Monday, Midnight, June 16th 1924: The Implacable Enemy
In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 2):
Her name was Lara.
Adventurer. Pulp fiction reader. Ace pilot. Singer. Sniper.
She wasn't into men. She was into saving them. That's how she introduced herself to Clarke in Cairo. Her brown hair was mid-length, her face round or half-square - he couldn't tell. She was tall, about five-eleven, but stocky. Her grip was firm when they shook hands.
"Sorry about Ahmed," she said. "Sometimes it happens."
"Not my first," he replied. Technically true, but it was the first time he had seen someone killed by a flesh-devouring book.
She tilted her head and gave a crisp nod of satisfaction. "That's the attitude I like to see Clarke. Keep it up and we'll get along swimmingly."
The memory diverged and she grabbed his shirt and yanked him in close. Her face had become concerned, almost panicky, "You've got to get up Clarke. You've got to get up now!"
His heart jumped, as if someone had shocked him with electricity. Lara started to fade, her face becoming pale colours in a shimmer. He heard her voice faintly call out, "You can't trust Zoe. Not any more."
He was back in the room. He could see his friends fluttering their eyes open. He could sense the stone watching him as he looked at the box. Mike seemed on edge, half propped up and listening to something.
Great, he thought to himself. Another day I get to kill someone.