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Your name is Dirk Strider, and you are bored. Not just in this moment as you go about making a sandwich to fulfill your tiresome daily needs, but existentially. The vast majority of your life you have spent being bored. You were too smart for friends as a child, or so you believed and it’s not a belief you’ve ever outgrown. You tried filling your life with whatever thrills you could buy with the millions of dollars your movie mogul brother left you, but even those grew old much too fast.
The only thing that keeps you from being bored in every second of every day is the boy currently hanging from the ceiling behind you, apparently under the mistaken impression that he’s about to surprise you with a sneak attack. You are so very glad you decided to keep him when you found him on that island.
He’s lodged between the cupboards, spread-eagle with his hands and feet pressed tight against the wood. You can hear him breathing, sharp quick breaths after long silences. He stops completely when you approach, then hisses, long and low, when you walk away again.
You are curious how long he can hold himself like that. It’s already been an impressive length of time and you’re tempted to test his limits, but it would be a shame to miss out on the attack he has planned.
You decide to throw him a bone and walk under where he hangs. He pushes off with his feet, swinging a double legged kick towards your head. You easily block with your forearm and he rolls forward onto the balls of his feet and leaps over your head onto the counter behind you.
You draw your sword as you turn and he grabs another sword out of the sink and uses it to block your blow. You leave the weapons scattered about the apartment for him to use as he pleases, but he’s not yet comfortable attacking with them. He has learned, however, that nothing blocks a sword better than a sword.
He lunges forward with a hand on each side of the weapon, using it like a battering ram and trying to push you off balance. Blood seeps between his fingers on the side that holds the blade, but it doesn’t deter him. You take a step back and he vaults over the swords, landing with a foot on the corner between your hand and your hilt and trying to slam his knee into your chin. You throw your head back and your arm up, launching him into the air. As he flips over your head, he grabs your hair, tangling his fingers between the gelled strands for an unbreakable grip. He falls to a crouch on the ground, pulling you with him. You use one arm to brace your fall and the other swings your sword, finding his throat as you land. You hold steady and watch him eye the sword nervously.
“We could call this a draw,” you say, “except that would be lying since I’ve clearly won.”
His eyes narrow and he rolls backwards away from your blade. He grabs the hilt of the sword he’d dropped earlier with both hands and swings it.
Not bad, you think, except that he’s clearly trying to bash you over the head with it like a club. Still, the fact that neither hand is gripping the blade is a vast improvement in of itself.
You easily block the attack and twist your wrist to disarm him. He swings a fist towards your face and you duck under it, grabbing his shoulders and slamming him back against the cabinets. You hear a loud crack as his skull hits the counter’s edge, and then his head rolls down so that his chin is on his chest.
You count off 60 seconds to make sure he’s unconscious, and then gently rub your thumb along his scalp. A little bit of blood, but nothing dangerous. You hook your arms under his knees and back and carry him to the bed.
-
Your name is Jake English, and you have just woken up in pain. You almost always wake up in pain. Sometimes it’s the sharp pain that accompanies a slow return to consciousness after defeat; other times the duller pain after a few days of healing. You’re too antsy to allow yourself to fully heal before staging your next attack.
Your name is Jake English and you’re finding it difficult to care anymore. You’ve spent so much time hiding in the depths of the apartment coming up with so many plans and initiating so many battles. You have no idea how much time because the fights have all blurred together into one constant war that could have been waged over a single month or over several years. You suspect it’s somewhere between the two.
Your head throbs and your hand feels stiff when you try to bend it. It’s neatly wrapped with white bandages, and judging from the way it itches, you suspect he’s sewn another of your wounds shut with the same precise stitches he uses on his dolls.
You pull at the bandage with your teeth, trying to release some of the pressure. You know better now than to yank out the stitches. The last time you did that, it wouldn’t stop bleeding for hours. He followed your trail of blood to where you’d carefully hidden yourself in the back of a cabinet, and you were too dizzy to fight him off when he stabbed you in the arm with a needle. You quickly lost consciousness after that, and when you awoke again, your wound was restitched and so thoroughly and tightly wrapped that you couldn’t remove the bandages for a week.
You drag yourself out of the room, mind flashing on potential hiding places and dismissing them just as quickly. You feel like you’ve hidden everywhere, tried everything. You stumble to the living room door and peek in. He’s leaning against the counter drinking an orange concoction and staring into space. Your gut has pegged him as a predator and is telling you to flee before he catches your scent, but your experience-based logic says that he won’t present any danger to you if you aren’t a danger to him. You slowly slink into the room. He looks at you and raises his eyebrows, but you just growl, low in your throat, and approach the TV.
His entertainment system is significantly nicer than the cracked TV and DVD player that somehow continued to work for all those years you were alone on the island. Your collection of disaster movies suggested that they were attached to a generator of sorts, but you never inspected the cords and their connections, worried that one wrong move would cost you your only link to civilization.
