199 - Not Here at Present
"Butcher's not in. I can take a meshage."
Taylor blinked, and Kabiri hummed in interest. The crate between them was ice-cold, but to her sincerest thanks, the damn thing hadn't been
too heavy. You know, for something containing a
live fucking human. A sense of mild indignation rose up in her. The Butcher had subjected her to the worst and only lunch date of her entire sixteen-year life (not that the first couple of years counted, but she was feeling irrationally annoyed), and now she just
wasn't fucking home? This was rich. This was incredibly rich. Gosh, she was feeling annoyed. Gosh, she was feeling so damn annoyed at not being able to confront the Butcher with- oh, no, wait, this was probably one of the best strokes of luck she'd had for this entire crummy day. Huh. Wild. She glanced over at Kabiri, who was shrugging idly. Hadal stood before the two of them, enormous, threatening, and markedly less polite-sounding now that she'd seen him bite someone's throat until their voice choked off into gurling silence. Well, he said the same things as usual. But her perception had utterly shifted.
And now the fishman was, surprise of all surprises, quite a scary little dude.
Big dude. He was a big dude. He was very large.
The Butcher wasn't in, but Hadal gladly received the crate. Lighter than Taylor thought, or maybe she was just getting tougher as the weeks wore on. Not like she had much to do besides exercise and scheme, honestly. Barely had time for reading, barely had time for
anything. Not that she minded
enormously. The hoard was still there, a tantalising reminder of just how much she stood to gain. Even George Washington's skull alone would give her enough money to set up for most of her life. Most. If the government didn't decide to put all the cash in a trust or something, to pay out long after she'd lost any need for it. Still, some of the artwork, some of the gold, some of the jewels… a few comedically large pillowcases with dollar signs painted on them would keep her supplied for most of her natural life. She continued to remind herself of that as a crate containing an insane neo-Nazi was handed over to a burly fishman, who smiled toothily at the sight of it. Kabiri, to her surprise, didn't say much of anything.
He lived in silence as easily as he lived in noise - but then again, there really wasn't much of a difference when it came to him. He could ramble and say nothing, or choose his words with exceeding care, but the same meanings were transmitted nonetheless. He was casual with his words, and sparing with his meanings.
Honestly, it only made her distrust him more. He wasn't a gibbering, overly-talkative idiot. He was careful. He was clever. And he knew too much.
"Sho. She was… watching ush?"
Kabiri nodded casually, and promptly began to dig a small cigarillo out of his pocket, acting as though this happened every day. Hadal grumbed.
"...good of you to find her. Very good. The Butcher will be… intereshted in thish, very intereshted."
Taylor leant against the doorframe of the building the Butcher was, evidently, using as a home base. She was unsurprised that the woman wasn't in, last she'd seen her, she'd been diving into a canal while screaming praise to unknown names. She tilted vaguely in the direction of Kabiri.
"The fog will keep her quiet?"
He hummed affirmatively, and began to smoke his way peacefully and steadily through the long, expensive-looking cheroot. Hadal chucked to himself.
"Oh, dearesht Kabiri hash a…
talent for thish short of thing. We shertainly don't keep him around for his convershation, I'll shay that."
Oh, splendid, we're agreeing with the creature that my parents would've used to get me to go to bed on time.
Yeah. They kinda were. Kabiri wasn't a good conversationalist. Regardless, Hadal took the crate inside easily, barely exerting himself at all. She was reminded again of the sight of those curling teeth turning into extended fangs, his muscles bunching and contracting as he dragged Animos deep into the foundations of a building, to suffocate to death in the choking dark. Kabiri followed him inside, and hesitantly Taylor followed. Her suit was comfortable, at least. Felt easy to move in. But she still couldn't help but dislike it. Chorei wasn't making any comments on any master effects, and she tended to be pretty sensitive to that sort of thing. So… probably fine. Kabiri was probably counting on her becoming paranoid, probably trying to get some kind of reaction out of her… OK, maybe he was succeeding. Anyway. The building was an old town house, and based on the pictures lining the walls, it belonged to a fairly well-off family. The whole place had the sterile air of a recently abandoned house - ready for someone to come back, but until then, everything was a little too cold, every echo lasted a moment too long. She desperately, desperately hoped that the Butcher hadn't killed the people here, that they were just on vacation, or had fled the city during the Conflagration. Hard to tell. Certainly wasn't anyone else here, not that she could tell.
Hadal glanced idly at her as he searched for a little spot for the eerily cold crate.
"...hm. Oh, yesh, I was ashked to give you a shmall inshtruction. Butcher called me. She wantsh you to attend to the… 117th Chapter. Look for the Church of Shaint Michael, over on the corner of Madison. Shays there's shomeone you may want to shpeak to, or at least, witnesh. Attend to them tomorrow. No dinnersh until you've sheen what she wantsh you to shee."
She was barely able to understand him, but she could gradually pick out the relevant information. Wait, the Butcher had
called? She wasn't here to deal with things, but… wait, he hadn't specified
time. Maybe the Butcher had already had this planned. Already knew she'd come here. Maybe the Butcher knew more than Taylor thought. Or maybe she'd actually just called, stolen someone's phone and done it. It was weird, but the idea of the Butcher
existing without her knowledge was something that unnerved her. She looked cautiously at the heavy, dark wooden walls of the house. How many guns were hidden behind them? Her insects hadn't noticed the uzis in Fugly Bob's, how many buildings in Brockton Bay had weapons hidden inside them, stashed maybe since the Teeth had been here last? The back of her neck prickled with paranoia. The 117th… a church on the corner of Madison. Madison? The name of a girl who'd helped make her life miserable, albeit in a fairly petty and unimaginative way. The name of a city full of grey men who worshipped nuclear fire, and glass men that lived in a sewer and ate man-sized snails. Coincidence? Almost certainly. Common name. But the point lingered. The paranoia lingered, clinging like moss, roots invisibly stretching under her skin and infesting her brain. Kabiri had known about her money issues, Kabiri had hinted that he knew about her real loyalties. How much did the others know? Was this all a game, did the Butcher already know she was a traitor? She remembered being sniffed when she'd first met the woman, and being told that she could smell traitors.
