Thisisgame

Rose&Quail: Prelude to Invasion

Chapter 12

Hawaii’s North Shore - 2010

May 7th, 0600 hours. Admiral Leslie Chung turns on a lamp near his bed. His wife rolls over in bed as he prepares to enter the long, arduous day. The Hawaiian sun is still hiding behind the cover of night, far in the distance but still present awaiting to reveal itself when the clouds part. Leslie Chung is Chinese-American, second generation. If you look far back in time, you’d find that the Chung family worked on the vast network of railroads in the west. All of the hardships from the generations before him sit on his brow, which is perpetually furrowed. Admiral Chung pinches the bridge of his nose as he braces to stand up from bed, letting the morning begin.

Admiral Chung stands and takes a few groggy steps into the bathroom. He’s just above six feet tall with a tough, bulky chest on top of his dense torso. His steps feel graceful as he enters the marble and glass accented bathroom. The lights stay off. It’s not long after the sounds of a shower can be heard through the walls. Their four-bedroom house is on top of a hill with rich Koa wood stretching into all the rooms. His wife is still asleep, curled up in a bundle of white bedsheets. Aro, their only son, is awake in his room. Aro’s flourishing teenage values are represented in his room by posters of skateboarders, musicians and kaiju films. Aro is lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Uro wakes up instinctively around the time Leslie’s shower ends. Uro and Leslie have been married for thirty years and have their morning routine locked in telepathically. Uro reaches to her left to grab a prosthetic leg near their bed. She attaches it and begins her day like clockwork, Leslie begins to get dressed as Uro’s shower begins. He turns the light on for her as she steps into the deluxe looking shower, still heavy with steam and residual water from Leslie’s shower. Everyone in the Chung household speaks Mandarin.

Admiral Chung, “Do you want some espresso?”
Uro turns to him as she sets her metal prosthetic near the outside of the shower. The matte black metal prosthetic is removed just below her knee and makes no sound as Uro gently sets it on the glass of the shower. Half-asleep, she replies, “Sure.”
“Aro has practice this morning, so don’t give him any coffee.”
“I know. Please, don’t lecture me yet. I haven’t woken up. I’m still in dreamland.”
“Dreamland sounds nice.” He leans against the doorframe as he watches her shower, admiring her without letting his presence overflow beyond the border of their room and this room. “I had a very strange and interesting dream again. I’ve been seeing it for a while now. You know that writing your dreams down is a good way to remember them. That’s what all of my friends did during bootcamp. Our nightmares on base were so bad. Luckily one of our buddies had a way to get us hashish and that helped cool us over. Once I met you, I was able to dream again normally. But sometimes I see the same thing I saw back then.”
Uro doesn’t turn around, “And what was that?”
“Nothing. It’s usually nothing. Emptiness. There were rumors of soldiers going crazy back then. We never had it that bad like them though. At least my friends didn’t have any trouble like that. We had these dark visions of nothing. Just empty nothing. You can’t run or walk. You can’t change the scene. However, one thing in common we all experienced was that we could feel something there. That’s what happened last night. I felt that same thing. I wonder what it could be? What did you dream of last night?”
Uro pours shampoo into her sleek black hair, “I was in a beautiful place.”
“Lucky you.”
“There were purple hills and many beautiful streams. We should take Aro camping.”
“I don’t think he likes camping.”
“Ah, you’re right.”
Admiral Chung drifts away from the conversation casually. As he arrives in the kitchen, he passes Aro holding a steaming hot cup of coffee.
Aro nods to his dad nonchalantly, but Admiral Chung stops him. Aro’s third generation sensibilities flow out of him in a way that his father would call reckless.
Admiral Chung, “Hey. Why are you drinking that?”
Aro, around thirteen, speaks slightly rugged Mandarin. He smiles, “I need to wake up. I’m tired from studying all night. I didn’t get any sleep.”
“You didn’t get any sleep?”
“No.”
That won’t help you on the field. That won’t make you strong.”
Aro rolls his eyes and switches to English, “Dad, chill out. Please.”
Admiral Chung stiffens up but can’t get the words to reply. His strong, heavy stature is brought to a halt in the face of his rebellious son. Leslie is left looking disappointed, rather than angry. He’s no fool to this process. The bridge between him and his parents, and their generation, was wide as well. He drops his head sadly as he witnesses a glimpse of the divide growing once again. Despite growing up in paradise, Aro has absorbed many of the venomous characteristics of his peers and his father is struggling to digest what this will mean for their relationship as it grows. Leslie’s consciousness was as cloudy as the scene outside.

Aro, after a sip, “I don’t even finish the cup half the time. I’ll be fine, alright. It’s just soccer practice.” He steps into his room and the conversation comes to a halt. Admiral Chung takes a second for himself before he begins to make breakfast for him and Uro.

Their breakfast is a luscious blend of granola, yogurt, fruits and some light bites of poke on the side. From the stretch of windows in their living room, he can see the Pacific Ocean dancing all the way to the horizon. After preparing the meal for him and his wife, he begins to eat his portion, making his way to the window. Uro enters sometime later, fully dressed and prepared for her day at the ESF Administration building in Ewa Beach. The drive is a little long from their North Shore house, but the Chung’s have all elected privacy over convenience. Her fitted gray suit is a nice contrast to Leslie’s pressed and creased forest green military uniform. They enjoy eating across from each other as the sun rises to their side. The orange and red beams of light and warmth seep into the house a second at a time. The Earth turns and their day barrels forward in time.

Admiral Chung takes his last bite just as Uro takes hers. Although they got on this road at different points in time, they’ve arrived at the same destination at the very same time. For this small slice of time in the morning, their routines perfectly align. Then, Aro steps into the kitchen and takes a few small bites to eat, he’s dressed in a purple soccer uniform.

Admiral Chung smiles to Uro, “Was that the kind of purple you saw?”
Uro gives him a kiss on the cheek after collecting their plates and walking into the kitchen area, “Almost. I think the purple I saw was much lighter. It was much softer.”
Admiral Chung looks at the clock on the wall, it reads 0645 Hours. He grabs his keys and heads for the door, “I’m off to work. I’ll see you later today.”

0710 HOURS. Admiral Chung rounds a corner of a steep series of mountains near the water. His pristine black SUV slides through the morning fog like a stealth vehicle. Each move is calculated and perfect. Admiral Chung nears the exterior of Earth Space Force Mission Control, Unit 109. After a few security checkpoints, nods and badge swipes, he drives into a cavernous parking garage. The brisk North Shore air attempts to rattle his skin, but he shakes it off as he makes the walk from his car, through an underground garage into an elevator.

