by O'Brian Gunn
Calm Noir looks up. “No, we don’t want you to stop. We want you to keep doing exactly what you’re doing. We want you to go after more A-Os like Matthew.”
Adam grips the armrest as Dr. Hannigan continues.
“—rather normal for a man your age to have a low sperm count. Now, that doesn’t mean that it’s impossible for the two of you to have a child, but it does mean that it will be exceedingly difficult for you. There are all sorts of alternatives out there, and I think that the two of you will make wonderful parents and an absolutely beautiful baby.” He nods. “I’m going to make a few calls to some of my associates who specialize in fertility and see if they have any openings or contacts you can get in touch with.” He spreads his hands on the desk. “In the meantime, the two of you should keep trying. I know that’s not the glimmer of hope you were looking for, but I’m sure you can find it in yourselves to enjoy the effort.” He smiles. “Be right back.” He leaves them alone.
Maggie clears her throat and wrings her hands, fingers sliding over her wedding ring. She blinks and gives her eyes to the bookcase before looking down at her lap, up at her husband.
“At least now we—”
“I had a physical before we were wed three years ago and I was perfectly fine. Perfectly.” He slowly turns his head to her. “I don’t understand what’s changed.”
She reaches out a hand and allows it to hover hesitantly over his before gripping his limp fingers. “You weren’t an instrument of God three years ago.”
Adam’s body seizes and she can see the veins in his neck working furiously. “Are you blaming God for our situation?”
She pauses before responding. “All things are made possible through him, Adam. If he doesn’t want us to have a baby, then...” Her eyes slowly slide away.
He grips her fingers. “I am the Sovereign of God, His spiritual hand made flesh, I am His will and I believe—no, I know without a shadow of a doubt that He wants this blessing to continue.” A beat. “For that to happen, we must have a baby.”
His wife’s eyes cloud with wonder. “Do you even care about the child, or do you just want to achieve some empty immortality through your offspring?”
He says nothing. He says nothing for a very long time.
She jerks her hand away[1].
“How could I not have heard of something like Alpha-Omegas?” Bisset walks past the hospital cafeteria. “Have you and The Dragoness been blocking or altering my memories?”
“I haven’t.” Seraph floats next to her. “Unfortunately, I cannot say the same about The Dragoness. But I can tell you that you’ve been blessed by the Most High, not by genetics.”
“Blessed to have angels and demons roaming around in my head. Is that how the Most High blesses people now?”
Seraph loosely folds her arms across her chest and looks ahead. “There’s still much of this that’s unknown to me. I told you, there are some things I still can’t remember.”
“Then it is possible that I could be an Alpha-Omega.” As they pass, she looks in on a woman holding the hand of a giggling little girl sitting in a hospital bed. “Can’t help but question if...I was like this before.”
“Like what?”
She glances at her divine reflection. “Fractured. Did I shape the way my gene manifested, or did my gene shape the way I manifested?”
“The feather or the wing.”
They walk out of the hospital and into the chill of the early evening. The breeze catches Bisset’s tight curls and sends them billowing back as she waits for a van to pass before heading for her car. She unlocks the door, slides in, and stares out the window. Seraph appears in the backseat in the rearview mirror.
“I don’t know what your fate is, Bisset, but I do know that it’s something you mold, not genetics.”
She looks in the reflection at her reflection. “But you just said that the Most High—”
“Gives you the tools, but it’s you who must manifest the construction. It’s the same way that an artist can have the talent, but not the will to create.” She looks out of the window and back. “There is someone who might be able to help you, another instrument of the divine.”
“Who?”
“I don’t have a name, only a powerful sensation. What I do know is they have a light that resonates on the same wavelength as our own. I’ve been able to feel this individual for a few days, and wasn’t sure of what it was until now.” Her lips lift. “Maybe whoever it is is helping me to remember who I am. And I think they can help you, Bisset.”
“Do you know where this person lives?
A head shake. “I only know where I felt the light last, I don’t know if they’re still there.”
“Can you feel them now?”
“Yes.”
Bisset drops her eyes to the steering wheel for a moment. She slides the keys into the ignition and starts the car. “Show me.”
