Furies- Thus Spoke

by O'Brian Gunn

  Noir darts his tongue out at the dried blood on his bottom lip.

  V scoffs, mixing it with the beginnings of laughter. “Exactly how stupid are you, lil’ Sanchez? Got me an’ mine runnin’ ‘round the damn Lowe’s parking lot in the middle o’ the damn night. Missin’ Mr. Robot ‘cause o’ yo ass.” He looks at Noir. “Whatchu runnin’ for in the first place? You know we was gonna catch you.”

  Noir looks down, balls the black handkerchief in his hands. He looks up. The handkerchief now has four holes in it from his claws. “Didn’t want anyone to see me kill you.”

  He blurs.

  The handkerchief flutters down.

  The air is smeared. Someone cries out, falls down dead.

  A flash of something in the cone of light that rushes the shirtless man. Claw marks on one guy’s back. Jagged red lines across another person’s stomach and eyes. The shirtless man begins to choke on his own blood when he finds he suddenly has a second mouth. He falls to the ground and watches as everyone else does the same. So much blood.

  V aims his gun right, swings it left, spins around behind him.

  He is surrounded by nothing.

  “Wayne was like my brother, an’ you put a bullet in his head!” His throat is ripped raw from screaming. “Blew his gahdamn brains out all on his bandana! I gave him that bandana!” He slaps his chest. “That was my fam! My brotha!”

  Slick hands on his chin and on the back of his head. “I can see the resemblance, you’re both wiggers.” The hands jerk violently.

  C R U N C H !

  V falls, gun clattering in a pool of blood next to his limp body.

  Noir looks down at the corpse and watches the last sheen of life go dim in the man’s brown eyes. “Doin’ myself a favor.” He takes a step away, stops, and glances back.

  He is surrounded by nothing.

  His eyes simmer golden and the world is sketched in strokes of heat and whorls of warmth. Nothing shaped like a human. He starts to walk away and nearly bumps into the woman in front of him. She grabs him by the back of the head and kisses him. Her lips are like cubes of lusciously-molded ice and frost. She thrusts her tongue into his mouth and begins to leach heat from his body. She wraps her arms around him as she pulls him close and robs him of warmth.

  Her eyes swell when Noir buries his talons in the side of her ribs. He jerks her away and punches her in the face, wiping frost from his lips. He scowls down at her, rubbing at his arms and trying his best to hide his shivering.

  She holds up a hand as she scuttles backward. “Please don’t hurt me. I’m only here to protect my family.”

  Another family. Another Alpha-Omega.

  It gives him pause. His eyes cloud over to neon blue and sweep over her body. Nothing but ice water in her veins. Nerve endings in blue clusters. Pure white cells ice-skating throughout her body. No evidence of a baby, but no evidence to refute the existence of one, either.

  He studies her face. His eyes flare red. Her heart thuds in her chest, thump-thumping from fear. Or from lying.

  “Shit.”

  He clomps away. Pause. He clomps back and kicks her solidly in the ribs with his boot. “’S for givin’ me chapped lips.”

  “Is this about what happened to the TV while I was gone?”

  Maggie shakes her head and hesitates before sharing her truth. “I’m worried that you don’t have much room for me in your new life anymore, Adam.”

  Her husband allows the words to resonate in his ears, in his head, soaking them in. He sinks into himself a bit, shoulders going slack. “I hate that I didn’t even think about that until just now.”

  She reaches over to grasp his hand. “Saving people and being a parole officer have a way of eating up a lot of time and energy.” She tries to reflect the humor of her words in her lips and eyes, but only partially succeeds.

  Adam brings her hand to his lips, kisses the back of it. “I didn’t mean to take you and your presence in my life for granted, Maggie, it’s just that there’s been so much that’s happened so fast. I’m just trying to make sense of it all.”

  “We both are. I just didn’t want to be the type of spouse who festers and stews in discontent, that’s not healthy.”

