Where's that slumping building and those dark-lit-walls? That little tiny
departure gate and bloody crowding hall you're so enamored with?
And where are those dirty phone booths?
No, ask another question.
Scully is raising her eyebrows and looking at you like she's suddenly spotted a
new head.
"Umm, are you sure we are in the right place?" you ask, knowing immediately it's
as stupid as you look now.
"What do you mean, Mulder?" The eyebrow is even higher now.
"Umm, the last time I'd been here it certainly looked different..."
"Well, I believe the last time you'd been here it was before 1997, right? They'd
opened this new one at the end of 1997. And I thought you are the one who reads
all the World Weekly News."
You're irritated and you can't think of why... well at least you try not to
understand why.
"But why can't we use the old one?" you are whining like a 10-year-old.
"Because they'd demolished it?" She is looking like either pissed or bemused;
with the eyebrows high in her hairline, you really can't tell.
So, no more dark and dangerous phone booths...
Stop it, why always think about that? The last time you'd been around those
things you were dealing with some real dirty little shit...
Oh, well, some pretty little shit. And he was never little.
Stop. Don't go there.
Good. It seems Scully has already concluded that you are a helpless human species
who needs either hospitalization or cremation.
"Jet-lag..." A weak excuse and you know it. But she simply rolls her eyes and is
now heading to the luggage lounge.
You finally look up and see the flashing digital words on the tele-screens in
front of the glass wall.
"Welcome to Hong Kong Chap Lak Kok International Airport..."
No more dark phone booths. Your sigh is too low to be heard by anyone but
yourself.
"Mul-der..."
She's not happy and she is exasperating. Glad to know there is always the
'constant'.
You turn your head away from the large horoscope in front of you and look back to
your partner, who, by the way, is wearing a brown power suit when the outdoor
temperature is, according to the local weather station, above 32-degrees Celsius.
She probably has a sponsorship from Prada.
"What are we doing here, Mul-der!?" she says.
"Looking at the stars?" You and your innocent puppy eyes.
"And what has that to do with our case? Are you waiting for an extra-terrestrial
being from some alpha whatsthatname planet to land at this peak of Hong Kong
Island and answer our case on a sudden vanished US diplomat from his own
washroom?"
It is only a warm up.
"Or you're sending some secret message to that unknown kidnapper which involves a
horoscope, a bag of sunflower seeds and an open tourist park? What is it, Mulder?
You've given up your psychic hotlines? "
Gee, you have to marvel at that, don't you? This partner of yours is certainly on
fire, if not just topped with fire.
"Scully..." You try your best kicked-puppy look with maximum iris and cute little
pouts. "There've been several sightings reported in this part of Hong Kong during
the first few months of this year, and I think the timing is too close to be a
coincidence..."
Well, Mr. Holland, Carl James Holland, was a secondary secretary of the US
consulate in Hong Kong and had reportedly disappeared from the toilet of his own
apartment on the 1st of April. Everyone, including the local police, thought that
was a sick joke, yet his Philippine maid has vowed on her own family's name as
well as her 82-years-old-granny's life that he was singing in the toilet at
first, and quieted after a sudden light-flash outside the window. She said she
had become worried and started knocking on the door and when there was no replies
she called the police. And, well, it seems our song-singing diplomat had gone
into the air. No one knows where.
You heard the news from your usual source, the Internet is surely your best mate,
and you'd even managed to persuade Skinner to sign the damn 302. You don't know
whether it's because of your gifted stubbornness or his own psychological
consulting bills. Well, whatever works.
But Scully..., Scully is always your blessing and your curse. You need her to
protect your back, save your ass, shoot you if you're drugged and yes, she is
your rock and saint and conscience with a name of "evidence-rules".
And she can also be bitchy and troublesome and faithless when all you need is a
little support and minimal trust.
Okay, guess we all have our little reputations to live with. Can you
expect the Ice Queen to melt for you, spooky-boy? Yeah, you'll be
waiting 'til the dinosaurs return.
So, Spooky, you're here in Hong Kong and you're looking for a diplomat who's
disappeared from his own toilet.
And you can't help but think that he's probably been possessed by a certain oilen
and, just like the last time, left the toilet without a note. How rude.
And exactly when was that last time? Umm, the time that
green-eyed-black-hearted-lying-rat-bastard deserted you...?
Stop. Not now. This is really getting cliche.
