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| The following story is an entry in Network Twenty's March 2008 Fiction Contest. Author's name will be posted after a winner has been chosen. Roman Coin "Our deepest fear is not that we are powerless. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure." —Nelson Mandela (quoting from A Return To Love by Marianne Williamson) To find his card repeatedly denied by the scanner was, for Matt, like being told he didn't exist. He slides his card through the slot again, and yet again the scanner box, situated next to the door, gives off that annoying heavy buzz, accompanied by a little flashing red light. He was faced with a conundrum: if his card wouldn't work, then he would not be able to enter his workplace. For Matt this was tantamount to...well, again, it was like not existing, or at the very least like being shut out from a major part of his existence. Work was the golden rule of Matt's life; not so much work, as much as following rules, and keeping a good work record was definitely a golden rule of society, and societies rules were Matt's life. However, he had bigger problems now. It just didn't make sense... the card had worked yesterday! Up until now his daily routine had followed its normal course of events without any indication at all that something like this would occur. It was too early in the morning for this to happen...it had to be a mistake of course... One of Matt's co-workers, Sally, approaches him from behind, startling him from his deep vexation. She smiles, flashing her almost too perfect white teeth; fashionably dressed as usual—even for work—she stands with her arms crossed and one leg sticking out from the other. "Say Matt, you seem a bit shaken, what’s wrong?" Rubbing at the back of his neck, Matt responds, "Uh, yeah, it's the I.D. scanner," he points, "It won't read my card...I don't know, it must be broken or something." "Huh, that's weird," she says taking out her own card. Sliding it down the slot, the move is followed by a green light and a heavy clunk, as the card is accepted and the door unlocks. "That's strange, isn't it? It must be your card. Funny, I've never heard of a thing like that happening before." "Oh, well, I doubt that very much, but at least I can get in now. Guess I'll have to take care of this mix-up after work." Sally's tone turns from sympathy to caution. "Hmm, yeah, you know Matt, I would like to do that, but that's an infringement of company policy, and rules are rules. I mean, it's a security risk. I could lose my job for something like that." "Uh, well yeah, that's true—" "I do hope that everything works out with this though. I'm sure it's a mistake. I can't imagine you doing anything to deserve it." She flashes him another smile, and then walks through the door; the sound of her high heels clapping against the floor follows her as the door closes with a heavy thud. Of course she's right, Matt concedes to himself, it is a security risk. But still...he feels rejected, not only by the scanner, but by Sally herself. She was the best looking girl at work, with those high heels, that mane of blonde hair, her perfect skin...he almost felt like he was in high school again, and his embarrassment seemed to build even more. The rest of his co-workers begin filling in behind him, and he finds himself forced to walk past all of them, head down and suitcase in hand, trying to look casual, like maybe he forgot something. Of course it was a lame attempt, for surely Sally would tell everyone what had happened later on. News would quickly spread that his I.D. card was not being accepted. He thinks better of asking for help, for such could only bring the risk of further rejection; instead he heads back to his car in the company parking lot. His heart begins beating faster and faster as panic starts to set in. He gets to his car and leans against it. He tries to think this situation through, in a calm and rational manner. How can the card not be read? It couldn't be disabled, because that would mean that he did something wrong, something illegal. But he hadn't done anything wrong. He is a law-abiding citizen with a clean criminal record. Of course it was a mistake. He just had to go to the proper authorities and get it fixed. He unlocks his car and gets in. Sitting down he tries to relax. He looks his card over in both hands. The left hand corner reads NSID, short for 'National Security Identification', the text in big bold letters. To the left of this is a stiff photo of Matt, staring straight with an awkward smile on his face. At the bottom of his card reads, 'New York State Issue #44122556703'. Where was the mistake? Was it with his driver's license, his bank account, his credit? It could have been any of number of reasons, for the card acted as a major focal point in ones social identity, keeping an almost total store of personal information within it. It was usually very convenient. Matt goes to use his cell phone—as a good employee always calls into work to account for their absence—but finds