Silence

by Tyler Vance

  A gangster leaned against a clunky filing cabinet. Sheikoh could tell the thin, pale man was afraid, even in the dark. He could almost taste it in the air.

  There was a faint tremor in the hand holding a pistol. The gangster swung around, leveling it right at his face. Sheikoh froze. He was going to die. His eyes stung.

  He was going to die. He was really going to die. Thirteen years, all the sweat and blood he’d paid, all of his struggles and triumphs, all of it wiped out in a single second-

  A rat skittered out of the darkness.

  Sheikoh held his breath.

  The gangster let his pistol fall to his side.

  Still frozen, Sheikoh watched the gangster shake his head, flash a smile of relief. Slowly, carefully, Sheikoh let his pent up breath sigh between his lips. The man was obviously off his guard. Sheikoh crept forward, cradling his silent blade. His body was as cold and as sharp as blacksteel. His movements were lithe, yet chained to their task. He was eight feet away.

  Five feet away…

  Four and a half feet…

  Four…

  The man’s eyes focused on him. Sheikoh’s heart stuttered. He reached out and grabbed the dude’s leather coat, jerking the man off-balance, and the man dropped his weapon. It clattered noisily against the hard, stone ground

  The gangster was unarmed and staring up at Sheikoh. His eyes were wide and fearful. Pleading. Sheikoh hesitated.

  This dude wasn’t fighting back.

  What was he supposed to do? Kill him in cold blood-?

  A scream tore through the gloom.

  Sheikoh’s hand blurred, slicing through the man’s throat. Terror cut off with a weak gurgle. The gangster fell back through the echo of his own scream. A dead body dropped onto the stone floor with a dull thud!

  Sheikoh’s chest fell along with, weighed down by the corpse.

  He knew he’d done the world a favor, knew the dude at his feet would’ve watched him die without a second thought. Nonetheless he couldn’t banish the cold pit in his heart.

  He’d lived the terror behind that last expression. Too many times.

  Footsteps pounded his way, jolting Sheikoh back to reality. He shook the hair from his eyes and tried to ignore his heart beating in his ears. His back was to a wall, and he was boxed in without cover of any kind. If anything went wrong, he was done for. This had to be the dumbest idea he’d ever come up with.

  His eyes dropped, as though despairing, and pierced the darkness for any hints of motion. As the group of men gasped into view, Sheikoh dropped his electroblade, raising his hands in surrender. The weapon clattered against the floor.

  “Got me cornered fair and square!” Sheikoh called. “You beat me, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

  Indigo pointed Sheikoh’s own pistol at his chest. The ganglord’s eyes glittered with malice.

  “I’m unarmed!” Sheikoh went on hurriedly. “And I’m truly, honestly considering that one proposition you put to me before. You know, about joining Legacy? Not a bad idea at all now that I’ve had some time to wrap my little head around it. What do you say, Indi?” Sheikoh smiled winningly. “Ten speed?”

  Indigo’s face arranged itself into a snarl. He raised the plasma pistol, aiming it at Sheikoh’s face.

  “You see, Silence,” Indigo told him, his face dark with vengeance. “I can’t take you on now. Those men you killed had families, you know. You ask me, you owe them closure.”

  Sheikoh smiled sadly, unaffected by Indigo’s words. His hands were still raised as though he didn’t believe the ganglord was really about to shoot him. A few straggling gangsters joined the group behind Indigo.

  “It is sad, isn’t it? Those poor families. It must be really hard to tell them that a gangster got shot, huh?” said Sheikoh in a high clear voice. His eyes sparkled, and he couldn’t resist adding;

  “Still… I would hate to have to be the one to drop that on them.”

  Before the gangsters realized what had happened, Sheikoh’s wrist flicked a shotgun from behind one of his raised arms. A glaring, red jet of plasma hissed straight through a link of the rusted chain overhead, and the crate that it’d been holding came rushing downwards. Indigo was the only one to react. He leaped to the side firing bursts at Sheikoh. Sheikoh threw himself in the opposite direction, skidding against a wall, as the rotten crate smashed into the ground with a sickening crunch.