Maybe she could.
Maybe this was just a game.
Kabiri meandered elsewhere, Hadal stumped upstairs to hide the crate, and she was left alone. The sun was blazing, and she needed something to do. Her mind was racing, and she flicked through a list of everything she could possibly do. She'd called Turk already. She could talk to Samira. She had to attend to the chapter tomorrow. She needed to… fuck, she needed to text Vicky. Check that she was still OK. Time was passing, and the timer was going lower and lower. She escaped the house, welcoming the warm air on her skin… for a moment the contrast was pleasant, and then equilibrium was restored, and the discomfort returned. A feeling of being smothered. Her mind flicked back to that crate with the woman inside. The feeling of being surrounded by icy black fog, and locked in a space not designed for a human. Her breath was a little tighter, her-
Calm. You're growing agitated. Kabiri says nothing, he simply rambles. He said a thousand things, and you're fixating on the few that have relevance to you. Don't you think that others have gone for the hoard? And don't you think that if the Butcher was truly deceiving you, she would've killed you a long time ago? She had plenty of opportunities - barely earlier today, she had a chance to let that girl shoot you, and this entire matter would be settled. And if Kabiri believes you, truly, to be a traitor and yet declines to expose you, what does that say about him? Either he believes you're a traitor and refuses to expose you, which perhaps implies that he fears something of his own being exposed, or he was simply prodding. Poking. Trying to get you to reveal more than you ought to.
…maybe she was right.
Maybe she had nothing to worry about.
Maybe she had everything to worry about.
Former case, nothing to worry about. Latter case, no point worrying about it because she was fucked already. Kabiri had just moved up her shit list, that was all. He thought too much. But… Nibelung had been shot, that was something else to consider. Who had done that? Why would they do it? And… hold on. Her swarm scanned the area for anyone tailing her or watching her, and she dialled a number into her phone from a nameless business card. A familiar voice immediately echoed back to her, crackling over the cheap speaker.
"
This is Rocinante."
"Was Nibelung you?"
He paused.
"...you're being abrupt."
"Answer me. Did you shoot him?"
"
Not personally."
"Uheer then? Colter?"
"
Irrelevant. He's been taken care of. Let's just say that we need the emergency services to still be functioning. Gives us some more leeway once things go to hell. The Butcher wanted a piece removed from the board - and we've made sure it stays in play."
"Do you know how
unsubtle that was? What happens if the Butcher gets paranoid? What happens if the others think they might be shot at random - do you know how much that could destabilise things?"
"
We've got a plan."
"Kabiri's making a move. He dragged an E88 cape into the Butcher's current hideout, she's suppressed somehow. So, you might've just torn the lid off a can of worms - doesn't seem coincidental that Kabiri would bring home a hogtied cape
right as Nibelung gets shot."
"
...well, if he makes a move, he makes a move. Think about it, if Nibelung is out of commission, that makes precisely… Kabiri, Hadal, Matri- the Butcher has three allies. We're whittling them down."
"The rest won't be easy to whittle if they're aware that someone's angling to whittle them."
"
We won't shoot you, if it's any consolation. Your insects would detect the sniper before we managed it."
"Can you guarantee me that you won't try?"
"
No. But we can't guarantee that you won't try and betray us in some way. So, nmutually assured yadda yadda. This is a pretty standard tactic for us. Trust me. This was necessary."
She hung up without replying. So. Those
fucking mercenaries had shot him. The… fuck, the consequences would be intense. She could already imagine them. The Butcher insisting on having them surrounded by Teeth bodyguards at all times, maybe compelling them to stay together in groups instead of operating alone… or maybe she'd just accelerate all her plans, and any opportunity for careful manipulation would be lost. Taylor was
insistent on getting out of Brockton Bay with the hoard before hell broke loose, otherwise she'd cease to be a loose associate with the Teeth, she'd become a full-blooded member, identified in PRT reports. Neither-Nor would be one of the Teeth, and that would likely prove to be problematic in times to come. She'd avoided any major criminal actions yet, no murders of civilians, no huge heists, no dramatic acts of terror. But if the Butcher moved faster to her bigger plan, she'd be
fucked. The heist would be
fucked. Or she'd be forced to make some ugly decisions, move herself into unpleasant positions, generally make everything messier than it needed to be. And all because some mercenaries couldn't be bothered finding a cleaner way of taking him out.
Jesus
fuck.
Vicky's timer was almost at zero. Evening was approaching. She needed to relax, needed to… she needed to regain some control over this situation. Even if that just meant
knowledge. The Butcher had been impressed at Chorei's existence, probably thought it was a genuine indicator of Taylor's pursuit of the 'Butcher mindset' - which just sounded like ritually-induced schizophrenia to her. But the fact that it seemed like nonsense would fuck her over if the Butcher decided to probe deeper. Terrifying as it was, the Butcher had taken an
interest in her. And if that interest endured, she might end up tested further, forced to act like a
proper follower of Angrboda's teachings. And if she had to do that, she needed to know more. Control had been lost with Nibelung's death, with a few choice words from Kabiri, with a lunch gone very, very wrong, with Vicky going off to fuck with something she really shouldn't. Control was declining, and that made her
nervous. And if there was one thing she didn't want to be right now, it was nervous. Nervousness made her vulnerable. Nervousness broke her cover. Nervousness would get her and her friends killed because of some stupid mistake. She needed confidence, needed to be assured that she had barriers, defences, some kind of safety net to stop her from collapsing into the dark and never emerging.
