They found my rotting corpse on a Saturday, splayed limbs stained black-red draped over the side of the bathtub like a perverse imitation of a broken marionette, strings cut. I'd been sitting there long enough that the flesh had started to decay, and the air was thick and heavy with flies.
At the funeral they called me sick, like it was my fault, like I'd invited a murderer into my own home and personally handed him the knife that had ended up gutting me. Poor little Carrie with her poor little life, all looks and no brains, leaving the door unlocked, too stupid and trusting to live alone. Some blame went to my mother, but of course it was nonsense. She was a bully and a narcissist, sure, but by the time I'd died, she'd already been rotting in the ground for the better part of a decade. Really, in the end, nobody at the ceremony knew what to think. It was all crocodile tears and base curiosity, insipid accusations carelessly slung around like toddlers playing amateur detective.
The coroner, a forty-five year old drunk and philanderer, took one look at my body and deemed my death a suicide. Parahuman involvement was discounted immediately. The gaping wounds on my wrists, he said, matched the bloodstained blade left on the bathtub floor, which bore no fingerprints other than mine. There had been alcohol in my system—a depressant, and the various witness reports all corroborated my descent into darkness, my eagerness toward skimming the line between sobriety and depravity.
All my so-called friends labeled me an addict. Addicted to
what, they couldn't quite agree on. But there was a unanimous understanding that I had always been chasing some kind of dragon, some kind of unattainable high.
It was an open-and-shut case. As intended, I was forgotten, filed away and discarded.
My effects were packed into neat little boxes labeled 'Carrie' and disposed of in short order. Most of it went into a landfill—my clothes, my toiletries, odds and ends, photographs and old mementos. The landlord walked away with all my furniture. The paltry sum I'd had sitting in savings went to the city.
And then they buried me. That was, perhaps, the biggest mistake they made. It was the one they'd come to regret the most.
But you already knew that, didn't you?
Are you watching me now?
I hope you are. I need you to understand, to feel every single moment of pain and misery. You may not get it at first, but eventually, in time, I know you will. And then, in that brief moment of revelation, I hope it destroys you. I hope it shatters you into pieces, crushes the pieces to dust, until there's nothing left but the faint winds of memory. Until there's nothing left but to open your eyes and
see.
Like it did to me. Like it did when I fell, and I fell, and something
else hit the bottom.
When I woke up, my hands were like the ground: slick, wet, riddled with cracks and crags and pockmarked, excoriated, stained red with ichor and viscera. I felt like death, which was to be expected—but also, breathtakingly
alive, which was not.
"F-fuck," I gasped, wincing, pushing to my feet, pressing back the sudden jolt of pain that was running through me. It burned, like it always did, and gazing upon the familiar muck-sodden walls of the bedroom only made the agony worse. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of that wretched machine, turgid clockwork and bile, taunting me. Screaming, hissing, spreading. I looked away.
How many times had I done this by now?
Not enough. Too many.
They had put me in the soil, and the soil had spat me back out. Rebirth, cyclical. Mother Earth provides.
But every time I died, it fed that cruel machine just a little bit more.
I coughed blood out onto the floor, sticky and sharp, scratching my throat. I took one step, and my kneecap shattered like an eggshell. I would've screamed, but a cracked rib had punctured my lung. Pain was not the word for what I was experiencing—I was
breaking, collapsing at the seams. Everything that I was, physical and otherwise, was slipping away.
I wasn't ready. I was half-formed; a walking, shambling corpse playacting as a human being, kept in motion only through pure stubbornness and rage. In the long term, like this, I would not last long. I needed something else: a different method, a different tool. The child was safe for now, so I knew I had the time to find it. All it would take was a simple sacrifice—the simplest one there was. So I laid myself back down in the blood-mire, pressed my sallow cheeks against the sticky floor, and shut my eyes.
My lips quivered against the muck, my breath a delicate breeze. The end came in spurts, and I knew it was time.
It would cost. Everything costs, in the end—and this would cost everything. This would cost a life.
Say it.
Say it.
"M-mother Earth provides," I wheezed, choking on congealed blood. And for the second time that week, I died. The machine claimed its abhorrent prize once again, and the clock ticked one minute closer to midnight. Goodbye, Carrie.
I know what my friends would say: 'poor Carrie, too weak to live. Not strong enough for this world.' Little lemmings, parroting the coroner's report, as if it would prove they were privy to some deep, immutable secret. But they knew nothing. They never even knew
me the way they thought they did. They thought I was a helpless, hapless little girl. They thought I was driven by a craving for adrenaline, a need for thrills. They thought Carrie was my first name, that she was anything more than a facade; pure presentation.
It didn't matter. I did exactly what it took to keep the machine at bay; no more, no less.
It took two weeks, in the end, for me to be forgotten like yesterday's garbage. By then, people had bigger things to worry about.
It took two weeks for the whole world to change around my corpse. Two weeks for the groundwater to swell, rushing out into the streets, suffusing everything. Two weeks for the phone lines to come back to life, and for me to be found by someone else: a naive, compassionate idiot with more grace than sense, far too willing to lend a helping hand to the first person who asked.
You.
Mother Earth provides.
■
Browbeat raised a hand. "Agent Irving," he said, stopping in place. "D'you hear that?"
You froze, lifting your flashlight, casting deep shadows through all the little nooks and crannies in the rubble. "No. What is it?"
"Movement." He swept his eyes over fallen concrete and scaffolding. You found yourself staring again, watching his eyes, his intent gaze. There, buried in the only part of his body not covered up by his costume, that form-fitting bodysuit, was a degree of intensity and confidence that you found both reassuring and annoying in equal measures.
And you weren't quite sure why.
"You think it's trouble?" you asked.
"Could be. There've been plenty of looters around lately, and this is Hillside. Anyone looking for a score—the mall's the first place they'd check."
