When one's vision splits and the mind enters a trance, it's called daydreaming. Every day when Boulevard fishes, he daydreams. About what was the same as when he actually slept. Either nothing and he goes numb, or about the past. People, places, things – they all came from the vast corners and deepest depths of his psyche.
There were minor things that popped up in Boulevard's mind like the gas station sushi he ate once as a very imminent last resort. He would rather step headfirst, arms extended into that Glutton horde than feel those cramps in his stomach again. Sometimes, he'd remember people. Not them directly, but rather their features. About how they were all so similar but so different. About how looks don't mean a damn thing. He pondered again on the savage girl who tried to tear him to shreds years ago. She was pretty. No matter -- on almost all occasions -- the tapes took center stage. Tapes from the War of Humanity.
In a box inside a fallen apartment complex which was reduced to ruins just before Boulevard happened upon Unmei National Park, he found a lab. Many broken vials with bits of rotten flesh combined with hazardous chemicals made it seem like a reach for a cure to the Glutton infection. Boulevard thought of it as exactly that, a reach. "Cavemen would have a better chance of finding solutions over those Xerathan apes." He mumbled to himself.
That statement pertaining to Boulevard's distrust of that community was justified from the contents of the tapes. Some people wanted the world to be theirs. Some wanted it to belong to the Gluttons. And some... unlucky enough to survive through raw hell for far too long just wanted to watch the world burn. Some wanted it to be everyone's.
All viewpoints were stated and the drastically different sounding and looking leaders of these factions talked about what they would do for the right for the world. The name of each tape was the name of the groups: Sneachtia, Torus, Xerathan; all big players in the bloodshed Boulevard had pushed through to find a place such as the outskirts of the city.
It gave Boulevard a relieving feeling of true intrigue as he wrote down his own personal thoughts and opinions of each tape. How did these powerhouses of post-apocalyptic government come to be? Did he wish to support these people's cause? Would he try his hardest to avoid them? Most of the words in his own personal journal were interpretations. What did these groups mean at the deepest, philosophical level?
Sometimes, mixed in with the catalogue of soap operas he cried at when he watched them and sitcoms he pondered at how anyone found them funny, Boulevard watched the tapes again. He even knew someone years ago who was there for the Winter's Touch's speech. The man described it as "when your mom was strict so you could be taught a lesson and blossom."
The leader of Sneachtia looked graceful, even at her old age, with her soft but powerful words resonating to the fleeting survivors of damnation who followed her, with it all being exemplified due to her speech being at the forefront of the marble temple behind her. The white stone palace was carved over years to be a monument to that group's progress to establish true peace.
And Boulevard daydreamed about if the wars were still going on. Who had won? Was anyone left standing? Was he missing out on the future?
Boulevard doubted that those thoughts would reap safe outcomes, as finding answers to those questions could ruin what he had made on the peninsula. His daily routine has been very repetitive for a while now, but unless a messenger comes to him, he'll sit and wait. He'll sit and watch.
A tug – one that would rival a sea dwelling monster pulled down on Boulevard's line, almost sending him flying out of his lawn chair. He braced his feet on the deck and reeled his pole back with full strength. This catch is either a migratory titan or some evolutionary abomination. Not a thing recently has made him work up such a sweat. One final grunt of power and the hook flew into the air. It rose feet above Boulevard and then it plopped back down onto a hairline of black.
If he could see himself, he knew he'd look like a deflating air mattress. The constant, droning sound of releasing wind in the form of a sigh which led to his face muscles drooping as all air was leached out of him.
"What a snag!" The girl said before she shot a stream of water out of her mouth like an old angel statue. She began to paddle over to where Boulevard was sitting and he crouched down, resting on his ankles like he was going to give a lecture to a child.
"I've said it once and I will say it once more, why are you following me?" She turned her eyes away from Boulevard, and that general dejection led him to know her next answer would be a lie. Those green meadow colored eyes lowered to the side and her brow shuffled, so it was an easy read for the astute hermit.
"What? You don't own the ocean, bass pro. I was just swimming and happened to find you on my travels. I wanted to see this baby beach and feel its Caribbean style waters." The girl sprawled back into a floating position, the sun making her water droplet covered caramel skin look like honey. From this angle, Boulevard could deduce she would be able to hide behind a rice grain. Some arm bones pressed against the skin of her wrist and water took up almost all the space inside the front of her fl0ral jacket.
It was a definite this woman wouldn't leave Boulevard alone unless some outside intervention was to present itself. But he was not going to be the one to apply such force, for he didn't want to hurt anyone. The least he thought he could do is get more info on this mysterious lady. It would be a breath of fresh air, too, as Boulevard almost forgot how to hold a conversation.
