Angel Descending

by Ethan Cooper

  He begins to thrash, his limbs flailing wildly. I’m close enough that I almost take a fist to the chin. I want to turn away.

  (please let me turn away)

  But I don’t, because I need to see this. I have to know.

  Tam arches, his length stretched tight until only the back of his head and his boots are touching the floor. His whole body is in tension, and the sound coming out of his mouth is something I’ll never forget.

  Abruptly, he stops, his body crashing to the floor. He goes completely still. He’s not breathing.

  “No,” I whisper. Heedless of what JACK might do to me, I crawl to him, bend over him, hands wandering over his torso and face, checking for any sign that he might still be alive, not knowing what to do. I cradle his face in my hands, amazed at the warmth and texture of his skin under mine.

  “Syl,” JACK says, her voice calm, somehow cutting through the wall of static. “You need to get away from him. It’s already happening.”

  “Shut the fuck up, JACK!” I’m not moving. She’ll have to hurt me to move me. I have to be here with him. For the first time, I can see his mouth and chin. Faint stubble surrounding delicate lips.

  I’m holding him when it starts.

  It flashes from his mouth, across his cheek and then down his neck, disappearing beneath his shirt, the pale blue line fading just under his skin. I’ll never forget that first one. There goes another one—from his eye to his ear. And another. Chin to forehead. And another. Another. Then the circuit pathways are appearing too fast for me to keep track of. They appear and then fade, so fast and so many now that his skin is appears to be flickering in dissonant ripples of blue and gray.

  In the middle of it, he starts breathing again, and when he does, he bends his neck, his eyes wide and abruptly alert, looking up at me, mouth open in silent agony. His lips are pulled back, saliva escaping from one corner of his mouth. Intricate blue lines are forming on the surface of his teeth.

  I lose my grip on him when he rolls over, hands and knees to the floor. Then he’s crouching on the balls of his feet. He starts to make a high whine. It’s a pure note of agony, entirely human at first, but then it becomes something else, discordant frequencies injected into the mix as the infection spreads to his vocal cords.

  The shirt he’s wearing explodes in the back. His flesh there is all metaskin now, rippling with fresh technosite-enhanced muscles. Something’s broken the skin there though. It’s a foreign object—something mechanical, something man-made. His skin flows around it, pushing the device outward, rejecting the impurity. It’s an implant of some sort, small and blockish. When it falls to the floor, it trails flesh and viscera as it goes. The skin on his back is unmarred; he’s already healed.

  Now his head is up, and those eyes—perhaps the last part of him that’s still human—are looking at me directly. I wish I could say that his gaze tells me something profound, but all I can see is the look of a man who’ll be dead within the minute. I gasp…

  ohnonotpossible

  ohfuckdon’twanttowatchthisanymore

  ohno

  …as his eyes bulge, expanding. His gaze is intense through it all, seeming to ask me why I’m not doing anything to stop this. Then his irises go milky as if something inside them is leaking. Cracks appear on the surface of his eyes. The worst part is that I can hear it happen. It’s the sound of glass under stress, nanoseconds before it shatters.

  His eyes explode from their sockets, trailing blood and a slick slime in jagged arcs through the air. One rolls away under the bed.

  The other hits my knee, shattering into countless slivers that rain down onto the floor.

  I make a horrific, strangled sound, my stomach roiling. I need to vomit. I want to vomit. You see, even through the static, I can hear everything, and the sucking sound of his eyeballs being loosed from their housings did something unimaginable inside me.

  Tam stares at me with new warlock eyes. They’re twin orbs of blue, swirling chaos.

  The short hairs on his head begin to fall away, like ash from a dying fire. At the back of his head, just to the right of center, I watch his hairstalk form. It grows fast, flowing like water down his back, over his buttocks and down around his feet, the strands of silver-blue wire shooting out. The strands are wet, gleaming as they grow, sticking to each other, clumping together until a single thick trunk of hair adorns his form.