You shook your head, but kept your flashlight aimed squarely at the rubble in the hallway. "Could be rats. Or strays, or wild animals."
He nodded, easing off only slightly. You could see the unnatural movement under his bodysuit as his muscles returned to normal size. "Could be," he said. "Could be rain, or leaking pipes, or just rocks sliding off each other. Statistically, that's probably what's happening."
But he remained where he was, unmoving.
"...But?" you prompted.
"But keep your weapon ready," he said. "Doesn't hurt to be careful."
"You want me to call for backup?"
"No. Should be fine. Just keep your eyes open."
He strode onwards, and you followed, drawing your handgun from its holster, unfamiliar grip pressing against your palm. The cold steel felt like ice in your hands.
"By the way," you said, staring down the empty ailes, cracked tiles slick with fresh rainwater, "call me Marlowe. Agent Irving makes me feel like my dad. And like a cop."
He gave you a curious glance. "Okay. Sure. Marlowe."
You rubbed your eyes, lowering your gun to your side. "I've got to say—I've done search and rescue before, but nothing like this."
"'Like this'?"
"Never had to shoot anyone before. It's usually someone lost in the woods, or a mountain climber getting stuck. Stuff like that. I've never dealt with looters before."
Browbeat nodded. "Hopefully you won't have to."
"Yeah," you said, continuing forth, feeling the humid, turgid air press against your neck, like the sky itself was letting out breath after uncomfortable breath against your skin. You wiped the sweat off your skin, wincing.
"I didn't realize you did a lot of search and rescue in the PRT," Browbeat said idly.
"I wasn't always PRT. Had a long career before I signed up with the black-and-purples."
"Huh. Really?"
You raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. What's that look supposed to be for?"
"I don't know. You don't look that old," he said, scratching his head.
You gave him a little laugh. "Word of advice? Never comment on a woman's age."
He averted his gaze, embarrassed. "Right. Sorry."
"No offense taken."
Brown, murky brackwater sloshed underfoot. Garbage piled up in corners, scattered around the floor: wrappers, plastic bags, broken glass, decomposing newspapers, decomposing food waste. Above you, there was once a glass ceiling, which was now nothing but dented scaffolding. The sky gleamed at us, the color of a poacher's work: gray, dappled elephant hide, pale ivory highlights, smeared with scores of red.
"What a mess," you muttered. "Glad I won't be the one that has to clean all this up."
"Lucky you," he said. "I'll probably have to help out, but, you know, not
too much. I'm transferring out soon. I'm supposed to be prepping for that and working all at the same time. You know how Piggot is."
You frowned. "Who?"
"The Director? You've never talked to her?"
It took you a second. "No," you said. "I went through other channels. The Youth Guard."
"Ah."
It was like walking through a tomb, traversing the mall. The remnants of a different era stood monument in their watery graves.
"What about you?" you asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You ever…" You mimed a finger gun.
"No," he said. "I'm a hero." He sniffed. "Besides, I haven't been at this very long. It's barely been two months for me."
Your earpiece buzzed its quiet trill, and you tapped your finger to your ear.
"Hello, officer?" came my voice. You'd gotten used to it by now, that trembling fear, that wavering front of confidence. You felt sorry for me. You empathized.
"I'm here," you said. "Something the matter?" Browbeat gave you a questioning glance, and you whispered, "It's the girl."
"No," I said quietly.
"No, I was just scared. And… Oh, the lights just turned back on. Um, does that help at all?"
"It might." You nudged Browbeat. "Do you know if any parts of the city have working electricity?"
"I'll ask," he said, stepping aside to make a call on his walkie-talkie.
You returned your attention to your own call. "Have you remembered anything new?"
"No. Not yet. I've been trying, but… Sorry. All I remember is the mall, leaving through the food court. That's still all I can think of."
"Don't be. It's fine. As long as you're okay."
"It's just so frustrating,
not even knowing my own name."
"Take your time. Keep your cool. How's your breathing going?"
"It's… okay. It's helping. Thank you."
"Good. Hold tight—we'll find you soon. We're getting closer. Keep at the breathing exercises, okay? And try to conserve your phone's battery."
"Okay," I whispered.
You hung up, turning back to Browbeat. "Anything?"
"There's a few places," he said. "Captain's Hill, some parts of the Towers, and a few spots on the south edge of the Docks.
"The Docks," you said, snapping your fingers. "The food court's on the north end of the mall, which points straight toward it. That's got to be it."
The hero frowned. "Are you sure? That seems like a bit of a stretch."
"My gut's pointing me to the Docks. Hasn't steered me wrong so far."
He hesitated for a moment, before relenting and nodding. "I guess you'd know best. That girl still hasn't remembered anything else?"
You sighed. "No."
"Damn."
"She's trying, but she's scared. These things happen."
"Yeah. I know."
The food court was a minefield of scattered chairs and tables, legs sticking up like palisade spikes. You gingerly stepped around them, looking every part the intrepid navigator that you were.
But there, in the center of the court, was the fallen food court sign: a ten foot by four foot slab of metal and cracked neon bulbs—and looking at the sign, something gave you pause. There, on the rim, was a dull gleam of color. Splotches of faded iron-red, corroded, dried up to the point where the edges had turned an uncomfortably dark shade of brown. Blood. Congealed.
"The hell?" you muttered, freezing up. You thought you were imagining things, but you saw it—that shimmering, the bleeding of one world into the next. The boundaries were so fragile, like porous membranes: soft, pliable.
"What? What is it?" Browbeat stopped, glancing at you in concern, but you gazed past him. You couldn't help it.
And for one painful, excruciating moment, you caught a glimpse of it: the machine. It stood in all its terrible glory, its beating heart scraping the earth, carving a bloody swath through our ancient Mother. You peered through the gloom to see it, and in that brief moment, it peered back at you. It saw you. And in that fateful moment, it reached out to you. And it was screaming.
