Kataphileo
…
Written for the Senshi & Shitennou Reverse Mini Bang 2017; inspired by a gorgeous artwork by noctej (find her on Tumblr!).
Thank you to the glorious mods for organizing this!
One additional note on a word that shows up frequently throughout the story, and may not be familiar to all readers: banlieue. Here's what Wiki has to say about it, which may be instructive:
"Banlieues...do not constitute part of the city proper.
...since the 1970s, banlieues increasingly means...low-income housing projects...
...the banlieues are perceived to have become unsafe places to live, and youths from the banlieues are perceived to be one important source of increased petty crimes and uncivil behavior."
Note that I don't necessarily agree with these perceptions; that said, the word was helpful as shorthand in this story. Hopefully, its use does not offend.
…
Aag laga ke mann ke aangan mein Chod gayo re bairi, sawan mein
After setting fire to the courtyard of my soul Oh, enemy, you deserted me in the rain
…
-Sawan Mein
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...
He's not much to look at, but in your experience, good recruits rarely are. The less they bring, the more the Wiseman can offer. You're not looking for a particular personality or skill. Just someone to believe. The rest is up to you.
"Hey, kid," you say, but it doesn't register. He probably can't hear you over the chattering of his own damn teeth, shivering as he is, arms wrapped around knees on the curb. Nothing around but other kids like him and the ramshackle 21st-century tenements they live in, remnants from pre- Freeze. His jeans are ripped and his sweatshirt's threadbare, too. It's always cold out here in CT's banlieues, far from the Palace. It's always cold for those who choose not to live in The Crystal.
He looks like he would've been a pretty broad guy if better fed, but as things stand, you're maybe close to the same size. You pull off your puffy jacket and crouch in front of him. Settle it around his shoulders, and finally, he looks up at you. Dull-gazed from whatever amp he's pushed through his veins, but oh. What pretty eyes.
"Where's that Great Thaw when you need it, huh?" you remark, clapping him on his back, rubbing his thinned-out arms.
Those eyes are sharpening on you now, refilling with awareness. You always did have a feel for the smart ones; it's why Wiseman sends you out three times a month and others only once. The kid coughs and licks his windburnt lips. When he speaks, his voice is so rough it's obvious he hasn't talked to anyone in a while.
"Don't – " he coughs again. "Don't tell me that line has ever worked for you."
You bark out a laugh, pleasantly surprised. Well, okay, then. "Yeah, actually, it has."
He's looking right at you. Everything else is gray: the sky, the buildings, the permafrost under your thick-soled boots. But his eyes are so blue it hurts.
He smirks; the twist almost makes his upper lip bleed. "I'm not convinced."
"Let me convince you," you say amiably, and with that, pull him to his feet.
...
He learns fast. You're so damn proud.
There's only a few of you to train him, but you put in the time. You're not a fancy outfit, not high up, not well supplied. Your cell has brought the Wiseman a lot of good, willing bodies, but they all abandon the warren for better positions in the Clan, and somehow, you always get left behind. But Jude, as he calls himself, has star potential. He might be the one to take you along when he rises to the top.
Good in a crisis, fast-thinking, light on his feet. That confidence was no fluke, nor was that sense of flirtation. Not that you let him get anywhere with it. He's easy to be around, sharp and alive, but you can tell he respects you, too. When you tell him about the creed, about the Wiseman, you can see he's weighing it all carefully. Considering. You like that he doesn't fall for it like a stack of dominoes.
In turn, you respect him. You don't ask where he's from, what he did before you found him freezing alive. Nobody around here does that. It's never a warm and fuzzy story.
It's only a month before he gives his first report to Rubeus, but rank aside, that fucking ginger's secondary, even tertiary to real power. At first, the best you can hope for is that someone important will lay eyes on him, maybe even Emeraude. Now that he's getting decent quality paste, he's filled out nicely and those eyes aren't the only pretty thing about him.
Under your supervision, he starts with baby stuff, scouting runs and such. Quickly graduates to the bigger time, planning targets and executing raids.
Then, Jude absolutely kills one of his first assignments: blows up what used to be the old Juuban Secondary General Hospital before it went crystal. Nobody's inside when he does it – that's not the Clan's intention – but something about the location of the blast scares the shit out of the right the Clan's intention – but something about the location of the blast scares the shit out of the right people, goes all the way to the Palace. Goes all the way to Saffir, too.