it out of order. Apparently he really was in a jam, if even his phone service was affected. He couldn't even call into work! He couldn't imagine what else might get canceled if he didn't fix this mistake soon. He starts his car, mindful of not breaking any traffic laws, lest he should get pulled over with a deactivated I.D. card. The law was not forgiving to people of his kind. Jeez, "his kind". Had it come to that already? He couldn't help but think of what his roommate would say to all this. No doubt he would get a real kick out of seeing him in such a position, like a child watching a beetle on its back. The irony of sharing an apartment with a suspected agitator, and here he's the one worried about evading the police... Matt drives as fast as the speed limit allows along a long stretch of thruway. At periodic intervals signs hang from overpasses, displaying electronic messages; today's message is: "Start the day smart...buckle up..." The sun has only begun to come up, coloring the bottom edge of the sky with a faint orange, which faintly bleeds upward towards the prevailing darkness. Thruway lights travel along with Matt, going on to dot the rest of the high concrete barricades along the thruway's side for as long as the eye can see. Various cars cruise by, all, generally, at the same speed, along the three lanes. They dance around each other, seemingly driven by the need to out-do the other in getting where they need to go with the least amount of personal vexation. Ranging from trendily small to intimidating large (sometimes to the point of obnoxiousness) they all share the common trait of a sleek and modern style, attributable to the average morning commuter. Matt, who's car belonged the former class of cars, bore the crux of paranoia at the thought of damaging his vehicle, which would not only raise his insurance, but might even raise the interest rate on his loan payments, which could very well add another five years to his payments! Along the sides of the thruway, beyond the high concrete barricades, are various advertisements, each longer than the other as they vie for the attention of commuters. The messages are elongated for the sake of (profit, marketing impact) coherency. Every day one is greeted to the sight of diverse images, of pretty smiling faces, abstract imagery, and bold colorful letterings. Matt's roommate could not help— as usual— on commenting upon the irony of a commercial influence along public roads which serves to undermine the safety messages of "big brother" with the distraction of their advertisements. Matt didn't think about it that much; he just thought they looked nice. As he looks on at the billboards an electronic dinging is suddenly emitted from his car. He looks down to find that his low fuel signal is flashing, and his gas gauge is almost on "Empty". He finds this to be just a little too much to take at the moment, as he's racing to save his very identity from the abyss of misinformation. How I could let my tank get so low, he wonders. Of course it is really no surprise as he was always putting off a trip to the fuel station, as gas prices were at such an all time high that filling up always seemed extra burdensome on his bank account. He always waited until the very last moment of the day. It seemed that at the very least procrastination was a social rule that he could admit to breaking, and, as usually happens with crimes, it had finally caught up with him. His cars computer chimes in "Your tank is almost empty. You should find a gas station immediately... Your tank is empty..." Matt pulls into a thruway service station exit, which, luckily, could be found periodically all along most thruways and interstate routes. These stations were predominately small and sparse of goods, resembling a general convenient store found within towns, unlike interstate stations which were larger and containing a different number of fast food services. The thruway stations were usually commercially owned by the same company, and affiliated with the same gas company. The one he was pulling into was a "Stop & Go" brand. Matt pulls next to a pump, although nervous about what is going to happen, knowing that odds were that if his card wouldn't let him get into work and if he wasn't able to make even a phone call, then he probably wouldn't be able to get gas. However he was never one to underestimate the human factor of such ordeals, the ability to appeal to the reason and good graces of another person. He gets out of his car and begins walking to the store, trying to look as cool and nonchalant as possible, as it was almost certain that he was being captured on surveillance cameras. A bored clerk sits behind a counter inside, watching a music video on a television monitor above and in front of her. Matt softly coughs into his hand as he walks towards the counter, trying to act in as relaxed a manner as possible. He sees a tabloid magazine next to the lady, displaying the latest in celebrity news. Apparently another celebrity teenager has had a baby, and a popular television actor was arrested for sexual relations with one of his pets. "Can I help you sir?" she asks, looking at him with tired eyes. Her nametag reads Luanne. "Yes," he replies. "I seem to be having a little trouble with my card today." He takes it out of his pocket and holds it in front of her. "I was wondering if you could try it out on your own scanner." "Yeah sure honey, but I mean, if it don't work, it don't work. I can't see the difference in tryin' it anywhere else." She takes the card from his hand, then looks up at him with a hint of suspicion, asking, "You sure you ain't done anything wrong?" "What?