Silverport, Wisconsin

April 17th, 2024, 3:02 AM

The dreams of man bathed the night sky in stars. The sleeping heads of the reasonable opened up the world for those who, for whatever reason, chose not to capitulate to the lightlessness.

The town of Silverport was as such asleep for the most part, cocooning up to evade the brisk chill within the midwestern air. The lake it bordered allowed winter to hold on for much longer, keeping the air cool even in springtime's midst.

The steep cliff overlooking the majority of the town, gently tapering around its sides, also served to stave off the warm air. But the chill was comfortable enough, even preventing many from getting too warm under their blankets if they were the sort to open their windows at sixty degrees Fahrenheit.

Suffice it to say, the old port town was idyllic in that it was wholly isolated from the comings and goings of the rest of the world. Some would even claim it to be trapped in the past, what with its lack of cars or streetlights. But most of the inhabitants would claim these products of poor planning a blessing more than anything else, simply because it meant less to pollute the wondrous galactic tapestry ever-presently above.

Especially on moonless nights like these. Nights where the Milky Way above could be seen splitting the sky in two and forming a vast amethyst chasm between the halves. Where the shattered remnants of this bisection could shine unbound.

Its prime stargazing scenery was certainly Silverport's best kept secret, but the town was so much more than that. Its nights' most spectacular quality was truly in their subtle noiselessness. Too late for yelling and laughter, yet too early for the birds to have begun their calls. And, most remarkably, altogether without the preeminent and constant whirring of automobiles that shrouded the rest of the midwest. Those on the outskirts did have to deal with the cicadas in the summer, ruining these liminal minutes for the few who experienced them, but complaining never did anything about that.

It was less bustling than most any other town in the region, but it was the sort of almost contemplative quiet that allowed one to hear things they often took for granted. In a sense, it made the heart of the community beat the loudest.

Time felt frozen in that little pocket of the world, resting inside of a cycle of balance and wholeness. A picture-perfect diorama daring itself to change once more.

Nothing was perfect forever, and those who sought moments where something could be did so not in spite of this truth, but because of it. So, what of these night owls, the ones seeking their place within it on this certain Tuesday's witching hours?

Well, if one were to start anywhere...

-

Morgan let their legs dangle off of the run-down building's outcrop. They had long since learned of the best view that the out-of-business hotel had to offer. Which didn't actually take more than a few minutes the first time around. After all, any inhabitant of Silverport would be able to tell you to face outward from the heights of the developed precinct.

That was because this central area was almost pyramidal in structure, with the tallest buildings in the center and the shortest just before the more rural reaches of the outskirts. Which was why the twenty-something had chosen this end of the building; their line of sight was clear. They felt on top, in a way.

Though, this location specifically was closer to a simulation of the aformentioned urban slope. The flowing sprawl of development descended faster before being split in two by the uncomfortably immaculate park, situated around a block 'downstream'. The buildings became less and less modern on that steeper path to rock bottom until all that was left were the older homes orbiting the mostly natural landscape.

As it was most nights at this time, the old church was the only thing in sight abuzz with activity and likely enough drugs to down an army. It was the loudest thing in town by virtue of being the only loud thing in town at this time. Sometimes, on the off chance that there was a cop on duty this late, they would even be called out on it.

The ledge-bound observer snorted as they recalled the last time an officer had tried to get in. Good times.

Morgan wore thin stockings and a complex black outfit with no small amount of leather, the latter of which was jarringly contrasted by colorful patches. Their stomach was uncovered in the center, a chest binder the only cloth on their torso showing through the jacket. It was colored black as well, of course.

No, the weren't a part of the town's surprisingly active underground punk scene (though they did go to shows sometimes for the cheap alcohol). They were just non-binary, and it was the second best thing to dressing like an 18th century pirate. Their face wasn't quite feminine, but it was delicate enough to make the outfit work well. Coupled with their neck-length and messy dyed black hair showing reddish-brown at the base the look certainly came together, at least by the estimation of the only other person in the vicinity.

Morgan heard a noise and looked back, sticking their tongue out teasingly over the roof. From across the grids of vegetable and fruit gardening plants, another carbon-based lifeform outside of Morgan and said plants entered stage roof access. It a fair-haired-and-skinned also-twenty-something young man who Morgan would know almost too well as Alex.

