SEPTEMBER 13, 2011
The air is thick with smoke, sounds of combat and cries for help. The sun struggles to shine through the amber haze. A grey shroud - dust, ash, pulverized concrete - lies over everything.
He looks like a palooka on his last legs, a noir detective in the third act, after being roughed up a few times by the crime boss's goons and the cops too for good measure. There's a strip of plaster across his nose (which looks like it was broken, again) and another over a cut on his cheek. Under the shirt and long coat, there are enough bandages around his ribs and left shoulder to wrap a mummy. And someone might have stepped on his hat.
But the gamine with the gams curled up in his lap, tiny and pathetic like a broken doll, is even worse off. Her pretty heart-shaped face is a mask of bruises and soot and thin rusty trickles; her short hair is a dirty tangle. One of her arms, left bare by her fab sleeveless dress and covered with small cuts from falling glass, hangs by her side at an unnatural angle. Her nylons are in shreds and her shoes and jewelry nowhere to be found, save for one pearl earring. And the aforementioned slim, stylish dress is soaked with blood.
This sort of thing isn't supposed to happen to city spirits. They're not supposed to be bloody or burned or pale and shocky. And they certainly aren't supposed to have heat-blackened stone shards embedded in their chest, dangerously close to their heart, giving off a sick, unearthly green glow. (He'd pulled another one, long and wickedly sharp, out of her leg when he found her; he hadn't liked the look of the veins around the wound, red and green mixing to make a black spiderweb.)
The Row speaks softly to his fellow spirit, urging her to wake up. His heart lifts a few notches when she finally opens her eyes (one only partly, thanks to a beaut of a shiner) and manages a ghost of a smile at the sight of him.
"King. You came."
"Soon as I heard," the Row acknowledges in his gravelly voice. "How ya doin', kiddo?"
"It hurts." Her eyes overflow with sudden tears. "It hurts so much. Everywhere."
"I know. But I'm here now, and so are the heroes. Ya gotta hold on until they can fix this... like they always do."
Her head rolls to the side on her limp neck, looking away from him. "I don't know if I..."
"Sure you can." He squeezes her shoulder, very gently. "Listen, I got tore up pretty bad when those big robots came through, but here I am. And Sky, she lost a couple a' bridges to those earthquakes, but she's... she's gettin' by. Steel's back on his feet, too, though he's still leanin' on that fancy cane, playin' for sympathy."
"I'm not... as strong... as you." Her breaths come quick and shallow.
"Don't say that. Just... just hold on, okay? Stay with me. Please." The Row's big hands hold her like fine china as he begs, trying to lend her some of his strength. Trying not to let on how bad it is, though she must already feel it.
The warehouse districts are on fire. Spiders have taken most of the park, their glossy black fliers squatting on the grass where picnickers and off-duty heroes once relaxed. Cygnus Medical filled up hours ago; now it's emptying out again, as doctors and staff try to evacuate patients to Atlas Park or anywhere that will take them. A hole's been knocked in the dome of the arena, off-center, with black smoke rising from it. The streets are full of craters, abandoned cars, and bodies. Most of the tall office and apartment buildings along the Orion Beltway have collapsed or have gaping wounds where meteors struck; on the upper floors, trapped civilians take deep breaths and step off... into the waiting arms of flying heroes. But there aren't enough of them, and the Longbow perimeter around Freedom Court and the hospital is barely holding under heavy assault from Arachnos and meteor-spawned monsters.
She stirs in his arms, looking past him. "it's getting dark..."
"That's just the sun goin' down," he assures her. "Soon the stars'll be out. Ya always did love the stars." For the stars she was named, and now her ruin has come from them, the fists of Shiva... He pushes the thought from his mind. She'll make it through this. She's got to.
He doesn't notice, at first, when her slight weight in his lap becomes even slighter. But there's no missing it when she starts to fade like a dream, crumbling like a sand castle, slipping through his grasp. The dissolution is swift; in mere moments, his arms hold only air and memory. He scrabbles desperately at the dirt, trying to wring her essence from it, but she's gone.
All the color drains out of the world. There's nothing under his knees but rubble, chunks of concrete and lifeless stone. Even the distant sirens have stopped.
The Row only cries when no one is watching.
My characters at Virtueverse
Faces of the City
Another good entry!
So in your universe, what happens when a city zone is restored? Is there a new spirit?
My COX Fanfiction:
Blue's Assembled Story Links
(It depends on the degree of destruction. There's a chapter I really need to finish, about Overbrook - that spirit has continuity with the one before, but isn't entirely the same, which causes some issues with those expecting it to be just like before.
Zones as thoroughly smashed as Boomtown, Siren's Call and now Galaxy... anything built on those sites may go by the same name, but it will be something entirely new.)
