Angel Descending

by Ethan Cooper

  He presses his mask against my left ear. His voice is full of frequencies that send shivers up and down my body. “I know you want to know where you came from. You need a map.”

  I’d nod if I could move my head.

  The hand on my head slides downward. It’s on my neck. It’s on my back. His fingers are dancing up and down my shirt, from the hem at the bottom to the neck at the top.

  bzzzzzZZZZt!!!!!

  Mind explodes with the static.

  A familiar sound rises. It’s a buzz that ascends in pitch, like a turbine rotating up to speed. The world starts to wobble and wave, as if I’m looking at it while underwater. My skin begins to tingle, an energy field travelling across my skin.

  I blink.

  As the world starts to collapse around me, I hear the sound of fabric tearing. A tightness at my chest—one I didn’t know was there until now—abruptly slackens. For a brief, glorious moment, I can breathe.

  Calamity Carl’s hand releases my neck. In the midst of the maelstrom, I hear his voice: “Guess what, Blue? You are the map.”

  Just in time, I shut my eyes because—exactly like last time—there’s an explosion, so very close, but muted, as if I’m being protected from most of its effect. This is followed by a searing coldness that seems to penetrate to my core.

  bzzzzzZZZZt!!!!!

  On my knees, reeling from the static bombs going off in my head, the cold is replaced by a tornado of heat that quickly swirls away. I’m sucking quick, frantic air into my lungs.

  Calamity Carl is gone.

  I’m still alive.

  Head to the ground, watching a thin line of drool connect my lip to the ground, I come to the curious realization that I can feel the cool morning air walking up my spine. The front of my shirt is drooping low to the ground. Oh, and now that I’m lucid enough to take full inventory, I’m sensing that my breasts aren’t bound up anymore either. Something’s wrong, but that part of my brain that should be instantly intuiting what it is doesn’t appear to be operating effectively. Definitely a side effect of being so near to somebody who teleports and doesn’t take you with them.

  Pushing up to my knees and reaching behind with one arm, it only takes a second to confirm that Calamity Carl tore up my shirt and cut my bra straps.

  26/Written On Flesh

  2195.12.13/Morning

  don’t let

  (her)

  see you like this

  The coarse alley wall is cold and biting into my back like it’s got teeth, I’m on my feet, staring at the entrance to the Haven. Nobody’s come out. Nobody’s tried to go in.

  And I’m just leaning here, holding ripped pieces of clothing to my chest, unable to summon the fortitude to move forward into safety.

  what will

  (she)

  think?

  There’s no hiding this. I went outside and got attacked. JACK’s gonna find out. Tam’s gonna find out. Don’t want to go in there. Don’t make me go back in there. Maybe I can just run away.

  Surely this world has a place for a nineteen-year-old, blue-haired girl who has difficulty keeping her clothes on.

  (victim)

  The door to the Haven swings outward, slamming into the alley wall hard enough to send shards of debris into the air, the sound echoing down the wall like a sequence of gunshots.

  It’s Tam. Of course it is. Some part of me is relieved that he found me first. Some part of me is horrified.

  He’s just standing there, looking all…manly, like he’s the alpha male of a pack of wild animals. Like the good little morsel of prey I am, I do what feels natural: I freeze. He can’t be more than five meters away, and it’s daytime, but the thought that he may not have seen me flitters through my mind.

  Since he’s doing a fine imitation of a statue in the Haven doorway and since I’ve pretty much decided to stay against this alley wall forever, I take a moment to assess him.

  He’s added a long brown trench coat over his existing black-on-black attire. The collar is askew, one side turned up and the other down. His hands are braced against the doorframe, allowing me to see several pockets on the inside of the coat, each of them filled with instruments I don’t recognize. Attached to his left thigh is an empty holster. I don’t see a weapon though. One of the tubes that runs from his respirator mask to the device on his belt isn’t connected.

  His eyes never waver from mine as he reaches over and inserts the tube back into its proper place. His chest expands then contracts, as if he’d been holding his breath.

  Like good little prey, I’m wide-eyed and submissive when Tam approaches. “It’s not a good idea to be outside the Haven by yourself, Syl,” he says.