— No, of course not. Like I said, it must be a mistake, probably with my local administrator. It's just that, well, I'm almost out of gas, critically low in fact, and this is sort of a last ditch move on my part." He tries a weak laugh. "Kind of a desperation move, you know?" She walks over to her register, turning the card over in her hand. She examines it, looking up at Matt, no doubt comparing the photo with the actual face. Great, Matt thinks, she thinks I'm David Koresh or something..." Not that he could blame her; there was no doubt a taboo of sorts built up about people who didn't have a working I.D. card, as if they were somehow outside of the governments identification system, and only people with something to hide would try and distance themselves from an I.D. card; case in point, his roommate and his friends, who stayed up all hours of the night talking their political theory and smoking pot, yet couldn't find time to get a real job and pay their taxes and, no surprise, did not have I.D. cards. She slides the card through. There is no noise or any other indication of either a denial or acceptance, and Matt finds himself held in suspense. "Just a second," she says as she peers at her computer screen in front of her, tapping her long fingernails against the counter. After a moment she looks back at Matt. "The computer's rejecting your card." "Rejecting?" "Yep..." She looks back at her screen and then back at Matt. "It's been deactivated." "Deactivated?!" "Yep..." She hands the card back to Matt. Matt looks at the card in both hands for a second, uncertain of what to do next; no doubt he had expected this, but he still had held onto an irrational hope that it would still work. "Um...," he reads her nametag, "...Luanne..." Luanne takes a small step back, crossing her arms. She was a middle aged woman with a scrawny frame and hardened face, and was understandably on guard; she did not look like a compromising person, no doubt the result of spending her later days working in a service station off a thruway exit. He must have seemed ever more, at that moment, the social deviant; worse, another unnecessary pain in the ass on the hard road of life. He continues, "I—well obviously—seem to have something wrong with my card. I just need to get to my administrator to fix it, which is like a 15 minute ride from where I am now. But, like I said earlier, I am critically low on gas, and I'm not sure I can make it on what I have. Obviously if my card doesn't work then I'm in a bit trouble. I can give you my full contact information—I'll even leave my wallet—if you let me get—" Luanne has begun shaking her head even before interrupting him. "Listen sir, I can't just give gas away. It's against company policy. I could lose my job." Her eyes look over and beyond him. Over his shoulder he sees that a small line of patrons has developed all commuters with tired looks, eager to get going. "Can I at least use a phone so that I can call an officer for help maybe...?" "Troopers don't respond to that kind of situation honey. If they did, they'd never get any real work done. Sorry, but it looks like your outta' luck." Matt's face has noticeably slackened, resembling a disappointed child. "Yeah, that's fine, um, thanks anyway..." He walks past the line of customers towards the door, head down to ignore their stares. Of course she could lose her job, but still... He doesn't think he's ever felt lower, and the ringing memory of his roommate's advice to buy a bicycle wasn't helping the situation... Matt doesn't even make it to his exit before his car stalls. For five minutes he had been in anticipation of the worse, only slightly convinced that he could possibly make it, sitting hunched over his wheel, trying to distract himself with music. It was at the sight of his exit that his car began making stalling jerks, which would rock it forward sporadically. Quickly he makes a turning signal and then steers it onto the shoulder. Cars behind him beep as they pass by, barely bothering to slow down. He sits in his car for a moment, trying to work up the courage to think, unwilling to deal with the absurdity of this situation. All I need to do is get to the fucking post office to see my administrator. He doesn't even realize that he has cursed something which he tries never to do. Vulgarity was not something he indulged in, another golden rule of society, and the breaking of which was an indication of