“When do you plan on apologizing, Tavon?”
I’m not good with things like this.
“Look, you've got to realize what I am.” I chug down the rest of my glass and hold up a hand to stop her from pouring me another. “I'm not always a good guy, Aaliyah, and I never really have been. I grew up… different. Honestly, you deserve someone in a… safer line of work who can hold it down—”
“Fuck safety and all that; I'm a detective, remember?”
“Yeah, I do… and that's why someone like me isn't a good idea for you.” A detective sleeping with an assassin isn’t something that’s meant to work out for the best. “I mean, uh, a rich organization takes care of me in exchange for what I do…”
“Murdering people?”
“Contracts. Obligations.”
“Murders, Tavon.”
“If that’s how you want to see it… I've taken out some people, and that's not something that would fit with your agenda; you serve another cause, Aaliyah.”
“But why would you straight out tell me that?!” She isn't even able to keep drinking after hearing my response. “Most dudes would be coming through and saying whatever just to sleep with me. I figured you'd either run away like a coward because I'm an Agent, or you'd keep lying to get in my pants…” She starts chuckling.
Affection defies reason, especially my own at times.
“Because I don't need to be a liar and a killer. Think about how much you have to despise a person to order a hit on their life—and through a professional group of guys who do it for a living at that. There’s a need. I meet it.”
“What are you getting at?” Now she's staring at me with her enchanting eyes. It's killing me, but I press on. She already fucking knows what I’m talking about but… it’s as if she’s holding out hope for something while continuing the conversation. Aaliyah’s determined.
“The people I go after aren't exactly your pure, holy types.” I continue. “Most of these guys have been junkies or mobsters or just psychos who've been poisoning the streets for some time. When I come at them, they're usually ready to go or at least expect it.”
“But what do you think gives you the right to take someone’s life, Tavon?” Before I can speak, she interrupts— “I’m not saying I’m against you… but I want to know.”
“I don't think…” I sigh, losing my train of thought for a moment. “They hand me challenges, and I fight. That’s all I know.”
“Ugh, that's bullshit!” She throws her glass against the wall and walks over to shove me. I quickly stand up and freeze as she wraps her arms in a tight hug around my body and can barely conceal a smile. “There’s more to you than that… I know it.”
I return the embrace. “I live for nabbing someone really bad… and someone really strong.”
She stares down at the ground dejectedly. “You’re still just bullshitting, though; I know you have some compassion…”
“Who are you trying to convince?”
Aaliyah pushes me again. “I KNOW that there's more to you, Tavon! Don't play around, I've seen you; the real you!”
“What did you see?” I simply stare at her and, for a moment, feel nothing.
“Not some simple-minded thug.”
“Look… what do you want from me?”
I can’t stop hugging her.
If I can't change what I am, maybe I can at least try to provide comfort to someone else. She looks at me with empathy I haven't been offered from anyone in some time. It hurts. I don’t want to be reminded of old faces.
“I have to know what happened…” She whispers to me.
“I'm not sure I understand?”
“I want to know what made you like… this!” Aaliyah moves me back but keeps her gaze affixed to my eyes in sincerity. “I want to know everything.”
“Everything?”
Why would…?
She doesn’t say anything.
“No. You don't. It’s not a happy story.”
“I do!”
“Why can't we just have se—”
“No, Tavon!” She hits me lightly on the shoulder. “I want to know what happened to you! I have to know—for my own sanity, dammit! I want you to tell me the story of how you got to be here… someone as strong as you and with…” Aaliyah looks away and seems to not comprehend something. “Those powers.”
Resolve gathered and she demanded, “Those gross ass powers! Tell me how you got that kind of strength–or… I—I'll place you under arrest!”
Not even Brock has ever asked me about what it was like growing up.
“I'm not joking with you!” She says, “We're going to talk about this for as long as it takes; I have to understand!”
“But why?”
What the hell is happening right now? Is sex still an option at this point? “I told you: I'm no one special.”
“Fuck what you said. Either you tell me, or you’ll be telling your story to the Dawn Bureau!”
It's not like I can just kill her… or can I?
No.
Not her; I wouldn't be able to forgive myself, and what she's asking makes sense on a certain level. Anyone else would've reported me, but Aaliyah… she's not anyone.
I’m turned on in some messed up kind of way. But intimacy like this. One of those moments takes over: the candles go out and relight themselves in a constant cycle; dark struggles against light as I feel my consciousness bring itself out from my mind of its own volition. I'm watching myself agree to this madness; I'm a passive observer as my flesh and bones cooperate to give her the response for which she’s so desperately searching. She wants to know me, but I barely know myself to a certain degree. Part of me came here tonight expecting her to be waiting with a gun pointed at my head, but now I'm watching myself compromise because of the emotions and needs of another.
Maybe it's the guilt; Isaac's face before he died is still imprinted in my memory as if it were a fossil burrowed eternally into my subconscious. And his son…
What about all the others I’d killed—how much blood was it? I remember soft heartbeats that faded into slow, dying rhythms struggling beneath cavernous expanses of muscle and bone. I was so unforgiving, wasn't I.
