“Killing makes more killing.” Dio murmured. Yvonne looked him in the eye, reaching out to grab both sides of his face; ensuring that he understood just how important what he’d just said was to her.
“Yes. That’s exactly it. All killing is good for is making...more...killing. Don’t make the same mistake that they’re making. We’re Jewish, Dio. We know these people: Wright, and Galt, and Sudo...and whoever else there is at the top: trying to rewrite the destiny of the world in blood and ash. Them...and – apparently – the person that you’re trying to convince yourself that you can be.” She removed one of her hands, holding it in front of his face and folding fingers down as she recited her list: “The Arabs, the Soviets, the Germans, the Russians from before the revolution...the Egyptians and Babylonians, once upon a time.” She clasped his face again – tightly – and spoke slowly; clearly: “Any tear shed by any Jew in the whole of our history has been shed for the actions of hypocrites who believed – and believed hard – in things about which they knew nothing.”
“And us? We’ve been our own worst enemies more than once.” Dio shot back.
“Like you are now?” She questioned. Almost immediately, she softened: “You are right, though. But what people isn’t that true for? The point you’re missing, is that taking responsibility is easy, because by the time you have to take it, the damage is already done. At such points in time, you can either choose to take responsibility, or choose denial. You need to think at the ground level for once, Dio. You need to think about what it is to kill...and what it is to die. Only God has the luxury of the long view.”
“I didn’t think you believed in God...” Dio replied.
“I don’t. And if I’m right, then no one has that luxury. If you are, Dio...then there is only one: and He isn’t among your new allies.” Dio and Yvonne stared at each other for a moment; Yvonne still tenderly holding Dio’s face in her hands.
“A-hem...” Smoke cleared her throat. Dio and Yvonne both looked up; Yvonne letting her hands fall into her lap. Smoke stood in the doorway...one eyebrow raised and the other lowered to the point that it was obscuring part of her left eye. “Did I uh...interrupt something, here?”
“No. We were just talking,” Yvonne shook her head, getting to her feet.
“Like friends?” Smoke asked.
“Yes.” Yvonne confirmed.
“The same way you...sleep in the same bed? Like friends?” Smoke mocked. Yvonne rolled her eyes.
“We lived alone in a bunker for a year. Our normal is a different kind of normal.”
“Oh. Okay, yeah. I get that.” Smoke nodded. “So are we gonna head the fuck out there, or...” She pointed to Yvonne and then to Dio like a thought had just occurred to her, miming ‘you; with you?’: “Sorry, did you want to blow him, first? Like friends? Should I come back?” Unable to hold a straight face, she snickered mutedly.
“Shut up,” Yvonne chuckled, punching at the top of her arm. Dio raised an eyebrow.
“Are you two...?” He started, trailing off.
“What? Spit it out.” Smoke rolled her eyes.
“Never mind.”
“What’s happening? Where are we going?” Yvonne queried. Smoke shrugged.
“Wherever: it’s a beautiful day out, after all.” Smoke replied, saving every ounce of sarcasm for the second comment: “Bleak, sunless oblivion for all and fucking sundry, y’know?”
“Did you want something?” Dio deadpanned. The cavernous ever-night of Palatine Hill was starting to get to him. Unlike Yvonne, he hadn’t had any trips aboveground to mitigate the claustrophobia.
“I want a lot of fucking things,” Smoke smirked, glancing at Yvonne. Dio politely pretended not to notice. He knew – without a doubt – that if there was anything worth knowing, he’d know about it just as soon as Yvonne wanted him to. It wasn’t his place to pry. “But yeah. I’m here ‘cause Wright wanted to speak to the two of you. Well, actually, he just asked for Dio. But I figured – ” she nodded to Yvonne: “ – that you’d probably want to...y’know...accompany your minor.”
“Ha.” Dio grunted, reaching for his jacket. Yvonne just smiled. Smoke shrugged.