  When the transformation is complete, JACK touches my shoulder and gently moves me backward. I don’t resist. I can’t resist.

  JACK kneels, cradling her newborn warlock.

  I’m weak, defeated, and utterly betrayed. I can look away now, so I do, backing up and away. My mind tells me that what happened did not just happen. I didn’t see that I didn’t see—

  (him die)

  I can’t imagine many people have witnessed what I did and lived to tell about it. I’m never going to forget this.

  Static spikes up even higher, so high it’s all I can think about. I look at JACK. I look at what Tam’s become. What she made him into.

  Can’t be here anymore. I lurch toward the door.

  JACK’s hand on my shoulder stops me. “Wait, Syl.”

  I spin, throwing her hand off. I’m looking her right in the eyes, and I don’t have to look down. She’s a young woman now. My clothes fit her.

  Opening my mouth tobzzzzzZZZZzzzzZZZZzzzzZZZZ!!!

  Static grinding so hard that nothing else gets through. It’s agony as pure as I’ve ever felt. The world is vibrating. I put my hands on JACK’s shoulders and shove, screaming, “Get the fuck away from me, witch!”

  JACK doesn’t try to stop me again.

  I’m out the door and down the hall, running. I have the presence of mind to get my backpack, but then I’m exiting the Haven. I can barely see through the static and the haze of tears that are suddenly leaking from the corners of my eyes. Don’t know where I’m going, but I run anyway. I run until I can’t breathe, until my heartbeats are so close together that they seem like one continuous hum. The sound and feel of it harmonizes with the static in one gloriously painful chorus. I run until my muscles cramp, until my body tingles and starts to go numb.

  Tam.

  JACK.

  (you befriended a)

  (wirewitch what did you)

  (expect this is your)

  (fault)

  I run until the static ceases, but there’s no escaping the truth.

  What have I done?

  BLUE ANGEL DESCENDING: HELL GRAVE CHILLS

  29/Another Interlude

  2195.12.14/Night

  (i am)

  Alive but not living.

  Awake but not conscious.

  I don’t want to get up, don’t want to even move, because if I do, then it means I’ll have to go outside and face the world, confront my new reality—the one where I somehow thought it was okay to try to befriend a wirewitch, the one where I watched Tam’s humanity get raped, the one where I fucked up.

  That’s all I’ve been able to think about since I left the Haven almost two days ago. It’s my fault, and there’s no going back. The wirewitch process is a one-way street.

  Lying here, the magnitude of my failure presses down on me. Feels like I’m being buried alive. Every breath brings with it the stench of decay, of diseased flesh left untended in the sun.

  I come out of my daze, screaming as I open my eyes.

  That outburst frightens the residents of this place. They scurry away, feral in their frantic movements. They’re all human—at least the ones that I saw— but in the shadows here, I can imagine them as carnivorous creatures, feeding under the moon.

  This crumbling building, bombed and burned, houses many of the city’s refugees, many of those impoverished or wounded by the fall of Cyberspace. Stumbled into it yesterday evening after having wandered the city all day. They welcomed me in, which surprised me. Not sure if I’ve always been a pessimist, or if recent events have turned me into one, but I honestly expected somebody to try to m
olest me. There was none of that though, just quick words and swift hand gestures that indicated I was to join them in whatever refuge they had managed to concoct for themselves. All I’ve found here was hospitality and a quiet understanding that we’re all just plummeting through life, and that every single one of us going to hit bottom eventually. A couple of them even offered me food and water, sharing what little they had. I declined, instead contributing some of what I had in the backpack to their community pool.

  “I’m okay,” I say, hearing their movements in the dark. Woke them up, dammit. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”

  Like much of the city, there’s no power here, and all the windows have been blocked or painted. It’s dark inside, even during the daylight hours. As a result, I don’t really know what anybody looks like. I did see human-shaped forms wrapped in rags and scraps of clothing. They’ve shrouded their heads with hoods or other pieces of material—anything to hide their faces. Occasionally I get a brief glint off a reflective implant where an eye would normally be, but that’s about it.

