He woke up one day in a small Florida town with a white suit on and no memory of who he was supposed to be.

This didn’t bother him much; he considered himself a very chill sort, the sort to go with the flow, and anyways–he decided–there were much worse places to wake up with amnesia. An alleyway, that was one! In prison was another. He’d seen a documentary–he couldn’t remember where–about Turkish prisons, and that struck him as somewhere much less preferable to Florida. All in all, the conditions were fortunate.

And it was a beautiful day, the type they take pictures of to put on touristy little postcards. Florida towns had the advantage there–the weather was mild, the houses were trendy, and the beaches were only slightly polluted. Everywhere he looked were idyllic white bungalows, swaying palm trees, and sparkling docks over sparkling waters filled with sparkling boats, and chubby older neighbors that waved and complained good-naturedly about the humidity.

For the first day of his amnesia, the man (for he was a man, he discovered; a man of about thirty-something, with a decent build and the soft hands of an artist) found it quite pleasant.

By the fifth day of his amnesia, it was all oppressively boring.

He didn’t leave, of course. There was a certain sense of destiny to waking up in this particular town, in this particular suit (which was not his preferred color, but was of an expensive cut, and emphasized his shoulders nicely), without memory. If there were answers to be found, they’d be more likely here than anywhere else.

So for the next few days he paced the town like a dog on a leash, smiling well enough at the people… but with, perhaps, increasingly more teeth. He searched around for answers, asking his subtle questions and living his subtle, investigative life.

Luckily for the man, he was of medium height and build, with an average face and skin the sort of brown that could pass for half the countries of the world. A pale African, a mild Middle Eastern… He could put on an accent and made a compelling case for Cuban. Many Floridians (Floridites? Florida-people?) respected a Cuban in an expensive suit, even a relatively youthful one. He got his hotel room on a discount, and paid for it with a card he’d found in his pocket that never quite seemed to run out of funds.

(At one point, the man had checked his balance on an ATM, and found a number with six digits. He bought a sofa, then checked the number again three days later. It hadn’t changed.)

His apparent wealth was only a temporary distraction, though; he couldn’t buy entertainments when the town had few entertainments to offer. He batted around restaurants and clubs and joints like a restless fly. Nothing was interesting, nothing was entertaining, and–despite his best efforts–nothing was fun.

The man tried sitting outside the local drugstore with the old men, sharing stories of the old days and lamentations about the bugs. He tried starting up a business, but he needed papers for that, and could not even fill them out with his own name.

It was around the time that he asked to be arrested and started up conversations with the others in their cells that he realized he wasn’t going to last much longer at this rate.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to. A few days later, a glossy white ship pulled into port. It was significantly larger than the fishing ships that came and went, with portholes and steel banisters about the edges. It reminded the man of a cruise ship, but one with significantly more bits on it, poles and dishes and a long antenna on the end.

The man took one look at it, and everything seemed to come together.

The ship–wonderous ship!–caught his eye, and it said to him, sir, this is your adventure. Poised over the docks like a lighthouse, it drew him as a beacon.

He walked right up and made to introduce himself.

#

The captain of the ship was named Cecil–“That’s Cecil Bartelby, from the official League of Researchers, I’m sure you’re familiar”–and he was a researcher planning a trip down south. He stood outside his massive ship, regally poised in a glaring white coat and glittering sunglasses, holding himself like a king. The man in the suit resisted the urge to bow.

“What do you call yourself?” Cecil asked.

John Hardey, the man in the suit thought.

No, no, try Stephen Campbell.

“Ethan Westley. Dr. Ethan Westley,” he said. He held out a hand, and was rewarded with a vigorous shake that left him slightly dizzy.

“Well, charmed to meet you, Dr. Westley. It’s always a pleasure to see a fellow interested in the doctorates.” Cecil had a loud and obnoxious voice… which, Ethan supposed, only matched his determined expression and broad shoulders, as if he’d become a lumberjack if the research didn’t pan out. “What sort of degree do you have, then?”

Ethan, meanwhile, kept up a smile, small but polite. It was very important to be polite, especially to those who seemed important. He tried to look modest as well, shrugging a shoulder and scuffing his shoe in the dirt.

“Ah, well… I haven’t technically earned it yet,” Ethan admitted. “I’m still working on my senior thesis for a biology PhD. There isn’t too much to research down here, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Bingo. Cecil laughed, a sound that was even more boisterous than his usual voice.

