False Absolution

“Every one is really responsible to all men for all men and for everything.”

- Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Rafe boarded the train just before the compartment doors shut. He breathed a sigh of relief, but only momentarily, and hurried further to find the debriefed compartment. This time, unlike his previous assignments, not only did Rafe not know the face of his target, but he was also late. The target was to get off at the next station, which was only thirty-four minutes away. The odds were against him, and he was not very happy about it. 

Having a rather modest, yet relatively respectable record of eight accomplished assignments, with no breaches, if Rafe were to botch this particular mission, he wouldn't be spared from being treated as a beginner's luck-riding rookie. His promotion being on the line certainly alleviated none of this pressure.

Compartment 38...40...and there, Rafe reached the 42nd compartment, as mentioned in his briefing, with thirty minutes left. Rafe scanned his vicinity - there were twelve visible individuals in the compartment; an apparent couple, an elderly man with a cane, a noisy nuclear family of a man, his wife, and son, a group of four women, all seemingly in their mid-forties, a mother with her in-arms infant, and a man on a call, perhaps in his thirties. Rafe recalled the limited information he'd been given - "target young; target travelling alone; termination authorized." It wasn't much, but it would have to suffice; after all, the lives of the civilians at the Rosenwald Panorama were at stake.

Internally tense, although outwardly stoic, Rafe began strolling to his seat at the back, analyzing everyone there. The target was there, which meant that one of the appearances was a total lie.

***

"If I lock in, I can do this. If there's anyone who can get this piece done, it's me. All I have to do is tune out all the distractions, the rest of the world- it's just me, this keyboard, and the plethora of ideas heading my way. I've done this before, and I'll do it again. I've got this." Unfortunately, merely having these thoughts in his head hadn't made creating further any easier for the writer. Or the writer, if it were up to him. 

He had been staring at the same rudimentary paragraphs for the past few hours now, mentally paralyzed. How would the story proceed, you ask? Well, the writer wished he knew. You see, he had been burnt out for the past 3 months, and this story was going to be his "big" return. Except it was arguably forced, by the prior postless period of fear and his heavy self-assumed responsibility; no, it wasn't vampires, ghouls, or the thought of war that scared this man. On the contrary, it was the thought of writing a mediocre or, God forbid, badly received story that did the trick. 

Over time, this fear only intensified further, leading him to a point where his loyal readers would be left without reminders of his passion's existence for months on end. And if that wasn't enough, his own Instagram update, 'new post coming just before New Year's!' did not make life any easier. He held his head in his hands, eyes closed, attempting to induce what he liked to call a 'brainstorm attack'.

Amidst this effort, he felt a pat on his shoulder and promptly turned to face his father. A slight throbbing began near his temples. 

"How's it coming along?"

"It's coming...I don't know my groundbreaking twist yet, or even where the story is likely heading. And I have..." he stared at the clock, reading '10:46 PM', "around an hour to do it. I don't think it's enough."

His father began tutting, "Julian West, don't start that again."

"I have to! Can't publish some mid post." He sighed, "And that's not even my real name!"

"Julian West," his father repeated, "You need to be in your 'writer headspace' right now, mister, and so it is. For now."

"And as for this 'mid-post phobia', let it go. You're not perfect, and never will be. It's a stupid, unrealistic obsession you've developed. You need to let it go!"

Julian scoffed.

His father pulled up and sat down on a spare chair beside him, and it creaked in lieu of the sudden weight.

“You’ve been staring at that screen like it owes you money,” his father said. “At some point, you've got  to stop overdoing it, right?”

Julian blurted, “Easy to say when your whole thing doesn’t depend on people liking what you put out. Looking forward to what you put out, breaking bars and meeting newer, higher expectations.”
"There's a lot at stake."

“That’s where you’re wrong,” his father replied. “I've spent, what, twenty-five years fixing machines? Nobody noticed, or made a big fuss, unless they broke." 

"More often than not, ‘good enough’ is what keeps the world going. It's the...well, the grease of the world. ”

Julian glanced back at the document, the blinking cursor taunting him. “But this isn’t like fixing a machine. This is… I don’t know. People expect something. Big things. My publisher expects something. Even you expect something.”

His father rubbed a hand on his own cheek, looking away. “I expect my son to sleep the healthy amount, and for him to not look like he’s about to pass out on his keyboard.”

“That’s not even-”

“And I expect him to write,” he continued, cutting Julian off gently, “because he wants to. Because he's good at it. Not because the weight of the world is on him, according to him.” Julian rolled his eyes, but nodded, though half-heartedly.