Inside, the elevator silently shuttles him up to the 20th floor. Admiral Chung steps out to a silver hallway. After passing another checkpoint, he enters the executive chambers of ESF Mission Control. This room is an effective and spacious hybrid of a café, meeting space, lounge and bar. Uro always jokes that it has a very forced secret agent atmosphere. Leslie only frequents the 20th floor to maintain his bonds with his taciturn colleagues that populate the leadership division of the ESF.

Admiral Chung enters the room and nods to a group of four white men seated in a semicircle. Near a window four times the size of his one at home, the group of men look out onto the Pacific Ocean as morning grows in front of them. The sun is shining, but a dark layer of clouds has been woven above everything. Even the ocean looks dark, which is the first of several things that Admiral Chung clocks while stepping to an instant coffee machine. He puts a cup near it and a small robotic barista whips him up a perfect coffee. Vice Admiral Richard Gibb, a mixed-race man in his thirties is inside an office space on the same floor. He’s talking to someone on the phone, but he makes an effort to wave and say hello to Admiral Chung through the glass.
Admiral Chung waves to Richard as he nears the table of four men. Three of them are all in their sixties and seventies. These are military officials; well-connected professionals who were around during the early days of the Earth Space Force. While they aren’t the founders, they have enough security clearance to have unlimited access to the 20th floor lounge, which is little more than a boy’s club or playhouse to them. One man among them is half their age. His long hair is draped over some of his face, obscuring a scar near his forehead. This is Parker Mathwood, now thirty-three, doing his best to rub shoulders with these gentlemen.

Parker acknowledges Admiral Chung as he approaches, just a few feet away. None of them stand. The man sitting across from Parker is facing away from Leslie. He turns to say hello with a modest nod. This is Chief Staff Captain Arnold Willis. He extends his right hand like a hook to shake Leslie’s, and he does. Chief Willis is a chubby looking man from Colorado. His puffy face is set atop a wide framed body. His jolly demeanor has kept his looks the youngest out of the older men present. It’s not uncommon to see Staff Captain Willis playing Santa at the annual ESF Employee Christmas party.
Staff Captain Willis, “Good to see ya, Chung.”
Parker, “Good morning, Admiral.”
Admiral Chung notices a bottle of Japanese whiskey sitting on the coffee table in the middle of their plush blue and white chairs.
The man on Parker’s right nods as he takes a ship of whiskey. This is Treasury Chief David Lure. He’s rail thin inside his green uniform. Chief Lure is rapidly aging, but doing his best to conceal it. This half-German, half-Irish swimmer was and is still considered one of the brightest minds in his field. His budgeting kept the ESF afloat during the earlier years when the US Government wasn’t so supportive and spending was rampant. His skin is drooping from years of stress and now, years of alcoholism. Sitting to his right is Doctor Allen McFayden. Dr. McFayden, unlike the other three men, is not an ESF employee, but nearly everyone in these circles knows or has heard of him.

Dr. McFadyen, in fact, has gained a legendary reputation as being one of the best doctors on the planet. This is attributed to the fact that, although he’s a well accomplished brain surgeon, researcher and author; he found a way to refine Sulnat into liquid form and reverse-engineer the compound to destroy many of the cells that cause mental corruption and Sulnat sickness. Dr. McFayden is not only the inventor of Refined Sulnat, he’s the unofficial father of S-crystal, the illicit drug version of the powerful compound. He’s worshiped in medical books and alleyways all the same. His reputation is incredibly controversial, and thus he tends to stay in small, exclusive circles like this.

Chief Lure, “Morning.”
Dr. McFayden, “Good morning, Admiral.”
Admiral Chung smirks, “So, I wasn’t mistaken. It is still morning.”
Parker offers him an empty glass, “They’re celebrating.”
Admiral Chung, “Celebrating what?”
Chief Willis smiles, “Numbers. Good numbers.”
Chief Lure smiles, “Recruit numbers are up. Profits are good.”
Admiral Chung looks to his Vice Admiral, who is finishing up his phone call and making his way out of the office, “And are those recruit numbers retaining? Are they advancing in our acceleration programs? How are the veterans doing?”
Chief Lure gets sour from the questions, “I wouldn’t worry too much about that, Admiral. I’d focus on your tower budget. With the rate that your engineers burn through Sulnat Cores, I’d say your sector was in trouble, but that’s just stating the obvious. It would be wise to switch titles now while you still can, before your career sinks along with the Turret Division as a whole.”
Admiral Chung replies, “Those turrets are why you can drink so freely this early in the morning. Keep that in mind while you search for the sunset, Chief.”
Vice Admiral Gibb walks up and greets Admiral Chung again, “Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Gibb.”
“I need to speak with you, now.”

Moments later, Admiral Chung and Vice Admiral Gibb are heading down the elevator. Admiral Chung shakes off the Chief’s comments.
Vice Admiral Gibb, “Don’t let them get to you, sir.”
Admiral Chung smiles, “I won’t.” The elevator doors open. “Those old bastards will be dead soon enough. What’s on your mind?”
“Young Jong-dae has been calling all morning. He’s asking for permission to send out a distress signal to all the Nexus Towers in the Pacific.”
They enter basement level four. Inside is a series of computers, workstations and desks, all covered with young ESF soldiers making calculations and surveying data from the ocean. All of the cameras and monitors in this room feature one common entity: images, graphs, screens and readouts all relay information from the ocean.
Vice Admiral Gibb ushers Admiral Chung into the main office of this subterranean floor. This is Vice Admiral Gibb’s secondary office. He’s in charge of relaying all top secret, ocean-related data to Admiral Chung, who is in charge of defending the Pacific region. He isn’t in charge of the Turret Division himself, but he oversees the people that run it.

