Song of Innocence

[Tom Harriman]

The sun was still obscured by the hills, the sky still washed in the gradually paling indigo of early morning. There was barely enough light to see; there were even a few stars managing to glimmer through, one last gasp of interstellar light before they too were consumed by the morning. A breath of wind swirled around, lifting a scouring haze of dust and debris from the ground, swirling it through the air so it bit at his skin.

He didn't care. Didn't stir; even flinch. Lying there, he felt like he was part of the hillside; part of the world. He'd been there for hours; all night, nearly. Just lying there, watching the cosmos he adored wheel above his head. He wouldn't move, not a muscle, until there was only one star left visible in the sky: one very specific, astronomically local star in particular.

Crimson washed out across the whispy veil of clouds, heralding the impending sunrise. Minutes passed; hours maybe. They felt like seconds; insignificant moments in time. The sky began to grow golden and warm, as the sun slowly - reluctantly - clambered its way out from behind the oceanic horizon. He heard the collective sigh as the world slowly awoke, the wildlife that had scampered around in the darkness replaced by the ones that would populate the daylight, like some strange, natural world changing of the guards. He observed it all with fascination; percieved the ecosystem in which he dwelt shifting around him.

Finally, pure and direct sunlight washed down on him, casting a warm and white-light brilliance across his skin. He sighed himself. Smiled. Hello world, his mind muttered to the dawn; a slight breath of a chuckle escaped him at the mild humour and irony in that.

He moved at last, peeling himself away from the hillside; rolled his shoulders to shift the tight-fitting t-shirt that had almost fuzed to his skin with early morning condensation. He tugged at the fabric central to his chest, the repeat motion wafting a slight, moist breeze up towards his face. He released the shirt; scrubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw that he should really think about shaving off. He'd worry about that later.

Clambering to his feet, he spurred his legs into action, ignoring their protests at being asked to do something that they hadn't for so long that they'd almost forgotten how. His fingers wrapped around the collar of a leather jacket, draped through the open window of his car; one fluid motion flung the jacket over a shoulder, arms somehow finding their way into the sleeves.

He pulled open the door; slid himself into the beltless bench seat, hand falling instantly to the ignition as soon as it had slammed the door closed. He paused for a moment as his foot failed to find the clutch pedal; mentally talking himself through the preflight checks, the engine rumbled into life with a deep, almost animal roar. A smile cracked across his face. The Chevrolet was hardly the newest, coolest, or most fashionable form of conveyance but, he figured, if you were going to cruise your way around the Californian countryside, you might as well look the part while you were doing it. To that end, a hand delved into a jacket pocket, tugged out a set of glasses, and flicked them open, a practiced motion placing them on his face.

"Hello world," he repeated, allowed this time, shooting himself a quick glance in the rear view mirror. A rev of engine followed, as he steered the wheels vaguely in the direction of the road. "And hello Los Angeles."

* * *

The wind ruffled his hair through the open window as he cruised, arm rested on the metalwork of the door, along the highway that led into the city - on the wrong side, which was a disconcerting experience given how he'd learned to drive back home in Britain. One might have thought that after five years, he might have grown accustomed to it by now. But it still felt damned strange.

He pulled out in a fluid swoop, the Impala pulling him effortlessly past a cliché - one of those huge eighteen-wheeler things that you saw the stereotypical American trucker driving around with in all those movies and TV shows. He threw it a sidelong glance as it passed by; a CB Radio antenna and an Optimus Prime paint job. Another smile cracked on his features. Classy.

Countryside began to shrink away, buildings springing up in its place. The forest of towers from central LA loomed ominously on the horizon ahead. Without a hint of regret, and a notable flavour of relief, he turned onto the next exit, his Chevrolet conveying him away from the broad river of tarmac, or ashfelt, or pavement, or whatever it was he was meant to call it now, and headed into one of the suburbs.

The hour or so of driving it had taken him to escape the smog and light pollution, and find somewhere satisfactory for his stargazing had made him late; he spotted kids that seemed vaguely the right age, and who were heading in approximately the right direction as he passed. He risked a glance at his wrist; silently cursed himself for forgetting that he'd pawned nearly everything when he'd escaped from New York. Maybe he'd taken his fresh start a little too seriously; but hell, why bother doing things by half?

A gap opened up in the buildings; the road swerved to the left; he hesitated at the junction, waiting for the car opposite - something equally American, and likely equally allergic to corners - to pull in first. He followed, tailing it for a few hundred yards as they made their way towards the staff parking spaces. Thankfully, a couple of SUV's had left a nice, well-defined space between them that he tucked the Chevrolet into; he hated parking in empty spaces. Probably because he was so damn compulsive about being as close to dead-center between the two lines as he could manage. At least the towering monstrosities either side would make it nice and easy to aim.

He killed the engine; clambered out of the car; glanced in the direction of whoever it had been following. Young-ish blonde woman; he couldn't place her name, but then he'd only been working there three days, so he could probably be excused for that. She smiled; thought about offering him a wave, but changed her mind part-way through and disguised the gesture by brushing her hair over an ear. He offered her one of those smile and raise your eyebrow type expressions in reply; the kind of wave you gave someone when you didn't want to make a big show of it.

Reaching back into the car, he stretched across to the far side of the front seat, grabbed his bag, clicked down the lock on the door, and shoved it closed behind him. Striding towards the main school building like he owned the place - he'd decided that was probably the best way of getting the damned students to move out of the way - he shoved his way through the double doors, negotiated the slalem of social groups that littered the corridor, and let himself into the relative refuge of his classroom.

Well, it wasn't really his classroom. It was some other teacher guy's, but he'd gone and done him the favour of breaking his leg skiing over the summer; Tom had managed to snipe his job for the next few months while he healed.

Dumping his shoulder bag on the front desk, shrugging his jacket, and tossing it over the back of his chair, he ripped open the zip on his bag and haulled out the spare shirt that he'd had the forethought to pack. Stripping his day-old, dew-stained and dusty black tee, he gave himself a quick once-over with a can of something that claimed to be an antiperspirant and, if the commercials were to be believed, would make every woman for miles throw themselves at him - probably not a wise idea given that he was about to spend the rest of the day trapped in a room with a bunch of horny teenagers, but oh well - and then carefully unfolded his fresh shirt, wafting it about to encourage out the worst of the creases that the folding and bag storage had ironed into it.

There was a click as the door opened; he frowned, turned in that general direction as he tugged the shirt on over his arms. "Hello?" he asked, remembering to tone down his natural accent.