God, it was screaming, and then you knew one thing above all else: it was following you. Your skull burned, headache stabbing through you like needles through flesh.
And then you blinked, and it was gone. The sign was spotless, bleached pale blue in the midday sun. There was no blood. There was no machine. There never had been. But the headache lingered. It faded, but didn't completely vanish.
"Ugh," you mumbled, rubbing your eyes, pressing back your wriggling doubts. "Nothing."
Seeing things, you thought. Too much stress, maybe.
"Are you sure? You look…"
"I'm fine," you said, shaking your head. It made the headache flare up a little bit, and you winced. "Just my mind playing tricks on me, probably. Haven't slept in forty-eight hours. I'm running entirely on caffeine and adrenaline right now."
"Jeez. You need a break?"
"No. I can keep going. I'll rest after we find the girl."
"Don't overexert if you don't have to."
"I won't. You figure out where your limit is pretty quickly in my line of work, one way or another." You flashed him a sheepish smile. "This isn't the longest I've gone without sleep. Went four days looking for stranded hikers out in the Green Mountains one time."
He shrugged. "Okay. If you're sure."
The two of you left through the north exit of the mall and found yourselves back out on the road, skipping over deep cracks in the pavement and skirting around the muddy puddles that framed the lanes of the street.
"There's this game I learned, back when I first signed up. My mentor taught it to me—it's a little trick to keep yourself awake. You wanna try it?"
Browbeat glanced your way. "Sure."
"So you come up with a word, keep it in your head. Then you give everybody five clues about what it is. They take turns guessing, and after three failed guesses you add another clue."
"Sounds pretty simple."
"Aha—but here's where it gets complicated. One of the clues is a lie. You have to figure out which one it is."
"Still doesn't sound that hard," he said.
"Let's give it a try then. Here's your clues: structured, metal, systematic, organic, awake."
He thought about it. "Animal."
"Not quite."
"Organism?"
"Closer, but no."
"Body."
You shook your head. "Not as easy as it sounds, is it? Next hint: artificial."
"Building."
"Getting warmer, but still off."
"Factory."
"Ooh, getting very close now."
"Assembly line?"
"Nope."
He groaned. "Alright—just tell me."
"Machine."
He frowned. "I don't get it. 'Organic' being the lie, sure. How does 'awake' factor into it?"
"Machines are awake. You just need to look at the bigger picture."
"I think you just don't know what awake means."
You laughed. "Fine, fine. Let's try something else," you said. "How about this? Toughest situation you've ever been in?"
Browbeat laughed. "Leviathan."
"Right," you said, chuckling along. "Dumb question. Besides Leviathan."
He paused. "I'll have to think about it. What about you?"
"Oh, easy. You'd think it'd be something to do with my work, right?"
"Sure."
"That's the thing—I've had training, experience. It's scary, sometimes, but having that core of expertise there really helps. So the scariest thing I ever went through was when I was a kid."
"Yeah?"
You nodded. "Yeah. You know how scary Endbringers can be when you're a teenager with no powers or training?"
■
The roar was deafening. Walls toppled like dominoes. In the distance, lightning whited out the sky, and you knew: there was no coming back from this. Your town was gone, one way or another. Your whole world was gone. Whitterley was gone.
Your high school was dust, crushed to paste. All your friends were dying or dead. You would probably never see them again. The movie night you'd been so excited for would never end up happening. You would never hang out in the music room at lunch again, you'd never talk to your crush again, and you'd never finish that essay that you'd been procrastinating on.
Your parents were caught in the middle of it. They were at work. They were probably dead, too. You'd never see their faces again, hear their voices call out to you, except in the few voicemails you'd forgotten to delete off your cell phone.
You'd never see your house again. Chances are that it would be destroyed, everything irrevocably ruined. Your clothes would be torn to shreds, your computer would be smashed to pieces, and your room would be nothing but irradiated soil and crumpled plaster.
And you ran. You went out the door, into those panic-filled streets, and you ran. You left it all behind.
It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. Just like that, out of the blue, one solitary monster had decided to show up and destroy it all. One random roll of the dice, and it was all gone. Whittlerley was a grave, halfway dug.
Your shoes were worn through, torn and ragged. You'd planned on replacing them, but that wasn't going to happen now, was it?
Cars charged down the road, ignoring traffic lights and stop signs. At the intersection ahead, one car struck another right in the side, crumpling it inwards like tinfoil. The crash boomed, glass going everywhere, the screech of tires and rubber and smoke and oil all mixing together at once, and it was too loud.
You screamed, and your heart skipped a beat. But you kept running. In the distance, in the sky, capes swarmed the beast, attacking it with everything they had. And in droves, they died, driven from the sky, falling to earth like heavy raindrops. More capes surged forth, replacing their fallen comrades, and they, too, were taken down in turn.
And you knew then in your heart of hearts that they would not protect you. Nobody could.
■
You coughed into your hand, and when you lifted it away, a flash of crimson caught your eye: blood. Your headache intensified, and you bit your lip. It burned. It felt like a hammer tapping a spike into your skull; trepanation via the throbbing of your heartbeat.
Your vision blurred.
"Marlowe?" Browbeat asked.
"I'm fine," you said. You stuffed your hand in your pocket, searching your surroundings for a reason to change the subject. "What is this place?"
"You don't recognize it? This is Hill street. That knocked-down building over there? That's the Forsberg Gallery. We're stepping over pieces of it right now."
It wasn't recognizable, not even with the added context.
"Jesus."
"So—Behemoth, huh? I heard about Whitterly, but… damn."
"Yeah. They call him the hero killer, but… there's so much more to it. It's like going up against a force of nature. Like fistfighting a hurricane." You glanced at Browbeat. "If you ever get the chance to go up against him? Do yourself a favor. Don't."
"It's really that bad?"