The room fell quiet, save for the low and steady hum of the computer fan. Through the window, distant fireworks exploded in bursts throughout the yearning night sky, where a few were celebrating early. 

“Listen,” his father said, standing and resting a hand briefly on Julian’s shoulder. “Post something tonight. Anything. Even if it’s not your best. Especially if it’s not your best. The year doesn’t need a masterpiece from you. We just want you to show up.”

And with that, he rose from his chair, and Julian was alone with his thoughts, or the lack thereof, once again. He didn't think of anything initially. He just felt...felt a well-whisked mixture of anger, sadness, guilt, fear, and a sense of potentially impending disappointment - all at once.

Oh, Julian thought to himself. An idea came to him, and he didn't have time to evaluate it. He decided to implement it anyway, and began typing away.

***

"Cutting it way too close for a proving assignment, aren't we?" a familiar voice whispered through Rafe's earpiece, and a subtle smile formed on his face. 

"Hey, Lucy." he whispered back, to be out of the others' earshot.

Lucy had been in his agency unit for the past two and a half years now, and they were nearing the "close friends" category, according to Rafe. She also happened to be the niece of his current boss, Maine. While he had initially only befriended her for her contacts in high places, they instantly hit it off, and about two assignments ago, he had allowed the implementation of this earpiece communication suggestion of hers.

"So, what are the specifics? What compartment are you in?" Lucy asked.

Rafe took his seat, and stared at the back of the unsuspecting passengers' heads, "42. It's a no-facer."

"Oh...better get to work then! Be my eyes?"

"There's twelve people...my target's supposed to be young, traveling alone, and I'm authorized to terminate it. That means I can safely eliminate most of these females."

"A sentence to end careers." Lucy joked.

"Not what I meant..." He nodded toward the group of four women first. “Mid-forties, travelling as a cluster. Agency intel says the target is alone. Social cohesion that tight doesn’t really fake well under stress.”

As if on cue, one of the women laughed loudly, with another playfully slapping her on the back. Their bags were piled together, tickets visible on the shared table.
“Confirmed,” Lucy said. “They checked in together at Rosenwald terminal. I'll cross them off.”

His gaze moved to the nuclear family. The young boy alternated stares between his hand-held console, his mother, and his father. His father seemed to be fending off sleep, and his mother was tapping away on her phone.

“Family’s real,” Rafe said. “I can see it in the way that kid's looking at them.”

Lucy paused. “You’re profiling fast.”

“I have to,” Rafe replied. “Twenty-four minutes.”

However, in the next six minutes, Rafe found sufficient reason to rule out eleven of the twelve people, and most of them had exited - only the old man was left. 

Three people remained in the compartment: Rafe himself; the elderly man by the window, cane resting neatly against his knee as he read a paperback; and the man on a call, near the far door, half-turned toward the glass.

"Holy crap." Rafe muttered under his breath, eyeing the weary old man.

Okay, he thought. Okay. Don’t panic. Assess.

The old man turned a page.

That wasn't what caught Rafe’s attention though; it was not the motion itself, but the way the man’s eyes moved. They didn’t drift, didn’t hesitate.

They moved cleanly from the end of one line to the beginning of the next, precisely, tracking text akin to the kind Rafe had seen in analysts, snipers, people less than half the man’s apparent age.

That’s not presbyopia, Rafe thought. 

He shifted slightly in his seat, angling his body so he could watch without being obvious. The old man’s pupils adjusted instantly to the changing light as the train passed through a tunnel.

No squinting. No delay. Rafe’s pulse picked up.

As the train passed out of the tunnel, Lucy's voice came through, almost out of breath, "Rafe? How many are in the compartment? Who do you think it is?"

"It's just me, that guy on the call, and the old man."

There was a brief silence, followed by "Test it?"

Rafe nodded, and slid his hand into his coat pocket, feeling the grip of his pistol.

***

Is that it? Julian thought to himself.

And with that, he stopped typing. Unlike Rafe, Julian didn't know what to do next.

The cursor blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. Each time it did, a loud tick reverberated through his skull. A terrifying countdown.
Consistency, his publishers’ emails murmured from somewhere behind his eyes. That’s what we’re looking for. Show us consistency, regular output, and we’ll talk contracts. Show us you can be professional.

It had sounded so reasonable when he first read it. Encouraging, even. A door left ajar rather than slammed shut.

Now it just added to his mental countdown.

A post before New Year’s, he'd promised. That would be his proof; proof that he could be counted on, not just once, not just when inspiration struck, but repeatedly. On demand. 

