The pot of heated metal shimmered in an unsettling way, as if it were moving out of synch with the bubbling motion of the container. Michael, with his firm steady hands, stirred it with a ladle.
"Almost a hundred years later and I can still remember the feeling." He says. "It has such a unique texture." You rub his broad shoulders, careful to keep your skin away from the hot metal.
"What can we do with it?" You ask, glancing around the forge. Earlier this year, Michael had added a shed next to the Cob House which he calls his workshop and which Ryan poetically calls "the Forge of DOOM!". Now it is used to study the strange alien material you gathered from the City in Glass.
Michael takes the ladle and pours out one scoop on his anvil. The metal moves in slow drops like a lava lamp and then as soon as it hits the anvil, it immediately changes shape, turning into a thin wedge like an orange slice standing on its tip.
"What the hell?" mutters Michael, crouching down to squint at the strange substance. It seems to defy gravity. Michael takes another scoop of the metal and pours it to the anvil. It drips down...and forms an identical matching wedge standing tip to tip on top of the first.
MMMMMmmmmmm. A faint hum starts immenating from the creation.
"If I didn't know better, I would say that it wants to be like that. Keep going, I want to see what it makes." Michael gives an affirmative grunt, scooping another ladle onto the strange creation. Headlights flash into the shed as someone pulls into the driveway.
That is strange, you aren't expecting anyone, especially this late at night. You poke your head out to see a jet black escalade just turning off their headlights.
You glance down at your outfit, yeah, you are presentable to the public, with your comfortable skirt, nice shirt and purple sweater. It's hard to make out in the evening light but two people in dark clothes have gotten out of the car and made their way to the front door.
You start to hustle to intercept them before they ring the doorbell and wake up Silas but as you round the corner of the garage you can hear Ryan's voice carrying on the evening air. Good for him, intercepting them in front of the strawberries.
"Here she is." As you approach, Ryan gives you a cautious look. "Agent Maureen Tennison and Agent Brian Pitts, please meet my wife Brenna Sweeney." Both agents are in well-fitted suits, the woman, slender with intense eyes and tousled dyed blonde hair that has grown out showing her brown roots extends her hand. "Please, call me Maurie." She says. The taller man simply gives a faint nod. "We are with the National Security Agency and we would like to talk to you about an investigation, can we come inside?"
Ryan shakes his head. "Our kid just went down to sleep but we have some chairs out back, could we sit outside?" The agents follow you to the patio behind the house, taking the chairs offered.
"What's going on in there?" Agent Pitts points towards the forge, lighting up the warm evening with a cozy glow.
"That's a friend..." you begin but Ryan jumps in.
"... Our renter is a metalworker and we try not to disturb him. What can we do for you tonight Agents?" Ryan asks. You catch his eye - he's probably right. The less they know about Michael the better.
"Mrs. Sweeney..." Maurie begins.
"Brenna."
"Brenna. Can you tell me when you last saw Dr. Daniel Quilp?" You try to keep your expression level.
"Quilp? Yes, the antique shop owner down in Seattle. I visited his store a few months ago, but haven't seen him since." You focus every fiber of your being on exerting casual disinterest. Oh god, they probably see right through that. They can tell, you are a murderer! No - be cool. Be calm. Oh shit, how long had it been since someone said something. Breathe! Breathe.
"And you visited the shop with your friend, Ms..." Maurie continues, her low throaty voice giving you all sorts of feels as you try not to make eye contact, your eyes resting on the slender curves of her suit jacket, nope, back to the table. Yes. The table.
"Hisdal." Agent Pitts says, his British accent clipping the name. Maurie nods,
"Ms. Hisdal. Yes, the two of you visited the shop." You nod.
"Yep."
"Find anything interesting there?" You open your mouth, brain racing.
"That's easy, my wife always finds something of interest in a junk shop. I have to frisk her at the door just to be sure!" Ryan jumps in. Bless him. I mean, fuck off for the sexist stereotype but also thank god.
Maurie is watching your face like a hawk, her intense eyes following yours. She tips her head back, her graceful neck looking soft and inviting. Focus!
"I also understand you visited a hotel down in Tacoma." Maurie begins. Oh fuck. "Murano. But Ms. Hisdal did not join you there, correct?" Oh fuck oh fuck.
