Furies- Thus Spoke

by O'Brian Gunn

  The commissioner rolls his tongue over his teeth. “Bottom line?”

  Perry drapes a forearm over the chair back, straightening his tie. “Bottom line is that this is only one in a quickly growin’ number of crimes committed because of or by Alpha-Omegas. The things these people can do aren’t somethin’ that can be overpowered by pepper spray, a Taser, or even a bullet. They operate outside the limits of non-powered human law. What I want to know is, are there any laws being created specifically for A-O criminals?”

  “Laws like what?” The commissioner swivels and squeaks in his chair.

  “Will they receive harsher punishment than non-powered perps if they commit a crime usin’ their powers? I know there are special cases, but a lot o’ these people are aware of what they are and what they can do. Chances are, some o’ ‘em can even control their abilities. Court can’t allot special circumstances for ‘em, neither can we.”

  Moskovitz rubs at his incisors with his tongue. “Legally, we can’t create laws against Alpha-Omegas since that would be considered discrimination. It would be no different from me discriminating against a handicapped person...or you because you’re gay.”

  The detective glowers. “You’re talkin’ ‘bout the same system that hogties and hobbles the rights of gay men and women, and I’ve yet to see a report that either proves or disproves without exception that homosexuality is biological.”

  The other man exhales. “Please don’t turn this into—”

  “I’m not, just makin’ a point.”

  “The point you’re trying to make is unethical and will be met with a great gnashing of teeth, detective. Singling out a group of people does nothing but result in blowback, a blowback I will have to respond to with equal force by sending out women and men, husbands and wives, daughters and sons to counter. Do you want to be the one to call someone’s parents and tell them their child was killed in a revolt led by a group of pissed off super-beings? You want to be responsible for taking a person’s life because he or she wanted to take away your basic human rights?”

  Perry quirks an eyebrow. “Never figured you for an activist.”

  “I’m not, I’m a commissioner. Anything any of you do in the streets is on me.” He leans forward and points at the detective. “Not on you.” He points at himself. “On me. I’m the one the press and the public are going to maul.” He offers a feeble smile. “Not a huge fan of standing in the path of a loaded chain gun.”

  Perry keeps his mouth shut.

  Moskovitz leans back. “Besides, I would think you’d be all up in arms about protecting a minority group, not the first to drag out the noose.”

  “You think every gay person gives a good damn about gay rights? That every person with a disability speaks out against ableism?”

  Commissioner Moskovitz folds his hands behind his head, exposing the generous sweat stains soaked into the armpits of his shirt. He nods at the other man’s point. “So, what are you gonna do, West?”

  Detective West pushes away from the chair and stalks toward the door. “My job, commissioner, gonna do my damn job.”

  “Dammit!”

  Leo lifts his head and sees his coworkers stopping to stare at his hissed outburst. He ignores them, going back to his notes and furious scribblings.

  “Isolate this...” Scratch. “...base pair...” Scribble. “...protein barrier around...” Circle. “....next, and that will…” He looks over the equation. “Likely put me in a coma the next time I go to sleep.” He scratches at his head in agitation. “Shit!”

  “Kennington?”

  Leo looks up. “Yes, Mrs. Acker?”

  The older woman sidles over to him, stuffing her hands in her lab coat pockets as she throws a disarming glance and a smirk at the curious employees. He skips his eyes to the blood sample under the microscope. “I know our current project may be a bit...tedious for someone of your aptitude, but I don’t think that now is the time for you to divert your attention to personal projects.” She takes in the crumpled papers, equations, and diagrams eating up table space. She frowns. “Just what is it that you’re doing?”

  Leo blinks.

  “My A-O gene activated a few weeks ago and the force it’s projecting from my body is keeping me from working. Devin was laid off when he told HR he’s an A-O, so I’m trying to figure out a way to either suppress or, preferably, destroy my gene so I can keep my debilitating depression and anxiety in check by burying myself in one of the few things in my life that brings me true joy. Is that okay?”