“Okay. Well I’ll see the two of you out there, then.” Smoke nodded, turning on a dime and making her way out. Dio slipped into his jacket, and Yvonne motioned at him impatiently: ‘hurry up, Dio’. He rolled his eyes so hard that he was genuinely surprised to find that he hadn’t accidentally detached at least one retina in the process. They left the room – falling into a steady pace behind the figure of Smoke – moving rapidly out into the streets of Palatine Hill. Dio nudged Yvonne.
“Does she seem happier to you, lately?” He asked. Yvonne hmm’d noncommittally.
“Maybe she’s getting laid.” She suggested with a wry little smirk.
“Yeah...” Dio nodded a suspicious little nod. “Maybe so.”
§§§
Wright watched the troops march through the central square of Palatine Hill with thinly veiled disdain.
“I almost feel as if we should have given them jack-boots and had them goose-stepping in smart, coordinated little lines. We could have thrown up some lovely facades; had it looking like Munich in the springtime...perhaps with some sort of flashy accoutrements. Ahh yes...do you know what I think may have done the trick?” He paused; his face descending into a dark, infuriated scowl as he growled a single, final word out through harshly gritted teeth: “Swastikas...”
“No...no, I think that this gets the point across just fucking fine.” Smoke replied, folding her arms over her chest and moving to stand next to him. “No additions needed.”
“Yes, well...none of this has anything to do with me, you understand?”
“Yeah. Totes. Even you aren’t tasteless enough to invite a couple of Jews down to a secret, evil-as-fuck-looking underground city to watch the ‘Waffen-SS’ do drills.” Wright and Smoke exchanged a glance.
“It is rather on the nose...” He agreed.
“Yes, it is rather.” She imitated.
“Don’t do that.” He muttered, provoking an eye-roll.
“What the fuck ever, Reichs-führer Wright.” Smoke tossed Wright a sloppy ‘sieg-heil’ salute. He sighed an irritated sigh. Leaning forward: looking past Smoke to Yvonne and Dio, he smiled an encouraging, earnest smile.
“I apologise – sincerely – for the problematic symbolic overtones of this gratuitous little display.” He assured them. “But, moving on: how are we both this morning?” Dio and Yvonne nodded out a synchronised, mutually ambivalent nod. Yvonne had a lot on her mind. And so – after his conversation with Yvonne – did Dio. “You’ll both be pleased to hear that your intakes have been processed and confirmed. You will continue working together, but, in a radical step away from surveillance and analysis, you will be tasked with strategic coordination and tactical support.”
“Not ground ops?” Smoke asked, genuinely surprised. “My recommendation was for tactical support in the field.”
“As...effective...as you, admittedly, are, operative Smoke...” Wright straightened, staring disrespectfully out at the soldiers; clearly of the opinion that they were, at best, a means to an end and, therefore, utterly expendable: “In the areas of tactical deployment, threat assessment and mitigation, and...ahem...rigour of ‘follow-through’, you are, unsurprisingly, lacking. So whilst your advice was taken under advisement – as advice so often is, in this day and age – clearer heads have prevailed in the matter of which placements the eminent merit of our new colleagues’ credentials demanded. I genuinely hope you do not feel slighted, or in any way offended by this decision. Or, for that matter, the decision to, for the time being, ‘redistribute’ your skill-set to a more...tangibly productive range of activities.”
“You’re reassigning me?” She scoffed. “How does Galt feel about that?”
“It was, primarily, Galt’s decision.” Wright claimed; his narrowed eyes and telling smirk, however, weaving a different tapestry entirely. “You could even consider it
a promotion. If...that is...you choose to view the situation through an optimistic lens. John Galt no longer requires your...skills...in the area of ‘policy implementation’.” He sneered, his voice excreting sarcasm. It filled Smoke’s ears: as thick, and slimy, and repugnant as butter – turned rancid – settling on the tongue. In the same way, it overpowered her senses: first one and then all...provoking the formation of a knot of child-like horror that sat low in her gut. The immense heft of that horror – dense and weighty – dragged down her heart...which beat faster in response...and her brain: which moved, slow and sluggish, over the contours of Wright's deep, unsettling – and, so far as she could see; utterly unreasonable – loathing for her. “Sede Imperiali will now directly administer the Seven Hills, with each of ‘The Seven’ providing guidance as is appropriate to their rightful, subordinate stations. My superior understanding of the needs of The See leave you free to cater to the needs of Galt’s subordinates: plural or singular, dependant on their need of you. You will now answer directly to Basilisk, in a similar role to the one that you, until now, have been performing for Galt. Allow me, if I may, to simplify the parameters of your newfound role: You will implement policy. You will receive and follow instructions. You will serve Palatine Hill...on your knees...as is your place.” Smoke’s lip edged up at the side, exposing a vicious swathe of white, sparkling canine and molar.