Vice Admiral Gibb closes the large steel door behind him, “He should be on the call waiting for you.”
Admiral Chung is still grasping the situation, “Young Jong-dae?”
“Yes. He says it’s important.”
Admiral Chung sits at the desk as Vice Admiral Gibb turns his computer monitor so both men can see the caller on the other side.
On the video call is Young Jong-dae. Young Jong-dae is a thirty-year-old Korean man. He’s of average size with a long tuft of black hair. He’s making the call from an office inside his Busan apartment. The space behind him is modest. Everything behind him looks neat and well organized. He adjusts his glasses as he waves to them through the screen. Admiral Chung and Richard speak to Young Jong-dae in Korean.
Young Jong-dae, “Hello!”
The two men respond in unison, “Hello.”
“Admiral, this is urgent. Have you been in touch with the Research and Development Division?”
Admiral Chung, “No, but we can get them on the line right away. What’s going on?”
“I’ve been getting several concerning readings over the last three hours. There’s a high level of Sulnat output appearing in the atmosphere above the Pacific Ocean. One of the sensors of a nearby Nexus Tower caught it around 0300 hours.”
Admiral Chung looks to Richard, “Call Saito, now.”
Richard nods as he ducks into a corner of the room to call head of the ESF Research and Development Division, Saito Wantantabe.

Admiral Chung continues his video call, “We’re on it. What’s happening?”
Young Jong-dae, “Honestly, I don’t know. I have no idea what this could mean, but I haven’t seen anything like this. It’s two unknowns on top of each other. The result is a very strange feeling.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you been having any strange dreams recently?”
“Yes. Actually, me and my wife both have.”
“And I’m sure you know that overexposure to even Refined Sulnat is toxic and can lead to hallucinations and distorted dreams. You know this, correct?”
“Yes.”
“These levels are concerning, but the best we can do is prepare a proper response so the public doesn’t panic. As long as the Nexus Towers are working, we should be ok.”
“I understand.”
“The biggest part of that might come down to upping the energy outputs on the Nexus Towers we have active. The ones near you are top priority now. How many are in your sector?”
“I’ll double check, but I’m pretty sure we have five Nexus Towers here. There’s probably around a hundred on the mainland.”
“Good.”
“What do you suggest we do?”
“I was thinking you could tell me. I’m just the scientist. I could easily activate the MESH Protocol now. Even as a test run it could be interesting to see how it works on full output.”
“How ready is the tech?”
“I’d estimate about ninety percent. Maybe more. It’s very powerful.”
“That’s good.”
“I do need to make some readjustments, though. The energy output is almost too high for certain vessels. Only specific Nexus Towers were designed with the proper titanium. Some of the lower-grade towers were manufactured really cheaply.”
“That’s my fault. I wasn’t aware Chief Lure has cut our budget without us knowing. That was an unacceptable oversight on my part. I apologize.”
“It’s fine, Admiral. As long as we have the Nexus Towers connected to the grid I designed, we’ll be able to handle whatever happens.”
“What do you think will happen? If you had to speculate.”
“If I had to make a guess, I don’t think I could come up with an answer. I need a filmmaker or someone creative. All I see are numbers. Do you know what I mean?”
“I do.”
“What do you think these readings could mean? If we’re speculating, of course.”
“I’m not sure, either. The answer could be in our dreams, possibly.”
“Dreams about what?”
Richard interrupts them in English, “Saito is heading up the elevator. He just so happened to be on his way here. Some of his equipment had abnormal readings as well. What do you think is going on?”
Admiral Chung replies in English, “I don’t know, but whatever it is, we need to be prepared.” Then, in Korean to Jong-dae, “Hold off on activating the MESH. It creates a security perimeter, correct?”
Young Jong-dae nods, “Yes. It creates an impenetrable dome around a thousand-mile radius of the Nexus Tower that activates it. Only one can be activated at a time, but it will keep anyone inside safe from anything.
Admiral Chung nods, “Let’s save that as a last resort. For now, just keep the network on standby just in case. We don’t want to cause a panic over nothing. Thank you, I’ll be in touch.”
“Got it. Stay safe you two. Goodbye!”
The video feed ends and Admiral Chung makes his way to the door. Admiral Chung looks like he’s in a rush now. He’s still unsure of the situation, but without a doubt, a clock is now ticking.

Admiral Chung walks out of the room and is followed by Vice Admiral Gibb, who looks more nervous as the heat raises in his body, “Do you think it could be a terrorist attack?”
Admiral Chung replies, “I haven’t ruled that out yet.”
They round the corner out of the area and get to the elevator. Out steps a thirty-year-old Saito Wantanabe, now head of R&D. Saito nods to both of them. His hair is now trimmed very low to his scalp, which has retained its oblong shape over the years. Saito looks weary and vigilant.
Saito, “Admiral, good to see you.”
Admiral Chung replies, “Yes. Let’s hope so. I’ve got some concerning news from Young Jong-dae, who is collaborating with the TD to make a new security measure.”
Saito thinks for a moment, then replies, “Are you going to activate the MESH?”
“No, it’s too early to tell what we’d be sheltering from. We could be locking ourselves in a dome with a terrorist faction, or a nuclear warhead. We must be patient and make the correct move.”
Vice Admiral Gibb chimes in as they walk down the hallway to another chamber, “Do you think this has anything to do with the data leaks?” This hallway leads to an access tunnel and private elevator.

Admiral Chung taps himself on the forehead, “Ah! How could I forget about that? Damn. Can you head back to my office? I left the latest report on the attack there.”
Saito is out of the loop, “The Vicelord breach?”
Admiral Chung replies, “Yes.”
“I knew that would snowball. R&D got hit the hardest and nobody listened.”
“He should have been terminated a long time ago. Are you aware that the ESF tried to hire him after the first two incidents? They let him look at our systems, which is why this attack was so in-depth. The ESF created this monster.”
Saito processes this as they near the private elevator. There is an ESF soldier there to do a security check. Admiral Chung and Saito both present badges and then get let in. Saito replies with a deadpan expression, “Well, let’s go hunt a monster.”

Inside, this freight elevator runs sideways through the massive ESF compound, instead of up and down the metallic tower that protrudes out of the mountain like a metal arm. This elevator opens up to a large bay where construction of various EFS Towers is taking place. On this floor are hundreds of ESF workers welding and preparing countless towering behemoths of security.

The average Earth Space Force Turret is about two stories tall and contains a rotating chamber at the top where an AI-directed sensor attacks incoming threats. The base of the turret is octagonal, with four massive support shafts going from the iron foundation up to the top. Along-side the sensor is a small chair for an operator. The machine operates on its own with the option for a human to enter and pilot it as well if the machinery malfunctions. The rotating chamber has two mounted guns armed with rockets.

