About thirty yards ahead was The Valley car park where a motorcar was idling, awaiting Ethan’s arrival. His chauffeur would take him to his flat just off campus. Anyone actively participating in the Flicker project was assigned a private security detail, personnel in place due primarily to the highly sensitive nature of this cutting-edge research. All communications were closely monitored, including in sedans used for transport, knowingly fitted with a recording device, occupants were scrutinized for any breach in protocol. No leaks allowed, no such thing as personal privacy, it was the price paid by those invested in their project.

“Home, Dr. LaPierre?” The driver asked his routine question, anticipating the usual response.

“Yes, then straightaway Sparks, shall we?”

“Right, sir.”

Clifton Sparks was once a professional boxer in the United Kingdom with an impressive win / loss record to his credit. Interestingly, he was also one gentle giant of a man, a soft-spoken intellectual who had used his brain as much as his brawn to get where he wanted to go in life. His athletic career came to a chosen end once he received a full scholarship to Oxford University. After graduating with honors he’d stayed on, having overheard his department head whispering about the new Flicker program, an ambitious project being developed on campus. Fascinated, he wanted in on it in any conceivable way. Since this research was still pure and in its infancy, untouched by any military influences, he had hoped to explore the possibilities of participating in its development.

There wasn’t to date any candidate proposals available for a former prizefighter with a degree in philosophy. More than willing to accept any entry-level, ancillary assignment to begin with, he did not consider it insignificant, as a subordinate role. Instead, he’d considered it his contribution to the cause. When Clifton Sparks was assigned to Dr. LaPierre as his personal security detail, it was that rare and welcome opportunity to wedge his formidable foot in the door. An imposing six-foot-four-inches tall, Sparks towered over Ethan. Hovering above him, he opened the back door on the driver’s side of the black sedan. Coincidentally, the vehicle was another Mercedes Benz, the later model of that forty-year-old version once fit for a princess. Assuming a position behind his driver, Ethan was a creature of habit. Maneuvering his not-so-slight six foot frame into the back seat, he began focusing on the pile of files a green-eyed lady had handed over to him. Forms he was all too familiar with appeared to consume his attention, though his mind was on more pressing matters.

As Sparks reassumed his position in the front seat, the car’s balance shifting in an easy heave, a heavyweight settled his hefty torso securely into place. The interior light dimmed with the closing of the door but not before Ethan glanced up to see the sheen off his driver’s closely cropped haircut. His dark black skin decorated the pudgy cheeks of his round, glistening face as Mr. Sparks appeared to glow beneath the beam of white light shed from above the dashboard. He did not really fit, space provided in the sedan inadequate to receive someone of his size. The musclebound mass of flesh in his upper arms appeared stuffed into the sleeves of his suit jacket, causing it to bulge at the seams. Ethan’s keen powers of observation, undoubtedly honed by being an experienced Scope, an inordinate awareness of his surroundings suddenly swept over him. He noticed everything, including details of an easygoing traveling companion who had patiently awaited his late arrival.

“No rest for the wicked, sir?” Sparks made his query in jest, spying the pile of papers on his passenger’s lap while readjusting the rear view mirror.

“No rest, indeed. I do take exception to the wicked reference.” Ethan peered up over his reading glasses into the gaze of smiling eyes he found in the mirror.

“Indeed, sir. Yes.” Sparks acknowledged the comment with a bashful nod in an amused tone. Though Ethan could not see his entire face, Sparks was grinning. He’d grown quite fond of his charge, a man with whom he often exchanged such quips as idle chatter, something for The Consortium to record on the drive home.

Revving the engine a bit before shifting it into gear, Sparks embarked on their journey in silence, the distance between The Valley and Ethan’s flat almost twenty minutes, less at that time of night. No traffic. The stereo system was turned on and tuned in to the BBC. The news, broadcasting as low-level noise in the background during the short transport, the newscaster spoke on an array of topics from politics and agriculture to weather and entertainment, providing the narrative for inattentive Ethan to tune out. His mind was preoccupied with a previous encounter.

“Would you like the dome light on, Doctor LaPierre?”