"Worse."
Your earpiece buzzed, and you raised a hand to it.
"H-hello? Officer Marlowe?" I whispered.
"Hey," you said. "I'm here."
"I think I remember something. There was a store near my building. My mom always bought soap from there. I think it was homemade."
"Okay," you said. "Okay, good." You tapped Browbeat on the shoulder. "She says there was a soap shop near her apartment building. Sounds artisanal, something fancy. Anything like that in this part of town?"
He grabbed his walkie, repeating the question to some unknown person on the other end. Moments later, he had an answer. "Yeah. Marshall Boulevard. That's six blocks from here."
"Okay," you said, rubbing your hands together. "Okay, we've got a general location. We'll be there soon. Hold tight."
"How soon?"
"Not too much longer. Keep trying to remember, okay? The more you remember, the faster we'll find you."
"Okay," I said.
"And stay dry," you added.
"I will."
You hung up, reenergized. Finally, you were making progress. The toppled buildings around you seemed slightly less foreboding, and your headache eased off, ever so slightly. When you glanced at the rooftops of the skylines, they wavered, but only barely.
But there was something there, just visible in the corner of your eye: an artificial construction; something that shouldn't have been there. A being, a malevolent entity, watching you from the shadows. You shook your head, and it was gone.
"You okay?" Browbeat asked.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just…" You shook your head. "Seeing things, I think."
"...Yeah?"
"It's nothing. Just tired, I think." You flashed him a smile. "Let's keep moving."
He nodded, and the two of you resumed your brisk pace, marching down the broken streets of Brockton Bay. It was a long time before either of you spoke again. Above you, flocks of birds gathered on the edges of rooftops, staring watchfully.
"I think," Browbeat said suddenly, "the toughest thing I went through before Leviathan was my last fight."
"Really? That, uh, bank thing? With the… what were they called? Undertakers?"
"Undersiders. And no, not quite. The bank thing was tough, but this came after. It was a solo thing, which I should've been used to, because I started as a solo hero. But you get used to fighting villains that are more straightforward, you know? They're after a specific thing, and they'll fight you for it. But when they don't… it catches you off guard."
■
Nobody goes in expecting the worst. Sometimes they convince themselves that they do, that they're prepared for anything, but constant vigilance can only last so long. Eventually, one way or another, you lower your guard.
"Hello?"
Browbeat knocked on the door again, but there was no answer, save for the shrill whirring of steel, like a buzzsaw; like a fork going through the blender. There was no screaming like the witness had reported in the 911 call. There was only that grinding of metal on metal.
He squeezed the bud in his ear. "Console?"
After a brief pause, there was a voice.
"Kid Win here. What's going on?"
"I hear something going on. Loud noises. I'm going in."
"Alright. Be careful."
He enhanced his arms, braced himself, and tackled the door open. The knob snapped from its place, and that flimsy wood swung open with ease.
If anyone had asked, he would've been well in his rights to force his way in. A disturbance had been called, and he had been sanctioned to investigate.
And inside, there was something wrong.
The metal grinding hadn't stopped, but he couldn't spot where it was coming from. It seemed to be coming from
everywhere, emanating from the walls, suffusing the very air. And in the center of the apartment, in the middle of the living room, a girl was crouched over a corpse, knife in her hands, blood on her hands. She was wearing a mask: a cheap plastic Halloween dollar-store mask, shaped like a cartoon zombie. She turned toward the source of the disturbance, spotted Browbeat, and met his eyes.
"Get out!" she shouted, barely audible over the shrill metal noise.
He took a step forward, readying his power.
"You have to get out!" she shouted again, fingers tightening around her knife. "It's
here!"
He quickly scanned the room, looking for anything else that might've been hiding in the dark corners of the apartment—but there was nothing. Nothing but the girl, her knife, and the dead body on the floor.
And he could tell it was dead. It was a man, maybe twenty years old, slack-jawed, eyes dull and open, unmoving. There were gashes in his arms, legs, and throat, blood pouring out in what looked like a cruel parody of a fountain. And the girl stood.
"Stand back!" he said, fighting to be heard over the noise.
But the girl refused. She approached him, knife in hand. "Get out of here!"
"Don't," he warned, clenching his fists. "Stay back!"
She took another step forward. There was fear in her eyes, a pure desperation that was heartbreaking and terrifying in equal measures. And she took another step forward.
■
"Hold on."
You froze. "What?"
"I hear something."
But there was nothing you could detect, save for the screeching of the wind, heavy gales blowing around buildings with interminable fervor. Was Browbeat able to use his power to enhance his hearing?
"What is it?" you whispered.
He clenched his fists. "Trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
And at that moment, three men stepped out from around the corner, dressed in Merchants' colors, wielding an assortment of weapons. One had a handgun, another brandished a baseball bat, and the third carried a machete.
The one with the gun froze. "Shit," he said.
"We don't want any trouble," Browbeat said quickly. "We're just looking for survivors."
"Fuck, fuck," said the one with the baseball bat. "Fucking
Wards."
Your fingers tightened around your own gun. "We're just passing through," you said. "That's all."
The one with the bat scowled. "With a gun?"
"Self defense," you said. "Just like you guys, right?"
The machete man belted out a mirthless laugh. "Yeah. Self defense."
You slowly holstered your weapon, flashing your open hands in the air, like a magician showing that there were no tricks up your sleeve. "We're just looking for a girl," you said. "She was trapped inside a building. That's it. We're not looking for a fight."
The Merchant gunman slowly lowered his gun, and you let out a quiet breath. But then the man with the bat stepped forward. "See, the thing is—this is our territory. We can't just let you walk through all willy-nilly. What's it going to look like to the Empire or the ABB if we let the PRT on our turf?"
"The Empire's finished," you said, trying to keep your face neutral and your breathing even, even as your heart raced and your head pounded. "Half their top capes died against Leviathan."
