Furies- Thus Spoke

by O'Brian Gunn

  “I healed that man on the street the other day, didn’t I? The one I bumped into.”

  Seraph nods.

  Bisset looks around the corner into the nearest room and sees a man in bed with a tube shoved down his throat. His life is measured in beeps. Seraph peers over her shoulder.

  “Some of the people in here are victims of their own suffering, suffering The Dragoness wants you to multiply.” She steps softly into the room, tugging Bisset behind her. “Suffering can’t always be used as a catalyst for strength. At times, it simply is what it is: ugly and painful.”

  The man in the bed peels opens his eyes and stares weakly at her. He blinks.

  “Talk to him.” Seraph puts a hand on her shoulder.

  “Wha—What do I say?”

  “Just talk to him.” She guides Bisset’s hand to the patient.

  “Hi, my name’s—my name’s Bisset.” She sees the burning black hole through his disfigured lips, the slow churn of murk drizzling down his throat and over his sternum. Something throbs inside her and golden threads of light shoot down her arm into his, ripping through the darkness, but not destroying it. “How are you?”

  He nods pitifully, a bit of relief unraveling through him at her touch.

  “You can’t fully heal him yet, only take away some of his pain.” Seraph stands on the other side of the bed, her hand grasping the patient’s.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “May I borrow your vision?”

  It makes her look up. “What?”

  “I need to see with your eyes. To do that, I need to take temporary control of them, and to do that, I have to have your permission.”

  Bisset nods and swallows. “Alright.”

  Seraph’s golden eyes go distant and Bisset feels something stirring gently in the air. Her eyes move by themselves. They study the darkness lacing the patient’s mouth and throat. The air stirs again and Seraph blinks rapidly. “His tongue is missing. It looks as though it was burned out.” She shakes her head. “You’re not yet strong enough to even begin to heal that kind of damage.”

  Bisset looks back at the man on the bed. “I’m sorry you’re in so much pain. I know that doesn’t sound very comforting, but—” He squeezes her hand, gives her a single nod.

  “I wasn’t aware that Yonnie had a visitor.”

  Bisset turns to see a middle-aged man in scrubs walk into the room. His black hair shines in the light, quick grin flashing across his pale visage.

  “Family?”

  Bisset looks at Yonnie. He gives a barely perceptible dip of his chin. “I’m his cousin.”

  “He’s been here for four days. I was starting to wonder if he had any family or friends at all.” He stands next to Seraph, looking down at Yonnie. “My heart goes out to him after what he’s been through.”

  “All I heard was that he was here in the hospital.”

  The man in scrubs looks up at her. He opens his mouth, inhales, closes it, and breathes out, collecting his thoughts before trying again. “We had to get him to write out what happened once he was stable. Seems that Yonnie and his girlfriend were...in the throes of passion when her A-O gene manifested. From what we can tell, her saliva became acid while they were kissing. Ate away his tongue and a majority of his esophagus. It’s a miracle he’s still alive.” He smiles down at Yonnie. “But you’re a fighter, aren’t you Yonnie?”

  Yonnie rolls his eyes to him, curling his hand into a thumbs-up.

  The doctor’s smile curdles around the edges. “We’re getting more and more cases of Alpha-Omega-related injuries every day. I think we’re going to have to build a new ward specifically for them.”

  “What’s an Alpha-Omega?”

  The man in scrubs and Seraph look up at her at the same time, both of them wearing the same expression.

  Eyes flutter open. Fingers twitch. Breaths rattle. Mind stumbles back into bleary consciousness. Noir takes a moment and waits for the pieces to slide back into place.

  B L O O D

  It thumps and pumps through arteries and veins. And just like that, he remembers. He looks down, vision smearing to and fro, and sees the burning red dot at the crook of his elbow. The needle sits innocently next to him, plunger depressed. He sits up on his elbows, hand going to his throbbing head.