Nothing changes, at least nothing you can point to. No new resources, no juicy assignments. But people from all over the underground look at you a little differently now. They know he's your protégé. You were just a recruiter, the lowest rung on the Clan's ladder. For years. But now, you start to think big.
...
The thing is, living forever is only fun if you're rich and beautiful and loved. When you're not one of those things, it's hell.
Everyone talks about the Queen's compassion. How she saved them all. But you can't think of anything crueler than what she's done.
To you, and to all the vermin. Crawling down here, in the holes you've dug for yourselves.
...
You didn't join up with the Clan to hurt anyone, specifically, but you're not naïve. People will get hurt. Hopefully the right ones. The ones pushing immortality on those who need it least. Before the Freeze, people had the right to choose. Now the Queen, whom nobody chose, has chosen forever for everyone. You're all going to be sprinkled with some dust from The Crystal, and...what? Did she think that far ahead?
But she's powerful, so unbelievably strong, and so is the King. And the Senshi. You see them on the big screens, their faces young and hard as diamonds. Their hands full of light, like angels. None of them will listen to a nobody like you.
Jude nods at all of this, drags on the cigarette dangling between his lips. He found an old pack on his last raid – yet another choice the Queen's taken away – and shared it all over the warren. It's things like that, you think. His gaze trains on you through the smoke. "So what do we do?"
You turn onto your side, facing him. You're close enough to bump foreheads, or other things, but it's not sexual; in the Clan bunkers, everyone sleeps close to keep in the heat. In CT, people don't share beds or even rooms. The sun shines there and things grow, all because the Queen wills it.
Only for those she's chosen, you guess. Everyone else who doesn't agree with her can, what, go to hell?
You realize that Jude's repeated his inquiry. "What do you mean, do?" You pull the cigarette from his mouth and take a puff yourself. Tastes horrible, but burns your chest good. "Whatever Wiseman and Demande and Saffir tell us to do. What else?"
But then you see his face, just barely there in the dimness of the crappy old flashlight you've got going, and you have to grin. "Let me guess. You're not convinced."
He laughs, props himself up on his arm. His teeth are very white, weird on a banlieues kid. "Why take orders from them? You're the one on the ground. You see what's going on out here. They aren't going to follow a guy in a purple blankie spouting off about the blasphemy of immortality." His voice is quiet. Fervent. "They'll follow you because you know how they're hurting."
Your face must have done something unprecedented, because his tone changes rapidly. "Hey, I don't mean to shit talk the Wiseman, it's just – "
"We make them listen," you say. "That's what we do."
...
Once, you saw a Senshi for real.
Lots of people would think they were made-up – a good old-fashioned government conspiracy – if their power weren't so manifest. For all the infrastructure to be real – CT, The Crystal – the architects have to be real, too. No getting around it.
It was one of your first runs. You'd just joined up and kept poking between your brows to check if it was healing right. A whole bunch of green morons goofing off, not a Clan veteran among you.
When she appeared, everyone scattered, you more successfully than others. You knew nothing, but you knew to hide when a Senshi was on your route. What was she doing here, anyway? They didn't usually come this far out from The Crystal.
She was tall, taller than you would've thought from the big screens. You weren't in zapping distance – well, you probably were, but too dumb to know it – and yet all the hair on your arms went up. On the breeze, you smelled ozone. The air around her crackled in anticipation.
Some of those cowards blubbered, pressed their tattooed foreheads to her boots.
For all this, her face was like a noble lady in an old-time painting. Tender, almost grieved. You didn't know she would look like that. From behind a rusted-out old van, you watched her wrap the storm around herself like a lover.
The Wiseman had told you what to expect next. Whatever happened to those poor fucks, you didn't stick around to find out. No. You ran as fast as you could. You didn't look back. You kept going until you reached your own gutter, and you scuttled down it like the rat you were.
Of course, you never saw those idiots again.
...
There's an idea you've been turning in your head for a long time now. But it was so stupid. It wasn't going to go anywhere. You could never pull that shit off, even if you had all the right info, the right plan, the right team.
In the banlieues, nobody asks where anybody comes from. But it's not like you didn't have families, once. Some are lucky to still have them.
