was no use. They had him and werenât letting go.
âThis was my first try!â he complained nervously. âIâm allowed two tries, arenât I? I thought those were the rules? If Iâm wrong, Iâm sorry, but I know Iâm supposed to get two tries.â
Obviously he was wrong. Or the uniformed guys didnât care. They kept marching him away. The guy was near panic. It was incredible. He lost at a video game, and by losing, some police-looking guys called âdadosâ came to take him away. It really didnât make sense. What kind of games do you lose, and then get dragged away by the police? These dado guys werenât fooling around, either. They were both big. Iâm guessing they stood about six-foot-four. They had broad shoulders and wore shiny gold helmets. Their uniforms were dark green and looked like theyâd just come from the cleaners. Thatâs how tight and pressed they were. Each guy had a round patch on his upper arm that was bright yellow, with a logo that looked like a âB.â On their hips they each had a shiny black holster that held a golden pistol that seemed to be made of the same material as their helmets.
As scary as all this looked, there was one more thing about these guys that told me you didnât want to mess with them. It was their faces. I donât know how else to describethis except to write that their faces were big. And square. They almost looked like cartoon bad guys, with sharp jaw-lines and deep-set eyes. They had no expression. Even as they carted off a guy who was yelling and squirming to get loose. Their faces remained stone blank. They didnât give instructions. They didnât tell the guy to calm down. They definitely didnât say where they were going. They simply kept moving.
The guy didnât have a chance.
They dragged him past two more police guys who were standing on either side of the aisle. They had entered from two different directions to surround their quarry. When the loser guy was dragged past these two other uniforms, I saw that the two new guys were standing stock still, their hands behind their backs, surveying the crowd. Nobody else in the arcade made eye contact with them. It seemed pretty clear to me that they were afraid of these police dudes. Heck, I would be too if I lost at a pinball game and my punishment was to get dragged off by a couple of Terminator-looking guys. I now understood why all the players were so intent on their games. Losing wasnât a good thing.
The two sentries followed the others. One of them took one last look around the arcade, scanning the room, until his gaze came to rest . . . on me. The two of us made eye contact. I felt a chill. This may sound weird, but it was like I was staring into the eyes of a doll. A big, living doll.
âWhatâs he looking at me for?â I asked the bald guy. âI wasnât even playing.â I looked to the bald guy for an answer, but he was gone. I was alone. I snapped a look back to the doll-man-police-dado-whatever that was suddenly so interested in me, and my knees went week. He and his pal had changed their minds. They stopped following the others . . .
And came after me.
JOURNAL #24
(CONTINUED)
QUILLAN
I âve been a Traveler for a couple of years now. Iâve learned more about time, the universe, and everything in it than I ever thought possible while growing up in sleepy little Stony Brook. Above all else Iâve learned a very important rule that I try to live by:
When big, scary-looking guys chase you, run.
I wanted to know who these dado police were. I wanted to know why winning and losing at these video games was so important. I wanted to know what âchallengersâ were, and why I was given a shirt that marked me as one. I wanted to know what this eerie âloopâ thing was that wouldnât let go of my arm. There was a whole lot I needed to know about Quillan,
âThis was my first try!â he complained nervously. âIâm allowed two tries, arenât I? I thought those were the rules? If Iâm wrong, Iâm sorry, but I know Iâm supposed to get two tries.â
Obviously he was wrong. Or the uniformed guys didnât care. They kept marching him away. The guy was near panic. It was incredible. He lost at a video game, and by losing, some police-looking guys called âdadosâ came to take him away. It really didnât make sense. What kind of games do you lose, and then get dragged away by the police? These dado guys werenât fooling around, either. They were both big. Iâm guessing they stood about six-foot-four. They had broad shoulders and wore shiny gold helmets. Their uniforms were dark green and looked like theyâd just come from the cleaners. Thatâs how tight and pressed they were. Each guy had a round patch on his upper arm that was bright yellow, with a logo that looked like a âB.â On their hips they each had a shiny black holster that held a golden pistol that seemed to be made of the same material as their helmets.
As scary as all this looked, there was one more thing about these guys that told me you didnât want to mess with them. It was their faces. I donât know how else to describethis except to write that their faces were big. And square. They almost looked like cartoon bad guys, with sharp jaw-lines and deep-set eyes. They had no expression. Even as they carted off a guy who was yelling and squirming to get loose. Their faces remained stone blank. They didnât give instructions. They didnât tell the guy to calm down. They definitely didnât say where they were going. They simply kept moving.
The guy didnât have a chance.
They dragged him past two more police guys who were standing on either side of the aisle. They had entered from two different directions to surround their quarry. When the loser guy was dragged past these two other uniforms, I saw that the two new guys were standing stock still, their hands behind their backs, surveying the crowd. Nobody else in the arcade made eye contact with them. It seemed pretty clear to me that they were afraid of these police dudes. Heck, I would be too if I lost at a pinball game and my punishment was to get dragged off by a couple of Terminator-looking guys. I now understood why all the players were so intent on their games. Losing wasnât a good thing.
The two sentries followed the others. One of them took one last look around the arcade, scanning the room, until his gaze came to rest . . . on me. The two of us made eye contact. I felt a chill. This may sound weird, but it was like I was staring into the eyes of a doll. A big, living doll.
âWhatâs he looking at me for?â I asked the bald guy. âI wasnât even playing.â I looked to the bald guy for an answer, but he was gone. I was alone. I snapped a look back to the doll-man-police-dado-whatever that was suddenly so interested in me, and my knees went week. He and his pal had changed their minds. They stopped following the others . . .
And came after me.
JOURNAL #24
(CONTINUED)
QUILLAN
I âve been a Traveler for a couple of years now. Iâve learned more about time, the universe, and everything in it than I ever thought possible while growing up in sleepy little Stony Brook. Above all else Iâve learned a very important rule that I try to live by:
When big, scary-looking guys chase you, run.
I wanted to know who these dado police were. I wanted to know why winning and losing at these video games was so important. I wanted to know what âchallengersâ were, and why I was given a shirt that marked me as one. I wanted to know what this eerie âloopâ thing was that wouldnât let go of my arm. There was a whole lot I needed to know about Quillan,
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