  Leo blinks. Just a fantasy.

  “Just trying to help out Joiner with his—” Leo begins.

  “Joiner?” Acker’s mouth wrinkles. “The intern? How is he supposed to learn anything if you’re doing all of his work for him?” She puts a hand on the table, leans closer to him, and whispers. “Is this a race thing? Trying to help a...a brother out?” Her hand flutters in a circle at the word.

  Leo’s jaw muscles tense. “No, ma’am. And I don’t appreciate comments like that.” He watches as she focuses on his poisoned gray and brown eyes, then drops her gaze to the poisoned light brown skin of his hand.

  “Well, in any case, you should get back work, I don’t pay you to do another person’s job.” Acker reaches for the papers.

  Leo snatches them out of her reach.

  Shock jolts through her expression. “Give me the papers, Kennington.” Acker holds a hand out.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  “I won’t ask again.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I think I do. Give me those papers, Mr. Kennington.”

  Anger crinkles his brow. “You need me here.”

  “One.”

  “If you would just listen—”

  “Two.”

  “Mrs. Acker, please. These papers—”

  Flare. The next pulse in his body feels wrong. His skin tingles tight and he knows it’s happening again. “Not now.” He clenches his hand and tries to pull the force back, tries to force the force. He feels it shivering along his fingertips like silver-blue sparks. The air pulses. He grits his teeth.

  “Thr—”

  Mrs. Acker cuts herself off as Leo suddenly releases the papers and snatches up the pair of scissors at the edge of the table.

  And stabs them into his palm.

  She gasps.

  Leo grits his teeth together as he jerks the scissors from his palm with a squelch. He almost places the scissors back on the table but sees the blood coating them.

  Tainted blood.

  He holds the scissors in one hand, clutches the papers between his arm and body while cradling his bleeding palm close to his chest, and walks out of the laboratory.

  Mercurmont breathes and seethes around Adam as he sits on the stoop next to the young man in the red beanie. It’s nighttime and downtown Dominion City lingers in the background, watching as the young man fights to keep the tension slithering over his body from settling in once place, hunching his shoulders, wringing his hands, twisting his neck.

  “The first few days out of prison are the best, but they’re also the worst.” Adam looks out at the other houses lining the street as he talks. “You’re finally experiencing the freedom you’ve been waiting for, but it’s almost like slipping into old clothes that don’t fit anymore.”

  The young man bobs his head, sniffs. “I’ve been praying, Mr. Kensie.” Foot bobs. “I’ve been praying a lot.”

  “That’s good, Robbie. Remember that just because you’re out of prison doesn’t mean you’re free.” Adam pulls a small Bible from the messenger bag at his feet. “I’d like to give this to you.”

  Robbie accepts the book with care and reverence. “Thank you.”

  “My parents blessed that before they gave it to me, and I blessed it before giving it to you.” He taps a finger on the cover. “Hope it helps you in the transition.”

  Robbie thumbs through the book. “Do all parole officers give Bibles to their parolees?”


  Adam grins. “They do when they specialize in people being released from both their spiritual and physical prisons.” He watches as a man makes his way down the cracked sidewalk toward them, edges of his flannel shirt flapping around his broad form as he walks in and out of the pooled shadows untouched by the half-hearted glow of the streetlights.

  “Mind if I ask you something?” Robbie keeps his eyes on the step below him as he speaks.

  “As long as you don’t mind me answering.”

  The man in the flannel shirt is two houses away. He walks with his hands in his pockets.

  Robbie’s smile is weighed down by his thoughts. “How do you have such strong faith after what you see, and the people you interact with?”

  Adam leans back and props himself up by his elbows on the step behind him. The man is one house away when he starts to answer. Then he sees the man is not a man but a woman, a woman pulling what he knows to be a gun from her waistband.

