“Fuck you, Wright: if you touch her, I’ll – ” She struggled in his grip.
“ – You’ll what? I apologise if I’ve been vague or in any way misleading about your prospects for survival, Aviary...” Wright said. “Allow me to clarify: they are zero. There is nothing that either of you can do to prevent anything that The Seven, John Galt, or my own, humble self might wish to bring about.” Smoke – looking back to Yvonne – met her eyes for a brief moment as the elevator’s doors began to slide shut. Yvonne wasn’t sure, but, in that moment, it seemed almost as though Smoke was beginning to glow with a hazy, ethereal blue and white light. The moment passed.
“No!” She screamed, struggling against the cuffs; feeling the skin of her wrists scraping and tearing against the unforgiving metal; not caring. “Aviary! No!”
§§§
“Eve?” Dio murmured, registering surprise as Yvonne was escorted into the room in thick, bloodstained handcuffs...by tall, black-clad soldiers. “Where’ve you been?” He got to his feet as the soldiers un-cuffed and pushed her inside, slamming the door shut. She fell to her knees soundlessly.
“Aviary is gone.” She quietly explained. “And I’m next.”
“Aviary? You mean Smoke?” Yvonne nodded.
“We got close.” Yvonne whimpered. “We got so close, Dio. So close. We were trying to get out.”
“I should have been with you.” Dio murmured. “I wanted to be. I looked for you...” She shook her head.
“It wouldn’t have mattered.” She shrugged out a pathetic little note of bitter, wretched laughter. “Wright knew. He knows everything. There’s no getting away. No escape. You’re in or you’re dead. Dead like Aviary. And I’m next.” Dio’s eyes narrowed.
“What do you mean: ‘I’m next’?”
“I mean, Dio...that when Wright’s done with her, he’s coming back down for me.” With a sigh, Yvonne got to her feet, striding over to Dio’s mess of clothes and beginning to rifle around.
“What are you doing?” She laughed miserably, sniffling.
“I’m giving you a gift, Dio. I made it just for you. You, who doesn’t see the difference between taking a life...and being responsible for a death.”
“What are you talking about?” She smiled a sad little smile, finding his gun. She walked over, getting to her knees in front of him. She took his hand, and wrapped it around the butt of the pistol. Mystified, he let her flick off the safety; pull back the hammer; and manoeuvre the muzzle to her forehead, and his finger to the trigger.
“Save me, Dio. Don’t let him be the one to do this to me.”
“No, Eve! God, no...why would you even – ”
“ – Shut up, Dio. Just shut your mouth and listen: if you don’t do this, Wright will kill me. He will make it hurt. He will make it humiliating, and shameful, and twisted. Do you really want that for me? Is that how you want to say goodbye?” He shook his head, looking down into Yvonne’s beautiful chocolate-and-hazel eyes. “This is a mercy. This is a kindness. And you’ll see, once it’s done...that a little piece of your soul will go with me. That...is the price. Dio. That is what you lose when you take a life with your hands. But don’t worry, because a little piece of me will stay with you. Always. You’ll carry it with you. It will keep you on the right path. I will never...ever...leave you, Dio. But I need you to do this for me. Will you do this?” Hesitantly...tearfully...Dio found himself agreeing.
“Ken.” He whispered: ‘yes’.
He remembered Wright’s words; about good men and monsters, and he knew he had to honour her request. Yvonne smiled, tears in her eyes. Taking the hand in which she’d placed the gun, she pressed her lips tenderly against the back of his wrist. She took his other hand, too, and gently pressed her lips down in the same place, there. Then...slowly...she pushed the gun back up to her forehead.
He could see spots on his hands where her tears had fallen against his skin, glistening in the harsh, artificial light.
“Kol Yisrael Arevim Zeh Lazeh, lo?” Yvonne smiled sadly: ‘All Jews are responsible for each other, no?’.
“Rav todah, Rebiniu,” Dio chuckled through the tears which were beginning to spill down his cheeks: ‘Many thanks, Rabbi.’.
