This is a work of fiction. No assumption of fact is implied nor should any assumption of fact be inferred from this work. Despite the use of "Sol"
as a main character, the name shares no commonality with any persons, living or dead (especially the author). In short, I have pulled all of this
"off the top of my head", so to speak.
(c) SolaceMournerVII, 2009. Please give credit where credit is due.
Chapter 1: The Advent of the Culmination
23 January 2102 AD
Colorado Springs, CO
The snowstorm had come and gone, but the Sun's failed attempt to break through the immobile mass of clouds overhead had forced much of the public to
seek shelter indoors. That is where Sol found himself, at the library. Even on a day where the city bustled about outside, Sol would have sought
refuge within those walls, subconsciously taking in the aroma of aged pages and the ambient sound of intellectual banter and the tapping of practiced
fingers working at the keys of the numerous computer terminals.
After ordering a white chocolate mocha and sitting down to a collection of tomes he had handpicked off the shelf, Sol sighed with pleasant relief at
the task set before him. What many viewed as a daunting endeavor of endless tedium, Sol saw as an opportunity to uncover the truth that so many
around him missed.
The seat hesitated with staccato chops against the weathered carpet as Sol pulled it from the table far enough for him to sit. He opened his notepad
and--next to it--the first book in his collection. Slowly, with a meticulous nature foreign to every other aspect of his life, Sol wrote down every
name, date, and significant event he came across. The information could all be sorted more evenly at a later time. Indeed, time was a stolid enemy
that showed no mercy or remorse, slipping away feverishly as Sol gleaned through the allies of information and fact.
The current book Sol had before him was one on a subject he would soon become far too familiar with, even for Sol's own taste. One could even
compare him to the ignorant readers of the 19th century, eating up the stories of wild cowboys in the even more wild West of the United States. Such
stories were often met with childish smiles, as readers imagined themselves in the shoes of the story's hero. Such a smile graced Sol's face as he
plucked through the text on Men In Black.
Unlike the Hollywood perception of comical, fanciful men tasked with keeping alien operations as covert as possible, the pair that watched Sol from
across the lobby were stolid, practical creatures. Sol had not immediately noticed them, but upon perceiving eyes watching his every move, like so
many tourists before the Mona Lisa
, Sol's smile faded and his eyes locked heavily with the pair.
Sol shut his notepad slowly, his eyes never leaving the dark lenses that stared back. As he piled his resources into his backpack, a small shred of
hope swelled within Sol.
"Perhaps they aren't," Sol thought to himself as he attempted--and failed--to act as casually as possible, averting his eyes to the floor and
striding past the two suits. His already tense shoulder jumped with fear as the clammy, pallor hand of one of the pair landed firmly on him. Sol
sucked in a gasp, looking sharply from the floor to the towering figure that stood as Sol stepped back.
"Mr. Hammerson." The noise seemed to echo in the man's chest, and Sol swore for half a moment that the man's lips hadn't moved.
"No, sorry," Sol lied as he attempted to brush the man off and move past.
"Mr. Hammerson." The suit repeated, looking down on Sol as a god might look down on a failed servant shortly before the poor slave's summary
execution. His tone was more insistent, and less of a question than a statement that said so much more than a name. "Sit yourself down and
cooperate," is more what it was.
"Can I help you?" Sol asked.
[edit on 30/3/2009 by SolaceMournerVII]