Pat Dooley
The Face
In his dreams, they were all still together. Gary, Pat, Robert, Matt, Ricky, John, Dan, Sean, Jason, Steve, his other friend whose name was also Matt. They were all in the barracks, dicking around, letting off steam after a long day of training.
Sean was a cut-up. You never knew what he was going to say until after he’d said it and, frequently, not even then. He was off on a tangent, doing an impression of someone he’d seen in the street that day. As he turned, Gary looked straight through the hole in his abdomen at Jason and Steve. Jason and Steve were inseparable. They always had been. Always off on their own, in on some private joke. They’d known each other for a decade before enlisting, and they were joined at the hip, which was good because Jason’s left leg was gone below the thigh. Steve kept nodding at whatever Jason was saying. Or possibly he just couldn’t keep his head up since his neck had been snapped at the base of his spine.
When Gary finally awoke, the sun setting outside, he peeled the sheets back. The heat, coupled with the power of the nightmare, had caused him to sweat through them. He stretched and dragged himself out of bed. The flat was empty. He’d never really realized how spare his living quarters were until he compared it to having a companion the night before. I should really hang some pictures up or something.
He walked into the kitchen to grab a drink when he noticed the note.
Gary,
I left about midday. I didn’t want to wake you when I did. I wanted to wake you when the nightmares started, but I was told once that if you’re fighting something in your dream, it’s something you need to confront.
I’m glad that - of all The Cells in the entire Skin - that it was you. Your life is going to change in more ways than you probably yet realize, but please fight to hold on to who you were last night. I liked that person.
If you need an ally in your fight against your nightmares or your future, come find me in The Heart. I make for a good partner.
Aubrey
Gary’s face hurt from smiling. Even her notes smell nice.
He climbed in the shower and stayed there for a very long time. He wondered sometimes if the water he was using to scrub off two days worth of fear and exhaustion was the same water that crisscrossed his magnificent city. He tried not to dwell on it. The cool water was invigorating. He was just about to his happy place when there was a knock at the door.
He threw a towel around his waist and slipped and slid through the flat to the door. He should have put on clothes.
The flashing lights blinded him, the fear numbed him, the sound of a thousand questions being shouted deafened him, and bad stuff probably happened to his senses of smell and taste, too. The door quickly slammed itself shut. No, that’s not right. Someone closed it. And he was in the room with Gary.
Gary struggled to put a name to the face. The Face. Shit. That’s The Face! I’m meeting The Face and I’m wearing a towel.
The Face was once known as Kyle Matthews, a slick-talking TV personality whose program had become the official platform for The Body’s message. He was spectacularly handsome. Gary had never seen anyone better looking in person. Well, he’d never seen a better-looking human in person, he reminded himself.
“Gary, the first thing we’re going to do is buy you a bigger towel.”
Gary looked down, horrified. Wait, no, everything’s covered.
“Okay, so we’re going to have to work on the self-awareness. That’s fine by me. I like a challenge. Tell you what, buddy, go in the bedroom, put on some actual real-people clothes, and meet me back out here in five. Mind if I help myself to a drink? Thanks.”
Gary couldn’t move. He really wanted to do what the man had said, it all sounded so sensible. He willed his muscles to listen to him. For God’s sake, turn around and walk into the room!
“Gary, they’re going to expect you to appear on my show in about eight hours, and you’re going to be a lot more comfortable if you’re wearing at least a pair of boxers. I would recommend going beyond that, of course, but at the very least, save our censors the trouble of having to blur your genitals.”
“I-- Your show?”
“In the old days, we’d just parade you around the Seven Worlds, have you press the flesh with their dignitaries, what have you. But they’ve all got television now, man! It took ‘em damn long enough, but we’re on seven planets now, and they all want to see the Hero Of The Body. So, please. Go in the bedroom. And put on some fucking pants.”
He moved. Involuntarily. His mind wanted to stay perfectly still. If I don’t move, they can’t put me on TV. If they don’t put me on TV, nobody will make me talk about what happened. If I pretend to be dead on my feet right here, everyone will just leave me alone. Maybe they’ll bury me like this and I’ll just be... dead, and not have to think about it.
But his body was already propelling itself into the bedroom and toward the dresser. Fucking pants. Fucking pants. I don’t have any fucking pants. Nothing in this place is designed for fucking. Fucking bed? No. Barely big enough for a sleeping bed. He decided jeans were okay. Jeans were cool. Jeans were casual. Jeans were really uncomfortable without underwear. Underwear first, then jeans. He managed to force his way into clothes and back out into the main room.
The Face had helped himself to a drink, just as he’d said. It was a generous pour. He gulped the rest of it down in one swallow. Impressive. A bit unsettling, but impressive. The corners of his eyes teared just a bit, but the smile remained strong. “That’s more like it. How are you in front of crowds?”
“Not great.”
“Better than you are in front of television hosts who surprise you when you’re in the shower? Which, I should add, is still running.”
“One can only hope.”
The Face laughed. He could work with this one.
“Oh, shit, the water. Hang on.”