In comparison, his fashion sense was normal. A button-up and jeans, the definition of business casual. It was slightly disheveled from yet another extremely long day of use. His only notable feature was his piercing icy-blue eyes which seemed to glow with a luster approaching the Milky Way above, albeit with a different hue.

He had just come through the rooftop entrance and seemed slightly out of breath.

"No scrapes this time, princess?" the first arrival asked teasingly.

"Fuck off," the newcomer confirmed.

They both laughed.

Morgan patted the space to their side and the man, their boyfriend, sighed and sat down. The two had made a habit of sneaking out like this for a long while, Morgan having found a route up into the unused upper floors of the building in the lot out back. The rooms leading up were dusty and full of hazards, but there was a pretty clear trail blazed around.

Alex especially wondered if he'd ever come across the building's other explorer, but he hadn't seen anything but traces quite yet. The rooftop garden was his idea, but Morgan was the one who did most of the work with it. Alex's office job didn't leave him too many days where he could afford to sneak out at less risky times.

But he asked to come along today to see how the garden was doing and to plant a few seeds that he had found in the flower shop down on 5th Street.

He had his priorities, though, electing to first sit close beside his significant other. He stared at them for a moment as they looked at the sky. He looked up, and Morgan looked at him. This happened a few times, before the couple began to make a game out of it on unspoken agreement.

It wasn't long before they started getting dizzy, shifting their gazes from one another to the stars faster and faster each time before Morgan slipped up and their eyes met. Not one to dwell on their defeat (or let anyone else dwell on their defeat), they moved in for a drawn-out kiss, which Alex happily reciprocated.

It didn't last long, though, since Alex couldn't hold in an indignant chuckle.

"Is this where I say something cheesy? Like 'you shine brighter than the stars'?" Alex asked.

"Laaaame," Morgan replied, "That's so unoriginal. If you want to make my heart race, maybe try something like..."

They paused for a moment, perhaps to think, perhaps to prepare the most dramatic voice that they could imagine. Perhaps both.

""'O, how frostbitten is this world, a sea of broken dreams frozen over by existential apathy. Even the stars are mere records of eons long past. Yet, I feel no longing for their warmth as I remain by your side, in a complete world of our own dreams.',"

"You're literally a writer, that's not fair."

"Did I make your heart race?" the alleged writer asked.

Alex looked away and coughed before shooting back a "You do that anyway. Also, it's a bit too long-winded,".

Morgan playfully punched his shoulder before laying their head on it.

"Speaking of, how's your book been going? I haven't heard much about it from you," Alex asked to change the subject.

"That's because there's not much to say, honestly," Morgan sighed, "I have a first draft done, but I'm thinking of doing a rewrite. I don't have many ideas, but the only publishers I've heard back from work on this sort of thing."

"Sounds even less bearable than interviews. I don't know how you put up with it,"

"If I wasn't still getting income from the ones I self-published I would have quit by now," Morgan scoffed, "So, how's your work going? Nothing exciting, I'm sure,"

"I detest that statement but you aren't wrong. I figured I'd be uncovering embezzlement and delving into a world of cutthroat subterfuge. But it's mostly just math and plausible deniability."

"You're an accountant, didn't you expect it to be math?"

"I expected it to be the *fun* kind of math. Not addition, subtraction, ibuprofen, and hatred. The hardest part of the job so far has been coming to terms that I'm stuck doing this for the best years of my life."

There was a silence.

"I wish there was another option," Alex whispered. Morgan moved their arm to squeeze him.

"We were at least lucky to find this town. It's surprisingly bearable."

"I just wish I was making more, maybe in a different place. With more free time. I want to be as free as a rich person with the experiences and struggles of this sort of life."

"I'm not even an office junkie and I feel the same."

"I don't know if anybody in this country wouldn't."

"Hey, do you remember highschool?"

"Sadly, yes. Are you talking about the dream?"

"I am, I'm surprised you still remember that. The one where you wanted to travel across the world in every possible way, right?"

Morgan nodded and spoke.

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't still want to run away with you."

"Yeah, that's what I want, too. A trip, where we can just be together and meet new people. Where we don't need to worry about our paychecks, just where we're going next."

"Wow, that's uncharacteristically poetic. Are you *sure* you're a STEM major?"

"Shut it, I'm trying to have a moment."

They laughed again, not caring about being heard. Morgan kissed their boyfriend once more to shut him up as if they did. It was a good excuse, and one Alex certainly wouldn't complain about.

