Orient Eering (Solo)

[Hu]

Orient Eering (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLgjXaKczsM)


2923

Tomorrow is but a word, yesterday? Eternity.

Professor Qui, on Time-Travel.



Set in 1930, 2030, and present day Althanas.

[Hu]

Neo Shanghai
August 24th, 9:15am

The phone in apartment twelve rang with a start. It threatened to fall off the hook with an angry rattle. Hu Tian opened her eyes begrudgingly, rolled over in her silk cocoon, and let it ring some more. The machine could get it. She could sleep on until it was daylight once it did. She was not a morning person.

Her mind started overworking. It ticked away with ideas and possibilities as she stared at the phone from beneath her blanket. It was a black, vintage receiver set against white washed walls. It had cost a great deal to convert it to modern electronics. She wondered if she had remembered to put the machine on before bed with a furrowed brow.

“Who the hell can that be?” she grumbled. She would have roared had she been more awake. She was ready to pick up the phone and throw it across the wooden floor. With a frown, she curled her lips into a shrewd expression, and waited for the ringing to stop. It rang, and rang, and rang some more. “Typical...” She had not pressed record. “If it is important, they will call back,” she mumbled. She closed her eyes as the warmth and security of her blanket took hold.

A few minutes went by, and sure enough, the phone began to ring again. It sounded louder this time, and angrier.

Hu snapped her eyes open. “Alright, alright!” she shouted. She rolled upright in a wave of anger and fury. She sat on the end of the bed with her head rolled forwards whilst she woke. Non-chalant, she tied her nightdress sash across her waist, and then put on her soft, cat shaped slippers. The fabric trailed in her wake as she surged forwards across the icy floor. Her slippers meowed with every step. As Hu picked up the receiver, she regretted buying novelty footwear.

“White Cloud Detective Agency,” she said in the Shanghai dialect. She repeated herself in simple Mandarin, and then in English.

“Hu Tian?” asked a deep, coarse, and angry voice. It was male, but it did not sound familiar.

“Yes…,” she said slowly. Her gaze narrowed and her heart raced. The sound of a busy street on the speaker’s end made it difficult to hear. She craned her neck to listen.

“White Cloud, Hu Tian?” the voice repeated.

“This is Hu Tian speaking sir. What is the nature of this call?” She remained diligent and officious, although tense. The line went dead. Hu heard whispers.

She looked out of the large bay windows that ran along the east wall of her apartment and admired the sunrise. Whoever the caller was, he was talking to somebody else out of earshot. As the sun fought to shine on a new day over the city, Hu fought to remain awake.

The line crackled and came back to life. “I need your help Hu Tian.” There was a long, awkward pause. Hu was certain she heard a car screech to a halt. Its doors had opened and closed before it sped away. “Please can you meet with me?” The man’s voice echoed down the line.

She did not respond immediately. It was perfectly normal in her line of work to meet clients in the field. Although she was in no position to turn work down during difficult months, this man made her nervous. Hu made a mental note to be careful. Her gaze turned to the desk by the window. She eyed the locked box in the right column of shelves and in-trays.

“Meet me at the Old Town restaurant,” she said flatly. She plotted times in her head. “In two hours. Do you know it?” She spun the chord around her index finger. Her gaze fell to the furry ears of her slippers. They meowed awkwardly as she moved from foot to foot.

“Yes.”

The line fell unceremoniously dead.

Hu pulled the receiver away and stuck her tongue out at it. “Well, I will meet you there then…,” she said sarcastically. Her raspberry echoed through the apartment.

She put the phone down and strolled into the kitchen. A marble-topped breakfast bar separated it from the lounge. The apartments in her district marketed with westerners in mind, though few foreigners could hope to afford them. She stopped in front of the kettle and flicked the switch. A little neon bulb shone in the water. Hu glowed eerily in the early morning light.

With a lazy clap, the lights flickered to life throughout the apartment.

“Nothing like a polite wake up call,” she mused. She bided her time teetering back and forth on the balls of her heels. Though still angry at her rude awakening, she was glad for the work. Her silk dressing gown shimmered as she moved. The peacocks on her back danced with flourishes of turquoise and silver.

Hu rooted out a cup from the cupboard overhead whilst the kettle came to the boil. She filled it with two heaped teaspoons of instant coffee, some sweetener, and a squirt of caramel syrup. A dash of lemon juice as she deliberated something in the back of her mind completed the ritual. She glanced over at the desk.

“Click,” said the kettle.

Hu poured the water, taking care not to scold her wrists with the steam. She stirred the contents three times. The morning ritual was a complex one. Satisfied, she picked up the mug and took in the swirling vapour. It smelt of smooth caramel and Blue Mountain. It took her back to the first time she tried instant. The chance to drink tea or coffee without going through the tea rituals her mother had taught her was something she would never miss about Neo Shanghai.

“‘Perfection in an instant’,” she smarmily quoted. She mimicked the actor’s voice that did the television advertisement for her favourite brand. Life here was so quick, easy, and tailored to the demands of the now busy and free Shanghai workforce. Hu was beginning to find it difficult to return to her home in 1930.

“Well,” she sighed, “they say there is no rest for the wicked.”

She strolled to her desk and pulled the chair from underneath the work surface. Hu did not need encouragement to sit. It creaked as she turned full-circle. Even after a busy weekend investigating a kidnapping in Beijing, the prospect of another case excited her. She settled on three rotations before she was satisfied. It was another of her rituals. They were quirky patterns and mantras she used to make sense of all the madness.

Hu extended a hand for the mouse. The monitor came to life the moment she touched it. Its login screen was a scene of the Huangpu River with a hundred boats on the water. It depicted the annual beer festival flotilla, Hu Tian’s favourite event. Each vessel was its own bar. She stared at it reverently for a moment, before she set her mug down on the retro Hello Kitty coaster. Her anger abated by fond memories, she set to work.

[Hu]

Neo Shanghai
August 24th, 11:05am

Hu walked down a dirty, cluttered, and dark lane. Her heels clicked against the ancestral cobblestones, retracing the path of workers that had lived in the neighbourhood for decades. She wore a smart business suit. The material was dark blue, and her blouse pristine white. It complimented her pallid skin and her mahogany hair. She tied it up into a bun, pinned in place with an owl hairpin cast in steel. Despite the custom to dress professionally in her line of work, she wore designer shoes as a small concession to business quorum. If she was going to be on her feet all day, she was going to look good, and feel comfortable.

"You look as beautiful as always, Hu,” said a voice from the shadows. It was familiar. Familiar, however, did not always mean pleased to meet you to Hu. With a knowing grin, the speaker emerged a few feet to her side. He wrung his hands, as if they were wet and stooped as though he carried a heavy load.

She tried to look excited to see one of her more spurious informants, but her lips puckered into a shrewd expression.

"John now’s not the time," she said flatly.

"You’ve never the time for me. I’ve always the time for you." His matter of fact expression undid Hu's resolve.

"You’ve five minutes,” she relinquished. She double-checked the time on her watch. "I have to meet a client." She followed him closely as he circled her clockwise. John liked to get his way by keeping her on her guard. He was a jittery and wiry man, and always full of energy. Today, Hu noticed, he was especially excitable.

"It’s because of your client I’m here." He grinned from ear to ear.

"Unless you’re psychic, John, you know nothing." This was her first response, every time. The American had an annoying habit of turning out to be just that. If there was something going on in the Concession that John did not know about it, it was not worth knowing.

"He is called Qui. To my knowledge, he has no surname." Hu received no information from her phone call to the contrary, so she remained stone-faced. "He called you at nine fifteen." This got her attention.

"You know I have to ask you how on earth you know that?" she said sternly. Her eyebrow rose in an inquisitive manner.

“He was sat next to me in the restaurant. He was eating fish head soup and red pepper pork." It was the speciality dish of the restaurant. They served it only on Tuesdays. Either John was telling the truth, or it was a lucky guess.

"That’s..." She paused, to allow the ill-fitting pieces of the puzzle time to slot together. “That’s definitely interesting,” she continued with hesitation. Her frustration was beginning to show.

John smirked, which only made her more irritable. She folded her arms across her chest defiantly. She had been having a perfectly pleasant morning until they met.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that. I’m trying to help you out!” he cried. He slapped his thighs in his typical, boisterous manner. Hu relented with a nod, despite her growing frustration. “He is a dangerous man, though in subtle ways.”

“What do you mean by dangerous?” Whenever he said danger, or warned her to be wary, she took him seriously. Whilst she waited for a reply, she slid her handbag from her shoulder. She rummaged inside the leather compartments furtively. When she saw the content of her lock box, she sighed with relief, clipped the clasp shut, and slung it back across her shoulder.

