Furies- Thus Spoke

by O'Brian Gunn

  “Are you sure we didn’t just construct all this in our collective subconscious or something? Maybe—maybe I’ve got a fourth entity stuffed in the corners of my head that none of us knows about. Maybe I freed it when I allowed The Dragoness to completely take over my body the first time.” Bisset blinks...and blanks out.

  Seraph looks up from the water and sees The Dragoness.

  Golden-green eyes catch a sunbeam. “Did you pull me from my slumber?”

  Warm brown eyes with flecks of ivory regard her. “Yes. We’re between two beats of our hostess’ heart, slipped between the next bat of her eye and her next heavy inhale.”

  She slinks forward and slides her hand over Bisset’s head, petting her almost. “Why?”

  “Because you have exercised too much influence over her. I’m...We’re losing her.”

  “I’m helping her realize who she is, and she’s fighting it. It isn’t my fault she doesn’t want to heal as much as she hurts, that she wants to administer suffering more than joy.”

  Seraph gestures at a frozen Bisset. “Don’t you see what this is putting her through?”

  “Don’t you dare float there and put all the blame on me. She needs balance. You should take more time explaining to her why she should heal and less time telling her why she should reject me. Neither of you have yet to fully grasp that we are the three-in-one. No one is right, and no one is wrong. We simply are.”

  “Your way would fracture her mind; helping during the day and killing at night.”

  The Dragoness cocks her head to the side and narrows her eyes. “Do you realize what we—no, what I did? I saved the Johnsons. The others might have helped get in the way, but it was me who found out where they were, me who got us through the guards, me who saved them, and it was me who razed Thornebriar to the ground.”

  “And you who wanted to let the man responsible for it all escape. You may have done the heavy lifting, but at the emotional and psychological and possibly the spiritual expense of Bisset. We need her, and we need for her to be stable.”

  “Detective West arrested Damon in the end. I would’ve prevented that, but Bisset wouldn’t allow it. We have you to thank for that, but we both got our way.” She paused. “So it’s all about control for you now?” A smirk slips languidly across her visage.

  “No. Bisset isn’t ready for the blood that’s already on her hands. You’ve set us ten paces back.”

  “A child cannot stay a child forever, no matter how badly the parents wish that it could be so. Bisset’s already accepted her power, she just hasn’t adjusted to the price it demands. But I’ll make sure she’s ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “For herself.” She slides her fingers through Bisset’s curls, turns, and vanishes mid-spin.

  Bisset opens her eyes...

  ...and finds herself alone on the rooftop with unanswered questions heavy on a mind she hopes is still her own.

  Family.

  Dishes are passed. Laughter is shared. Stories are told. Life goes on.

  All without Giorgio.

  He watches his mother, father, and sister as they sit around the table with glasses of wine, full plates, and flushed faces. Every minute or so one of them will glance at the chair where he used to sit. A frown hovers at the edge of their lips before flitting away into a smile.

  His mother reaches over and pats her husband on the wrist. He looks over at her with strands of silver shining in his hair and smiles. Giorgio has his father’s eyes. His father leans over to kiss his wife lightly on the lips, running his hand through brown curls that remind him of the dead son who is watching them unawares through the dining room window. His father turns to his daughter and his lips move. Giorgio’s older sister shakes her head and reaches for her glass of wine, pausing for a sip before she answers.

  Giorgio touches a cold hand to the glass and refocuses his eyes and sees his reflection. He steps back. “Why am I always talking to you? You never answer.”

  The man in the glass stares back.

  “What does all of this mean?” His eyes shift and the Quinteros come back into focus. “Being human, being an A-O, being dead or alive, having one power or another. It’s just something that’s already in you and made manifest by an errant gene. Either that, or it’s randomly dispensed by whatever force grinds the wheels of life together.”

  Eyes shift to himself. His palm presses against the glass and exudes no heat

  “I chose this life, it didn’t choose me, correct? Tell me it’s not all just a book that’s already written, only I can’t read the words.”

  He focuses on his family.