how absolutely frustrated he felt. He looks at his watch and gets his brain moving, figuring that if he started walking at as fast a pace as possible, he could make it in about twenty minutes. Determination suddenly fills him with the confidence to get out of his car. He knows that the sooner he gets to the post office, the sooner he can talk to his NSID administrator, and the sooner he can get his day back to normal. If all went well, he could be back to work before lunch, hopefully without any repercussions on the part of his manager. After waiting for the last car to zoom by, he gets out of his car, locks the doors, and begins walking along the concrete barricade to the off ramp exit, staying close to its side. Despite his new found will to action, he still feels a dreadful anticipation, a sort of doom, as if—and he had never considered himself susceptible to superstitious thinking—whatever forces had been looking out for his social stability up to that point had suddenly abandoned him. Over twenty minutes later, Matt finds himself standing in line at his post office, which sits in the middle of a transient commercial district, replete with strip malls and restaurants, and neighboring a commercial bank. The building itself is a large bureaucratic construct, consisting of numerous government agencies, all under the auspices of the United States Postal Service, which has become the armature of personal identification information. Its surrounding property was considerable and replete with storage garage areas, containing mail and a fleet of mail trucks. This centralized postal office was responsible for, among other things—like the Department of Motor Vehicles—the postal service of the surrounding area, which, besides for the commercial district, was a quasi-urban "village" community area; in reality it could be described as a middle ground between the inner city and outer suburbs, a transient area of a burgeoning young college and working class population, united in the common cause of debt (some even referred to it as "debt alley"). Of course, where Matt saw a fortunate opportunity for young people to find affordable housing, his roommate saw "an encroaching commercializing urbanization that acted as the next step of suburban development that sought to turn everything into an urban conglomerate, using the youth as its driving tool for colonization" but Matt quite easily dismissed such ideas as the imagination of a reactionary conspiracy nut who saw misdeeds in every form of progressive development; he should be thankful to have a place to sleep. He stands in a line that leads to his local National Security Identification Administration, responsible for the NSID cards of everyone in his area. Only three people are in line in front of him, but the nature of appointments could be so complicated and detailed—we are dealing with people's identities after all—that a single person could take up to an hour. Behind counters and disappearing into inner hallways are the hustle and bustle of government employees of the post office who are constantly keeping track of numerous document and files of individuals, keeping these in synch with the information on computer databases. Matt remembered that it was here that he first signed up for his I.D card upon moving into the area to start his job. In fact he could see the photography area where he had had his picture taken—the one currently on his card. He remembered how he had felt on that day, almost like that of a newly arrived convict to prison. How young he had been to allow nervous anxiety make him think such things. However he could not ignore the irony that those feelings very closely resembled how he felt now. Standing in line, he wipes traces of sweat from his brow, a physical reminder of his long arduous trek from his car through this hectic commercial area. While the outside may have been chilly, inside he found it unbearably hot, no doubt due to a combination of intense lighting from above and amount of activity around him. There were lines everywhere as people stood waiting to take care of some important piece of business. Everyone around him was about his own age, although he didn’t recognize any of them. Not that he should, for he had been out of school for over a year. In contrast to his peers, the government workers behind the desks and counters were all middle to late aged, with heavy demeanors and short responses. They could have been branding cattle. Matt, however was less concerned with the state of government operation than with the trouble it had taken him to get there; as far as he was concerned, the walk had only added more humiliation to his ordeal. He could not help but agonize over having to walk through busy intersections, having to nearly sprint across roads in order to evade changing traffic lights and avoid being hit by oncoming vehicles. The stares he had had to endure by passer bys, looking out from their windows at this man, no doubt dressed smartly, yet with a look of anxiety upon his face, all composure lost