“He’s with the Blues.” He stepped forwards expectantly. Hu produced a note from her jacket pocket. He took the five-dollar bill before she could offer it to him. “He has been for three years, give or take. He’s just a money launder, so nothing too difficult for Hu’s…” He made no show of it, but she felt her breasts examined, “particular talents.”

“Oh lay off it, John,” she chuckled.

“I don’t know what you mean!” he gloated, beaming back at her with a coy smile. He stepped to one side to let her pass. He knew better than to keep her for too long.

She continued to walk towards the restaurant entrance. Hu took on her business visage once more, her stern, inquisitive glare penetrating every surface she looked at for the truth beyond. “Thank you for the advice,” she shouted over her shoulder. “I will see you again!” she added, as a curtsy. Every time she said it, she wished she had not.

The hollow footsteps died as her heels landed on soft carpet. As an afterthought, she turned to wave. There was nobody in the lane. Her lips puckered into a furtive expression. She wondered how he had gotten away so fast, before disappearing inside into Shanghai’s best-kept culinary secret.

[Hu]

Old Town Restaurant
August 24th, 11:09am

When Hu crossed the threshold between outdoor and in, the heat and noise of the restaurant overwhelmed her. Old Town was the cheapest restaurant in Shanghai. People often joked that it was the only reason people from outside the Concessions came here. It was famous, for all the right reasons, and it was always busy. Even this early in the day, every bench was crammed with customers. Everywhere she looked, there were bowls of noodles, smiling faces, and wisps of steam trailing up towards the smoke stained roof.

She sighed. “How am I supposed to know who I am looking for?” she asked nobody in particular. She moved to the reception desk, and leant over the counter to catch the waiters’ attention. “Hello! Is there a man called Qui here?” It did not hurt to ask, even if getting her tongue around patois did.

The waiter walked over to her, hands drying in a dirty towel, and pointed over her shoulder. “That’s him.” He dropped his hand and turned his attentions to the reservation ledger. His French accent brought a smile to Hu’s face. He was a stout man, with a curly moustache. He was clearly ‘old school’, brought up in the early 00’s when Shanghai underwent a radical shift in its labour market.

Hu thanked him, and walked towards the centre of the restaurant. She wove in and out of the people toing and froing from the food counters on the far left wall. Old Town could afford to charge so little for such good food by not hiring servers. The waiter at the counter, and one or two multi-tasking chefs cleared away anything not brought back to the kitchen in good faith.

The man the waiter had pointed to was mammoth-esque. He had squat, bulky facial features. He wore a simple black shirt, tie, and slacks. He swept his hair back with far too much grease. She bowed, caught his attention, and waited for him to offer her a seat.

Fellow criminals, Hu noted, occupied the table. It heaved with tension. There was a pinstripe suit clad man so thin Hu wanted to fed him with motherly kindness. There were a duo, equally as large as Qui, and three bedraggled looking younger men. She imagined the latter were runners and mules for the less savoury aspects of Shanghai’s black market. Her earlier apprehension returned full force.

“Hu Tian!” he cried. He finished his mouthful of pork greedily. The thin white noodles dripped with coconut milk and red pepper slices.

“I’m a woman of my word,” she replied dryly.

“Xia, Zhu,” he gestured to the two men opposite and thumbed them away. They scuttled out towards the back door of the restaurant and disappeared into the backstreets. Hu did not want to question why. “Please sit,” he prodded a sausage like finger at the bench opposite.

She took up his offer.

“You will forgive me, Qui, for getting straight to the point.” She produced a small A5 notebook, bound in black leather, and set it on the red and white veneer of the table. She produced a fountain pen from her jacket pocket, and set her wrists onto the edge of an open page. “I charge by the hour, with an upfront free for investigative work relative to the bureaus’ current basic fee.” She doubted, somehow, that he would be short for cash.

“Please, Hu Tian, spare me the business patter. I’ll pay whatever rates you charge,” he chuckled. He appeared far too at ease with his surroundings.

“Very well,” she replied flatly. She rested the pen between fore finger and thumb. Her face, a beautiful visage, remained stoic, cold, and unpleasant.

“You know my background already, I would wager.” He paused, and then raised an eyebrow. “I saw Mr Leviton here not half an hour ago.”

Hu frowned. “Mr…Leviton?” She tried to sound as if she did not know what he meant. She looked to her right, caught the pinstripe’s attention, and clicked her pen nervously. “Could you get me some green pepper soup, plain noodles, and,” she checked her watch, “some Asahi.” The man paused, as if hit with headlights on a dark night.

Qui stopped his train of thought to gesture for his colleague to do as she had asked. “Anything the lady requires she gets, Lou.” In a heartbeat, the man was away on his errand.

“That is most kind, most kind indeed,” she smiled. She set her pen to the paper and scratched out his name, the time, and their meeting place. “So…what exactly do you want from the White Cloud Detective Agency?” she asked as she finished her headline, and peered up into his puffy eyes. She ignored the doubt in her mind about John’s ability to remain incognito. If Qui had seen him, and knew who the best spy in the city was…just what was she getting into?

Qui, quite casually, produced a small red pin from his pocket. Hu knew what it was immediately. She felt very afraid. Memories she had all but forgotten came back in force.

“Mr Qui…,” she whimpered. “I’m afraid we can’t do business…” She shook her head, set down her pen forcefully, and leant back. “If the business is anything to do with Revolution, my hands are tied.”

[Hu]

Lou returned to the table with a laden tray. The bottle of beer, cutlery, and soup china rattled noisily. It broke the awkward silence with culinary cheer. He slid it onto the end of the table, unloaded it in front of their guest, and retreated apologetically for having interrupted. He walked off to return the tray. Hu Tian watched him pensively.

“This isn’t about Revolution.” Qui seemed taken aback. He set the pin on the table.

“So that’s not a Revolution pin?” she snapped. She looked him square in the eye. He squirmed. She felt disgusted. She felt alone. She felt afraid.

“It’s not about the Revolution you’re thinking of.”

“If not the Republic Revolution, there’s only one other movement trying to undo the last forty years of cultural stratification in China,” she said, in a matter-of-fact flat tone. The counter movement, which sought to return China to its pre-communist imperialism in a globalised age, had been the source of much academic scrutiny in her college years. She was not sure if she hated Maoists or Neonates the most.

Qui chuckled. “This pin belongs to Zhou Tian,” he replied. He paused to look for signs of recognition in her pleasant features. She curled her lips slightly. It was a sign of realisation. “You know who I’m talking about.”

She narrowed her gaze. Her glare threatened to burn a hole in his forehead. “You make strange calls first thing in the morning. You know my associate, John, and what his occupation is.” She paused. That sounded callous. Everyone knew who John was, but could never admit it. “You even know I’ve a soft spot for gentlemen who refuse to fall for ‘going Dutch’,” she hated that more than any Revolution. “I can believe any man can get lucky a few times…” She leant in, “but how do you know my brother?”

It was an earnest question. Her brother, after all, had been born a year before her…nearly a century ago. Qui curled his chubby lips into a jolly expression. He leant back, slapped his belly, and belched unpleasantly. The gangsters broke into stifled, macho laughter.

“Did you really think you were the only one, Hu Tian?” He seemed surprised, as though his faith in her was shook.

He slid the pin forwards, lifting it at the last moment to set it onto the spine of her notebook. She picked it up daintily and inspected it closer. It was undeniably her brother’s pin. It had been a gift from their mother, a family heirloom. The marks on the pin from the time he lost it in the plumbing were clear as day.

“The only one of…what?” she asked.

“You’re not the only time-traveller.”

“I…,” she began. Her mouth continued to open and close, though no words came out.

Over the chatter and din of the restaurant, it would have been difficult for anyone to overhear what Qui said next. Hu Tian was thankful for the multiple television screens broadcasting news in English, Mandarin, and Spanish. She slid the bowl of noodles close, picked up the chopsticks, and leant back with a slouch.

“Say that again…”

“You’re not the only time-traveller,” he repeated.

Hu Tian had always considered the possibility. She had spent all of 1930 and 2030 searching. She had lived through the same day countless time looking for any sign of others. She had been unsuccessful thus far. For her keen mind, and astute senses, the notion of someone like Qui having found her first offended her intellectualism. She dug greedily into the noodles, forgoing sauce or garnish.

Qui watched her eat whilst he bided his time. The meeting was not going to plan.

“Does that concern you?” he asked, after she had consumed several more mouthfuls, and a boisterous glug of beer.