Sovereign is flying through the night sky over Oswyn when he hears it.
“NO! GET OFF ME! MMPH! NO! STOP! PLEASE—MMMPH—STOOOOP!”
He hovers in the air for a split second, pinpoints the sound, and shoots off in a streak of platinum white. He lands in an alley of cracked and badly repaved cement. A bare-legged man struggles beneath the weight of a heavier, grunting man viciously thrusting and forcing himself in and out of him.
“Yeah, take it, fuckin breeder! Just the way you want it!” The bigger man raises a fist, loosely slugs the slightly smaller man in the back of the head, and raises it again before he feels iron fingers around his thick wrist. His thrusts cease and his mind trip-hammers conflicting messages through his bewildered eyes.
He is careening back into the wall and the world becomes a smear.
Sovereign streaks toward him. “Monster!” Sovereign grabs him by his bubble vest. “Filthy demon!” He slams a fist into the man’s face, pulling his punch so the jawbone only fractures. “If it were up to me, I’d see you dead!” He slams the rapist’s spine into the brick wall. “DEAD!” He lets go of the man and watches as he slumps to the ground, blood drooling down his broken face. He raises his eyes to Sovereign, setting something off.
W H A M !
The rapist hears and feels his skull fracture around his eye.
“Look at me again and I’ll blind you, I swear.” Sovereign’s arms quiver and his vision seems to bleed. His fist is furious in motion again. Something collapses and gives way beneath the blow. He sees that he has buried his fist, wrist, and most of his forearm in the wall. “Leave. Now.” The words are shoved out through packed teeth.
The man pulls his jeans up from around his ankles and limps awkwardly from the alley, spatters of blood marking his path.
Sovereign tugs his arm from the ruin of the wall and turns back to the man gathered in a puddle of limp limbs, quivering, and tears. He kneels down close to the other man, but doesn’t touch him. He quenches his platinum flames. “Sir, are you oka—” He shuts his mouth and rephrases. “Are you hurt?”
He’s clutching his legs to his chest, covering his lower body as best he can with his rigidly curled hands. Eyes hollow, mouth trembling, head wobbling no.
“I don’t want to touch you. It can sometimes be traumatizing for someone to be touched after they’ve...after they’ve been...” The word looms unspoken between them. The man flinches anyway. “I’m going to call an ambulance.” He pulls his phone from his jacket pocket.
“I’m not—I’m not gay.” Tears. “I was jus’ walkin’ home from a bar when...” Words slur and Adam realizes the man is more than a little drunk. He visibly struggles to hold back tears of embarrassed rage, sniffing, hardened expression crumpled and compromised as the realization of what just happened eases through the cloud of his inebriation. “I’m not gay, man.” Furious head shake. “I’m not.”
“I’m sorry.” The uttered words are weak. His call is answered. “Yes, this is—” Adam looks at the man. “I need an ambulance at the alley on the—” He reads the fading street sign twenty feet away. �
�—south end of Peoria, a man’s been attacked.” He listens. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you that information. Please, come quickly.” He ends the call.
“What if he gave me something?” The man squirms on the bare concrete biting into his naked flesh. He can feel cooling wetness running down his thighs. “What if he infected me with some disease?”
“Then I’ll see to it that he pays.” Adam starts to put a hand on his shoulder, thinks better of it when he notices the flinch.
The man finally looks up at his savior. “What’s your name?”
His lips part and utter only air for a moment. “Sovereign, call me Sovereign.”
“Name’s Ryan.” Lips tremble around his hesitation. “Will you wait with me? ‘Til the ambulance arrives?”
“I’m not going anywhere, Ryan.” He reaches out and carefully clasps the other man’s quivering hand.
Hesitation simmers in Ryan’s tear-stained gaze, in his very bones as he looks down at the normal fingers covering his. He looks back up, confused. “Were you on fire a second ago?”
Bishop Martin rounds the table with a tray of tea with sugar and honey in tow. He sets the tray on the table before easing down into the seat across from his guest.