My characters at Virtueverse
Faces of the City
(( And here it is at last, almost a year to the day after my last post - much later than it should have been.))
SPECIAL #3 - OVERBROOK
(with the Watchmaker)
2007
The man known in this city as the Watchmaker sat on a bench and contemplated the fused lump of glass and metal and wiring in his hand. An hour ago it had been a tool of sublime power, like Archimedes' lever, which could move the Earth in the right hands - or the wrong ones. Now it was a paperweight.
Like so many others, including his own counterpart and nemesis, he had been drawn here in search of that slumbering potential. At first he thought that he had found it in young Miss Yin - but she was only part of the equation. The rest lay buried much deeper, not just in earth and rubble but in schemes and double-crosses, unreliable memory and questionable sanity. He'd finally uncovered the truth and brought it to light; for an achingly brief time he'd held it in his hands, a glittering jewel, ready to make his thought and will into reality.
But in that moment of triumph came despair, as he realized it could never be. He was too flawed, too mortal to be a god. He had seen the fate of the device's creator and knew the same awaited him if he dared to claim it for himself; the seeds of madness were in him too, even now, like a cracked wall that had merely been painted over. What mistakes would he make, what horrors might he accidentally conjure? Limitless power had been within his grasp... and the only thing he could do was give it up to be destroyed.
With a curse, he flung the useless thing into the nearby fountain. It sank with a hollow plunk.
"Make a wish?"
The question startled him; he'd been so intent on the ruined device that he hadn't noticed he was no longer alone. The speaker was a woman about his own age, late forties or early fifties, her face lined with wrinkles and dark hair shot through with grey. She wore simple, loose-fitting clothes - a blouse, sweatpants and sneakers - and sat in a wheelchair. There was a slight tremor in her hands, but her brown eyes glittered with humor.
Recovering from his surprise, he let out his breath in a bitter sigh. "Too late for that now."
"Never too late to make a new start. At least, that's what they tell me." Her smile was wan but sympathetic.
"'They' being the helpful, well-meaning doctors and nurses," he grumbled. The woman offered no demur. "Let me tell you something, my dear - they're nowhere near as certain or as all-knowing as they pretend to be."
"Who is, really?" she answered with a shrug. "I take it you've spent some time in a hospital."
"For a few months, yes. I was... not myself." But I was. I am he and he is me... He shook his head, dismissing the distracting thought.
"And now you're someone else. Not quite the same person as before." The woman sighed, leaning back in her wheelchair and watching the fountain bubble. "Some days you're not sure who you are. You have a box full of pieces of a life, and you try to put them back together, but they don't all fit anymore and some are missing. You look in the mirror, or at old photos, and you see an unfamiliar face. But the hardest part..." She swallowed. "The hardest part is being around those you knew, and all their expectations of how you should be. And you wonder how to tell them that the person they miss... isn't coming back. Not all the way."
"... yes," he finally said, stunned by this stranger's understanding and insight.
"I'm Brooke." She extended a hand; he took it, stilling the tremor, and brushed his lips across the back, making her smile. "A gentleman, mm?"
"I've been known to play the role," he smiled back. And a fool, and a king... stop it!
"Ah, but who are you, really?" she asked kindly, then held up a hand before he could respond. "I'm not asking for any secrets. I'm just saying, that's something you need to know for yourself, down in your gut. Until you do, you're standing on shaky ground. Never know when it might give way."
He relaxed and nodded. "Just so. I have been having trouble finding my footing of late. I keep tripping over things." His rueful smile turned serious as he considered Brooke again. There was something odd about the psychic impressions and feelings he was getting; they seemed to come from all around, not just the spot beside the bench. There was something there, but it was indistinct, elusive, hard to pick out from the background - shielded, perhaps? He concentrated...
The first and only time he'd tried this with Penny Yin, it had been like looking directly at the sun. This was more like gazing into a bottomless chasm, including the overwhelming sensation of vertigo. "Who... who are you?" he asked dazedly, drawing back from the edge before he fell in.
"I can't answer that. I'm still figuring it out myself." Again that sad, frail smile. "What you really mean is, 'what are you?'" She spread her arms. "Another broken soul, like you. Just a little... bigger."
"Impossible," he muttered, still shaken by his glimpse of the abyss.
"'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,'" Brooke quoted wryly. "The evidence is before you; will you deny it?"
"... no," he finally said with an effort, pulling himself together. "Very well, I acknowledge your existence."
"A gentleman," she repeated. He didn't need to look at her with his eyes to know that hers were twinkling. She tilted her head, regarding him closely in turn. "I can tell you're not from around here. You had another life, before you came to this city. Do you want to go back to it?"