Hu Tian took a moment to consider how best to respond whilst the hops fizzled on her tongue. She knew three things. The first was that she was out of her depth. The investigator had become the investigated. The second was that she was now utterly intrigued. Qui had been incorrigible and uncomfortable up until his revelation. She wanted to stay and ask him questions and…she shuddered, ‘get to know him’. The third was that she already wanted a second beer. She picked up the bottle and tilted it to him in toast.

“No not really. You must tell me one thing…,” she urged.

“I will answer any questions White Cloud.”

“Why am I stuck here, in this abominable place?” She tipped the bottle back and drained it. She smelt potential in the air, warmth in her stomach, and a strange and sudden sense of belonging. She was glad she got up to answer the phone after all.

[Hu]

“Stuck is such a horrible word.” Qui shook his head. He started to drip condescension. He picked at the remnants of her first dish as she worked her way to the second. His slovenly ways riled up Hu’s sensibilities.

“How would you put it, then?” she said dryly. She clicked her chopsticks together in frustration.

“Sorry?” he enquired, wiping his mouth with the edge of his sleeve. He sat upright.

“I said,” she chewed her meat slowly, and thoughtfully, “I said how would you put it, then? If not trapped Qui, what should I call it?”

The Old Town continued to hustle and bustle as the morning guests began to filter out, making way for brunch, and inevitably, lunchtime patrons. The clientele did not differ much in the transition. Hu paid no attention to the changeover. Her eyes, delicate and intuitive, remained permanently fixed on the mobster across the table.

“Consider this…,” he said at last. He tapped his fingers together thoughtfully. His men all stopped their chatter and fidgeting to listen. “All our lives, we know one truth. It is an inevitable part of our being; death.” They all nodded choir like, and reverent. “We few individuals have been gifted with an alternative.” He pointed to Hu, directly at her forehead. His finger was pudgy, and bound with a wedding band. “What do you think that might be?” he raised an eyebrow.

By now, Hu was growing to become uncomfortable. Her nerves were at wits end, despite usually being calm and collected under fire. Her suit was starting to stick to her skin. She lost all her appetite, and shoved the bowl away with disdain.

“I’m sure you are going to tell me,” she said impatiently.

Qui sighed. “Hu Tian. We have a unique view of history. We are immortal.” He nodded. They nodded. The world around her seemed to nod.

“I would hardly call being stuck between two time periods immortality!” she mocked. She set her chopsticks down. Noodles spilled over the tabletop like worms.

Qui’s eyes narrowed. “Only two?” he whispered.

Hu Tian nodded.

“Oh dear…,” he said glumly.

“What?” she pried, as though tantalised.

Qui shook his head.

“This is not good…,” he pointed to the television set overhead.

Hu Tian turned sharply. He seemed to switch from calm into terrified in a split-second. She had seen the expression before, and it always came in response to one particular and inescapable phenomenon. It was a natural reaction to death. She blinked as she took in the information portrayed on the flickering screen. It was in a dialect of Chinese she was not entirely familiar.

“Good grief…,” she whimpered. Her eyes widened. Whatever program had been running before had been hastily replaced by an emergency broadcast signal.

All thoughts of time-travel vanished.

“If you are stuck…,” Qui said softly. He stared at the back of her head. “Perhaps this is why…”

Hu Tian turned about sharply, maddened and irate. “I’m stuck here to stop that?” She prodded a finger over her shoulder. Qui nodded. “How do I stop a power plant exploding?” she shouted.

[Hu]

Hu Tian struggled to find the words she needed. The smoke pillar rising from the rubble of the Chongming power station was several miles high. The thick, bellowing spire split into two and trailed off with the wind, scattering the smell of burning across most of northern Shanghai. She blinked.

“You’re not here to stop it,” Qui said softly. Hu turned. He had leant over the table, as if to ensure only she heard him. “We’re here to catch the perpetrator.” There was intensity to his statement that unnerved her.

“You…knew this was going to happen?” She leant back, aghast. She struggled to see what he was getting at. Her heart continued to race.

Qui shook his head. “I only knew that I had to meet you here, today, at this restaurant. I was informed that an event would occur that you would be able to help investigate.” He pointed at the television. She turned, though she was not expecting to see anything tolerable, and read the spidery script running along the bottom of the monitor.

“Authorities have declared a state of emergency in the French Concession, the industrial districts in Chongjin, and all regions immediately south of Chongming Island. I repeat. The authorities have cordoned off these areas; nobody can go in, or out, whilst the investigations into this atrocity continue.” Hu read the announcement aloud. There was no doubt in her mind about who the perpetrator was.

She turned back to Qui and nodded glumly to his companions. There was an awkward moment of silence. Everyone in the restaurant remained transfixed; half-open mouths catching haphazardly picked noodles off the end of shaking chopsticks. Whatever plans the brunch guests had that afternoon were swiftly re-arranged, or in the case of those from the Concessions, cancelled entirely. The smell of abandoned food began to fill the air.

“I came here today expecting a simple investigation commission.” She sipped the dregs from her first bottle, and gestured the empty to the pinstripe colleague. It took him a dopey moment to realise what she was asking. He rose quickly and scuttled over to the bar. Hu looked at Qui with redoubled intensity. “What I got, instead, was a revelation.” She put the bottle down with a thud. Qui flinched.

“I’m sure answering your question has only caused more questions.” He nodded appreciatively. “But we are short on time.” He rummaged in his trouser pockets. “My employer wishes to speak to you.” He produced a mobile phone.

Hu took it, and rolled it around between her fingers. It was an old model at least six years out of circulation.

“Where’d you get this relic?” she chuckled nervously.

“My employer, Hu…is like us.” Her eyes widened. He continued before she could interrupt. “Like us, in that he’s a time-traveller. Unlike you, however, he’s not trapped in two different time-zones.” Her eyes widened further still.

“So it is possible to move freely?” her mouth opened.

Qui shook his head. Hu’s mouth closed. “I’m afraid not. He’s trapped in one.”

The pinstripe returned, opened the bottle with his teeth, and slid it over. Hu took it. Hu downed it. Hu set it thirstily onto the table next to the first empty. The men exchanged surprised looks.

“Explain…,” she said, sternly, and with clear signs of emotion. Her cool, business like façade was cracking. So too was her sobriety.

“Each of us can travel between two fixed points in time. Each of those points is a century apart. I flitter between 2130, and 2030. You jump between 2030 and 1930. Another like us exists only in 1930 and 1830.” Hu glared. Qui took this to mean she was following his train of thought. “Our employer, Mr Sheng, is unable to leave the calendar year 2130.” Qui pointed to the phone. “You can communicate with him on that device.”

Hu looked at it. She flipped it open. It was a Motorola Startac, a highly popular phone in the early 2000’s amongst executives. She failed to see how it could communicate across the centuries. She put it to her ear cautiously. It, unsurprisingly, remained silent.

“You will need to charge it,” Qui chuckled. “It will need a ‘telephone number’, too.” He said the phrase slowly, mocking her childish curiosity. He reached into his other pocket and produced an adapter, its coil tightly wound around the European configuration pins. “You will have to find a convertor for your apartment’s electrical sockets. I am afraid the crackdown on technology black market deals in Shanghai has made it difficult to find Chinese anything.”

“I have a converter. I travel a lot…,” she smirked. Her head was spinning so fast with ideas and nausea she was not sure where the beer began and the anxiety ended.

“I’ve one piece of parting advice, Hu.” The bustle in the restaurant began to fade. Hu concentrated only on Qui’s voice, his face, and his heavy breath.

“Yes?”

“Good luck…”

[Hu]

Old Town Bar, 1930
July 15th, 5pm

When Hu stepped out into the busy market place, the sun was already beginning to set. Everywhere she turned, there were sights to see. Colour was everywhere, whitewashed on walls, stretched over delicate silk, and laced on merchant stalls and dancing girls. With every step, she felt disenfranchised between discontent and her joy. She wanted so much to take part in the festival. Yet, on the back of her mind, there was the ever-pressing concern that a century from now, Shanghai fell apart from the inside.

She made her way on uneasy feet through a stream of people. She approached a fruit seller and a trinket mage. He conjured her fire and glitter from a coronet, but when she walked by, disinterested, he summoned only a frown.

When the Old Town bar appeared, her sorrow faltered. She pressed her shaking hand against the old oak doorframe, and stepped inside through a poky arch. She had spent enough time here it to call it an old friend. She ran her finger along the trellis that shepherded customers through the porch, along the corridor, and into the reception. There were small tunnels leading off to booths on the bottom floor, and spiralling stairways that lead upwards to places Hu could not afford to see.

“Hu Tian, it is such a good omen to see you today!” said an all too familiar voice. It ran down her spine like thunder.