“Well, I’d like to help, I really would.” He patted Ethan on the head, like Ethan was an eager kid. “We’re off to research a rare species of lemur down in South America, by Chile, but between you and me that’s just for the books. If we get a chance… well.” He winked. “Let’s just say that what we find there is gonna have all the angels and demons in a tizzy. You see–”

And he stopped. He looked up. Climbing down from the ship’s ramp was a short man, lithe but muscled, carrying a cardboard box. Ethan could just see the tip of a microscope peeking out the top of the box, obscuring part of the man’s face. The rest he could see was tanned but soft, Filippino perhaps, with wavy dark hair and intense brown eyes.

“Ah, Raziel!” Cecil waved the man over. “This is Ethan. He’s studying for his PhD. Ain’t that a trick?”

In response, Raziel only grunted. He set the box down–it rattled–then stood up straight, back popping with the movement.

Ethan only stared. There was something there, a connection to be made, but…

“Anyway, Doc.”

Ethan refocused.

“I’d like to help, but as you can see from my friend here, we’ve already got ourselves a lovely biologist.” Cecil grinned, gesturing broadly at Raziel. “If you’re still here when we get back, maybe he can give you an interview, eh?”

But Ethan didn’t have an answer to that. He normally would, yes–he had a whole plethora of good answers and stories rattling around where his real memories should have been–but his eyes were still locked on Raziel.

By all accounts, Raziel was not an exceptional-looking man. Attractive, yes, Ethan supposed that much, but in an average sort of way, the type of attractive that preferred going unnoticed.

Except the eyes.

You could tell a lot about a man by his eyes. Ethan himself had gold ones, that glittered like coins or a cat. But Raziel… he looked over, and they were a long abyss, a cool brown sparked with embers of green.

And he was glaring. Ethan pulled himself together, trying to look professional. Like an undergraduate.

“What are you really doing here?” Raziel asked, snapping Ethan out of his thoughts. He had an authoritative voice, low and rumbling like an echo in a canyon.

“I–” Ethan faltered for a moment, then put on a 60-watt smile. “I’m studying for my thesis. That’s allowed, right?”

“Study somewhere else.”

“Raziel!” Cecil cut in, then, holding his hands up like he was trying to stop a fight. “That’s no way to treat a fan. The boy’s just trying to learn.”

“It’s alright, C–Dr. Bartelby,” Ethan said (perhaps a little too quickly).  “It happens. I’m sure you’re all pretty busy.”

“Very busy,” Raziel said. His tone implied a not-very-subtle so bugger off. Ethan chose to remain oblivious to it.

“I–well, that is true,” Cecil admitted. “But not so busy we can’t say hi to the populous.” He laughed again, a heaving whuff of a noise. Ethan did not see what was so funny, but he chuckled along with, which earned him another hair tousel.

“Anyway, try catching us early tomorrow, before we ship off at noon. I’ll see if I can’t answer some questions, and maybe you can spread the story to your college campus, eh? Get to say you met a real famous expedition.”

“Yes, Dr. Bartelby. That would be fantastic, thank you.” Ethan grinned brightly, ignoring the way Raziel sighed and shook his head.

“Then it’s settled!” Cecil smiled back, all broad yellowed teeth, like a horse. “Who knows? Maybe something will come up, and we’ll have an opening for a biologist after all.”

At that, Raziel–who’d been picking up another box from the various ones scattered about the dock–paused. He stared.

“You’re not thinking about replacing me,” he said, flatly.

“Of course not! But it’s not wrong to give a kid some hope, is it?”

“Absolutely not, Dr. Bartelby,” Ethan agreed.

#

And so it was that, with only slight regret, Ethan Westley set out to kill Raziel the biologist.

It wasn’t like he was fond of the idea, mind. He was a chill person, and acts of murder were just about the most un-chill thing a person could do. They were complicated, they were messy, and they were just plain unpleasant. But at the same time, there was something about this that rang with destiny, and who was he–an effective non-person–to argue with destiny?

At least it was not hard to find Raziel. He was already painfully familiar with the town, and there weren’t too many odd foreign scientists who bore that name. A few drinks with the old folks outside the drugstore, a chat with the neighbors, and by that evening Ethan was standing outside of a hotel not unlike his own, outside a door not unlike his own.

The room was number 333.

Ethan knocked, and after several long seconds and the rattling of not one, not two, but three different knocks, Raziel–looking tired and bed-rumpled–opened up.

“I think we got off on the wrong foo–” Ethan started, all bright smiles and a carefully-cradled bottle of pinot noir.

Raziel slammed the door.

Bastard, Ethan thought. Of course, he supposed Raziel technically had perfectly legitimate reasons to be wary around the man plotting to murder him, but Raziel wasn’t supposed to know about that part. It ruined the whole thing when Raziel was already savvy to it.

