Henry Glenisle
New Member
Ian Junior could not shake off the feeling that he was was haunted. He could put no name to it. It was not a ghost that trailed him from dawn to dusk from months on end, but by something inexplicable. He could not put a name to it, but it was a feeling of slight unease, the feeling that something was off kilter in his life.
His life went on. He executed his work admirably (and yes, he continued describe his job as "meeting with key clients to conclude business to satisfaction"). He socialized with friends and colleagues.
And then he just stopped. That feeling, every so inexplicable, permeated his entire life. Everything felt wrong. So he focused on the work set before him, never straying from his path as a Toolbox agent, one cold killer out of many in the group. In this, he felt that his steps were true, the only thing in his life that he could always do with ease.
+++++
The sun set, and the moon rose. The world turned.
Ian Junior knelt from his prone position on the roof. He allowed himself a brief and small smile of professional pride before breaking his rifle down.
The bloom of red on his client’s chest was bright in his mind.
His nametag flashed through the scope.
Henry G.
Ian paused, his hand stilling.
Why.
Why now?
There was no such things as coincidences.
What did it mean?
The young man, immaculate in bespoke suit, swallowed, then tried again. He touched a gloved hand to his throat. There was something caught there, lodged in his airway.
He forced it down, swallowing the lump. It went slowly, painfully. When at last his throat felt free, he choked out phlegm into his handkerchief. It was clear. It felt as if it should have been dark and bloody. It felt wrong.
Shuddering still, Ian gathered his tools and weapons, uncharacteristically clumsiness in his movements.
+++++
Ian Junior forced himself to move past that incident. He accepted that it had been an anomaly, part and parcel of his damaged psyche. And it was nothing more than that.
As he told himself.
As he tried to believe.
Believe was difficult when events conspired against one. When it seemed that the universe was aligning itself to send you a message.
Ian sat at his dining table, the contents of his wallet spread on the darkwood surface. He barely noticed his cards these days, his various ID and his many credit and debit cards. They were just things he pulled out to hand to people. He never read them. Never needed to. All they had were his name on them. His legal name.
Henry Glenisle.
It was all there.
“No,” said Ian. “I am Ian Glenisle-Rothcraft.” His left hand curled into a fist as his gut wrenched.
No, said the Universe.
His phone rang.
Ian answered with a trembling hand.
“Mother.” Truth. With that simple truth, calm flooded his body. He contained a sigh of relieve, concentrating on her words.
“Yes, I am unoccupied. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
+++++
Reality is a fragile thing. It can be bolstered by a few words. Or a few words could shatter all that you have known.
Ian sat stock still.
He stared at Alice. Her words rang in his skull. She stared back, her green eyes calm but concerned. Her hand was over his.
Ian tried his voice. It was a croak. He tried again.
“I…” He stopped. What was there to say? The Truth of her words rang through him.
“Ian…”
“N-no. I’m not his son. I don’t have a right to his name.”
Alice was unperturbed. “I had it checked seven times. The last four times anonymously in highly secure independent laboratories. The results were all conclusive. Ian Rothcraft is not your father. You do not possess any Rothcraft genetics.”
“Mother. Please. Stop. I believe you.”
He removed his hand from under hers to adjust his glasses. He made no effort to hide the trembling.
He dropped his hand back into his lap.
Defeated.
“I have memories.” His voice was small.
“I cannot explain it, Ian.” Alice shook her head.
The young man clutched his middle, bent sharply over his knees. He gave a hoarse laugh. “I have no right to that name. To any of his names. He is not my father. I am not his son. I am not Ian Glenisle-Rothcraft.”
Truth. It rung through his body when it should have torn through him with a not-Truth.
“I have no name.”
Alice ran a hand through his carefully styled hair. He drew in a ragged breath.
“I cannot go back to being Henry Glenisle. I. Can. Not.”
“Shh.”
There was silence as he tried to master himself.
“I have memories,” he repeated. “He raised me, trained me. I have skills, skills he taught me. His eyes...How…”
There were no answers, only that which was Truth and not-Truth.
The young man sat back up. His head bowed. “I have no name. I have only these hands to do your will.”