She stopped, disgruntled, and suddenly statuesque. Her simple, blue dress sparkled in the light of the overhead chandelier. She folded her arms over her chest, tucked her purse into her armpit, and tapped her foot. Her sky blue slippers rattled out a rhythm on the well-trodden red carpet that ran from door to counter.

“I am so certain you want something I would wager on it, Po.”

“Hu...,” the disappointment in his voice was audible. He appeared before her, stooped low and apologetic. He was a plain man, with little hair, and plenty of girth. He rubbed his hands together inside his gaping sleeves. “You should know me better than that by now.” He tried to smile, but caved beneath her glare.

“Go on...” she erred, all too eager to dispense with the pleasantries and get to her much needed drink.

“Very well, I will cut to the chase.” He pointed to the northern tunnel, one that led to a room called Heaven’s Dusk. It was resplendently purple, and was supposed to make you feel like you were in a sunset. “A customer has requested your presence.”

She narrowed her gaze along the tunnel. The soft tinkle of music reached her ears. She had not noticed it until now. Though still early in the evening, she realised there were already patrons occupying the booths. People slipped in and out of the doorways, cast them suspicious glances, and then slipped away into the darkness.

“Is he called Qui, by any chance?” she sighed.

“Why…yes...where you expecting him?” he raised an eyebrow. He began to walk her over, and she followed suit. “He has been sat here since we opened, at sun’s rise.” He nodded, as if satisfied with some unspoken answer. “He would not leave. He said he would wait.” That sounded exactly like Qui.

“You do not need to escort me, Po. I understand you are a busy man.” She walked ahead, a sudden burst of speed putting her out of earshot before he could cough or splutter his objections. “Good day!” she proclaimed, as she ducked into the tunnel and vanished from the innkeeper’s sight.

[Hu]

Qui’s familiar face broke into an uneasy smile the moment Hu ducked through the doorway. The beaded divider rattled in her wake, until it faded into raindrop like prattling. She righted herself, bowed, and remained statuesque. They stared at one another awkwardly in silence, unsure about how to proceed.

“You look nice,” he said flatly. He sipped his bourbon, his usual tipple, and rolled the glass gently.

Hu rolled her eyes. “You really must stop doing this.” There was a hint of threat in her tone, but she did not mean it. “Or at the very least,” she began, as she moved towards the opposite side of the table to her companion, “could you call in advance?”

Whilst she arranged her comfortably, Qui continued to drink. He averted his eyes, assuming she would snap, as she had done during their previous meeting. It had been a difficult few months for their working relationship. The war between then and now was getting worse. Even though he had all the time in the world, it was quickly running out.

“Given our ever changing timelines, I believe it is important to try and catch you when I can.” The sound of cut crystal descending softly to the polished tabletop broke the tension in the atmosphere.

“How did you know I was going to be here?” She produced a notebook and set her mobile on the table next to it. She spun her silver cartridge pen in the digits of her right hand, whilst she eyed the bottle and the spare glass at the centre of the table. It was crystal also, and up righted to spare the inside from the dusty atmosphere of the bar.

Qui chuckled heartily. “That is an easy enough riddle, even for me.” He pointed to the wall behind her. She craned her neck, and recognised the etching immediately. “You said you loved spending the afternoons by the river.” He nodded. “It took me a while to realise you were being metaphorical.”

In each of the rooms, there was a painting, an etching, or a tapestry. Each showed a different scene from the Huangpu River. Over a hundred years ago, the bar had been a washhouse. On the banks of the Huangpu, Po’s ancestors had carved out a name for themselves in the burgeoning city. The one above Hu had been stained vermillion in the brief flirtation Po had with Art Deco, before it became taboo.

“I will give you that one,” she smirked. She was far too fond of the beer festival, whatever the year.

“Yesterday was…troubling.” He sighed. “I am sorry I did not tell you everything that you needed to know from the start, Hu.” He reflected back to the moment they had first met, in the Old Town Restaurant, a hundred years from now. He paused, expecting her to interfere, but when she remained smiling, he continued. “Things have become difficult, to say the least. Now that I am able to move one stage further through time, I am beginning to piece together the pieces of this…” he sighed again, as if fatigued beyond all years, “puzzle.”

Hu stopped spinning her pen. She pressed the nib against the paper, as if expecting a nugget of information with which she could work her magic. Her spine tingled.

“You do not need to apologise. I understand you had to know that you could trust me before you brought me into the fold.” They mutually were glad that he had been cautious. “You can make up for it now, though. Tell me…why did He want me to investigate the power plant explosion?”

Qui smirked. He began to explain, and as he did so, he turned the glass upside down. He uncorked the bourbon, emptied a generous slug into the glass, and slid it across the table. Hu took it with a nod of thanks, and lifted it to her lips with her left hand. He put the bottle down, uncorked, and continued. “The news reel footage shows heavy concentrations of mist around the plant, an hour before, and an hour after the explosion itself.” Hu’s eyes narrowed. “Does that mean anything to you?”

She nodded. “When I jump, it is into and out of white clouds. Mist, vapour, magic…I am not entirely sure what it is, or why. Perhaps it is just symbolic, individual to each person.” She mused for a moment. She tried to remember what she had seen the last time Qui had jumped in her presence. “Yours appears to be eggs…” she chuckled.

He frowned. “It was a big banquet,” he snapped. “Time travel is not easy on my bowels!”

An awkward silence drowned out the soft, undulating music that had grown in volume as they had conversed. It moved from soft, traditional Chinese music, to the custom jazz of the early afternoon. Soon, the restaurant would become a bar, and then a nightclub.

“Do you think that means something, then?” he asked. He refilled his own glass, and they drank in unison. Hu was not used to bourbon, so she could not describe the taste or the sensation. She only knew that she enjoyed it.

“It can mean only one thing,” she said with agitation. She could not believe she had missed it until now. Six months, six whole months spent deep in the political history of two cities…she downed the rest of her drink, and slammed the glass down. “I will be at the power plant…”

“What do you mean, ‘will?’” Qui raised an eyebrow. The twilight of the room cast shadows over his full face.

Hu replied forthright. There was no malice, or anger, or aggression in her voice, but all the same, Qui felt terrified.

“It means it just has not happened yet…,” she mumbled. She pictured the news report she had seen in the restaurant, and the mist that had lingered in the pipework to the north of the explosion.

[Hu]

The Vault Cafe, 2030
December 9th, 3pm

Hu watched the rainfall across Shanghai. Winter had not been kind to the city, and the constant downfall was beginning to dampen her spirits. As her agency grew in notoriety, and her fame along with it, she was constantly on route to some far-flung quarter of the Chengdu or the foreign bazaar. With all the travelling, came the inevitable exposure to the rain. She had started to forget what feeling dry felt like.

“I am not sure I can help you with this, John.” She pressed her pen against her lips. She had tied back her hair in a shining black ponytail, so she had to chew on something else. “It is a little too beyond my remit.”

The American rolled his eyes.

“We both know that is a lie, Hu.” He continued to stare out of the window, tracing the pattern of the rain as it rolled in lightning bolts down the pane. Cars continued to stream past outside, and umbrellas ran by in droves.

“That may be, but I am uncomfortable taking this on board now.” She set the pen down on to her notebook, and sat back in her chair. It was a comfortable, black leather wingback. It was odd at ease with the rest of the décor, but the cafe prided itself on collecting styles from across the world and compiling them into a strange, kitsch tapestry of tastelessness.

“I was under the impression you wanted to know more about them.” He lounged back into his own chair, their brief exchange of information and data via their phones ended. He picked up a plain white coffee cup, and took a deep drink. It was a simple, inexpensive instant, but after a busy morning, it was just what he needed to remind him of home.

Hu nodded. “Oh, I do, and I will take anything I can get. I will not however risk my livelihood, or your life, to get it.” She would not risk her own life, either, but she was already sounding sanctimonious. She mirrored his drinking. Though she partook in a soft jasmine tea, it was from a bag, and not a pot.

“If you can leave titbits in the past that I can work with here in the future, perhaps we can…” he minced his words to think a few steps ahead, “leave a trail of breadcrumbs for them.”

Hu liked this idea. She had considered using her peculiar circumstances to her advantage many times before. Through manipulating history in very minute ways, she had been able to live much more comfortably in modern Shanghai than she might over wise been able. Though revolution had changed china, she would still very much have lived in financially stringent times.

She set the cup down onto the glass tabletop. Cars continued their procession, and a busy stream of sodden customers entered, and departed, the jazz hour of the café. It was a sea of incorrigible, ignorant faces. It was precisely the environment she needed to converse with her client without having to jeopardise his or her identity.