Ethan knocked again, and heard a muffled “Go away” from inside.

“That’s no way to treat a potential friend.” Ethan knocked again. “Come on! We have so much to learn from each other. I brought wine.”

“It’s probably poisoned,” Raziel muttered.

“Uh,” Ethan said, fingering the vial at his neck. Raziel wasn’t wrong, but… “Why do you hate me so much?”

There. That was good. A nice, easy subject change. He leaned back and waited for Raziel to answer.

There was silence. Then more silence. Then more silence. Then so much more silence that Ethan very nearly raised a hand to knock again, before–

“If I let you in for a bit, will you stop bothering me?” Raziel asked.
Ethan grinned. He was in.

#

Raziel’s apartment was a bit cramped. There was a bedroom, a bathroom, a little kitchenette… and that was it, really. They sat around a small table in the kitchenette, one of those little ones that folded up into the wall when you were done. If it weren’t for the fact that his knees knocked against it, Ethan would have found it nifty. As it was, he sat there, crammed into a little wooden chair wedged between the table and a sink of dirty dishes, and set about pouring drinks into plastic cups.

Raziel sat across from him. Raziel fit a little better at the table, but he still looked uncomfortable, like an adult at a child’s party. He watched Ethan pour with tired caution.

“I’m really not out to get you,” Ethan lied, smoothly. “I admire you. You actually get to go out and have an adventure, and here I am stuck in this small town.”

“It’s not that great,” Raziel admitted. “It’s just carrying boxes and trying not to be seasick.”

Ethan snorted.

“You get seasick?” He shook his head. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Not so much. There are pills for that.” Raziel eyed his drink warily. In response, Ethan took a glug of his own, and this seemed to ease Raziel’s mind enough for a cautious sip. (This was easy for Ethan, who had the antidote, to do.)

“Still.” Ethan shrugged. “Good on you for keeping up.”

Raziel, who’d apparently decided he liked the pinot enough to take a longer drink, gave a little snort at that.

“What, you think I can’t?”

“I didn’t say that.” Ethan shrugged again. “Are you always this tense?”

“…It’s been a long couple of days, let’s leave it at that.” He finished off the cup. “A little bit stressful.”

“Yeah, researching lemurs will do that to you.” Ethan poured him another, then set to work finishing his own.

“It’s not–” Raziel started, then caught himself. “Nevermind.”

“No, really. You can tell me. I’m curious.”

But Raziel shook his head.

“Yeah? And have you put it in your thesis, sources cited in MLA format?”

“…Maybe.”

There was a pause. Then both of them laughed, and set about to drinking.

#

As it turned out, Raziel was something of a lightweight. In fairness, Ethan was not exactly hefty, either, but he still took some pleasure in being sober enough to watch Raziel gradually not be. At some point, Raziel brought out a plastic clamshell tin of sugar cookies, and they worked their way steadily through those.

As Raziel got drunker, he got more open.

“So there I was, just in the area, right? And this guy, he’s like–he’s looking for a biologist, right?”

“Right,” Ethan said, though he had no idea if it was right or not. He assumed so, and nodded sagely as he bit into a cookie.

“So I figure–I’m a biologist. At least, that’s what I figure. And this guy’s going on about a legend, and it just–”

“–It feels important,” Ethan finished. He started laughing, like it was some joke, and Raziel chuckled along with.

“Right!” Raziel waved his cup at Ethan, sloshing a bit over the edge. “It feels right. So I go into asking him a bit, and–Jeez, this is the part that I don’t even–I gotta be crazy.”

“No more crazy than the rest of us, I suspect.” Ethan hiccuped.

“Maybe. So this guy–Cecil–he starts talking about how the lemur thing is just for the books, which pisses me off a bit, because I kinda like lemurs. But then he says… he says they found something else down there. Something that had no business being down there.”

“Something like…?” Ethan’s world was swimming a bit, but he tried to focus. This was important.

“Something like the Ark of the Covenant, they call it.”

And with that, something clicked inside Ethan’s head. He felt himself get rigid, felt his eyes widen. He could visualize it, almost, a box under tattered blue cloths, buried somewhere in the jungle.

“…The Ark,” he repeated, softly.

“See, that was my reaction, too. And I get this feeling, like… Like things were coming together.” Raziel smiled. “I get this feeling, like…”

Like I’m supposed to destroy it.

“Like I’m supposed to protect it.”

An awkward silence fell over them. Ethan stared at Raziel, who stared back. Ethan chuckled a little, and Raziel joined in, soft and nervous.