You thought, didn't the Senshi have families? Not anymore, obviously; gods don't have weird uncles and snotty in-laws. But before? People in CT, maybe, without all the fire and ice, light and lightning. God, you hope that shit isn't hereditary or something. Assuming it isn't, aren't those people out there? Nobody knows who the Senshi really are, so putting police protection on their families would kind of be a dead giveaway. The magic would be gone, so to speak.
You're cruising the streets for more strays, you and Jude, and both your collars are pulled up all the way but you can't really get warm. Still, the way he looks at you when you voice this idea is...something. His expression is neutral, calculating through the odds, but there's a flicker of new admiration there that heats you.
"You have any leads?"
You shake your head. "No. Well. One, but it might be fake." You're lying. It's not fake.
"Who?"
You'd feel ridiculous saying it, if you didn't know better. "Hino, the former DLP Councilor."
Jude looks away, in thought. "I think I've heard the name. He would be an old man if – did he survive the Freeze?"
"Didn't all the politicians?"
He laughs shortly. "Fair enough, boss. What makes you think...?"
You stop in the street, so abruptly Jude walks a few steps ahead of you before realizing it. The words rush out, not entirely with your permission. "I know Hino's related to one of the Senshi. It's the real deal. I'll tell you how I know, but you can't say anything. To anyone, not even in the Clan." Your breath makes fog in the cold and your nose is running, but your voice hardens. "I won't get my source in trouble."
He turns around. His eyes are sharper than you've ever seen before, like blades.
"Promise me," you command.
His nostrils flare like a bull's. "You think I'd do that to you?"
You look him in the eyes. Yours can be steel, too. "Either you promise me, or we keep walking and forget we ever spoke about this. I won't hold it against you. Lots of ways to get ahead in the Clan. Loyalty's not the easiest."
Jude takes a step closer to you, and you see his taut expression soften. You see his mouth soften, too. Serene as a Greek statue, even beatific, when it's not pulled askew into a smirk. Figures; the kid does have the face of an angel, you think, before you get a fucking hold of your maudlin-ass, thirsty old self. Hell, you almost miss him say it:
"Yeah, obviously. I promise, okay? Think I owe you at least that much."
You snort. "Boy, let's not go there. You can't repay what you owe me, that's for sure."
At any other time, he'd follow that up with a tease. Something for you to smack down. Something for you to enjoy smacking down. But now isn't that time.
"Tell me," is all he says, gone cool and distant as the Thaw wind. So you do.
...
A few years ago, the scavengers hauled in some big screens. Mostly cracked glass and naked wires, but they had the CT channels on. From this, you learned how the Queen and her people lie and lie and lie.
They say the Black Moon Clan is brainwashing people. Using them as fodder for their rebel army. They say the Clan feeds them stuff, pumps them up, turns them into droids. It isn't possible. The underground's a big damn place, for sure, but you know no one in the Clan would do that to your kids. To any kids. Even if – but no. It isn't possible. You tell yourself you'd know.
They say the kids in the banlieues should come to CT for food, clothes, medicine, school. Come in from the cold. How's that for Brainwashing 101?
They say no questions will be asked. Everyone is welcome in CT, no matter what. They don't mean you.
They say that if a CT resident sees someone with the tattoo, she should go inside and call the police. They say not to confront, not to engage. To take every precaution.
You see the faces of the good CT citizens on the screen. Eating ice cream, walking dogs, planting trees, carrying children, on and on into perpetuity. Before you saw this, you had no way of knowing how little they cared about you.
Like droids, you think. Not people. Not anymore.
...
So now you and Jude pick at the idea when there's time, huddled those cold nights, pall of his nicked cigarettes hanging in the close, fetid air.
Background comes easy. Your source's intel was dusty, but the 'net yields the rest. Hino was a well-regarded politician in the 21st century. Now that he's lost all his power, he's only become more vocal. Men, right?
Of his politics, there's much on which you'd agree – he's not a fan of the Queen, a vociferous opponent of The Crystal and all its uses. These have made him perfunctory, after all. He speechifies plenty. In the clips, you see some Clan edging the audience. Irrelevant, as Hino's just a means to an end, but interesting.
His daughter ran a shrine. Near the hospital Jude blew up, actually. Only a handful of pictures with her and Hino together, all pre-Freeze. Could be press-shy, daddy-shy, or both. What few there are? Just a pretty girl, that's all, with a gaze somehow both direct and aloof.