“We do not have much time left,” she sighed. She would be asleep within a few hours, and off on another nightmarish adventure into the strange other worlds that haunted her. “Tell me what sort of…” she mused herself, the idea strange to her logical mind, “breadcrumbs you had in mind.”

John chuckled. He liked to goad Hu into playing a dangerous game. It was one of the few enjoyments left. He looked unshaven, bedraggled, and chased by ghosts. In the last month, the crackdown on the informant network outside the police remit had been rough. “I was thinking we could guide them into making an appearance at certain events. If you left counter revolutionary clues which made them think they had to be somewhere, then I can be waiting for them.”

Hu repeated the idea in the back of her mind. Making money on the stock exchange by guiding will and favour in 1930 had been easy. Encouraging a secretive organisation that was always one-step ahead of even her time keeping was entirely different.

“I will see what I can do.”

[Hu]

Hu compiled her thoughts as John broke into a long and flustered rant. He talked about taking risks, and working more like equals. She nodded politely in response, but gave it no real attention. She had been manipulating time for longer than she could remember. She had become acquainted with the ‘butterfly effect’ of science fiction all too well.

“I appreciate the concern, John.” She really did. “I have worked out how events in 1930 can affect 2030. There is a long period in between the two for things to right themselves, and most of the time, I have no real effect on this time period.” She had tried everything from political rallies to saving lives that would have otherwise been lost. The only memory of her good deeds in 1930 were in textbooks and old, dusty archives.

“Then try something more…” he pursed his lips, “shall we say, forceful?”

Hu took him to mean illegal. She was not going to jeopardise her moral integrity for no man. “I will not kill, or maim, or act against the laws of this country to further my own ends. That would make me exactly like Qui.”

“This is reason enough to do just that. They are playing a dangerous game,” he realised he was starting to shout, and cut himself short. They drank from their beverages solemnly, and then continued, hushed tones renewed. “If you do not play by their rules, Hu, then you will be the one to suffer.”

“When I find out how Qui has managed to jump two time periods, then I will make my decision.” Her tone was stern enough to silence him. He set his coffee cup down, and started to do up his jacket. He always wore a long, Harrington style. It did little to keep him dry, but it did wonders for making him inconspicuous.

“Sorry to be so blunt about it, I am just worried for you,” he said sullenly.

Hu rolled her eyes. “Look, John…the more you know about me, and my talents…the more danger you get yourself into. I am in no danger. I am…resilient,” she observed his shaking fingers, the dirt beneath his nails and the slight curvature in his lip. He was more nervous than he was letting on. “I will work on goading Qui into a fixed time-point.”

John, though clever in many ways, pulled a blank expression.

Hu elaborated, for his benefit. “When two time-travellers meet,” she stopped mid-sentence as the door behind her swung open. She waited for the elderly couple to move in and on to seats before she continued, “they create a fixed time-point. That point will serve as a reference for every other event they both witness. If we make more of those, we pin them down to concrete facts, dates, and motives.”

He resumed his preparations to leave. With his jacket buttoned, he scooped up his phone, notepad, and wallet from the glass tabletop, and deposited them into various pockets in a system only he would understand. He ran his shoulder length hair, unkempt but elegantly dishevelled, behind his ears, and straightened his fringe.

“I think you are more than capable of dealing with this on your own, then.” He said. There was malice in his words. Hu wrinkled her nose. “If you wish to pursue my idea, you know where to find me.” He rose. She rose with him, but he gestured for her to remain seated.

“I…” she mumbled.

“Please, Hu Tian, stay. I have business to attend to on the north side of the river. Enjoy your tea. Take some time to think about things. If you hear of anything, or leave signs in the history books, let me know.” He tried to smile, but his expression became more a sympathy glare. She understood him enough to comply.

She watched him leave. His heavy, hobnailed boots left half-formed footprints on the polished wooden floor. Though they had always shared a spurious relationship, and she found him intolerable at times, she felt bad for being so blunt with him. He trailed out of the door, pulled up his hood, and vanished into the crowd. She watched him furtively through the warped glass. The weather showed no sign of relenting. It mirrored the immense sorrow and sense of loss that purveyed White Cloud’s usually intuitive mind.

[Hu]

Wistfully, she gathered her thoughts, and returned to her notebook. A rising sense of guilt drove her to action. She clicked her pen to life, turned to a new page, and began to write. She jotted down John’s ideas, and all the previous attempts she had made to try to alter time in her favour.

“I will not be enrolling in community college again,” she chuckled, nervously laughing her way through the process of elimination. That particular rendition of the year 2030 was wasted. She travelled back to the day she had turned up to the campus to register, and forced herself to turn and walk away.

Accounts of her political activity in 1930 filled up a whole page before she realised she had finished her tea. She detailed her in depth study and analysis of the pre-war years, and made notes on the sinking of ships and the strikes that began to proliferate throughout the city. The tension, she could remember all too well, was insurmountable.

When she finished recounting the political, she began the anarchical. Though morally astute, Hu had dabbled with risqué methodology in her attempts to find the underlying cause of her condition. She had killed herself on the veranda of the Chinese embassy in New York once. Her act witnessed by hundreds. When she awoke, she found herself in 2030. There was no trace of her anywhere. The action John spoke of had no effect.

“Qui goes to great effort to protect my name…” she mused. She chewed on the tip of her pen. Her delicate teeth clattered against it, the scratches on the metal sign of long hours spent deep in thought “I…” she wrote three more examples of how she had tried to martyr herself. They had all been erased as accidents or mistakes made at other’s expense. She scrunched her face into a childish expression, and stuck her tongue out at his image.

Customers maintained their vigils over cups and polite conversation whilst she worked. There were several groups of students peppered around the café, so nobody paid the journalist any attention as she scribbled away her thoughts. Debate about neo politics, engineering, and biology formed a tapestry of chitchat all around her, but she zoned it out in favour of the nib on paper. She tapped her foot rhythmically against the leg of the table.

She reflected on their last encounter. Qui had intercepted her in a bar in Shanghai. It was August 1930. She had made no note anywhere that she intended to go there on that particular afternoon. She tried to think about how he might have known. She went there often, by all means, but only after work. She blinked.

“Oh…” she said, aghast.

Her trip to the bar had become something of a ritual for her that month. She had taken on work from the police department, investigating a particularly gruesome trafficking ring that was importing cocaine and sex workers from Eastern Europe. Her zeal, coupled with her need to be up all hours to liaise with her counterpart in Germany, had seen to her routine going up in smoke. She left work, she went to the bar, and she got drunk. That gave her just enough time to sleep, shower, and be back in the office by four in the morning.

“Hu Tian, you stupid, stupid girl…” she cursed under her breath. Her fist found itself clenched around her pen. Her knuckles went white. She had given her game away just through being herself. Qui would have heard about her exploits in this time zone, and known her routine through working backwards. She remembered the headline well, “Slum Drunk Cop Found Dead.” The reports had detailed her contribution frankly too well. She pictured herself signing the visitor book in the bar on numerous occasions too.

Then there was the murder in Beijing.

“Okay, John…” she said begrudgingly. “I will play the game your way…”

With a curt bow to the waiter as he passed, she took the cheque, paid, and collected her things into her handbag. She tucked it under the long folds of her anorak and did it up securely. Unlike her informant, she did not intend to get wetter than was necessary. With cat ears adorning her hood, and a grimace on her face, White Cloud stepped out under infinitely black skies.

[Hu]

The Kitty Kat, 2030
December 9th, 4:34pm

John arrived at the Kitty Cat Club an hour after leaving Hu Tian to her indecisiveness. Without fanfare, he slipped in through the doorway, undid his jacket, and produced his membership card for the bouncer. The two men exchanged no words, and the American slipped indoors. The immediate rise in temperature as he entered was part because of the air conditioning, and part because of the sights he saw.

China had undergone a notorious boom in the pleasure industry in the last two years. In one region of Shanghai in particular, you could have easily forgiven yourself for being in a red light district of a European city. The Kitty Cat, plentifully adorned with its namesake, was one of the best of its kind. It was the Old Town of the under city. John came here half to make him smile, and half because information was currency here.

The informants of Shanghai came here like bees to honey.

“Hey John,” an old friend said with a wry smile and a nod. The American nodded back, but walked on. The man watched him turn his back, shook his head, and resumed his conversation with a colleague over champagne.

He wound his way through the scattered chairs, booths, and sunken tables. Purple and vermillion sashes adorned every piece of furniture, and gave the front of the club a carnival vibe. He plucked a champagne glass from a tray when it came into arm’s reach, and tossed a coin from his pocket to the girl’s open hand.