"I know everything's degrading, but that isn't your fault. I don't care about going on a journey when I'm here with you," Morgan finished and they held each other tightly.

In that moment, all they knew was that they had some parts of their dream with them. All they knew was that they had each other.

But the night was long. When you put everyone's time together, seconds turned to years being lived.

The night sky watched and listened. It always did.

-

But it never answered, remaining rife with secrets perhaps never to be told. A constant companion throughout the eras, whether humanity hid from it or sought it. It was enigmatic enough to justify either.

And sometimes, when the robin's-egg veil of the stratosphere was lifted, humans could gaze into the chasm and try to see just how deep the rabbit hole went. There was a pretty universal answer most arrived at pretty quickly, though:

'I'll never be up there.'

And then they went on with their lives. Or, perhaps, more achievable journeys.

In the modern day, though, it was different for some. They, whose lives had often not yet been burdened by more worldly concerns, they would look to the sky and see themselves up there. Dreaming to be the pioneers on the final frontier, they drew no conclusions, only new hopes. Such as;

'I want to make it up there someday.'

And for those somewhere in between?

"I wish I was up there."

The old church appeared to hold up well enough- The white paint on the siding wasn't chipped too egregiously, and although its corridors and side rooms were a bit cramped they weren't in any sort of disarray. But simply by stepping inside one would be able to tell that it was crumbling apart at the seams.

Perhaps it was the air that smelled of wood grain. Or maybe the ephemeral slight creak made by any and all movements. The windows that likely once held stained glass having been replaced with simpler annealed glass. The subtle sense of disquietude that came with the mismatched tiles and carpets and types of hardwood in every room. Or even the mono-yellow lights pasted onto the side halls, just above old candle holders.

Maybe it was all of these things, each dyed in their own shade of 'nothing lasts forever'.

Which just so happened to be something a late-night inhabitant was scrawling in some rarely-seen corner of the balcony. Cal thought it sounded cool, and it was hard to wind down from the thumping and bumping downstairs while remaining distracted any other way.

He had only brought his pocket knife and he wanted to leave his mark. He had been pickpocketed earlier, so he felt he was lucky to at least have had the mind to hide away that much. Because of his preparations he'd lost $10 at most, with his credit card especially shoved firmly in unmentionable locations after earlier lessons learned. So he wasn't too mad about it, even if $10 was about all that there was in his bank account in the first place.

The shows held in the church rarely resulted in anything breaking. If it did, there was an honor code and it would be replaced promptly with whatever anyone participating had on hand. The balcony was fair game to vandalize because the churchgoers and church staff never came up there.

All in all, it was a symbiotic relationship. The punks could have their shows without having the cops called on them most nights and the church staff got a free cleaning service after the scene's largest attraction- the Friday shows.

Cal was one of them. Not one of the kind souls who cleaned up after (at least, not most nights), but one of the people who always showed up on Fridays.

Because he really didn't have anything better to do. Friday, Tuesday, or most any other day of the week.

'At least I have this much. Work would be even less bearable if I were ever well-rested.'

Cal stood up to stretch and take a sip of water from one of the many bottles in his backpack before finishing up the lukewarm spacebag he had taken from the church's basement. He burped and wiped his mouth on his arm before ineffectually attempting to shake off the miscellaneous fluids stubbornly sticking to it.

He felt the desire to throw it vindictively, but there hadn't been enough left inside of the bag to get him drunk enough to do so. Not with people hanging around the vicinity outside. Sadly.

He wretched but managed to hold in his vomit, albeit purely out of a conviction to not need to clean it up.

He traced his fingers along the dark circles under his once-brown-now-too-bloodshot-to-tell eyes before pushing back his sweat-stained, presently auburn hair. He groaned.

"God, this stuff tastes like shit."

The partygoer glanced down at his watch and had his fears confirmed. It was almost 3:10.

"I'm not drunk enough for this shit yet," he realized before bounding down the thin, curved stairway three steps at a time. Cal was thankful that the fact that the way down could hold his weight this time.

He wove through a small kitchen stocked for a modest food pantry and up a half-flight of stairs to a storeroom full of old instruments meant for the choir. With surprising skill in spite of his currently inebriated state he wove his way out. Cal strode once more through the changing room with the altar boy robes and he was out into the crowd.

He blended in effortlessly, off to seek more of what everyone was there for:

Sex and drugs and loud noises.