Hino Rei went off the grid shortly before the Great Freeze, and never came back. She's on the long list of those who died in its ravages.
She did die. Sailor Mars is no human. Blow her up and crystal chips'll fly.
You tell Jude as much, but all you get is a brief, distracted chuckle. Something's on his mind. From experience, best to let it work its way out of him. You busy yourself with details until it does.
"Based on his views alone, I'd assume they aren't close," he says eventually. "And you know Palace policy is not to negotiate."
"She'll show," you say, bookmarking another article. A picture is forming. Clearer than you thought it would, all those years ago. "Duty, if nothing else. Look at these photos, these quotes. Both him and her. Old school, definitely."
"She may not come right away."
"Then we work on him until she does."
This seems to surprise him. "What do you mean?"
You shrug with a confidence you don't possess. Say it a bit louder than necessary. "I mean, we do what we have to."
Jude sits back on his haunches. Under the holey blanket, he's wearing a jacket – the one you gave him, though it's two sizes too tight now and won't zip. His head is outside the flashlight's halo; all you see is its curly outline.
"And if she doesn't come?" His voice is careful. "What happens to Hino, then?"
You inhale. Turn off the flashlight. This part, at least, you rehearsed in your head. "Going to back out on me now, Jude? After your big, fat promise?"
"I want to know exactly what you're willing to do."
"Anything," you spit back baldly. Steel yourself. "What about you?"
In the dark, everything about him is unknowable. Seems like an hour, though it can't be over a minute before you see him kind of sink inward, like a balloon losing air.
He lies down, and after a second, so do you. You face each other in the deep, breathing each other's breath. You're almost asleep when he says it.
"Everything," he answers softly.
...
Let's back up for a second. Thing is, you've called him your "source" for so long, it's hard to think of him as anything but. Hard to unlearn what you taught yourself. Hard to burn what you built.
He wasn't important, but he was well-placed: Hino's assistant's assistant, because of course a CT politician out of a real job could still afford such.
In retrospect, there were signs you were more into the idea than he was.
The stream of info he fed your cell started to dry up. Said he didn't have access to that kind of classified stuff anymore. His mouth sank unhappily when you talked about it. Once, he brought back some pears for you to taste. Ripe and sweet. Just like that CT Kool-Aid he was drinking all along.
You haven't talked to him in – years.
"But you're still his mother," Jude says simply, and you close your eyes, everything collapsing inside you like a dam breaking.
Last you heard, he left Hino's office. Accepted The Crystal. Might be married with two immortal kids, for all you know. You're afraid to fuck it up for him. Reach out only to drag him back.
But your son.
Of your body, your bone, your flesh.
You hope he's happy.
A rustle in the dark, under the blankets. Jude's thumbs wiping at the moisture on your rough cheeks. "Hey, hey," he murmurs.
...
You hold by the creed and say all the right things at audiences. You believe in the Wiseman. But after your son defected, it was no longer about that. The assumptions all changed.
Can you be a mother with no son? What else can The Crystal rip out of your insides?
Keep the questions coming: how is it with CT folk? Do they feel these things as you do? They're a foreign quantity; it's like trying to figure out if a fish feels pain. But that's when things really coalesce: you're willing to throw nails and bombs and grenades and bullets against those shining walls until something breaks.
Until you find out.
...
An elegant plan, tricky only in execution. Get there, get Hino. She's to come alone, if she wants him whole and alive. When she arrives?
They're powerful, but not invincible, you remember him saying. Hino visited her in the hospital once, only thing he ever calendared himself. She was knocked out. Didn't even know he was there.
Boom.
It comes together fast, the two of you plugging any holes you find. You bring on a few more trustworthies, recruits you know can keep their mouths shut. This doesn't go to the brass until it's over. No need for anyone else to take credit for bringing down one of the Senshi.
You wait for the right time.
...
One odd night, Jude gets his forehead tattooed. Doesn't tell you about it first, just goes off and does it.
When you see the dark moon between his pale brows, you want to kiss it.
That will come later.
Another month goes by with no opening. But after hanging onto this plan for all these years, you can hang on a little longer.