  “They don’t seem to even really miss me.” His fingers curl, nails rubbing at the glass. “I wonder if killing all of them would make me feel something.” He looks at his hand, searching for the viruses saturating his useless veins and arteries. He wonders which will kill the fastest, which will kill the slowest, which is the most painful, which—

  His mother has her hand pressed to his on the other side of the glass. Her mouth gapes, trying to find words that will not twine themselves around her tongue. She wrenches open the door and raises her trembling hand to Giorgio’s smooth, very-much-alive face. Her son reaches for her cheek, fingers still and filled with poison. He can feel the heat from her face. She can feel the tingling of unleashed death at his fingertips. He drops his hand and kisses her on the cheek.

  Gone.

  Her son is gone.

  Irina Quintero collapses down to her knees. She doesn’t feel her husband shaking her shoulders, she does not hear her daughter’s panicked voice. All she sees are chartreuse eyes with nothing inside them.

  “I love you, dad.”

  Miguel Johnson puts the flowers in his prosthetic hand on the grave, kissing the fingers of his other realistic limb and pressing them to his father’s marble tombstone. He steps back and Annabelle steps forward, smiling around her tears.

  “Hey, dad. Hope you’re having a blast up there. Send grandma and grandpa our love.” She wipes at her eyes, sniffs. “Sorry you never got to see the Statue of Liberty like you wanted.” A choked laugh. “But I guess you can see it from where you are now, huh?”

  Anita wraps her arms around her children. “Hi there, handsome. When are you going to stop haunting us? Every time the light’s left on in the bathroom I still think it’s you. I know that—that you didn’t want it to end like this.” Deep breath. “Or maybe you did, Charles. You always did fancy yourself as one of those warriors your grandmother told you stories about. Fighting insurmountable odds, dying in glory.” She nods her head. “I wish I’d been able to kiss you one last time, look into your eyes and tell you that I love you.” She kneels down and kisses his grave. “But you know, Charles, don’t you? You always knew what I was going to say before I said it.” Another kiss. “But I still want to say it. I love you Charles Johnson, rest well.” She rises to her feet. “Come on you two, time we headed back and started supper.”

  “Whose turn is it to cook?” Miguel nestles his face in his mother’s arm.

  “Mine.” Annabelle holds her mother’s hand.

  “Guess we should stop by the store for Pepto-Bismol.”

  Anita’s laughter echoes across the graveyard.

  Adam stares out the window of the abandoned car dealership, surveying Dominion City submerged beneath a film of light. He presses his hand against the glass. “Then what should I have done?” He turns around.

  “You coulda told us you were plannin’ on makin’ us into a legion of superheroes.” Noir taps ash from his cigarette.

  “This city needs us.”

  “No, this city needs you, needs Sovereign. No one else here asked you to unleash The Furies on the world.” Leo sits with his back against the wall, knees up. His brow is in a sudden knit. “Where did that name come from, anyway?”

  The other man shrugs. “I don’t know, it just came to me.” He looks out the window and up at the Stratus Building stabbing up from the center of down
town.

  “God whisper that in your ear, too?”

  “Don’t mock him, Noir.” Bisset shakes her head at him.

  “Do you expect us to be a beacon of hope to these people, Adam?” Giorgio’s eyes glow from where he stands in the murk. The shadows sloth off him as he glides forward, wingtips crunching through bits of debris.

  “Yes, Giorgio. I don’t mean to make you all feel like—like props, like accessories.” He extends a hand to the window. “But they’re scared and confused. Is there something wrong with offering them a bit of comfort, security?”

  “There is when most of the providers of that comfort and security don’t give a damn about the lives of those they’re supposed to be comforting and securing.” Giorgio stands a few feet away. “Dear Damon did nearly the same thing, only he had sense enough to know that what he was doing was an aberration.”

  Adam glares, eyes flickering platinum. “The two of us aren’t anywhere near comparison.”

  “You’re both men, you’re both delusional, you both fancy yourselves as leaders. Need I go on?”