as he made his way through the flip side of the usual busy morning of a familiar world. He must have looked like some sort of vagabond, a drifter, or worse, homeless. And how many times had he himself seen such types making their way through that and other types of commercial "no-man's land", as he drove by in his car, tending to his own personal affairs? The poor and destitute, walking with bags in hand, some with carts even, looking lost within civilization, or even uncaring, as if accepting the status of outsider; and he had always been able to rationalize such a situation with a sort of social-Darwinist outlook, that is, their sad position in life being due simply to a personal or biological lack of social skill, nothing but another unfortunate fact of life. Now he had gotten a taste of such a position—a small one at that—and he realized how fragile ones position in society really was, and how easy it can be for even someone with a sound position to fall down to the bottom of the social ladder. Perhaps things were not as simple and "natural" as they could first appeared. How his roommate would have laughed if he had rode by, no doubt by bicycle, seeing Matt walking in such a state as he had been in. He could imagine him proclaiming such to be "a healthy dose of humility". Doubtless, he would have then offered Matt a ride, making room on his seat and taking him wherever he needed to go. For the first time in a long time, Matt began to question an aspect of his society he lived in, futilely trying to reconcile it to the total in which he had always given his faith and obedience. I've had it with humility and the "wretched of the earth", he concludes. I just want my existence back... A strained voice cuts through his moment of doubt. "Excuse me sir, you're up now." Matt realizes where he is and quickly makes his way to the counter, where a stout older woman with large glasses awaits him, as administrative clerk, behind a plastic window; this window is surrounded by two walls that make up something of a booth. Peering out at him with a bored expression, she asks, "How can I help you sir?" "Yes," he begins, but finds that for a moment he doesn't know where to begin. That whole morning had proven a little more than he had been ready to handle. "Uh..." he stalls, and fumbles for his card in his pocket. He panics at the prospect of not being able to find it, after all that work getting to the Post Office, but his hand stumbles across the thin plastic. He takes it out and finishes, "...yes, um, it seems there is something wrong with my card. I'm not sure why, but it's been deactivated." "Deactivated?" "Yes, deactivated." "Well, did you do anything wrong sir?" "No, of course not!" Realizing that he just shouted, he struggles to regain a humble tone of voice. It was no secret that civil servants could be some of the hardest people to deal with, and humbleness went a long way with them. "Let me see your card sir." He slides the card through the slot at the bottom of the window. She takes it in her hand and looks it over while she goes to her computer; after a moment she begins to type away at the keyboard. He can see the slight glow of the computer screen against her face. It seemed like forever as Matt stood by the window, waiting with a suspense incomparable to that he had felt at the service station, waiting to see where all this typing would lead to. Could it be so simple? Mere typing away at a computer to find that he was an unfortunate victim of some bureaucratic mistake, that he really was a decent citizen and that he would be able to return to his life in a mere moments time? Time seemed to drag on with uncertainty. "Sir, how long has your card been inactive?" Matt responds quickly, coming to attention like a long neglected dog. "Only since this morning. It had been working fine until then." She resumes her typing and reading the screen, ignoring Matt. He stands staring at her, ready to tell her anything, eager in fact. How odd it is that he has been reduced to referring to his personal information as if it were just an object. Maybe he was a dog. The clerk emits an "Hmm..." as she reads from her computer screen. Matt can no longer take the suspense. He grabs onto the edge of the counter and eagerly peers in at her. "What is it? Is something wrong? Was it just a mistake?" "There appears to have been a glitch." "Glitch?" The clerk sniffs her upper lip, and then looks up at Matt for the first time since going to her computer. "Yes, apparently your record has been erased from our records." Matt's face turns pale. "Oh don't worry sir; believe it or not, this is a common mistake. Our national database is undergoing a transition period at the moment; our information is currently in the process of being merged with that of Canada, Mexico, Western Europe, and Asia, as well as most other parts of the world. You have to understand that we are dealing with a large amount of information, and mistakes do happen. Sometimes information simply gets lost in the shuffle." The color comes back to Matt's