“Ani tzarich lalechet achshav, Dio. Al tedag, ach tza’ir: yihyeh tov.” Yvonne almost squeaked the words: ‘I must go now, Dio. Don’t worry, little brother: things will be better.’.
“Ani ohav otach, Eve. Ani ohav otach lanetzach.” Dio murmured: ‘I love you, Eve. I will love you forever.’.
“Kaf ani tamid ohav otcha, Dio.” Yvonne gently touched his knee: ‘And I will always love you, Dio.”.
“Yvonne,” He choked out; unable to get past the one, lonely word.
“Shalom, Dio. Shalom, one last time...my faithful, beloved friend.”
“Laila tov, Yvonne.” he whispered, his voice shaking: ‘Goodnight, Yvonne.’.
§§§
Hours passed. Dio remained sitting there: shaking...cradling Yvonne in his arms.
Her last moments had been devoted to teaching him a lesson...though, admittedly, not the lesson she’d intended. She’d meant to teach him about the difference between taking a life and being responsible for death. What she’d actually taught him was that feeling for others – to love; to care; to have faith – was dangerous.
But then...he’d already known that. And yet...somehow, the awareness felt new.
He’d always felt a connection there...populating the visual and spatial ecology that existed between them. In a general sense, it was a connection he’d dismissed...confusing the banal itch of it for lust, or perhaps for that particular breed of respect – rooted in the desire to become one with another; to inherit what you admire of them – that often manifested thus in its most benign and juvenile phase of development. But now he saw clearly: she was like him, after all...inverted in the topography of her moral transgression – relatively speaking – but, strangely, almost more similar for it. Looking back, with the clarity of hindsight, he saw her. Truly saw her. She, like him, was an abomination born of a nightmare doppelgänger of selfless heroism. They were both children of the moral-ethical divide: both children of – that is to say – the Righteous Wrong.
When Wright finally came, he simply sighed.
“Oh. I see.” He said. “I suspected something like this might happen.” Dio barely registered the older man’s presence as Wright crouched down beside him, pressing a hand to his shoulder and squeezing.
“I see, now, that you won’t be staying with us, Dio. It’s a pity. I’d grown rather fond of you.” Wright paused, looking over at Yvonne. “We will arrange for you to go home, of course...and what you do from that point on will be entirely your business: this, I promise you. You will, no doubt, want to take Yvonne with you, and I – because I respect you – will respect...similarly...this wish. Make a point – in whatever life you choose to have – of avoiding deep places. Holes in the ground. Shadows that seem darker than they have any business being. I think, for you, this is the best advice I can give. I imagine that the last thing you’ll want, is to accidentally encounter us again. And, of course...” He muttered, getting to his feet...not looking back as he walked out of the room. “My sincerest condolences for your loss.”
XIX – Blood
~ Kayla ~
01/12/2023
We were asleep in the car when it happened; Naithe’s head resting on my shoulder.
There was this...quiet, repetitive tapping sound that slowly brought me out of the darkness. Squinting out of the passenger side window, I saw the gun – glinting metallic in the moonlight – just before I saw the strip of face showing through the slit in the balaclava. I jerked back, startling Naithe...who – seeing what I’d seen mere seconds before – reflexively grabbed for the handle of the drivers side door. He stopped – bleary and barely awake – but, now, fully aware that, out of his window was the muzzle of a second, identical gun. The first gunman mimed for me to wind down my window. I did so. In shock, my mind buzzed o
ut something about glass and bullets being worse than just bullets.
“Ambrose Portokolos sends his regards.” the gunman said conversationally. For a second, I wondered if it was Ambrose...but no. The voice didn’t match.
We’ll never forget that voice.
The name didn’t seem a familiar one to him. His voice – in saying it – had that slightly uncertain quality that you often hear when a person tries to use words which are completely new to them: words in different languages; words with too many syllables; and names that they’re worried – even as they say them – that they might be saying wrong. I didn’t really think too much about it, at the time. I had other things on my mind. Obviously.
“Who are you people?” I growled, unable to stop myself. “Why are you doing this?” I felt Naithe stiffen against me. Confrontation wasn’t his long suit at the best of times.