I'll give this story to her because she deserves to feel comfort more than I deserve to feel forgiveness.
“Tavon! What's wrong?! Tavon!”
I've returned to a body soaked in my own torment, and the constant shaking causes me to fall onto my knees as a series of flashbacks flow through my mind.
Why now? I have to stop acting like an idiot…
“I’m sorry.” I return to my feet, feeling ashamed for emotionally setting someone up like this. If there were to be anything to come from us, something like that couldn't last; I'm addicted to my vice. It's not the killing itself but the chance to go against a near insurmountable and unknown force that calls me. If I have to kill her…
But then I kiss Aaliyah on the cheek, then her nose, then her forehead, and finally on her mouth. Before long, our passionate embrace becomes a deeper and more physical interaction. I wake in between extended bouts of me taking her in different positions during a long, sensual night. Words previously deliberate and thought out specifically for this occasion fall in broken parts from her lips like longing moans as the back of her curves around me and moves in a constant motion.
Though we stay interlocked for some time, it feels as if the movements we make together are only small fragments of my own history. Soon after her body becomes tight against mine once again and I feel her nails cut deep along my back, I climax and—for the first time—and feel a part of myself disappear and become consumed in a brief unity. I'm not used to this type of passion; something which is idealized but becomes reality through subtle appreciation. I'll admit: I'm grateful, because Aaliyah shows me a new experience. Someone who could've easily sought to have me thrown in a cell and influence my execution wants to know… me.
And suddenly, I can feel myself start to slip away from reality as
Aaliyah rests her head on my chest—but I won't let myself go—not this time; I can’t keep disassociating.
I lean my head in so as to whisper in her ear and say: “Okay, I'll tell you.”
She looks up at me, her eyes containing trust.
“Tell me what?”
“Everything.”
16
You’re Lying
-
Amour
-
HELLO THERE.
I make art, and maybe you’ve heard my name in the news lately; it always broadcasts reliably after Fusan Weekly or Inspirations From Maya—two original shows I particularly enjoy.
My name is Amour, and I own something I like to think of as a blossoming Empire: The Rubens Peak Corporation. I built this dream, because the truest moments are reflected in times of desperation. I envision entire worlds which capture a person’s Beauty; it’s remarkable.
And yet there are still others… what I do with them…
Would you really like to know?
-
I’d released Executive Tomas Gostra's confession approximately three hours prior to removing my sports jacket and tossing it on the kitchen counter in my home. I picked it up one evening after having shopped at Gharocon for over seven hours, to the mild disturbance of some of the employees there.
I’d purchased this homestead after reading rave reviews regarding it as a quaint but chic structure. The first floor consists mostly of a glass exterior designed to highlight several rooms adorned only in black and white furniture; furniture complemented by a series of paintings mirroring a more minimalistic theme. There’s simplistic sculptures I’ve strategically and deliberately positioned around the manor against the numerous protests of my wife; she moves them back sometimes. I hate it.
The second floor is taken up mostly by a rounded chamber containing both a vanilla-shaded ceiling and flooring made opaque by a series of glass panels. The rest of the upper portion of the manor is concealed by a plastered exterior adorned in shades of white, behind which is placed a master bedroom next door to my personal gallery… one accessible via a door resembling what could be the major entrance to a bank vault due to the sophistication of the locking mechanism I’d installed.
My wife bought me a new Kom Cell after I’d panicked one night and destroyed my older model. I’d been using a Frega Kom Cell 1st Edition, and Danny from the Accounting Division of Ruben owns a 2nd Edition. It was unacceptable, to say the least. I despise Danny from Accounting, but it’s probably not his fault. After I destroyed the 1st Edition piece of shit, I awoke in an alley somewhere—blissful, but I’d been covered in blood. The carcass of an animal, now unrecognizable, decaying nearby. Well, good thing I made it through that!
I use my new Kom Cell to prepare a video message I plan to send to a special contact in the Proxy Country of Morons: Gaspul. The Dawn Federation Military has occupied it for the last two years—a pretty impressive feat despite poor resource allotment and low public opinion on war in such unpredictable times! —but this government is the incarnation of what it means to become a Failure.
It’s because of Him. It’s always because of Him.
I access an independent program through the Cell that provides me with an identity with the composition of entries across the network, meaning that I’ve become nearly inculpable, anonymous. A screen pops up to reveal my own, scowling reflection peering back at me. My irises are bright red; I think it makes people tend to trust me. Or fear me. I think it’s a nice quality.
The bottom of the screen displays an opaque circle which acts as a button that initiates the video call. There’s a plan. An organized approach for all of this.
I place one of my handcrafted masks over my features; I make art of all forms. Most people are freaked out by this one in particular, but I make the call anyways.
“Hello, Kozas!” I say, “it’s nice to—”
“Shh!” The video on the other end displays a man attempting to conceal most of himself in the shadows of a dark room. This rather unkempt specimen is Kozas, the spokesman for the Gaspul Native Party, and someone I like to sell weapons to on the side because he doesn’t understand how the new currency works and frequently overpays me. He’s good business.