“You motherfucking, low-life, piece-of-shit bastard...” Smoke managed to hiss out.
“Language, operative Smoke, if you please...” Wright sighed with an air of profound boredom.
“Oh, you want language? I’ll show you some fucking language, you cock-sucking prick,”
“Homophobia?” Wright smirked. “Well, now...there’s a refreshing deviation from your characteristic repertoire of unnecessarily crass turns of phrase.” Smoke’s face reddened.
“Basilisk is a fucking psychopath, Wright.”
“Aren’t we all?” Wright mused, apparently rhetorically.
“This is about Kayla Donohue, isn’t it?” She snarled. Wright snapped to attention, eyes simmering with hate. “I’m...I’m sorry, Wright. I was out of line. I was disrespectful.” Yvonne’s eyes went to Smoke. The blonde woman’s anger was still there; as was the core strength of her. But something else...something ancillary but crucial...had given way in Smoke. Yvonne felt it. She felt it snap and shrivel away. The feeling manifested as an empathic twitch, provoked by witnessing, in front of her eyes, the primal – primordial – desecration of something in Smoke – mirrored in herself – that she cherished beyond her understanding of why, or what it was.
In the simplest terms possible; the only ones she could find to adequately express her emotions at the time: Yvonne’s heart broke as she watched a woman that she loved plead with – beg – a man that she hated.
“The two of you should have a lot to talk about, then.” Wright nodded simply. “Basilisk’s reputation precedes him. He is, you will find...singularly adept in the art of...‘adjusting’...recalcitrant behaviour in his underlings. I’m certain that the two of you will get along splendidly.”
“I won’t do it.” Smoke spat. “I won’t fucking do it. I want to speak to Galt.”
“Do you, now?” Wright considered. “I find that request to be somewhat...perplexing, given that, until now...you’ve been positively blissful in the degree of distance you’ve maintained between yourself and John Galt; not to mention ‘The Seven’. You deal with the underlings and the lickspittles...the plebeians and the poseurs. One suspects – and I do apologise if one’s suppositions are erroneous in this regard – that your comfort with doing unsavoury work resides in a lack of connectivity between that work and the true nature of those who commission it. Thoughts? Comments?”
“I – ” Smoke choked over the syllable as though her voice was trying to force its way past, and squeeze its way around, an object lodged partway down her throat.
“Nothing? No snappy rejoinder? I see.” He snarled. There was a note of victorious self-applause, there. More than a note. More like a concerto. “‘Speechless’ is an unfamiliar look for you...though I feel that, had it been one with which you’d acquainted me sooner, we’d both have been the better for it. No matter. Live and learn, as they say. Well...for now, at least.”
“Wright – ”
“ – And I’m sure that, in time, Galt will respond to your enquiry. In the same manner, naturally, that you’ve received his communications and commands until this point. That is to say...through augury and intermediary; modes of discourse designed to remind you – lest you forget – of your place. And those orders you’ve so unquestioningly followed? You have followed them admirably...despite your inherent tendency towards the manifestly chaotic and purposeless. This history of providing value – particularly against the inclinations of your abject character – may work in your favour. Lenience may be afforded. But until such a time as Galt deigns to contact you...you will be answering – directly – to the Lord of Palatine Hill. Expect him to be a lot more...how should I put this? Hands on...than you’re used to.” Smoke took a moment to collect herself. And then another. And then, finally, another. Her breathing slowed. Her heart rate calmed. All of the emotion drained from her eyes, and the tension from her limbs. The only thing left in her – or so her eyes claimed – was rage: cold and hard; sharp and deadly.