"We'll be out of your hair in an hour," Browbeat added.
The bat-wielding man narrowed his eyes. For a moment, he was silent, as if lost in thought. And then he opened his mouth and—
And you saw it, in the barest reflections in the puddles of water dotting the streets: the ever present glare of artifice and malevolence. The machine. It reached out to you, piercing the veil, as if to say, 'I see you'.
And you drew your gun, aimed it at the Merchant with the pistol, and fired, all in one smooth motion. The man went down instantly, too quickly for anyone to even react. The bang was deafening. Your headache screamed. There was no machine. There never had been a machine.
One moment, the man was alive, and the next he was dead.
In the brief moment afterwards, everyone went silent, frozen with disbelief. And then the two remaining Merchants charged you.
The first one swung the bat at Browbeat, catching him on the shoulder. The wood splintered. The hero barely reacted, except for the subtle twinge of his muscles.
A moment later, he punched the Merchant hard enough to send the man flying, tumbling back into the water. He didn't get back up. The man with the machete dropped his weapon, turned, and ran, water splashing underfoot.
It took a long time for your breathing to settle, and even longer for your heart to stop feeling as if it were trying to escape from your chest. Browbeat waited with you, keeping vigil, staring down the road that the Merchant had disappeared down.
"I thought you've never shot anyone before," he said suddenly.
You rubbed your eyes with dirty, trembling hands. "I haven't."
"That was some quick shooting."
"I know." You gave him a strained smile. "I spend a lot of time at the range. Just in case."
"Guess it paid off."
You tried not to look at the dead Merchant on the floor, partially submerged in a pool of inch-deep water, stained red with the man's blood. "I guess so."
What felt like an eternity later, you stood, holstering your weapon, and began trudging through the streets once again. Browbeat followed, occasionally glancing your way, acting as if you couldn't see him doing it.
Your earpiece buzzed.
"Hello, Officer?"
"I'm here," you breathed. It felt like there was a lump in your throat that wouldn't go away.
"I think I remembered something else." I sounded excited to your ears, an eagerness in my voice that somehow sapped the energy from yours.
"I remember my name!"
"Oh?"
"It's Carrie," I told you.
"I finally remembered."
You smiled. "Good work. Proud of you. Keep at it, okay?"
"I will."
"We'll be there soon. Thirty minutes, at most."
And you hung up, and everything was silent once again, save for those quiet splashes of water against your waterproof boots as you walked. Browbeat glanced back at where you'd left the bodies behind.
And suddenly, that lump in your throat was back, and so was your headache.
"Are you okay?" you asked him.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Just fine. You?"
"Great," you said, your voice hoarse. "Not the worst thing I've ever been in, right?"
■
The edge of town was like an upturned anthill, people swarming everywhere, flooding outwards like a carpet of steel and flesh. Cars crammed onto blocked causeways, pedestrians ran without end, and at the end of it all was a wall, a line of PRT vehicles and soldiers and capes and guns, watching like an invading army.
They were there for your protection, but what protection could they provide against the hero killer? Even now, dozens died every minute over the Whitterley skyline, blasted out of the air with casual ease. Lightning flashed, followed by the crash of thunder.
The ever-growing line to escape the city was at a standstill, traffic plugging the highway so thoroughly that it didn't seem like those cars would ever move again—so you went around.
The north edge of town was blanketed by forest, and you left the familiar streets and shops behind for dirt roads and hiking trails. You'd come here plenty of times as a kid, hanging out with friends, playing hide-and-seek in the trees. You knew this place like the back of your hand.
But there were people here, too—others who'd had the same idea as you, gathering their families and fleeing through the forest. You all marched together, in the end, quietly trudging through the dirt, like phantoms in a dream. Ahead of you, there were a dozen or so people, covered in dust and soot, trembling with each step, quietly whimpering. Every flash of light had people shaking, and every beat of thunder had the whole crowd holding their breaths.
Behind you, there was a man, plain-looking, his eyes blank, walking silently through the woods.
"Do you hear it?" someone muttered. A kid, maybe ten years old. Younger than you. "It sounds so close."
"It's miles away," an adult said. "Don't worry. We'll be fine. It's too distracted with the heroes, anyway."
"I saw Alexandria," the kid said. "She'll save us, won't she?"
"Of course. Everything's going to be okay."
You walked in relative silence, following the groups of people through the woods. Shadows flickered in the dark; leaves blew in the wind, casting shimmering shapes that sent shivers running down your spine. Lightning flashed in the distance, washing the whole forest with white for a few brief moments before fading into darkness.
You didn't recognize much of this place anymore—not like this, not in this light. Not with this context. Everything felt off.
But then, at the end of the road, where the dirt road once again met pavement, there were figures waiting in the distance. Armed soldiers. PRT. More capes. You were saved.
Your parents, your friends, your whole
world—they were all gone. But you were saved. You let out a sigh of relief. A few people in the crowd cheered, revitalized, picking up their pace.
"Wait!" one of the PRT men shouted. "Stop!"
The crowd froze all at once.
The soldiers raised their weapons, aiming at you, and the crowd screamed. Or—no.
They weren't aiming at you.
They were aiming at the man behind you, that plain-looking man with the blank eyes. He pushed past you, continuing toward the line of armed soldiers, as if he hadn't even noticed them. He went onwards, closing the gap, as more of the soldiers aimed their weapons.
"No, no," you mumbled. "Please."
The first gunshot went off moments after you covered your ears and shut your eyes. A hundred more followed it, piercing your eardrums as you fell to the ground, hiding in the dirt. When you finally opened your eyes again, the man was dead, and so were all the PRT agents. And as for the other civilians—a few of them you recognized, slack-jawed, dead on the ground. The others had scattered, disappearing into the brush.
You were alone, buried in the dirt, with nothing but two dozen corpses for company.
