Projection

It looked almost accidental, the way the young woman dragged boxes and flung them, one on top of the other, creating a cascading, tilting tower. When she scaled the great beast she'd built, it was even more impressive, each footstep appearing far more chaotic than the skill she used to climb would imply.

"I hope you know what you're doing," her twin said hesitantly, his slow side-eye observing her movements as she stood atop the precariously perched stack.

She rocked back and forth, teetering on the brink of disaster, biting her bottom lip in rapt concentration. Her clever fingers held a twisted and readjusted bobby pin by the end, working at an ancient and rusted padlock with a grace that defied all logic. "Alllllmoosssst... there," she sing-songed playfully, before the satisfying click was interrupted by a creak of metal against metal, a twisted sound, screeching and uncomfortable.

He winced, and his dark eyes darted about the dimly lit alleyway where they'd arrived. The slight clatter of raccoons in a dumpster, stirred up by the ambient noise, was the only thing he heard in response, but he remained still, silent, staring for a moment. Hyper vigilant for the oncoming trouble that never came, before his shoulders slumped in relief.

"Told you!" she said cheerily from her perch atop the impossible tower, rocking back and forth dangerously, nearly bumping into the rough and untended brick side of the building. "No one ever comes down here. It's historic. And if they do? They really don't care. It's perfect."

Her gentle ribbing was punctuated by her focus on him from her roost, awaiting the moment when the soft exhale left on the air, the plume of condensation acting as a brief but necessary signal to continue. Her fingers curled around the edge of the windowsill to yank herself up with one swift tug. There was only a moment of any hint she was off balance - when her feet kicked, the soles of her professional and brand name running shoes, the only reminder of her days of track and field in college, sent a milk crate at the top rolling to the side in an awkward fashion with a too-loud clatter.

He danced back, rubber soles scraping against the broken asphalt of the ground below, narrowly avoiding the sharp edges of the worn plastic crate hitting him. "Hey, careful!" he hissed with a hint of ire, as he glowered up to the dangling form.

Halfway in and halfway out of the narrow window, she squirmed to find a better angle. With the makeshift structure askew there was no turning back now. She reached back with her left hand, the right gripping to the windowsill with a tension belied by her casual tone. "Sorry, sorry," her voice came out, almost muffled from the position. She wormed her way into the window, feet vanishing into the darkness within.

A small cry erupted from inside the building, and he startled, rushing towards the falling tower of boxes and near tripping over his boots. "I'm..!"

"No, it's okay! Just...ugh! Cobwebs. everywhere," she groaned, before turning to look back down to the alleyway with a birds' eye view. "My trainers are a MESS." With the blinking red emergency light above the back entrance, her expressions were highlighted and intensified. He watched from below as her face changed from slight confusion, to worry, and then swiftly to amusement as her sharp eyes put together what happened. "Awh, my hero," she cooed with a wide teasing grin. "I'll let you in the back door in a sec, cool?"

His eyes once again darted down the alleyway to avoid looking up at her, giving her a small uncomfortable thumbs up to hide his embarrassment. His eyes flicked to the window once more, the frame now empty as she had moved past his field of vision into the darkness of the room above.

He waited outside, starting to pace, eyes darting to the crate as it rocked, and slowly righted itself on one flat side. His footsteps moved slowly towards the back door. Metal, a cream color, surprisingly clean, albeit dented with some rust along the edges if one looked oh so closely.

The red light flickered slightly, off its inexorable beat only for a second. Again, the creatures in the dumpster seemed to grow more agitated with every irregularity, the scratching and slight shake of the great metal container putting him a bit more on edge. He attempted to be casual, resting a blue rubber gloved hand on the wall itself aside of the door, awaiting the eventual click. He felt the tiniest prickle across the back of his hand, and looked at a centipede glowing red from the dim light, using his hand as a stepping stone.

"Gyaaaaah!" he let out, hissing in through his breath and shaking the insect off of his hand. It dropped to the asphalt below, curling in a ball, before extending and continuing on its way, ignorant of the interruption. The timing was perfect, though, as his eyes drifted down to watch the insect, a click echoed the insect's movement, this time from the lock.

Finally.

The metal door handle turned and pulled inward with the door itself. He stepped forward, and with a prepared smirk, peered in. "Hah, took you long... en...ough..." he started, but his words cut off, his mouth turning downwards as he looked into the unexplored beyond.

Not there.