  “Not gonna stand here and listen to this. Got a loaded bowl waitin’ for me back home.” Noir starts for the shattered exit.

  No one stops him.

  “You’re not going after him?” Leo presses fingertips to his black eye, wincing.

  “I’m not going to force him to do something he doesn’t want to.”

  “And what about us? Are you going to stuff some rousing rah-rah speech into our ears?” Giorgio starts to lean his shoulder against the wall, notices the thick film of dust. He wrinkles his nose and straightens his stance.

  “If you’ll listen.”

  No one moves.

  “I’m not going to waste your time, and I’m not going to insult you. I could tell you it’s your responsibility to protect people, but it’s not. I could tell you you should think about your friends and family getting hurt because of an A-O incident, but the truth is that you can’t protect everyone from everything.”

  He turns to Leo.

  “What I can tell you, Leo, is that even though you’re the last person I should ask to do this, you’re the first person I want at my side. I see great compassion inside of you stifled under all of your sadness and depression. You’re going through enough as it is in your life right now, but you’re stronger than you realize. And I think you know it, too.”

  Bisset.

  “Bisset, I’ve already asked too much of you, more than anyone has a right to. The Dragoness and Seraph tell you you’re not insane, that you’re simply realizing who you are. The Dragoness has already shown us how powerful she is, how powerful you are. I can see Seraph’s light inside of you, but I can also see The Dragoness’s savage nature in your eyes. I think with more time you can learn to control both of these entities instead of having them control you. It will be you whispering in their ears. You have the strength, take it back.”

  The undead man.

  “I can already tell you and I are going to butt heads if you decide to stay. But I’m going to need you to keep me honest, to second-guess me, even argue with me. I don’t know what happened with you and Damon back in Thornebriar, and I’m not going to ask. But I am going to ask that you give me a chance to show you what I’m trying to accomplish here. It’s not like your time on this earth is limited.” He grins a bit.

  Giorgio remains deadpan.

  “We shouldn’t be afraid of who we are, of who we’re becoming.” Adam tightens his hand into a fist. “We should grab hold of our power, our blessing, and use it. We shall fear no evil.” His fist pulses platinum. “Let no man put asunder what the Most High has wrought.” He suddenly jumps up and down with a little whoop, his eyes and hands lifting to Heaven. “Yes, Lord I hear you, I hear you. I feel your spirit right here, right now, and I welcome it.”

  Adam opens his arms and his unbridled joy brightens his face.

  “So what’s the verdict?”

  Later finds Adam and Bisset at the abandoned church.

  “So when do The Furies have their first photo shoot?” She turns to laugh as she flicks on the light switch.

  “Very funny. I’m just glad you’re all on board.”

  “Except for Noir.” She steps over a tipped over pew. “Not that we need him anyway.”

  “We’ll need all the help that we can get.”

  She scoffs. “Maybe if we offer to pay him he’ll join. Are we here for another session?” Bisset looks over her shoulder at him. “Adam. Adam?”

  He shakes himself back to the present. “What? Oh, sorry. There’s something I want to show you. It’s just behind the door there.”

  Her curls swirl around her head as she glances at the closed door behind the pulpit. She looks back at him with suspicion wreathing her features.

  “Go on.”

  He follows her down the aisle.

  She opens the door.

  He flicks on the light.

  The cell gleams in the emptiness of the room.

  “What is—Adam, what is this?”

  “It’s a containment cell for The Dragoness. In case she ever gets loose again.”

  Bisset chews on the inside of her cheek. “I don’t know if she can be contained.”

  “It’s made of solid titanium. I asked Detective West if it was alright.” He studies the cell. “I blessed it myself.”

  Her eyes become hooded. “The Dragoness isn’t a demon, she can’t be held back with a prayer and a cross.”

  “I didn’t bless it for her.”

  “I—” She snaps her mouth shut over her next sentence. She parts her lips and tries again. “Thank you, Adam. Really.”

  He smiles and nods, a hint of a blush coloring his cheeks. “You’re welcome. I’ll let you, uh, inspect it. I’ll be waiting outside.” He leaves her, closing the door behind him.