Ideally, that safety net would be a net made of heavy ordnance aimed directly at the Teeth's current brunch location.
But in a pinch, knowledge would work.
Knowledge that would
allow her to point heavy ordnance at the Teeth's current brunch.
She expressed this notion to Chorei.
Hm. Blueberry pancakes and napalm. Good combination.
Sometimes she was nervous when the two agreed so profoundly on something.
And sometimes she just felt pleasingly validated.
* * *
Samira blinked at the sight of Taylor at her front door, her eyes struggling to focus on the girl. She'd returned to her motel room, lit one of the candles and hid it in the bathroom. She was concealed from most forms of surveillance so long as it burned. Sight was tricker to mask, but she became a little more unnoticeable. The suit didn't help. She hated to admit it, but it was honestly pretty comfortable. And if it was going to get inevitably ruined at some point, she was going to get as much use out of it as possible. Not like she'd paid for it, after all. And as for Samira… she was keenly aware that the Butcher was inactive right now, leaving people alone, 'out' from her current safehouse. Might not get another chance. Maybe the Butcher would get paranoid about Nibelung, and would wind up keeping them all trapped with her for security's sake. Or would keep them under constant surveillance. In either case, she had to go and see Samira quickly, just before the window closed off. And then… then she could see Crystal. The timer was ticking. Almost up. By the time she was done here, she anticipated having time to skip over and visit Crystal. Might just… take a while to get there, that was all.
Samira blinked, finally realising who she actually was. The older woman looked… somehow
more intense than last time. Her clothes were simple, and unambiguously odd. Needles remained in her hair, and a bulge at the base of her trousers indicated where she was hiding a knife. Her face was stony and harsh, all softness worn away with surprising speed, leaving behind something as tough and jagged as a piece of brutalist architecture. That was the word for it - she looked like a brutalist building, the kind which was hostile to humanity and human activity, and had no willingness to work with anything around her. Standing out with all the sheer unmitigated confidence of a serial killer strolling into a police station while still wearing his last victim's skin. No concessions to normality, and the house behind her reflected that. Decorations gone, most things packed up into boxes.
She tilted her head to one side, dark hair falling in a curtain, her eyes sharpening up (quite literally).
"You look like you're trying to get into a country club."
Taylor sighed.
"It's not mine."
"...hm. Theft. Well, I can approve of the
boldness if nothing else. Come on in."
There was no doormat, nowhere to wipe her feet. The house looked dusty and uncared for. Taylor glanced around, taking in all the boxes filled with random crap, most of them marked for donation to a local thrift store. Her jacket was casually deposited on a bannister, and she could feel a stuffiness in the air. Air conditioning wasn't on. This was unusual.
"Are you moving out?"
"Moving home. Yes."
Taylor blinked.
"...really?"
Samira began to boil some coffee, and shot her an ugly look.
"Of course I'm moving. I have no reason to remain in this country. I'll go back to my home, to my old family, and I assume I'll… simply return to what I usually do."
"Which is?"
She was hesitant to ask. Samira wasn't hesitant to answer.
"The arts of murder. Primarily. There are always things to be killed, until I can find someone else to mark as a rival. Once I do… then that person will occupy my attention."
Taylor sat down quietly, and didn't respond. The coffee boiled slowly, and she enjoyed the silence. It was… weird, the idea of Samira leaving. Not that she
knew Samira very well, but it still felt weird to imagine a world where she was so very, very far away. Still, it highlighted something that she occasionally overlooked - there was a world outside her own experience, there were movements which she couldn't see and couldn't control. She felt oddly envious of Samira. Just… packing up and moving on, finding a new place to live and operate, taking nothing with her but a few years of age. If Taylor was asked to follow her… she honestly wasn't sure if she'd turn the offer down. Once she had the hoard, she
could. She
could go with her and explore some weird corner of the world, some area she'd never known, where they spoke a different language and operated in a different context. Where she didn't need to think about things like the PRT, the Teeth, or the tremendous mess which had surrounded her on all sides. If she was clever, she'd probably follow. Off into the desert sands, maybe never to return. Where her footprints were washed away by waves of sand, and no-one could follow her. For a moment, she realised just how small the walls of this house were, just how low the ceilings were, just how insulated it all was. How the air conditioning deadened senses, how the myriad comforts of home just created a kind of spiritual nothingness.
She could see why Samira wanted to leave. If Taylor was stuck in a place like this for long without a genuinely good reason to stay, she'd have gone insane a long time ago.
A cup of coffee clunked in front of her. Chipped plain cup, no saucer. Black as night, and oddly salty.
Strong. Just what she needed. A thin film of sweat broke out on her forehead as she sipped deeply, and she relished the feeling.
"So? Why are you here?"
After Kabiri, the bluntness is actually quite refreshing. Hm.
Pretty much.
"I was wondering if you knew anything about the Wolf-Divided."
Samira stiffened.
"...where did you hear that name?"
"The Teeth. It's a long story, I-"
"I don't want to know. The Wolf is
not something to be trifled with - it's the business of savages and idiots, and no-one else. Focus your efforts on the Unceasing Striving,
that's a force which has some artistry to it."
Oh, fantastic, she's a snob. About powers which undo the mind and shred the soul. Wonderful.
"...uh-huh. Look, I really just want information. Trust me, I'm not interested in following it, just trying to get information. You seem to know a lot about this sort of thing."
Samira stood abruptly, and paced around the kitchen like a restless soldier, all her strides precisely timed, all her steps
clicking sharply on the stone floor. She looked irritable, like this was something she wished hadn't been brought up. Not because of some deep-seated hatred born of old struggle, but because it was simply a topic she found boring and unpleasant. If anything, it reminded her a little of what her dad had looked like when her mom had decided to rant about some obscure issue in her particular corner of English literature. A feeling of resignation to the conversation, an expression of dim despair. A feeling that this conversation was going to go on longer than he'd like, go to areas he didn't know enough about to debate or had long-since given up on talking about, usually both, and could only be endured. Not participated in,
endured. Taylor felt oddly insulted, and Samira begrudgingly spoke.