“Your aim is getting worse, John!” she said, winking at him over her shoulder before she disappeared out of view. Her English was excellent, in comparison to his Mandarin. He watched her for a moment, as if jogging his memory, before he pieced her identity together. He was well known here, and not just because of his dancing.

Though Hu Tian scorned him for his oafish ways, John was a Samaritan to the underbelly of Shanghai. He kept his eyes and ears open for people who were invisible in the rise capitalism. Unlike Hu Tian, he was out to solve a mystery that benefited more people than just himself. Naturally, if it lined his pockets on the way, John did not see the harm. He had saved the girl’s sister from the mob a year ago. The memory brought a smile to his chiselled face.

“You made it, then?” said a gruff voice.

John wheeled about and met his brother’s scowl with a smile. He advanced, they embraced, and he waved John into a booth. The second they sat down, the sunken seating concealed them from view. The instant transition from exposure to privacy made John sigh with relief.

“You look terrible…,” his brother said. There was no ounce of sympathy for the man’s lurid life.

“Thomas, please do not start.” John glared at him, sipped from his glass, and let the bubbles pop in his cheeks. Though the day was still young, the night was just beginning.

“Hey, I am just saying. Every time you call me to meet you here you turn up at your wit’s end.” Thomas slid a beaker over the table, the cut crystal chiming against the retro veneer.

John’s brother was half-Chinese by birth. Their mother had travelled to china in her university days, met their father, and settled here after marriage. Thomas was every bit the spitting image of his father. John was more like their mother. They had only gotten on over the last few years, since their divorce, on the merit of their ‘mutual interests’. They were brothers in the Chinese sense - not really, but in kinship.

With crude and candid vigour, Thomas cut to the chase. “You asked me to come here with information, when it presented itself, about a certain individual.” He produced a dossier from the cushion next to him. His black, pinstripe suit danced with silver light as he moved. Somewhere at the back end of the club, the dull, barely audible music began to grow louder.

John watched the dossier as it was set onto the table. It was a standard format police file, sealed with white string, and stamped with a red classified imprint.

“I give you this in good faith because Hu Tian has done well by me in the past.” He slid it forwards. When John put down his glass to take it, Thomas pressed down firmly to stop it moving. “You did not get it from me,” he said sternly.

John nodded hurriedly.

“Okay,” Thomas continued. “Make sure she knows that it came from somebody who cares about her. Tell her more is at stake than any of us can imagine…”

The brothers stared at one another, tense as anything, before they took another drink.

[Hu]

Neo Shanghai, 2030
December 9th, 10:30pm

When Hu Tian finally entered her apartment, the strain of a busy day fell from her shoulders. The rain did too, in waves down her arms, knees, and thighs. Her anorak had served its purpose for most of the afternoon. Her cat ears were so heavy they refused to stand up on her hood. Her backpack was so dense she had to buy a plastic bag to cover her documents and laptop. Her heart was so strained she thought of nothing else but her bed.

She dropped her bag. With much effort, she turned, closed her apartment door, and clicked the first latch until it locked. She did not get around to securing the deadbolt, or the chain.

“Lights on,” she clapped.

The light strips overhead flickered to life. Her apartment danced, and the neon bulbs in the kitchen went from dull, greyish twilight to bright, sunlight beams. Her bed began to warm. Her heating came on. Her hi-fi in the lounge began to play a random selection of classic rock she had half-forgotten she owned.

Absent minded, she dragged her feet to the small table by the door, dropped her keys into the bowl, and pressed the flashing button on her answer machine. It began to play as she struggled with the toggles of her coat.

“You have two new messages,” she said in a mocking tone. “Message one,” she added, before letting the tinny voice carry on.

“Message received today, at three thirty-one pm.” There was a brief pause and a beep. Hu Tian dredged her right arm free, and began to relinquish her left. Her blouse was transparent.

“Hello Hu.” She froze. The voice was clearly John. There was music in the background. “I am sorry to call you at home. I know I promised I would not jeopardise our cover…” he trailed off. There was an audible swallowing sound. Hu rolled her eyes. “I just met with an acquaintance. He gave me something that is explosive.” The phone line crackled. The bass kicked in. Hu made connections in her mind as she finally pulled her coat off and let it drop to the floor.

“Get to the point already,” she moaned.

“…Qui is not who he says he is.” Her ears pricked. “You need to meet me, now…as soon as you get this, meet me at the third safe house.” The line went dead.

Hu, mid-step towards the kitchen, could not move. Every muscle in her body was paralyzed, her veins ablaze with adrenaline, her eyes sparkling. The last time she had heard John sound so determined, scared, and urgent, he was in a crisis. If he had broken his promise to not call, then it was urgent. She ran to the kitchen. The sound of the fridge opening, bottles rattling, and a bottle opener popping the cap was all the sound Hu could muster.

The cold and refreshing beer rolled down her throat and made sense of the day.

She smacked her lips.

“I am coming, John…” she said with a certainty that could shatter rock. Without so much as a second thought, she retrieved her keys, her handbag, and a new anorak from the cupboard next to the door.

White clouds, misty veins, and storm born vapour began to surround the hallway. It appeared from nowhere, and caught Hu’s attention on the cusp of being too late.

“Oh shi-!” she cried, just as a heavy blunt object hit her over the back of the head, and the image of John meeting a similar fate north of the river flashed into her mind.

By the time she hit the floor, she was unconscious.

[Hu]

Unknown Place, Unknown Year
Unknown Date & Time

Hu Tian had always had a proclivity for exaggeration. On this one occasion, however, she was not. When she opened her eyes, the world exploded to life. Instead of a strange, dark, and uncomfortable cell, she faced with a cityscape sprawling with life. In the place of manacles, she found silken sleeves and delicate bangles. Instead of her captors, she met with the gruff faces of an unfamiliar landscape.

“Oh god, not again…” she wheezed.

She stood upright on uneasy feet, aided by a kind passer-by who vanished into the stream of people as quickly as he had appeared to get her up. He smelt like steam, tea leaves, and unwashed feet. It was a comforting smell to someone brought up in downtown Shanghai.

“Please do not let there be dragons…,” she pleaded. She doubted anyone would hear her cries. Her last encounter with this strange world had left her, for want of a better way of putting it, ‘up shit creek’. If John had heard her running through an autumnal forest screaming one of his favourite catchphrases, he would never let her live it down.

She began to examine her surroundings. Picking out the detail of the wide, muddy street, she noticed immediate similarities between this place and ancient china. On the far side of the wide thoroughfare, tall, red brick buildings rose. Green, red, and golden pillars propped up crumbling doorways, and rippling canopies covered ramshackle market stalls so stacked with produce they looked like they could collapse at any moment.

“Excuse me!” a voice cried.

Hu Tian darted about, looking for the source. She met with two sets of flaring, disgruntled nostrils. The smell of oxen dung became prominent. She stumbled back, and then wheeled out of the way of the cart. The young, enthusiastic girl whipped the reigns and waved thankfully at her with a smile as bright as the mid-morning sun. It trundled north, its heavy wheels leaving furrows in the mud under the weight of its potato mountain.

For a brief moment, Hu Tian forgot the girl had been speaking another language. Her mind raced to work out why she had understood her. There were syntax similarities, and although it was a cloudy dialect, it dawned on her.

“I am sure she just spoke Mandarin…”

At the very least, it was a regional dialect, one close to modern Mandarin from the suburbs of Shanghai. There was a hint of Japanese grammar. She blinked, absent-minded, and as if she did not quite register what she was thinking. Was she still on Earth, after all?

“Ugh, I am so not in the mood for this,” she grumbled. She had no idea where she was. She had no idea when, either.

Resigning herself to her fate, she made for the eastern side of the street. She wore the same simple black dress and stockings she always appeared wearing. Her thick, battered boots, which offered no resistance against the mud, tromped the domain. Her long sleeves, the only elegant part about her dress, cut a graceful pattern in the air as she advanced, and her bangles rattled gently. This time, there were two black and white clay beaded pieces on each wrist. If there was significance to them, Hu Tian had yet to decipher it.

“So desperately not…” she continued, finding contentment in her woe. She barely had the strength to contemplate what awaited her back in her apartment, never mind what perils this new world was going to throw at her.

If she was going to be here for a while, like some of her previous adventures, then she was going to have to eat. If she was going to have to eat, then she was going to have to try to communicate. She plucked at the locked box of memories she had hidden away from her college days, and rifled through the mental filing system in which she kept her ancient Chinese history, linguistics, and phrases. Somewhere in the infinite bleakness of her intuitive mind, there had to be the tools she needed to get a bowl of whatever delicious smelling noodles were on offer in the distance.

