by O'Brian Gunn
“Do more than look with your eyes and you’ll know just how magnificent I can be.” Her eyes simmer. “Explain your actions. What’s the reason for this fiasco?”
Damon shrinks at her response, slides back on his heels. “Libera Mentis Machina has helped just as much as it’s harmed. Maybe even more so. We’ve caused Dominion City and possibly more of the world much grief, but we’ve also helped make progress. I doubt there was a single mind that wasn’t changed in some way when people saw the Johnsons on Lamar Koehler.” He adjusts his glasses. “We’re forcing people to think, to form opinions of their own rather than let politicians and the media tell them who they should fear and who they should praise.”
The Dragoness cocks her head at him. “Suffering is its own reward. Failure can be a better teacher than success.”
Damon holds up a hand. “And I’m not arguing that point at all...and not because you could kill me as easily as you could bat your lovely eyelashes.”
“Continue.” She eases herself into a chair, back ramrod straight, and folds her hands over a crossed knee. Her wings gently stroke the air.
Damon looks from her to Giorgio. He swallows before he speaks. “Not only is the human life an experience, it’s also an experiment. The whole ‘learn from history or repeat it’ ordeal. Perform an experiment and learn from the results. This organization was formed to experiment on the experiment, bring in more variables for more results. More often than not, people like to stay in their comfort zones, do what’s familiar instead of testing out a radical idea.” He holds his hands up, fingers spread. “We’ve been conditioned to view failure as something that’s wholly about us and our ability, or lack of ability; it’s quite narcissistic, really.” He shows teeth. “How can we learn if we don’t fail?”
“And for that reason you staged the death of a family?” The Dragoness taps at her cheek with a finger, elbow resting on the arm of the chair.
He cuts a hand through the air. “The death was irrelevant. People die every day, always have and always will, that’s constant. But what isn’t constant is a person’s reaction and perspective to death. That’s what this experiment was all about: how would Dominion City as a whole feel about the murder of the first publicly known American A-O family?” He begins to pace. “I mean, think about what a family is, what it represents. A family isn’t just a mother, father, and kids. A family is a symbol of hope, achievement...one of the greatest examples of love in the world.” He grows more excited. “Some people cast away their blood family to find and form another of their very own, others come to rely on their families almost just as much as they rely on their phones. The roots of our family tree tell us who we are, who we were.” His eyes widen like a net to catch the torrent of ideas. “There was a chance the Johnsons could have started a legacy, a progeny of Alpha-Omegas in every generation. Jumble in the fact that this family was violently murdered and you can just sit back and take notes, make observations.”
“You were forcing people to feel, to react?” Giorgio stares at Damon.
Damon vibrates his hands in the negative. “No no no, we were compelling people to think. Why do we feel or act a certain way? Because we’ve been programmed to since a very young age. We hear that a person has died and instantly we say we’re sorry. A person is murdered and we feel horrified. Some people bring about their own death just as some people have nothing but their own choices and actions to blame for their murder. Not all of us are good, no matter what we’re taught to believe.”
Giorgio looks over at The Dragoness. “He isn’t wrong.”
The force of nature looks from Giorgio to Damon. “His philosophy isn’t entirely different from mine.” She floats up from her seat. “But that doesn’t excuse his actions. This experiment has leaped from your hands, from your leash, and has started spreading uncontrollably in the streets.” She points at the monitors. “And I don’t mean metaphorically.” She drops her arm. “You hold too much power.” A head shake. “But your fate is not in my hands.”
Damon watches her as she glides closer. “Does that mean you’re going to let me live.”
“I would infect you with a ticking virus that would make you feel as if you were tripping on top-shelf acid whilst excreting your bowels and blood and vomiting all over your adorable little cardigan if you dared form something as elaborate as what you had at Thornebriar here, but I’m afraid that I might accidentally make you sneeze yourself to death instead.”
Giorgio exhales a little sigh.