Now you have to sigh again and decide that "toilet" is another word to be chalked
up into your things-to-forget-list along with "phone booths".
But you also notice that you have a so-called photographic memory and fate is not
always your friend.
There's something you could never tell anyone. A secret that is hidden deep down
in your heart. You live, you eat, you go chase after the aliens and annoy Scully
on a daily basis. But there's still that little part of you that is stalking in
the deepest darkness and wailing quietly for some kind of release, some sort of
freedom, from you and the world in general.
The moment you landed in this city, you felt the pull. You resisted it as always
and you noted to yourself to change your mantra to "denial".
It's there and you're dreading to hear the call.
But the world is bound to catch up with you, if not your secret.
This chubby Sergeant Kwok has got typical oriental eyes; when he's smiling or
trying to smile, they simply become a line. And this guy seems to smile so much
that you haven't met his eyes for more than 10 seconds after a 20-minute meeting.
"...and therefore we the Hong Kong SAR police believe this could be a personal
incident. We've no evidence to believe there's malice or fraud or that any kind
of crime has taken place..."
"Then how do you explain the lights outside the window the maid had eye
witnessed? Not to mention several other occupants of the building having also
witnessed the same thing?" you ask.
"Oh, that could be someone's lighting system or the reflections of lights from a
TV..."
"A lighting system outside the window of a 24th floor apartment? And a TV screen
bright enough that 6 residents from 4 different floors had described it as 'a
very bright light lasting for about 30 seconds'? Sergeant Kwok?" Scully is giving
you that don't-fool-around-the-local-kids look, but you are never one to take
hints. "It seems to me that your department has missed several important aspects
of the case..."
He's still smiling, and Scully has shot enough daggers at you to last you a
life-time without worry of lack of table knives.
"And what is your opinion then, Agent Mulder? That there are some UFO activities
and that some aliens have kidnapped one US consulate staff member from his own
bathroom. And to achieve what? A new alliance between the US government and the
alien empire? The last time I watched 'Mars Attacks', they certainly didn't have
this in the script..."
And he is still smiling, you start to have the idea it's a perfect
human-skin-mask.
"But of course, if you've any idea that Tim Burton has produced a new film
without our knowledge, please do say so, I'll be so disappointed to be left out
of the cast list. A-gent Mul-der."
A closet SF fan with a law officer wardrobe. You're definitely charmed.
So, after another 20 minutes' diplomatic talk from your good old Scully, who
tries her best to save the face of the mighty FBI before a foreign law officer
and assure him that you are serious about solving the case instead of directing a
soap opera, everything is fine, except your frame in certain Asian law
enforcement circles.
Well, it's not her fault it so happens that you have such a lovable personality.
You stand outside the Wanchai Police Station and muse about life, aliens and some
interesting conspiracy theories and ponder whether there's a possibility that
advertisements in Mars could help to locate a missing person.
Then you see him.
At first, it is the back of him. Black T-shirt. Wide shoulders. Narrow hips. And
tight jeans with perfect shaped globes.
Your pulse is rising fast. Like the horse-racing in a not-far-away jockey club;
12 horses are quickly matching towards the end-line. And probably one may have a
sudden heart attack.
No, it can't be!
You squeeze your eyes shut. Telling yourself it's the climate, the humidity and
the circus-like pedestrians... Or your own sanity.
You open your eyes. He's no longer there.
You start worrying that you're having a hallucination. But the hallucination, if
it is true, is even more terrifying than all the aliens you've met.
To be or not to be...?
You look at the spot where he's been and reflect on the question raised by one
Danish prince.
The second time is when you are looking at the heels of she-who-believes-no-alien
Scully's new footwear. She bought it from Landmark, a luxurious department store
filled with too many wealthy and meaningless people.
The heels are 3 inches high and yellow. At least that's what you think the color
is. What you have just bought is something even stranger than that—no, no you
would not want her to know what it is, it'll only make her chastising look more
parental.
Your eyes are wandering sideways.
Another heel appears in your view-line: heels from a pair of men's boots.
Deep brown, you note unmovingly, with a black leather outline—
Black leather?
As if electrified by 1000 volts, you quickly raise your head—and place your
eyes on the jaw line that you could never forget.
You start running towards the boot-owner, not caring about either your partner or
your own thoughts, let alone all those short little human beings pattering around
the shopping mall.
And you should remember that that's part of the reason why your insurance premium
is always so high.