face, noticeably relieved at the news that he had been correct all along, it really was nothing more than a mistake. How silly he felt; of course he should have known the commonality of such an event, the result of a growing global relationship between such government bodies. "So how long before this all gets fixed-up?" "Well, obviously there is going to be a good amount of paper work to fill out. I can give you the proper forms in a second. After that, it is simply a matter of this information getting reprocessed and installed back into the corresponding state, federal and international databases. So, after the paperwork is completed and sent back, you're looking at about a year—" "A year?!" "Sir you didn't let me finish. A year or two, depending on how the transitional phase goes. Again, we are dealing with a lot of information at this time. I'm sorry if this is an inconvenience to you, but the sooner you complete the paper work, the sooner the processing can begin." Matt stands uncomprehending. A year or two? This was more than a mere inconvenience. This was his life! Staring at the clerk, he is suddenly struck with a profound feeling of absurdity and hopelessness; how absurd was a situation where your very existence could be wiped out by the mere 'glitch' of computer bits, and how hopeless seemed the idea of trying to convey such absurdity to this clerk, with her bored eyes which no doubt regarded him as nothing but more paper work. This newfound sense of absurdity and hopelessness seemed to be rooted in their very existence as social beings, and no amount of rational discourse could change this. Tears threatened to flood Matt's eyes, but such would have been in vain, for the clerk had already disappeared into the back, no doubt to prepare the necessary documents... Matt sits on the side of his bed, staring down at his former NSID card that he holds in his hands. Next to him is a wet stack of national security identification forms. His mind is a blank, silent and uncomprehending. He does not wish to think about anything at the moment, not about the fact that he is missing from work, the fact that he cannot make a phone call, the fact that his car is now sitting on the side of a thruway—most likely has been towed away by now—the fact that he has done over an hour's worth of walking which accomplished really nothing, nor the overwhelming fact that his identity was currently non-existent as far as his government was concerned, and that it would be so for at least a year, by which point, well...he really didn't know... He turns the card over, looking at the barcode at the bottom, marveling at this piece of coding which he had never before taken the time to notice, the multiple lines of various lengths, demarcated at even spaces by three lines, larger and thicker than the rest. How absolutely odd they seem to him, these cold symbols of rationality. He drops the card to the floor, his image continuing to stare up at him. Lifting his head, he looks around his room as part of his struggle against thinking. How bare it seemed to him at that moment. Getting up from the bed, he slowly walks to his roommate's bedroom, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, his composure relaxed from his mood of resignation. Like Matt's there was a bed and a desk, with a single window for a view of outside, but that was where similarities stopped, in which case it was the exact opposite of Matt's own. His bookshelves were crammed with books, so many books of different types, all expressing the radical and intellectual proclivities of his roommate. Too many books, for what could not fit on the shelves were stacked next to his desk. There were books ranging from vegetarian cookbooks, to American, world and Western history, to fiction, biographies and auto-biographies, to philosophy, to political theory as well as an assortment of college textbooks that he had saved. On another shelf was his music collection. Riddling his walls were various sized posters and pictures displaying his heroes and sloganeering thoughts. On his desk were stacks of different notebooks and papers, pens and pencils lying about, and what utensils were not being used was kept in a mug. He had a laptop computer, itself riddled with stickers of more slogans. Although not a mess, the room expressed a clear characteristic of clutter and free movement, someone with little time for complete order and organization. He could only guess at the materials his roommate kept that he could not see. All in all, there was enough paraphernalia and licentious material to put anybody on a national security watch list, if not outright detainment. How many times had he expected to hear the crash of a door in the middle of the night, to have police stampede through their apartment, and see his roommate dragged out of bed and taken away? He had even sometimes kept this as a secret hope, that he may find a new roommate more in tune with the social values of the time. Yet, and for not the first time but perhaps more strongly than ever, he could