"Not gonna wait for me, huh?" he snapped impatiently. Tired, stressed. He slid through the smallest opening in the door he could possibly make and and pushed the door closed behind him with his back. Couldn't be too careful. With a light brush of his hair from the front of his goggles, he inspected the warehouse in front of him before making his way forward.

At least the webs were broken, making the path obvious. Despite the fact there was no way he could feel it with long sleeves, he scratched at his arms where the cobweb tendrils caressed him. He rubbed at the back of his hand, where he felt the centipede still crawling. Psychosomatic. He knew it was, but he'd been like this his whole life. Too sensitive, she'd once said, ribbing him.

It turned out to be a good thing. He had a keen directional sense. A natural instinct to find things that others thought were important. It lent itself well to this lifestyle.

After that realization, he wasn't "too sensitive" any more.

He looked around, surveying the location carefully, trusting she wouldn't lead him astray. His trusty boots, and the wisps of webbing led him past the metal shelving that hadn't been made since the mid nineties. His chin raised, inspecting the shredded looking ceiling tiles. Asbestos. Likely a good thing he'd brought a mask.

Despite the dark, despite the smell of dead rats and something that incongruously smelled like a mix of oil and mucus, he could almost feel the direction she'd headed in. She was right - this place was full of history, and history meant money. Old copper piping in the walls. Storage containing odds and ends from time lost. Most would have to be scrapped, but there would absolutely be something saleable.

He took one heavy booted step forward, his attention divided with possibility, as his mask and goggles caught a faceful of solid cobweb. It was only a mild annoyance thanks to his protective gear, his hands moving forward to break up the strands that blocked the way forward. Maybe they'd blown together again? Possible. The building was fairly old and mildewy, the webbing was sticky, and he was sure he felt a light breeze coming from somewhere.

He could see something flickering through it. Concealed, barely, through the translucent natural material, the fluttering of dust and ... what looked like... light?

He could hear the faintest sounds as well, laughter, and a muffled voice.

She was just fucking with him.

He pushed through the webs with a persistence he did not normally display, brushing past the fine threads that made him itch and tickle in equal measure despite coverage. He shouldered through a particularly narrow corridor until the vague and gauzy light became more focused, more pointed, piercing and flickering, making his pupils constrict rapidly.

The webbing finally gave way to an open, dusty storage room. Despite his mask, he coughed through the heavy dust that floated, highlighted by the flickering green light in the next room like irradiated fireflies. The barely cracked door did little to hide it, but he could hear the laughter beyond it.

That internal warning system naturally built in made his heartbeat quicken, but for the first time in his life, he ignored it, driven by his agitation. He stepped forward with an echo of rubber on metal, his steel toed boots guiding him forward despite his initial trepidation.

His pupils, now pin-pricks, focused on the smallest sliver of the open door, even as his hand curled around the edge. Pulling it open towards him. He found his eyes swiftly drawn to the dirty, disheveled and clothespinned white sheet hanging on the far end.

The green light flickered from an old projector - maybe early 1900's, his brain reminded him - showing what looked to be a home movie of some type. A small white house from a distance, a small path leading up to a porch, the flickering showing a tire swing in the backyard with a woman swaying back and forth. An elderly couple on a swinging bench on the front porch. What looked to be either corn, or wheat, swaying gently in the breeze. It was hard to tell with the wear and tear on the film, brown spots appearing at odd intervals. The greenish glow, however, gave the whole homely scene an unnatural feel, his stomach flipping as if it would reject the earlier pre-job meal of fast food burgers and fries they'd shared.

The camera panned around the back of the neat, tiny farmhouse. It was so... nice. So warm, despite the chill from both the room itself and within his bones. His eyes slowly focused, as his breath caught in his throat, and his hand shot over his masked mouth to stifle any noise.

The woman swinging on the tire swing. With that laughing smile. Despite her attire, the flowing lacy skirt, the clear drawn waist and top. As she reached a pinnacle with that cotton cord tire attached to a rope, as she was rocking back and forth, the branch visibly, if not audibly, creaking under the weight.

Revealed by the slightest flip of the end of her skirt.

Her trainers.

He approached the cloth rapidly, and put a hand up to the projection. It turned the back of his gloves hand green as well, the flickering light causing images to shine over the rubber like a distorted slide show.

Her eyes. Her eyes slowly looked to him. Such a careful movement, as if afraid of getting spotted for her slight transgression. The smile was plastered across her face, but he knew that look, that feeling from her. It was forced. Strained. Her eyes screamed, as if trapped in her own body against her will.

His eyes were so focused that he didn't even have time to turn as the door slammed shut behind him.