  “Mother… fuck!” The words are crushed out through clenched teeth. “The hell was in that shit?” He squeezes his eyes shut as he gets to his feet, wobbling precariously. He swallows and blinks several times, thankful that all the lights are off. He turns and sees that the sky is painted in sunset hues beyond the parted curtains. He walks closer to the window and sees that the world has been burned down to nothing but golds, yellows, reds, and oranges.

  Dominion City is no more.

  “The hell?” Noir shuffles backward, stumbles over something, and falls. He cracks his head on the edge of the table and winces as he rises up enough to see what he tripped over.

  His body lies unconscious on the floor.

  Words, thoughts, curses, and confusion wrestle with his tongue, but none of them are given voice.

  “You’re awake.” A unison of voices.

  Noir looks in his kitchen and sees three Noirs and a child Noir, all of them with varying expressions on their shared faces.

  “Madre de Dios.”

  “Love.

  “God wants us to love, needs for us to love. We have to love ourselves as well as each other if we expect to have any hope of taking a closer walk with God.

  “I know some of you may think that the world is full to bursting with love, and it is. But that love is corrupted. Vile. Evil. It’s evil because it’s the love of the wrong things. Love of money, cars, power, fame, physical sensation, and pleasure. That’s the kind of love that can kill.

  “The kind of love I’m talking about is pure, blind, all-encompassing love. You don’t consume love, love consumes you. When you’re inside of that love, you are inside of God, just as God is inside of you. Think of it as a circle. It has no beginning, and it has no end.

  “I know how difficult it is to love your fellow man in this day and age. How is it possible, how is it logical, to love someone who looks right through you? To love a liar, a cheat, a pederast, a sexual deviant? As humans, we can’t, but as Christians, we must. We must love our brothers and sisters no matter what they have, are, or are going to do. Thank you.”

  Adam steps off of the pulpit.

  Later, he’s approached by one of his probationers: “I just wanted to tell you how much your testimony touched me.”

  Adam finishes zipping up his jacket and turns to the older man walking down the steps of the church behind him. “I appreciate your kind words, Brother Rhodes.”

  The other man lifts his hands, keeping the comment at bay. “Call me Alan. I got used to a lot in prison, but it’s gonna take me awhile to think of myself as a brother in Christ.”

  Adam pauses at the bottom of the steps, puts his hands in his jacket pockets. “You’re making an honest attempt to change your life for the better; you’re more than deserving of the title just as you’re more than deserving of God’s love.” Shrug. “We all are.”

  The gravity of the implications weighs Alan’s eyes down as he considers. “There’s a lot to get used to now that I’m...now that I’m out.” He exhales. “But I’m working on my faith. Day by day.” He meets Adam’s gaze and gives him a firm nod.

  The man’s resolve brings a smile to Adam’s face. “Day by day is the only way to take this life. Keep the faith and the faith will keep you.”

  Alan’s lips part, gape for a moment, and seal shut.

  “Say it.” Adam eases himself down on a step, gestures for Alan to do the same.

  The other man sits and rubs his palms on the knees of his khakis. He tries speaking again, successfully getting his words out this time. “How do I learn to love myself again after what I’ve done? Is that even possible?”

  Adam’s expression loses a shade of its brilliance. “It’s enti
rely possible, yes, but it’s also up to you. God’s already forgiven you, already loves you despite any crimes you’ve committed, any wrong you’ve done.”

  Alan stares at Adam. “I’m sorry, Adam, but I don’t...” He pauses a beat. “I’m new to this religion thing, and I don’t know if I believe that.”

  Adam’s shine returns, a bit of it manifesting in a subtle platinum glow around his head. “The great thing about religion is that concepts like divine forgiveness work even without your belief, but they’re stronger with it. I won’t sit here and tell you what I think you want to hear, but I will tell you that it’s likely going to take a while before you’re able to even start to forgive yourself, and that’s perfectly okay. It’s what else you’re doing in the meantime that helps you to get to that space.”

  The other man mulls over the words for a moment, gaze unfocusing a bit. “Think I’m starting to understand.”

  “Good. So what are you going to do in the meantime?”