  A wave of splinters exploded outwards, pelting Sheikoh’s skin painlessly as he bounded through the rubble and limp bodies, agile as a breath of wind. Somehow, his plan had worked. His hands throbbed; he’d scratched his palms raw when he’d thrown himself against the wall, but better bleeding hands then a smoldering plasma hole in his face. He abandoned the abandoned Toshiyama Factory and then sprinted down two blocks of winding grey streets, beneath a full moon. Buoyed by adrenaline and the purpose, Sheikoh felt invincible. He was on top of the world.

  He slowed to a measured trot and took stock of things.

  “Well,” he told himself lightly, “Probably shouldn’t head back home looking half dead. Don’t want to scare Dorothi.”

  A giggle escaped his lips and seconds later he found himself clutching his sides and laughing hysterically. He let himself fall back against a concrete wall and slide to the ground coughing and sputtering in amusement as the sharp pain all over made its way through the haze of adrenaline. A few moments later, Sheikoh got up, brushed himself off and made his way over to his favorite thinking spot; a walled garden that everyone in Interium seemed to ignore.

  He shivered at the knowledge what he’d just survived. Goosebumps tingled up his neck, carrying with them a sense of destiny. Sheikoh couldn’t believe he’d evaded death again. He believed that he had made his peace with dying, what he imagined as the final retirement. A back way world free from the ravages of hatred and pain. Some nights, when his body ached with exhaustion, he’d lie in bed with the secret wish he didn’t have to wake up the next morning. He knew Dorothi needed him, and he’d do anything for that sweet little girl. She was his only family left in all the world.

  Nevertheless, every moment of unrelenting action wore him down a little more, and every encounter with danger seemed more surreal. He could see Death looking at him with its inevitable, welcoming smile. He’d quickly learned to smile back. He’d learned to love what he hated, distrust even himself, and view murder as a gift rather than a crime. Sheikoh had accepted the unacceptable and he looked back at the rest of the world through the veil of dark enlightenment.

  And, paradoxically, it made living worth so much more. The stark contrast of two infinite entities weaved together was both heartrendingly beautiful, as well as utterly alienating. Each of his breaths was the first gasping cry of a newborn. He learned to welcome the cold trickle of fear; inherent in dread’s discomfort was the promise of relief. And without fear, there was no such thing as trust, just like without hate, love could never come to be. Shadows were the medium that added clarity and depth to formless, white light.

  Sheikoh thought through it all as he pushed open the wooden door to his serene, little paradise. He sat against the plank wall and stared at the roses and vermilions blooming around his boots. A sparrowhawk flitted on the branches of a tree by the light of the full moon. His eyes traced the green ivy creeping towards the black sky open above with sudden approval. Sheikoh stared up at the stars for a moment and then closed his eyes and lifted his face to the night’s cool air. He slowly breathed it in.

  His head swirled around in a maelstrom of numb shock. He didn’t understand how he’d survived every single impossible moment of his short life, yet it happened so consistently he no longer questioned it. He felt dark and terrible and, above all, powerful. He had proven himself to all of Interium. As he gazed up at the midnight sky, he shuddered. Violence pulsated at the edge of everything he knew about himself. Sheikoh reveled in the simple action of breathing the air as a killer rather than a child.

  He knew his mask went far deeper than the skin of hi
s face. Sheikoh and Silence were one and the same. Light can’t exist without shadow. There was no use lying to himself about who he was anymore. His blood was alive and he was Silence. He finally accepted it.

  He was the shadow under every bed, the ominous, protracted pause of a phone call before rending disconnection, the executioner of all the words ever choked off in fear. He was a part of the sporadic criminal elite now. He resolved to try and learn the pleasure of bloodlust. He’d already seen it in so many other pairs of eyes, what was stopping him? It would make his life a lot easier if he enjoyed spilling blood. He was good at it. Maybe someday he’d find that missing piece, the one that’d make it all worth the pain. He could be free, but only as a killer. He could finally walk through the streets unchained, living the life of lies and blood. As Silence he could have anything he’d ever wanted.

  “Your name is Sheikoh…” whispered his mind, cutting off his thoughts.

  A vein of shock pierced his chest.

  That voice…

  Emili?

  His body shook despite the summer’s warmth. It’d been so long since he’d heard her voice. It was both familiar and as impossibly distant as the gulf between oceans, swirling with frustrated waves.