“Not necessary. Thank you, Sparks.” These forms were all the same after every trial. A series of multiple-choice questions followed by a section provided for any commentary or recommendations, it was all a rather mundane, repetitious exercise if a Scope was expected to review the same scenario again and again. Redundant at best, Ethan dreaded the process. As the method of submitting ideas and suggestions, the plethora of paperwork served a valid purpose, a way of exhausting any and all possibilities, positing ideas until every last angle was approached in the trials. All candidates for the Flicker program were compelled to participate in each trial, as it was presumed to assist them in reexamining their own submissions. Staff and field workers initially created the affectionate nickname for observers chosen, tagged as Scopes. It stuck, a reference made to telescopes, microscopes, those peering deeply through a lens, eyes scrutinizing every aspect of what they witnessed. Dr. Ethan J. LaPierre was one of only eight Scopes with his Flicker petition submitted, currently under review. Exhausted by the prospect of yet another all-nighter ahead of him, he closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the sounds around him.

“The Prime Minister is scheduled to meet with dignitaries from several African nations....” The broadcaster’s voice had a regal sound about it, his education likely procured from the very same institution they were driving through at that moment. Pondering the considerable requirements of candidacy, Ethan had been relieved to learn his participation as a Scope in The Valley was actually an exercise in mental acuity, a pure reflection; opinions, nothing more. His assessment was not subject to interpretation by the Review Board, a panel of experts who’d ultimately decide to either approve or reject his submission proposal. If any of his observations proved beneficial to the program overall, all the better, but his project’s acceptance was not contingent upon said assessment. With such a comforting notion firmly supplanted in mind, a road-weary traveler opened his tired eyes and began checking off boxes beside the questions he had memorized months before.

As they passed beneath the luminous streetlamps on campus, the strobe effect danced across the paper like a copier scanning through the car windows. As Ethan glanced from the corner of his eye, barely attentive to the task at hand, from time to time, he’d see a few of the students out for the evening strolling along the campus sidewalks. Surprised by how many of them were still mulling around, it brought to light how late that hour really was for Ethan, recalling those days of his youth as a student when all-night study sessions were merely a matter of course. The Valley was northeast of Oxford University; his flat, southwest of it. Deciding to save the “comments” section of the report for his destination, if he completed it at home, at least the handwriting would be more legible.

Eyes feeling the strain, his focus blurred, Ethan inadvertently raised the same hand that held a mechanical pencil to rub his itchy eyelids, almost poking himself in the face with the implement. Never one to multitask once he had become engaged with the written word, this aging scholar suddenly recalled his schoolboy teachers, often accusing him of daydreaming in class. When they would call his name Ethan would fail to respond. Such concentrated effort was reflected in exemplary grades. Forgiven all transgressions in the classroom, his apparent inattention suggested he was engrossed, deeply submersed with the curriculum of those books his nose was buried in. He absorbed by osmosis the lessons being discussed. His favorite history professor once joked that the Russians could invade England right under that nose while he remained oblivious to the tanks rolling in around him. The young master LaPierre was, indeed, a creature of habits established long ago.

“Up next, the agricultural report and then local weather. You’re listening to the BBC....” Breaking into Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Minor, Ethan paused to reflect on events of the night, laying the files and pencil aside him on the seat. It was such a luxurious piece of music. He leaned back against the head rest to take it in, closing his eyes again. A lover of classical music, the period piece allowed him to drift off. Accessing his “history” education, Ethan imagined himself going back in time to when these brilliant compositions were created. Pondering its true origin, he entertained a progressive concept of theorists (and a belief of some theologians) that composers such as Mozart, Brahms, Beethoven, Vivaldi and the like were not the true composers but were merely vessels through which angels from above were channeled to create such ethereal works, celestial gifts given to the world.

There’s that moment between wakefulness and sleep when, through no process of thought or effort, the body will flinch, jumping as if catching oneself just before taking a leap off a tall building. Ethan braced his hands on each side of his legs just to stabilize himself, thinking he might have dozed off for hours when, in fact, it was only a few minutes. Startled, his eyes opened wide to determine his reality.

“...as it was on the subject of economic pressure anticipated for the succeeding Minister of Agriculture based on autumn projections...”

Talk about a transition of tunes! In his absence, the stereo booming out news of the pending reports, his thoughts quickly shifted from Mozart to one of his favorites from younger days. Thinking of drifting off or trying not to again, the classic song “Drift Away” by Dobie Gray popped into Ethan’s mind. It would be stuck there for the rest of the night.