  No way I’m going back to sleep now.

  A couple of food packets do little to calm the storm in my stomach, so I grab my backpack, throw on my cloak, and leave my shelter. Rustlings and movement behind me as I exit tell me that the inhabitants, sensing that I’m not returning, are reclaiming the space they’d given me.

  The street outside is alive with the city’s citizens. I join them, let myself be caught up in the current.

  (go back)

  It’s been two days since I left the Haven, and despite what happened, the urge to return has been with me the entire time. It’s the most inexplicable, frustrating desire I’ve ever had. Doesn’t make any sense, and yet, there it is waiting for me every time I have a quiet moment.

  (go back to them)

  I can’t though. JACK performed the witchkiss. That’s really what it comes down to. She stripped Tam’s humanity from him like peel from a fruit. Of the many terrible things in this world, watching a person die has got to be one of the worst. Watching the witching of Tam is gonna stay with me all the way to my very last breath.

  So, what am I supposed to do now, by myself, in this city? Does this place mean anything to me? Why this city? Why that alley? Am I here for a reason, or am I just a product of the chaos that is life?

  I don’t have any weapons, but I have my backpack, some food, and some supplies. I have the clothes I’m wearing., such as they are. I have more than I had when I first woke up, but that’s not saying much considering everything else I’ve gained and lost since then.

  JACK and I didn’t have much of a plan, but at least we were together.

  And there it is—the real pain.

  (go back to them now)

  Where is she? Is she back in the Haven with Tam? Or is she, for some reason, out looking for me?

  The memory of her face and her form are constant in my mind. Her height, her developed curves, her long legs and her lithe grace. Youngling is no longer the word that comes to mind when looking at her. I’d seen the wirewitches change their bodies, but nothing was as complete as the transformation JACK went through. It was as if she’d suddenly aged five years.

  A large part of me wonders if that was somehow my fault too. I entered her life and set her on a different path—one that resulted in her fast-forwarding through some critical years. Even for a wirewitch, I’m sure those years are important, and they can’t just be skipped without consequence. Is she a thirteen-year-old in a nineteen-year-old body now?

  (go back to them now go back)

  (to her)

  I can’t though. I just…can’t.

  She killed Tam. How could I care for somebody who would do that? How I could I be close to her? The idea that I could be friends with a wirewitch and not experience some emotional damage was a long shot—arguably laughable. I knew this. Calamity Carl even warned me. And yet, my need for her was greater than any other concerns. I thought I could get away with it.

  (angel you still)

  (need her you’re)

  (weak)

  I do need her, but I shouldn’t be with her.

  I peek out from beneath my hood, keeping my head down, deep in the shadow of my cloak, attempting to expose as little of myself as possible. I want zero attention on me. The last thing I need to do while weaponless and without a companion who can morph her arms into spikes is to attract the attention of some flesh vendor looking for some easy skin.

  Don’t know what I’m doing or where I’m going. Probably have to get a job. I wonder what I’m good at.

  (finding trouble ruining clothes walking around half naked choosing the wrong friends killing dokks losing your memory getting people around you killed)

  Stop. Please stop. Can’t keep doing this to myself. I’m alone right now, and at this particular second, I don’t see any immediate threats. It doesn’t make any sense to conjure one. Can’t become my own enemy.

  I wasn’t meant to be alone. That’s for sure. Feels like I’m about to self-destruct.