  “You don’t expect your spouse to stay exactly the same during the entire course of your marriage, but I most certainly didn’t count on this level of change when I first envisioned the rest of my life with you, and I’m sure you didn’t either.”

  Head shake.

  “What can I do to strengthen our bond? Besides spend more time with you?”

  Again she hesitates before sharing her truth. “I th—” Her truth is so heavy that it lodges itself in her throat. She swallows and tries to speak it again. “I think that it might be best that we separate for a while.”

  Her truth becomes a bomb that blows the bottom out of Adam’s stomach, explosion pounding in his ears and obliterating the part of his brain that controls movement. It takes several breaths before he starts to pull fragments of his shattered self back together. “What?”

  “I still love you, Adam, and I still want to be your wife, but...” A rapid-fire series of blinks. “The only way I can explain what I’m feeling without leaving room for misinterpretation is to say that it—it feels almost like you’re having an...an affair.” She raises a hand to stop his tide of protest. “Not in the way you’re probably thinking. You’re giving a lot of your time, your energy, and your attention to other people. More than me. I know it sounds like I’m just jealous, and in some ways I know that I am, but it’s something I’ve felt for a while and didn’t want to accept about you.”

  Her husband squeezes her hand, pulls it close to his chest. “Maggie, I repent. From the bottom of my heart and the depths of my spirit. I’m just trying to fulfill my divine purpose.”

  Maggie looks at her hand in his. “You don’t have to repent, Adam; I know you have nothing but the best intentions. I just...I...I’ve been feeling a bit like a prop to you, like an accessory. And that doesn’t sit well with me.”

  He moves closer to her, tightens his grip on her hand in an attempt to keep her from floating right out of his life. “Is this--Maggie, is this about us trying to have a child? I’ll go to another doctor. We can—”

  Tongue darts out to wet dry lips. “We can take more tests. I’ll think about adopting.”

  Maggie’s eyes slide shut for a moment and she rubs her hand over his. “Guess I need to just show you.” She focuses her eyes on the magazine on the coffee table in front of them. The object blurs, visually detaching from their reality, before a scrape of a white star flashes over its surface and drags the magazine into its gravitational center with a compact puff of air and a burst of brilliance that vanishes almost as soon as it erupts.

  Adam seizes, lips parting. “Maggie, your blessing has manifested!” Elation lays claim to his face, limbs, and hands and refuses to let go. “This is wonderful!”

  “No, it’s not, Adam.”

  His joy drains. “What do—”

  “What if I actually was pregnant and that—” Fingers jab at the space where the magazine used to be. “—happened to our child? What if I...what if I banished it?”

  “Maggie, you—” But Adam cannot bring himself to continue, cannot bring himself to face the very-real possibility that she might be right. “When did you discover this?” He concentrates on looking her in the eyes, not allowing his gaze or mind to wander down the corridors of probability that have replaced the hallway behind her.

  “While you were in Thornebriar. I was in the bedroom listening to the TV while I was brushing my hair. That political commentator Shane Chao came on spouting something about illegal immigration. I stepped out to turn it off, and as soon as I did, the TV vanished.”

  Her husband looks at the spot on the entertainment system where the TV used to be. “Now I understand why you didn’t want to tell me when I first asked.”

  She nods. “It happened again with a pen and a pair of my old shoes. It takes a lot
of concentration, and it seems that I can control it, but I don’t want to risk any accidents.”

  “If you feel this is why we need to separate—”

  “This just adds to it. There’s an organization call FAODAS that helps the blessed control their gifts. Their nearest field office is in Denver. I figure I can spend some time there understanding how my abilities work and you can stay here and focus on finding the balance between being the Sovereign of God, a husband, a parole officer, and all the other magnificent things you are.”

  Adam doesn’t yet seem to notice the tears sliding down his face. “Now I know how you felt when you first learned of my divine gift.” He sniffs. “I wish—”

  She kisses him. “This is all happening according to God’s perfect will. We can’t see it now, but I know that we’ll look back on this very moment together in the future and see that it shouldn’t have gone any other way.”