The entire space is alive with the sounds of metal pounding and forming metal. A chorus of welding, yelling and alchemy echoes through the room. Admiral Chung and Saito walk up to the man running the floor. He’s a tall bald man in a greasy looking ESF jumpsuit. This is Turret Division Lead Leon Kent. He shakes both of their hands heavily. The time is 0740 hours.

Admiral Chung speaks to Leon very directly and loudly over the noise, “It’s looking good down here!”
Leon smiles back, “Thank you, Admiral. What can I do for you?”
“We’ve gotten some concerning readings from our friends in Korea. Something is going on with the ocean and we need you to mobilize for us. Just as a precaution. How soon can you get to Unit 213? That’s the location closest to the readings we’re worried about.”
Leon adjusts his posture, “213? That’s a quick bird away.”
Admiral Chung salutes him, “Head out, soldier! You’ll get further instruction upon arrival.”

Leon salutes them back and makes his way over to an ESF soldier in a golf cart. Leon barks an order at him and within minutes he’s being escorted to a helicopter pad at a nearby section. After about ten minutes, the rain begins to pick up on his right. The helicopter pilot manages to land safely just as the storm picks up. Leon walks into the ESF Outpost Unit 213 a few minutes shy of 0800 hours. As the doors close, the waters in the ocean begin to stir. As the storm brews heavier, a colorful Seam opens over the Pacific Ocean.

Rose&Quail: Prelude to Invasion

Chapter 11

Around ten in the morning, Rose is given a visitor’s badge and allowed entrance into the intensive care unit of the hospital. Although the confident San Diego sun is bursting through the bay windows that line the hallway to Portia’s room, the mood is far from happy. Patients clinging to life are shuttled from one chamber to the next. This ample hospital is reduced to a chaotic mess when a few too many patients arrive on a day where a few too many doctors are absent. The lack of balance was palatable as soon Rose arrived at the building, and the energy inside made her feel claustrophobic.

After a brief introduction to Dr. Willow Nash, a tall female doctor with caramel skin and curly hair, she’s given the run down while ascending some stairs to the third floor. Rose turns a corner onto the ICU floor as Dr. Nash continues to explain Portia’s condition, “This way.” Her hair bounces with each step. “Your mother ran into some real nasty gentleman last night in a parking lot. I don’t know too much about the shooting, but the person that was with her, Ms. Lana Keane. She was pronounced dead on arrival. I’m sorry you have to find out this way.”

Rose, coldly, “It’s alright.”
“If you need to talk to anyone there’s a priest on the fourth floor. If you’re military, you should be able to get someone to talk to as well. I used to serve, so I can say from experience the therapists are mediocre, but they’re cheap.”
“Where is my mother?”
“She’s here.” Willow stops at the door leading to Portia’s room. Rose tries to enter, but Willow stops her. “Hey. Hey. You’re clearly tough as nails, but she doesn’t have much time left. There’s some shrapnel near her lungs. It’s too close to her heart to operate, but somehow, she’s held on long enough to regain consciousness. She can’t speak but she can hear you.”

Rose looks to Portia, then the floor, “I see.”
Dr. Nash glances at Portia through the small glass window. From here we can see the great mechanical effort needed to keep Portia breathing. Portia’s eyes are looking through the glass. Behind the small rectangle of glass and security wire, her steel-blue eyes are locked in on her daughter. Dr. Nash continues, “She isn’t verbal, most of her organs are failing, but she still gave me this.”

Dr. Nash shows Rose her wrist, which has a purple-colored bruise around the base of her hand. Rose lets a smile sneak out, but quickly resets her face as she makes eye contact with Dr. Nash. Willow smirks, “No, I get it. She’s a fighter. You Maxima girls must have ice in your veins because she shouldn’t be alive right now.”
Rose looks at her mother, “She’s waiting for me.”

Dr. Nash nods and gets out of the way. Rose composes herself before turning the metal k**b. The cold air from inside raises the follicles on her arm as she takes a step into her mother’s room. The cold air feels like a homecoming to Rose’s organs. Each step closer to her mother is a step further into her own past. As she zooms in on her mother’s kind, but wounded face, the tubes and mechanical devices fade away. The rhythmic beat of the heart monitor turns into a dull, distant hum as Rose looks into the mirror that is Portia’s face.

The silence fills the air for minutes. Rose takes in every detail of her face as she leans in to kiss her on the forehead. Portia raises her hand up to Rose’s neck. She’s trembling in pain, which hurts Rose to see, but the moment lingers on until it comes to a natural end. As a child, Rose never talked back to Portia. Her word was the final word, always. Her actions never required an explanation. Even on foreign soil, as a refugee, she commanded every corner of the Keane Family farm that she could muster. Alondra, by all accounts, is also “tough as nails” but her personality was also heavily influenced by southern hospitality and manners. Alondra owned the space, but Portia lorded over the oxygen within it. The military was the only reasonable escape for Rose. Escaping the shadow from her past had resulted in this, Rose thought. Once the drip of guilt found its way into the fortress of her mind, she began to crumble.

Rose tilts her head down as Portia runs her hand through her hair, which is wrapped up tightly in a bun. And suddenly, with that touch, the texture of the room returned in full force. The cool, thin fingers on her scalp didn’t remind her of childhood. It didn’t remind her of anything. Portia’s eyes swell with tears as she runs her hand through Rose’s hair. Rose, without hesitation, unclips her hair allowing it to fall to her shoulders. Portia, with love pouring out of her physical form, overrides the tubes in her mouth to smile. Medical tape unlatches as the action of her smile moves the plastic apparatus out of place.

Rose doesn’t let a tear fall. She knows, deep down in the chasm of her being that she cannot let Portia see her cry. If this is the last image she can offer her mother, it will be the one she so desperately deserves.

A trance overcomes Portia, and a colorless, scentless, invisible force brings her to attention. She adjusts her posture in the bed, and her blonde hair follows her skull as she frantically moves her head from side to side, searching for something in the room. And in an instant, she finds it. With a point, Portia points to her designer leather purse sitting across the room. Portia points and darts her finger at it.

Rose gets up from the bed and walks over to the purse, “Do you want this?”
Portia nods. Rose grabs the sleek black purse and takes it over to her. The sight is truly odd for Rose. Portia moves through the bag as if it were any other afternoon on the Keane Family farm where she misplaced her ci******es and went rummaging through her purse to find them. This time, it wasn’t a pack of harsh, unfiltered ci******es that were found. Rose’s face contorts in confusion as Portia presents Rose a small tin box with something rattling inside. The very same tin box recovered in the dark of night on a very fateful German night some twenty years ago. To Rose, it’s just a box of metal without any sentimental value. Like memories of her father, this was another thing lost in the move to America.