Julian gulped. His gaze drifted to the top of the document, to the name he’d typed there earlier out of habit.

Julian West.

Clean. Marketable. Dependable. Not the name of someone who froze like this.

That all-too-familiar pressure swelled and enveloped him. If this post did well, it set a bar. If it didn’t, it confirmed every fear he’d had during those silent months. Either way, it felt permanent. Recorded.

Remembered.

Then, another train of thought entered his mind. Post something tonight. Anything. Even if it’s not your best. Especially if it’s not your best. He scoffed and leaned back in his chair. Then he stared at the clock. 11:25 PM. How would he be able to come up with that extra depth, that bar-breaking twist in just half an hour? What a formidable task! The swarming, suffocating thoughts began to make his head hurt, and he closed his eyes to try to focus.

We just want you to show up.

As if a miracle had been scheduled for that very moment, the writer suddenly forgot about all the hypothetical critics and self-assumed responsibility - in that moment, after what seemed like a lifetime, he thought of himself, of the unparalleled satisfaction he used to get from hitting that publish button post the completion of a piece. Of those adrenaline boosts he got during those late-night postings, and how he could barely sleep after, excited to read the audience's takes on his works. Somewhere in becoming Julian West, that writer must have lost his way, and gone astray.

11:29 PM.

Julian lunged forward in his chair, practically throwing himself at the keyboard, and barely saw a notification pop-up at the bottom of his screen, from his publisher "Awaiting that post you announced!" He thought to himself, braving through the raging storm of thoughts in his mind, Fine, you win.

At and for once, Julian West let the writer loose, who was deliberately oblivious to Schrödinger's receptions. Instead of chasing the ideas around him, he let go, and opened himself to them, feeling them rush to him. Naturally.

***

Rafe threw the pistol onto the floor, and it toppled over towards the old man's feet. There was no scream, no sudden jerk, or look of concern from the old man. Instead, much to Rafe's surprise, he almost mechanically moved his cold gaze from the pistol to Rafe, meeting him eye-to-eye. 

A chill passed down Rafe's spine.

"Rafe?" in a low voice, Lucy inquired. "What's going on?"

Rafe was now certain that his hunch about the old man was right. Instead of panicking, or showing any remote signs of distress, the old man showed all signs of thinking rationally under pressure, almost as if he was trained, and had been accustomed to contact with guns or similar objects. 

As if answering her and addressing the old man in one move, Rafe said aloud, "So, it's you." 

The old man responded by displaying an eerie, peculiar smile through what Rafe deduced to be excellent make-up.

"Not too shabby, boy." the man rasped, definitely not sounding the age he seemed. 

"And you're not too old, it seems." Rafe said, also drawing the attention of the man at the other end of the compartment. 

"Lose the onlooker" Lucy whispered. 

He nodded and addressed the other man, without moving his gaze from the target,  "You at the other end. Call's over."

The man pulled away his phone, "Excuse m-"

"If you want to live, run. And not a word to anyone. Don't make me repeat myself."

The man, looking increasingly worried, raised his hands, "Look man, I don't want any trouble!"

"Then leave." Rafe shot back, sternly and with enough weight to cause the man to run through the compartment exit immediately.

Silence settled, thick and heavy.

Across from Rafe, the old man finally moved.

He closed his paperback with care, as if the moment were merely an inconvenient interruption. From his coat pocket, he produced a thin slip of paper, and slid it neatly between the pages before setting the book on the seat beside him.

After briefly staring at the gun on the floor, he looked up.

"That's some neat trick, sir."

"Likewise." Rafe replied, motioning towards the old man's apparent make-up. The old man closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then took a deep, heavy breath. 

Slowly, deliberately, he reached down toward the suitcase resting upright beside his leg. It was scuffed, nondescript - the kind of luggage designed not to be remembered, or draw much attention - easily concealable in a vest.

In one swift motion, Rafe joltingly pulled the thin, near-invisible string, causing his pistol to beautifully land in his extended hand, which he then stabilized with the other, and aimed at the old man's head. 

"I don't think so, champ." Rafe said, already tasting that promotion.

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, this taste was replaced by that of blood - his own blood - and a loud bang echoed throughout the compartment.

Rafe grunted and dropped onto his knees, and fell forward. He felt someone turn him on his back, and suddenly didn't know if it was the fresh bullet in his back that hurt more or the sight of Lucy standing over him, smoking pistol in her outstretched hand.

Groggily, he muttered, "Lu...Lucy?"