You hate turning your back on him to inspect the DVD’s, but he doesn’t do anything while you make your selection and place it in the machine. He chuckles as you struggle with the array of remotes trying to get everything properly turned on, but when you turn to glare at him, he’s not looking in your direction. Finally the movie starts playing and you settle back into the futon. As the opening credits roll, he sits beside you and you quickly shuffle to the far side of the couch.
“What are we watching?” he asks. You don’t respond. Your eyes are on the screen, but your body is tense, ready to fight or flee if necessary. “Oh, Terminator,” he says as the title comes on the screen. “Terrible movie.”
“I like it,” you snap. He smirks, and you realize that he was just trying to provoke a reaction from you. You curl up like a roly-poly, hands around your legs and head on your knees, and try to focus entirely on the screen.
You suspect that he thinks you’re going to attack him—that this is a new strategy to lull him into a relaxed state so you can surprise him with a sneak attack—but you really just want to watch a damn movie.
—
Your name is Dirk Strider, and you’re surprised at how many questions you want to ask him. You’re just not that interested in people. You barely even spoke to him back when you first picked him up off his island, though he would have told you anything then. He was so excited about visiting civilization, but all you were thinking about was the way he fought those beasts like he was a beast himself, and how much more exciting it would be to have regular battles with a human with real motivation to fight than those killer robots you’d grown bored of years before.
But everything about this moment fascinates you. That, from all appearances, he came into your presence completely unguarded. That he knows what a movie is. That he knows how to work a DVD player. That he’s apparently seen Terminator before.
You knew that he wasn’t completely uncivilized, of course. When you first met him, he was wearing normal, if horribly mistreated, clothing; he spoke English; and when you offered to take him off the island he ran to get some possessions to take with him. But you’ve never considered where he lived or how he lived, nor had you dwelled much on his past. You’ve never even wondered if he had a name. You suppose he does. How odd.
You wonder if this should make you feel guilty for holding him captive. It doesn’t, but you wonder if it should.
When you brought him here, you showed him exactly how to get out of the apartment. You explained the locks, which were unfamiliar to him, the windows, which he found slightly confusing, the door, which he fully understood, and the stairs to the roof, which he considered positively delightful. Next you explained the simple force field you’d installed around the apartment years before and how it was only turned on and off by a device you kept on you at all times. You made sure he fully understood how it worked, demonstrating it multiple times. Then you told him that if he ever wanted to leave the apartment again, he had to defeat you to get the device. He seemed merely confused at first, half-heartedly trying to grab it from you. It took him awhile to reach angry, but it hadn’t stopped being fun since.
He’s been tense since you sat with him on the futon, hunched up in a ball in the far corner, but as he watches the movie his shoulders slowly relax, his position becomes more casual, and a small smile plays on his lips. His hand twitches when things are tense, and his leg bounces during action scenes, the speed fluctuating with the level of action. You suspect that he’s holding himself back because you’re here, and that if you weren’t he would be yelling at the screen, gasping, running about, hiding behind the futon, and all in all making a scene. You wish he would.
-
Your name is Jake English and you love movies. You’ve missed movies. Movies were your only friends for years alone on the island. They taught you everything you know about human behavior and the so called civilized world. It was only after you left your island that it occurred to you that what they taught you was wrong or, at the very least, incomplete. Because you don’t understand this. You don’t understand him.
You glance sidelong at him and immediately return your gaze to the screen. He’s watching you. You think he’s been watching you the entire movie, which, really, is a crying shame. This is a great part.
You swallow hard and fight your urge to flee for a hiding place elsewhere in the apartment. Even if this weren’t someone who regularly beat the shit out of you, you think you’d find this level of scrutiny uncomfortable.
You glance at him again and he smirks. This time you do move—over the armrest and to a seated position on the floor pressed against the side of the futon so he can’t see you. You expect him to scoot over to your side of the futon, but he leaves you be for the rest of the movie. As soon as the credits start to roll, you scramble across the ground behind the futon and are out of the room before names of the main actors have passed.
—
Your name is Dirk Strider, and your wild boy really likes movies. You start playing them randomly throughout the week and waiting to see how long it takes him to sneak into the room—low to the ground, his movements as quiet as the breeze—and hide in one of the nooks and crannies to watch. He’s never quite as well hidden as he thinks he is. You suspect this is because, until recently, the only brains he had to compete with were those of animals, and the requirements to fool them were significantly different.
Sometimes, when the movie is particularly entertaining and he’s feeling brave, he creeps closer and watches from under the futon. Once or twice he’s even sat on the futon with you, albeit hunched up in the far corner. He refuses to talk to you, but he growls if you get too close.
It is difficult to explain exactly how adorable you find that growl.
He still attacks you regularly—you wouldn’t have it any other way—but, even though he must expect you to be distracted by the film, he never attacks while the TV is on.
-
Your name is Jake English, and you watch as he leaves the apartment, waiting until you’re certain the door is locked to venture into the living room. He’s left slices of meat and fruit on the counter, so you grab them and climb into a mostly empty cabinet above the refrigerator. You curl up in a back corner and nibble on your food. Only a tiny slice of light enters the confined space, but you don’t mind the darkness. Closed in like this, able to feel the walls on all side, you feel safe. Protected.
