by O'Brian Gunn
“’Ey! Thanks, man!”
Clint isn’t thanking him an hour later.
An hour later, Clint is in Addie’s office watching himself on a computer monitor as he breaks open Janae’s locker. Addie pauses the feed with a keystroke and looks up at him where he stands on the other side of her desk.
Clint tugs his cap off and scratches at his head. “When’d you install the new cameras?” He gently slaps his cap against his thigh.
“Recently. Apparently, you never noticed them.” Addie dips her head at the frozen image on the screen. “I don’t think it’s your responsibility to clean out employee lockers, Clint.”
“I’m—I’m sorry, Miss Addie, I am.” A slippery smile. “It’s just that I’ve fallen on hard times now. My wife got laid off, my mother’s back in the hospital, and my kids only get one meal a day.”
“Hard times? That’s your excuse for stealing?” She crosses her arms and leans back. “We’ve all fallen on hard times, but most of us make do with what we have.”
His eyebrows stitch together. “Miss Addie, I been working for you for four years. Four years.” He holds up fingers. “And in all that time I haven’t gotten a raise. Do you know how many extra hours o’ work I put in? Off the clock! Do I have to remind you o’—”
An upraised palm. “No, Clint, you don’t. I know how hard you work here, and I do realize that you should have been given a raise long before now. But you should also realize that you’ve been here since the museum first opened. Most museums go under almost as soon as the doors open. We’re very lucky and extremely blessed to have what we do here. Five years ago an artist like Sammy Doherty wouldn’t even think of Dominion City as a place to showcase his art. We’re only just now starting to come into success. On the video you mentioned that Ira just got a raise, so you know we’re starting to bring in a solid profit. You could have—you should have come to me about a raise...even though I was going to give you one next week.”
Clint fumbles and falters for words.
Addie nods. “I was, Clint. I was.” She places her hands on her desk and looks down. “I know I should have approached you about it much, much sooner than this, and I do take a bit of responsibility for where we are now. I’m truly sorry about that, but still the fact remains that you stole, Clint. I’m going to have to terminate you; effective immediately.”
“But, Miss Addie I—”
“Please don’t force me to call security.” She shakes her head, thick curls swinging along with the motion. “I’ll have someone clean out your locker and meet you outside.”
The bottom of the man’s lip quivers. He jerks his hat off and wrings it in his hands. He stops with his hand on the doorknob. “Who told you?”
Addie looks up with a sigh. “You need to leave this office right now.”
Clint looks from her to the computer screen where the feed is still playing. The image shifts to a different angle. In it, Leo is looking up at the camera.
Something burns in Clint’s eyes as he shoves the door open.
The brunette accepts the microphone from Joanna with a smile. She clears her throat and steps up to the podium.
“I’m Susan. That’s not my real name, but it is the name I’m giving you. I wasn’t going to come up here today, but I felt that I had to get this off of my chest so it would stop festering inside of me.”
A hush.
“A-Os aren’t human. That’s what a lot of people say, that A-Os aren’t human. That might not be what they are, but what they’ve become is a cause. No, no, please, don’t applaud. Being a cause isn’t always a good thing if that’s the only thing a person sees you as. You’re something to take up, a reason or an ideal. It’s good that there are people out there who want to fight for you, but it’s bad when all they see you as is something to fight for, something to take up arms for. What I mean is that some people are against Alpha-Omegas only to have something to argue against. They don’t care about restricting rights, they just want to disagree with someone about something, go against the grain. It’s the same with people who see Alpha-Omegas as their equal. They understand A-Os have to work for a living, have to struggle, have friends and family. Those people also understand that it’s become the social norm to accept anything as long as it doesn’t harm anyone. You have to accept a person who isn’t like you, because that’s your role in the world now, that what’s expected, for you to openly embrace everyone and their ideals. Do you really want someone that narrow-minded fighting for your cause? A-Os know they aren’t human, and some of them don’t expect to be treated like them. They just want to be seen as beings. Not as something to rally around.”