“Good morning!” she clucked. She ducked under the awning and came face to face to with six eager markets stall sellers. They immediately crowded around her to try to barter for her custom with false, lofty, and delicious sounding promises. Hu had never heard such a noise.

[Hu]

It took Hu Tian five minutes of bartering, back and forth banter, and several frantic exchanges of hand waving to secure her meal. She walked away with a bowl of steaming noodles in her hand. She also departed the market canopy with a furious headache and an intensely furrowed brow. Only in the debate meetings of her university has she ever felt so wistfully outclassed.

“I think that was a good deal,” she mused. She had paid with whatever coin she had awoken possessing. It did not look gold, she could never tell. Her adventures in this other wold seldom made sense. The money was a motley assortment of printed currency and simple value exchange.

She strolled over the bumpy road, and made towards a shikumen entrance in the far wall of buildings. Her awakening knowledge of the language here told her that the sign above its battered doorway read ‘garden of serenity’. Nobody stopped her, shouted at her, or chased her as she entered. The sun, dancing in the street behind her, faded from her skin. Goosebumps formed as she wound down the narrow alleyway, noodle vapour swirling in her wake.

“I wonder if Qui comes here…” she mused further.

She sat on the nearest bench, facing inwards. At the centre of the large courtyard, there was a moss-covered fountain. Hu pictured it in its glory days, long before the city fell into decay beneath time’s advance. Sparrows danced between the foliage of the scattering of trees on the right extreme, their song giving life to a forgotten part of the world. Once, people would have gathered her for lunch, conversation, and an evening of respite.

Hu found herself shaking her head. She doubted any man that knocked out women had time to enjoy the scenery. She dropped her gaze to the bowl on her lap, and slipped the chopsticks from the folds of her obi. The fusion of Asian culture had ceased to cause her concern. China was the most blatant drive behind this city, but she had woken in regions describable only as ancient Japan. Samurai and Ronin had fought openly in one village, and kami had chased her through others.

Her thoughts went away the moment her food passed her lips. Her feverish curiosities weakened by her feverish hunger. The noodles fell apart well in the morning water, long before it became stale and overbearingly salty. It teethed with peppers, small corn, and sweet potato. She could not name the spices, but they blended in such a manner that she simply stopped caring. It was delicious.

It did not take long before she began to dwell on the last memories she had of her apartment. The noise was distinct. It was like a lock opening. She heard footsteps, clearly not her own, and then a tension in the air that audibly alerted her senses. It was as if the air blazed, and her heart leapt from her chest.

“Why…why would you…?” she whispered. She chewed on a small chunk of soft meat. She hoped it was chicken, or something similar. It was sinewy, but tasted like gravy.

Her reflexes were not sharp enough to allow her to turn fully before she succumbed to the blow. She felt the air disturb behind her, and managed to twist an ankle to half rotate. From the glimpse of her attacker’s lapel, sleeve, and hair colour, she drew the only conclusion available to her astute powers of observation.

“Why would John do this to me?”

The sparrows stopped singing.

[Hu]

Hu ate slowly, and purposefully. Each painstaking bite lasted for what seemed an age. Though she tried to push thoughts of her troubles from her mind, they encroached on her with immeasurable force. Even the serene idyll of the garden failed to calm her burgeoning anxiety. She set the chopsticks into the bowl, rested it on her lap, and slouched. She felt so tired; she could have easily drifted off there and then.

“Come on, Hu,” she urged, talking to herself to rile up some courage. “You have solved some of the world’s greatest mystery.”

This was not entirely true. She had solved many good mysteries of the 30’s, but that paled in comparison. “What are you missing?” she asked the air. She cupped her cold fingers over the edge of the stone bench and ran her fingertips over it roughshod.

Through the small square of open air overhead, the last of the sun danced radiantly over cracked flagstones and ornate, lichen smothered statues. Tigers leered at her mid hunting pose. Shortly appeased by the sudden shift in beauty, she began to eat again. The noodles, though now tepid, turned into soup. She picked at the floating vegetables until it became broth. She plucked up the remaining meat until it was nothing more than coloured water.

She tipped the bowl onto the floor with disdain.

“Something blindingly obvious,” she snapped. She was bitter and resentful of her failings.

Until that afternoon, she was certain they had made advancements towards divining Qui’s motives. For months, they had worked together, trying to piece together the fragments of the ‘bigger picture’. However hard they tried, he always seemed to be one-step ahead of her. He knew where she would be before she did. He knew what she wanted to hear, and when. She wrinkled her nose and set the bowl onto the bench. She looked down at it, suddenly aware of the beautiful décor inside.

“I…” she cut herself off, as if scared of what she was going to say.

All her life, she had been educated in a juxtaposed society. In their modest country house in rural China, her mother had taught her to identity the artistic styles of the prominent dynasties. In her university education in Neo-Shanghai, she had delved into the dialects and languages of her ancestors. All the while, she had developed a growing fascination with the traditional mythology that underpinned the populous’ hopes and dreams. She blinked, ran her eyes over the herb-stained pattern, and shook feverishly.

“I do not believe it…”

The pattern in the bowl was of a similar design, practically identical in form, to a painting she had treasured as a child. She scooped it up into her hands, holding it reverently like an alms bowel of a beleaguered monk. She pulled it closer, to scrutinise it.

“On White Clouds,” she whispered. Her namesake invigorated her. Sparrows returned to their song.

Hu Tian finally pieced together the pieces of the puzzle. Her anger at her informant faded. When she returned to her apartment, she would make the man pay for his betrayal. She rose.

“Maybe this is not a dream…” she erred, hoping to find sudden revelation in the possibility. She looked up at the sky. It moved with blistering speed overhead. The clouds there danced with the evening halcyon. “Maybe this is…” she blinked again. She dropped her jaw agog. “Maybe this is just another time and place?”

She dropped the bowl, and fell backwards. The skies vanished before her head hit cracked against the worn stone.

Out in the street, a bank of fog rolled out of the shikumen archway. It smelt of noodles, bird dung, and abrupt decay. When people’s curiosity got the better of them, and the cacophony of gossip died down, the brave man who ventured into the garden found only a shattered bowl, a discarded soup, and traces of a girl who leapt through time.

[Hu]

Place Unknown, 2030
Date Unknown, Time Unknown

Hu awoke in darkness. The transition between time zones always left her blinded. Usually, though, it faded quickly. She tried to reach for her eyelids to rub them, and then gasped.

“I…I cannot see!” she exclaimed. No sound emerged from her lips. Her mouth was dry, her lips cracked, and her throat sore. She could not move her hands. They were bound to something behind her back.

She waited in silence. She peered into the black. She saw nothing save for shadows imaginary and taunting. Wherever she was, she was helpless. She struggled against whatever bound her. The captor had been thorough.

“You are finally awake,” said an all too familiar voice. It was male. It was John.

Hu tensed every bone in her body.

“Hmmm,” she groaned.

“I am sorry about this,” he said. She did not feel convinced. “Allow me.” She felt his voice reverberate in her chest. Her gag fell away. He stepped back with the sound of heavy boots scuffing wet concrete. “Are you okay Hu?”

Several things came to her mind in response. She remained tactful, despite her seething anger. She felt hurt by all means, but she was not going to stoop to his level.

“I am not as hurt as you will be,” she spat. She tried to swallow her words as they vomited out, but it was too late. She clenched her teeth.

Uncharacteristically, John laughed aloud. Hu calculated the echo’s shape, and began to picture her surroundings. Wherever she was, she sat in a rickety chair at the centre of the room. Her mind raced feverishly.

“I guess I asked for that.” He had. She would hurt him more than he could imagine. “I will cut you lose soon.” She heard him go around to her rear. “First, we have to pretend that I am still on Qui’s side.”

Hu frowned. John checked her wrist bonds. She grunted. However long she had been here, she was stiff and bleeding.

“As far as I am concerned, you still are.” Her tone was devoid of warmth, trust, and question. Her determination could have cut skin. “Do whatever you wish to do, as you always have.” She recalled every conversation they had had. She pictured him in countless possible timelines. She hated every reflection of the man called John.

“Hu, you have to trust me.” John did not sound convinced himself. “I know it seems like you do not have a friend in the world right now,” he sighed, “but I am on your side. I have always been on your side.” He pressed his thick, calloused hands onto her shoulders warmly. “I will always be on your side.” Hu flinched. He relinquished his grip when he felt her tense.

“If you start proving yourself now, I might start to believe you,” she said. Her voice was raspy, bitter, and seething. She strained some more, to prove her point.

