I get lost in pretending to be human

LUCKY

You're not watching closely enough.

I roll my bottom lip between my teeth, dragging my eyes away from the newspaper spread out before me to take in the quiet cafe I've chosen to seclude myself in. Little stirs beyond the bustling baristas behind the counter and the occasional patron chiming in through the door; my gaze flickers to the TV (which is emitting a somewhat troubling buzzing noise I've been choosing to tune out) and the overly-smiley newscaster who's relating the day's events to no one in particular.

Watching... what, exactly? I muse, drumming out a quiet, inconsistent beat atop the lacquered wooden table. As far as I can tell, everything is peaceful. I see no threats lurking in the shadows, and even if I did - well, what then? What threat could possibly spur me into action? And what action would I be meant to take?

The voice - a voice I can't reconcile with my own, and so I decide to treat it as a separate entity for the time being - offers up no explanation and clarifies nothing. I stew for another few minutes, moving my gaze between the cafe and the paper every so often, but the watch becomes tiresome shortly after I've begun my vigil and I drop the matter altogether.

"Here's your usual, miss."
I blink, the out-of-focus haze falling away as I lock onto the steaming cup clinking against the table. The barista winks at me, and I put up a convincing smile as I nod my thanks; he smooths out his evergreen apron, lingers a moment too long with his eyes fixed somewhere in the vicinity of my neck and exposed shoulder, then returns to the his work behind the counter at a call from his coworker. There's a second where I want to roll my eyes and scoff, wipe the smug smirk from his lips - but, no, it's not my place. He's not due for any special treatment.

Time passes leisurely for once while I nurse my mocha something-or-other; I'm never sure of the blend when I order these things, always content to pick out a random item from the board above the counter and hope for the best. Here, though, at Stratosphere, I've taken a liking to this... whatever it is. I've ordered it often enough that the baristas can take one look at my face and instantly shoo me away to a table while they prepare my drink. It would be gratifying if I didn't have to deal with lust-scented teenagers every time I craved Stratosphere's coffee.

I alternate between watching the television and observing the street goers passing by just outside the landscape window that takes up most of the cafe's north-facing wall. It's early, with soft gray light only just beginning to mingle with the golden shimmer of mid-morning, and I spot mostly business-suited strangers and college-bound kids pacing the sidewalk. The real traffic won't start until an hour or so from now, and by then I'll be gone. But I've watched this scene a thousand times and I know how it will go; I could rewrite the script, if I wanted to, but I deemed that pointless long ago.

"...we're now receiving reports from Dylan Rider, our on-the-scene reporter currently covering the apartment fire on fifty-second street."

The cup pauses at my lips, cooling coffee sloshing just beneath the rim, cautious now that I've seemingly lost interest. The rosy-cheeked blonde disappears from the screen, replaced by a young man in his late twenties whose chestnut hair appears to be losing its battle with the wind. He looks grim, his skin having lost its bronze sheen, but he manages a willowy smile as he realizes he's live. Sirens wail in the background, and from off-camera lights flash, painting the reporter in strips of haunting red and blue.

"Thanks, Sharon," he says with a slight incline of his head. His grip on the microphone in his hand momentarily tightens, before slackening enough to give the illusion of relaxed confidence. "As you know, I arrived on the scene less than thirty minutes ago, and by that time the fifth floor of the apartment complex had already been engulfed by the flames."

Are you watching?

Are you listening?

"Since then the fire has spread to the fourth, third, and second floor. Firefighters have been courageously battling the flames, and some have entered the first floor in hopes of bringing out the apartment's residents, but as of right now, no one has emerged."

There's a prickling sensation building at the back of my skull, an itch I can't really scratch; I jerk my hand away from my neck, halting the unconscious gesture. I set my cup back down on the table.

Dylan stares off-camera, towards the flashing lights. His pale face flushes with color, then dims to a cold, heavy blue. He squints, then there's a hand at his earpiece, and something comes over his expression - anxiety, excitement.

...hope?

"There's..." He stops, his voice wavering. He must be new. Dylan swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, its shadow bursting down the curve of his throat. "One of the firefighters has just signalled for two more to rush towards the door." Dylan turns and the camera adjusts to accommodate both his profile and the scene unfolding in front of the smoke-choked apartment. "It looks like... yes, a person is running out the door. Two people, no, three!"

Wood creaks and groans, and I mutter a curse as I uncurl from fingers from the table's edge. The divots left behind from my nails aren't too noticeable, I don't think.

I can't look away from the television.

More than a dozen figures crowd the entrance to the apartment, scarfs and jackets and shirt collars haphazardly thrown over their noses and mouths. There are firefighters at their backs, herding them forward, to safety, and more swarm from the outside, grabbing and pulling to bring the terrified people away from the realm of black and crackling flames. The distance between the screen and the group suddenly lessens, as if the cameraman has been instructed to get a closeup, and Dylan's speaking but I no longer hear a word of his babbling speech.

Fifteen. I count fifteen survivors.

Every last one of them piles out from the doorway and into the streets; a cacophony of cheering erupts from the gathered crowd, but the survivors hobble to the ambulance perched at the edge of the scene, barely raising their heads or straightening their hunched backs, as if too afraid that the moment they do, they'll be suffocated by the ash and smoke once again. The camera pans back to Dylan's beaming smile.