After knocking down a blue china vase, two 40-something Mrs. No-names and several
shopping bags, you lose the target of your action, with quite a few gaping mouths
around. You finally hear the voice of your partner.
And again, by the sound of the sudden silence and deep breath-intakes around you,
she's probably taken out her gun. Say your prayers, sinner; your guardian angel
is clearly in probation.
She hasn't shot you yet. That is perhaps more to do with the paperwork involved
than your pathetic life form.
She only gave you a 2 hours' dressing-down on responsibility and good senses and
proper procedure in investigating a case and several ways to by-pass impediment.
It's not ranting, to you it's simply a friendly chat with Vivaldi's 'Four
Seasons' as the background piece—only it's usually the Fourth Movement: Winter,
when she chats like that.
You are looking at the city below you; Scully has returned to her room, after
stating her intention to 'deal' with you when she has had enough sleep and
leaving you in front of your hotel room's window with an open sea-view.
And what a view.
You'd never seen anything like this before. The colors of the tele-screens and
commercial signboards, the lights shaded by all those cars along the winding
highway and the blazing whitish waves along the coast reflecting all the colors
shone. So many bright colors cramping into a dark picture-frame.
You wonder why you'd not noticed this before.
Indeed you know why.
The last time you were here, you were busy looking for him and later looking at
him.
Oh, the irony of life. Closing your eyes, you can almost feel the body heat, the
run of adrenaline, the red-yellow street lights, the heavy breaths right next to
your cheek, and the eyes of a dark-haired man.
Words, actions, minds and bodies. And you can still remember the scents.
And like this beautiful but mechanic view before you, you are both thrilled and
distanced. No matter how bright the lights are, they are only fakes. They could
never be the stars.
He had told you all the sweet words, had touched you like no one before, yet he
was still a fake.
Even though he said he loved you.
Tonight there's no stars upon the sky.
No UFO as well.
And there are only you and your own memories and the city below the hill.
You cannot sleep.
You've been informed by AD Skinner himself that this investigation is no longer
necessary, since the US State Department has made some secret deal with HKSAR to
keep the whole thing in the dark. Later they'll tell the press that the secretary
has left HK for another country without permission from his superior.
And you, having already done enough for the good will of the FBI in the
cross-country-investigation will return to your rotten-hell-hole ASAP.
And there's a 3,460-HK-dollars bill on your hotel room's desk as a little curtsey
to your brilliant track running.
You're exhausted and overwhelmed. You lay on the bed and listen to the low
humming of the air-conditioners in the room.
A pair of deepest green flash before your eyes and you cannot tell whether it is
the beginning of a nightmare or the path towards a psych ward.
But you will do what you're meant to do, the little voice inside you quietly
mandates. And no secrets can be kept forever in the dark.
It's 3 o'clock in the morning and the room is too dark for you to see anything.
But you have this little nuzzle in your head that warns you about something.
Something so close and yet so far away.
Something reminds you of him.
You get up and slowly stand at the end of the bedside. Giving your eyes time to
get acquainted to the darkness around.
But there's no one here.
You suddenly feel too frigid to think of anything; everything eventually leads
you to something that's about him.
You walk into the bathroom and turn on the water tap. No lights needed. And you
don't want to see the misery in your own eyes.
The water has helped to cool your head, droplets keep running down your brows
along your jaw. You finally open your eyes and look at the dimly visible mirror.
And there's a piece of paper.
With a few words.
"3:30am back alley '97. A"
It takes you 3 minutes to dress but 13 more at the hotel information counter to
clarify the meaning of '97: it is a bar, thanks to the holy one, otherwise you'd
probably have to rent a time machine.
The bar is located in one of the busiest night-life districts. With lots of bars,
pubs and small restaurants around.
But it's already 3:26 in the morning, and only those who regard drinking as the
way to heaven have remained. Even the pretty gals and boys have retired to some
clubs or other dark holes.
You look at the front door of the bar. You start to think about the year of 1997
and the time before.
The day you met him, the day he left you, the gun powder in the air, the pounding
of arteries in your neck, the vague taste of someone's sweat, the anger of
betrayal, the broken-into-pieces heart...
But they no longer matter, just like that old dark phone booth and the cranky
toilet. The secret can wait no more.
So you step inside the bar.