■
"He was a cape," you said. "Freshly triggered, I think."
"Jeez. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was a long time ago. And I was lucky. I got out okay. A lot of other people didn't."
"Still. It sounds rough."
You laughed. "Yeah. It's how I figured out I'd never be a cape, because if I had the potential for it—that would've been it, right? The moment I'd get powers?" You sighed. "And I got nothing for it but a bunch of scars and bad memories."
"Is that why you signed up with the PRT?"
"Part of the reason."
"What's the other part?"
You gave him a side-eye. "That's personal."
He looked away. "Right. Sorry."
"It's fine."
The wind howled, and you rubbed your arms. It felt like ice was licking at your skin, and that all the humid warmth of an hour ago was replaced with biting cold.
Your earpiece buzzed.
"Officer? I think I remembered something else!"
You tapped the earpiece. "Yeah? What is it?"
"My apartment. There was a sign on the front with a flower on it. A red flower. And—the apartment number! I remember a sign. Two-zero-seven."
You relayed the information to Browbeat, and put on a smile, pressing back your headache. "Good work, Carrie," you said. "That's everything we need. We'll be there soon."
"Thank you, Officer. Thank you so much."
You chuckled weakly. "Thank me in person."
Hanging up, you rubbed your hands together, and yawned.
"Tired?" Browbeat asked.
"Finish line's in sight," you said. "It's like my body's tempted to fall asleep right now. You know what I mean?"
He laughed. "Yeah."
"God, when this is over, I think I'll nap for three days straight. Make up for the days I missed."
"I don't think sleep works that way."
"Fuck it. I'll make it work that way. I'm a real heavy sleeper. I'll set a world record."
"Good luck, I guess," he said, chuckling. "I'm rooting for you."
You yawned again. "Yeah."
You went onwards, ignoring the terrible pain in your head, ignoring the shimmering in the corner of your eyes. It was nothing, you told yourself. Just stress and exhaustion. It was nothing.
Nothing. You squeezed your hands tight. Nothing.
And then, from nowhere, a thought occurred to you. "Hey, by the way—how did that story of yours end? You, uh, didn't get the chance to finish it before."
He grimaced. "I'm not sure," he said. "It didn't really make sense to me, either."
■
The girl came at him with the knife, measured step after measured step, progressing slowly. Browbeat stepped away, keeping his distance.
"You have to go," the girl said. "Right now."
"Did you kill him? The man on the floor, was that you?"
"No," she said, but the knife remained in her hands, and the metal screeching continued its caterwauling.
"What's that sound?" he asked. "What's doing that?"
She froze. "You can hear that?"
And then he blinked, and the body was gone, as if it had never been there in the first place. There was nothing left but him, and the girl with the knife in her hands, her skin clean. There was no blood. There had never been blood.
But that was impossible. The body had
been there. He'd seen it with his own eyes. He'd
seen it. "What the hell?" he breathed.
The girl turned around, following his gaze, and froze. "What?" she said, dumbfounded. "No, no,
shit!" She ran to the center of the room, furiously looking around. "Where is it? Where did it go?"
"What the hell is going on?"
The girl had no answer for him, instead just sweeping her eyes over everything: the furniture, the floor, the ceiling. And then him.
"You," she hissed. She came at him with the knife, and he casually batted it away, sending it careening onto the floor.
She screamed in frustration, turned, and ran. There was a balcony just on the other side of the apartment: a small thing, barely enough to hold a single person. She climbed over the banister and disappeared over the edge. They were only on the second floor.
Browbeat moved to follow, and then, swearing under his breath, he stopped. He didn't know what was going on here, or if he'd been mentally compromised in some way. There was a body here, he'd
known it.
But there was nothing here—not a single mote of evidence. No blood, no body, no weapon. All he could do was wait, call for backup, and try his best to explain what he thought he'd seen.
■
"So you let her go?"
"Yeah," Browbeat said tiredly. "What else was I supposed to do?"
"Fair enough, I guess."
"They found another body in the bathtub after I left. It wasn't there when I looked, I
swear. And… God, it keeps me up at night wondering if I could've saved her, if I'd just run after that villain."
"It wasn't your fault."
He shook his head. "You know, everyone thought I was crazy, even after I went through screening. If it wasn't for Leviathan, I'd probably still be talking to psychologists back at headquarters."
"For what it's worth? I don't think you're crazy."
He scoffed. "Maybe you should. If someone else told me what I'd just told you, I'd probably give them a wide berth."
"Nah. That's a weird story, yeah, but we live in a world with superpowers. Weird stuff happens all the time."
He averted his eyes. "Sure."
"You don't think so?"
"I don't know," he said, sighing. "You know I've spent time in the Asylum? I mean… it wouldn't be too far out there if I was."
You put a hand on his shoulder. "You're not crazy," you said. "I believe you."
For a moment, he was silent. And then he nodded. "Thanks."
You found yourselves in a beaten-up lane surrounded by apartment complexes. At the corner of the block, as expected, there was an artisan soap shop, sign dangling from a single corner. The glass storefront had been shattered, and everything inside had been looted.
"This's gotta be it," you said.
"Yeah."
The two of you walked past a number of empty apartments, and it was eerie, seeing these homes so silent, so empty. It was like walking over people's graves, trespassing through a series of watery tombs.
And then you reached the apartment complex with the flower on its sign: Hartford Apartments. The two of you scoured the first floor, finding nothing but empty rooms and water and dust. It was sad, in a way, realizing that there was nothing left, and even for those who had survived, there would be nothing remaining to return to.
And then you reached the second floor, approached apartment 207, and Browbeat froze.
"Wait a minute," he said. "I know this place."
"You do?"
He staggered back, as if struck.
"Browbeat? What's wrong?"
"Who is this girl you're talking to?"
