Broken Angels

by Harambee K. Grey-Sun

  “Okay,” he said, “but Joyce’s name, how did you know that?”

  “Picked it up during one of the times I passed by. Picked up her accent too.”

  “One of the times?”

  “I was jogging,” Veronica said. “I was in better shape back then. Running 10Ks every other week.”

  She’d passed by multiple times, and he hadn’t noticed? Not enough to remember?

  “What are you mumbling?” Veronica asked.

  Had he been mumbling? He must’ve been so deep in thought he failed to mind his mouth. If so, undoubtedly he’d been mumbling what he’d been thinking. “I, uh, just said you’ve got a scary memory.”

  Veronica laughed. “You find it scary that I can remember something I saw more than a year ago? I think it’s a sign of good mental health.”

  “Some might find it intimidating.”

  “Aw, poor baby, intimidated by a li’l ole woman’s memory, bullied by the idea of settling down into marriage.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Darryl matched her mocking tone. “And don’t forget my paralyzing fright at the mere sight of a baby carriage.”

  They both laughed. Only Veronica’s sounded as if it came from genuine amusement. The undertone in Darryl’s voice no doubt gave him away. As she looked at him with a coy, playful smile, he could see something he didn’t like in that bold blue eye of hers. He was happy it didn’t linger on him. Veronica turned to gaze at the people on the grass; Darryl turned his attention inward.

  This one was different. Unlike any of his previous charity cases, this one was able to keep up. She wasn’t the annoying silent type, and she wasn’t the type who’d get too confused at his philosophical-poetic musings. And she wasn’t shy about disagreeing when any of those musings expressed something she didn’t like, but she wasn’t the angry, argumentative type either. A far throw from the type he’d grown used to. In conversation, she could keep up, even trip him up. It was all so different than the vapid conversations of most first dates. And unlike with the others, he figured he could push on, wrap up this particular case quicker than usual. No need to wait for their third or fourth date to begin it. He’d start the process now so it’d be done in a week or so. Veronica Blake was different, but she wasn’t on the bright path. Not yet.

  She was an artist, or so she claimed. True or not, he knew her type. Whether talented or not, she had to be sensitive, unsure of herself, insecure about her place in the naked world. The scarred, blemished, sick world. Whether they’d admit it or not, Darryl knew all self-proclaimed artists sought in some small or big way to create their own perfect world, a world perfect in their own eyes. If their vision wasn’t strong enough to overcome the entire real world, it was just as well. Their little world could remain in a tiny bump on the greater world, noticed or unnoticed. A mole on the face of reality. Maybe regarded as a beauty mark to some onlookers, but to others—

  “What?” Veronica asked.

  His thoughts interrupted, Darryl reentered the reality before his eyes and at his fingertips. “Huh?”

  “I heard you mumbling again. You said something about an ugly spot. And something about ‘the heart of death.’ Sounded really weird.”

  Darryl was sure, almost positive this time, he’d said nothing while he was ruminating. But even if he hadn’t said a word, she’d mentioned the words “heart” and “death,” words from the title of the book that gave his life meaning and directed him toward redemption. Still, whatever she thought she’d heard him say, he’d have to spin it some other way. In the process of peace, words were to be elusive, actions direct.

  “I was just thinking about the concept of peace,” he said, “which I guess some poets might refer to as the heart of death.”

  Veronica rolled her visible eye. “Here we go with the poetry again.”

  “You’re right,” Darryl said with a smirk. “To hell with poetry. Actions trump words.”

  He exerted just the right amount of pressure with his arm. She turned toward him, matching his smile as he tightened his muscles, pulling her closer, looking into her eye, preparing to look much deeper after the spirit-weakening first kiss. Step one in the treatment. She looked ready; she seemed willing, so easy—then she turned her head to the right, letting Darryl kiss the hair that fell over her left ear.

  “Hey,” she asked, “where’s the sock hop?”

  Darryl blew off the hair sticking to his lips. “What?”

  “Check out those two,” she said.

  Darryl looked toward where Veronica nodded. “What the…?”

