Finch in a Bird's Cage: A short story.

Time is but a river to which we are the pond scum to float atop. We can never truly escape the river where it meanders and we must be the slave to the flow. Some moments of the river seem to drag on as the current is slow and other moments seem to pass in a blink of an eye where the current is fast. Some rivers are longer then others, but they all end somewhere. People tend to think about what they could do if they changed the flow of the river, without considering the effects it would have down stream. If a river only flows one way, and one must constantly flow with the river, by changing the flow of the river you remove the fact you changed the river at all.

It is a paradox.

Obviously, that is what makes the conundrum of time an impossibility. We know what the river behind us looked like, we can experience the river at the exact moment, and we can try our best to prepare for how the river will be in the future. It remains that we cannot change how the river acts. Perhaps that is what makes the concept of time travel so appealing, because all any human ever wants is to see the unknown.

A small finch lands on the river.

Finch stood at the small door in a narrow back alley. The main street hummed with motorcades that echoed down into the alley, only being muffled by the light rain. These were his favorite kind of days where the rain pooled in gutters and formed a stream. It made walking more interesting because the sound of his boots would make each step more satisfying. It also conveniently made a great excuse for being late. Well, Finch thought, no point in standing around.

He pushed his way into the door, the only resistance being that the door was in desperate need of being oiled. Inside he was greeted with a thick haze that stuck to the ceiling. He could tell the weather based on how smoke rises. When it hangs in the air, it implies the weather is stable. Therefore, Finch knew that the room was stable. The small bar, some booths, and flimsy tables littered the room. No one was able to look up, too entranced by their drinks.

Finch knew exactly where to go however. He could feel his boot impressions on the floor and he made his way over to one of the booths in the back. It had ripped leather revealing the cushions beneath. It also contained a very large greasy man, who made no bother to acknowledge Finch. Typical, based on his dilated eyes and the earpieces he was currently browsing some program. All Finch could manage was a large sigh.

Interrupting the man would create chaos, or at the very least a coma. He had to come out willingly. Finch knew this all too well. He retreated to the bar, somewhere with a good vantage point to watch both the man and the rest of the bar.

The man was Finch’s client. He had spent most of his days here as of recently in a depressed state. Well, it is no wonder, the man hired Grey Hawk Firm to investigate his wife; He worried she was having an affair. Of course Finch had discovered exactly that and carried the photographic evidence in his left breast pocket of his jacket.

Before Finch could think any longer about the subject, his thought was interrupted by the bartender.

She waved her hand to get Finch’s attention. “Read the sign.”

With her other hand, and cigarette wrapped in wrinkly fingers, she pointed the ash towards the sign. It read in big bold letters:

NO SOLICITING, NO LOITERING, BUY SOMETHING OR GET OUT.

Finch could only really manage an awkward shrug before shuffling in his chair to obtain his wallet. “Do you accept card?”

There was a loud croak of a groan from the lady who removed two stone tablets, or at least that’s what they looked like. They were actually imprinting devices meant to create a physical copy of the card. It was a rather massive headache to process a credit card these days. Before Finch was born he had heard stories about how these transactions would actually be performed instantly. But that was before the uprising.

Finch worked a smile, knowing that this was more work than it was worth to the bartender, and spoke politely, “Sorry, I don’t ever keep cash. You know how it is out there?” Attempting to justify his lack of cash. “Just cranberry juice.”

He extended his arm with the card in hand to meet the bartender half way. She took it and carefully placed it onto the lower stone before running the top over it. This was completed with an ear piercing metal grinding sound. Afterwards she returned the card and began on the drink.

It was a pretty awful drink despite the only ingredient being juice. It somehow tasted watered down. Finch really didn’t have much else to think about while waiting. No way to skip through the moment either, as he could miss his window of opportunity to catch his client. People shuffled in, and people shuffled out like tides in the ocean.

After what seemed like a few hours the large greasy man finally came to, removing the earpieces and coming to. Finch quickly downed what was left in his glass and made his way once again over to the booth.

“Dean?” he spoke softly.

The man looked up but only offered the look one gets after waking up from a longer then expected nap. Everything looked hazy, and there was no way one could tell what time it was or where they were.

“I got the evidence Dean.” Finch said, removing a manilla colored folder from his jacket and placing it on the table. The kind of folder that all great detectives should have on hand. Dean merely looked down at the folder but remained silent.

Deja Vu.

Finch felt a moment. Like a whirlpool, going around and coming back, Finch suddenly felt ill. He had been here before at some moment. He waved his hand to Dean before quickly leaving the fine establishment back into the alley. Afterall, the job was done, there was no need for any small talk. He could be on his way. He quickly walked down the alley, stumbling around as if he was drunk.

Eventually, reaching the main road, he felt a moment of clarity. Motorcades passed by, and the soft raindrops on his face made everything feel a bit more real. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again he stood at another door. It was Grey Hawk Firm’s office. There was no point in keeping record of the long walk home, so Finch had his augmentations ‘forget’ that part. It made traveling such a breeze. You could be anywhere in a moment.

Though, he was still late. Grey Hawk Firm never closed, such is the business model of being a private investigator. He figured it was three or four in the morning but it was hard to tell. The clouds reflected the light pollution back down and created the illusion it was probably earlier than that. Well, Finch thought, no point in standing around. He pushed his way into the office and was met with a very small office space. Oliver, his coworker and co-owner of the business, sat at the front desk waiting.

He was a thinly man, someone who looked like they never ate enough. Yet, despite this, Finch has seen him eat on several occasions.

“You’re late,” Oliver murmured like a parent would to a guilty child. “How long does it take to deliver a simple evidence folder?” Finch, and likely Oliver, already knew what the response was going to be.

“Sorry, the weather kept me up.” Finch said with an innocent smile.

Oliver simply shook his head at Finch before turning to the wall mounted television. It was always on the news since they needed to know what was happening around the city. Good business practice.

“So, any new clients come in?” Finch followed up, trying to change the subject as best he could.

Oliver simply sighed a response. “Nope. It is usually a slow time of year, you know that. Oh, did you see this?” Oliver pointed at the television.

There was a bland stereotypical newscaster, but Finch recognized something. In the tiny separate box to the top right contained a picture of a bar..

“Huh? Oh, I know that place. I was just there. Dean was wallowing-” Finch was interrupted as he grimaced reading the scrolling text that followed.

Bar explosion in the Witker District. Investigations are underway.

No way, Finch thought, he was just there! Must have left shortly after it happened based on the distance from the bar to the firm’s office.

Oliver spoke up, “You really need to get your augments checked out. You seem to constantly avoid dangerous situations. I’ll bet your perception chips are malfunctioning.”

Finch moved towards the television and pressed the off button. “Let’s not worry about that now shall we? Just another job well done. How about some coffee?”