  “I know that.”

  “And yet, here you are, alone.”

  “I didn’t go far.”

  “You don’t have a weapon, and your wirewitch friend is still inside sleeping. If you’re going to be out here by yourself, at least take minimal precautions. You need to be armed.”

  “I’m fine.” Yeah, I know, one of the biggest lies we tell other people, but what else am I supposed to say right now?

  He takes a step closer. I tense up, pushing my back harder against the wall.

  Tam looks down toward the open end of the alley. “Syl, tell me who did that to your shirt.”

  Okay yeah, so he did notice. Though I suppose it’s difficult to not see my bare shoulders and that the shirt he gave me is only covering up my chest because I’m holding it there.

  I’m not sure what to do here, how much I should tell him. So far, Tam has done a lot to deserve my trust, and he is the Guardian of a Haven, so that counts too. I can’t explain why talking about Calamity Carl seems too intimate a topic to discuss with him, but it does.

  “It’s okay,” Tam says, “you don’t have to tell me, but can you tell me if they’re still around? Are you still in danger?” I notice he’s keeping himself out of arm’s reach. Maybe he’s not doing that on purpose, but if he thinks that makes him less threatening, then he’s correct.

  “I—I don’t know,” I say. “I think he’s gone.”

  don’t lie to

  (him)

  Tam takes another couple of quick looks both ways down the alley, then takes a step back. “You need new clothes. Will you come back into the Haven with me?”

  I want to say yes. I’m gonna say yes. But something’s keeping me right here, exposed and vulnerable.

  (calamity is)

  (coming back)

  Tam says, “If we’re quick, we can get you new clothes before your wirewitch friend wakes up and comes looking for you.”

  “I’ll pay for the clothes.” As soon as I figure out how to get some money. Maybe there’s something in the backpack we can sell.

  Tam shakes his head. “Didn’t somebody tell you that your first two sets of clothes from a Haven are always free.”

  He’s teasing me, and I’m not sure how to respond to that. All I know is that I want to be back inside the Haven, preferably wearing a bra and shirt that haven’t been lacerated. And I want to get through this without JACK finding out what I did. If I can’t have any of that, then I’d just like somebody to reverse time, right to that moment where I decided to get out of bed this morning, so I could…not get out of bed. That’s what I want. Actions without consequences isn’t too much to ask for, right?

  (you are the map)

  Tam begins taking off his trench coat.

  “No,” I say. “Let’s just go inside.” Every part of me is screaming to accept his generosity. Every part except my mouth apparently.

  He pauses, his head cocking to one side, then shrugs his trench coat back onto his shoulders, stretching out his hand, and I’m reaching for it, some part of me curious to know what it’ll feel like in mine. Then I’m grasping desperately at my chest, pulling my shirt back up from the depths it had so swiftly descended to. I manage to stop it before it goes all the way.

  But Tam has his back turned, walking toward the door already. It all
happened so fast, so I can’t really be sure…but he would have to have been dead to not have seen something.

  Somewhere, somebody is laughing at me.

  I move toward the Haven entry as quickly as I can while keeping my shirt plastered to my torso. It’s more difficult than I expected.

  The oppression of the Haven envelops me as I follow Tam inside. I keep my head down and try to ignore the people we pass in the hallway as he leads me to his room. He pushes the door in then steps back. I slide sideways, doing my best to keep my front facing him.

  “Please, wait in here. I’ll get you something else to wear.” Tam’s voice is gentle, as if he doesn’t want to startle me. Or maybe it’s the tone he might use with a child. Just before he steps out he adds, “You’re safe here, Syl. I haven’t lost anybody inside these walls, and I don’t intend for you to be the first. You can leave any time, of course, but please, take somebody with you next time. You can’t go out there alone. You’re too—” He stops himself.

  He’s gone before I get to find out what I’m too of.

  Too pretty?

  Too short?

  Too stupid?