“That is not true. You are Glenisle and my son.”
“Truth.” He accepted this numbly.
He wondered how long before the Universe would make that into a not-Truth.
His life went on. He executed his work admirably (and yes, he continued describe his job as "meeting with key clients to conclude business to satisfaction"). He socialized with friends and colleagues.
And then he just stopped. That feeling, every so inexplicable, permeated his entire life. Everything felt wrong. So he focused on the work set before him, never straying from his path as a Toolbox agent, one cold killer out of many in the group. In this, he felt that his steps were true, the only thing in his life that he could always do with ease.
+++++
The sun set, and the moon rose. The world turned.
Ian Junior knelt from his prone position on the roof. He allowed himself a brief and small smile of professional pride before breaking his rifle down.
The bloom of red on his client’s chest was bright in his mind.
His nametag flashed through the scope.
Henry G.
Ian paused, his hand stilling.
Why.
Why now?
There was no such things as coincidences.
What did it mean?
The young man, immaculate in bespoke suit, swallowed, then tried again. He touched a gloved hand to his throat. There was something caught there, lodged in his airway.
He forced it down, swallowing the lump. It went slowly, painfully. When at last his throat felt free, he choked out phlegm into his handkerchief. It was clear. It felt as if it should have been dark and bloody. It felt wrong.
Shuddering still, Ian gathered his tools and weapons, uncharacteristically clumsiness in his movements.
+++++
Ian Junior forced himself to move past that incident. He accepted that it had been an anomaly, part and parcel of his damaged psyche. And it was nothing more than that.
As he told himself.
As he tried to believe.
Believe was difficult when events conspired against one. When it seemed that the universe was aligning itself to send you a message.
Ian sat at his dining table, the contents of his wallet spread on the darkwood surface. He barely noticed his cards these days, his various ID and his many credit and debit cards. They were just things he pulled out to hand to people. He never read them. Never needed to. All they had were his name on them. His legal name.
Henry Glenisle.
It was all there.
“No,” said Ian. “I am Ian Glenisle-Rothcraft.” His left hand curled into a fist as his gut wrenched.
No, said the Universe.
His phone rang.
Ian answered with a trembling hand.
“Mother.” Truth. With that simple truth, calm flooded his body. He contained a sigh of relieve, concentrating on her words.
“Yes, I am unoccupied. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
+++++
Reality is a fragile thing. It can be bolstered by a few words. Or a few words could shatter all that you have known.
Ian sat stock still.
He stared at Alice. Her words rang in his skull. She stared back, her green eyes calm but concerned. Her hand was over his.
Ian tried his voice. It was a croak. He tried again.
“I…” He stopped. What was there to say? The Truth of her words rang through him.
“Ian…”
“N-no. I’m not his son. I don’t have a right to his name.”
Alice was unperturbed. “I had it checked seven times. The last four times anonymously in highly secure independent laboratories. The results were all conclusive. Ian Rothcraft is not your father. You do not possess any Rothcraft genetics.”
“Mother. Please. Stop. I believe you.”
He removed his hand from under hers to adjust his glasses. He made no effort to hide the trembling.
He dropped his hand back into his lap.
Defeated.
“I have memories.” His voice was small.
“I cannot explain it, Ian.” Alice shook her head.
The young man clutched his middle, bent sharply over his knees. He gave a hoarse laugh. “I have no right to that name. To any of his names. He is not my father. I am not his son. I am not Ian Glenisle-Rothcraft.”
Truth. It rung through his body when it should have torn through him with a not-Truth.
“I have no name.”
Alice ran a hand through his carefully styled hair. He drew in a ragged breath.
“I cannot go back to being Henry Glenisle. I. Can. Not.”
“Shh.”
There was silence as he tried to master himself.
“I have memories,” he repeated. “He raised me, trained me. I have skills, skills he taught me. His eyes...How…”
There were no answers, only that which was Truth and not-Truth.
The young man sat back up. His head bowed. “I have no name. I have only these hands to do your will.”
“That is not true. You are Glenisle and my son.”
“Truth.” He accepted this numbly.
He wondered how long before the Universe would make that into a not-Truth.