Boulevard stepped back and allowed the girl to climb up onto the back of the yacht. "What do you go by?"
"What you mean to ask is what my name is?"
"No. I've met more people with pseudonyms than birth given names." The girl shrugged and extended her hand.
"I'm Wynter. What do you go by?" She teased. That tone of smug toying made Boulevard's cheeks heat up. He told himself he found it annoying.
"Boulevard." He bumped his limp fist against Wynter's fingers and turned around to go up the stairway.
"You mean like that kind of street? That's a very... unique name!"
"As I just stated, I've met more people with fake names than real ones. A ride to land. Then you walk." Wynter slightly nodded and sat down on a sofa next to a desk with a lot of materials occupying its surface area.
Wynter went from one remnant to another. Some metals from an assembly line to a ripped piece of paper from a documentary, she went all around Boulevard's personal workstation like not knowing what lollipop to choose at the doctors. "What do you use all this stuff for?" She inquired. She heard loud clunking and scraping from upstairs. Boulevard made rusty pipes clash against each other to try and show that he was "working." "Did you hear me?" She said louder.
Boulevard rubbed his face and replied, "How does that concern you?" He revved up the engine and zipped the yacht around towards the shore where he would drop the stowaway. Some water kicked up off the beeline the boat was going at and splashed onto the deck. He eased up on the pedal so that what was in the living room wouldn't get hurt. His Newton's Cradle. That took up a whole year of determination.
"Where did you get all of these mementos?" Wynter inquired.
"What a weird word choice." Boulevard thought. He then said, "They aren't souvenirs if that's what you're implying. It's history. Math, science, and knowledge. Old and new. That's what those are."
Everything in the room below was one piece in the puzzle of what Boulevard has learnt. All to strengthen his brain so he can do things others couldn't. So he could be helpful. Even artifacts like the war tapes and all the emotions of anger, sadness, insanity, and hope were useful so he could document the new world and help others understand what happened and why. Maybe someday, the oddly disturbing amount of saliva facts he found in a science pamphlet will aid people. Somehow.
"Well, they're all cool in their own nerdy way. I like this one." He heard the clacking of metal ball on metal ball and knew what he had to state loud and clear.
"I'm not a nerd. I'm a pioneer of knowing." Boulevard could hear Wynter giggle from downstairs. 'What's so humorous about the truth?" He asked.
"Me? I'm not a prankster. I'm a puppeteer of anarchy!" She exclaimed. Boulevard didn't do what he normally would and brush off her banter, but rather think that "Puppeteer of Anarchy" would make a good title for her entry. If he could admit one thing about her, she is a character. A character he hadn't seen in his story since the beginning. That was worth investigating on its own.
As the boat came to an abrupt stop on the sand, Boulevard leaped down the whole flight of stairs to come face to face with Wynter. Kind of. He was 6'3 and she was 5'9.
"What year of high school would you be in if the common core was still active?" Boulevard asked. Her face got pouty and puffy which showed off some somewhat mature features he hadn't noticed before because the two of them have never been this close. A narrow brow and mousy nose were now shown off. The biggest section of interest was when her eyes gave off an abstruse sneer towards him. It was oddly sporadic despite the gesture's implied intention of staged, jovial anger.
"Excuse you!? I'm twenty-five?! I know for a fact I don't look that young. You just want to see me suffer." She turned up her nose at him with a swift, deep "harrumph".
These displeased actions made Boulevard feel a thump of disappointment in his body like it was being flicked. Why? He didn't know for sure. This display from Wynter was obviously an act. Maybe it was that he had never made anyone really angry before, just disappointed, and this session of sounds from Wynter imitated that emotion pretty well. He just heard a little peep from his core, telling him to say sorry.
"I apologize. It was rude of me to assume." He gave a subtle bow and looked back at her. She looked as if he had never said anything in the first place.
"Okay! Time for me to feel the sand and the sun!" She leaped past Boulevard but he caught her shoulder.
"Didn't I mention and enforce my property laws?" Wynter turned around and started to walk backwards. Nothing he said would stop her now.
"Man, this isn't Boulevardland. It's Unmei Peninsula. The site of the most serene but contained beach in the country! I traveled here from miles away, and no Davy Jones geezer will stop me from having fun. I'd like a beach volleyball partner, so come join if you'd like."
Wynter jumped to where the ocean met the shore. Boulevard looked up at the ceiling of the lounge which was made of mirrors and said, "I don't look old, do I?"