  “Snitchin’ muthafucka!” Words shoot out from her mouth. Bullets shoot out from the gun.

  Adam shoves himself off the steps and bends his body in front of Robbie. Air rushing past his ears suddenly thickens to syrup, golden-infused clouds whispering over goosebump-speckled flesh. Sound spirals distant and sensation is heightened as it’s lowered, his shirt rippling slowly across his body.

  The bullets feel like knots of heated rubber smacking into his back. They ting onto the steps like loose change, instead of deadly projectiles.

  Adam pushes away from the stoop, bumbling down the last three steps with the force of his hurried momentum. He grabs the woman by the wrist as she looks at his unmarked body with a bewildered expression. The gun is wrestled away with ease. He shoves her, a flurry of power igniting through his muscles and skin as she’s knocked back into the empty street with more force than he intended. His hand flashes silver-white for a full second before snuffing out.

  There’s a muffled snap as she throws her arms behind her to catch her fall. She howls out in pain, curses a violent streak, and calls Adam everything but a child of God.

  He turns back to Robbie, who’s breathing heavily with the Bible clutched to his pumping chest. “She—she shot—” He shares the howling woman’s bewildered expression as he notices Adam’s lack of gunshot wounds. “She shot you…didn’t she?”

  Adam presses a hand to his sternum. He can feel the flow of the platinum light simmering just underneath his flesh. “No weapon formed against me.” It’s like glory flows through his very bones.

  Later finds Adam standing in front of his bathroom mirror toweling himself off as threads of steam curl and unfurl around him.

  He is rubbing his hair dry when he looks at his reflection, turning to look at the developing gunshot bruises on his back. He stops. He lifts an arm and spreads his fingers.

  Nothing.

  He does the same with the other hand.

  Nothing.

  He focuses on his chest and waits and waits and nothing.

  He slows his breathing and focuses on his entire body, sipping each breath in and easing it out as if it’s his last.

  More nothing.

  He squints his eyes in frustration before shutting the light off.

  He shuffles into the bedroom and slips into a pair of pajama bottoms and a tank top before sliding into bed. He reaches over and taps the lamp out.

  Seconds later, he pulls the covers aside, slides out of bed, and gets down on his knees.

  He whispers an unheard prayer before getting back into bed.

  He dreams.

  The next day at church:

  Adam stands up and the world clicks off mute. Voices, handclaps, broken bits of hymns, and shouts of praise engulf him. He collects the length of the chain in his hand and makes a fist, feeling the cross attached to the necklace bump softly against the side of his palm. He banishes fear from his heart and walks toward the altar.

  “Brother Adam has come to testify!” Bishop Martin roars into the microphone. “Come on up, son; share what the Lord has done for you.” He gives Adam a reassuring smile and perches a hand on his shoulder as Adam stands next to the pulpit.

  He clears his throat and speaks.

  “This is my first time giving a testimony, so bear with me.

  “None—none of us know the reasoning behind God’s work, why he gives to some and takes away from others. But we know that His will, His works, are all for the best...whether we’re aware of it or not.” A hush descends. “For some reason, God has given me a gift, a most precious gift. It’s something that I can’t even begin to try to comprehend, but maybe I’m not supposed to. It finally came to me in a dream last night.” He swallows. “At least I think it was a dream. I was surrounded by golden light in a sea of ivory when a voice said unto me, ‘Go now, my child, go forth and do my work with my blessing. My strength is yours, my speed is yours, the wings of my angels are yours. Let my will be done.’ ” People stop fanning themselves. “When I awoke, I felt different, I knew I had been graced with God’s touch. A word was on my lips, buzzing and beating against my tongue. I spoke it, and was changed.” His voice is an amplified whisper.

  “What was the word?”

  He looks in the direction of the voice. Then he utters the word.

  “Ascension!”