“Are you all right back there, sir?” Sparks knew what happened, as it happened a lot on their brief ride home, often at the end of an inordinately long day.

“Yes, yes, right as rain.” Ethan replied, readjusting himself, sitting up straight in the back then clearing his throat, slightly embarrassed by the incident.

“Almost there, sir.” Sparks was always reassuring, a comfort in the night.

There is much to acknowledge and to respect when it comes to the condition of mental fatigue, as basic skills almost always remain intact in spite of the exhaustion. Present and accounted for in mind even when the brain begins to compartmentalize and reprioritize, still attempting to function at optimum level within the parameters of necessity, it’s an amazing machine that knows no bounds, even when disoriented. Ethan was on overload. He routinely reached a point of cerebral fatigue as a matter of course, more times than he’d care to admit. So common a threshold to cross, the bridge too far, he knew the route and could actually estimate how much more time he had to be productive before he would have to either shake the cobwebs loose or lay his body down. Physical exertion was one thing, mental fatigue, quite another.

His mind began wandering back into the past, his own, recalling his childhood, one structured primarily around academic endeavors. A curious lad, his youth was wrought with few perils, nothing more dangerous than a paper cut. Whether it was time spent reading the classics or, decades later, composing his first doctoral thesis, Ethan’s predisposition was established early in life. He was not a star athlete during his formative years but that did not mean he wasn’t in good shape. In fact, if not for his intellectual nature, he could have taken many directions in terms of his physical development but those years had quietly slipped away. Once Ethan began teaching, his only consistent form of exercise came in walking the college grounds, as several of his classes occurred on opposite sides of the campus, keeping him on his toes. It counted, in the same way he’d counted the steps up the stairway with Colin, though he wondered if that is what knocked him out, their hike across The Valley. He then caught himself projecting into the future, coming full circle, dreading all the work ahead of him. “Paperwork...more bloody paperwork.”

Ethan anticipated exiting the car, emerging from the dreamy warmth into a fresh slap of cool night air, sure to revive him. Scaling the two sets of stairs up to his flat should get the blood pumping again. Ethan did the math. He figured ninety minutes – tops – before he’d have to intervene with caffeine or give up the ghost. Knowing he would need to get to work straightaway or risk slipping into a coma from sleep deprivation, with that vision, he laughed.

As the story of his life flashed before his eyes, the car began to slow, turning into the parking area for his building. Ah, home at last. Sparks opened his own door, preparing to do the same for a passenger when Ethan called out from the back seat.

“No bother, Sparks. I can manage it.” Ethan gathered all of his belongings then stepped out of the vehicle, closing the door gently behind him.

“Yes sir, have a pleasant night, Dr. LaPierre.” Closing his door, Sparks settled himself in the seat, opening his window. Ethan paused beside the car, as always, to utter the same words as he took his leave, a creature of habit.

“Thank you, Sparks. No loose women tonight, now.”

“No promises, Doc. I don’t have to get up for class anymore.”

“There it is, then.”

Their anticipated words came in a timely manner, precisely placed, an expected punctuation mark, words that indicated the end of their journey on any given night. With a tip of his imaginary chauffeur’s hat, his standard response was a sweet, silent gesture of respect. Having made the familiar, understated exclamation point, Ethan winked, turning toward the pathway leading to his door. Sparks beamed his bright smile so broadly, it lit the path and warmed the chilly air.

It was his pleasure and privilege to transport the great Dr. LaPierre. Contracted by The Consortium, security details were assigned to post-classroom hours, usually from five in the evening on for transportation to and from the research facility and various locations off-campus. However, the contract also stipulated the shadowing of primary researchers who preferred to drive themselves while going off-grounds to shop, have dinner, etc. Essentially, Sparks was a bit of a spy and bodyguard. He remained in the idling vehicle ever vigilant, following Ethan with his eyes.

