[Destiny] Chapter 2: Green Background Art

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Back on Trnovska ulica, in his dead mother’s house, behind the door and the cage, which was supposed to keep out not only thieves and drunks and drunk neighbours looking for sex, but also Professors of Dark Light [as long as they didn’t have the power to conjure up a key].

But maybe this one did.

Maybe he had an ultimo key, like the one in Krvic Draclo.

Maybe he wasn’t a he.

Maybe he wasn’t a she either.

Maybe it was two thirds she and one tenth he and the rest of it something else, some gender that even gender enthusiasts would run in terror from.

Sila didn’t know, and

as soon as he sat down on his old couch, and stared at the TV he hadn’t watched in seven years, and the collection of Petr Grenzic films his mum had adored [minus the three he’d sold] he realised two things, one, he didn’t care and two, that sitting down was for giver uppers and always had been and there was a whole city out there, a small, parochial one granted, but still a city and who knew what the people were doing out there this late at night.

Painting rats?

Sleeping on water fountains?

Carving doors into trees?

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[Destiny] Chapter 1: Cabinet Standoff

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‘The ship accelerates, no visuals…they only had £50 per series…but we know the ship accelerates cos Su Lin says so, and Dayna says, Dr Plakson, she’s dead, and Avon says, who, and then…then the video cuts off, I don’t know why. Upload limit maybe. But it’s so cold, so un star trek.’

‘See, Dr Plakson dies and Avon doesn’t care. He even makes a joke of it.’

‘Avon, the show’s hero. The sociopath.’

‘No reaction?’

Sila rapped his knuckles on the cabinet door, trying to play the ‘Blake’s 7’ theme but getting stuck after the first three bars.

‘No music, professor?’

‘No sci-fi?’

He switched to the paintings on the wall, portraits of long ago Slovene men, stern faces, either poets or dictators, definitely not builders, definitely not Ugresic or Ivana Kobilca.

Was this it?

The best Slovenia could do?

Turning back to the cabinet, he tried another jibe, calling out the whole room for its blandness, its lack of technicolour and stern female poets.

‘Professor…really…you should be embarrassed to be here.’

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