“And I’d let you attempt it anyway, but I can feel my hostess’s simmering displeasure. We’ll have to let non-powered human law sort the matter out.” The Dragoness sweeps to the side, starts to lift a hand behind her, lowers it. She tosses a glance at Giorgio before speaking. “Are there any telepaths in your organization that you’ve sent to mentally spy on us?”
The edges of Damon’s lips tug down. “Not that I know of. Unless there are and they wiped that knowledge from my mind.” He attempts to grin, but it’s more of a quivering grimace.
The Dragoness smothers rising cinders of displeasure, jerks her head behind her.
Damon leads the way out.
Giorgio steps closer to him. “You never did introduce me to any of the other leaders of your group. Where are they?”
“They were working on an experiment to see if they could induce a small town with collective paranoia with a series of not-so-paranormal events orchestrated by a few A-Os. I offered my professional input, but they felt I was overstepping my bounds.” He pauses to take a breath. “Rather than dismissing me like they originally wanted, they instead sent me here.” He waves a hand around them. “Where they felt my talents and ambitions would be of better use.” A wry smile splits across his lips. “And I’m just now realizing where I got the idea for the Johnson family.
“I still have access to our considerable resources, I’m simply unable to communicate with the others.” He rolls his attention back to the two A-Os behind him. “But I like to refer to them as if they still contact me. Brings me a measure of delusional comfort.”
Giorgio looks back at The Dragoness. “Are we sure we don’t want to kill him?”
At first, they look like flames flashing in the night.
But fire does not burn white.
Fire does not yell questions into a microphone before shoving it in your face.
Fire does not whine and click and whir.
Reporters. Police. Cameras. Paramedics. Questions. Firefighters. Lights. Vans. The press of the press. The assault of the authorities. The morass of the media.
Adam and the others stop as the refugees from Thornebriar trickle around them. Questions are thrown. Soot-stained faces are illuminated into harsh relief by the bright camera lights.
“Musta seen the flash o’ light when that dome thing dropped.” Noir looks over his shoulder as Giorgio, Damon, and Bisset join them.
Gazes swivel on Bisset and rest there. She looks...demure.
“The Dragoness is gone.” She looks away, eyes harried. “For now.”
“Are you okay?” Leo puts his hand on her back.
Quick nod. Swallow. Closed eyes.
“What was it like?”
Noir receives a shared glower for his question.
Bisset’s lips and mind flounder for the words.
“Is she—”
“Leave it alone, Noir.” Adam’s voice brings the question to a halt as he walks past, snatching up Damon by the upper arm and hauling him along.
“What, dude? I was just askin’ if she was—”
Adam whirls and rushes the other man. “Did you lose your hearing when you disemboweled that teenaged boy? I said—”
“Is that—It is! it’s Adam Kensie!” One of the reporters abandons her interview with the mailman and hurries toward them, microphone jutted out in front of her. “Mr. Kensie, may I ask you a few questions?”
Mr. Kensie’s ire slip-slides into a charming smile. Gripped fingers relax a touch on Damon’s arm.
“I’m afraid that—”
“Are you responsible for finding and rescuing the Johnsons?”
The microphone wavers in his face. The camera stares unblinkingly. More reporters trickle in along with waves of silence. Adam speaks.
“I didn’t do it by myself.” He turns and claps Perry on the shoulder. “Detective West here is the one who put this rescue into motion.” He extends a hand at the others. “And we most definitely wouldn’t have been able to apprehend the man responsible without these three men and this woman.”
Damon pushes his glasses up his nose.
“Where were the Johnsons being held?”
“How do you feel about people like you being used in experiments to advance medicine, technology, and science?”
“Are these other people with you Alpha-Omegas?”
“If those are the Johnsons, then who were the people found murdered in their home?”
“Are any of you associated with the other vigilante A-Os who have started to show up throughout Dominion City?”
“Any explanation on how Miguel lost his hands? He won’t tell us.”
“What’s the name of your team?”