The residence was lovely, a three-story luxury apartment complex of Victorian descent. The entire stone façade adorned in lush English ivy, floral window planters full of blossoms, a variety of purple, yellow and red splashes of nature’s creativity, it was always a wonder to behold. As Ethan approached the familiar five stone steps up to the solid oak door, Sparks remained diligently at attention, sure his passenger was safely inside behind it before calling it a night. Counting steps as he ascended, Ethan arrived on the landing where he stood beneath two bright electric porch lamps fashioned in the style of old gaslights. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a key ring cluttered with a collection of school, staff and safe keys. He always meant to mark them but time did not allow. Flipping to find the one for access to his building, he finally did. Unlocking the door, he waved his chauffeur on. Safe and sound.

Watching as Sparks departed, Ethan knew full well the probability of his driver spending the night alone was certain, identical to his own statistical routine. It was an unspoken connection between them, tacit understanding that each was a creature prone to introversion, both very comfortable with solitude. Sparks would more than likely head straight home then submerge himself in another classic film noir. Ethan wasn’t as lucky. He had no time to escape into any such misdirection of energy and diversion of attention. He still had work to address in earnest. Indeed, that evening the air was reinvigorating, infusing Ethan with enough oxygen to awaken his brain and tickle his fancy as he recalled the events of the night. There he stood, taking it all in, surveying the landscape as he had on the knoll of The Valley. This apartment complex, the place he called home was comprised of twelve contemporary designed private domiciles with all the most modern conveniences, yet brilliantly in keeping with an Olde English motif, appointed with hardwood floors, ornate crown molding with a fireplace in every unit. Amenities aside, it was quite cozy.

All of Ethan’s neighbors were connected in one form or another to the college, lending to the majority having the same sleep schedules. Definitely not a good thing to have a cranky professor due to sleep deprivation, yet, they all seemed to suffer it as it was not uncommon to look up from the street at this time of night and see most lights still on as they graded assignments or planned the next day’s proceedings. It comforted him to know he wasn’t alone in the dark. His place was on the second of two levels, twelve steps ordained with a rough running rug stapled all the way down the staircase, a handrail carved of rock maple, stained to perfection. Three entrances in front of the complex meant only two apartments per floor, per section. Ethan’s was on the right side of the second floor. The door to his abode, appearing antique by design, was actually a heavily constructed imposter with far more durability and safety features provided than those it was modeled after. Be it ever so humble....

Once inside, his shoes came off, a conscientious routine, as the hardwood floors would echo the strikes of hard heels. As a show of respect for two colleagues who dwelled in the apartment below, it was also a welcome relief to let his feet breathe for the first time at the end of a long day. Suit jacket draped over the coat rack near the entrance, Ethan began gliding along on his socks like an Olympic speed skater, traveling across the combination living and dining space.

The contemporary furniture created an interesting juxtaposition with the elegant grandeur of the apartment. Clean, sleek lines against a backdrop of Victorian design with all the latest state-of-the-art electronic gadgets at his disposal, the man was in his comfort zone. With the entire campus wired to the hilt with Wi-Fi, almost every device programmable through a smart phone, Ethan barely needed to budge from his office. Lights, coffee timer, thermostat, security system. All set.

“Music. Tchaikovsky. Play.”

The voice-activated wall mounted stereo accessed desired pieces from over one hundred thousand saved in a digital format. At the speed of thought, Ethan selected this evening’s choice, retrieving it from his vast array of classical compositions, a 19th Century Russian composer. Volume preset at its lowest level, (so not to disturb the neighbors), a full orchestral ambience filled the room. Ethan continued past the kitchen then through a doorway to the right leading into a bedroom combined with an adjacent study. Most of the ample space was reserved for his project, only a twin bed crammed into the right corner of the oversized room. Appearing inadequate for his tall frame, to him, it was a creature comfort, a return to humbler days and nights spent sharing the campus dormitory during his undergraduate tenure. The plain gray wall-to-wall carpet accentuated the lack of personal décor. His closet was a study in academic discipline, presented in the manner of a serious student. All of his suits or casual attire were hanging evenly, neatly organized, suit jackets donning Oxford insignia. Professor LaPierre’s personal space spoke of propriety. A study in modern minimalism, the right side of the room was sparse, the picture of simplicity.