  Alan snaps his focus on Adam. “Learn how to love other people and hope that a bit of that reflects back on me, keep coming to these meetings, keep reading my Bible.”

  Adam nods. “Sounds like a solid foundation. Just take it one day at a time...Brother Rhodes.”

  “You’re joking, right?” The man in scrubs creases his brow, corners of his lips prepared to lift in amusement.

  Bisset blinks blankly.

  “You’re not joking.” The man shakes his head slightly and studies her expression. He gestures at the table and chairs next to Yonnie’s bed. Bisset gives the patient a little smile and his hand a pat before joining the doctor.

  “While there was minor evidence of Alpha-Omegas as far back as two centuries ago, science has advanced enough that we’re now able to better understand just what’s going on with the A-O gene. That, and A-O abilities are now more apparent, more undeniable than they were two-hundred years ago. Alpha-Omegas now have more abnormal abilities; telepathy, healing hands, injury resistance...” He shoots a look at Yonnie whose eyes have drifted shut. “...Acid saliva.”

  “So Alpha-Omegas are superhumans?”

  The question makes him wince and roll his eyes to the side. “Yes and no. Some A-O’s powers are so mundane they have no impact whatsoever on their day-to-day lives, and the abilities of others are so radical that they sometimes become invalids for fear that their powers may hurt someone.”

  Bisset looks down, eyes skipping left and right. “And anyone can be an Alpha-Omega?”

  He nods. “Anyone at any time. Just yesterday, actual smoke started coming out of the palms of a ninety-year-old woman on the floor above us. Scared her half to death, but she was breathing it without any harm to her lungs. We had to evacuate patients in the rooms around her for fear of smoke inhalation. The only way we can contain it is to have her wear latex gloves.”

  “That’s...highly unusual.”

  “Tell me about it. Thankfully, I was here at the time; I’m the hospital’s A-O specialist.”

  “So you know all there is to know about Alpha-Omegas?” Her voice becomes eager.

  A one-sided shrug. “Not all there is to know about them, but a great deal, yes.”

  Bisset pauses before framing her next question. “You said that A-Os are physically altered by their gene, but is it possible that they’re altered mentally as well?”

  “Well, I’m sure they have to change the way they think in order to—”

  “No no, what I mean is, is it possible that the A-O gene can change a person’s mental state?”

  “Force them to become unstable?” He takes a deep breath. “It’s entirely possible. Scientists are still conducting studies on people with active A-O genes and uncovering new information every day. With the way genes affect a non-powered person, I don’t see why not.”

  “So you mean to say that some Alpha-Omegas have no control over the way they act, the things they do and say?”

  “It’s...possible.” Head nod. “I don’t see why not. There are several illnesses and disorders that leave a person unable to control their speech and actions. But I get the feeling you’re talking about more than occasional vocal outbursts and muscle twitches.”

  Bisset nods.

  “Well, we’re not abundantly clear on how an active A-O gene might impact someone with an existing motor or mental disorder. Just like having a disorder can be what activates the gene, it might be possible for an active gene to lead to a new type of motor or mental disorder that hasn’t been discovered yet.”

  Bisset chews on her bottom lip. “I see. Thank you.” She stands and calmly walks from the room.

  “Wait.”

  She looks back, a bit of…hopefulness on her face.

  The man stands. “Aren’t you going to say goodbye to your cousin?”

  Bisset looks from the man to the patient as she presses her lips together. “He’s asleep.”

  He looks back at the man in the bed. “So he is. Listen, I know we just met, but if you’re ever interested in getting a bite to—” He looks back and sees that she’s gone. His eyes scan the room. He frowns. “Of course.”

  The nearest Noir approaches him barefoot, kneeling down and cocking his head. His visage is twisted in a furious mask. He slams a fist into his twin’s face.

  The original Noir feels a phantom pain in the side of his cheek and flinches. He looks up at Furious Noir.

  “The fuck were you thinking, estupido? Injecting yourself with that faggot’s blood. Now you probably got AIDS or some shit.” His fingers work themselves into grinding fists.

