Faces of the City: Galaxy City (Redux)

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.

((Wow. ))

That was AWESOME. Mega-props to you!

Quote:

Originally Posted by Hyperstrike English does not borrow from other languages. English follows other languages down dark alleys, hits them over the head, and rifles through their pockets for loose grammar.

I found myself thinking about the Faces of the City stories when I heard Galaxy was going bye bye. Glad to see more from it, even if it is sadness.

Speechless. Very well done!

That was awesome.

((I got the sniffles.))

Well done.

Very good.

(Thank you, everyone.)

wow...awesome work