  Michael and Christine were walking on the gravelly path on the other side of the grass.

  Michael and Christine, one of the terrorist duos associated with The Infinite Definite.

  So conspicuous…How had Veronica’s untrained eye spotted them before he did?

  Darryl slid his arm from her shoulder.

  The terrorists were dressed in their usual outfits, just like cartoon characters—though there wasn’t a damn thing funny about them. Michael wore his black jeans, white T-shirt, and black leather jacket, copied from the generic greasers seen in most modern movies about the rebellious youth of the 1950s. His look never varied. His companion was different. According to the photographs Darryl had seen and the descriptions he’d heard from fellow agents, her outfit stayed the same while the colors changed. This time she was wearing the red skirt with white poodle, white blouse with white poodle, red chiffon scarf, and red cats-eye glasses. All that red, so vibrant and eye catching. It made an angry Darryl again wonder why he hadn’t spotted the two on his own. What kind of a Watcher agent was he?

  The duo was on their way to a dance, all right. Darryl knew he had to cut in before they forced anyone else to spin with them.

  “Whoa,” he said as he fingered the watch on his right wrist. “Time almost got away from me.” Darryl stood up from the bench. “I really have to run.”

  “Another date?” Veronica asked as she stood. “Are you blessing calendars instead of damning them?”

  Hah—a reference to the woman in the poem. Darryl chuckled feebly as he again thought of the power of Veronica’s memory. “No, I bemoan them. Just like she did. But I can’t manipulate time.”

  Veronica smiled and shook her head. “Well, I can only say ‘till tomorrow’ to you then. Let’s meet for brunch, if you’re not too busy. Call me.”

  She moved closer, stood on her toes, and leaned in. Darryl pulled her even closer and kissed her, straining to keep as much of his own saliva in his mouth as possible. The use of his signature honey-trick (a strange-but-happy side effect of his Virus medication) would have to wait for another time.

  They disengaged, and Veronica turned to walk toward the Metro station entrance. Darryl stood still and waited for—There—the moment she turned back to smile and wave at him. He returned the gesture, and, when she turned away, he turned himself invisible. He didn’t care about any others who may’ve witnessed the sudden disappearance, just so long as she didn’t. Not yet.

  Darryl scrambled off the path and up into the nearest tree. He stripped down to his T-shirt and boxer shorts. On other days he would’ve been thankful if a strong wind were rustling the leaves, masking the sound of his presence in the tree. Today, it didn’t matter. He’d make his presence known soon enough.

  Leaving his clothes hanging on the branches, Darryl took his corresq out of his hidden shirt pocket. He kept himself invisible as he drifted back down toward the ground, stopping to levitate just one inch above it. He then glided toward his targets, who, for the moment, were strolling along the pathway like two young people casually in love with each other. He knew they were really scoping out the territory as they decided on the best spot to tag the most victims. He knew their kind.

  The Infinite Definite was a loose association of Virus-carriers who had dipped themselves once too often into the dirty-light pools of XynKroma. The result for each was a scrambled mind, conscious thoughts stained with uncommon sense, an inclination toward wil
d artistic expression, and an uncanny ability to manipulate the twisted laws of physics that ruled the extra-dimensional realm of Xyn wherever they went. They were the mentally undead. Magickally talented zombies. Like most Virus-carriers, they could manipulate light, but they took it to whatever extremes they could by performing what had become known as Dirty-Light Magick tricks—fantastical feats that were too, too real and always used in the service of mayhem and chaos. If they believed in anything, associates of The ID believed the nonsensical rules of XynKroma, the Ultimate realm of Reality, should rule over all realms of Reality, all planes of existence. They may never say so outright, but Michael and Christine subscribed to this messy philosophy; one could tell by their actions, their special brand of violence.

  Both the greaser and his chick were in their mid- to late-teens. Darryl had never faced these two before, but he’d had two or three discussions with Watcher agents who’d encountered them. Their modus operandi was to draw attention to themselves by putting on a dance display in a public setting. After a sufficient number of individuals had gathered around to watch them, snap pictures, and applaud, the duo would snap and begin to hurt as many of the onlookers as they could before the authorities arrived. Today, they were taunting their luck; an authority was already here.