A dull click interrupts your thoughts. Oh, the friggin hell. You slam into the door, but it holds steady.
Friggin, friggin, friggin frick.
You push and bang against it to no avail. This is the third time this has happened to you. You don’t know what that blasted man did to the cabinets, but sometimes you can’t get in them, and sometimes you get in just fine but then can’t get out. It will be hours before you hear that contwisted click again.
You settle back against the wall and angrily chew your food, much less content with the confined space than you’d been a minute earlier.
—
Your name is Dirk Strider, and you have no idea why your neighbor is talking to you.
“I placed second, which is a disappointment, but it’s my own fault for deviating from the recipe. I thought that extra pinch of cinnamon would increase the richness of flavor, but even I thought it was too much when I tasted it.” You think her name is Joy? Jane? Honestly, you don’t care. She’s the only other person who lives on the top floor, and the only building resident who ever attempts to interact with you. You had to stifle a sigh when she stepped onto the elevator.
“I’ll be perfecting my recipes over the next few days to prepare for Sunday’s competition, which means far more baked goods than I can eat! Would you like me to bring some over?”
“No, thank you,” you reply, cooly but politely.
“Well,” she says cheerfully, “if you change your mind, you’re welcome to knock on my door!”
“I’m not going to do that.”
“I’m just saying that the offer is open if you change your mind.” Her smile is more forced now, lips pursed in a thin line, but still pleasant.
You nod—it seems like the simplest way to escape this conversation—and she stays silent for the rest of the ride.
When the elevator door opens you motion for her to exit first. It’s a socially acceptable chivalrous move, but more importantly, it gives her more time to reach her apartment before you.
“I’ll see you around,” she says as she opens the door. You respond with a curt wave and she disappears into her apartment. You watch until she’s gone and then turn to your own door.
You ready yourself for a fight as you turn the knob, but nothing happens when you step inside. That’s odd. Usually he tries to use your entrances to catch you off guard. The sides of your mouth twitch upwards as you realize he must be trapped in one of the cabinets.
The locks are one of many ways you’re testing his intelligence. They’re timed to turn on and off, following what you consider a simple pattern, albeit one that varies for different sections of cabinet. You’re curious how long it will take him to figure it out.
You walk along the cabinets until you hear dampened shuffling coming from one of them. Then you open a bottle of orange soda and lean against the counter to wait.
—
Your name is Jake English and the dagblasted door finally clicks. You haven’t heard anything since he arrived home so you cautiously push the door open. He’s standing immediately across from your position. He smirks, and you launch yourself at him without thinking. He easily dodges and has his sword out by the time you turn around. You snarl, but slowly back away. When you reach the edge of the counters, you run.
One thing you know for certain about him is that he enjoys fighting you, and you aren’t going to give him the satisfaction. Not when you’re already at a disadvantage.
You bury into the back of a closet and plot.
—
Your name is Dirk Strider, and your wild boy has been disappointingly boring lately. He hasn’t attacked. He hasn’t ventured out when you turned on the TV. He’s just hidden in the depths of the apartment, only sneaking out to nab the food you leave for him. You hope you haven’t broken him.
Sometimes you notice him watching you, his limbs tense and expression determined, but he doesn’t make a move to do more than observe.
You think about ways to draw him out, your ideas fluctuating between extremes. Cutting off his food supply would force his hand eventually if he wished to survive, but you don’t want to risk endangering his health. He’s already skinnier than you like, and involving a doctor would be difficult. Perhaps a better option would be to reward the behavior you desire, tempting him with things you know he likes.
He is an awfully expensive pet if he isn’t going to provide you with a modicum of entertainment.
—
Your name is Jake English, and you’ve been crouched on an amp beside the door for over two hours. You’ve studied the way he enters—his mannerisms, his typical position in the open doorway, and the slow lowering of his guard over these peaceful weeks. You would have benefited from waiting longer, but this plan has already required more patience than you usually possess.
The doorknob turns and you tense your legs. Wait for it, you think. The door opens two inches, three, six. At ten, you spring forward into the space above his head, halfway through the entrance before he realizes you’re not aiming for him. He swings the plastic bag he’s holding upwards and catches your foot on the handle, sending you tumbling to the ground. You try to free your foot but he deftly twists the handle around your ankle and pulls you back into the doorway. You kick at the hand holding the bag and he winces as you hit bone but holds tight. Before he can get you completely into the apartment, you scream as loudly as you can, hoping that he has neighbors.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, falling on top of you and covering your mouth with a hand. You bite the fingers as hard as you can and he swears, then grabs your shirt collar and yanks you the rest of the way into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind you and using his device to activate the invisible barrier. You grab for it and he slams the bag into your head, spilling its contents to the floor around you. Your vision goes black for a second and he takes the opportunity pin you to the ground, lying with his whole body on top of yours. You can feel his breath hissing through his teeth as you struggle. After a few minutes of useless resistance, you slump to the ground, letting your head roll to the side. It’s then that you notice what had spilled from his bag. There are at least a dozen DVD’s surrounding you.