“Eight billion reasons and counting.” Came the reply. “Believe it or not, ma’am...we’re saving the world.”
“Really?” I spat. “I saved a kitten from a shelter, once. Funny...that I don’t think it occurred to me – even once – to tear its fucking head off as part of that process.”
“You’re entitled to your perspective.” He shrugged.
“Sweet of you. Truly.” I sneered. “Got any evidence...or logic...of really any kind, to support your perspective? Or is this just a case of the psychotic leading the stupid? I mean...Jesus...does the world really deserve this? Is this really the way that you want to try and change it?”
“You know what they say about omelettes and eggs.” He said. I laughed bitterly.
“What? ‘fuck ‘em, let’s kill people’?”
“Liam...we have a long night ahead.” The second gunman reminded his companion.
“What’s this? Fifteen?”
“Yeah. So over fifty more to go.” with Naithe’s window still wound all the way up, the voice sounded distant and disembodied, like someone outside of the situation standing a ways away. “We need to get this one to the rendezvous point.”
“I’d rather die.” I hissed. The gunman on my side – Liam – chuckled quietly to himself.
“Seems there’s been a slight...communication error, ma’am. You’ve already turned down your ticket out; we’re here for him.” Naithe and I exchanged a look.
“Why? What do you want with him?”
“He’s a ‘red flag’.” I could practically hear the ‘just following orders’ shrug in his voice.
“‘Red flag’? Flagged for what?”
“Never thought to ask, ma’am.” Shell-shocked, I sat silently as the door was pulled open and Naithe was led away.
“What’s going to happen to him?” I murmured.
“Never thought to ask.” The gunman by my window parroted back, taking a step back and holding the gun up, level with my head. “Can I ask you a question, ma’am?”
“Shoot.” I heard my own voice, as if from a distance. I sounded cold and detached: beyond caring what happened, one way or another. It was almost as if I were watching myself...as if all of this was simply happening to some other version of me, and I was neutrally observing it. “Sorry.” I said, eyeing the muzzle of the gun. “Poor choice of words.”
“Why didn’t you get out? The offer that you were made? It was genuine.”
“I thought it might have been.” I shrugged.
“Why then? Didn’t you want to live?”
“I did. I do, Liam. Can I call you Liam?” He nodded. “But, see Liam...I’d rather die than have sparing me be the thing Ambrose thinks of when he tries to tell himself that he’s still Human.” I paused, considering, realising that I actually meant what I was saying. Perhaps I hadn’t before, but in that moment it was the utter and complete truth. I continued: “Because he’s not Human, you realise? And neither are you. People like you...they say that the ends justify the means. They say it as if the meaning behind their actions is the end of the story. It isn’t. Nothing soaked in innocent blood has ever been worth a damn. Not the people who spilled the blood; not the cause they spilled it for; and not the future they created by spilling it. That’s why everyone lies about the past, and tries to pretend it was something that it wasn’t. Because deep down, they know. They know, Liam...and they have the good grace to be ashamed of the world that they live in, and the chain of events that led to it being the way that it is. And one day...down the track...when you’re living your life, and trying to believe you made the world a better place – pretending that you’re still a Human Being – someone more Human than you’ve ever been will quietly, compassionately put a bullet in your brain so that the world can go about pretending that you – the real you, I mean: the one helping to make this happen – never existed. And that’ll be good. That’ll be right. Because the last adjective that anyone who knows what you’ve done would ever use to refer to your blood...would be ‘innocent’.” I looked up defiantly into his eyes, raising my chin resolutely. “So do it. Do it, you fucking monster, and I’ll see you in hell.” I taunted. He took a step back, eyes widening.
“What? How are you...?” He was staring at me, the space behind his eyes filling up with a roiling mess of fear and awe. I realised that the interior of the car was growing brighter. I raised my hand, staring at it. It was me. My skin was pulsing with a fog of blue-white luminescence. For a brief moment, the monster and I stared at one another...united in our confusion.
Stupidly...desperately...I forced the door.
I was lucky. I was so...so lucky.