“There we go. Do you take sugar and honey with your tea, Miss Torres?”
She brightens. “Just sugar, please. Three teaspoons will be fine.”
The older man pours two cups. “The person you describe can only be Brother Kensie, the newly-blessed Sovereign of God.”
She watches as he scoops sugar. “Brother Kensie.” The name makes her mind hum. “Yes. I, uh, I’m going through a bit of a tough time and I heard that he might be able to help me.”
“Yes, Brother Kensie has made quite a transformation; I’m surprised we haven’t heard about him in the news with all he’s done lately.”
Bisset accepts the tea. “Thank you. I understand that Adam is an...an instrument of the Most High?”
“Oh, yes. He bursts with the Holy Light at the utterance of a single word. Quite a magnificent sight to see with these aging eyes.” He sips. “If you don’t mind my asking, Miss Torres, what is it that you need Brother Kensie’s help for? Maybe I can provide you with a bit of assistance.”
She sets her cup in her palm, dancing her eyes while she blows on the steaming liquid and looks down into her lap. “Well...It’s a bit of a—It’s really a private—You’d think I was crazy if I told you.”
He lowers his cup on the table and looks at her. “Oh, I doubt it. I’ve heard and seen much in my years. I’m a man of God, yes, but I also have an open mind and an open heart. What is it that’s bothering you?”
Bisset swallows. She studies him for a moment before continuing. “Have you ever been visited by demons and angels, Bishop Martin?” The words are whispered.
“Why, yes, more times than I care to count. Some of them are angels and demons of the heart, and others are of the mind. The angels all leave behind seeds of wisdom, and the demons leave seeds of faith...after they attempt to corrupt the fruit on the vine, that is.”
“Have you ever seen the demons and angels so vividly that you could swear they were real, only no one else could see or hear them?”
“Physical manifestations of the two are extremely rare, but not unheard of.” He nods.
“There’s a demon in the room with us right now, she calls herself The Dragoness.” Her eyes flick over the bishop’s shoulder. “And as soon as the sun rises that demon will be replaced by an angel named Seraph. The Dragoness has made me...do something that I feel nauseous just thinking about. But at the time, it felt right, seemed like the only option to bring about a positive change.”
“And did it?” His voice goes soft.
“Yes.”
“But at the cost of a bit of your soul?”
She nods.
“I see. That’s the way the devil works. He twists our philosophy until we’re uncertain where ours begins and his ends. He wants us to believe that the two are hardly separate, that they are, in fact, one and the same.” He holds up a finger. “But we must remember that evil is evil, no matter how right it may seem.”
“Is it still evil when the end result is two people reconciling their marriage?”
The bishop pauses for a long while. “An outcome of good brought about from an evil deed doesn’t make the end result just. Evil is evil is evil.” He regards her. “Yes, I can see that you will need Brother Kensie’s help. Let me give you his address.” He reaches for a pen and paper.
“Bishop Martin, you said that Adam bursts with the Holy Light at a single word, did you mean that literally?”
He looks up at her. “Yes, he says the word and it’s like...it’s like a star is born inside of him. A silver-white glow wreaths his body and his eyes...have mercy, his eyes!” He holds up a hand, looking up at the ceiling as he conjures up the memory.
“Do you think that he’s an Alpha-Omega?”
The bishop comes back. “Alpha-Omega.” He spreads his palms. “Perhaps he is, perhaps he is not. Or perhaps this is simply God’s way of casting a spear of light into the heart of the world. Humanity has come to trust the words of scientists more than the Holy Word.” He drops his hands. “And that, Miss Torres, is truly a sin and a shame.”
Furious Noir’s body jitters with pent up violence. He paces the room like it’s a cage. “The infection is still the same, but people ain’t. Now they got abilities, superpowers ‘n’ shit.” He stops and points at Original Noir. “Somethin’s shakin’ up the board. You gotta shake with it or your ass gets tossed off.” He bends down and swipes up the used needle, waggling it in Original Noir’s face. “It’s all in the blood, baby, all in the blood. Blood is death and life, blood is the difference between them and you. Gotta become what you behold.” He grins and taps the needle against Original Noir’s forehead. “An’ use it to your advantage.”