"That.. is correct." You say.
"Look, what is this all about?" Ryan demands.
Agent Pitts turns to him. "Mr. Sweeney, your wife may have been in contact with a new and highly illegal piece of technology. Simply knowing about it without proper security clearance is a class 4 felony! Now, we are dealing with a case with international implications and we will not hesitate to charge your wife and you with impending this investigation, do you understand?!"
Ryan starts to sputter but Maurie cuts him off, her eyes never leaving your face.
"Look, whatever happened in that shop or down in Tacoma, if you saw it again, would you recognize it?" You nod, not trusting your voice. Maurie smiles, a lopsided swaggering affair,
"You see Pitts? I knew she would help. Give her the pictures." Pitts sighs and reaches into his briefcase, pulling out a headshot of a man.
With his chestnut hair swept over to the left, his beard barely concealing his dimples and his eyes full of hidden mirth, he looks not unlike the sort of fellow that you would have chased all over western washington university campus. The picture was taken at some sort of bus depot, he is dressed in a professional shirt, tie and jacket and seems to be in a rush.
"This is Damien Marquis. We believe that he is transporting contraband across the Canadian border and throughout the pacific northwest." Pitts shifts in his expensive shoes. "We have tried, on numerous occasions, to arrest him however he does not appear to keep the illicit materials on his person."
Maurie cuts in. "We have reason to believe he is using the same methods you observed with Dr. Quilp, at the Hotel Murano and at that rental in Jefferson County." Oh shit, how much information do they have? "We were hoping to put you near the suspect in hopes you could help us identify the method he is using to transport the illicit goods."
She must have read the concern in your face as fear. She reaches out and takes your hand, her slender fingers surprisingly soft and nails cut short, "I promise you, you will be in no danger, I will be by your side the entire time."
You glance over her shoulder, Michael has just come out of his workshop, his hair glistening with sweat, his broad shoulders bare to the night air. He looks excited but sees you in conversation on the patio and catches himself before calling to you.
If you say no, these two could escalate things. And Michael's cover story would fall apart real quick. You have no doubt they could take him away - and as a man of color, out of time with no official identification, you shudder to think about what the criminal justice system would do to him.
"Yes. I'll do it." You say, returning Maurie's look with fierce intensity.
"Hot Damn!" She says, slapping her thigh and standing up. "We will be in touch soon, don't worry, we have your number. Here's ours if you have any questions." She passes you her card, her hand lingering a little longer than necessary.
Pitts and Ryan have already stood, he's ushering them back towards their car as swiftly as possible without being rude. Pitts casts a curious gaze towards the flickering lights of the workshop but the door is firmly closed and Michael is nowhere to be seen.
They get into their car and pull out of the driveway. Ryan says something but you can't hear over the engine noise.
"What?" You ask as their brake lights disappear onto the main road.
"Their plates. They don't have government plates." He noted. "It could be a rental..."
"Could be. I guess we should have asked to see some badges or something." You say.
"Badges? Badges? We don't need no stinking badges!" You roll your eyes at Ryan but he continues. "Although if they had fake badges, would we even know?"
"You guys!" Michael materializes on your right. "You've got to come and see this!"
###
Inside the workshop, the metal crescents had assembled into a single slightly arched chain starting at the floor and rising to about five feet. Between the metal and the ground, there is the faintest crackling of electricity, brief sheets of energy, and occasionally, the flicker of something green.
"As soon as I got more than a foot off the ground, it started doing this." Michael picks up a branch from the sequoia.
"Now watch this!" He tosses it into the slender opening with the next flash of green appears.
BrrrzZZAPPP. There's a puff of smoke and the stick is gone!
"Did it get incinerated?" Ryan says, peering around behind the mental arc for signs of debris. "This is incredible Michael!" He claps Michael on the shoulders with a laugh.
"Not incinerated." You say, your eyes ablaze. "Teleported." You look back at the beginning of the arc and start mentally doing the math, pacing it out with your hands.
"If all these pieces continue, this would create a loop tall enough that two people could walk through standing side by side. It's not a chain.. " you say.
"... It's a doorway." Michael finishes. "The only problem is... we are out of material." He points to his empty bucket over the forge. "We've used everything we've got. To finish this, we are going to need more."