You tilt your head to try to look at the title of the nearest one, and he laughs.
“So,” he says, words punctuated by heavy breaths. “Do you want to watch a movie?”
Your eyes roll up to look at the closed door and you think through your strategy. You could fight, but you’ve lost your element of surprise and regaining it would take significantly longer than you’ve already invested in this attempt. Even if you escape his grip now and continue the fight, he’ll have the advantage, just as he always does. Your eyes slip back to the case beside your head. “Fine,” you reply.
“Great.” He rolls off of you and begins picking up the DVD’s. You examine his stance for weaknesses, but his gaze never entirely leaves you and you know how quickly he can dodge and draw his weapon if necessary.
Besides, movie time is neutral time, and it is rather nice not to end a fight unconscious for once.
—
Your name is Dirk Strider, and god damn it, you hope nobody heard that scream. Your apartment has been thoroughly soundproofed since long before you brought him here—your hobbies have always been particularly noisy ones, whether it was fighting robots, dropping sick jams, or your brief Hollywood party stage—but you have little power over how well sound reverberates through the rest of the building.
You think the only one likely to have heard it is what’s-her-name from next door and ponder the likelihood of her calling the police. It only now occurs to you that perhaps accepting the occasional baked good would have been a reasonable way to curry favor in the event of situations like this.
You pick out a live action Tarzan film from your new purchases—you bought it because you thought he’d find it amusing, and even if he doesn’t, you do—and turn the volume up unnecessarily loud. Now, at least, if someone comes to the door you’ll have a good excuse.
He slumps onto the far side of the futon and draws his knees up under his chin. He’s moody. You wonder how long he’d been planning that escape.
You hide a smirk behind your hand. It wasn’t a bad attempt, you must admit. Of course, you’ll have to take measures to ensure he doesn’t get that close again.
The movie’s so loud that you almost miss his comment. “What?” you ask.
He glowers at you but repeats, “Animals are not that agreeable to human children in their territory.”
“Oh?” You turn the volume down so you can hear him better. You can always turn it up again if someone comes to the door.
“In my experience, animals rarely want to be friends. They don’t always try to kill you, but it’s not because they have any interest in your well-being. It just doesn’t strike their fancy at the moment.”
“Well, I don’t know,” you reply. “The movie seems to think otherwise.”
“That’s because it’s a stupid movie.”
—
Your name is Jake English, and you’re not sure why you’re speaking to him. Now that you’ve started, though, you see no reason to stop.
“When I was just a lad, a large cat nearly tore my arm off when I tried to pet one of her kits. You could excuse this as overprotective maternal instinct if that same thrice-damned feline hadn’t regularly attempted to turn me into a nutritional supplement for her and her family. Even the birds would attack me if they didn’t like where I stood. Beasts are beasts, not surrogate family members.”
“Would you like to watch a different movie?”
“No, I’m simply pointing out that it’s complete hogwash.”
“How odd,” he comments. “Movies are typically so realistic.”
You glance at him. You suspect that he’s making fun of you, and you do not appreciate it. You are aware, of course, that movies have unrealistic elements. They have not fooled you into believing in magic or space stations. But when tackling real world topics such as this, you think they should at least make a go at realism.
You are about to tell him as much when you hear an odd clacking noise. You look around trying to figure out where it’s coming from.
He doesn’t seem to have noticed it. He just turns the volume back up and says, “Try not to think too much about it. I’m going to make some popcorn.”
“What’s popcorn?” you ask.
“Seriously? You know what, never mind. You’ll find out.”
You watch him walk back to the kitchen and put a small rectangular package in the larger rectangular contraption. You’re not sure what they’re called, but you’ve seen people put food in them in movies. He looks at you and you instinctively glare before turning back to the TV.
—
Your name is Dirk Strider, and if there’s anything you’re not feeling in this moment, it’s bored. You make sure his focus is squarely on the television and then open the door.
Your neighbor winces as the sound proof barrier breaks. You’re glad it’s her and not the police. You know you can handle her. Your mind races through possible scenarios, deriving solutions for even the most unlikely sequences of events.
“Do you need your television that loud?” she asks, yelling to be heard over it. You casually glance towards the TV, using the moment to study the back of his head. No reaction. He must not be able to hear her.
“Sorry, Joy. I di…”
“It’s Jane!” she interrupts indignantly. “I’ve lived next door to you for two years!”
“Sorry, Jane,” you amend. “I didn’t realize you could hear it. I can turn it down.”
“Please do,” she replies. “It sounds like a murder from my apartment.”
“And yet you came here on your own instead of calling the police? That was awfully brave of you.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I thought it actually was a murder. Just turn it down.” She walks away and you quickly shut the door behind her.
He turns to look at you almost as soon as you step away from the door, narrowing his eyes at your location. You just raise an eyebrow at him and go to get the popcorn.
Your name is Dirk Strider, and you are one lucky son of a bitch.