Original Noir looks down at the red dot on his arm. “You tellin’ me I got McCain’s abilities now?”
The furious one smirks. “Guess you’ll find out when you wake up. If your punk ass wakes up.”
“If you do have McCain’s abilities, you’re gonna need more.” Little Noir has found crayons and construction paper and sits on the floor drawing a picture. A stick figure stabs knives into another stick figure’s wrists. The red crayon is almost a nub. “Not all of those with the infection can be defeated with claws.”
Calm Noir prepares a blunt on the coffee table. He looks up as he sprinkles green herbs on the paper. “But you gotta be careful that the infection doesn’t spread to you as well. Can’t be takin’ any unnatural powers; shootin’ laser beams from your dick or anything like that. Anything that exists naturally in nature is fine. Just—” His eyes drop as he rolls the blunt “—be natural.”
Nervous Noir gets to his feet with apprehension, holding his arms close to his body and making himself as small as possible. “You probably shouldn’t inject too much blood at one time either.” He hunches his shoulders as his doubles look at him. “I’m—I’m just sayin’.” He scratches quickly behind his ear. “You know, you’re still human at the end of the day. Don’t know what all this will do to you.” He looks at Original Noir’s chest. “Could kill you.”
Furious Noir suddenly whirls and shoots his foot out and up at the bookcase, viciously snapping his foot down on a shelf with a grunt. The shelf snaps in half and his foot continues, driving down into the three other shelves. Books tumble into a pile as a jagged crack splinters the middle of the case.
The Noirs stop and stare.
Furious Noir curls his upper lip. “Fly was on the...” He swipes his hands angrily through the air. “Fuck it. Look, man, there’s a lot more than crazy ass genes floatin’ in blood. All kinds o’ diseases waitin’ to attack you and fuck your body up. You ready to deal with that?”
“I know a guy who can test the blood for me before I inject it.” Original Noir slips his eyes at his calm self toking away.
“Wanna
hit?” His voice is strained as he holds his breath.
“This is a hallucination, wouldn’t be worth it.”
A shrug and an exhale of a thick, white cloud. “Could do more than you ever imagined.” He holds out the blunt.
The familiar thick scent fills his nostrils like cotton. “What the hell.” He reaches for the offered blunt.
“Got your hit right here.”
Original Noir turns——and a furious fist slams him in the face.
He’s knocked out of his dream and back into consciousness. He sits up with a gasp as the remnants of a phantom pain collide through the side of his skull. He looks around his empty apartment, looks out the window at a night-drenched Mercurmont.
He crawls to the couch. The empty needle sits as it did in his hallucination, plunger depressed. He looks at his arm. A throbbing red dot at the crook of his elbow. His eyes trail up to his palm and he uncurls his fingers, turns his hand over. His nails are normal. He feels...something just beneath his cuticles. He flexes his hand.
His fingernails lengthen and harden into sharp, four-inch claws.
Noir’s eyes go wide. He clicks his claws together experimentally, enjoying the sound they make. He suddenly spins and swipes at the couch.
Slashes like silk.
The Rapist tenderly touches the bandages wrapped around his head, wincing at the piercing throb that shoots through the left side of his skull. “Platinum fucker.”
A chirp trills from his pocket.
He answers his phone. “’Ello?” He wipes at the dried blood flaking on his chin.
“Slow down, man. Yeah, I did what you asked. Why’d you have me stalk this guy for so long if you hate him so much?...That’s sick, man, that’s real fucked up...No, I only did what he asked...His body was asking for it, dude! Straight guys don’t walk down alleys in gay neighborhoods unless they’re DTF...Well, yeah, I mean, I blew my load in him, but I didn’t finish the way I wanted to, something showed up...No, no, I mean, it looked like a man, but he was...he was all lit up with platinum light...Platinum! Yeah. Yanked me off of your boy and threw me into a wall before he beat the shit outta me.” He adjusts the phone to his other ear and presses a bag of ice to his head. “I dunno, I yanked my pants up and got outta there before he killed me.”