  “I don’t want you to go.” The words are whispered and restrained. The emotion behind them blares boistruous. He rests his head on her shoulder.

  “We both have things about ourselves that we need to work out separately.”

  He lifts his head, looks her in the eye. “This is a marriage that we’re in together. Can’t we come up with a solution together? Maybe we can ask Bishop Martin if he can help.”

  She smooths a hand down his face. “I don’t think Bishop Martin or anyone else at the church has the training or experience necessary to deal with something like this.”

  Adam drops to his knees, clasps his wife’s hand to his chest again. “I’ll stop being Sovereign for a while, as long as it takes. I’ll put the entirety of my focus on you, on us. The other Furies can protect the city by themselves. Bisset alone can probably do the job herself once she gets The Dragoness under control, which I know she can do.”

  Maggie rolls her lips over and under her teeth. “I’ve seen what happens when one of the blessed’s abilities rage out of control. With the way mine seem to work, I don’t want to risk hurting someone, I don’t want to risk hurting you, because I didn’t take complete responsibility for the power God has given me and learn to use it the way it was intended...whatever that way is.”

  “I always loved you for your stubbornness, but now...” Adam looks down at the carpet. “Now I can’t help but wish that I had fallen for a weaker-willed woman.”

  Leo is showered in celebration and adoration.

  Champagne bubbles to the brim of plastic flutes, music thumps from boom box speakers, and confetti litters the floor.

  Leo smiles as he brings his flute to his lips. Hands clap his shoulders, praises fill his ears, and smiles assault his eyes.

  “Thank you, Leo. I feel a lot better knowing there are people like you out there to keep us all safe.

  “Are you really going to keep working here after what happened in Thornebriar? Seems like being a superhero would be a full-time job.”

  He responds. “It’s the same as one of us saving someone from a burning building.”

  “Now, Leo, when you say one of us, do you mean Alpha-Omegas or humans? I think the only other person here who may have a special ability is Albert. No regular human can look that well put together after coming to work hungover nearly every day.”

  A chorus of laughter.

  Leo joins in.

  Two hours later he says his goodbyes, accepts handshakes and gratitude, and heads for the door, lifting a hand to Addie as he passes her office.

  “See you tomorrow, Leo. And remember, saving the city is no excuse for being late.” She smiles.

  He sighs and heads for the door. “Take it easy, Simon.” He waves at the janitor.

  “Right back atcha, tiger.”

  As soon as the door shuts behind him, Leo presses his back against the brick wall, slumps down on the ground, and smashes the heels of his hand to his forehead. The mask shatters. “Dammit, Adam.”

  Minutes later he has regained a semblance of his composure. He walks to the bus stop with his earbuds in place, the sounds of Electric’s “Levitation” thumping into his cranium. He glances over his shoulder and sees that he is being followed by four men and a woman.

  Leo stops and turns. “Can I help you, folks?” He removes one of his earbuds.

  The bearded man in front slides his hands in the pockets of his jeans, hooking his thumbs on the outside. Leo notices the white cross inside a red circle with a drop of blood in the center permanently etched on the man’s forearm. “You’re one of those guys who helped saved the Johnsons.” His tongue flicks out over thin lips.

  Leo removes his other earbud. “Yeah.”

  The man holds out a hand with a cross inked on the back. “I wanna shake the hand of the man who saved members of the perfect race.”

  Leo examines the extended fingers, the tattoos, the genuine smile on the man’s face.

  A shorter man behind him with a shaved head and goatee juts his sharp nose closer to Leo’s face. “Hold up a second here, Edward.” He strokes at the air just over Leo’s skin, takes a careful look at his hair. “You know, without the glare of the cameras, our man here looks a little...” He pulls his head back. “A little mulatto.” He rubs at his scalp, cracking his knuckles. “Don’t think this boy’s a pureblood.”