  Darryl continued to follow them, studying them as he kept a distance of fifty feet and remained invisible to everyone around him. From what he’d heard, Michael and Christine wore the same basic outfits whenever they were in public, and they never manipulated light-and-shadow to hide, blur, or alter their facial features. They were among the most audacious couples associated with The Infinite Definite. Still, it was rare for them to cause alarm when they went for a stroll. People usually either took them as eccentrics and ignored them, or smiled at them with broad amusement.

  Damned tourists. They were a big part of the problem. Though bold, Michael and Christine were also smart enough to frequent only the touristy spots in Washington and Northern Virginia, the places area residents saw often enough but rarely stopped to visit unless they were entertaining guests from out of town. A few residents of the area knew of Michael and Christine’s antics—how they looked and what they did—from brief mentions on the nightly news and small items published in the local papers. On the occasions sharp-witted residents spotted the duo, or even thought they did, they would either flee or call the police; unfortunately for local law enforcement officers, there existed a large number of social clubs devoted to the culture of “1950s America,” clubs whose membership included law-abiding adults and teenagers fond of dressing in 1950s fashion and speaking in 1950s slang. The police often found themselves answering to false alarms. These two in Darryl’s sight weren’t false; he’d been looking at them close enough and long enough to see they were exactly who he thought they were. But he couldn’t do anything. Yet.

  In spite of all the complicated deals and arrangements the IAI had with some law enforcement agencies, the Watcher agents were in no way considered true officers of the law. Darryl couldn’t touch either one of them until they’d proven themselves to be a threat; then his status would change. He’d be allowed just enough legal authority to put an end to the threat, like someone making a citizen’s arrest. Watcher agents had unofficially been given a bit more leeway to act over the past two years, but there still were limits by which to abide. A tightening economy had led to increased crime, underfunded and overworked security forces, slower response times, and formerly borderline lawbreakers crossing the line more and more often as there was a greater chance they’d get away with it. That was just another reason Darryl wanted to join the HSA as one of their armed agents—fewer limits, more authority to act. He’d never again have to bide his time, waiting for someone who was clearly guilty, clearly the enemy, to make the first move. He’d already sent a message to Adam asking him to contact the proper authorities, but it could take up to thirty minutes for them to arrive. Something would surely happen before then. Darryl considered himself patient, but young terrorists lacked that virtue.

  After walking the Mall’s gravelly path all the way to Fourth Street, Michael and Christine turned around and started walking in the other direction, on the grass. The show was about to start. Unseen and undetected, Darryl followed them until the pair stopped in the grassy area of the Mall right between the Natural History Museum and the Smithsonian Castle. It was no random spot. It was an area almost equidistant from the Metro entrance and the entrance to the sculpture garden, and very near the children’s merry-go-round. It was the area with the highest concentration of people. And at two o’clock in the afternoon, the sun seemed to shine down on the spot from directly above. It was perfect.

  Although the merry-go-round’s tune was loud and distracting, the greaser and his girl most likely blocked it out and, in their own minds, substituted the music of Bill Haley or one his contemporaries as they began their dance routine. Darryl was the first member of their audience; little by little, however, more and more curious onlookers stopped and stepped closer, wondering at the spectacle, talking about it, laughing at it, and taking pictures.

  Michael and Christine moved deftly on the grass. Darryl was sure he was the only one to notice they had raised their bodies to stand a quarter of an inch above the ground’s surface. They were literally dancing on air.

  Many Virus-carriers could perform some amazing feats. They couldn’t fly, but they could defy gravity within very severe limitations. Vince Ceniza once told Darryl it had something to do with the Earth’s magnetic fields and the “magnetic” part of carriers’ electromagnetic talents. Michael and Christine’s talents included some phenomenal dancing skills.

