Immortalys

Chapter One: Truths and Myths

The early morning air was thick and still, so stifling that the clear and eerie wailing of a loon on the pale grey lake did not penetrate the walls of the wood-paneled house. The grass, although bare and damp and strewn with leaves on the southern side of the dwelling, was choked with snow below the window ledges of a small eastern-facing room.

The distant grey light of a crisp winter dawn trickled feebly through the window and spilled into the doorway, where two people had just entered the room in haste. One ran to the closet, wrenching open the doors with her pale fingers, and the other leapt to the desk in the corner, riffling through the drawer, his tongue between his teeth. Whatever he was looking for wasn't in there, so he turned back to stare around the room.

"Willow," he said, "have you found it?"

"Friction," Willow replied crossly, " I can't believe Trisha wants this now. It's buried with all of the stuff for the Tracking Device, and I had just dumped all of the pieces into a pile an hour ago."

She knelt inside of the closet, exposing the pile of rubbish strewn across the carpet: a cell phone lay in several pieces next to a cardboard box overflowing with chips and wires and screws, having been in the progress of being laboriously taken apart in pursuit of certain items of hardware. Willow began digging through the box feverishly, dumping small scraps all over the closet.

"Wait..." said Friction, studying her face. "How early were you up, exactly?"

Willow's eyes were swollen and dark from one too many late nights and early mornings, but, undeterred, she brushed her long, scraggly black hair over her shoulders and shrugged. "Since 5:30, slacker."

"Let me see it!" Friction begged.

"Later. We have to go before your mom yells at us again." Willow finally piled everything back into the box, tossing a silver keyring to Friction.

Friction sprinted out to the front door, where Trisha stood waiting there with her purse over her shoulder, her dark brown hair up in a bun. He handed the keyring to her and she eyed the two of them suspiciously.

"Were you using this for something?" she asked.

"Nope," lied Willow, tugging on her shoes.

"Alright, let's go before all of the fruit is sold out for the day. Mike's waiting out in the car. Have you two got your masks?"

"Yes, Mom," Friction sighed, patting his pocket.

The three of them ran to the car outside, where Friction's father sat slumped in the driver's seat waiting for them, sipping a mug of coffee. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dirty-blonde hair, strong hands, and a furrowed brow, and he narrowed his eyes impatiently at them as he started the vehicle.

"Climb in and let's go," he said in his deep voice. "And hope the car doesn't break down on us. Willow, you'll have to listen for those weird sounds that I've been talking about, and see if you know what is going on."

"We might have to take it into the shop," Trisha worried. She gave Mike the keyring and he attached it unquestioningly to his car keys. 

"Not if I can fix it," Willow declared, pulling on her seatbelt. "You want to take it into the shop, and... how long have you known me, exactly?"

As Mike drove the car out of the neighborhood, Friction glanced at his cell phone to see if he had gotten any texts overnight. "I can't believe it's December already," he said, staring down at the words December 1, 2292. "It's too warm to be December. I won't have to wear a coat until February at this rate."