“Ouf,” he gaped as the edge of the door caught his stomach, forcing him to double over in an attempt to avoid the most of the impact. In doing so, he smacked his temple squarely against the uppermost metal rim of the door with a dull, muted ‘clurnk’ sound. Toppling back, he dropped the gun in the dirt, and in a second flat I was down on my knees in the burnt out cigarettes and dust, scrambling and scrabbling. My fingers found the grip of the handgun and I arched up, awkwardly pointing it at the wheezing monster – doubled over but rapidly straightening up – from my kneeling position. I’d never held a gun before, let alone fired one...but thankfully, the basic mechanics of both were fairly self explanatory.
Point...and shoot.
“Say something,” I growled. He tried. He genuinely tried. Not that it mattered: what could he have said to me that would have changed, really, anything about what was about to happen? That I held the power of life and death in my hands; that I had already decided what I was going to do...had already committed myself to using that power...was momentarily sobering. I thought of Ambrose. I thought of the Disappeared. Was this how it felt?
Gritting my teeth, I fired two shots into his gut. It wasn’t like in a movie. He didn’t go flying backward; he barely moved. But even in the half-light that was pouring from my body, I could see his life splatter-exploding out of the back of him and into the bushes beyond. The unfamiliar ‘kick’ – the gun recoiling in my inexperienced hands – had shuddered up my arms, infusing my elbows and shoulders with a dull, alarmed, ache. I watched as he fell to his knees...the impact kicking up a small cloud of dust, before – bonelessly – he toppled back and to the side, sprawled in the dirt.
Getting to my feet – making an effort to keep out of the range of flailing limbs – I circled him. Clutching at his stomach, he tried to spin around; to keep his legs pointed at me. I could tell that he knew what I was about to do. The fear in his eyes – two panic-stricken saucers shining out from the slit in the balaclava – said it all. He knew exactly what I wanted, and exactly why I was taking the time to do it in the way in which I was. Unfortunately for Liam...it turns out that two bullets in the gut make complicated movements...‘sting’ a little. Who knew?
“Your asshole friends should’ve sprung for Kevlar, right?” I murmured, taunting him.
“Please,” He sputtered in desperation.
“Or...maybe...you should have left the safety on until you were actually ready? I...” I looked down at the gun with a kind of analytical
suspicion: “I assume these have a ‘safety’. Do they?” I looked down at him. He coughed; lips peeling back and teeth sliding against each other in agony...his mouth slick with blood. “Shit. That sucks.” I noted. “When someone gets shot, and there’s blood coming out of their mouth – in the movies, at least – it usually means that they’re...well...I hate to be the bearer of bad news, here, but they’re usually pretty fucking fucked, Liam.”
“Puh – ” he coughed: “Please...”
“No, Liam. Just...no.” I murmured. “You don’t get a last minute reprieve, here. You don’t get saved off-camera. You took my husband away from me. You tried to kill me. So...you die. Now.” Coldly...carefully...I took aim and fired out the rest of the clip into his balaclava-clad face. This time, I’d been ready for the recoil. Just enough muscle; no locked joints. I was a quick study; always had been. I found myself surprised that so much of his blood had found its way onto me. I wiped desperately at my arms – sickened by it – trying to get as much of it off of me as I could. My clothes were stained through with it though. My jeans...my shirt...there was so much of it. I noticed a shallow tear in my T-shirt – across the midsection – revealing a long, shallow, snaking cut. I wasn’t sure how I’d managed that. Ultimately...it didn’t matter. It wasn’t deep, or dangerous. It was just...more blood.
Dropping the gun in the dirt, I looked down at Liam’s body. It briefly occurred to me that I probably should have felt...something. I mean...I did feel something: relieved; justified; righteous...but I’d always assumed that taking a life dug something out of a person’s ‘Humanity’, somehow. Maybe that came later. Or maybe it didn’t. I could detect a strange kind of...numbness, deep inside...or, more accurately, an absence. I remembered my own words, to Naithe:
Monsters make monsters.
Abyss (Songs of Megiddo) Page 24