  Thoughts of dark potential and that wild, skewed happiness dissolved. Sheikoh’s fading smile twisted into an introspective frown. His forehead crinkled thoughtfully. He felt as though he’d somehow been preserved within time. Like he’d fallen asleep for a thousand years and then woken up to the ruins of everything he’d ever known.

  “Emili…” Sheikoh whispered softly. “I’m not sure I can remember who I am anymore…”

  Lances of bittersweet memory scored his chest, and he cried out. He wasn’t ready for the reminders of trust and hope. He’d spent so long denying their touch. So many nights. Scabs came open in places that felt long-dead.

  Sheikoh had never felt as terrified he did at this moment.

  He wanted scream, but his throat wouldn’t cooperate. He retreated back into himself, erecting hasty barriers between himself and raw feeling. Memories and loss kept hammering at him, but he refused their terms of surrender. Their onslaught grew weaker and weaker. And then finally, it faded away.

  Numb, Sheikoh gazed up at the twinkling stars. Memory of the falling crate crunched through his thoughts. The gangsters’ bodies danced through his head. He blinked up at the night sky.

  “Glad that’s over… that’s a great weight off the chest.” Sheikoh whispered half-heartedly. After a minute he started giggling softly. He held it in his mouth, but his lips kept twitching up. It was wrong to laugh after all the people he’d killed. He knew that much.

  But the more he tried to dam the feelings the more that hysterical laughter began building up in his chest. More and more until Sheikoh fell on his knees and let it explode out of him like vomit. Only it wasn’t laughter like he thought, but gasping, wracking sobs. Tears streamed pearl streaks down his face as he lay in the grass shivering violently. Sheikoh didn’t blame the teardrops for leaving him. He’d wanted out of himself since the moment he’d known that Emili was dying her slow, intentional death, and there was nothing he could do to save her.

  Part 1: The Knife’s Edge of Danger

  Chapter 1 - West Sider Story

  (3 years later)

  “Sheikoh!” Dorothi complained, squirming beneath the older boy. “Your face is uncomfortable!”

  Sheikoh grunted and picked up his head. He waited just long enough for her to uncross her legs and spread them out over the floor. Then he let his head fall back onto Dorothi’s soft, worn jeans.

  Sheikoh was operating on about six hours of sleep. Last night, Friday night, he'd told himself to get himself home, just like he did every other Friday night. And just like every other Friday night, he hadn’t listened to himself. The streets always seemed to carry him away.

  “You know, it’d be more comfortable if we turned the couch back right-side up,” Dorothi suggested conversationally.

  Just five more minutes…

  Sheikoh clenched his eyes. Dorothi didn’t take the hint.

  “It’s just, none of my friends in school sit on their couches like this,” Dorothi went on.

  “Yeah...” Sheikoh muttered tiredly. “Isn’t it awesome?”

  He had turned the couch upside-down to mess with a shifty-eyed client... almost half a year ago now... He had never gotten around to turning it back upright.

  “Well, the other day that one girl Jeanne…” Dorothi plunged into a long story about how Jeanne won some dance combination, and then, the very next day, shown up to class as Little Miss Popular and made some other girl cry over another eleven-year-old boy and on and on and on.

  Sheikoh ignored her. He made a point not to keep up with what was happening at Dorothi’s “school”, which roughly translated to a glorified daycare center. Dorothi was so far beyond the required curriculum, she could’ve taught her teachers more than they taught her. Their studies were carefully tilted at factory knowledge and Skyrei propaganda; though the west half of Interium was encircled in the wall, the honest citizens still had to work. Sheikoh knew Dorothi knew he wasn’t listening, but he also knew she knew he knew that he got the message.

  Time to wake up.

  Sheikoh groaned again and wormed around grumpily. Finally, he picked himself up, stretching and yawning. He let his bleary vision rest on their battered plasma screen TV, and spread his lanky legs out besides Dorothi’s, who immediately stopped rambling and turned her attention to her cartoon. It was going to be a bit before Sheikoh could talk.