The opposite view to the right side of the room provided a very stark, startling contrast, almost reflective of another personality, someone scattered or cluttered in the extreme. To an unaccustomed eye it would appear chaotic, not the least bit tidy. Upon closer inspection, one might recognize a process, the method to the madness. It looked like a forensics research project. Hundreds of unframed pictures all strewn across a two-tier desk, scores more taped to the back wall from desktop to ceiling. The office seemed to belong to an investigator, one sleuth on the prowl for a culprit. Old case files from Scotland Yard and the London Police stood at attention between wire dividers but the photographs and drawings referenced another era not his own. There were stylish images of old English menswear, pictures and maps of the streets of London from an earlier century, books stacked randomly titled by various topics, including medical reference books. From criminal forensics to autopsy procedures, his library littered the floor and covered the gamut on the subject at hand. Ethan’s office chair was worn leather, aged and used regularly, daily, for hours upon hours. Once an opportunity to take the lead on a Flicker research proposal / submission of his own surfaced, since he saw the chance to become history himself, it had become his one and only passion, his life’s work.

“Hello boys!” Saluting as he addressed the instruments of his work, Ethan had taken to acknowledging the tools of his trade as colleagues; his partners, his team. As Symphony No. 4 played subtly in the background, he pulled out the loyal leather chair from beneath his desk, once again settling in for at least ninety more minutes, an estimation of the necessary effort according to his calculations during transport. He’d now complete the comment section of those field assessment forms he would not escape but couldn’t complete in a moving vehicle without them looking like the illegible scribbling of a nine-year-old boy on a candy high.

By this time, the Princess Diana crash reenactment had been done enough times to leave barely any room for criticism, yet he had remarks to make. Still, the forms had to be filled out, discrepancies noted then submitted in a timely manner. Almost immediately Ethan’s concentration began to wane, not simply from fatigue but also because he always considered the reports made on his own time trials. His was one of the first research requests, his proposal submitted when the program went online. Was there anything he’d missed? Were the other project reviewers careless in their review of his project, focused on their own? Did budget constraints factor into the delay? The details he was not privy to distracted him most. Ethan needed to know.

“Christ, I must be awfully tired.” Forty minutes or so had passed since he’d last glanced at his pocket watch, rubbing his eyes to make sure he saw the correct time. Could it really be 2:36 a.m.? Filling in the final void box reserved for his comments, his input of words, a critique in support of what had transpired earlier in the evening at The Valley was invaluable to the research and any subsequent conclusions drawn by the FTC team. No matter how tedious, it did serve a purpose.

Once finished, he reloaded the forms into the corresponding envelope and set it aside. Suddenly inspired to continue, in spite of the late hour, Ethan began delving into his backlog of papers to grade. History students tend to go on (and on) and he quickly tired of the task. Considering these young, facile minds, he wondered what adventures, what breakthroughs awaited them over decades to come. Opportunities are boundless when an imagination and curiosity collides with knowledge at an age when the mind is fertile ground and the appetite to know more is insatiable. In the reading of a few pages he determined the sad fact that some of his newest History students obviously required tutorials in English! Hunched over in his leather chair, Ethan shook his head, appalled by their linguistic foibles and ample spelling errors. “Didn’t they even look at the computer screen before printing out their text? The program does the bulk of the editing work for them! Did they not notice the colorful squiggly lines?” Laboring to rise from his seat, Ethan wandered the room, worried for the future of the planet when all these hormone driven kids take over the world. He murmured to himself, “God help us. God help us all.”

Having worked far longer than intended, Ethan called it a night. Retiring to his bed, the struggle persisted, the strain on his brain finally taking its toll on the eyes. His mind in flux, still reeling with recollections of an eventful eve, Ethan attempted to quiet his thoughts. Relaxing into a prone position, descending into ascension, he suddenly realized the adverse effects such a long day had on his physical form, as every single atom in his not so young anymore body screamed then surrendered to the call of a soft mattress. His feather pillow serving as an amazingly regenerative device, it was almost magical the way it enveloped his head, ushering him into the blissfully unconscious splendor of sleep. After one more habitual check of the time, Ethan replaced his pocket watch on the night table. It was never beyond his grasp, practically a part of the man. Rolling over on one side, he made a few primal sounds that are perhaps the only verbalizations still able to bridge all languages at any time in history. Moaning and groaning with the efforts required to move his aching body comfortably into position, he counted the hours remaining for him to rest before he had to begin his daily grind all over again. Closing his burning eyes, Ethan pictured the weary Sisyphus, a tragic figure condemned to rolling his rock up a mountain.