Portia tucks the tin box tightly in Rose’s hand and passes away. Without a second’s warning, she floats back onto her pillow, closing her eyes as if falling asleep. The heart monitor stops. Dr. Nash rushes in and moves Rose away from Portia.
Rose, “Mom. Wait.”
Dr. Nash evaluates the situation and begins to mentally rush through the checklist for such a volatile moment. It’s not a question of whether anything could be done, but if there’s enough time to reasonably pull it off. Sadly, there isn’t. Dozens of equations and combinations of medical wizardry percolate and cross Willow’s mind. She scratches her scalp with a look of desperate perplexion. Then, Rose gently puts her hand on Willow’s shoulder.

Willow looks at Rose just as another female nurse enters the room. All three women instinctively realize the gravity of the moment in unison. Rose pulls the tin box close to her chest. Dr. Nash exhales the stress out of her body and switches into the procedure she was dreading hours earlier, “Patient has passed. Time of death, ten fifteen am.”

The other nurse begins to log the information. Dr. Nash covers Portia’s head with her sheet. Rose grabs her mother’s purse and melts away into the hallway. She contemplates saying goodbye, but elects silence instead. Dr. Nash gives her a silent nod of respect before continuing the part of the job she hates the absolute most.
---

Rose is dressed in all black, her hair flows in the subtle southern California breeze. As the wind blows at the cemetery, her chin lifts up to the sky. Then, she brings her eyes and thoughts back down to the graves in front of her. The ceremony was an hour ago, but still, she remains to process the events that led to this moment. Is there anything I could have done to stop this, Rose thought. Again, assigning guilt to herself that doesn’t belong. But the sting of death still burns sharply in Rose’s chest. That pain, with nowhere to go, is simply refined into anger. Next to Portia’s gravestone is one for Lana Keane.

Rose drops her head in disappointment and curls her fists. All of this was preventable and all of this was her fault, in her mind. To Rose, the choice of independence wasn’t worth it, if this was the cost. The cheerful sun continues to shine in defiance of the tragedy beneath her feet. Rose kneels down and kisses her mother’s headstone before standing and walking away. She does the same for Lana.

In the drive back to her apartment, her past plays in her mind. Images of her mother flash in front of the dashboard. Rose pictures her on the other side of the glass, smoking, and watching her drive. Memories of Alondra teaching Rose how to properly can goods return in full. Then, right behind it are the images of Portia objecting to Alondra’s teachings for being too “American”. Rose tries to smile, but then she remembers a night where Portia came home with Lana, drunk and stumbling over each other, then making out on the couch. All while Alondra was awake to hear it in her bedroom. Rose remembers how her young brain processed infidelity as she slows down on the highway. Rose takes the next exit as she nears her destination: the restaurant where she last had a conversation with Portia.

Rose parks her car and gets out. She stares at the empty parking space where Portia’s rental sat not too long ago. Inside, Rose has a small meal of eggs, bacon and toast. Somewhere between Georgia and San Diego, she gained a great admiration for eating breakfast whenever you wanted to. To Rose, this was the most American thing you can do. And for some reason, it felt right to honor Alondra in this moment just as much as Portia. Rose didn’t think too much about this, though. She was already sketching blueprints and ideas on a napkin before her coffee showed up. After a few hours of pecking at her plate and refilling her coffee multiple times, she grabs the check to leave. Outside, she stops at the parking spot again, staring at her car. With a close eye she looks down to her feet. With a few careful steps, she steps into the exact same spot where she took the picture with her mom in the mink coats. Rose feels her mother’s arm slide across her shoulder. She can smell the unfiltered to***co in the clean, empty air of the night. A full-body warmth flows through her entire body.
Rose gets into her car and examines the black purse next to her. Unflinching, she takes the purse and flips it upside down in her passenger seat. Only a few things fall out. A pack of ci******es, a lighter, some ten-dollar bills, the plastic disposable camera Lana used to take their photo and a flip phone.

Rose opens the flip phone but it’s dead. She puts her ci******es and lighter back in the purse and keeps the rest on the seat. Rose looks at the disposable camera for a moment before starting her engine.

Later that evening, Rose waits patiently inside a pharmacy chain store. The bright fluorescent lights above make everything look flat and stale. Rose squints when she lets her gaze get too close to the ceiling. After noticing a phone charger section, she goes over and grabs one.

Rose looks to a nearby employee, “Hey. Can I use this? My phone is dead.”
The employee nods, not caring at all. Rose opens the cardboard box and finds an outlet to plug the phone into. With a slight push of her fingertips, she gets the plastic block into a socket. She snakes the tail of the charger into the base of the flip phone. Seconds later, the small blue-tinted screen revives with life. Rose looks at the phone contently.

The photo developer guy calls out, “Pictures for Maxima are ready.”
Rose gets up, and without thinking, she takes the phone with her. With a pop, the charger dislodges from the base of the phone. As she steps away it begins to vibrate endlessly with missed messages and calls. At the photo desk, Rose is handed a small paper envelope filled with photographs from Portia and Lana’s trip. Rose returns to her charger as she realizes her small mistake. She kneels down to replug the phone, which is dancing around one percent battery.

Rose notices dozens of missed calls from Alondra. Rose grabs the charger out of the wall and takes her little setup outside.

Outside, Rose is plugged into another outlet. This one is closer to the dusty ground, so she stands with her back to the wall, the thin plastic charger stretches from the ground up to her waist, so she still has to hunch over a bit to use the almost-dead device. With her thumb, she navigates to Alondra’s name and dials it.
The phone rings once before Alondra picks up on the other side, “Portia! Where the f**k have you been?!?! I’ve been calling you for a goddamn week! Where the hell is Lana? You two better not be in Atlantic City again!”
Rose timidly cuts her off, “Al. Alondra. It’s…It’s me.”
“Rose?”
“Yeah.”
“Why on earth do you have Portia’s phone?”
“I…I’m coming home.”
“That’s great honey. Hell, it’s great to hear your voice, but. You didn’t answer my question.”
Buzz. The phone charger dies but the conversation continues. Rose looks at the battery blinking on the blue and orange screen.
Rose, “My phone is about to die, but I will get in touch. Have you been calling me?”
Alondra perks up, “Yes! It’s been absolutely mental over here with the acquisition-

Alondra’s voice disappears. The flip phone dies and Rose claps it shut angrily. She tosses the phone and charger into a plastic bag with the photos and storms back inside the once-lit pharmacy. Inside, it’s dark and ghostly. The first thing she notices is everyone inside looking confused, but also bored.
Rose questions the employee from earlier, “Hey. What’s going on?”
Employee, “Rolling blackouts. If you want to complain, talk to the mayor, not me.”