"...the Wolf-Divided is known to both myself and my order. We called it the Wolf, or the Jackal. Something which paces around the camp, snapping at those who stray too far from the firelight. Like all the most debased powers, it snaps up the desperate, the stupid, and the worthless. Again, I must insist. Turn your attention to better things, which have a higher standard of follower."
She fell silent, her face still twisting in irritation. Taylor decided to intervene - needed to get this conversation moving, even if Samira wanted it to stay still and die out.
"It's all about perpetual revolution, right?"
"...that is an aspect of it, yes. But that makes it sounds too
ordinary. By saying this, you place it on the level of the other powers - a level it has not earned, not covets. Revolution is one thing, but the term has acquired so many connotations that the
meaning is almost obliterated. The Wolf isn't a revolutionary, the Wolf isn't an anarchist. A revolutionary throws a bomb into a car and rejoices when a politician dies, the Wolf is simply happy that something had burned, that something has broken, that someone has died. The fact of the explosion is pleasure enough, and
that is inimical to human life. There are some powers which are constructive, and some which are best left at the fringes of the campfire. The Striving as produced
nations from its principles, from the notion of constructive rivalry. The Wolf sees nothing but what may be undone. It's insensate nihilism, it's the sort of thing which
buries meaning. The Wolf is an animal, plain and simple. Engage with it, and you're a bigger idiot than I thought."
"...you have strong feelings about it?"
"Of course I do, do you
know how irritating it is to see people worshipping that
thing? I was around in the Middle East when country after country fell to revolutions and riots, and
then, let me assure you, the Wolf had a damn
feast. Repulsive, degenerate, and utterly
wretched. Now, speak no more."
Taylor hummed lightly, not agreeing, not disagreeing, just… acknowledging. Time to probe deeper. If Samira was allowed to, it seemed like she'd just spend her time insulting it. Which wasn't very helpful for infiltrating one its cults, not in her very limited experience of infiltrations. She might not be an expert, but she knew that constantly insulting the group she was entering was
usually pretty bad. She assumed. Hadn't done it before, but wasn't very inclined to
try.
"So it's about chaos and conflict."
"I said to stop talking about it."
"Just
humour me, alright?"
"No. I will not. If you cannot heed warnings, you're clearly mentally deficient and there's no point continuing talking at all. If you
can, then perhaps we can have a conversation. If you
insist."
She took a deep breath. Time to leap in. Time to piss her off. Royally.
"...then what's the difference between that and what
you do? I mean, striving, revolution, they're both
conflict, I guess-"
A knife abruptly protruded between her fingers, embedded so deep in the table that she could barely see the blade. Samira looked
furious.
"Do
not compare the path I follow to those… those… carrion eaters. The Unceasing Striving is evolution, it is the process by which two partners join to fight and love in equal measure, to conquer and be conquered, to never die and yet refuse to stagnate. Some faiths enjoy their stagnant hermits who do nothing but meditate on great mysteries, but
my order always did more. Leave the hermits to their caves and their pillars, we found a way of meditating for all time in a way that actually yields something of value, unlike most other powers. We find people to strive against, and then harden ourselves with scars until we can never die, until we live forever. It is a more perfect form of immortality - but it is
love as well as hate. The Wolf understands
nothing of either. The Wolf is a chaotic, ravenous animal with no sense of love, and no sense of hate - it only knows destruction. You may as well reason with a landslide. The Wolf-Divided cannot evolve, the Wolf-Divided cannot
devolve, the Wolf-Divided only
consumes. And if you're idiot enough to play with it, you deserve what you get. Now. With all due politeness. Shut the fuck up."
Taylor leant back in her chair, her swarm moving a little faster. Her fists were clenched. Samira was… looking irritable. Just a little bit. She could back down now, she could just accept these conclusions, but… she needed more information. And she couldn't just let Samira load her up with a pile of anti-Wolf propaganda. Even if that propaganda had some grains of truth to it.
"...then why do people follow it, if it's so terrible?"
"Because some people enjoy the process. They adore the changes wrought upon their bodies and minds, they adore tearing beautiful things down simply because they
can. These are people that would shatter oil rigs and stain indelibly the beaches they'll never visit, these are people that will destroy priceless works of art because it makes them
happy that others will mourn them."
I get the feeling she may have some bias.
"...OK, OK, I understand. It's bad. But… OK, just try and think like me for a moment."
Samira blinked, and promptly widened her mouth at the edges, dulled her eyes, and hunched slightly. Her voice became the flattest monotone Taylor had ever heard.
"Sure, I'm thinking on your level now. Oh goodness, being a teenager is difficult when you keep shoving your face into a threshing machine before coming back for more after ten minutes of recovery. I wonder if there was a solution to this problem - oh, wait, no time to think, back to the threshing machine I go."
Hey.
"...that's unfair."
The voice is pretty spot-on, admittedly.
"
Anyway. What you're describing is just the Frenzied Flame. And I'm assuming the Wolf-Divided
isn't the Frenzied Flame. There has to be a purpose to the nihilism, right? There has to be some underlying principle which rationalises it all and-"
Samira growled, the monotone wavering slightly.
"In my order, we called the Wolf-Divided the guard-dog for the House of Dissolution. The House of Dissolution contained all manner of things which are inimical to humanity, and which could only be torn out. The Frenzied Flame sits at the high table - it's the fireplace, the host, the king, the
sultan, everything. It rules all dissolution, but it has a court before it. The Wolf-Divided guards the door, and snarls at anyone who will enter. When the Wolf stops snarling, when it rolls on its torn belly and asks for a scratch, then you know you've fallen, and will receive an invitation to the high table soon enough."