—
You name is Jake English, and you suppose you should work on a plan of attack, but after your latest failure, it’s been difficult to work up the motivation. You also must admit that it’s rather nice to relax and watch movies instead of constantly hiding and fighting for your life.
You pad through the apartment, glancing in rooms and thinking about your strategy. Part of the problem is that he always seems to know where you are. No matter how well you hide, you can’t manage to surprise him. What you need to do is…
Your thoughts trail off as you approach the living room and catch whiff of an absolutely hypnotizing smell. What is that?
You decide planning can wait until after you investigate.
—
Your name is Dirk Strider, and you barely pay him any attention when he enters the room, but a minute later he’s peeking over the counter at you.
“Hello,” you say.
“What is that?” he asks. You glance behind yourself at the patty cooking in a frying pan. You assume that’s what he’s talking about.
“I’m making a hamburger,” you reply.
“Hamburger?” he repeats. “Like in the movies?”
This give you pause. It’s odd to think that, to him, aliens and hamburgers are equally fantastical.
“Would you like one?” you ask. An infectious grin spreads across his face and you swear his eyes actually sparkle. “Okay, let me just throw another one on.”
A few minutes later, you’ve got him sitting at a table eating off of a plate like a civilized person. You didn’t give him any condiments to minimize the mess, but you doubt he’ll miss them. As he happily tears into the burger, you say, “Much better than scavenging through the apartment for food, isn’t it?”
He glances at you over the bun. “I’m not a nincompoop,” he answers with his mouth full. “I know you leave that out for me.”
You had not, in fact, known that. “I’m surprised you eat it, then.”
“I have to eat something,” he replies. He’s finished the burger and is aggressively licking his fingers.
“I suppose you do.” When he’s apparently satisfied that he’s extracted all flavor from his skin, he sniffs at the table for crumbs. “I could make you extra of what I’m eating at meal times, if you’d like.”
He stops what he’s doing to eye you suspiciously. “Why would you do that?”
“Well I have to feed you regardless, don’t I? It’s convenient.”
His gaze flickers to the side, towards the hallway. “I’ll think about it,” he says.
You nod. As he starts to slide off the chair you comment, “I have ice cream as well if you’d like to try that.” He sits straight up with wide eyes, and you say, “I’ll get a couple of bowls.”
—
Your name is Jake English, and ice cream is delicious. You feel no need to further expand upon that.
—
Your name is Dirk Strider, and the more you observe him the more fascinated you become. Right now, for example, he’s huddled by the window hissing at the lighting.
You are quite certain that it’s the lighting he’s hissing at and not the thunder. He bristles at the noise, but it’s the crackling flash of light that incites a slow exhalation of breath through his teeth.
He’s such an odd combination of civilized and wild. He speaks almost perfect English, with precise articulation and grammar, if occasionally odd word choice. But then he growls as a warning, whimpers when he’s unhappy, and hisses at the lightning.
Why the lightning? That’s what intrigues you. Most animals don’t like thunder because it’s loud and that makes them think it’s dangerous. Does he realize that lighting presents the greater threat? Did something happen to make him realize that?
You wish he’d talk to you more.
-
Your name is Jake English, and you observe him more than you fight him now. With less focus on your upcoming battle and more on him, you start to notice things, like the way his eyes wander past where you hide more than any other spot in the room. Even if his gaze doesn’t linger, you can tell that he knows you’re there. But sometimes when you watch from the hallway having just arrived at the room, he seems much less focused, and it’s several minutes before his gaze starts regularly sweeping over your location and his usual concentration returns.
Sometimes in these less guarded moments, he’ll zone out completely for minutes at a time—holding a bottle he’s not drinking from or staring at the triangular shadows that usually obscure his eyes—but even your slightest movement will snap him out of it.
You know now how to tell if he’s aware of your presence, but unfortunately all this has taught you is that he almost always knows where you are. With time, though, perhaps you can use this knowledge to find better hiding places and escape his awareness.
-
Your name is Dirk Strider, and you pin him to the ground, bringing your sword to his throat.
“I believe I’ve won this one,” you say.
“Yeah, yeah, fine. Get off of me, you lug,” he mutters, pushing on your shoulders. You roll off of him and offer him a hand up. As he takes it, he says, “Isn’t really a fair fight, is it, considering it’s sword on skin.”
“You’re welcome to use my swords,” you reply. “I leave them out for you.”
“It’s not exactly an insignificant task to pick up mastery of a weapon.”
You pause. You hesitate. You god damned dilly dally. Then you say, “Would you like me to teach you how to fight with a sword?”
He studies you, probably trying to determine your motivation. But whatever he may think, he shrugs it off and says, “Why the great whipper-in not.”
-
Your name is Jake English, and you suspect that taking combat advice from an enemy is not a commonly accepted strategy in war. Though you also suspect that there are many things about this war that are not commonly accepted.
He starts by showing you an opening stance. “You can’t just swing a sword around like a stick,” he says. “The sword is a thinking man’s weapon, but don’t worry, you can probably pick it up too.”