Ethan reached back, grabbing a knife from the pile in the sink. Raziel reached towards his thigh, freeing a knife from a hidden sheath. Both of them lunged at each other over the table.

Raziel’s chair fell over with a heavy clatter. Ethan’s tilted back against the counter, then rocked back into place. A cookie fell off the table, cracking to pieces on the floor. Somewhere outside, a dog started barking. Both Ethan and Raziel stopped, knives parried just a few inches from either’s face.

Silence. Ethan and Raziel glared at each other, suddenly without a spark of drunkenness in either’s eyes.

Then they laughed again, more nervously than before, and settled back down. Ethan sank into his chair; Raziel righted his, then sagged into it.

“Funny, that,” Ethan suggested.

“Mm,” Raziel said.

“Probably shouldn’t have done that,” Ethan suggested. “Considering I already poisoned the wine and all.”

At that, to his surprise, Raziel laughed. Actually laughed, too, not just a minor chuckle.

“You too, huh?” he asked.

Ethan blinked, then smiled.

“The cookies?”

“Mm.”

“You sneaky bastard.”

Raziel shrugged, modestly.

“I try. You know how it is.”

Ethan nodded along–he did, vaguely–then frowned.

“I don’t feel anything,” he said.

“Me either,” Raziel confessed.

“Can’t get a good poison these days.”

“That or it doesn’t work on us.”

“Which begs the question: would stabbing work?” Ethan had never pondered this before. In fact, he’d been so concerned with who he was that the question of what hadn’t really entered his mind. It was… concerning, to be entirely honest.

“I’d be happy to try it on you.”

“Ohhh no. You first.”

“No, you.”

“No, I insist.” Ethan grinned at Raziel, a bright I’m-just-a-gentleman grin.

“Nooo, noo. I couldn’t.” Raziel shook his head.

Ethan laughed it off, all casually. What could you do? The world was just crazy. It was what it was.

Then Ethan lunged at him again, knife at the ready. This time, Raziel didn’t parry with his own; he wasn’t fast enough. He was, however, fast enough to fall backward, letting the knife just slide past him, then roll away as his chair once again slammed into the floor.

“Try it, you bastard,” Ethan hissed, still swinging.

This time, Raziel managed to get his knife up enough to block. He swung forward, and hard, and nicked at Ethan’s hand. Ethan staggered back, knife dropping from his bloodied grip, then kicked out at Raziel. Raziel’s own blade went flying, but he wasn’t much bothered by this; he tackled Ethan outright, sending the both of them falling to the ground in a violent heap.

They hit the doorway of the apartment like this, grabbing for each other’s hair, kicking, biting, and cursing with all they were worth.

Eventually, the door–a cheap hollow thing made of fake-wood–gave in. They spilled out into the hallway, a mess of blooded limbs and one very ruined white suit.

Once he’d gotten himself oriented, Ethan looked up, gazing down the hallway on his hands and knees. It was all tacky 70s floral carpet, yellow wallpaper… and, as he watched, two, then three, then four concerned neighbors stepping outside.

One, a chubby older woman with her hair in rollers, had a cellphone. She took a pic. Ethan tried to smile for the camera. He didn’t quite manage it.

#

If Ethan looked at just the right angle out the prison window, he could just see that great white ship heading out into the sparkling morning sea. He reached for it, longingly, but the chain on his handcuffs clinked against the bars on the window.

Defeated, Ethan sank back down onto the prison bench. It was cold and it was hard, with nothing but the thinnest cotton mattress between his ass and the metal.

At least there was one consolation prize, which was the Filipino man sitting on the floor next to him, handsome head in his hands.

Ethan sighed.

“I–” he started.

“Shut up,” Raziel said. He had a bandage over part of his lip, and one of his eyes was swollen.

Ethan, meanwhile, had a little metal clamp over his pinkie, and he toyed with the edge of that idly. It would heal up quickly, he was pretty sure. More quickly than a regular person’s injuries would.

He still remembered those last words of Captain Cecil Bartelby, standing red-faced and outraged outside of their cell.

“Can’t trust anyone, can I? I should’ve known you’d just be after the treasure. Couple of no-good traitors! If I had to choose between you both, then I choose neither!”

Ethan sighed again.

After a moment, Raziel spoke.

“We are…” he started, “…really, really bad at this.”

“Possibly the worst,” Ethan agreed. He swung his legs, scuffing the edges of his shoes, and looked downwards. “They’re going to be tiffy, I’d imagine.”

Raziel looked up and shook his head.

“Yeah.”

Silence passed.

“…After this, do you want to get a beer or something?” Ethan asked.

“Sure.”