"But looking
beyond your order for a moment-"
Another knife protruded between the gaps in her fingers, again, sinking up to the hilt.
"Don't interrupt,
girl. But I'll entertain the idea. Let's talk of the Frenzied Flame, shall we? Let's discuss things from another angle, from the perspective of another order.
We did not invent this… sympathy between Wolf and Flame, it was something we
observed. Did you know that the Frenzied Flame's followers regard the Wolf as an
ally?"
Taylor froze.
"What?"
"They rarely write anything down, but I've hunted them enough to find a
little of their doctrines. My husband did more work, it's part of why I was sent to kill him, but… they revere their Proofs. Each one validates the idea that the Flame is the unity of all things, or some such nonsense. The fact that no other force can operate around the Flame is one such Proof, it highlights how supreme it is. Another Proof is your… Grafting Buddha, which is a
predecessor to unification. It indicates that the universe truly wants to reunite into a single state, and is simply struggling to find the right moves. They call it the Blind Idiot Worm, in fact. A demiurge trying to achieve perfection and failing at every turn."
Chorei howled, and Taylor quietly allowed her to take over the swarm.
"Do not conflate my faith with the faith in that… that wretched fire! That fire destroyed my monastery, my home, and burned the miracles of Senpou to the ground. By this logic, the Unceasing Striving is 'proof', after all, you create unities of a sort, you create dyads which chain people into one-"
Samira hissed.
"Dare to conflate
our faiths, and I will
hurt you in ways you cannot
begin to imagine. We do not create 'unities', we create
dyads, where individuality is preserved and
eternity is created. It is a
rejection of the Flame - it can only exist when there is individuality, it endures only so long as the participants endure. Now,
parasite, shut your non-existent mouth, and let the
living people talk."
Chorei sank into furious silence, mostly because Taylor took the swarm back. But in the confines of her head, she was raging endlessly. Samira returned her sharp gaze to Taylor.
"Now that the children are gone, let's continue. Another Proof is the Wolf's existence. It is a
wound in the universe, a representation of the universe's desire to regress into a single state - a profound dissatisfaction with its own existence. The Wolf was born when we were severed from the Flame. They say, if you found the edges of the universe, you would find a great wall of wolf-light dividing us from the primordial fire. It's the living wound, a wound so great and awful that it couldn't help but become a
force. Now, do you find it worrying that this force is seen as a
kindly thing by the Frenzied Flame's slaves? Don't you find it
concerning?"
Taylor scowled.
"Yeah, sure, it's concerning, but you
just said that the Grafting Buddha was considered a 'Proof', and I've had that in my head for
months. I'm doing
fine. So, let's talk about the Wolf-Divided as the Teeth would, just so we can try and figure out what it is, and how it works, and what it wants, and why people would follow it."
Samira pinched the bridge of her nose… and sat down, chugging back her coffee in greedy gulps. Steam emerged from between her teeth when she talked, and her face was flushed. She was trying to calm herself, and it was only mostly working. She poured herself another cup of coffee, chugged it, wiped her mouth off, stared, and when back for cup number three before she starting looking genuinely relaxed. This. This was why Taylor didn't want to embrace the Unceasing Striving
completely. Well, apart from the destruction of everything but her ability to make conflict, the erasure of her very body beneath layers of scars, the fixation on rivalry… but also this. She was
poor, she couldn't afford to sustain a coffee habit like that, she wasn't made of money. She was made of scars and gristle and bugs. And a nun somewhere in there. Probably some shrapnel? She was a shambling mound masquerading as a person, that was the point. Adding caffeine to the mix sounded like a recipe out of the Anarchist's Cookbook. Samira took a deep breath, centred herself, achieved inner peace…
"The Wolf is for idiots and blasphemers. It's the business of morons. Follow it, and you become that. Why on earth do you want to
know any of this?"
"Because… because I'm infiltrating the Teeth, and I need to be
convincing."
"Punch someone in the face and scream a few random slogans, you'll be fine."
"That's not helpful."
"It's
very helpful, you just don't understand the nuances of the Wolf."
"Neither do you! You seem to know everything
bad about it, but that's not going to be much help around people who
love it."
She leant in.
"Why do you hate it so much?"
"Because it's the faith of starving degenerates who have no ability to conceive of a better world that isn't born on the corpses of the last. They burn themselves on the fire of revolution then act surprised when the revolution turns on them, or another revolution appears, or schism after schism occurs. They birth a world through violence, and then expect peace to spontaneously generate from the ashes. They scream their slogans and wave their flags, and in the end they blink like dumb cows once everything stops being so very
fun and
hopeful. The Wolf
laughed as country after country fell to revolution. I am
old, Taylor, I am
old. I don't look it, but I
am. I was there when revolutions swept the Middle East, I was there when Russia burned itself to the ground, I was there when nation after nation threw off their oppressors and installed worse oppressors in their place. And all the while, the Wolf
laughed. The first few times, I was saddened. Then I was exasperated. And now I am
derisive. The idiots never cease, young and full of passion, willing to direct it to anything which doesn't demand commitment or
real sacrifice. They'll give their deaths, but they'll never give their
lives. A few seconds of martyrdom, easy. Untold
decades of labour? Never."
Her voice rose into a low yell.
"And now you come to me and expect me to
sing the Wolf's praises? It is worshipped by the
blind and the ignorant, it is worshipped by those without the rigour for anything else. The Flame is related to it for good reason - both are followed by the weaklings of the world. You know, the Gnostics used to believe that only
some people had souls? And everyone else was just… a soulless husk, acting out their parts, doing as they were meant to, without introspection or thoughtfulness. I disagree with them - but the Wolf and the Flame
tempt me to change my mind. Now. If you have more to say, say it to someone else. We're finished. Get out of my house."
Taylor blinked.
"Samira, I-"
"
Get out. Take your insane plan and burn out on it, but don't expect me to help you.