“Fuck this, and fuck you.” She spat venomously – and then literally – provoking a patronising, chastising leer from Wright. “I’ll see you in Hell, you dickless piece of shit.” Smoke stormed off, followed by an equally upset but far more restrained Yvonne. Dio moved to follow, but Wright held him back with a light hand pressed down on his shoulder.
“I am a dick; I imbibe dick; I don’t have a dick...” Wright summarised. “It’s the lack of decisiveness that bothers me, Dio. My father taught me, early on, to use only the words necessary to convey a desired meaning. That girl uses far too many words.” Dio shivered. It was true, so far as he could see. Wright’s commentary on himself, at least. Wright only spoke when he had something to say...and – despite often using more words than most would – the ones he usedgenerally hit precisely the intended marks.
Dio felt almost as if he had just witnessed the needless demolition of a hitherto proud and powerful structure: a demolition achieved by Wright – or so it seemed – with words more than with their content. Dio wished he still knew Wright as he once had: as a man who rarely spoke at all. That – he thought to himself – would have been better. Then, at least, it would have been possible to pretend that the man was something other than what he openly admitted to being.
“You have to admire it: I’ll say that much.” Wright commented.
“Admire what?” Dio, lacking a better option, responded.
“Her ability to state the blindingly obvious.”
“What?” Dio was, for the thousandth time that day, confused.
“I simply mean...” Wright smiled at Dio, shadows appearing in his eyes; glazing the edges and creeping inwards: “Of course she’ll see me in Hell. After all...that’s where we are, now. That’s simply the nature of the world in which we live.”
§§§
“No one knows much about ‘The Seven’. Not really.” Smoke explained. “There are rumours, though. Reports. Names. I know enough to know what is and isn’t true about them. Even if only a tenth of the things I’d mark as ‘true’...are, in fact, true? Basilisk? He’s...inhuman. And I mean that in every possible sense of the word.” Her throat was sore and dry. She couldn’t remember when she’s lost the ability to cry, but her inability made her desperately wish that she’d appreciated it when she’d still been able to. Because the desire to cry – the feelings and physical sensations leading up to the act of crying – still ran their course. But as those very particular, very specific muscles in her throat and chest convulsed...and as that rush of impending catharsis buffeted and battered her like gusting wind...she already knew that, ultimately, it would all come to naught. The moment pass
ed; the physical faded...but the feelings trudged tirelessly on.
“Everything will be fine...” Yvonne murmured, cradling Smoke’s head with her hands and lap. It made Smoke feel weak. Weak...pathetic...stupid...dependant.
Warm. Protected. Calm. Loved.
“You don’t have any idea what the fuck you’re talking about...” Smoke replied. Yvonne looked past the harshness of her words without comment. “Whatever you’re imagining? It’s worse.” She trailed off. “I can’t. I fucking can’t. I would rather...fucking...die.” Yvonne laughed sadly to herself.
“I was kind of hoping you’d say something like that. Because we’re probably going to.” Smoke looked up, meeting her eyes.
“You made a choice?” Yvonne shrugged.
“Sort of. ‘All the fucking way’, right?” Smoke raised an eyebrow; a thin smile spreading across her face.
“You were waiting for me.” Smoke murmured.
“Yes.” Yvonne affirmed.
“If I’d wanted to stay, you’d have stayed?” Yvonne held out her hand, planing it back and forth: trying to keep herself from smiling.
“Umm...maybe not. But Wright just made the decision a lot easier for both of us.” Smoke sighed.
“Yeah. You’re not wrong.” Yvonne inclined her head downward, pressing her lips against the crown of Smoke’s head.
“So – ” The ground rumbled beneath them. And then a deep, rippling rumble crackled like thunder from somewhere directly above.
“What the fuck was that?” Smoke hissed, sitting bolt upright; on alert.
“I have no idea. We should find out.”
“No...” Smoke objected: “No, I think we should get the fuck out of here while we still can. Do you want to find Dio?” Yvonne shook her head sadly.
“He stayed with Wright.” Yvonne noted. “I think he’s made his decision, too.”
Abyss (Songs of Megiddo) Page 21