Rose walks out of the store to notice the strange pieces of evidence of a blackout. Other businesses have also gone dark. A few nearby fast-food spots are clearing out. Some street lights are blinking red lights. Traffic has slowed down to a more cautious rate. The world is still very much functioning, just not at full capacity. Rose begins to feel unwell in this space between function and broken. She gets into her car and makes the short drive from the store to her apartment. While driving back to her place, she passes the street where Isaac once lived. She contemplates turning down the road but decides against it. She cruises along the stagnated streets until she gets to her apartment. After lugging her things into her apartment, she plops herself down on the couch. With a heavy breath, all of the happenings of the day fall out of her pores. With each inhale, she takes in the forgotten fights, the hidden, painful memories of childhood and puberty and devours it. With each exhale, the pain is unshackled and given freedom to roam and unravel itself in the stale air or her apartment. Eventually the thoughts find escape in the cracks and pores of the old building.

Hours pass by and Rose falls into the best sleep she’s had in recent memory. Her dreams are allowed to show her the true meaning of her journey. Her dreams show her the sky, with all the problems of the world circling to the bottom of Earth like a drain beneath her. Rose read somewhere that dreams about flying were sexual, which she always found insincere and untrue. The dreams spent in the clouds were fulfilling, exuberant and unlike anything she’s ever felt. Flying couldn’t be sexual, because to her, flying was inhuman. Flying was the answer to an unanswerable question. Flying was cheating. Flying was the only way she could escape the iron cage that was her life. The image of Portia smoking outside on her patio brings this dream to a screeching halt.

Rose wakes up on her couch in a daze. After hunting for a clock and realizing it was near two am, she decided to order some food. After another forty-five minutes, a cheap pizza arrives at her door.

Rose sets the pizza box down on her kitchen counter. Despite her mind being filled to the brink with technological ideas to get her to the sky, her kitchen was empty. This is the kind of empty that always seemed curious to Isaac, her only guest. Rose doesn’t have plates, only napkins. She doesn’t have groceries, only a few cans in case of an emergency. She doesn’t have anything besides water to drink, but to her, that was more than enough. Despite never meeting her father, Damascus’ frugal sensibilities lived on through her. Rose takes a bite of pizza while leaning over her sink. Outside she can see black, white and Mexican kids running around in the dim street lights. Does summer ever end here, Rose thought with a tinge of cynicism. Her summers were spent laboring on the farm. The joy radiating from the street perplexed her, but she smiled nonetheless.

Rose replayed the conversation with Alondra in her head. What did she mean by acquisition? Was not having her own cell phone really that detrimental to the connection to the farm? With Portia’s fully charged phone, Rose gives Alondra another call. This time, around three am. Rose returns to the window to see all the children gone. Three am is apparently when summer ends around here. Alondra doesn’t pick up just as Rose realizes it’s around six or seven am in Georgia. She closes the phone and returns to her bedroom.

After a few hours of failing to fall asleep, Rose gets up and makes her way back into the living room. She passes the small metal tin box on her dresses as she leaves her room. It sits on top of her dresses like a relic of not only her past, but her mother’s complicated life. She can almost feel the energy radiating from the tin as she leaves. In the living room, she opens the paper bag of pictures and begins to inspect them under the warm light of sunrise. As she looks at each photo, the sounds of the world waking up swell in the background.

In the yellow paper folder, there are twenty pictures, each with a duplicate. When looked at in sequential order, they replay Portia and Lana’s vacation from beginning to end. Since Rose has to look at each photo twice, they play like a slow movie two repeating frames at a time. At first glance, Rose has already seen enough. The first photo is a young woman around the age of twenty, sitting in a kitchen getting tattooed by Portia. The young woman is just wearing a bra and jeans. There’s vodka on the table and Portia’s black purse is clearly visible. The young woman is smiling as Portia leans over her right shoulder. The next photo is a close up of the tattoo: a crude and bloody “M'' has been inked into her back. Rose’s expression grows angry.
The next photo is basically the same thing, just a different girl in a different room. This time, it’s clear they are at the Keane Family farm. The rustic barn setting flashes back into Rose’s mind like all of the memories before. Rose flips through the pictures to see the same thing nine more times, a young white woman being tattooed by an eager looking Portia, then a close up of the “M” on their shoulder. Each “M'' grows more refined as they progress. Portia was getting better with each client. After ten girls and ten tattoos, Rose arrives at a photo of Lana at the San Diego airport. The next is a photo of Lana smiling at the beach. Rose laughs to herself, thinking, “Portia lied, they did go to the beach that day.”

Lana’s gaudy smile is present in just these two photos, so it’s clear she was always the photographer when with Portia. After the beach, there are a few photos of Portia at a bar, then the hotel. Then, like a brick wall, Rose flips to the photo of her and Portia outside the restaurant. Rose takes both photos and sets them aside. There are only four photos left. Two of them feature the hotel exterior at night. Out of all the photos, this one is the only one without anyone in it. Rose examines the photo for a minute before declaring it a fluke. The last two photos catch Rose off guard. It’s a picture of Portia driving their rental car on the highway. It’s a candid photo of Portia driving. Her body language is tense and her eyes look empty and lifeless. She’s looking directly at the camera as if she’s looking through the lens, through Lana and through time itself to dissect Rose piece by piece. Even in death, eternally, Portia was still watching from the other side of the glass.

Rose takes the two photos of her and her mom and puts them on top of her dresser. Next to the photos is the tin metal box. Rose, without thinking, opens the tin box to reveal a small vial of ink and a crude handheld tattoo needle wrapped in string for extra grip. The needle’s handle looks old and worn out, but the needle is brand new. After some investigation, Rose is able to remove the needle from a holster within the device.

Rose takes the tin box into her workshop area in the living room. However, before she can dive into this mystery, she notices the clock and thus notices she’s late for her new gig: private security across town.