  Alone, I feel dumb covering myself, so I kick the door closed and let it all drop, tossing the ruined garments onto Tam’s bed. I’m sure I have a minute or two before he returns. Moving to the sink and mirror, I’m a bit horrified to see the girl that’s staring back at me—her face pale, like she’s witnessed something that she shouldn’t have. She looks sick. Maybe she’s dying.

  (already dead)

  Despite the pallor of her skin, her blue eyes are bright and alert. Maybe they’d be prettier if they weren’t so haunted.

  And her hair. It’s blue as well, but a shade so bold that it’s difficult to believe it’s natural. It’s the purest blue there is—a primary color—the hue of an ocean reflecting a saturated sky on a cloudless day. Not that we have those any more, but the comparison is clear in my mind, so I’m sure I’ve at least seen images of what that was like. Her hair is mostly straight, curving at the ends to cup her chin, but also flaring outward in random spots, as if it was combed by the wind. Either she has somebody style it that way or she doesn’t care how messy it gets up there. Is it like that all the time or is that just a byproduct of her recent experiences? She’s young, and since she’s currently topless, I can see her toned form, her muscles distinct at her shoulders, biceps and stomach. She’s lithe, to a degree that can’t be entirely explained by her still having a teenager’s metabolism. Yeah, there’s more to her story.

  Still, she slouches like a teenager.

  I know this girl. I may not know her story yet, but I recognize every inch of her, from the sway of her hair to the curve of her hip, from her delicate lips to the flutter of her eyelashes, from the small mole on her shoulder to the swell of her breast. I blow out a long breath, and it feels good, though I wish I’d taken the time to do this the last time I was in here.

  My hair. Tam saw me with it all messy. Again. That’s the thought that wanders through my brain as if it has any right to be there.

  I hear the door to the room open, and I realize that my self-examination went a little too long. My shirt’s over on the bed, so there’s no way I can get to it without giving Tam a free look at what topless (2)Syl looks like. I settle for stepping sideways, out of sight of the door, pressing my body into the half meter of wall that forms the side of the sonic shower alcove. I’m peeking out, feeling like a disobedient child who got caught with her…well, her clothes off.

  It’s JACK.

  She sees me, and there’s a moment where I see her face relax, only it doesn’t last long, because she slams the door behind her, crossing the room to me, hairstalks whipping around her ankles in violent spasms.

  “What the glitch are you doing in here?” she demands, and in spite of her height, I feel like she’s looking down at me.

  “I, uh…”

  She steps through the doorway, forcing me into the sonic shower alcove, where there’s no hiding my condition. “And why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” She scans the room, zeroing in on my shirt and bra on Tam’s bed. “…the…glitch…did…you…”

  “I went outside!” I blurt out before the synapses in her little wirewitch brain make too many more connections along that particular path.

  Her mouth snaps shut and her hairstalks stop moving. Even the clouds in her eyes have stilled. “Why would you do that? This is a Haven. You’re safer in here. You’re safer with me. Out there, you’re prey. If you wanted to go outside, you should have woken me up. What were you thinking? Don’t you trust me?”

  Not sure which question to answer. “I know. It was stupid.”

  “It was. Don’t do that again. Are you hurt?” Her voice cracks, letting me know just how selfish leaving the Haven was. It does a good job of tamping down any indignation I might have felt for being scolded by a probably thirteen-year-old.

  “I’m not hurt.” Not physically, well, unless being at ground zero during a teleport is doing some permanent damage.

  “And your clothes?” One of her hairstalks slithers forward and brushes my ankle. I think that’s more for her benefit than mine.

  “Calamity Carl did that.”

  Truth uttered. Shame completed. Feels good and terrible all at the same time.

  JACK whirls away, into the main room, keeping her back to me, uttering something under her breath, most likely swear words that I don’t recognize. Her hairstalks are doing that spasming thing again. They’re all over the place.

  “He didn’t hurt me.”

  (tell)

  (the truth, angel)

  She curses a few more times, not turning around. “He’s definitely following us. What did that piece of j’aa want?”

  “He told me that if I wanted to know where I came from that I needed a map, and that I was that map.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes, and then he cut up my clothes. Too bad, I was really getting used to how unattractive that shirt made me.”