There was an unfamiliar glint in Lucy's eyes, however. "Yes, champ?"

"How- wh...why?"

Lucy ran her fingers through her hair, and plastered a rather brazen smile. "Sorry, Rafe. Had to keep that promotion in the family, you know?"

"Wh...what?"

Amidst all this, a figure with a cane managed to slip out of the compartment, unnoticed.

"See? That's why. Too many questions, Rafe. Guy like you would end up like this, or likely worse...had you gotten that post. Consider this a professional courtesy, from my Uncle Maine and I."

Before Rafe could register or inquire further, another 'bang' echoed throughout the compartment, and Rafe slumped onto the carpet.

Lucy then pressed her earpiece, and tuning into her uncle Maine's channel, she reported, "Agent Rafe has been eliminated. I'm getting off this train. The next station...Rosenwald is...about four minutes away. I'll hop off now, though. Finally be working with you, directly, uncle! Major looking forward...anyways, gotta go!"

Lucy holstered her weapon and moved toward the inter-car junction, timing her steps with the sway of the carriage.

At the connecting door, she waited for a curve in the tracks. When the train leaned, she slipped through the narrow service hatch and dropped onto the gravel-lined embankment, rolling hard before coming to a stop. What a day, and what days awaited her!

A little while later, at Rosenwald station, an elderly man exited another compartment, and walked towards the Panorama center, a cane in his hand, and with a novel and a briefcase stuffed in his vest, hidden under his coat. 

The End.

***

The writer exhaled, and stopped typing.

11:58 PM.

It was over, he'd done it. Before his mind could divert to overthinking, he slammed his finger onto the mousepad, and watched the "Publish" button turn grey.

 I showed up.

12:00 AM.

Firework explosions began to scatter all over the night sky of the new year, and he let out a laugh in relief. He felt a strange, weightless feeling spreading through his chest. The pressure that had lived there for months, finally eased, akin to the sensation felt while walking after a prolonged sedentary period.

A few minutes later, alongside the barrage of 'new year' wishes, initial comments began to trickle through.

Oh, so he's back? one comment read. 

Gotta be fr though, this one felt different. It felt raw...but that's new, and I'm curious to see you explore this style! read another.

Damn, what a dark ending. 

Missed your writing, JW.

Julian set his phone aside, and a wave of relief swept over the writer. Missed your writing.

Not this idea could’ve gone further, not the twist felt rushed, not this doesn’t top your old stuff. Just, missed your writing. 

A smile formed on his face as he read his publisher's private message to him, "Glad to see something from you before the year wrapped up - you haven't lost it. And hey, don’t disappear again trying to relentlessly chase perfection...this new, raw style could use some exploring! Let me know when you wish to discuss that contract."

The door creaked open, and his father walked in. "So, how's it looking?"

"It's up...the initial readers are surprisingly... not mad?"

His father smiled, and gave him a reassuring nod.

Julian gulped, and stammered, "I - I thought it had to be a spectacle..."

His father, still smiling, replied, "Turns out, it just had to be written."

- - -

Miles away, a man named Daniel Ross shifted in his seat, having just finished reading a story by an up and coming blogger, called Julian West. You see, Daniel really loved reading West's works, however sporadic, and would call himself one of his biggest admirers, for sure. He had been very excited to read this story, especially since Julian had announced it a few days earlier, and it was expected to be his big comeback to writing.

Yet, instead of smiling, he just sat there, unmoved. So that's it? A hurried-up end? He thought to himself. He sat there, staring at the words "The End", but waiting for a twist that would never come. Dejected, he got up from his chair, headed to his kitchen, half-heartedly made his morning coffee, and left for work.

You see, his work was of a very interesting nature, and was especially unique. Daniel Ross was a Loco Pilot, or a train pilot...his job was to read signals, judge speed and distance, and take the right turns at the right moment, often for hours...

...without much room for error.

On this particular day, Daniel was found in his usual seat, staring at the rails ahead and overlooking an array of complex buttons and levers. However, today, when a few signals tried to indicate him to take a very crucial turn, he, instead, had missed plot twists and disappointment from reading that post on his mind, causing him to eventually miss that turn. "Unfinished rail!" signs went unseen as well.

By the time Ross realized what was happening, it was too late; the train lurched off the unfinished bridge, plunging into the black, churning water below, screams and metal twisting in a heartbeat.

Perhaps, it wouldn't be the most cruel thing in the world to say that Julian West's latest post caused Ross' train to fly off that bridge.

- Armaan Kothare