“Don’t FUCKING shush me!” I raise my voice while glaring intently at the party spokesman. It’s silly, though, because he can’t see all of my rage behind the mask. “This is a very important conversation, Mr. Kozas. This is the last step before I expose what the Dawn Federation’s been hiding from you.”
“You say many things, sir, but how am I to know that you’ll keep your promise? If a follower is compromised—”
“Kozas!” I insist. “Shut the fuck up! Just shut up! Did I not tell you that they’d be granted access—did I not already say this?!”
“Sir, you don—”
“Kozas!” I’m starting to sweat. There’s conniptions involved. A lot of them. “T-this isn’t something I would have doubts on! This next event will shape Gaspul in the days to come—don’t you fucking understand that!”
He grows silent and somberly gazes at the ground before him.
“Listen to me…” I speak more calmly. “This attack will give you the most influence you could hope to attain in this world; what you choose to do from there is up to you, but I suspect you already know the right answer.”
“This ‘right answer,’ you say…” Kozas stutters before continuing. “We’ll become an independent nation again.”
Is he feeling… hopeful?!
“We’ll become united at last. Thank you, Mr. A; your tribute to the Party will not go unnoted.”
I sever the connection and begin a lengthy process of saving it as a recorded file under a different format and encrypting it. I’ve accomplished everything I needed to do, and so I resort once again to my passion…
Near the entrance to the gallery I’ve designed for myself, there’s an unusual object that functions as a sort of table. But here’s where the inspiration kicked in! Yes, right here!
At its base, there protrudes two human legs painted in a black coat. I’ve anchored them on the woodwork and attached to those legs four, pale forearms which connect at the center and extend with palms and feet outward to caress a record player—and an expensive one. Most guests think it’s only an eccentric sculpture, but my excellent tastes take my existence beyond mundane and commonly reproduced, recycled “Art.”
In fact, my Art consists of something much truer. It reflects my own, often gruesome obsessions, of course, but also the reality of human nature itself. I retrieve an older record off the shelf of a nearby cabinet and gently set it on the turntable before skipping to Steve Arrington's “Feel So Real.” Afterwards, I open a fake portion of the wall to expose a panel accessing the entrance to the pinnacle of my work. I input a series of numbers triggering the mechanism to swing the metallic door open to expose another one much like it but thinner. I enter another code and am quickly let into a new world; a Beautiful one.
-
Janelle
-
A row of varying sculptures made out of human parts stood before him. But preceding them, there was a wooden xylophone supported with the help of deceased, skinless femurs and was equipped with makeshift mallets formed from ulnar and radial bones Amour had shaped himself. He giggled to himself while hitting one of the bars, which resonated softly throughout the large gallery. Amour progressed further and turned to gaze upon a torso that had been stripped of its extremities. Stubs, once arms, legs, and neck, were now worn and refined to create smooth prominences seeming to correspond with the body's new purpose. The corpse had been coated heavily with shades of scarlet, violet, and emerald to display a series of unique patterns. Amour reflected thoughtfully on the result produced from one of his past victims.
I don't remember his name, but he provided a beautiful canvas with which to work. How breathtaking…
He proceeded to a wooden stand with a glass case around what appeared to be a person's p
reserved intestinal tract armored in a decorated clay shell. The organs had been molded and warped so as to form a miniature giraffe that had then been covered in a paper mâché from news articles concerning some of his prior kidnappings. Next to that, there was another stand and case that displayed several withered hearts connected by a wooden wreathe. At this point, he’d begun both sweating profusely and feeling inspired by his own creations; Amour imagined himself wandering through dozens of old memories. More of his exploration brought him to a duo of human brains that had been adorned to look as if they were opposing faces expressing a contrast between happiness and sadness. The artist continued on down short hallways possessing his “Lesser Paintings”—or frames surrounding the varying final looks many of his weaker prey had given him before they’d been sealed within their respective Moments.
The last portrait in the final hallway displayed only the skin and hair of a woman who’d expressed no feelings upon her own death. This angered Amour, and the painting compelled him to stop briefly to consider who all had died by his hands…
But the recollection escaped him.
Soon, he bore witness to a densely muscular and complete human body that had been stood up, preserved, and completely stripped of its own skin to reveal only muscles, veins, and tendons. The artist scratched his chin and found himself recalling a rather burly man who’d discovered what he was and attempted to take justice into his own hands.
Amour admired that sort of bravery, and so the man's body was given the most respect in his private exhibit. Behind the figure, there stood a series of skulls that had been re-purposed into candles continuing in opposing rows and leading to a small garden below two large, fluorescent lights. If one were to look closely at the garden, they would notice two human corpses that had become the hosts to a multitude of rare flowers found throughout the region.
And finally—past the garden—there lurked the psychopath's magnum opus: a massive wall occupied by a mural of colossal proportions…
It had begun some time ago; a dream involving the deaths of many. Executive Tomas Gostra and his son took their place in a collage blending and converging tragic moments captured in petrified nightmares.
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