---

Since their strange meeting at base camp months ago, Rose has only heard from Dr. Kavan Jr. once, and it was via coded letter. Rose wasn’t too familiar with binary, but she would later find out during work initiation that binary was the preferred method of code for the ESF and her secretive campus job just east of Solana Beach. All the door codes Rose had to memorize the week of her onboarding training were in the forms of zeros and ones. A week after their meeting, a strange black envelope arrived in her mailbox, covered with numbers that would eventually be her designated sector number: twenty and security clearance level: five.

The drive to this campus from her apartment was about an hour, and she dreaded every second of it. It wasn’t that the drive was mundane, it was gorgeous, and it’s not like she didn’t like to drive either, she loved to. It was the lack of excitement from the work itself that drove her mad. At first Rose was eager to immerse herself in anything on the border of military service. The physical intensity of training was meaningless to her without a clear, defined goal to work towards. She saw the military as an escape from her mother. Now, with Portia gone, it was simply a paycheck adjacent to her interests. The military was a place to further hone her body into a lethal force, but it had damaged her mentally in ways she couldn’t even fathom. Blueprints and dreams of the sky were her escape.

Working security detail for the NOAH project wasn’t her idea of an escape or a favor, as the good doctor worded it. Her shifts were spent in the foyer between the heavily secured outside area and the thoroughly secured indoor chambers. She wasn’t the first line of defense, nor the last. Stuck in the middle, she found no purpose. For eight hours a day, Rose stands in this foyer alone, waiting for the occasional scientist or veterinarian to enter the massive building. Her level five security clearance is the lowest, thus she’s only allowed a few peaks of the magic going on inside. From what she can tell, the NOAH project is about animals, but she isn’t able to deduce any more than that. That and some hefty biblical ideas to go along with it.

Portia always vehemently rejected religion, but Alondra snuck her to church occasionally. Rose isn’t religious, but her thoughts of flying might as well have been her Sunday service. It’s what she clung on to get her through the week. Her shifts required her to be armed and on foot the entire time, so there was no time to commit her thoughts and blueprints to paper. Every day, she made calculations in her head on how to get to the clouds as fast as possible. Her schedule was flexible enough that she could spend a few days making progress with her prototype. She was often too exhausted to work after work so anything flight related was saved for the weekend. Time would vanish when she studied the Sulnat Cores. Rose was uncertain if this was her meticulous nature getting the best of her or a side effect of the mysterious power dormant within her odd batteries. No matter what was happening to her body, her mission was crystal clear in the living room of her apartment. Flight was the only answer.

As the project grows, so does the space needed to complete it properly. After six months at the NOAH project, Rose’s mind was slipping, but her prototype was nearing closer to being functional. On a cold winter night, she gets a call on Portia’s phone, which is odd since the only person she speaks to on it is Alondra, and often only through text. Rose was gearing up for a Christmas visit to Georgia to get the scoop on what has kept her so frantic and busy since her mother’s death.

Rose, picking up the flip phone pensively, “Who is this?”
The voice on the other end reveals itself, “Your good friend doctor Lewis Kavan Jr.”
“No letter this time? This must be important, then?”
“It is.”
“Is it a transfer? I hope it’s a transfer because I’m getting sick of sitting in that musty hallway all day. It’s awful.”
“But it’s safe.”
Rose sits on the couch, “Safe from what?”
“Safe from the storm. My father always told me doctors were immune in this world. That still rings true. However, the only thing safer than us, are the animals in that building. That’s the safest job one could ask for in times like these.”
Rose, not in the mood for riddles, gets antsy, “What do you want?”
“I want to offer you another gift. One that is better suited for your interests.”
“Look. I appreciate your help, but I’m still trying to figure out what to do with the last gift.” Rose looks to her work desk which has a chest plate on it. A glowing Sulnat Core has been fixed into the bottom of it, making it look like a glowing metallic masculine emblem. “I’m not one to turn down gifts, but I don’t think I understand these things.”
“You will.”
Rose, impatient, “What makes you so sure? And how did you get this number? All you do is talk circles around me and none of it makes any sense.”
Crash! A rock flies through Rose’s window. She goes to the window to see a group of questionable adults drinking outside. They yell at Rose as she makes eye contact with them through the broken window.
Dr. Kavan Jr. replies quietly, “Rose. Write this down. Highway seventeen, Arizona.” Rose jots this down best she can while recovering from the act of vandalism. She gets a pen and scribbles the letters down on a pizza box. “Highway seventeen, below Camp Verde. Avoid Scottsdale and Phoenix if you can.”
Rose gets half the information down before Dr. Kavan Jr. hangs up. She sighs angrily and begins to clean up her broken window.
Rose’s time at the NOAH project would end a week later, but not after something strange.

---

On a Friday evening before her last shift, security clearances were altered for one day. A VIP was visiting and her job was to provide support for the convoy leading into the campus. She’d get to be outside for once, but all the sudden stress and changes left her annoyed. She was even more disappointed upon discovering who the VIP was. Rose likes to stay in the loop, but anything regarding the overtly wealthy was of no interest to her. So, when some fellow guards were talking about getting an autograph from a teenager, she was utterly confused as to why. To her, it was just another day away from her passion. The dusty road leading to the NOAH facility was armed twice as much today, but the convoy arrived to little drama or fan fare. When the sleek SUV with U.I. painted on the side drove in, a few heads turned, but nothing major took place. Later Rose would learn that Vander Ulysses was given a private tour of the facility inside and promptly escorted out twenty minutes later after insulting the lead scientist to his face. Rose returned to her apartment and made her way to Arizona a few days later. It was a detour on her way to Georgia, but Rose figured she'd at least humor the good doctor.

Highway seventeen is a lonely strip of asphalt that connects Phoenix to Flagstaff. It doesn’t stretch further north or south, or make any magical appearances anywhere else in the state. Rose’s flight lands in the middle of the day. The drive north has the weight of an adventure at first, but slowly transforms as she nears her destination. The rolling orange hills and distant mountains pull on her skin like a magnet. As she nears Camp Verde, her skin begins to tighten.

Dr. Kavan Jr. texts Rose directions while still on the road. After clumsily trying to text back, she gives up and speeds up, anxious to arrive. And twenty minutes later, she arrives at the third and final gift from the good doctor, a warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Twenty miles east of Camp Verse is a small, quiet patch of land tucked in between a series of hills and valleys. It’s a modest, but fully stocked body shop from the 1950s. It’s been renovated from head to toe with new support beams on the ceiling, AC and triple bolted steel security doors separating two massive work stations. Cell phone reception is routed from a newly purchased antenna on the roof. Rose smiles as she walks around the empty space.

