“You do realize that time is a human construct, right?” Liza said as she leisurely put on her jacket.

“What?” Carson almost toppled over while trying to pull on his sneaker.

“Time’s a construct,” Liza said again, sitting down to lace up her boots.

“I heard you,” he grunted, grabbing his coat from the rack. “What do you mean, though?”

“Well, I mean that the way we measure time – minutes, hours, years, centuries – it’s all made up. It’s something humans created to organize and keep track of stuff. Nature doesn’t do things in seconds or years, at least they don’t keep track of them the same way we do.”

“Wait, you’re saying time is fake?”

“It’s not fake. We still experience time, we still move through it,” Liza sighed, shaking her head. “It just means that the measurement of time is an illusion. Ever notice how an hour can fly by, but a minute can feel like forever?” She shrugged. “It’s because the unit of ‘hour’ or ‘minute’ doesn’t actually exist. That’s why the experience of it isn’t standard.”

Carson’s foot was tapping as he checked his watch. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean we won’t miss the beginning of the movie. Will you hurry up already?”

“Yeah, okay.”

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

“I don’t expect you to understand, you know. No one ever did. Maybe no one ever will. But then again, maybe I’m not as special as I think I am. Do we ever really know anyone? We think we do, we think we can put people into neat, understandable little boxes, categorize and codify and compartmentalize, but in the end, we’re all mysteries, aren’t we? Doomed to move through the world, trapped in our own heads, with only ourselves for company.

“Of course, some of us would act out. Would feel the need to be seen, to be heard, to be understood. To not be lost, adrift, floating alone through this scary world. To stand out, to be special, not just fall in line and do what we’re told. And then what happens when that doesn’t work, when we try and try and try, and are perpetually disappointed? Maybe some people have more hope, more patience, than I do. Maybe others lash out, blame the world for their problems. Or maybe, like me, they decide, fuck it. I’m going to do something. I’m going to be seen. And woe to anyone who gets in my way.”

She leaned forward, the handcuffs chaining her to the table clinking in the quiet room. She grinned at the agents sitting across from her, mocking their solemn faces, their ironed suits and shiny badges.

“You really think you have anything on me? You’re not going to find them.” She lounged back in the metal chair, her smile loose and relaxed. “I’ve come to terms with who I am. I don’t need to explain myself, or be validated, or prove I’m better than you.” She shrugged. “I already know I am.”

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

“Ah ha! Got it! Told you I would. You owe me a drink.” Albert the Rouge dropped a very large broach on the table in front of Leila. She barely looked up at him, gaze focused on the jewels glittering in the tavern’s candlelight.

“Are you quite insane?” she asked, voice smooth.

“What?”

She gestured around them, to the rather rough crowd drinking and singing bawdy songs. “Because you must be insane to be flashing this around, in a place like this.” She scooped up the broach, giving it a quick look-over before tucking it into her pocket.