Part 3
The trick to avoiding Brain Balloons was to keep wary of groups of people. Any group of at least three people and maybe up to as many as ten could have a Brain Balloon hiding above them like a living stormcloud or, like the inspiration for the nickname, a parade balloon gone horribly wrong. Something about a small group of people allowed the Brains to stay invisible. But if circumstances forced the mob to disperse – say, down to two – the Brain would slowly materialize in the air, and Hector could see its ropy tentacles stretching down like those of a jellyfish, just barely touching the foreheads of its two anchors.
They mated, or something, by playing a very polite version of Red Rover. It took four months for Hector to figure this out. A group of Brain-buddies would send one of its members in another direction and another group of Brain-buddies would intercept and pick up the stray as their own. Maybe it was some kind of communication, but he got the distinct impression of eggs being fertilized somewhere in the courier’s thoughts.
Once, Hector had seen one of the Brain Balloons get lost. It was funny, up to a point. Apparently the Brains are more like backseat drivers to their buddies, instead of actually being at the steering wheel. It was the wee hours of morning, a touch west of downtown, and Hector was standing outside the shelter getting a smoke. A group of three unlikely traveling companions meandered their way onto a street corner, then stood in confused, shuffling silence, looking in different directions. A well-dressed fellow smiled apologetically to the other two, said something, nodded, and walked east. The Brain Balloon shimmered into view. As usual, none of the other guys outside the shelter took notice. The Asian lady with the grocery bags shook her head like she was clearing it of cobwebs, then strutted off south. The last poor bastard, red-haired Irish as the day is long, leaned hard against a streetlight and clutched his head. The Brain’s other tentacles started whipping about in the air, seeking purchase. The Irishman’s nose started bleeding, and one of his eyes gave into to an arrhythmic blink. He looked up, hands still on his head, and staggered toward the shelter.
“No way, chief,” Hector called out. “Not here.”
Two of the other smokers turned on him, frowning as they huddled into their thick jackets. One of them said, “Mercy House is for everyone, man.”
Hector sneered and stamped out his cigarette. “Look. This dude’s got problems. Just look at him!” He gestured at the shambling Irishman who boiled some sounds from the back of his throat: “Kh ngh. Kh ngh…” He had made it halfway across the street. Hector’s fleeting prayer for some late night traffic to smear him over the road went unanswered.
The Irishman neared. The Brain’s tentacles managed to calm their flailing enough to start reaching out.
Hector ducked and ran. The smokers stayed where they were, huddling in the cold of morning, their minds heavy and full and preoccupied: so dense they easily served as anchors for something alien to this world.
They mated, or something, by playing a very polite version of Red Rover. It took four months for Hector to figure this out. A group of Brain-buddies would send one of its members in another direction and another group of Brain-buddies would intercept and pick up the stray as their own. Maybe it was some kind of communication, but he got the distinct impression of eggs being fertilized somewhere in the courier’s thoughts.
Once, Hector had seen one of the Brain Balloons get lost. It was funny, up to a point. Apparently the Brains are more like backseat drivers to their buddies, instead of actually being at the steering wheel. It was the wee hours of morning, a touch west of downtown, and Hector was standing outside the shelter getting a smoke. A group of three unlikely traveling companions meandered their way onto a street corner, then stood in confused, shuffling silence, looking in different directions. A well-dressed fellow smiled apologetically to the other two, said something, nodded, and walked east. The Brain Balloon shimmered into view. As usual, none of the other guys outside the shelter took notice. The Asian lady with the grocery bags shook her head like she was clearing it of cobwebs, then strutted off south. The last poor bastard, red-haired Irish as the day is long, leaned hard against a streetlight and clutched his head. The Brain’s other tentacles started whipping about in the air, seeking purchase. The Irishman’s nose started bleeding, and one of his eyes gave into to an arrhythmic blink. He looked up, hands still on his head, and staggered toward the shelter.
“No way, chief,” Hector called out. “Not here.”
Two of the other smokers turned on him, frowning as they huddled into their thick jackets. One of them said, “Mercy House is for everyone, man.”
Hector sneered and stamped out his cigarette. “Look. This dude’s got problems. Just look at him!” He gestured at the shambling Irishman who boiled some sounds from the back of his throat: “Kh ngh. Kh ngh…” He had made it halfway across the street. Hector’s fleeting prayer for some late night traffic to smear him over the road went unanswered.
The Irishman neared. The Brain’s tentacles managed to calm their flailing enough to start reaching out.
Hector ducked and ran. The smokers stayed where they were, huddling in the cold of morning, their minds heavy and full and preoccupied: so dense they easily served as anchors for something alien to this world.
posted by Ghostwind at 4/07/2006 03:25:00 AM
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