It takes a moment for that to sink in. “Oh, screw you.”
He smirks and demonstrates a simple move with all the grace of a dancer. You try to imitate him, and even if you lack his natural pizzazz, you’re able to replicate the basic movements.
“Not bad,” he says. “Try it again, a little more like this.”
—
Your name is Dirk Strider, and you’re thinking about letting him go. You’ve actually been thinking about letting him go for awhile now, but you’re not certain of the right way to go about it. You can’t very well release him into the city. He wouldn’t know how to handle it, nor would they know how to handle him. You could take him back to his island, but that doesn’t seem fair to him either. You wonder if he would appreciate such a gesture—if he would really consider being on the island again to be freedom.
More to the admittedly selfish point, you don’t want to release him. You’re scared of him being killed. You’re scared of him being put in jail for the actions he takes to avoid being killed. You’re scared of returning to the life you once lived without him.
Perhaps there was a time when you could have lived amicably together. You could have shown him the wonders of the city, and he would have trusted you more than anyone and always come home with you at the end of the day. But you lost that possibility when you took away his freedom.
It isn’t fair to say you didn’t think things through when you decided to hold him hostage in the apartment—you always think things through, far more than the average person—but perhaps it is fair to say that there are possibilities that you didn’t consider. That you would become attached to him. That you would want what’s best for him. That you would want to make him happy while also feeling like your own happiness depends on him.
Sometimes you entertain fantasies, rather embarrassing ones of spending the rest of your lives together on his island or teaching him to be a gentleman Pygmalion style and introducing him to the world. You’d be content to do either if you thought it was the correct choice, but you find yourself completely incapable of recognizing what the correct choice is. Even worse, you don’t think that it’s your choice to make.
-
Your name is Jake English, and a long time ago you felt like you lost your ability to care. A switch buried deep in your gut was flipped off, and though you continued to act on the things you remembered mattering to you, it was with a certain indifference that kept you from becoming too fully invested in futile endeavors.
Today, as you lie on the futon waiting for him to come home, you rediscover that switch and flip it on, only to realize that your ability to care had never truly been turned off, only obscured from view. And while you weren’t watching, your priorities got all jumbled. You find that you now care about movie marathons, and popcorn, and talking over the film. About learning new fighting techniques and engaging in entertaining rounds of fisticuffs. About discovering interesting cuisine and the satisfaction of a good meal. About lazy morning conversations and fiery evening debates. Near the bottom of the list, you care about getting out of this apartment, but even that is different than you remember. Somewhere along the way, the word you use to describe this endeavor stopped being “escape.”
You’re not sure you’re comfortable with these new priorities. You’re supposed to watch a movie with him when he gets back; he promised new selections and you’ve been waiting all day to find out what they are. Instead you look for a hiding place, deciding to put the data you’ve been gathering to use. You think it’s time to get out of here.
-
Your name is Dirk Strider, and this fight is not going how you expected. You didn’t expect this fight to happen at all. How did you not know where he was? When did he get good at hiding?
He’s at the helm, pushing you back with strike after strike. You taught him these moves, so you should know every weak point, ever predictable opening.
Except if there’s one thing he’s never been, it’s predictable.
His next strike pushes you against the futon, its metal bar digging into your spine. You push back and, without moving the sword, he lunges forward to bite your neck. As embarrassed as you are to admit it, as the teeth squeeze down on your tender flesh, you yelp. You bash your knee into his thigh, trying to knock him off balance, and he slams his foot down on your free foot, disrupting your balance instead.
You both topple to the ground, and you roll under the futon and out the other side. He’s already leapt over it onto the seat and thrusts the sword downward. It comes so close to hitting you that it tears your shirt.
You hold the sword over you to block and he jumps on top of it, landing with the sword between your chest and his feet. Luckily, only the broad side presses into your skin. You reach for his ankles, and he jumps, spreading his legs so that he lands on your hands. Then he sits on your chest and presses his sword against your throat.
You stare at each other for several long seconds. He licks his lips. Licks them again. Looks at the sword in his hand, and back at you. His eyes are wide and uncertain.
Then he swallows and swings the sword. You feel a sharp pain in your temple, and everything goes black.
-
Your name is Jake English, and even though this is what you wanted you’re not sure what to do. You’re still sitting on him, marveling at how peaceful his face looks considering that you just smashed him on the side of the head with a sword handle. You trace the tips of your fingers along the bridge of his nose, his lips, the dark circles under his eyes. You place the sword on the ground and slowly climb off of him.
You can’t just leave him like this. He always took care of you when you were knocked out. You pick him up, trying not to jostle him too much, and carry him to his bed. You lie him over his covers, then rethink it and pull the covers over him, tucking him neatly in. You think he’d appreciate the neatness of it.
You take the doohickey and walk back to the door. It’s simple to use, though you still panic when there’s no indication that anything happened. You calm your breathing, reminding yourself that there was no indication of anything happening when he used it either.
You struggle with the locks—you’d been confused by them when he first showed you how they worked, and a lot of time had passed since then—but eventually you get them open.