  JACK is still talking to the far wall. “At least you’re not injured.”

  “He teleported right next to me again. That hurt.”

  “Teleportation isn’t real.”

  “It sure felt real.”

  “Are we going to see him again?”

  (only one secret today)

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s all he said?”

  “Just the thing about the map. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

  JACK turns around, crossing her arms and planting her feet. “Do you think this has anything to with that tattoo you have on your back?”

  What’s this?

  (tattoo?)

  What’s this?

  What’s?

  This?

  I blink. “What?”

  “The tattoo. The big one on your back. Do you think it’s a map of some sort? I mean, it doesn’t really look like one to me, but I guess it could be. Since you have your shirt off already, I can take a closer look at it if you want.”

  I feel the static, buzzing low. “I don’t have any tattoos.” I saw myself in the mirror. Everything was familiar. I’d remember a tattoo back there if I had one.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know about it. It covers your whole back.”

  “How often do you look at your back, JACK?”

  “It’s your body! Didn’t you see it in the mirror?”

  “Well, no…” And I’m really regretting it.

  “I’m telling you, it’s there. I didn’t think you couldn’t know about it. We all saw it from the moment you came barging through our door. Besides, I was the one who dressed you—which, by the way, isn’t easy when the person you’re dressing is unconscious. Anyway, I’m sure I would have mentioned it eventually.”

  “What does it look like?” I ask, hesitant right now to use the mirror to do it myself.

  “Let me take another look.”

  I turn around.

  She’s behind me now, a single fi
nger travelling across my back. I shiver at her careful touch. Is she tracing the edges of the tattoo? “I don’t really know how to describe it. You’ll have to look for yourself.”

  I need to. I don’t want to. Why is that?

  JACK takes my hand and leads me toward the sink. Her hands on my hips, she turns me until my back is toward the mirror, then pushes until my butt’s against the edge of the sink.

  “Look at it,” she says. “It’s a part of you. It might be important.”

  Hands grabbing the edge of the sink, the surface oddly warm, I close my eyes and turn my head, pausing several breaths, then opening my eyes.

  There it is, inscribed in black on the bare flesh of my back.

  I’m scared.

  27/Broken Circuitstreams

  2195.12.13/Morning

  image summons fear because what is that oh god what is that?

  The

  Heart is racing.

  (get it off get it off get it off)

  For a moment, I’m expecting a burst of static, but nothing happens. I glance away, catching JACK’s eye.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  I can’t answer that; talking is not an option right now. My head swivels back of its own accord—I’m not in control here, that’s for sure. If I was, I’d already be out the door, giving everybody who always wished to see a weeping, topless, blue-haired girl running down the hall a chance at having their dreams come true.

  I know now why JACK couldn’t tell me what it was. The tattoo is almost indescribable.

  I see a design.

  I see a symbol.

  I see a face.

  I see a monster.

  Lifting my hair, I can see that, whatever it is, it extends from the base of my neck to the base of my spine. It’s wide enough that it touches the backs of my shoulders as well as my kidneys. It’s big enough that I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before, but then again, how often do I look at my back? Easy answer to that, boys and girls: not often enough.

  The tattoo is as dark as I’ve can remember seeing skin. My skin isn’t fair by any means, but it looks quite pale comparatively. The tattoo appears almost unrealistic, somehow maintaining a consistent shade of near-black across its entire expanse. The bulk of the design is centered on my upper back. There, a dark mass has been etched into my flesh, broken only by a variety of curving, triangular windows of untouched skin. My mind tells me those are eyes and mouths. Tendrils reach out from the mass at the center, swooping up to form black, skeletal wings of sorts, sharp talon-like strokes flare out from there. A bulbous spike drops down my lower back, right along my spine, separating into a trident, the tip of which looks to be kissing my tailbone. A narrow but jagged line zigzags away from the center on either side, just above my butt. The lines of the design ripple as I breathe deep, flowing across my muscles in gentle arcs that split into tapering tentacles. Some of the lines emerge from their thick bases to connect with other lines, forming delicate bone-like patterns or the stretched webbing of sticky tar.