not help but envy his roommate. He had something that Matt did not have, and that was character. He had conviction, principles, ideas, ideals, hopes, and the passion of a free-thinker. Matt was willing to admit that his roommate possessed qualities that he never would; he was everything Matt was not. He was fettered by neither I.D. cards nor the adherence to social mores, by nothing but the conviction of his own thoughts. He gets up from the doorway and leaves, closing the door behind him. Back in his room, the bareness of his character hits him like a revelation. His room had no posters. He had a few books on a shelf, the college textbooks he had not traded back in for credit, and these were all related to his business major. His room reflected his life: barren and sterile. How his roommate and his friends must laugh at him, criticize him for being so blatantly narrow and rigid, too willing to conform and fit in, lest he be picked out from the crowd. And for all that, for all the years of being a good citizen, for following the rules, for conforming to the norms, for condemning himself to a life of office work, what had he gotten in return? Non-existence. It seems that things were not all perfect in such a state of consciousness, that there were reasons for not conforming. Sitting back on his bed, a wave of light headedness hits him. It seems he could not stop himself from thinking, and for the first time he thought that he might be able to enjoy thinking, could enjoy being critical. After all, what did he have to lose now? What could be taken away from him that had not already been deleted? He laughs out loud, unable to contain it. Maybe it isn't so bad not existing, he thinks; after all, how absurd had his existence been anyways. What kind of situation was it, where your whole identification was kept on a card! A card that could be so easily lost, and with it your whole means to survival! He found that he was mad at his society, at his government, and most of all, at himself, for being so stupid as to get stuck in such a situation. He was mad and would not have chosen to be any other way, and what was strange was that at this moment of rage he found himself to be happy in a way he had not been happy in a long time. He begins to laugh, wishing his roommate could be here to laugh with him; they could both laugh at him and his situation and then maybe they could be friends on different terms. As he laughs, tears begin building until they fall down his cheeks, and his laughter turns to sobbing. His light headedness builds, his heart rate increases, and his muscles tighten, until he faints, strained with grief, falling over on his bed; his vision fades to black... Out of both a mix of concern and curiosity, John enters his roommate's bedroom. His concern is produced by the fact that the door had been unlocked when he entered, yet Matt's car was not parked by anywhere outside their building, and there was no sign that he was home. He was knew he had locked the door before leaving that morning—locked the door—and he knew that even if Matt had returned for something, he would have made sure to lock the door also; it was one of the few traits they had in common. His curiosity is produced by the fact that it was highly unusual that Matt would not be home after five, as he was not one to deviate from his daily routine; actually, he ran like clock-work, and John found that he could literally set his time to Matt's daily movements. Before even entering, he finds the door to be slightly ajar, when this morning it had been closed. Entering, he finds Matt lying keeled over on his bed, as if falling from a sitting position. His face was a pale white, eyes closed, and mouth slightly open. Calmly, he walks over to Matt's bedside, kneels down, and checks his neck for a pulse. Matt was dead. Yet for all this, his face had a look of peace to it, of contentment. It was the only time John could say that Matt looked genuinely happy. "Poor bastard," he whispers to himself. Unfortunately, he could not say that he was too surprised. Matt had always been a high strung type, and the last couple of months had been hard, with the surmounting pressures of work and accrued debt. Most likely a panic attack of some sort, but what did he know. John gets up to look his roommate (unfortunately, he could not say they had ever been friends) over and think of what things he should hide before calling the authorities, when he notices a large coin on the ground at the spot he had been kneeling. How odd to see a coin at all these days, let alone one as dark and large as this, like it was made of bronze or something. He reaches down and picks it up, looking it over. On the front and back of it is the image of some sort of ancient face, indistinguishable in any specific type of contemporary features, even from the days own historical standards. Around the bottom edge reads the inscription "Hoc Signo Victor Eris". He was pretty sure it was Latin, and from what he knew of Western history, he was looking at a Roman coin... | |