The last question rings and resounds. The reporters turn their heads as one, extending their microphones, phones, and tape recorders as one.
Adam presses his lips together, looks back at the others. Leo gives a barely perceptible shake of his head. Noir smirks and quirks his eyebrows. Giorgio throws a look at a flashing camera that can almost, but not quite, be misconstrued as a pose. Bisset puts the entirety of her focus on the colossal task of breathing.
Adam takes a deep breath, forms his words, and breathes them into existence.
“We are The Furies.”
The very world inhales.
FADE OUT
EPISODE TWELVE: Furies
THE very world exhales.
Dominion City sits sedated and docile. The vehicular flux on Lynord Street plays host to rubberneckers and gawkers pointing out the scrubbed spots of residual violence on the street left over by the riot a month prior. Here by Patty’s Kitchen is where one woman was bashed in the face with a baseball bat for announcing herself an ally for Alpha-Omegas. There, a man was killed when he stood too quickly and took a thrown piece of pipe to the temple. And right around there was where another man was attacked by a gang of Alpha-Omega supporters.
The sun floats high in the sky and observes all as it reflects itself from the glossy glass making up the crop of buildings in the Greenback Garden. It watches the homeless rattling dirty cups and frayed hats for spare change in Mercurmont. It watches the privileged and prestigious of Cade District as they mold themselves after the pages of high fashion magazines with their small dogs in diamond collars. It sees the college kids in Oswyn awkwardly lose their virginity, whittle away at their prepackaged identities, attend class at Dominion University, and find themselves over and over and over again. It takes a peek at Phosphorus Park, replete with writers, poets, bohemians, and aspiring free spirits.
History has put down roots within this small city, dug deep into the nucleus, and begun to grow and stretch and blossom.
The sun turns its attention to Century Heights where Detective Perry West resides.
“Gahdammit!”
Walter presses his hands to his thighs. “Are you always this much of a...me?” He blinks up at Perry on the bed.
The other man mashes his lips together as he sits on the couch, face pale. “How many times have you been stabbed in the stomach?”
He goes back to redressing Perry’s wound, wrapping the bandage around the other man’s lean torso. He lowers his voice. “What was it like in there?”
Perry lowers his arm. “A lot like home actually. Corner store. Quaint little houses. Burning buildings. Then it felt like I had closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.” He shakes his head. “Burning people flying in the sky. A man who exploded into snow and almost froze my blood.” Eyes distant. “A woman with wings knocking a missile out of the air like it didn’t mean jack shit.”
“I’m just glad you made it out.” Walter examines his work.
Perry’s lips lift and he leans back on the couch. Carefully. “With The Furies to thank for it.”
“Not how Sovereign tells it. They’re the ones with the superpowers and they’re actually thanking you.”
“This non-powered human can still make waves in the universe. Damndest thing is it was Adam who taught me that I’m still in control of my world.”
“You two didn’t make hot, sweaty, sanctified love, did you?”
The laughter makes Perry’s wound hurt.
“Hell no. That thick Bible stick shoved up his ass doesn’t leave room for too much else sliding up there. We were able to reach a kind of agreement. If either of us needs the other, we’re there and that’s that. He doesn’t bring up the fact that I’m attracted to men, and I don’t mention the fact that he belongs in an institution.”
“Very diplomatic.” A bar of sunlight rests on Walter’s face. He lifts his eyes to Perry’s face, the subtle fire smoldering behind his eyes. “Looks like I triggered something there.” He smirks.
The heat is doused. “What?”
Walter waggles a finger in a loose circle at the other man’s face. “You and your R&B love-making eyes.”
Perry holds a hand to his stomach, eases out a breath. “I won’t deny it.” Knees sway open and closed. “You make my dick twitch.”
Walter’s laugh is bright and wild. “Damn that’s romantic.” He swats at a swinging knee as he looks at Perry for a moment. “You know, I’ve honestly thought about ripping your clothes off and trying out every position with you, see if us gettin’ sweaty and out of breath together is anything like the fantasies I sometimes have.”