"I don't know, she's just some kid—"
"Marlowe," he said, clenching his fists. "Who is she?"
"Just a trapped little girl," you said, furrowing your eyebrows. "What the hell is up with you?"
"Is this a joke? Or—or are you working for her? Or someone who knew her?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," you said. "You need to explain, Browbeat."
"I know this place," he said. "I know this apartment. I've
been here before. A villain lived here."
"You're serious?" When he didn't answer, you bit your lip. "You're serious. I swear, Browbeat, I had no idea. You think this is a trap?"
"Marlowe," he said slowly, "this is the place I was telling you about. The girl I saw with the dead body. This is it. This is where it happened."
Your heart skipped a beat. "W-wait, what?"
"This is the exact apartment."
"Do you—" You gulped. "Do you think she's
here?"
He glanced toward the door, then back at you. "Who did you say you were talking to?"
"A girl," you said. "She said her name was Carrie. She sounded on the younger side, maybe in her early teens."
"And she said she was inside that room?"
Your throat felt dry. "She said she was trapped inside." But there was nothing blocking this door from opening, and there were no signs of life anywhere nearby. It didn't add up. Your headache surged, screaming, burning, bursting, and you winced.
You saw it then: that shimmering, that bleeding between worlds. And your earpiece buzzed.
"Hello? Officer Marlowe?"
You turned your gaze toward the door before you. You couldn't hear anyone inside. Wherever the voice was coming from… it wasn't from inside the apartment.
Slowly, fingers trembling, you pressed your earpiece. "I'm here," you said, trepidation in your soul. Your headache scorched like a bolt of lightning. Browbeat tensed, and you couldn't blame him.
"Are you here yet?"
"...Yes."
"Okay. Good. Is Browbeat with you?"
You looked at him, met his eyes, using every ounce of strength you had not to scream. "...Yeah," you choked out.
"Good. I want you to take your gun and shoot him in the head."
You swallowed. "No," you whispered.
"Right in the forehead, if you please. Three centimeters up and to the left from the center. Before he can stop you."
"Please," you breathed, but just as I asked, you raised your weapon and pulled the trigger. A flash of light; a bang. The acrid scent of cordite, and one crumpled heap.
Browbeat, to his credit, almost closed the gap before in time. If he'd acted a moment faster, if he'd refused to give you the benefit of the doubt, he might've made it. But you pulled the trigger, blood spattered all over you, and the young hero fell to the ground.
And when you blinked, you could see it again: that machine, staring back at you.
■
When you blinked a second time, you found yourself back in Whitterley, enveloped in your memories, your dreams, your nightmares. And across from you, staring you down, was me. I was older than you'd expected, more worn than you'd expected, so much more like
you than you'd expected.
"Hello, Officer," I said.
You clenched your fists. "Who the hell
are you? How the fuck are you doing this?"
"I think that's the wrong question," I said coolly. "Take some time to think about it."
You tried to approach me, to hit me, but it was pointless. This wasn't real. None of this was. Your feet moved, but the distance between us remained the same.
"Come on, Marlowe," I told you. "Think."
"What the fuck do you want from me?"
"I've told you. I want you to think. Look around you. What do you see?"
"A memory," you said.
"A memory. But how much sense does it really make?"
"Who cares? It's a memory. It's my fucking childhood."
"Is it? Think about it, Marlowe. Behemoth. Where was he in 2004? He attacked in Panama, South Africa, and…?"
You froze. I smiled.
"Germany," I finished. "Not the States. Not Whitterley. He was never there."
"No," you breathed.
"This isn't really how it happened, is it? Who was
really in Whitterley that year?"
You looked up, and the lightning was gone. There had never been any lightning. There was only the screaming, the flying machines unleashing their impotent attacks, tiny figures swirling around like garbage bags in a hurricane, and in the center of it all: an angel.
An angel with too many wings.
And the screaming continued.
■
That day that the Simurgh had attacked, and you'd found yourself in the dirt, surrounded by corpses, you thought that somehow, miraculously, you'd survived. But that wasn't the case, was it? It was a dream, put together from hopes and dreams, stolen from another life.
No, you'd died that day, a dozen bullets piercing your flesh, and you'd fallen to the ground, as dead as everybody else in that crowd of mentally compromised civilians.
But you came back. You'd found yourself in that not-place; the blood-soaked bedroom, a space between spaces, and you'd pulled yourself out of the ground, body reformed into something else. Someone else.
You came back from the dead, at the behest of your patron, your sponsor, our ever-generous Mother Earth. She had seen something in you, some deep, unknowable peculiarity, and in that moment of grace, she'd saved you. You saw stars, an endless array, stretching out to infinity.
She'd offered to bring you back, because she wanted to see what you would do with her gift, given the chance. You could've said no, but you didn't.
And then you opened your eyes, and found yourself in that forest, surrounded by corpses, and you could
see. No longer were you limited to viewing the shadows on the wall; now you could see the puppets, the flame, and everything beyond.
And you could see that the man was the machine was the man. That corpse on the ground, the strange blank-eyed man who had charged the PRT soldiers and killed everyone—he was an anomaly. A part of him had been human, but the other part? The one that lied just out of sight, just on that boundary between our world and the next?
That had never been human at all. It was a beast, all metal and crystal and intent, formed from stardust.
And you could see its goals. It existed to devour, to take, to spread. Tendrils reached out, forming connections with its surroundings, flensing space from time, bleeding the life from reality. It put down roots like a cancer.
Had it been created by the Simurgh? No, but it had been shaped by her, given direction by her. It was
her machine, in every way that mattered. And despite that screaming in your skull, you knew that you had to stop her. Whatever it took.
You looked at the body again. In one world, he was just a dead man, a motionless corpse. In the other, he was a living monster, awake, an entity bent on eternal consumption.