Only a few people applaud as she walks off of the stage and continues out of the park.
“Um, thank you...thank you, Susan.” Joanna musters up a smile. “Is there anyone else out there who has something to say?”
A flurry of hands.
“Yes, you there in the light blue polo shirt. No no, the brown-skinned gentleman with the hair twists. Yes, you. Come on up, sir.”
Giorgio brushes against several people as he walks past them, pulling miniscule traces of sustenance from the collection of dead skin cells dusting their vibrant bodies. A few people sway drunkenly behind him, but none seem to notice what is taking place. The dead man stands in the middle of the crowd, a hollow cork bobbing in an ocean of life.
The brown-skinned gentleman with hair twists in the light blue polo shirt waves at the crowd. “Hello out there. My name is Tyler. I actually want to start by addressing what Susan said about Alpha-Omegas being nothing more than a cause. I’m not necessarily against any certain group of people; none of my friends look like me, they don’t come from the same social or financial background as I do, and they certainly don’t all dress like me. That being said, I’ll admit I don’t think Alpha-Omegas should be allowed to live with norma—excuse me, non-powered beings. I’m not talking about all Alpha-Omegas, just those with dangerous abilities.
He paces.
“Think about how many people die from accidental gunshot wounds, how many people are stabbed to death, poisoned, hit by cars, choked, beaten. We all know that there are Alpha-Omegas out there who are capable of so much more than that. Many of them don’t even realize it, and even more can’t control their abilities. We may be restricting their rights by putting them in special facilities, but I would rather have them hate me than have them out on the streets accidentally killing the people we love because no one wanted to step on anyone’s toes and tamper with anyone’s civil liberties. Isn’t life one of our civil liberties?”
A voice from the crowd: “You can’t make someone do something against their will!”
“Yes, you can. You can. A blind person may not believe you when you tell them that the grass is green, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
“He’s right.”
“Just because a person has a point doesn’t make it the right point.”
“I agree with Susan. This man is just using A-Os as exploitation.”
Someone flings a shoe at Tyler, whacking him on the head.
“Hey! The man has a right to speak his mind.”
“I didn’t come here to listen to this bullshit!”
A boisterous storm boils over the ocean of life.
Thunderous protests swell in the air. Tension crackles and crawls like lightning.
A bolt strikes Giorgio, igniting a memory.
His bare arm scraped across the carpet as a volley of sound struck his tympanic membrane.
Incessant.
Insistent.
Irritating.
Giorgio groaned as a wave of nausea bludgeoned the shores of his nerves.
“Answer your damn phone, G, I’m trying to sleep.” The neighboring lump in his bed yanked the covers over a head of tousled black and blonde curls.
The shock is syrup-slow, contorting his face into a narrow-eyed, press-lipped, furrowed-brow expression. It looked horrible.
“I told you t
o leave when we finished.”
“What can I say, you’re a charmer. No man’s ever lasted as long with me as you did.”
“Where the—where’s my phone?”
The lump rolled back and forth. “Just follow the ring, G, just follow the ring.” She yawned. Then she snored.
Giorgio stumbled out of the bed, picking his way over empty champagne bottles, condom wrappers, clothes, and underwear. A square light flashed beneath a pair of lace panties. Giorgio flung them and the little baggie caked with a white powder residue away and stabbed the ANSWER button before picking the phone up.
“He—” Nausea bubbled from his gut up into his esophagus. He fought to keep his throat closed and the vomit down. “Hello.” Palm to his forehead.
“Giorgio?”
“It’s too early in the morning to play the name game. Who is this?”
“It’s your Uncle James. How are you, son?”
“Hungover with an aching need to empty my stomach at both ends. What is this about, unc?”
“Well, I—I hate to call like this; it’s been a few months since we’ve seen each other. I—”
Rattling sigh. “How much?”
“What?”
“James, please, let’s discard the rigmarole. How much money do you need? Is my mother being characteristically disingenuous about her generosity?”
“She can’t help me with this.”
