Simon opens the door. Door to the same apartment in Lisbon. But it's somehow different when he walks through the threshold. Full of people, as it used to be on weekend nights. But these are strangers, men and women he no longer recognizes, or feels any kinship with. The bottles of wine and beer and liquor are as it used to be, along with the **** on the kitchen table and the hookah by the couch. But pistols and syringes lay open upon flat surfaces now alongside the old instruments of fun. Like a dream, people whose names he didn't know greet him like a hero as he creeps through his own kitchen. Someone hands him a joint, which he hits, tastes **** and something else which make things even more surreal, passes it back to the mass, and fights his way to a chair where the tv used to be. "Simon, Simon! Just the guy to end this stalemate! Tell us, how do you feel about this ******* they're feeding us now eh!?! More austerity measures! Let those pigs **** some more and leave less for us eh?" A magazine is casually tossed in his general direction. Simon catches it by the spine, and glances at it, trying too hard to remember the name that belongs to the face on the cover. In an attempt to not be argumentative, he vaguely agrees, "Of course there are changes to be made, we all recognize that, but it's a delicate thing. The EU charter has provisions for this, but it's not being followed here. Or anywhere else though, so we can't get ahead of ourselves. Pardon me senor, can I hit that right quick?" The hookah hose is handed, a bottle is passed, and Simon gets up out of the chair. Tara is nowhere in sight, possibly *******, possibly preaching, possibly shooting up, maybe all three. Clara is in the bathroom throwing up most likely, and I don't know why I'm here, he thinks it might be something to do with a feeble hope that what he'd been told was just exaggerated rumor. He wanders the apartment that was once so full of....something else,something he couldn't name, looking for the good that he used to feel in it. People talk at him and he responds, but he doesn't really pay much attention to their comments or his responses. He finds himself on the balcony, blessedly empty, lights a cigarette and let's his memory drift. Remembers the guitar, and the wine, and the feel of her hand when she took it from him to play. He hums the tune to himself, half as a mercy and half as a torture. He remembers the shape of her shoulder and the green of her sweater, and the sunset reflected in her eyes when she slapped him, the fire in her that he has loved since that day. The fire he has been watching die for months. "You can never love someone enough to make them love themselves, usually they end up resenting you for it anyway," says a voice from behind him. Simon, in the place his mind is now isn't even surprised, simply turns to the source of the voice, a man sitting in the far back left corner. "They may end up hating you for it even. People cling to their self-conceptions harder than anything, more so than politics or religion or love. Especially if it's good clean love. Damaging, nasty love is the kind people like her need, and will never be turned away from." It's hard to make out features in the glow cast by candles and distant city lights, but Simon can see the speaker's face is aquiline, high cheekbones and a very straight nose. Brownish short hair, light and thin body, built like a runner or a Bedouin. Simon almost asks who he his, almost responds with the usual surface garbage he's been saying to people all night. Instead, he asks the almost shadow what the **** he's talking about and, more importantly who the **** he thinks he is to presume to know that kind of crap about someone you've never met. "You know exactly what, and who I'm talking about Simon. As for presuming to know things about people I've never met, I have met Tara, and Clara, and a hundred other girls like them. And I know how those stories end." "And how do you know my name, who the hell are you and what the hell do want?" Simon responded. The almost shadow's cigarette flares as he inhales and for a second Simon can see the grey eyes of a Gael, is reminded of mists and mountains, ancient memory, understands that he's being hunted. "Lots of people know your name here. I've seen that look on your face many times, worn it myself many times, and I don't want anything from you. But you certainly want something from me, even though you don'y know it yet. It's good to finally meet you Simon. You can call me Ashenden." The voice leans forward into the light and extends his hand. As Simon takes it, he looks into the face of a predator.