It's enough for most of these sorts of people, most of the time. Enough to distract them and you and me from the harshness of reality, from the fact that they and we aren't the ones who will get to explore the cosmos. It's enough for the ones who don't have the heart to ask why it can't be them but have the mind to know it's true.

That was the audience there, at least. But there were those in this between category who didn't belong.

The others who weren't satisfied singing along to the defiant pleas of others. These were the same people who shot up buildings or wove conspiracy theories or mailed pipe bombs to politicians.

But there were a few her and there that didn't give up and drown in their own insanity.

These people, and not even the Lord knows how they do it, were the ones who sang the songs those aforementioned crowds marched to. The ones who waved around the flags of the futile battles that realistically amounted to nothing more than a temper tantrum. Time and time and time again.

They also didn't quite belong.

Even this sort of crowd seemed to be growing antsier by the second, though. It was late and it was hot in the building from the lights and bodies.

The announcer's time was now. He began to yell into his microphone with an aggressive sort of excitement, perfectly reflecting the energy of the venue.

"Alright, just a few backstage difficulties, folks! But I think the wait'll be worth it for tonight's headliner- The Letter EEEIIIIGHHHT,"

Cal winced- half at the grating enunciation and half from the sudden loud noise. It had to be to penetrate the shroud of ambient voices in the building.

But now he was drunk enough to shake it off. He glanced at the drummer, the violinist substituting as a trumpeter, and Axel who was standing in the back, holding a tambourine. Happy as can be.

Cal cleared his throat and hopped up on stage, noticeably wobbling as he stabilized himself. The crowd cheered. It felt good, he felt awful.

"Oh, fuck it, one last song and then we can all go home!"

The first part didn't reach the mic because he was still walking over to it. Everyone still heard enough to decide it was a fine enough excuse to cheer again.

"ONE, TWO, ONE TWO THREE FOUR!"

At least they were having fun.

-

Almost nobody in Silverport owned a car.

The streets had been built too thin and stubborn hereditary property owners didn't give in and let their ancestral homes be demolished. In this way, it was saved from the urban and suburban sprawl of most of the midwest in its isolation and planning restrictions.

So, as the town developed, bikes and similar means became the norm. This in turn pushed everything to be closer together, making such sorts of transport the most efficient regardless. It helped with the noise and made everything feel more streamlined and closer together, socialization unmarred by the loading screen that was a car ride.

But it also made further away places incredibly difficult to reach if you weren't a kid loaning a car for driver's ed.

"Who the fuck would ask someone to do this?" Aura complained for what was probably the thousandth time that, albeit lengthy, bike ride.

One of the, as she so soulfully and perhaps excessively described, 'rich fucks' had asked her to come out and fix their 'wires'. Which could mean anything, but she hadn't made a habit of expecting her customers to know their shit. That was her job, and she had been given enough details to at the very least bullshit an excuse if she couldn't manage it.

It would be a normal if infuriating request. It would be...

...if it wasn't made at 2:00 in the morning with the disclaimer that nobody would be home.

Aura, for the life of her, could not at all fathom why they would invite a stranger to their house they weren't even in. 'I mean, if you're already not home, can't you wait until at least dawn to call someone over? But nooooooo, you need maintenance for the vacation home you won't visit for two more months right now. I bet some butler fucked up bad.'

In her defense, one would need strong nerves to bike multiple kilometers during the witching hours in the last vestiges of winter- let alone all the while lugging along a backpack packed with heavy tools and electrical equipment. Unrepentant rage was an effective enough coping mechanism. At least it kept her in shape, though she wasn't in the mood to see that specific silver lining.

As for why she was actually doing this job? Well, the person who owned the house evidently didn't amass their fortune through frugality or intelligent spending. That is to say, she was being paid $10,000.

She would have been suspicious if she thought her life could get much worse. After today, there wasn't anyone left to miss her regardless-

She shook off that particular line of thought and registered that she had arrived. Aura just stood outside, looking at the path leading to the villa in contemplation. She still couldn't get over the commission.

The ask was so odd that she was beginning to wonder if the phone book had the family's number wrong and the person who was subject to the inevitable calls was playing pranks.

If they were, she saw herself returning to her shitty apartment complex adorning more than a few new bloodstains after tracking the fucker down. Worryingly, the image was what finally gave her the self-assurance to begin the trek into the lakeside villa.