Then, about thirty minutes later, she kicks the dirt.
Rose, “I should have brought my supplies. Damnit, Kavan. You should have told me! Now, this is a gift!”
Rose sits down at a workbench inside the first warehouse area. She begins to jot down a long laundry list of things she’ll need. This notation process takes her all over the property. Over the next five hours, Rose breaks down every nook and cranny of the secluded warehouse. From the bolts in the walls to the condition of the bathrooms, everything is checked over twice. Rose smiles, as this nesting process overwhelms her spirit. She glances at the sky and admires the daytime. Then again, she glances, noticing it’s deep into the night. She couldn’t blame the loss of time on the Sulnat Cores this time. Now, she was falling into her work and loving every moment of it. Then, it hits her. She does another tour of the space before realizing there’s no bedroom setup. The good doctor didn’t do everything for her. Rose promptly packs up her things and gets into her car before jetting down the highway in search of the best motel she can afford. After about thirty miles, she finds her place to rest for the night.

Portia’s conversation with Alondra resulted in a series of texts that lead to Rose getting on a plane back to Georgia. The legs of travel were convoluted for the well-organized soldier. She had to return to San Diego before heading to Georgia. She wanted desperately to fill her new warehouse with the pieces of her flying machine, but she had to see Alondra first. There was so much unsaid between her leaving and now.

The next morning, Rose meets with the landlord to end her lease. Her time in San Diego was over, in her mind. Everything was leading her back to Arizona, back to that warehouse. She heard a few whispers about the weird happenings in Scottsdale, but like the affairs of the wealthy, she put that in a dark, distant corner of her mind. The rumors about Arizona tended to revolve around aliens, spiritual planes, dreams and nightmares. Everything led back to Scottsdale, shady ESF happenings in the 80’s and the great feat of surviving there at all. Rose would later find out from an airport bartender that if you could manage to live in Arizona a month without having hallucinations, you could afford dirt-cheap rent for the rest of your life. Rose wasn’t worried or afraid of Sulnat sickness, and for her, it never came in the slightest. While in the military and working for the NOAH project, her Sulnat levels were tested every three months, but they never spiked. However, Rose knew better to attribute this biological anomaly to something spiritual. It wasn’t a blessing, it was science. And this thread became another deeply vested interest in her mind alongside the dream of flight.

Making her flying machine wasn’t so much an obsession, but the thing that propelled her very being to exist. The move sped by in a matter of minutes. The eighteen years leading up to her joining the military were long and angry. Her memories were painted by a rich coat of conflict and loss. The pain was so thick, it seeped into the walls of the farm and into her body.
---

Small inconveniences of travel have no effect on a Maxima with a mission. Rose spent all of her travel time organizing her thoughts into two notebooks. One red and one blue. The red notebook was filled with receipts, dates, ideas, sketches, stains of food and coffee and residue from graphite pencils. The blue notebook, on the contrary, was a steel tablet of calculations, numbers, theories and thought experiments. The blue notebook was a bastion for the thoughts too precious to go astray. The blue notebook is where she drew the first sketch for her jetpack. The blue notebook is also where she writes down what she’s going to say to Alondra. After all these years, Rose couldn’t leave this moment up to chance or passion. The reunion had to be approached with the same level of tact and respect as her jetpack or the Sulnat Cores. She wrote down topics like: the farm, peaches, Alondra’s cousins, tractor repairs and things of that nature.

This reunion had been twirling in her mind since the funeral. She wasn’t excited to see Alondra again, because she knew death is what brought them back together. After landing in Atlanta and a car rental procedure, Rose arrives at the gate of the Keane Family farm. However, this time, no wooden welcome sign is present. Now, a large plastic billboard sits outside the old wooden fence. The billboard reads, “Property of Ulysses Industries”. Rose furrows her brow as she steps out to open the gate by hand. As she does this, a voice screams out from the distance, “Kvitka!”

A shiver travels through Rose’s spine as if that word unlocked a lifetime of memories. Indeed, the past has returned. In front of her, dressed in a sleek all-black tracksuit is her aunt, Linda Maxima. Rose is greeted with a hug as she notices Alondra approaching right behind her. They all hug together outside the farm before Rose backs up a bit.
Rose, “Why did you call me that? Only my mother called me that.”
Alondra wipes tears from her eyes, “This is as close as you’re gonna get to seeing her again. This is Linda, your aunt.”
Rose looks to Linda with a slightly suspicious eye, “From which side?”
Linda smiles, “I’m your father’s sister.”
Rose begins to crumble in her boots. Linda holds on to her as she begins to feel light headed. She was anticipating a reunion, but not one from the grave.
Rose, holding back tears, “Portia…She always told me your murder is what drove my father here. She always told me I didn’t have a family to go back to.”
Linda looks to Rose, and without missing a beat, “Your mother was a liar.”
Rose’s mouth is wide open for a moment before she shuts it defiantly. However, Alondra’s face confirms what Linda proceeds to say.

Linda gets closer to Rose, and in this moment, she notices how stocky and solid she is. Her mind is resistant to her, but her body recognizes the blood coursing through Linda is the one that has been within her her entire life, through Damascus. Linda’s blood is her blood and, at this moment, she can’t deny those feelings reacting on a chemical level. Linda’s hands rest on Rose’s shoulder and she’s hit with a wave of nostalgia she can’t comprehend.

Linda smiles, “I loved Portia as much as she would let me.” Rose laughs, understanding what she means immediately. “You father loved her more than anything. Until you came along. He made the ultimate sacrifice to keep you alive. He kept us alive by running away. His friend Dr. Kavan made some miracles happen that night. Our family tricked death, for a small moment. Portia was fierce, but she was unwavering. She held onto things you’re not meant to hold on to forever.”
Linda hugs Rose, and Rose hugs her back with all her might. Alondra smiles. Then, like switching back to her warehouse mentality, Rose pulls Portia’s metal tin box out of her jacket pocket and presents it to Linda and Alondra.
Rose looks to both of them, “Things like this?”

Linda sighs sadly and embraces Rose as they make their way into the farm the Keane family once owned. The Ulysses Industries sign shimmers in the afternoon sun.