white flame

zero g

Montag turns the corner of the street, head high and filled with fresh air. At twenty, his fireman application had just been approved, and he couldn't be prouder. Montag's father, and his father before him, and his before that as far back as anyone could remember had been a fireman, so, really, it hadn't been that much of a surprise, but Montag had preened nonetheless. Now, he is in Chicago, on a break before starting his new job.

As he nears the end of the city block, Montag turns sharply on a whim into one of the many Starbucks lining the streets, high on the freedom of a bird flown the nest. He enters the shop with a subtle flourish, wearing his independence and maturity like a life vest.

Of course, no one turns to stare; the people occupying the cafe are too busy fixating on the flashing, colorful, mesmerizing walls, and Montag hadn't really expected anything different. He feels a distant pang in his stomach anyway. It is vaguely unsettling, and Montag brushes it away, lets it roll off him like water off a duck's back.

He makes his way over to the green and white barista machine, ordering his coffee, turning to wait for it at the pick up area. A few seconds later, Montag's drink is delivered to the counter by a spindly metal appendage. He makes as if to leave, but stops when he feels a tingling sensation on the back of his neck. Montag turns around and immediately meets the gaze of a young woman sitting alone at a table for two next to a wall, and a shock runs through his body.

A feeling of trepidation, confidence, and anticipation fills Montag to the brim. This is his test. This is where he'll find out if he really has become a man. Gathering his breath, Montag does his best to swagger over to the table the woman is sitting at, swinging around to plop into the plush, comfortable seat across from her.

"Well, hello," he says, fake bravado obvious, but she doesn't seem to care. Or notice, really. The fiery glow of the walls reflects off her upturned face, and Montag sees a window and a white hot torch.

"Hello," she remarks, thin lips turning up at the corners, "-and what is your name?"

"Montag," Montag replies, feeling his stomach begin to settle. "Guy Montag. And yours?"

"Mildred," she says, blue eyes shining like glass, short cropped blonde hair not stirring with her voice, untouched by her words. There's no gravity here. "Wanna watch with me?" Mildred gestures at the walls.

Montag can only nod, enraptured.

There's no air in his lungs. The flames in her face have sucked the oxygen from the room and he's hovering in the darkness of a night sky.

Montag finds himself staring; can't stop. Her eyes are two moonstones, set carefully, deliberately in a porcelain dish. There are no cracks. Their faces are close, and her lips are moving in time with the muted sounds around them, but no wind touches his face and he cannot see her words.

Montag's floating, burning up in the all consuming, bright white aether. Light flickers on her face and dies. Reignites. The White Clown laughs. Montag's drink goes untouched.

A few years later: Montag thinks he's in love. Her eyes are still moonstones; Montag loses himself in them, but he's not looking for a mirror. At night, he falls asleep to white noise humming in his ears, a crystal bottle winking at him in the moonlight, his face muscles clinging desperately to a fiery grin. Her face is still and white, and Montag is very much in love.

I am happy, he thinks. Montag closes his eyes to a zero-g world; sinks into the void.