The path was diagonally uphill but well maintained enough. As far as she could tell, that is. It was difficult to see exactly what was around in the darkness, but even before coming fully around the stone brick walkway's bend the massive home was visible.

There weren't any lights around but the sheer enormity of it made it easy to see as a domineering outline in the sky. It was lit up well enough by the stars to be seen. The electrician kicked at her own heels, pretending that it would do something to the growing pain in her feet. It didn't, but it did give her cause to think about the new shoes she could buy with that night's pay.

Before her, the path widened into what appeared to be a plaza, an open space with a well in the center-

"As if this place doesn't have running water," Aura scoffed with no small amount of scorn.

-which laid before the home itself. It was technically two stories, although both of those stories were spacious enough that it was the height of a three story building. The roof and walls were in a distinctly Mediterranean style, highlighting the large window to the tower-like room on the left which obnoxiously displayed what appeared to be a spiral staircase.

On the right was a more two-tiered approach, with the bottom floor coming out further and being sprawled out around the left of the 'plaza' area. Its windows were more modest. In fact, kind of annoyingly so. Aura felt they had missed an opportunity with the lack of planters in the windowsills.

It all led into a simple door framed by a metallic overhang meant as a perch for various sorts of leaves and vines, adding some more green to the building. Which was severely needed considering the lack of nature around the windows. Not even a fucking flowerpot, for Christ's sake.

Aura didn't stop to look beyond that and just strode in, walking through the vista without the slightest bit of envy or wonderment. The anger she felt bubbling under the surface wasn't actually at the owners of the house or the job or anything like that. They were just a convenient and most certainly justified target.

She flicked open the door (that had already been unlocked for her) which most would hesitate at, all out of fucks to give.

Aura flicked the light switch with a similar motion, waiting ten anticlimactic seconds before realizing that that was exactly what she had come to the house to fix.

After an admirably small number of facepalms the electrician continued on, this time taking a flashlight out of her backpack. As it was meant to be used to improve visibility in cramped workspaces it didn't provide all that much light for her purposes, but enough ambient light from the outside made it in that it at least allowed her to view her surroundings.

On the inside things were odd, though explainable enough so as to not be too creepy.

All of the furniture was bolted to the ground, pristine and unmoving, and the air was somewhat stagnant. It was as if the home had been locked in stasis for a long while, only to be disturbed by the not-quite-uninvited visitor. The visitor in question certainly *felt* like an intruder at the atmosphere, though.

What was almost creepy, even in spite of its justifiability, were the myriad cameras of every make and model lining every seeming inch of every room that Aura came across. It felt like a billion little eyes were watching her. She didn't feel unsafe, but she felt seen. It was something incongruous with how used to the veil of night she had become in general.

But it wasn't anything more than sort of unsettling. She had plenty of other emotions to overshadow that particular discomfort.

The circuit breaker was pretty easy to find, and the job itself would thankfully be easy. The fuse that had blown wasn't stopping current between a specific appliance and the power supply, but the house itself.

So there wouldn't be much to fix. She was curious how it had blown, but she figured it just had an error after not being replaced for a while.

At least, that was how it should have been. Nothing could be easy.

"What the hell? Was some housekeeper mining crypto or something?"

Once Aura tracked down the location of the shot fuse and took off the panel leading to it she was completely dumbfounded. The entire thing was completely scorched, it was as if someone had set off a weak C4 in the compartment. The cords were frayed and mangled beyond repair and there was a layer of melted plastic at the bottom.

The acrid scent that wafted out of her workspace for the next few hours was absolutely taking years off of her life. Aura was too busy wondering how the panel to her side had held to worry about that though.

"This is going to be a long night," she grumbled, still a bit shocked.

'Though, I doubt I'd be getting much sleep regardless,' the young woman silently added.

She put her inky black hair in a ponytail and finally got to work, figuring the end of the night had to start somewhere.

"I wonder if I can charge extra for the cords I'll need to use..."

-

While any reasonable person would be sleeping, the less reasonable were stargazing, moonlighting, celebrating, lamenting, mourning, or getting absolutely shithammered. Often most of those at once.

At 3:02 AM on the dot, Luan leapt out of his fifth-story window -- directly across a tiny gap into an old, now-unused hotel. He was already excited to discover which category he'd end up in that night, all the while content that he could count himself among Silverport's dreamers, awake or asleep.