Get out. Your welcome has ended. I've already paid back the debt I owed you for ending my husband's suffering -
no more."
She rose, and Taylor saw more knives under her clothes, rustling angrily against the cloth. Taylor stood quickly, and began to walk for the door. The house felt sharper. The angles were too clean, too regular. The air was
ragged with friction. Samira chased her out, stalking angrily down the corridor with bloodthirst in her eyes and a knife in her hands. Taylor welcomed the evening air as it rushed along her skin, and Samira stood in the threshold, guarding any further entry. Taylor's eye was wide, her face was flushed, her swarm was
blazing…
"I… didn't mean to insult you. I'm sorry."
"You did. And the apology isn't accepted. My husband did the same as you - he always needed to poke into every angle, always needed to investigate every little nook and, no matter how heretical. He fattened himself on knowledge, a ripe fruit for Bisha to
pluck. He made his errors,
I will not repeat them, nor will I help
others repeat them. No - leave, and do not return. I'll be gone from this country soon, and that will be
all."
"...isn't there some way I can make it up to you?"
"No. There isn't.
Leave."
Taylor stood in the gathering dark, standing off against Samira. Her mind was angry, sure, and… worried. Always worried. The timer was running out - for her and for Vicky. Samira shivered abruptly, and Taylor blinked. The woman's voice had softened a little. No remorse at what she was doing, but a slight regret that she felt compelled to do it in the first place.
"...I'll be glad to leave this place. There's something in the air, something… wrong."
"Yeah, the Teeth."
"Most likely."
She sighed.
"...go. And do your insanity on your own time. How is the blonde?"
Taylor grimaced.
"In a mountain, being an idiot."
"Ah, I remember being an adolescent. Well, go on, mother hen."
"I'm not-"
"
Go. I have packing to do, and you have insanity to drown in."
Taylor frowned, nodded curtly, and departed into the warm air of the late evening, her new suit somehow remaining airy despite every element compelling it to become a draping, soggy mess which inhibited more than it allowed. She began by storming off, but as Samira's house vanished into the gloom, she found herself slowing to a light stroll. Needed to think. Samira had been useless - to prejudiced against the Wolf, too unwilling to consider how others might find it attractive. Too damn jaded. A very pale man passed her in the street, a gentleman with an interesting moustache, walking a mongrel which didn't look like any breed she'd seen… and yet like every breed at once. A very Average Dog. The man, who looked faintly like he was made of spongy marble, smiled with bloodless lips and nodded politely. He whistled a tune to himself, and slipped from Taylor's mind as soon as his face left her sight. So, this investigation had been
pointless. The Teeth remained a mystery.
Fuck. She scowled to herself… and pulled out her phone. The timer was up. And no messages had come. She sighed. This, at least, she could somewhat control, right? She could do
something good tonight at least.
She toyed with the keypad.
Worry was blazing through her along with the coffee, putting a pit in her stomach that felt like it would never quite leave, just receding from time to time. And now it couldn't do much
but recede - it'd grown as far as it could without swallowing her entire self whole. And yet it retained its size, retained its
depth, and she was left feeding emotion after emotion into it, thought after thought, until all that remained was
concern.
A quick search on what passed for a browser on this phone.
Ah. Shit.
New Wave were patrolling tonight.
Fuck, why hadn't…
fuck. They were out, and Laserdream was with them. Some robbery across town, but the capes had already gone to another site when the police arrived. Too swift to track, let alone catch… fuck, fuck,
fuck. Wasted too much time with Samira,
idiot, and gained nothing from it. And now she couldn't even find Crystal. Delayed.
Idiot, idiot, idiot. A whole fucking
night delayed, a whole
night lost…
Calm down. There are other things to prepare. Leave her for the morning, catch her when she wakes up - before she flies off.
Good point. Very good point. She began to type. Instructions were sent. Contacts were made. Plans were established. The morning would see things occurring as they ought to, tonight… tonight was growing late. But she could still make plans, right? A few people were texted, arrangements were made, everything clicked. Tomorrow
morning, first thing. Earliest she could manage. Absolute earliest.
The idea still didn't sit right with her,
waiting till morning.
…when she found that girl, she was going to
slap her so damn hard…
* * *
Taylor had stumped back to her motel room after her little… engagement. Texts had been sent. Contacts had been made. She'd done everything she intended to do. The room was a shrouded mass of shifting shapes - traffic cast odd shadows through the blinds, and the entire room at times seemed to be underwater. Good place to go to sleep in her eyes. Better than most. Not that it was
easy. Sleeping felt
wrong. The rattling of the air conditioning kept her awake, in her own mind. In reality, her mind was the one doing the waking. The air conditioning was just a convenient and noisy excuse. She was worried about Vicky. She was worried about Laserdream. She was worried about a great deal. Her dad came back to mind. Been a hot few days since she'd visited him. Could've been hurt by now. Paranoia waxed and waned like the phases of the moon… no, that felt too gradual. It rose and set like the sun, if the sun had gone insane. Sometimes greater, then declining, then almost becoming unnoticeable… until she shivered, and all of a sudden the paranoia was back at the blaring might of midday. A sun which skipped across the sky randomly, a record on a broken gramophone, sometimes nowhere, sometimes everywhere, sometimes a dozen suns floating in the sky like balls from a seriously fucked-up juggler. This was a twelve-sun evening.
Paranoia kept her awake. And she couldn't turn to alcohol to suppress it. What had Kabiri said? It was like building a levy. She almost imagined he was sitting there, on the chair across the room, with his rum in hand and briefcase at his side, cold, cold crate across the hall… smiling and talking without saying a damn thing. Alcohol felt tainted now. She almost felt tempted to smoke - she'd only smoked once, with Maximum Leader over the New Canyon, but that'd been a proper cigar, a one-time event… maybe she could break the habit. Lung cancer was a bitch, but she imagined the stress would kill her before the tumours could. She remembered the smoke going in and out of her mouth, the puffs of shimmering cloud, the sense of relief that had spread through her. Less overt than alcohol, but definitely
there. And unlike alcohol, tobacco would just involve a few puffs from an anonymous packet, a mass of near-translucent leaves wrapped in rough brown paper… no glasses, no disturbing her stomach, nothing. Better than bags of wine. That was for fucking sure.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the ceiling far rush by.