"Not really," he found himself admitting. It seemed so small and lonely now; he'd had his books and his tinkering to occupy him, but since stepping through that portal, he'd discovered not only a new world but new aspects of himself. The desire to explore - not just places to see and things to do, but finding the extent and potential of his own abilities. A need for companionship, and an awareness that while much of humanity was petty and venal and selfish, there were also those worth knowing and even admiring. And perhaps most surprising at all to a cynical old misanthrope, a wish to help others, to be of service... within reason, of course.
"Then you need to... need to..." She trailed off, looking to one side. Several seconds passed before she seemed to become aware of him again. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I need to do something," he suggested.
"Yes! You need to figure out who you are. Once you do that, the rest will follow."
"Easier said than done," he observed dourly.
"Don't I know it," she replied. "But it'll work out, you'll see. Never too late to make a new start."
He chuckled, a bit sadly. "I think this is where I came in, my dear." He took her hand again and squeezed it gently. "Thank you. I'll take your words to heart."
"Good." She squeezed back. "Do you have to go right away? I was going to watch the sunset, and I wouldn't mind some company."
"Of course. There's nowhere I'd rather be."
He settled back on the bench, noticing for the first time how long the shadows had grown while he'd sat there, lost in his regrets. The sun was already veiled by the shimmering curtain of the War Wall, tinting everything in sight - the plaza, the trendy new apartments, the construction yards and the donut shop - a warm amber. Soon it would pass behind the distant buildings and be gone entirely. But for this golden moment, even with an uncertain future before him and no clear path, he was at peace. He was content.
And though a casual observer might have seen him sitting alone, he was not.
My characters at Virtueverse
Faces of the City
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And - like the baseless fabric of this vision -
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
-- Prospero, The Tempest
The curtain rises, revealing the familiar backdrop - a cityscape rendered in painted wood and canvas - and the cast take their places for one last hurrah.
First to take center stage is the city official with the thinning hair and rolled-up sleeves, his tie now undone and sporting a round "33" campaign button pinned to his dress shirt; he places his hand over his heart (see, he does have one!) and bows to the audience in humble gratitude. He is flanked on the right by a brunette in a gown of deep cherry red, and on the left by a Hispanic woman of vibrant middle age in a floral print dress; they both applaud, then take their bows in turn.
The big man in the trenchcoat and fedora is next, of course, with a broad smile belying his usual grim demeanor. He raises and pumps his big fists in the "victory" pose as the audience cheers. He also is grouped with two women: the perky gamine in the sleeveless cocktail dress (looking much healthier than the last time we saw her), and the blonde in the sparkly disco gown, who's traded her skates for an ordinary set of heels. He embraces one, then the other, and then all three join hands; he lifts one of theirs in each of his, and they bow deeply together.
The tall, thin man in the grey suit pushes the woman in the wheelchair (still in her simple out-patient clothes, but much more alert and focused, with a bouquet of roses in her lap and no tremor in her hands) onto the stage. He steps to one side and bows to her graciously, then to the audience, a faint smile passing his lips. As he guides his companion to the side of the stage, he and the big man playfully shadow-box for a moment, then shake hands in fellowship.
Next up are the burly longshoreman and the man of bronze. Both bow, applaud and receive their accolade, with the metallic giant pointing to members of the audience who've fought to protect the reactor and finishing with a "peace" sign. When they join the others, the detective and the dockworker share a back-slapping bear hug.
DJ Zero and the short man in the cream 80s suit take the stage; without his sunglasses and sneer, the latter seems much less ferret-like but still full of energy, rushing forward to the very edge and miming his love for everyone. He spends a couple of minutes working the crowd's flagging applause back up to a new crescendo, pointing at his fellow cast members and calling for more, then taking his place among them. Throughout the rest of the curtain call, he can sometimes be seen popping up behind the taller ones as if on a pogo stick. Zero, for his part, merely smiles and waves before fading off to the other side of the stage.
The Founder, standing straight and tall now with his long white beard groomed and the brass buttons on his revolutionary coat polished to a shine, and the Warden, his black PPD-like uniform immaculately pressed and creased, bronze shields gleaming, are next. They bow solemnly to the audience and to each other before moving aside.
The last and possibly unlikeliest pair are the grey-bearded partisan in flannel and the doe-eyed dancer of the wood. They clap and wave to the crowd, and she even does a little pirouette beside him before they take their bows.
Rather than walking off, the final duo are joined by the rest of the cast at the front of the stage. Everyone holds hands and bows again, and again. Some are visibly weeping by this point, but they all smile, even through the tears. They bow again, and raise their arms together, and step back as the curtain finally falls.
(( Thank you, everyone. ))
My characters at Virtueverse
Faces of the City
and the Willie Pete stories... they made me cry.