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How nice it was to sit on the soft, green grass, in the haze of the morning mist. The cool wind ruffled the girl's wavy brown hair. It wasn't as curly as Cracklin's, of course, but it was no less beautiful. The strands were light and airy, and gave off a golden sheen in the sunlight. Their owner had obviously taken good care of them.
Cracklin took a long look at her soft, slightly swarthy skin. Of course, he didn't know about the many scars on her body, which she was so careful to conceal (and she was quite good at it) to make herself seem the standard of beauty. Sometimes there was an urge to run a hand over it, to touch it, to poke it with a finger, while Cracklin himself would not be particularly fond of unnecessary touching.
He wanted to call her name softly, but the boy couldn't remember it. But it was definitely something free, strong, and in some measure sharp, feeling like the ringing of a blade, and cutting into his soul like a sturdy spear.
There was a low chuckle, and she moved closer. He could faintly smell the expensive perfume. His gaze swept over her clothes. She always wore a strict lilac blouse and dark green pants, like an established look, and Cracklin had never seen her wearing anything else. Probably because they didn't spend much time together.
And now, away from worries, work and other unnecessary nonsense, they finally found time to be alone. In silence, in tranquility. Where you can hear only the rustling of grass and the peaceful singing of swallows.
"Hey, pervert," she said playfully, standing up slightly, but Cracklin wasn't sure if she meant it jokingly or as a remark, "You're always looking in the wrong place."
"I'm sorry...?" The boy fidgeted, clearly puzzled, because he didn't want to cause discomfort in any way"
"You're strange," but there was no hint of displeasure in her voice now. There was just a strange, unfamiliar warmth to her manner, a sincere warmth.
The girl sprawled on the grass, her head resting on Cracklin's lap and closing her eyes.
Her breasts rose and fell slowly. Unlike the boy himself, she was a symbol of calm. No matter what happened, she didn't care about anything, and Cracklin even envy her a little.
But who is this girl? What was her name, where was she from? Everything seemed to be on his tongue, he knew exactly what he had known up to that moment, but the information simply slipped out of his mind. And it was empty, there was only this place where they were alone forever. So unnaturally empty.
If he doesn't remember, he doesn't have to.
Cracklin ran his hand through the girl's hair, stroking it, ruffling it. It was as light and fluffy as it seems when you looked at it. And she didn't mind at all. Finally he being able to touch her. It felt good to feel the oval of her face, her graceful neck, but she wouldn't let him go any lower; she wrestled his hand away from her. Cracklin didn't understand her uncertainty: somewhere you could, somewhere you couldn't. He hadn't even done anything wrong. But no one would know what was in that girl's head. He wouldn't cross her.
Suddenly she stood up, shaking off her clothes.
"What happened?" Cracklin's voice shook "What did I do wrong?"
"I didn't say you did anything wrong," she didn't understand why any of her actions were treated that way by the guy, but she tried to find an explanation, "I just decided to stand up. And don't apologize right now."
The girl chuckled softly, sitting down right in front of him, smiling sweetly. Perhaps the only time she had ever been so genuinely kind to someone. But who was she?
No matter how much Cracklin tried to push that intrusive question away, it kept popping up in his mind. And it didn't bother him that he didn't know who he was with, where he was, that there was no one else, and nothing, just this strange place that was impossible to see. You want to remember things around you, but all your mind realizes is the grass around you, and that it's probably morning now, or evening. But it wasn't frightening. Somehow he wasn't thinking about those circumstances. He was just trying to remember the name, the name of this lovely girl.
She bent down, tucking the strands falling across his face behind his ears. The smell of expensive perfume was much stronger. His hands felt numb, and inside, a sense of unease. Wanting to remember the name, to remember that very name. No matter how hard Cracklin tried, he couldn't.
She looked directly into his eyes while he looked anywhere but into them. At her hair, her lips, her shirt, but not her eyes. She touched her nose to his cheek. She wasn't going to kiss him. And he wasn't going to either.
Cracklin stood up slowly, struggling to open his eyes. It was dark, only the moonlight illuminated the office, but still, it was possible to see something. His hands, for example. Or his black paws, if you could call them that, because he was no longer human. And the couch where the Geiger counter sat. Next to him, Chief slept, snoring. Cracklin instinctively wanted to cover his ears, but he didn't have any.
It was just a strange dream, nothing more. But that coolness, that hair, the smell... It felt so real. Though the vivid feelings and memories began to fade and be forgotten.
"My, my. Did you have a nightmare?" he heard a familiar voice. Only there was no warmth in it. It was a malicious sneer.
"Yeah..."
Sylvia sat on the edge of the table with her foot on her leg. She snorted unhappily. The test tube was so annoyed by Cracklin's "whining" that sometimes she couldn't stand him, though she tried to be more restrained. She had expected a long and emotional, slightly exaggerated monologue about what a terrible dream she'd had, but it was not to be.
Cracklin wasn't going to tell anyone what he'd seen, and he didn't remember what he'd dreamed. And he didn't remember the girl in the dream. But he finally remembered the name.
Her name was Sylvia.