You keep recruiting. In so doing, you realize you've mischaracterized your approach. See, you thought you didn't look for personality or skill, but that's not quite true. You're looking for someone who wants to die, and spectacularly.
Not surprising you didn't pick up on this before, because the banlieues are full of those kids. Will you make it out of this alive? Well, you hope so.
Anything you want to do before you go?
Oh, yeah.
...
You wait some more.
...
You're doing pushups when the news comes. You've already done situps, burpees. Run the length of the warrens and back again. It's like an intestine: compacted tight but lots of turns and alleys, kinks and coils. Not like you're planning to singlehandedly take down the Diet guard or anything, but it never hurts to be in good shape. Makes you feel spry, somehow.
One of your girls drifts into the room and you become conscious of how it smells – like your sweat, accumulated over weeks of boredom – but her face is aglow and she doesn't seem to notice. Slides you a tablet and waits for you to read it, hands clasped.
"I saw the Wiseman in audience yesterday," her voice drops into a hush on his name. Were you ever that young? "He said some of us would soon have news of greatness." No, you don't think you were.
You scan the tablet.
Hino is back in town after an extended travel stint. In the office late tomorrow night, prepping for a speech the following day.
Too, Sailor Mars is confirmed in CT. Senshi whereabouts aren't always so certain, but tomorrow night, there's a fete for the King, so she'll be there.
You give back the tablet and stand up, wiping your damp hands on your thighs. Go time.
...
You're not beautiful. Not freaky-looking or anything, just...well. It is what it is. Down here, everyone trades what they can to get ahead.
Way back when, you told Jude as much, hoping he wouldn't take your meaning and head straight to the Sisters for a lay. Or four. Unfortunately, being smart, he got it right away.
"That your way of flirting with me, boss?" his lip kicked up, amused.
"Career advice, fuckboy," you snapped back, and left. Sulked the rest of the day. Not many people underground could be called cute. Life in a freezing sewer eating protein paste did that to you. Never bothered you before.
Today, you find the tube of lipstick you bought before you had your son. Smear the rosy stub on and look in the tiny mirror on the cap.
Like a painted lizard grinning at itself. Fuck it. You're too old for this shit.
You march into the boiler room where Jude's kicking back with a few Clan guys his age, unlabeled bottles scattered over the dingy metal table.
"Out," you command, and catch his eye mid-swig. "Not you."
He stands as the others file out grumbling. "Pretty color," he offers mildly, eyes dropped to your glossed lips as you approach, get right in his space.
You seize fistfuls of his jacket – still yours – and kiss him full on the mouth.
Now that you've done the damn thing, you allow yourself to appreciate all the things you've steadfastly ignored over the past few months. The fullness of his lips, a little chapped under yours. His smell of strong cheap soap. To have a man pressed against you after all this time, banded muscle of his chest and belly like a living wall. He only has an inch or two on you, but he's broader in the shoulders and filled out in the arms. Those arms come around you now as he braces you against the table, chases your mouth with his. While you haven't gotten any action in a decade, it's clear he's had plenty. He knows what he's doing.
You forgot how wickedly good this could feel.
Jude breaks off looking a little worse for wear, curls mussed and mouth pinked. But he doesn't back away. Keeps his hands firmly on, at your back, your waist.
"Boss," he's slightly out of breath. "Don't you think...we should wait?"
You know exactly what he means, though disappointment wells up in you like groundwater.
"Yeah." You exhale, rough. "You're right. After tomorrow. We'll...I want..." you can't finish, can't – your skin's so hot you want to crawl outside it.
But his answering smile is slow, that lazy insolence back in him.
"I know what you want."
"What have I said about managing my expectations," you roll your eyes, but a shock of pleasure hits your spine, buzzes your nerves. At his words alone.
You might've guessed there's one more trick up his sleeve.
Here it is: he presses his forehead to yours, like you're in bed together. Like every night the last few months. But different, now.
Very seriously, he says: "This is just the beginning. For you and me. For all of us."
...
Locked and loaded, now.
The stage is set and players chosen. You're all hunched over the floorplan on the clean-swept table (in that same room, you thrill), mapping out who goes where. That's when one of the guys (always one of the guys) says Jude should be the one working over Hino, not you, no offense, but –
There's an outcry, everyone yapping at once, which you cut with a raised hand.