  Edward grits his teeth and lifts his chin. “Was hoping my instincts were wrong this time.” He shifts his stance, heavy-soled boots scraping across pavement. “Damn shame, the Knights could use someone like you.”

  Leo has found someone who may hate him more than he used to hate himself. Used to...used to...use—

  “Niggers should stay in their place, and their place isn’t on television.” A fist clenched tight with racial tension careens for his face.

  Leo falls to the concrete. Scuffed boots and dingy shoes fly toward his face, body, back, legs, head, neck. He folds himself into himself. Live. His skin burns silver-blue...and he stops manifesting the force field before it is formed. Die. He lets them beat him, lets them hate him, lets them spit on him, lets them purify him.

  He feels the familiar bile of self-hatred swelling in his clenched throat, sour and acidic. He welcomes the bitter taste, the raw pain, the physical agony. He swallows all of it whole and prays he chokes on it.

  The world crystallizes.

  Mouths racked with wrath. “Stupid black motherfucker!”

  The foot that knocks the air from his lung strikes slowly, surely.

  Phlegm cuts through the air before hitting him on the cheek, mixing with blood. “Can’t hide rancid black blood under pure white skin.”

  He reaches for the agony, the names, the blood. His eyes refuse to blink, to swivel, to acknowledge.

  Something is ringing.

  He regains control of his eyes and looks over at his flashing phone on the concrete. FRANCIE. The ringtone, Roberta Flack’s “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face,” overshadows all sound.

  He rolls his eyeballs in swollen sockets and sees Francie when one of his assailants shifts to the right for a better angle at his head. Her smile obliterates the past and her reaching hand rewrites the future. Disgust, hatred, betrayal, anger, and sorrow are flash-burned out of him.

  The world reels away just as his hand starts to go numb.

  He somehow manages to channel the tic into the the force field that explodes from every inch of his battered flesh. His attackers thrash at the air as they are violently thrown back. One is slammed into the empty street.

  Leo shoves up from the concrete and runs. All the way home. Without stopping. He chases Francie’s image down avenues, up streets, and across crosswalks.

  Floating Francie collides into solid Francie as he throws open the door to their apartment. He wraps her up in her arms, mindless of the blood on his face, and kisses her, ignoring the burning sting from the cut on his swollen lip. He goes down to his knees and has only one question:

  “Will you marry me?”

  Bisset kneels down and peers into the pool of stagnant water. The wind whips over the roofto
p and sets the water to a rippling refrain.

  Seraph steps into the reflection and looks over Bisset’s shoulder. She turns her head to see if she can see what Bisset does not see. “She’s gone, Bisset.”

  Bisset’s eyes click to her other self. “She’s only sleeping. You know because I know, right?”

  Seraph lifts her head to the sun.

  “Say it.”

  Seraph keeps her eyes on the horizon.

  “Say it, Seraph.”

  Seraph looks down at her pleading self, says nothing.

  “Say it so I don’t have to.”

  Seraph is suddenly on the other side of the pool kneeling across from a piece of herself. “If I say it, you will be saying it, Bisset. You know what The Dragoness did was an atrocity, and yet you...we enjoyed every moment of it.”

  Bisset rests an elbow on her knee, rubs at her mouth with her first two fingers. “It’s not right that I…that I enjoyed killing the woman who fired that missile at me.”

  “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t okay for you to feel that way. You did it to save the lives of others.”

  Bisset lifts her eyes from the water, sees nothing, drops her eyes, and sees Seraph. “So if I had been on Damon’s side it would have been okay?”

  The angel sighs and her breath shifts the brown water to a glistening golden liquid that soon clouds back over to murk.

  “Is it possible that I was emotionally manipulated by the person who’s been attempting to tamper with our mind...minds?”

  Seraph cuts a hand through the air. “No. Either I or The Dragoness would have sensed it, cast them out.”

  “Do you or The Dragoness have any idea of who this person is? Why they’re watching us?”

  “I don’t know, but I wish I did.”