Bramblebriar Lane/Prologue

Prologue
There isn’t the usual muddled murmur, the clinking of glasses, or the occasional spark of laughter from an off-color comment... Nary a sound, in fact. Heads bowed, they mull over their drinks in a quiet, wordless meditation. Behind the bar, the man’s eyes are on the black, glossy surface, a rag in his hands&mdash;but not moving. The dark-clad body before him has not moved, not even a twitch. A viewscreen mounted in the corner is on, but made no sound, and no eyes are directed toward it. The tavern is quiet, and Tuffass knows that it isn’t normal.

Diffused late-afternoon sunlight streams through the cloudy window with dust dancing in its shaft, a finely-choreographed ballet in the mist. His drink sits before him, untouched. He notices that the young Duros fellow who was seated at a table across the bar had gone, though Tuffass had never actually seen him get up and leave. His gaze returns to the bartender, who now has his back toward him. The dark-haired man still sits at the bar, head bowed and his shoulders rolled forward.

Tuffass stands and is at the bar. The man’s blank gaze is on him, eyes hidden in dark circles, skin waxy and his mouth set in a thin line. His brow is furrowed and his black hair hangs over his forehead in jagged talons, stark against his chalky complexion. Tuffass glances down to the drink in his hand, then back to the man. His gaze is once again on the bar top, his shoulders rolled forward. Tuffass returns to his empty table as a thought strikes him as he struggles to remember exactly when he had arrived at the bar and how long he has been here. And as he lifts his eyes from his own untouched drink, he sees the irritated faces of the patrons as they glare at him, as if he were some disgusting vermin, flat on its back in the middle of a fine meal, limbs flailing in a futile attempt to right itself.

Tuffass casually shrugs, stands, and is outside of the establishment as he walks down the tree-lined street, the sun-dappled ferrocrete of the sidewalk soundless beneath his feet. He pauses on the corner of an intersection as that thought strikes him as it did before. And for one brief moment, he feels detached from the street corner around him, as though he were an outside spectator, watching the town through the glass of an aquarium. But, the feeling passes with the speeder that he had barely caught out of the corner of his eye, and Tuffass continues along the lane, the sunlit sky above hidden behind a leafy green canopy.

As he walks, he notes the trees; tall, with broad leaves, the branches twisting from the thick gray-brown trunks like arms. They line the road, perfectly manicured, their old growth maintained with great care and they compliment the lawns perfectly. The white picket fences surround freshly-trimmed green grass and dense coniferous bushes, cut to almost precise squares. Between the bushes, Tuffass notes the brambles that snake out toward the sunlight. Twisted, gnarly things, bristling with thorns, he couldn't help but briefly recall the first time he had ever seen such vegetation&mdash;but where exactly that was eluded him. He shrugs it off and continues walking, and he can hear the thorns claw at his pant legs. Tuffass stops mid-stride and rips his leg free. He looks up the lane and notices more brambles. Brambles and briars, lining the road; they stretch out from the carefully-maintained lawns, and Tuffass has to stop and wonder.

Why are there so many?