"My op," you say flatly. "You got a problem with how I field it? Go. When Wiseman asks where you were when we broke Sailor Mars, you can tell him I left you behind with your dick in your hand, you incompetent fuck."
Blissful silence. Jude, as ever, looks entertained.
"Sounds good," he picks up smoothly. "We'll take point here – " he gestures " – and here." He spreads his hands over the table (you remember them on you, so warm). "Remember, they need to think it's just one or two of us. Can't chance the whole Palace outfit showing up in force; we'll be slaughtered. But we can kill one Senshi if we're quick and smart about it, boys and girls."
"Destroy," you correct with a crooked grin. "Can't kill what's already dead." A murmur of assent around the table.
Jude's own grin slips for a second, as if recalling something, but after a beat, it returns. "Semantics, boss. Semantics."
...
You dream of your son that night, for the first time in so long.
He looks happy.
...
Done a lot of small-time runs and raids over the past few years, but nothing of this scale or importance. But logistics and execution are your skills. This is your big fucking moment.
Here's how it goes down:
You move through the Diet halls quickly, quietly, troops peeling off into their places. Just a few end-of-shift guards, like your intel said, subdued with ease. Good thing it's night because in daytime you know everyone's eyes would be popping out of their sockets, all this marble and glass where they're used to cement and rust. You're not sure you'd be able to wrangle them at all if this place had gone crystal like the rest; few banlieues kids have seen the translucent, glowing stuff up close and personal.
As it is, you hear a few reverent whispers. Can you believe it? Stuff like this, only on the big screens.
That's how CT hooks them. Your mouth tightens into a line. Curiously, you're not nervous. This is your chance to bring it home.
What's the worst that can happen? CT banishes you, sends you back out into the cold? Banishment differs from the life you're living only by unappreciable degrees.
What's the best that can happen? Funnily, you don't think of the Wiseman's gratitude, at least not at first. You think of Jude's warm hands, his arrogant smile softening. For you.
This is just the beginning. Jude is last. As you reach the door with Hino's name on it, you feel him touch your hand. You want to tell him – But he's already disappeared into the darkness.
...
Nothing about Hino's appearance would suggest that he fathered a goddess. Thick spectacles, graying mustache, liver-spotted baldness shining ungracefully under the brass light. From the photos, he was never a particularly magnetic man; seeing him in person confirms that the post- Freeze years have been unkind.
And yet he looks down his nose at you. Something the cat brought in, a mouse's ragged torso left in the foyer.
He doesn't say anything as you enter, just looks up from a stack of papers. At your weapons, all visible.
You jerk your chin at the comm. "Call your daughter. Tell her to come alone."
Hino stands up behind his desk – massive, wood, lion-footed – but makes no move toward his device. His hands – far more heavily wrinkled than his face – splay over the polished oak.
You've already crossed the carpeted floor. When you backhand him, his face whips all the way to the side, like his neck is made of rubber. "Don't be a hero, Councilor."
He gazes at you, that same faintly pitying expression, but still says nothing.
You grind your teeth, open your mouth again. But Hino beats you to the punch.
"Your son is well."
With all the blood roaring in your ears, adrenaline throbbing in your veins - you can't have heard him right.
"What?" But his voice is nothing like an old man's should be; it's gravelly and strong, pitched to carry wide.
He knows you heard him. Doesn't bother with repeating himself.
"He's nearby in old Chiyoda," Hino continues. His teeth are false; they flash gold as he speaks. "I officiated at his wedding, some years ago. You have grandchildren. Three. The girl looks like you, so..."
You stare at him, knowing the whites of your eyes are showing, knowing you look like a gape- mouthed asshat. "How the fuck do you – ?"
"He told me about you," his words are enunciated with odd precision, as though he is trying to say two things with one sentence. He peers at you keenly from his watery eyes, as if he expects you to get it.
"You know who I am," you know you're stating the obvious, but you have to do it anyway, have to put the words between you to block the impact of whatever he's going to say next.
Hino nods. As he's been speaking, the pity in his face hasn't shifted at all, but you see you were mistaken as to its nature: it's not revulsion, but sorrow. For a moment, you're reminded of Jupiter, rebels at her feet.