You look up and down the hallway, and back at the door leading to his room. Then you step outside.
-
Your name is Dirk Strider, and you have just woken up in pain. This is not a common experience for you. You look around the room, disoriented, your head throbbing with every turn. Slowly you remember what happened.
Oh, fuck.
You jump out of the bed, ignoring the pain and rushing out to the living room. Your door is wide open.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
You run into the hallway, hoping beyond hope that he couldn’t figure out how to get off the floor. You’ve paced up and down the entire length five times before you accept that he’s not there.
“Are you okay?”
You glance up at the voice. Your neighbor is leaning out of her doorway, watching you.
“Yes, I’m fine,” you answer. “Have you seen…”
“Black-haired guy?” she asks. “I helped him with the elevator. He seemed upset. Did you guys have a fight?”
“Yes,” you mutter, shoving your hands into your pockets so you won’t be tempted to touch your throbbing head. “You could say that.”
“He told me you were holding him captive there,” she says with a laugh.
You force out a hollow laugh in response. “I’m sure he felt like that was true sometimes. I should see if I can catch up to him.”
“Okay, but I think you should give him a few days to calm down.”
“Maybe,” you reply. “I’m going to at least check if he’s still here.”
“Good luck,” she calls after you as you walk to the elevator.
You wave over your shoulder at her, and then rethink it. Turning back towards her, you say, “Thank you, Jane.”
She smiles. “The offer still stands, you know. You can come over any time. I always have plenty of food.”
You nod. “Maybe we’ll do that sometime.”
The resulting grin is so blindingly bright and friendly that you wonder why you’ve never accepted her offers before.
-
Your name is Jake English, and if there’s one thing you know, it’s that you’ll survive. You survived your grandmother’s death, animal attacks, near dismemberment, and a year in captivity. You will survive this. You simply need to adjust to your new habitat. Your first day you learn to avoid the automobiles, or as you’ve renamed them “speeding death traps.” The second day, you learn there’s plenty of free food in large metal boxes behind restaurants. The third, you’re reminded that there are predators in every environment, and you spend the night huddled in an alcove licking your wounds.
You travel in a circular path through the city streets, always keeping his building in view. It’s taller than most of its fellows and recognizable even in a skyline of similarly statuesque domiciles. You use it as your northern star, a navigational beacon both guiding you through the unfamiliar territory and reminding you of where you’ve been.
The metropolis amazes you. It’s full of things you’ve only ever seen before through glass—coffee shops that deny you coffee, food markets that deny you food, movie theaters that deny you movies. Being able to enter these mystical locations hasn’t much changed your relation to them. You’re still an observer as opposed to one who can partake in their bounty.
Honestly, though, you’re not sure you’re missing much. One generous patron offered you a free coffee, and it was the worst thing you’ve ever consumed.
You look at his windows a lot, while exploring avenues throughout the day or crouched in alleys at nightfall. You think about the life you had there, and you’re so angry, and you’re sad, and you miss him. And you hate yourself for missing him, and you hate him far more than you could ever hate yourself, but in the end you don’t think you hate either of you nearly enough. It’s a dull rage that never succeeds at consuming the longing.
You fall into patterns, similar to those you followed on the island. You act only during the daylight, seeking refuge as soon as the sun falls over the horizon. You find safe scavenging ground and avoid the watering holes where predators lurk. You learn the new species—which ones will ignore you, which ones will attack you, and which one will steal your food. You treat them all with the same wariness, but a little more knowledge lets you know when to slink away and when to run.
And you miss him. And you miss movies, and hamburgers, and conversations, and fights that never truly endangered your life.
You know you’ll survive, but for the first time in your life, you don’t think that’s enough for you. So you keep his building in sight, and you keep your options open.
-
Your name is Dirk Strider, and you’re still looking for him. At first, it’s all you do, but he proves himself surprisingly difficult to track. You suspect that, though this jungle is made of concrete instead of plants, it’s still more his natural environment than your apartment ever was.
You watch the news, follow police reports, survey vagrants and shop merchants, and canvas the city, but every trail you find quickly evaporates. You learn enough to know he’s still out there and healthy, but not enough to close the distance between you.
You’re discovering that he doesn’t need your aid as much as you convinced yourself he did. You wonder if this should make you feel guilty for holding him captive. You suppose that it does. You don’t even know his name.
Still you look. Even as your search reassures you that he’ll survive. Even as the conscience you didn’t realize you had tells you that it’s wrong to keep him. Even as the ache in your chest whispers that he’s better off without you. You look because at heart you are a selfish person who cannot bear to fully release him into the unknown.
And you think that, perhaps, somewhere deep inside, you have his best interests in mind. You would like to, at the very least, give him the choices you denied him before.
You trudge home after another day of fruitless searching. Your eyes are half lidded as you approach the entrance and you almost walk right past the filthy figure hunched up against the brick wall of your building without a glance. Then he growls.
You stop in your tracks and look at him. He’s dirtier than he’s ever been, even when you first found him, and the clothes you bought him are defiled beyond recognition, but it is him.