Perry’s eyes widen along with his smile. “Oh, really?”
“Really.” Slumped shoulders. “But I know that if I do give into that temptation it’ll be that much harder to move on. Like I need to.” His hand rest on Perry’s knee.
Perry lifts himself from the couch, stifling a wince as a twinge of pain scrapes electric through his abdomen. He cups the back of Walter’s head, molds their lips together. The kiss is a balm for the both of them, spreading through them in all the right places with warm, quicksilver ease that holds time hostage, suspends them together in a contained and self-sustained eternity, and strips them naked without the need for them to remove their clothes.
Walter eases his arms around Perry, hands sliding across the bandages as he relaxes into the rhythm of their gently working lips. Perry is the one to break the kiss, withdrawing just enough to meet Walter’s gaze. “Despite all the shit that’s happened lately, I still feel like I’m ready for this, or at least something damn close to it.”
Walter smooths fingertips down the other man’s face.
“But I know I can’t be selfish, that something like this can’t and shouldn’t be a one-sided thing.”
“I’ll keep in touch with you. I hope we’ll see each other in the future, but I don’t want to make any promises right here and right now.”
“I know. But you’ve got a job now, and a room in a nice house with a music producer and computer programmer.”
“Cyber security engineer.”
Perry lifts his hands in surrender. “I sit corrected. Anyway, I know you’re gonna be okay.”
Walter stands. “And I know you’re gonna break down in a heap of bandages and tears as soon as I leave.”
“I will if you don’t leave my damn house key. Know how I like my privacy.”
They chase him into the Lowe’s parking lot, watching as he slips in and out of the cones of dingy yellow light. He looks over his shoulder and sees that they are now only ten feet back. His arms and legs pump harder, faster.
The world fractures and explodes when he turns the corner and is punched in the face. Reality comes back in shards that drag themselves across his skull, digging in with particular fondness around his left eye. He looks
up and sees the world breaker standing over him, cracking his knuckles with a baseball cap tilted at an angle over his fresh haircut. He crouches down, reaches into his pocket, and throws a black handkerchief on the bruised man’s chest.
“Got a lil’ sumthin’ right there.” He taps at the corner of his mouth.
The other man wipes at his mouth, looks at his clean hand. “There’s noth—”
W H A M !
His head snaps back at the punch and he feels blood dribbling from his mouth.
Mr. Manners taps at the corner of his mouth again. “Got a lil’ sumthin’ right there.”
The man with the throbbing face wipes at the blood and turns as the people chasing after him barrel around the corner. They surround him. One of them brings the man with the tilted cap a wooden crate to sit on, brushing it off before setting it down.
The man looks at the crate with disdain. “Da fuck is this?”
The large man who brought him the crate instantly strips the shirt from his back and drapes it over the crate. “My bad, V.”
V sits with his knees wide, one elbow propped on his thigh with a finger brushing his lips. He regards the bleeding man. He leans close. “Not gonna sit here and open with sumthin’ poignant or clever, I’m just goin’ straight for the heart.” He makes a jabbing motion. “You royally fucked up one of my dens. Left alla my soldiers dead, and swiped some Gs from me, too.” He rubs his palms together. “Insult to injury.”
The bleeding man looks up at him with a swollen eye. “ ’M sorry, dude.”
V’s brows knit together. He turns to a companion. “Did this muthafuc—” He turns back to the man. “Did yo ass just—” Back to his companion. “Am I hearin’ this lil’ punk-ass bitch right?”
“He apologized.” The companion rolls his tongue over his bottom teeth.
V presses his hands together again and massages his forehead with his fingertips. “People never sorry when they need to be, only when they got to be.” He looks up. “If yo ass was smart, you woulda taken da money an’ split. Instead, you had to not only get yo pretty cinnamon mug captured on the hidden cameras I had installed in the house, you also had to have yo ass hangin’ out on the news.”