  The original Noir cracks his lips, stops, and looks confused. A sudden pain bolts through the side of his face and he suddenly feels the full force of the punch. A string of thick blood mixed with spittle leaks from the side of his mouth.

  “Things don’t work the same as they do when you’re awake.” Another Noir snatches a washcloth from the sink, wets it, and walks over with it. He hands it to the original Noir. “We need to talk.” This Noir is calm. Calm Noir.

  “Oh, really?” Original Noir presses the cloth to his mouth. “Thought you wanted to beat the shit outta me.”

  Calm Noir looks down at the puddle of blood. “We do...Well, you do, but not for the reasons you think you do. Do you?”

  Little Noir steps forward before sitting down cross-legged in front of his hallucinating self. “We think that you’ve forgotten.”

  “Forgotten what, lil’ ese?”

  He grins from ear to ear. “Why you are the way you are. Why you kill the people you kill.”

  “I know why I do what I do.” Original Noir gets to his feet, touching a finger to his split lip. He walks around the kitchen island to the sink...and sees another version of himself hunched on the floor with his arms folded over knees pinched up to his chest. His eyes are wide and move with furtive rolls and flicks. “Who the hell—”

  “—are you?” Nervous Noir finishes. “You’re a man who doesn’t—” His eyes dance to the left, orbs trembling in their sockets “—who doesn’t believe in rehabilitation, doesn’t believe that some people can get better. That’s who you are.” He takes a quick gander at Original Noir before averting his eyes. He sniffs and bobs his foot.

  “You remember our Uncle Benito?” Little Noir now has a toy truck and rolls it back and forth on the floor. When next he opens his mouth, his voice is more mature, harsher with a bit of an edge. “You got your allowance today, didn’t you lil’ grillo? Mind letting your Uncle Nito hold a few dollars until he gets back on his feet? Need to buy some blanco feliz.”

  “His pet name for coke.” Original Noir shakes his head. “He was hacked up into lil’ pieces when his dealer caught him shaving too much off the top.”

  “Don’t forget your cousin, Beto.” Nervous Noir wipes at his nose with the back of his wrist. His voice shifts when he speaks again, eyes focused on the floor. “There’s just something so...pure, so clean about the way that girl’s skin feels. When I touch her, it’s like sliding my hands against hea
ven. And her hair...ah, Dios. I’d get a spinal tap every day just to have the scent of her hair in my nose until I die.”

  Original Noir looks at him with his lips parted as the memory unspools in his mind. “I didn’t know it at the time, but he was talking about the little girl who lived across from us on the street. They never did find her body after—” He snaps his teeth together.

  “Don’t forget about Mr. Jerome across the street.” Furious Noir’s thick lips lift in a vile smirk. Voice shift. “I did it and I’ll do it again. I’ll kill that man a thousand times over if I have to. You even so much as look at him again and I’ll dig a grave for you right next to him. You’re my wife, act like it.”

  “The infection you want to rub out as a man is the same one that surrounded you as a child.” Calm Noir puts his palms on the back of his head and watches his own expression. “That level of fucked-upness affected you. Badly. You never had a positive role model. Sure, they all wanted to get help, be rehabilitated, but sooner or later, they were back up to their chests in the tar as it sucked them down into that bottomless abyss.”

  Original Noir looks at him obliquely. “Never knew I was so articulate.”

  Calm Noir shrugs an eyebrow. “You’re not.”

  “Some infections only affect the people who are already marked.” Nervous Noir is jittering. “But others, others affect others, infect others. Bystanders, those who shouldn’t have to suffer because of someone else’s neurosis.” He steals a glance at Original Noir and instantly looks away when he sees himself staring back.

  “You make it sound like a single period in my childhood is what made me the person I am now.” He shakes his head. “Can’t stand that shit, people who aren’t half as traumatized as they think they are who blame a fucked-up adult life on their childhood instead of having the cajones to let that shit go and regain agency over their lives.” He looks at his doppelgangers. “This some kind of mental intervention? You all want me to shake my wicked ways?”