Whumph. Whumph. Whumph. Regular as a heartbeat, just out of sync with her own. Timing the seconds until morning, when she coud keep working. Idiot.
Dumbass. She tried to settle back into the unfamiliar pillow, tried to get some damn sleep… the suit hung on the bathroom door, and it seemed like a person was hovering there, dark and headless, staring without any of the instruments necessary. The heat was starting to soak into her head, even with the air con. It made her feel mad. Made her want to crawl out of her own skin and languish in the coolness on her muscles and organs. There was no minibar… but she could find one, squirrel her way inside… the heat was making her strange. Insomnia was making her strange. She didn't feel awake, she didn't feel asleep. She just felt
there, a hovering presence in the centre of the room, unwanted even by herself, a hot lump twitching in the centre of the bedclothes… needed sleep,
needed sleep. She'd done all she could. Let her fucking sleep. Couldn't she do that? Couldn't she earn a nap? Chorei was silent… and began to hum to herself.
The words were Japanese, but the meaning transmitted itself easily.
Sleep, young ogre
Your mountain is dark
Your cave is so cold
Your hoard is still here
But the bed is wide open
The fox goes round the mountain
She comes to bring gifts
Take your bone flute
Take your skin drum
Take your spiked club and cradle it as a doll
And know that the town will be there tomorrow
And know that the town will be there tomorrow
Vague memories swam before her. Chorei's ancient childhood. Her mother stroking her hair quietly as she struggled to get to sleep in the raging humidity of the time when the rainy season had begun but hadn't yet bloomed, when the rain came in stops and starts and the moisture evaporated up into a haze back into the clouds. The sky teasing the ground by showing all that it could give, and all it would withhold. Until the entire earth felt like a soaking sponge of wet heat, and sleep became impossible and fitful. Chorei's mother had stroked her hair and sung about ogres. Chorei had been a stick-thin thing, her face had been unpleasant, her manner had been discourteous, and her knees were always ragged with red scratches from playing in the rocky dirt outside. Her face flushed up red at this time of year, her hair curled into frizzy tufts, and people couldn't help but compare her to the red-faced, frizzy-haired ogres which stalked around with great clubs in the night to hunt children. And her mother had sung her songs on that topic. Songs where even little ogres could sleep properly, and she could finally get some sleep in the endless damp heat.
Chorei's song ended sadly, but her humming continued. And Taylor finally, finally found herself slipping away into dusky slumber. There were no dreams, just a dark haze where everything ended, and she could-
Wake.
Time had passed.
The nun's voice was hard and cautious. Taylor stirred quietly, her comprehension returning to the swarm. Places were restored, patrols were resumed… her eye cracked a little, and she tried to take things in. The nun sounded almost panicked, barely holding her emotions back. Her flies circled, and… she felt something. A shape, sitting in a chair near the door. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, she became rigid. Ready for anything. The insects tracked the figure, feeling a feminine shape, a hard face, and… her own face paled. She knew this one. She knew what she was feeling. The Butcher was here. Patience had come to visit. And she was sitting across from the bed. She was soaking wet, like she'd clambered out of the river just a moment ago, and her hair clung to her face in long, dark strands. Her eyes were burning. Her mouth was fixed into a faint, kindly smile. Taylor tried to pretend that she was asleep. Tried to pretend that nothing was happening. The Butcher quietly moved - Chorei was instructed to regulate her heartbeat, to keep it low and steady. Oxygen slowed. She found herself panicking more, but her heart refused to allow any of the normal responses. She needed more oxygen. She needed more blood pumping. But if she did, the Butcher would see.
Feeling trapped made her senses sharper. Her insects could see the Butcher perfectly. She was stalking over with utmost quietness, eyes bright, and Taylor saw that she'd discarded the uniform from the fast food place. All she had were soaked, filthy trousers, heavy hobnail boots, and above the waist, nothing but a filthy bra. Her torso was marked with dozens of deep scars, each one healed raggedly. Dozens of glinting smiles in the dull moonlight. There was nothing attractive about her now, nothing grandiose. The scars were puckered red at the edges so they looked like bloody welts, or pulsing gills, the riverwater stank of unnameable chemicals, her clothes reeked of must and damp… her fingers never stopped twitching, she realised. Always tapping out a small rhythm in the air, meaning absolutely nothing.
She stalked over quietly, dripping riverwater to the ground, smiling all the while. Taylor was frozen, and Chorei whimpered a little. The Butcher stepped closer… and climbed onto the bed. There was a moment of motion as the mattress sank, and Taylor's breath caught in her throat as she shifted a little, the ground becoming abruptly unstable. She tried to remain absolutely still, unwilling to make a single damn move. The Butcher crawled spiderlike over the covers, barely disturbing them. Always her fingers twitched. Always her smile endured. A moment, and she was crouched over Taylor, feet planted on either side of her shoulders, torso hunched and contorted, face hanging lower and lower, closer and closer. Close enough that her breath could be felt on Taylor's face. A slender hand reached out… and brushed a lock of her hair away. Chorei was working at full pelt to stop her heart from racing in sheer panic. Too busy to exchange words. Silence. Silence, and the Butcher's breathing.
For a moment, that was all.
And then the Butcher quietly pulled a pistol out of her waistband.