A knock filled the room. Hu looked through her blindfold in its direction. John cleared his throat.

“Listen to everything you hear, and start to make up your mind. What I said on the phone I meant. What you think you saw in your apartment I did not.” She felt his hands cup her mouth, and then tie the gag back into place. She did not resist. “This is a turning point White Cloud,” he whispered in her ear.

A door opened.

“Hello, John.”

“Hello, Qui,” the man greeted in return.

[Hu]

“Could you repeat that?” John asked. He raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

Qui shook his head. “I sometimes think you are off in the clouds,” he clucked. “You have to get her to trust you. You have to get her to be confident in your ability to help her. If you do that, she will be easy to…” he pursed his pudgy lips, “manipulate.”

“I understand that,” he fidgeted. He ran a finger around the rim of a stained and chipped coffee mug. “What I do not get, though, is why you need to get her trust to meddle with her time line.”

“I did not ask you to understand. You have a job to do. All you need to understand is that you will get paid upon completion of that job.” The restaurant bustled around them. His business associates would join Qui soon, and he was keen to be shot of the American before they started to question his motives. Not everyone in Neo Shanghai approved of the informant.

John shrugged. “I just like to know exactly what, and who, I am dealing with.” He retrieved his mobile from his trouser pocket. He flipped it open and checked the time. “You should call her soon; it is nearly time to start this ‘manipulation’.” He calculated how long it would take her to cross the Concession.

Qui nodded. “Make sure you make it seem like you overheard me, or put two and two together when you meet her outside.” Qui pictured his own itinerary. He had been trying to arrange this meeting for so long, and he had only one chance, he did not want anything to go wrong. Time was unforgiving if you meddled with it too often.

John smiled. “I will do my bit, Qui. I have been doing it long enough,” he said. He had. Amongst the under belly of Shanghai, the American was known for his accuracy, dedication, and ability to find out whatever you needed to know. Of course, that skill came with a price. Qui was more than able to meet that fee.

On cue, a group of shady looking locals entered the restaurant. They came in through the back door, huddled together and laughing like crows. Qui watched them cross the floor. They did not so much as say hello before they sat, continued their conversation, and unloaded phones, wallets, and half-empty bottles onto the veneer of the table.

“I think that is your sign to get to work,” he said, turning back to John. His expression, friendly seconds ago, turned sour.

The American said nothing as he stood. He slid the chair back, stepped out from the table, and pushed it in. Despite a rude dismissal, he bowed in the traditional manner, and retreated to the door in a hurry. He knew better than to outstay his welcome.

John turned, hand on the doorway, and stared at Qui.

“What next?” he questioned.

“You have done everything I asked and more,” said Qui. Hu strained her ears to listen. She trailed him as he circled her. “We can begin our operation now that the time line runs in our favour.”

“I am not interested in that,” John said, short tempered. “All I want to know is what I have to do next, when I get paid for this job, and what you are going to do with her afterwards.”

Qui chuckled. “You have not started to care for her, have you?”

Hu knew what the answer was.

“No, but I do not want blood on my hands.”

“Hu is going to be pivotal in the events that transpire in the days to come. Her place in history is certain.” He sighed. “She will wake in another time, having never been here, in this basement. She will not remember you hitting her, or deceiving her, or even meeting you altogether.”

Hu stifled a gasp.

“We met before you first came back to this time period.” John seemed cautious. “How can you possibly undo a fixed-point like that?”

Hu’s thoughts raced. One of the comforts of her being stuck in 2030 was that she had met John in the very early part of the year. They had been working together for over six months before she received the call to the Old Town restaurant. They interwove long before war began.

“Consequences are unpredictable things, Mr Leviton.”

“So are the events that cause them…” John quoted Hu. Hu would have smiled, if she could.

“When I worked out Hu’s movements in 1930, I was able to accurately predict when you would meet. It took me months, if not years to work out. You were instrumental in helping me achieve this final problem.”

John made to speak. Qui interrupted him. Hu was almost certain she heard a gun safety switch flicking. Her spine tingled with tension.

“You do not need to concern yourself, Mr Leviton. You will receive payment, as promised. You will just not know why you have such a large amount of money in your apartment.” He stepped closer to Hu. “I suggest you use it wisely, and get out of this city before things…” There was an awkward pause. “Before things get heated.”

The gunshot would imprint into Hu’s memories through time and space. The pain that followed, however, would last only seconds.

[Hu]

Shanghai, 1930
August 24th, 11:23pm

Downtown Shanghai was awash with noise. Everywhere you looked, there were crowds of people. Lanterns and streamers covered every hook, sign, and banner. Fires burnt in dustbins, and bonfires blocked off streets and alleyways. Despite all the troubles and the poverty rife in the slums, today, the people of China celebrated.

Hu walked up the boulevard, weaving in and out of the people as they careened into one another, danced, and laughed. Songs broke out between rival gangs, workplaces, and businesses. All anxiety and troubles left at the door, and beer and wine flowed freely between bottle and glass.

Overheard, the sky exploded in a flurry of light. Green, blue, and yellow fireworks erupted in wide spheres and erratic rainbows. Each explosion rocked Hu. She flinched every time. The sound of gunfire echoed in the display. She hugged herself, to keep her warm and to stop herself shaking.

Everything about the city reminded her of the last few hours.

“I am so sorry, John…” she whispered. Her breath turned to mist before it whipped away in her stride. Though fire was everywhere, and the lights of the festival burnt warmly, the detective was freezing cold. Her thin skirt and blouse were ill suited to the night air.

When she time-travelled, she had no control over what she was wearing when she emerged into the world. The time line was so broken and fragmented after the war she could scarcely remember what the festival was in honour of. She was too busy with work to make it out to celebrate from what she remembered. Something had changed. Something had moved things in the dark.

“I will put this right…,” she pledged. She would. She always followed through with her plans.

She turned off the street and made for an alleyway. Hu had no idea where in Shanghai she was. Everywhere was done up for the festival. Old streets blocked off, and new streets opened long abandoned to refuse and shanty towns. All her knowledge failed her. The sound of celebration began to fade the further she ventured into darkness. It grew colder, but she did not care. She had to find somewhere to hide, to think, and to pull herself together. Though she had no physical wounds from the gunshot, she still felt it linger in the back of her head. A migraine came and went, causing her to drop where she stood, and slouched against the damp brickwork.

“Somehow, I will…” she mumbled. She looked up wearily at the stars through the narrow slip between rooftops and rusty fire escapes.

[Max Dirks]

Orient-Eering Judgment

Solid start here. I was reminded of a hybrid between Cloud Atlas and Quantum Leap while I read it. I'm particularly eager to see how Althanas (which I assume from your Judgment Request is the Unknown Place/Unknown Time) fits into the overall story arch. See below for specific comments.

Story - 7/10 – You managed to keep my interest throughout. I do think you overloaded the reader with "pieces" though. You frequently mention Qui was "further" along than Hu, well Hu was further along than the reader too. For example, John's involvement in the plot came particularly quickly

Setting - 5/10 – Neo Shanghai was well described, but I didn't get the same sense from Old Town Shanghai or "Althanas." Aside from the obvious plot movers (White Cloud and the River), you under utilized those areas

Pacing - 5/10 – The story started well, particularly into the first time transition; however, the more elements you introduced, the harder the story became to follow. I think for part two, you should focus on your transitions. Keep in mind most readers will not read the quest continuously at post breaks. Do not be afraid to add a short topic sentence

Communication - 5/10 – Choosing to reveal the story through dialouge worked well for you, but, as described below in persona, your character dynamics changed too quickly due to the time jumps

Action - 5/10 – You attempted to create suspense in parts, but the impact was minimized due to the fact that you used run on sentences to do so. Remember. Short sentences put readers on the edge of their seats

Persona - 6/10 – By allowing time to pass in addition to your "jumps" you invariably lose some aspects of character development. For example, though you briefly describe the development of the relationship between Hu and John, as a reader, the jump to making him an integral part of the plot with feelings for Hu was too sudden for me

Mechanics - 7/10 – There were a few spelling errors here and there (they appeared as usage errors). Read your posts carefully before transferring them from your word processor

Clarity - 5/10 – You need to mix up your sentence structure. You used the basic "pronoun verb object" (i.e. she did this) repeatedly in some instances. Also, avoid overusing the comma. Too much comma use disrupts the pace of your writing

Technique - 7/10 - Solid work here. I particularly enjoyed how you revealed the story in a puzzle format, just as Hu was sorting our her own puzzle

Wildcard: 5/10

Total: 57/100

Hu Tian gets 1520 Nexus Points!

[Max Dirks]

Nexus Points Added!