  A golden star is born beneath his flesh, showering him in a golden-silver light and ruffling his suit. The microphone gives an electric squeal and the speakers pop with snaps of electricity before dying. Adam’s skin ripples with shafts of platinum-ivory outlined in metallic gold, his eyes are doused in neon white.

  The brilliant being speaks. “God has remade me into His Sovereign. I am His agent on Earth, paving the road to Paradise and cleansing the world of all evil. Let His divine will be done.”

  The congregation collapses down on their knees. All but one woman who stares at Sovereign with wide eyes and mouth agape.

  Her name is Maggie, Adam’s wife.

  The murk sifts through the air intertwined with silence.

  Giorgio hauls himself up from the couch, goes into the bedroom, snatches up his clothes, and follows the lingering, artificial scent of a mountain breeze to the laundry room.

  Seconds later, his clothes are being battered by water and suds as his new old body is being battered by the individual streams of water spouting from the showerhead.

  An hour passes and he’s standing in front of Kimmy’s mirror slipping into his shirt, taking note of how the freshly laundered cloth feels as it slides across his skin. He pulls the shirt on slowly, experiencing it.

  As he buttons up, he looks in the mirror and sees Kimmy’s remains staring at him with her mouth agape. His yellow-green eyes dance away from the body as his hands lift to arrange his thick brown curls.

  He stops.

  He blinks.

  He stares.

  Giorgio slowly lifts his hand and presses it to the mirror. Cold. He puts his hands to his face and smooths them down his jawline. Inert. He licks his lips. Barren. He lightly traces the tips of his fingers across his collarbone. Insensate. He looks slowly from left to right as if seeing the world for the first time. Dead.

  “Just what are you now...Giorgio Quintero?”

  He leaves.

  He finds himself in Oswyn hours later, a neighborhood he had never visited in life. He gazes around with a sense of alien familiarity. Somehow, the feeling, the sensation, the experience, is numb.

  There is a void where emotion once existed.

  As he walks past the Dominion City Post building, he’s momentarily distracted by the news report playing on the massive screen on the side of the building. “...family of A-Os that shares the ability to make people happy. They’ve actually set up a special practice in Dominion City devoted to not only freeing people of the emotional weight dragging them down in life, but also helping people realize what truly makes them happy, fills them with joy, and does more than make them merely content.

  “Since setting up their practice, the Johnson fami
ly has treated suicidal patients, guided some to true love, and have even helped improve the physical health of some of their patients. If you’re interested in receiving a bit of happiness while finding out for yourself how effective their ability is, you can—”

  “Remember where you left your ability to feel before you died and were brought back to life.” He turns away from the screen, away from the possibilities.

  Various scents scatter through his nose, but neither repulse nor sway him to hunger.

  Sight is both old and new, but what was once color is now muted and flat.

  “’Scuse me.”

  He turns to a short redhead with glasses.

  “My phone just died on me and I don’t wear a watch.” Her nose crinkles. “Do you have the time?”

  Giorgio stares blankly. “Does anyone?”

  She cracks her mouth and dances her eyes around in search of distraction before walking away. The response feels familiar to him.

  Feels. Funny.

  He stuffs his hands in his pockets and saunters toward a closed auto shop, shoulders hunched.

  He speaks to himself. “Have to be the first living undead ghost in history.”

  He responds to himself. “As in life, so in death.”

  “Ghosts only exist because they have unfinished business, attachments. What is there left for me to be attached to?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Exactly. You can’t form an attachment with a void, there’s nothing there to grasp.”

  “Then why do you still cling to it?”

  “I’m not!” He whirls on empty air and sees nothing.

  That word again: nothing.

  Giorgio clutches a hand to his chest, grips the fabric of his shirt as if it is a tether. He swallows, air slithering thick and tasting of leftover bile. He claws a hand through his curls as oxygen inflates and deflates in his lungs.

  “Can’t—no, no, I—” He swallows. “—I can’t, mm-mm, can’t do this, can’t do this.”