  Haven’t had a static attack in the two days since I left the Haven, so there’s that. Gotta find comfort wherever I can. Of course, if that’s really how this works, then I might as well find comfort in the fact that I haven’t been hit by a meteor in the past two days, or that I—

  —am suddenly grabbing the shoulder of the person directly in front of me, okay, so this is me tripping over my own two feet, I see a flash of long blonde hair as I claw for something, anything to stop my fall, but it’s the thick shoulder already in my hand that I squeeze harder, only instead of the person steadying me, they try to turn around, which does a spectacular job of throwing us both off-balance, then we’re falling and rolling, a high-pitched whine loud in my ears and getting louder—a hovercar headed right for us—a curtain of material glides over my face, and all I can see is faded brown, and all I can smell is the odor of synthetic fibers, mixed with sweat and street grime, then there’s a hand in my hair, pressing my strands to the ground as the whine of the hovercar drowns out everything, and I think this is it, and I think this is a stupid way to die, but there’s a quick hand at my back and another at my neck, and I’m partially lifted, but mostly rolled, elbows and thighs banging against the rough surface of the street until I come to rest face up, knees bent, legs wide open, but I can’t close them because whoever it is, they’re on top of me, between my legs, the whine of the hovercar fading off into the distance, and then the cloak covering my eyes is whisked away to reveal a man with blonde hair who’s pushing his body up and away from this awkward position, and the single stray thought that flickers through my mind has something to do with hoping that my shirt isn’t ruined.

  For a second there I think I see the man’s hair shimmer, get darker, as if there’s a truer color hiding beneath some sort of mask, but then he jerks his head sideways, and it’s fully blonde. Maybe I hit my head.

  The man gives me a smile. Now that he’s not between my legs anymore, I take a moment to look at him. It’s dark, but I can see he’s wearing a long cloak that obscures most of his body. Framed by that shoulder-length blonde hair, his face is pretty plain, one of those faces you aren’t going to remember, almost like it’s trying to be unmemorable.

  “That’s the last time I let a girl fall for me,” he says.

  I’m too disoriented to react to that.

  “Or on me for that matter,” he continues, extending his hand.

  His hand is firm in mine, pulling me up to a sitting position. My cloak is torn and askew. Shirt’s not damaged, but soiled now, as are the legs of my pants. My backpack lies a few feet away, one shoulder strap ripped from its base. “I—I’m sorry,” I say, not knowing what else to say.

  “That’s okay, I forgive you,” he says with another one of his smiles.

  I

  Am

  Forgiven?

  Am

  I?

  “It was an accident, right?” he asks pleasantly as he helps me to my feet. Nobody p
assing even gives us a glance. He hands me my backpack. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Amazingly, nothing’s really radiating pain right now. How is that possible? I want to know the name of the man who saved me even though I almost got him killed. “What’s your name?”

  He smiles, “Mu. And you?”

  At the last possible second, I realize I’m going to lie to him. “I’m Ela.” Why did I do that?

  And why did it feel so right?

  He nods, smiles, then simply turns and leaves me standing there. I watch him go, just a pinprick in the night sky. A point of light on a wall of darkness. And then he’s gone.

  His words echo in my head. I forgive you. Spoken in humor perhaps, but I felt their power anyway. Is this the first time I’ve heard those words? I like them, how they made me feel. How did it feel to say them? Easier to be on the receiving end of those words than it is to say them to someone else. What would it feel like to say them? To watch the face of the other person as they receive them. JACK…

  (go back to her)

  No. That can’t happen. Can’t go back, and I can’t forgive her because I’m not the one who needs to. Only Tam can do that, and I seriously doubt wirewitches hold grudges against whoever turned them.

  There’s an ache in my chest when I think of JACK. What she did. What we lost. And despite the desperate pleading of my subconscious I just don’t see a way back to her.

  I remove my ruined cloak and stuff it into my backpack. Feel exposed like this, without something to cover up my hair, my body. My mark. I’m certain I’m not going to go unnoticed. I’m certain I’m going to have to fight.

  Memoryless.

  (weak)

  Weaponless.

  (victim)

  Friendless.

  (prey)

  The world is out to get me. Can’t let it do that. Won’t let it do that. I’ll do whatever it takes.

  I’ll fight.

  I’ll kill.