  Bisset looks back at the cell and sees The Dragoness inside leaning against the bars. “Did you miss me?” She smirks and runs her fingers over the bars.

  “Where have you been?”

  She pushes away from the titanium rods, silk emerald pants swishing as she slinks around the perimeter of the cell. “Thought you would appreciate a few nights in your own headspace.”

  “I spent the entire time wondering when you were going to rip your way out of my body.”

  Her other half stops, swivels on golden heels, and glares at her hostess. “You make it sound as if you didn’t give me permission to take control of our body, to save the Johnsons and burn down that damned community.”

  “I did, but—”

  “No, Bisset, don’t mince words. I helped you.”

  “You—”

  “I. Helped. You.”

  “No, what you did was—”

  “I! HELPED! YOU!”

  Her words are punctuated by furious drafts of verdant flames, golden-green eyes burning bright.

  Bisset stumbles back. She brings her hands to her mouth as the taste of ashes and stale heat dabs at the back of her tongue. She drops her hand, narrows her eyes, and advances quickly on the cell.

  The Dragoness watches her and smiles. “You can’t touch me, I’m—” Her head snaps back as Bisset’s fist flashes through the bars and hammers her in the nose.

  The Dragoness blinks, hands hovering just over her face as red liquid drips from her nostrils. She sniffs, runs a hand across her bloody upper lip, looks at the fluid...and licks it. “How did we do that?”

  She watches as a familiar smirk graces Bisset’s mouth. “You know because I know.”

  Somewhere, Roger Miller sings “Little Green Apples”

  Noir lets go of the homeless man’s stolen rags and watches as his unconscious body slumps down the brick wall spattered with blood, piss, semen, spit, and a multitude of other fluids.

  He lifts the blood-filled syringe to the flickering light cast by the flames in the battered barrel. He rolls up a sleeve, ties off a strip of cloth at his elbow, and slaps at his veins until one pops fat and full. He inserts the
needle into the stream of blood, thumb pressed against the plunger.

  He looks at the unconscious man.

  The woman with frost on her lips flashes on the video screen of his mind.

  “Shit.”

  He takes the needle from his vein and flings it into the flames before walking out the gaping mouth of the alley.

  Bisset wakes to sunlight, warmth, and Leo standing on the other side of the blessed bars with a plastic bag in one hand and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in the other. “Breakfast.”

  “Thank you.” She reaches for the coffee and the small sack of cream and sugar.

  He examines the cell with the eye that hasn’t swollen shut as she opens and pours and stirs. “Wonderful accommodations you have here.”

  “Makes the Hilton look like a roach-infested dump just off the interstate.”

  He sits down on a pew. “I was sitting in bed last night thinking about all that’s happened since I first looked under that microscope and saw my A-O gene. I thought about how far I’ve come and how far I’ve got to go.” He glances up at her. “And I realized something about the two of us.

  “We both have something inside us we wish wasn’t there, that we desperately, so damned desperately, want to change.” He lifts a shoulder and scratches at his head, looking up at the shattered stained glass window. “But we can’t change who we are, Bisset. All we can do is hope we learn how to make the pieces fit.”

  She finishes her sip, lowers her cup. “I’ve come a long way from sitting in a therapist’s chair telling her about the angel and the demon in my head.”

  “How do you feel about yourself now?”

  She looks at the steam unfurling from her coffee. “I’ve done a lot of learning, about who and what I am. About what I’m not.” Her eyebrow quirks upward. “About what I might be.” She looks at him. “Just like I’m both angel and demon, I’m both excited and afraid about what’s to come.” She shrugs. “Balance.”

  She blinks a few times and notices it in the glory of the morning light. The lambent glow rooted deep in Leo underneath the bruises and cuts has cleansed him of most of the rancid misery and anguish her angel eyes once watched consume and twist his core, his essence. She’s never seen anyone smile so wide or shine so brightly. “Leo, you are absolutely radiating. Surely this wasn’t brought on by Thornebriar.”