has to be open. He strolled deep into the grounds and circled the manor. Compared to Bellaton, infiltrating the place was simple.

At last, he spotted an entry point. It required a climb, a task made easier by the mansion’s warped architecture. As he ascended, his fingers searched for protrusions that served as footholds. But voices in the garden alerted him to quicken his climb.

Climbing over a window, he tripped. “Ouch,” he said, holding his scraped knee.

With each step, his breathing steadied, and he ventured further into the home.

He paused by a door. Was there life beyond it? Pushing it open, he discovered an artist’s studio, frozen in time. Half-finished paintings, sketches, and portraits hung on the warped walls in various stages of completion.

What is it with this place? He was aghast at the horrific images of distorted pain and fear.

He ventured deeper into the studio, and a painting stood out from the others. The subject was his mother! Her expression showed a state of fear, like most art in this strange dream. What did this mean? Tears welled in his eyes. He ached to be near her, to hear her voice and see her smile again.

As the sun was setting, he lay low, hidden in the shadows and biding his time. His plan was to find an acquaintance to help him return to his mother.

With cautious steps, he ventured out into the corridor. He followed the laughter and music that led him to the ongoing event. As he approached, his stomach growled, and the delicious scent of food filled his nostrils.

The crescendo of voices intensified as he arrived at a colossal door. Drawing a deep breath, he adopted an air of casual nonchalance, as if he had been conversing with others all evening. The door screeched as he entered.

The guests gave a collective gasp of delight and faced him.

Nate’s breath caught in his throat.

The room fell silent except for a distant pianist. Nate’s eyes widened, overcome by an urge to vanish. His planned veil of subtlety shattered. He staggered backward in an ungraceful retreat.

But the guests raised their arms as if to say stop!

Stop? Why? No one spoke. Instead, a step sideways sent a piece of clay tumbling. He tried to stop it, but a collective gasp followed the shattering crash. Ouch! He had walked into an art display.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said as his words echoed in the room. With an adrenaline-fuelled rush, Nate sprinted back down the hall to alarmed cries from the partygoers.

“A thief! He’s in the south wing!” someone shrieked.

He raced through twisting halls and passages, down the stairs, and through another set of doors. A thunderous noise scared him and he fled a small parlour. Then, more crashing clay reached his ears.

Whoops.

“That way!” he picked up guards saying.

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He tried another door. Eyes wide with apprehension. He escaped through a window to the garden.

Gasping for air, he ran deep into the forest and into a clearing. Sweat dripped down his face. He ran for an hour straight. The clamour of pursuit faded into the distance, replaced by rustling leaves and his own thumping heartbeat.

In the hushed embrace of the clearing, Nate’s racing pulse eased into a steadier rhythm. He leaned against a tree, allowing himself to recover, until a pang of hunger and the sting of the minor cuts on his skin pulsed with pain.

***

A while later - Sareton, Surredge

Nate wandered into his neighbouring village of Sareton. With his stomach grumbling, he concocted a plan. He was going to access the backyards and scavenge food. His designer haircut and shirt revealed his privileged background, but his scratched clothes hinted at a rough journey.

Sareton was a ghost town. The streets were empty, and the silence eery. He climbed over a warped roof. Treading the tiles, one vigilant step after another. Using a careful stretch, he landed on the other side. There was a family preparing dinner and sitting by the television. They were enjoying the final of a bakery competition. There was a garden door that led to an unlit room. A laundry room. Nate explored deeper into the house and hid in the shower when he heard movement. The door swung open, and a teenage boy relieved himself, then left. Nate made his way out again, but to his horror, the floorboards creaked. I’m doomed! He froze. The television program showcased a singing group loud enough to allow Nate to reach the kitchen. Leftover salad sat on the kitchen table. He hid inside a pantry. The floorboards creaked. The father lit the kitchen lights and a crack of light in the pantry allowed Nate to survey what food they had. A bag made a noise, and he held his breath. The man stopped to listen. Nate closed his eyes.

Don’t come into the pantry!

The father headed back to the living room after pausing by the kitchen window.

Nate breathed a sigh of relief. He reached towards a cloth bag and filled it with cans of food and other provisions. A phone rang, and the mother came into the kitchen to talk.

“You hung on to what caused the most drama and run with it … What? … Maybe you should mind your own business!” she said.

Nate broke into a sweat. How was he going to get out?

“… the things you were saying … no point sugar coating that,” she said.

As the heated debate continued, the father returned.

“You’re going to miss the results!” he said.

“Yes, coming! … Jan, enough already!” she said.

The man stormed back into the kitchen, snatched his wife’s phone, and smashed it against the wall.

She screamed, landing a punch on his arm.

He shielded himself.

They had a violent way of expressing frustration. Nate shrunk, but relieved they were out of the kitchen. He made a quick dash to the laundry room, stepping out into the backyard.

“Mum! Dad! The results!” said the teen.

Nate hid in the shed, gulping a bottle of water and devouring a trail mix.

***

Nate observed the family from the shed. Their life was simple. Even if they were extreme. Come to think of it, so were Cabby and the staff. He had yet to spot a dog.

Nate’s eyelids lowered, and he fell asleep, but a creaking door opened. His eyes met the gaze of a man standing at the shed’s entrance. Nate’s pulse quickened. He scrambled to form an explanation.

Like a towering inferno, the father stood over him. His eyes held a mixture of surprise, concern, and something that Nate failed to decipher.

“Sorry!” said Nate, “I’m homeless. I needed a place to sleep.”

Nate braced himself.

“Who are you?” asked the father, his eyes growing wide.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be here. I need a place to sleep,” Nate said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“How did you even get in? Are you some kind of spy?” he said, hyperventilating.

“No, no! I just … I needed somewhere to sleep.”

“Sure, you do. I’m calling the chaos patrol,” said the man.

“Please don’t. I didn’t think, okay? I’m lost. I don’t belong here. Just let me go.”

“Let you go? We have rules here!” he said. “Outsider, a troublemaker! Help!” shouted the man.

It dawned on Nate the place thrived on fuelled hysteria. What if he amplified it, shifting it back to the man? His mind raced. He then snatched the man’s torchlight, aiming the beam at his face.

Nate shouted and screamed as he manipulated the flashlight’s glow, casting eerie shadows that flitted across the walls. The man’s face contorted with a mix of confusion and fear, his shouts now mingling with Nate’s. Their hysterics attracted the mother and son.

In that disorienting moment, the father faced his family. “Call the chaos patrol!” he bellowed, just as his wife and son ran back into the house.

Nate seized the moment, propelling himself out of the shed. He scaled up and over the rooftop. The man crossed his home and onto the street.

Thanks to his years of parkour practice, Nate stayed on the roofs. Every movement was precise and calculated for safety. Muscles tensed and flexed with each leap and bound as he navigated the village. Next to him, the father drew nearer, casting a growing shadow.

The commotion grew, and more neighbours joined in the panic.

Nate’s pace quickened as he sprinted from the roofs and back to safety onto the labyrinthine streets. With each step, the distance between him and the relentless pursuit widened.

The darkness at the edge of the Sareton countryside provided the perfect cover for his escape. After climbing over a hedge, he welcomed the sight of Dene’s lights flickering in the distance. No one would find him now. The police siren grew fainter as he ran further, leaving the turmoil behind.