You'd been given a gift, a responsibility, and it was up to you to stop the machine from spreading. You knew you couldn't kill it, not with the strength that you had—but you could watch over it, keep it restrained, prune it when you needed to. You could feed it when it got too hungry, to keep it from eating something more important.
And, blinking, your decision made, you grabbed the arm of the corpse and began to drag. And together, you left Whitterley behind, ignoring that eternal screaming in your mind, letting it fade into background noise. There was just one thing left to do to ensure your success: to use the other part of your gift.
You could see, but you could also
touch.
In one world, the Simurgh had attacked, driving you mad. In the other, Behemoth had destroyed the city. So you reached out, and touched the fabric of reality, and with a gentle tug, you twisted it. One story changed place with another, and your fate was set.
■
When you blinked a third time, you found yourself inside my apartment. On one side of the room was Browbeat, dressed in full costume, frozen with confusion. On the other side of the room was me, a knife in my hands.
What you didn't realize was that Browbeat had lied to you. He hadn't let the girl go.
"Don't move," he said, almost pleading.
But I took another step forward. He needed to leave, before it was too late. He didn't know what was going on, and he would ruin everything if he stayed. The machine had already disappeared somewhere, and I had no idea where.
"What is that
sound?" he murmured.
As I approached him, I could hear it: the screaming. It was growing louder as I closed the gap, intensity booming. "Oh, shit," I whispered. And then I understood.
He had to die. He had to. It was the only way. I raised my knife.
And he slapped it out of my hand, wrenched it away with so much force that it flew back, upwards, and—
And I felt cold, despite the hot blood gushing from my throat. I staggered to the floor, unable to breathe, to move, to utter a single sound other than impotent gurgling.
"Oh my God," you breathed, but nobody in the room reacted.
I tried to lift my hand, but my arm wasn't responding.
"Oh, shit," Browbeat hissed, running to my immobile body. "Shit, shit."
"She's not dead," you said. "She can't die."
But he couldn't hear you, because you weren't there. You were on the floor, lifeless, unmoving. The machine was gone, its human form had vanished, and all he could see was the corpse he had created.
There comes a time when one's mettle is truly tested, when push comes to shove and everything is thrown on the line—and in that moment, a person shows their true colors. Browbeat placed a trembling hand on his walkie-talkie, swallowed, and—
And put his hand back down.
"What the fuck," he whispered to himself, shaking, breathing uncontrolled. "What the fuck?"
He shuddered, glanced toward the door, and then back at me. It took him thirty-four minutes, in the end, to come to a decision.
And then, in that moment of resolution, he began to cry, whimpering, a pathetic little weeping that made me more angry than pitiful. He carried my body to the bathtub, gingerly took the knife, slit my wrists, and dropped it beside me against that porcelain tomb. And then he left.
And the machine was gone, and I knew my work wasn't complete yet. I would have my revenge, sooner or later.
And then you blinked, and you found yourself in the present, standing over Browbeat's gurgling form. He was wounded quite badly, but not dead just yet.
It's easy to forget sometimes, isn't it? The way life drifts and swirls, twisting in its infinite eddies—it gets hard to hold onto what
was and what
should be. It becomes unimportant, in the small ways, and then in the big ways.
But just then, in that moment of iconoclasm, gun in your hands, you finally realized: there was no such person as Marlowe Irving. There never had been. There was no girl on the other end of the phone. There was no such person as Carrie. She was every bit as fictitious as you. But every single part of us wanted revenge, and every single part of us knew to keep the machine at bay.
You pulled the trigger, because I was you, and you were me.
Oh. Did you not realize?
■
"Have you ever heard it, Browbeat? Her? Even a recording of her?" You laughed. "You know there's recordings of her floating around the internet. Extremely illegal. But for those people who know what they're looking for, it's out there."
He shambled to his knees. You shot him again. He stopped moving.
"It hurts, at first, you know? It's the most painful sound you'll ever hear in your life. But eventually, you get used to it. People can get used to anything. And it makes you stronger. By the time it starts to be comforting, you're already tougher, sterner, more resilient. Not everyone makes it. There's a thin line between sane and insane—but if you can straddle that line, stay on the right side of it, there's nothing you can't do."
Browbeat groaned. You shot him again.
"It used to be so much harder. But now things are simple. The end goal is simple. Keep the machine from spreading. Use the Simurgh to fight the Simurgh. Easy. And I was wondering this whole time where the machine went, where it'd gone. But it's here, isn't it?"
You leaned in.
"It's inside you."
His fingers trembled. The rest of him remained still.
"It was looking for a way out, you see. It's always looking for an escape. And when you found me, when you
killed me, it found you. It tried to hide inside you so that it could be free, and do its work uninhibited. But I have you now, and it's not going anywhere."
He moaned. You pressed the barrel of the gun against his head, and he stopped.
"You weren't crazy after all. Isn't that great?"
He had no reaction to that.
"I'll keep you here, safe and sound. And I'll keep watch over you, to make sure the machine never spreads. And—don't worry. Nobody will be looking for you. There's a thin membrane between worlds, you know, this soft pliable thing. It's so
easy to look at the boundary and tear it open. It's so easy to reach in and take something out, replace it with whatever you need."
You smiled.
"In one world, you died in the Leviathan attack. In another… Well, it doesn't really matter, does it? It'll become nothing but a story, barely remembered, dancing on the edge of everyone's lips, but never spoken again. A new story will take the place of the old. I'll carve your name onto the monument at Captain's Hill, and everything will be as it should be."
He whimpered. He was still awake, even now—a testament to his powers.
"You know, I was so angry at you for so long. I mean, for
weeks, all I could think about was killing you. You almost ruined everything. You killed me." You paused. "But I think I can find it in myself to forgive you."
And you dragged him into your apartment, raised your knife, and took your revenge. Mother Earth provides.
And then you reached out and
twisted, and everyone forgot.
Browbeat deceased, BW-8.