Cautiously you open the back door leading to the alley, where the voices of
business and pleasure quickly dies away, waiting for something predestined: a
strike, a punch or a shot to the head. In every Kung Fu-movie, this is the time
for ass-kicking and fists-flying. So the bad guy can throw in some bad language
and call up his throngs.
And the leading actress will scream the hero's name like it's a freaking horror
show.
But there is only darkness, silent darkness with little scent of life or even
mechanic humming.
That is strange —considering the location of this place and the path leading
you here, you had expected... well at least not this silence. Not even a 'hello',
you chide. This is certainly a bad way to treat a 'friend'.
No, not friend, just ex-partner, nemesis or adversary...
Gun in hands, Mr. Bond, the world awaits.
Taking the first step is fine; taking the second one is really not a good thing
for your nerves.
But the silence is still there. No moon, no street light and not even a window,
only the glooming outlines of this narrow, grimy trail. A lonely hero in a
lonesome place... Now that is a lousy script if you have ever heard of one.
You narrow your eyebrows.
Oh, this's bad, real bad.
You grasp your gun in your hands like some last strands of weeds during your
drowning. The sweat is gleaming on your forehead.
Now the third step—into the darkness of this nameless alley in the Pearl of the
East.
Before you level your hands toward the sudden movement on the left, the
unmistakable smell of iron powder and leatherwear have already been sent to your
neurons.
Damn!
You fire—after you feel the pull of air on your left chest, and you can clearly
identify it, above the 4th rib a bit right to the heart.
All that follows is just a slow motion picture in very bad lighting, you can't
help but muse, with the sound of footsteps behind and around you, cursing and
firings, punches and dizziness.
Definitely a B movie. A bad one too.
You are on that dark alley's floor, upon some creepy newspapers with the traces
of certain salt meat smelling. It is not that terrible, you reason, and the
darkness is more calming by this time. Moreover there are no cameras around to
capture your performance of the year.
Someone is calling your name then; yes that should be your name. But it is too
much effort for you to acknowledge that voice, and you are breathing hard.
But the voice doesn't leave you in peace; you are not the least bit happy. You
force your eyes open to stare up at the intruder of this pure darkness.
And there are those greenish eyes.
Wait, you can see! The crowd is roaring in Jerusalem. It is a miracle!
The miracle of the flashlight, amen.
And you remember the reason why you are here: the ill-fated case; the cause of
this foolishness and your unspeakable secret who is waving his flashlight
around and wearing full leather gear. Black Boots, Black pants, and a black
jacket...
Oh shit, he is not wearing anything else under that filthy jacket!
You swallow hard.
"I never knew you could be that dangerous." Your secret AKA your demon is now
sitting beside you, with his face flushed red, his jacket softly touching your
side. And his eyes are a pair of gleeful emeralds. "But after seeing your gun,
I'd say you're even crazier than I gave you credit for..."
Your head is a mess. Too many thoughts at the same time have created an overload.
So you go for the simplest answer.
"I bought it especially for you."
"To maintain our ritual of cock-fighting?" The demon is smirking with a
Scully-like eyebrow.
"No, to keep my record of gun-dropping." Your face is perfectly bland.
"My thought as well." The chuckles are low and sensual, like the sound of some
actor reciting a line from 'Hamlet'. "Maybe it's my fault: you are corrupted and
start making things difficult. I could have you killed, you know."
Oh yes, the prince said, stewed in corruption, honeying and making love over the
nasty sty—
"You don't like this?"
"Besides having some scary moments and dirty clothes? I guess it's all right...
you tricky bastard."
"Really." You push yourself up from the ground and try to keep your head steady.
It would not do you any good to faint at this very moment, would it? "I think I
will bring it with me the next time." His eyes are shifting from emerald to murky
blue. And he is leaning real close to your left side while your heartbeats are
violating the law of physics. There is that patented-scum-bag-smile on the tip of
his so-very-sensual lips.
"You really think you could find another silly case..." His voice is vibrating
inside your eardrums with such sweet resonance that you almost, just almost, have
missed the feel of that warm and damping moisture along your cheek.
"...in a foreign city..." A hand is on your chest. "...and play hide-and-seek
with me..." Button after button. Happily or even inauspiciously, the devil is
leering at his prey with all his shining teeth.
"...again?..."
You can't help but smile.
"...And with a water gun? Any idea how much this jacket cost me, Fox?!"
End.
HK Contact
by Aris
You are standing here. The world around you looks familiar and yet foreign. This
is no longer the place you'd remembered.