He grabbed a cigarette, shoved it in his mouth, and looked for a lighter. “Like she ever can.” Not on the desk. “Look, I know we’re family and we’re supposed to be there for one another...” On the nightstand? “...but I don’t feel like caring at the moment. So tell me what it is that you need and I’ll tell you whether I’m feeling like a bastard or a saint.” By the—yes. He flicked flame and lit his cigarette.
“Giorgio, I’ve got chronic kidney disease and—”
“Oh, God.” The nicotine triggered heaving. Giorgio raced/stumbled to the bathroom.
“I know, son, I—I know. Your mother should have told you.”
Giorgio set the phone on the edge of the sink and vomited violently into the toilet bowl, a few chunks trickling down the edge onto the floor. Words blended with splashes, hiccups, burps, and heaves. Giorgio wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, coming away with a line of drool. His uncle’s last words seemed to blare out at him.
“—gio, I need a kidney from you.”
Giorgio stopped, hand about to run through his curls. He crawled to the bathroom sink and pulled himself up until he could lean against the biting cold marble. He gingerly picked up the phone with both hands
“I’m sorr—” Burp. “What?”
“You’re the only person in our family who might be a match for me. Your mother’s is too little. The doctors would bring you in for an examination and—”
“Would I have a scar?”
“—then you—What?”
“Would. I. Have.” Roll of nausea that passed. “A. Scar?”
“Only a small one. You wou—”
“No.” He rested his forehead on the mirror, rolling his bleary eyes up at his bedraggled reflection.
“...What? Giorgio, son, I am going to die unless I can find another kidney. You only need one, so it’s not like I’m really robbing you of anything.”
“Except you are!” He slammed his palm on the mirror. “Giorgio Quintero will not and cannot have a scar. Do you hear me?” He took the phone from his ear and yelled into it, sliding down the sink as his muscles slacked. “I have three more days in sunny Tahiti, and I intend to stay the remainder of those days drinking, tanning, fucking, snorting, smoking, and shopping. Nowhere in there is there time for scarring or recovering.”
“Giorgio, you can save my life.”
“That doesn’t mean I will. Unfortunately for you, I seem to be feeling like a bastard today. Goodbye, uncle, and good luck.”
“Giorgio, please! I’m begging you! Ju—”
He tossed the phone in the toilet water with the vomit and staggered back to bed.
Thunder rumbled outside.
The memory burns away to the present. Chaos licks its lips and makes ready to pounce.
Giorgio lifts his hand and brings a bit of death essence to bear.
Bisset takes a sip of her lemonade and spears broccoli with her fork. She looks out over the floor of the restaurant before bringing the utensil to her lips. Couples, groups, crowds, trios, and parties. Everyone has someone.
Bisset studies them, tries to find the signs of disease and decay sloughing through their bodies. She squints her eyes and sees a dull red glow buzzing between a man’s ears. It fades as she focuses. Seraph’s gifts are gone.
“How’s your meal, miss?”
She jumps a bit as the server breezes by. “Oh, it’s delicious.”
“Excellent.” The man smiles and walks away with a sway of apron strings.
She puts her fork down, holds her hands in her lap, and bows her head. “I shouldn’t have taken all of those pills, I know that. But I just—” She looks up to see no one is looking back. “—I just wanted to be alone for a while. The two of you are always...always talking, always there.” She continues. “At first, I hated it, was confused because I thought I was going crazy.” Head shake. “But I realize now that I feel crazy without your voices in my head.” Pause. “Are you there? Seraph? The Dragoness?”
She listens. She looks.
A man sits in tears as the woman next to him throws her eyes around them, clearly embarrassed. Her lipsticked mouth moves in small, hushed tones between nervous smiles. She pats his hand.
“HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO CALM DOWN WHEN YOU JUST TOLD ME YOU’RE LEAVING ME!” Tears trickle from the man’s scrunched eyes. “HUH?”
She slaps his hand in rough pats. “Shahid, please don’t do this here.”