"I've just been told that that's everyone, Sharon. Every tenant has been accounted for, and the worst of the injuries appear to amount to only a few scrapes and smoke inhalation. The firefighters are saying it's a miracle."
I can hear it - the hiss of the flames as they devour the staircase, swallowing the carpets and the hardwood, the potted plants decorating the halls, the signs taped to the walls. Beyond it all the fire is crying out. It hasn't been satiated. Brick and stone, trinkets and furniture do nothing for its hunger. It should have flesh melting in its heart and bones warped by its tongues. It should have blood to quench its searing thirst.

There is a distinct lack of death in this story, and my imagined heart trembles with the implications of such a mistake.

"Miss?"

I bite hard on the inside of my cheek and look away from the TV. The same barista from before is watching me, brows drawn with concern, and a hint of something undesirous slithering through his curious smile. I retract my hands from the underside of my seat, ignoring the splinters now digging into my tender flesh, and settle them placidly in my lap.

"Is there something wrong?" he asks, cocking his head.

Another smile easily curves my lips, and I shake my head as amiably as I can manage.

"No, I'm fine. Thank you. I'll just take my check now, if you wouldn't mind."
He does mind. A lot. His face goes through a series of rapid changes, so minute one would miss them entirely if they weren't looking for them, before landing on serviceable cheer. He tells me he'll be right back with the check and reminds me that he's available to help, throwing in some poorly-planned joke about how his services extend beyond the caffeinated arts.

He's gone from my thoughts even before he's out of sight.

Fifteen survivors. Fifteen. That's far too many, far, far more than I'd anticipated. Now, logically speaking, the eleven extra lives saved today do not amount to much in the way of ripples; they're as insignificant as a speck of sand falling into the ocean. But it's what they represent that troubles me.

I haven't made an error like that before. Not once in all my years of duty. It's... unsettling, at best.

You see now?

My lips quirk into a frown that I quickly cover with my hand, propping an elbow atop the table under the guise of wanting to support my chin.

"I see something that I don't like," I mumble in reply, wondering if I've grown the equivalent of a conscience after so long alone inside my own head. It would be fitting, I suppose; I've been spending more and more time among the humans, I'm bound to adopt some of their customs with how much I'm exposed to them. A conscience, though. That's unexpected. And not entirely comforting. Second guessing myself has never proved beneficial for my line of work.

I'm not waiting for a response (none comes anyway), and I leave as soon as I've paid for myself. Once I've effectively merged with the now bulging stream of pedestrians, sure I've caught the attention of nobody and nothing, I allow my chosen form to bleed away. It's a quick change, virtually without feeling aside from the subtle grating of bones restructuring themselves and the tug of hair shortening. I've long since learned to ignore the disorientating effect of finding myself several inches taller than I was previously, and it passes harmlessly, my steps never faltering and my gait as steady as before.

I roll my neck, easing into my new yet familiar skin and testing out joints I haven't used in ages. Despite its temporary inconveniences, I quite enjoy the process of shifting between bodies; a feeling of freedom exists in the finite moment between one form and the next, and in it I can remember the time when I held no such form. When I was bound by nothing but the edges of the ever-expanding universe. Some days I miss that era of my existence; today happens to be one of them, and the ill feeling coiling in my gut isn't helping matters.

Something isn't right.

Fifteen survivors. The number rattles around in my head, riding the cyclone of my thoughts until it whips around to the forefront of my mind again. Too many lives were spared today, and as much as I'd like to brush it off as nothing... it's never happened before. I know the precise amount of souls that need to leave this world on any given day - and the reaping is short, is going to remain short unless I do something about it. But what can I do? What lives can I take when no others are meant to die today?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And it's infuriating.

This was nothing short of a miracle.

I don't know whose voice this is, my own or that of my conscience, and I don't care, because either way it's right. What transpired this morning was a miracle - there is no getting around that. I've no trouble accepting this as fact, either. The problem here lies in the other inscrutable fact: no miracles were scheduled for today. Not here, not now. This interference is uncalled for, and dangerous.

I heave a soft, slow sigh, scrubbing a hand through my hair. The gesture is partially to ease myself of my stress, partially to reacquaint myself with the particulars of this body. It's my favorite to use, especially when I touch down in the States, and I savor the feel of my fingers carding through thick black locks. The familiarity uncoils a knot of tension in my spine, and I hold myself up higher as I walk, aimless but determined to find my next destination.

I'm going to have to speak with Nike - if that's still what they're going by. They never quite got over the name given to them by the Greeks, for whatever reason, and I've seen no point in acknowledging them as anything else. Where they are, I'm not sure; if we were close, finding them would be as simple as tuning myself into their vibrant presence. But we might as well be on opposite poles for all I feel of them at this moment. It'll take some doing to track them down, but I see no other option. If they're responsible for the unwelcome miracle...

Well, I'm hopeful this is all just some sort of misunderstanding on my part. Perhaps along with this abominable conscience I've picked up humanity's knack for screwing themselves over through scatter-brained mistakes. It's more believable than anarchy, in any case.