The timepiece that had controlled his life for the past six years, ever since he’d found it in an old London antique shop during one of his late night research walks, it was both a friend and a foe. Structuring each day according to its delicate features, slender arms pointing to Roman numerals he’d adhere to in his travels, it functioned as a reminder of a chronically tight schedule, sometimes doing so with disapproving overtones, the face of it glaring back at him whenever he was running late. Cordial when he was right on time, a metaphorical pat on the back seemed even jovial when he was running ahead of schedule, a rarity. It seemed Ethan was always on the run. And so was his pocket companion, right there beside him. It was as if the timepiece owned him instead of the other way around. He was a slave to its rhythm, the ticking tock of a clock in perpetual motion, as much in need of it as his own beating heart. Quickly addicted to the feel of the silver watch in his pocket, it added to his weight and measure as a man.

Ethan didn’t know much about the watch because the shop owner knew little to nothing about it himself. The design was, by the cogs and clock face, French. It was pure silver, cover embossed in the likeness of a three-legged horse, breed unknown. With no inscription or family crest to divulge its origin, just the three-legged horse standing alone in the field, it was a unique, anomalous piece of craftsmanship and was undoubtedly a one-of-a-kind design, perhaps a commemorative piece in honor of a special pet. Regardless of the reason why, Ethan was instantly drawn to it. The moment he saw it in the window, it spoke to him. Tick tock. The following morning he was waiting for the owner to unlock the door. Ethan knew it was meant for him.

He associated the image on the watch cover with his time spent around horses. At the age of eight, Ethan’s parents whisked him away to a boarding school where he’d spent a good deal of his time working in the equestrian stables to earn money and keep fit. (Obviously it didn’t stick, the “keeping fit” part.) Even at Oxford, he seemed to link with people involved in activities such as the Polo Club or the Horse Riding Club. Observing the majestic, towering creatures trotting along a manicured track, some strapped in harnesses with someone in tow, others set free to roam in a pasture of clover, they were blissful to watch, even more splendid to touch. Some clopping along through the cobblestone alleys, only the shadow of its titan form bouncing off dimly lit warehouse walls. He came into sight, the stud, steam rushing from his flaring nostrils on a cold, moonless night, silently, but for hooves striking stone. In full view, fiery eyes glowing red with pure fury, black wings extending from his sleek body, the Pegasus of doom emerged from darkness, fulfilling his role as the harbinger of death. Ethan shuddered beneath the sheets, urgent realizations coming with an evil image, a bizarre, manipulating memory invasion from within his subconscious mind. He was falling asleep, drifting off into dream state, floating on the feathers of a pillow. He thought it best not to fight the feeling. Well past time to let go. Gone.

Wet cobblestone streets glistened under clear, moonlit skies through the early morning fog, rolling around corners, following the breeze. From this vantage point Ethan can see everything, allowing him to blend into the narrow alley, a shadowed walkway off the main street. The hollow sound, the shoes of a bobby approaching, dancing off the edifices of wood and stone surrounding him. Raising one hand to his uniform hat as a couple pass him in the other direction, Ethan’s heart begins to race. Hearing the pulsing of blood in his eardrums, pumping faster and faster, matching the rapid increase in his breathing, he waits in anticipation of discovery. The officer turns left, disappearing down a side street as the couple moves further down the main road, strolling out of sight. Simon and Garfunkel begin singing “The Sound of Silence”. Playing in his head, an eeriness in the atmosphere begins to toy with his imagination. Senses tingling with the passion of the piece, the pleasure of it calms his rattled nerves. Aware that his familiarity with music is a safe haven, an escape from his fears or phobias, it directs him to focus on the notes and lyrics, to listen. “...because a vision softly creeping left its seeds while I was sleeping...” The shadows, someone around a corner reflects off buildings illuminated by the gaslight streetlamps perched overhead. “And the vision that was planted in my brain still remains...” Following shadows, the echo of footsteps, faint at first then increasing in volume, coming ever closer then increasing in speed, from a standard cadence to a fast walk then a run in some haste and urgency. No, wait. The footsteps stopped. Had he made some sound he’d been unaware of ? Did he give himself away? Had someone else scared them off ? Pause, holding his breath, there are footsteps again, immediately running from a dead stop. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, stop. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, stop. One, two, three....