  Once his eyes had focused, Sheikoh recognized the bright cartoons dancing across the screen, a Klyde the Cat re-run. Sheikoh reached for the remote, but Dorothi grasped his hand the way most eleven-year-old girls probably did with their brothers. It wasn’t exactly what he’d been after, but Sheikoh just decided to go with it. He didn’t want to hurt Dorothi’s feelings or whatever.

  For a while, he zoned out, absentmindedly playing with hand like it was a bit of clay he’d forgotten he had been carrying. Dorothi ignored him, long used to his eccentricities.

  Klyde’s overly energetic voice began to grate on Sheikoh’s nerves, and he let his eyes wander around the room. Just beside the bare light bulb, a solid silver chandelier crookedly hung from the ceiling, Sheikoh’s prize possession. A few of its bars ended in warped, black stumps from a few of the harder times. On the side wall was a deer’s head, with long, pointy antlers branching out like poisonous roots. Countless torn band and Tri-ball posters of the broodingly handsome Jace Darek, yellow-tape, drawings, and even a few pictures of people that Sheikoh had never met served the purpose of covering up the peeling, dingy-grey wallpaper beneath.

  A single, crusted window overlooked the dirt road and a pair of concrete sidewalks. Outside, groups of hunched people walked towards weekend shifts at one of the many factories. It was hard work, but on the west side you took what you could find. Behind them, the street’s three-room, concrete houses leaned against one another despondently. He finally grabbed the remote and clicked Klyde the Cat off.

  “I’m bored, Do-do,” Sheikoh muttered, hiding a yawn.

  “You’re always bored, Sheek,” Dorothi observed with a smile.

  Sheikoh’s mouth flashed answering one back at her.

  “Well you’re sort of cute.” He flicked the tip of her nose with a fingernail. “You know that?”

  Dorothi’s eyes narrowed and her mouth puckered.

  “I am not cute,” Dorothi growled angrily.

  Sheikoh turned and looked at Dorothi, training a pair of wide, seemingly-innocent eyes on hers. His expression smoothed into mock remorse, a version of one of his many I’m-just-a-poor-kid-don’t-lock-me-in-the-Solitarium looks.

  “I’m so sorry, Do-do, I forgot how big and tough you are. Please please please forgive me,” Sheikoh begged her desperately.

  “I don’t know if I can,” she smirked.

  “’You don’t know if you can,’ huh?”
Sheikoh asked incredulously.

  He popped his neck, and his grin was edged with a wicked gleam. Dorothi giggled nervously, crawling backwards now. She knew what was going to happen next.

  “No! Please!” she gasped, but Sheikoh was already on her.

  He tickled every exposed inch of her skin. Writhing and kicking, Dorothi screamed with laughter. Alive in the blur of the moment, they rolled over the floor and fought for the upper hand. Finally, Sheikoh rolled onto his back, pretending Dorothi had forced him down. She got him back, tickling him in gleeful retribution until tears streamed down his face.

  The television went on with its program, unaware that it was being ignored.

  “Stop! Stop! Uncle! You win!” Sheikoh gasped finally. Dorothi finally stopped, apparently deciding that he’d had enough. But as Sheikoh gasped a breath in, Dorothi’s fingers streaked back at him for the second round.

  Sheikoh's razor instincts caught Dorothi’s fingers and twisted her underneath him in one fluid motion, fast as lightning. A second later, Dorothi was staring up at him with a trembling lower lip and fearful, wide eyes. Sheikoh pulled back, disgusted with himself. He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t going to hurt her, that it was all right, but remorse wired his jaw immobile.

  As fast as blinking, he stumbled to his feet and was halfway across the room, panting slightly. Sheikoh leaned against dingy grey wallpaper, held up by a single, trembling arm. He kept his back to Dorothi.

  “Sorry, Lovebug,” He said in a controlled voice. “You okay?”

  “No fair, Sheek! I coulda taken you any day!” Dorothi exclaimed with an out of breath laugh.

  Sheikoh chanced a glance her way. Dorothi's curly brown hair was frizzy, and she stated up at him with a pair of blazing pale-blue eyes. Her hands were curled into fists and her freckled face was splotchy with challenge and excitement.

  Sheikoh's face broke into a tight, relieved smile.

  “Sure you could, kiddo, but how about you take me on a walk instead?”