Everything was static. The world was a mute witness to this. The pistol was soaked, but it still felt functional - the ammunition was dry, the mechanisms still clicked satisfactorily. A heavy six-shooter, a proper hand cannon. Her insects could see how it shone in the moonlight. The Butcher quietly, ever-so-quietly, raised the gun to her chin, and drew back the hammer. A nauseating
click echoed through the silence, swallowed up by the thick air. A private click. A click intended only for her. The Butcher slowly brought her finger to the trigger… and then raised the barrel to under her chin. Pressing into the soft flesh of her throat, pointing upwards to her brain. She closed her eyes. She shivered. Her breathing intensified, slowly at first, then faster, faster, faster, so fast that she seemed ot be hyperventilating. A low, dull whine escaped her throat, like a dying animal. Foam appeared at the corners of her lips. She rasped, and whined, and panted, and pushed the gun further and further up. There were no words. There could be no words. WIth a gun under her chin, pressing her jaw shut, the Butcher could only speak in vowels, in vague animal sounds which could've been happiness, fear, anger, or some mix of the three. She panted…
And the gun came away.
Taylor couldn't react before the Butcher's face was terrifyingly close to her own, so close she could feel the warmth of her skin. Her voice was a hoarse whisper, but there was a perverse note of tenderness to it.
"Not yet."
She leant forwards, and brushed her lips against Taylor's forehead. The tenderness only grew, until her voice felt as thick and sweet as trying to down a shot of syrup.
"I hope you can hear me."
Chorei retreated into the very depths of the subconscious, a place she thoroughly disliked going, where normal rules broke down and she had to exist in a perpetual acid trip. What she must be seeing now was somehow less horrible than this. But she kept a hold of Taylor's heart, stopping it from beating out of her chest, even as her brain wailed for the oxygen it needed to panic properly. The Butcher smiled, showing gleaming teeth… there was a dull
pop and
whine. She'd vanished. Teleport. The air adjusted to the vacuum and rushed inwards, ruffling her hair back over her face in a comforting blanket. It felt like the Butcher was still touching her. A distant
boom echoed, low and dull as thunder. She'd left. She'd teleported. Gone. Taylor remained utterly still until her swarm told her that she was truly, truly gone, far beyond sight. She lay in bed, silent as a corpse, letting out tiny, quick breaths which never amounted to enough.
...you saw her too?
She had. She had.
I… I suppose we ought to try and sleep?
The grip on her lungs and heart relaxed. She felt oxygen flood in, and her heart made up for lost time by beating with all the force of a drum. She panted, and finally moved, practically thrashing as she got all her nervous energy out. She had a lot to get through. By the time she was finished, she could only find one thing to really say.
"Just… stay here."
I'm not going anywhere.
The bed felt unclean. She found herself sitting quietly on the closed toilet seat in her poky bathroom, surrounded by stained fixtures and the smell of powerful scouring chemicals. The harsh light made her feel purer. The room was dark and filthy and held anything and everything and
anyone. She stared down at her feet, shivering slightly, her dark hair forming a solid curtain around her vision. A telescope compressing reality down to a tiny circular sliver, practically two-dimensional in its simplicity. The air conditioner rattled. She was fine. She'd done worse. Seen worse. The scars on her too-visible collarbone was enough to prove that, the stiffness in her knee proved that, every little nick and cut proved that. Taylor had seen worse. Taylor could endure this. This was necessary. There
was no other option. Nothing that would make enough money in such a short span of time, nothing that would get her what she needed without the bureaucracy crashing down on her head, brutalising her into the ground like it had every other independent, like it had New Wave - piles of bills and pressure until the entire movement became a contractor for the PRT. No, she… she had to stick by this. There was no other way. She'd seen worse. The air conditioner was still rattling, rusted fans clattering against the sides of their container, dry air rustling inwards and giving her lips the consistency of wrapping paper.
Quietly, she wrapped her arms around themselves, drew her knees up into her chest, and rocked back and forth for a moment under the harsh fluorescent lights. In this little cocoon, her breath was all that existed, every ragged exhalation and inhalation was her whole reality. But her swarm wouldn't let her stay that way. The impulses never ceased. Always she could see them, the spiralling world beyond, the absolute existence which refused to be denied. Not for the first time, she felt… she felt doubt inside her. Had the Butcher even
got a hoard? Maybe she'd destroyed it. Maybe she'd abandoned it. Maybe that was her next big act of revolution - building a hoard to attract idiots, feeding on those idiots as cannon fodder, entertainment, or successors… while the hoard rotted away at the bottom of the ocean, or in a loose stream of ashes riding the winds until they dispersed into nothingness. Maybe she'd breathed the hoard in at some point. Maybe she'd stepped on the dust left behind and thought nothing of it. Maybe there was nothing. Maybe she'd dragged herself into hell to find… nothing at all..
Maybe she'd gone in too deep and couldn't back out at this point.
Maybe she'd once thought of the Butcher as a terrifying but ultimately mundane villain.
Maybe she'd been desperate.
The place where the Butcher had touched her forehead seemed to burn like a brand.
Chorei murmured softly to her, and she felt a shiver run through her nerves - like phantom pain, but kinder. A phantom arm ghosting through her mind, prickling across her back and shoulders. A narrow, bone-thin arm draped across her, pulling her inwards to a phantom body, while a phantom voice murmured about nothing at all. She understood. She wouldn't object. Not when she was in this deep, not
seriously. Chorei cradled her close, and the two shivered their way to the sunrise. To the dawn of a day that perhaps wouldn't be kinder, wouldn't be brighter… but it would be new. And that, perhaps, would have to be enough. In newness there were traces of possibility and anticipation. In newness there was opportunity. In the stifling heat of the night, there was only the body, sweating and shifting like a pig, and no mind for things beyond. No space beyond the walls. No ambitions but for temporary oblivion. The sunrise brought clarity, and with that clarity came the willingness to unfurl herself from the bathroom like some kind of uncurling long-limbed insect…
And the willingness to keep going..