Sorrow crescendos to anger. “Why not? You did. Gina, I loved you. I wanted to start a family with you.” He slams his fist on the table, rattling dishes and sending quivers down the hanging tablecloth. “I was willing to look like a damn fool for you in front of my boys, and I don’t do that for anybody. ANYBODY!” Hot air fumes from his nostrils as he stands. “Tell me why?”
She sits calmly with her legs crossed. “Not here, Shahid, wait until we get back home.”
“We don’t have a home anymore, Gina! You just fucked it up. Fucked it all up.”
Gina grabs her purse. “I can’t do this right now.” She leaves.
Shahid collapses back into his chair, covers his mouth with a hand, and breathes through his nose, eyes roving. “Mama told me she would do this, she told me.” Hand goes to his head. “But I wouldn’t listen. Was too in love to listen.” He closes his eyes. He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up at Bisset.
“Dry your eyes, Shahid.” She kneels down. “It’s good that she left, she granted you a kindness many don’t receive until it’s too late.” She squeezes his hand. “This experience will make you stronger. This period of suffering will do you good.”
Clint comes at Leo in a righteous fury just as he is getting in his car.
Leo turns, sees him, and locks the doors.
“GET OUTTA THE CAR!” A fist bangs on the roof. “I SAID GET OUTTA THE DAMN CAR!” Face in the window, hands pressed to the glass. “I JUST LOST MY JOB BECAUSE OF YOU, SNITCH! I NEED THIS JOB!”
Leo fumbles for the car key, sticks it in the ignition. The engine turns.
“CUT THE CAR OFF!” Gear shifts down to D. “YOU AIN’T GOIN’ NOWHERE, MUTHA FU—” He jumps in front of the car and slams his hands on the hood. “YOU AIN’T GOIN’ NOWHERE! NOWHERE!”
Leo puts the car in R and quickly backs up...into a wall. He feels a familiar tightening of his skin, loosely registering it starting to gleam a faint silver-blue around the quivering of his hands.
“GONNA BEAT THE BLACK AND THE WHITE OUTTA YOU, ASSHOLE! AND ANY OTHER COLORS YOU GOT IN THAT SNITCHING BODY O’ YOURS!” He stomps forward, body strung tight.
Leo s
tarts to panic. “Clint, listen to me, I di—”
“I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE, LEO! I’M GONNA COME TO YOUR HOUSE AND BEAT ON YOUR GIRL! FRANCIE IS MINE! TELL THAT BITCH I’M COMIN’ FOR HER.”
Leo stops panicking. The gleam sharpens into something solid, focused. He shoves panic into the passenger seat and gets out of the car.
Clint hurries forward.
Air blurs.
The first flung force field only makes Clint teeter back. Leo adjusts and makes the next more powerful. It knocks the man on his ass. Leo gestures forcefully. “Get up!” The force field smoothly constructed beneath Clint props him up. Leo jerks his hand out and smashes another in Clint’s face. Blood.
“Never.”
Force field to the stomach.
“Ever.”
To the jaw.
“Threaten.”
Wrapped around the throat.
“Francie.”
He walks forward with each word, each hurled mass of nigh-invisible energy, until he is inches from Clint. The ex-janitor raises an arm, punches, and howls as his arm careens into solid force an inch in front of Leo’s face.
Leo tightens the force field around the other man’s throat, making a squeezing motion with his trembling hand. Clint’s eyes bulge as he tugs at the collar of near-nothing around his neck. His mouth gapes, tongue fishing at the air. Blood vessels scratch themselves across his eyes.
Leo drops his hand, drops the force field.
He gets in the car and drives.
Carefully.
It takes three tries for him to unlock the front door of his apartment. His hand quivers a bit as he steps inside, keys rattling as he puts them on the hook. He stops.
He goes to the fridge and grabs a reusable bottle of water, chugging it down before pressing the cold empty bottle to his forehead, cheeks, and the back of his neck. He breathes. And breathes. And breathes. And watches as Francie comes into the kitchen. He goes to her and holds her tight.
He isn’t aware that he is crying until he starts sniffing and feels the tears, the deep sobs in his throat.