A raindrop pounds against the great stained-glass window, impacting the vitrified colors with thunderous, if imperceptible, force. The raindrop and the window are both one amongst thousands of fellows. One is the result of hundreds of years of work. The other, billions. They are by no means equals, but together they cast a long shadow upon the Lady of the House. She is seated alone at a table meant for many and used by few. She awaits the return of a man long engaged in his business overseas. Her mind wanders from thoughts of him to thoughts of nothing at all, dragged back to the light by the occasional scurry of a servant, or clap of thunder from Heaven above. She glances at her handmaiden, seated on the bottom step of a mighty staircase.
"Has there been word of our Lord's return?"
There has been none.
"Run to the Cordewaner, and hear what news he may carry."
There will be none. Not for a time.
Nine men and three women, all clothed in civilian attire, sit and stand around the poorly-lit room. Their ears and eyes are assaulted by the sounds and sights of a gale pouring through the single window. Eleven dripping windbreakers hang from a post near the door. Twelve souls, to decide the fates of twelve.
A man, almost certainly the leader, speaks up:
"One other thing, before we break. Our edge in 33 came through. I found a gift for us under my tree this morning. Names, dates… and a location. Exactly what we were hoping for."
"About damn time. I've been hardcasting to the Gamma for the past two weeks and been getting nothing back," says a woman, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. "Maybe this'll get them to bite."
"Fine. Stay on them." He's definitely the leader. "I'll begin working on next steps, but before we move any pieces we need to find the POI. Sigma won't move without her on the board, but for the love of God be careful. Any dents in the package, and they'll be standing against us, not with us. If that happens, Gamma will cut the thread for good, and it's over."
"You're certain we can flip them?" The figure standing closest to the door sidles towards the rest of the group.
"Nothing built on roughened soil stands forever tall. We need—" The woman in jeans interrupts him with a burst of laughter. Maybe he isn't the leader. "You're a poet now? Why the hell are we in the lounge when there's a theatre across the street?"
The man of indeterminate authority stands up, collects his coat, and walks out. As he leaves, he turns to address the room. "I am the butterfly. You all, my wings. Together, we change."
The door takes no time to slam closed between them.
In my mind, I see the field of battle. A misnomer, since nothing grows in concrete. Except bodies, I suppose, and they grow in number every moment. A pile outside the gate, a pile pushed to the side when it burst open. A pile behind the desk that once welcomed valued personnel from across the greater Virginia area. No bodies by the second checkpoint, we haven't made it there yet. We will. They know time will save them if they can stuff enough of it into their pockets. Help is coming, matte-black birds-of-prey with talons sharpened. But they are confused. They saw our battle-skins, as blue as theirs. They don't know who to trust, and neither will their mighty birds. We will be gone long before that fire arrives, and they will share it with each other.
The picture fades. My eyes open. I hope to one day make it real. To pull just one brick from their precious Fortress and watch the walls fall inward. But that won't happen, not without work and blood in copious quantities. There is no time to waste.
A great deal of time has passed. You may decide how much. The Fortress still stands, as do those who besiege it. In honesty, not much is different. But the Fortress provides animus, and as such it is in the best interest of both parties to permit its continued existence. And so they die and fight and die again, each capable of victory over the other but somehow wise enough not to seek it. All the while, they speak of time. They do so in such different ways. An enemy, an opportunity, the great destroyer, an eternal archive, and maybe nothing at all.
None are correct, but whoever thought up that last one was… close. Time is what we've made it, and, with the exception of a lucky few, we haven't done anything nearly important enough to matter. Certainly nothing to make it notice us.
A butterfly flaps its wings. There is no tornado. Nothing of note changes.