  The two weren’t dancing as if they were in a 1950s dancehall. They were performing physical riffs on 1950s dances, mimicking while adding modern touches to them so that, while the movements made their nostalgic nods toward the fads of a simpler and more conservative time, they also seemed to be smart, forward-looking, and more than a bit threatening, dangerous, like all truly experimental artworks. Michael and Christine moved and threw each other around as if they were trying to kill themselves, and knowing the mind-state of the terrorists associated with The ID, Darryl believed that maybe they actually were, themselves and whoever else got close enough.

  In spite of the frenetic display of some amazing stunts, Michael and Christine didn’t draw a large crowd. Those who did approach stayed only a few minutes before moving on to go about their sightseeing. After they’d been at it for a little more than ten minutes, Darryl knew the two wouldn’t wait much longer to strike.

  And they didn’t.

  When about fifteen people were within a good enough range, Michael released Christine to twirl, spin, and dance by herself as he pulled an object from his pocket and made a motion as if he would run it through his hair. A comb? Darryl wondered as he squinted at it. No—a switchblade, he realized too late as Michael threw it, hitting a man several feet away in the back of the neck. It happened so fast and far away from where most eyes were focused that no one in the crowd moved or screamed until Christine reached for the woman standing closest to her, put her hands on the woman’s cheeks, dug her false nails into the skin and jerked her hands down, ripping deep gashes in the woman’s face.

  The woman’s scream was infectious as members of the crowd caught on and tried to run. Most who had gathered in close to watch the duo were older, middle-aged individuals and couples, some with young kids, none of them in the best shape for sprinting. Their attempts to get away were slow and clumsy.

  Michael ran, leaped, and glided a couple of inches above the grass for several feet toward three of the most vulnerable runners—a beer-bellied man, his hysterical and paunchy wife, and their obese eight-year-old. They scrambled to run away, but the handholding family only succeeded in running into one another. Michael had drawn another switchblade and was just moments away from reaching them, getting his hands on one of them.

  “Gonna carve some of them steaks outta ya, big daddy!”
the greaser said. “Then gonna milk yer cow! Hear her squeal while I make veal!”

  Darryl flung his corresq. The metal circle sailed out from invisibility and hit its target, breaking the skin on Michael’s wrist. He yelled and dropped his knife. Darryl then stepped out from behind his unseen screen, appearing as a thing enshrouded in bluish shadows and purplish light, intangible violet and orange wings spreading out behind him as he rushed toward the costumed hoodlum.

  The sudden appearance of a seemingly alien being failed to intimidate Michael. As swift as Darryl was, Michael was even swifter in removing his leather jacket and tossing it at his attacker.

  In an ordinary circumstance, such a maneuver would slow Darryl down by only half a moment; he’d step aside instead of stepping forward, moving out of the way of the tossed object. But this maneuver wasn’t made by an ordinary opponent. After the jacket left his hand, Michael used a Dirty-Light Magick trick to withdraw all light surrounding the jacket, making it appear as a large and growing black blanket. Darryl couldn’t see beyond it or anything around it, and within a sliver of a second, a thick wall of blackness had appeared in front of him. He was forced to stop.

  He was then forced backward when Michael emerged from the wall a few feet in front of him, swinging his fists at Darryl’s head.

  Darryl fought back, swinging and connecting, hitting Michael in his throat and his right temple. Michael stumbled to the left, and Darryl made sure he went all the way to the ground by clasping his hands together and bringing them down hard on the back of Michael’s neck.

  He turned around to locate the other one; he spotted her farther down field, finishing up a dangerous dance move with her unwilling elderly partner. The dancing partners parted for good when the tip of one of Christine’s saddle shoes made violent contact with the underside of the old man’s chin.

  Darryl couldn’t make it down there in time before she hurt any others, so he stayed put, squinted, and concentrated. Christine began shrieking almost immediately, feeling the infrared radiation burning her face. Apparently confused about the cause, she didn’t run; the girl only collapsed to the ground, hiding her head under her arms. Darryl let up and turned away, just in time to see Michael lunging at him with another knife.