You approach him slowly and his growl grows louder, but he doesn’t move. When you arrive at him, he says, “Let’s talk.”
“Okay.”
-
Your name is Jake English, and you are at his building against your best judgment. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it is your best judgment that nudged you into this confrontation. It’s hard for you to tell. An amalgamation of rage, and hurt, and fear churns right beneath your skin when you see him, but despite that, it’s the happiest you’ve felt in weeks.
He’s waiting for you to talk first, which is fair since you initiated the conversation, but now that you’re here, you have no idea what to say. Part of you wants to yell at him, part of you wants to punch him, and part of you wants to debate pop culture over ice cream.
“You are a disturbed individual,” you finally offer.
“I’m sure that’s true,” he replies. “I like to think, though, that you didn’t find my company entirely distasteful.”
“No,” you agree. “I didn’t. Not always.”
You fall into an awkward silence.
“I’m not going to let you hold me captive again,” you say.
“I have no intention of doing so,” he replies, and an odd ache briefly flares in your chest. You think that perhaps, now that you’ve beaten him and the game is over, he’s lost all interest in you. You know it’s not something that should upset you, but it hurts all the same. Then he continues, “But I would like you to come back. You could use a place to sleep. Food to eat. A shower.”
“I don’t need your help,” you growl.
“No, I know you don’t. But it’s there if you want it. And if you’d rather go back to the island or have your own place, I can arrange those as well.”
“How can I possibly trust you?” you ask. Your voice sounds plaintive in your own ears, and you try to better guard your tone.
“Only a leap of faith, I suppose. I know I’ve done nothing to earn your trust.” You still have trouble reading more subtle facial cues, but you think he looks as conflicted as you feel. “I’ve never said this to anyone before,” he continues after a moment’s pause, “so I want you to fully appreciate the significance. But I’m sorry.”
“You’re never said I’m sorry to anyone before?” you ask.
“I’ve not exactly had a lot of friends,” he admits.
“That,” you say, “is a statement that is shocking.”
-
Your name is Dirk Strider, and you are resisting a lot of urges—the urge to awkwardly run your fingers through your hair, the urge to reach for him, the urge to grab him and take him back to your apartment whether he wants it or not. You are letting him choose, and you intend to respect his choice. Still, it takes more than a little willpower not to try and force his hand.
“If you return, I won’t keep you confined,” you promise. “You’ll be free to come and go as you wish. We could be…” You trail off, not sure what word choice best indicates your desire.
“Friends with fisticuffs?” he suggests, and you laugh.
“Yes,” you say. “That.” You take a deep breath before continuing. “I won’t force you to return. You know that I could.”
“Balderdash,” he scoffs. “That’s complete twaddle.”
“Excuse me?” You snap your head towards him. “Of course I could.”
“Who triumphed over who in our last battle?” he asks, standing tall and raising his eyebrows at you.
“That was one battle out of hundreds. Statistical evidence shows that I’m considerably more likely to be the victor in any upcoming altercation.”
“Fudge bucket. That battle was clearly the tipping point when my skills began to exceed yours. From now on you’ll be hard-pressed to defeat me.”
“It was nothing more than you getting in a lucky shot,” you counter.
“Are you challenging my honor?” he asks, bristling.
“No,” you reply, “only your fighting prowess.”
“We shall have to see about that. What will it take for me to prove that I’ve surpassed you?”
“I suppose the only fair testament of your abilities is for you to defeat me in eight of our next ten conflicts.”
“Challenge accepted.”
The side of your mouth slowly curls up into a small smile. “Does this mean that you’ll come back?”
He deflates, his shoulders dipping. After several seconds, he replies, “I need my own door doohickey before taking a single step inside.”
“Done,” you reply immediately. “I can have it for you in an hour. And if you ever want a guided tour instead of wandering the streets on your own, I would be happy to show you around.”
He nods. “I’d like that.”
You’re both silent, waiting for the final confirmation. He licks his lips and presses them together. Then he swallows, his Adam’s apple slowly moving down his throat, and meets your eyes. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah, alright.”
“Okay,” you repeat. “Great. You really need to bathe. I have been holding my breath for this entire conversation.”
He looks down at himself, nose wrinkling. “It’s not my fault your city is tragically short on water.”
“I’ll get you the doohickey,” you say, using his word, “and then you can clean up and we’ll go out to eat at a real restaurant. Anywhere you want.”
“Is McDonalds a real place?” he asks, perking up.
“Yeah, I’m sure we can find one of those.”
“That would be splendid.”
You smile again. You’re finding it hard to resist. “My name’s Dirk Strider, by the way.”
He blinks, and then slowly smiles back. “Jake,” he replies. “My name is Jake English.”
“Cool.”
-
Your name is Jake English, and ice cream is good, dagnabit!
And as you sit in the restaurant from your movies alternating between licking salt from your fingers and ice cream from the cone, the insufferable Dirk Strider laughs at you and you think that maybe this life will be good too.