You're starting to get the distinct feeling that you're just as fucked as they were. But – why? Who cares if he knows who you are, that you're Black Moon? You hold all the cards. No one is coming to save him, except her, and when she arrives, well. Bam. Nothing about this situation should give him the upper hand, and yet here you are, wondering if you can get your guys out in time. Send Jude a signal, somehow. Take the fall.
There's something missing and it's pissing you off, the way your thoughts tiptoe frightened around the black hole in the floor. The way he is watching you, almost disappointed. A purple bag is forming under his left eye.
"I'm sorry," he says. His compassion is – excruciating. You've had enough.
You vault over the desk, guns rattling in their holsters. Seize him by the lapels, bear him back with your momentum.
The bare crown of Hino's head impacts the wall with a dull thud. Put your knee in his torso for good measure and his neck snaps in the opposite direction. He coughs violently, dangling over your thigh like a rag doll though every breath must hurt. That was probably a rib; the sound you're hearing is ropey and wet, even for a guy his age.
"Call. Her." you grit out. "You senile fuck. I don't care what you've got going. I don't have a son. Whose fault is that?"
For a minute it's just wheezing; you let him ride it out because you're not a damn monster. He's trying to do something with his hands. Your eyes track them with little interest. They're coming up, fluttering and impotent. They're on your shoulders, then higher, then your neck. His palms feel papery, skin loose, as they wrap around your throat.
You seriously can't believe it. Old man has balls, there's no denying that. What does he think he's going to do? His fingers are so weak, their touch is almost a caress. You look side-to-side at his arms, caught as you are in this bizarre embrace. When you look back at him, Hino's lifted his head.
He's watching you, spasms done. His mouth leaks red, but his eyes are very nearly serene.
"He told me about you," he repeats, voice thick. His creased face is drawn and solemn.
And this time, for some reason, you get it.
You realize there is only one thing he could possibly be saying.
...
"You seem to know the Diet building pretty damn well," you noted.
Jude's eyebrows climbed his forehead. "Well, I've only been sleeping with this blueprint under my pillow for the better part of two months now. Any closer and I'd be dry-humping it." He leaned back in his rusty chair; the front two legs lifted off the floor, suspended. You really hated it when he did that. "You seem a little on edge, boss. Care to share?"
You sighed. "No. Just...I hate waiting."
"Soon," he said. "You guys ever had a mole?"
A short, incredulous laugh escaped you. "You'd have to be pretty fucked in the brain to leave a cushy life in CT and come spy on us in this shithole."
He was smiling. "Oh, I don't know. Seems like it could be pretty glamorous. Be a double agent. Take down a dictator. Topple the government. Get the MILF."
"Who taught you to have such a filthy mouth, boy?"
"Thought you were pretty partial to my filthy mouth, boss."
"My point was," you redirected the conversation, ignoring the flush crawling up your cardiganed chest, "it's not actually that glamorous. Think about it. You'd have to make friends with us – I mean, I wouldn't wish that on anybody. But then you'd have to lie to us, betray us. How would anyone from those pretty palaces in CT look at themself in the mirror? They'd be the same monster as they say we are. They couldn't get their hands dirty like that. Trust me."
"You have a lot of feelings about this," he observed.
"I need loyalty," you said. "I expect loyalty."
...
And then.
You come to, not thrown in a cell or tied to a chair or anything you might expect, but draped over an armchair in a darkened room. The smell in your nose is familiar – good leather, fresh paper, dusty books – you realize with a start that you haven't even left. This is still Hino's office.
When you swallow, it hurts. You remember those ancient hands on you. How impossibly strong they became.
And before that – panic rises in your throat, hot and acrid – But then, there are sounds outside the closed door and there's no time for you to think. Voices.
Your mind blanks, as swiftly and completely as though Hino had severed your spine after he closed your windpipe. There is nothing there; it is white and empty and pitiless as the landscape of the moon.
Jude's voice.
"...them all," he's saying. "Not even Rubeus made it out. Surprising. Clever son of a bitch when it comes to saving his own ass, if nothing else."
Another voice, lighter, also male. "Struck a blow, anyway. Wiseman's not going to be able to recover from this." He pauses. "Rei is on her way back from her father's. You should get some rest, you look..."
"That good, huh?" he says lightly.
"I'm serious. Sustaining that type of dense, textured illusion for so long is no joke. And now you've got a Grade 3 concussion, two cracked ribs, some stomach bleeding. Healers got most of it but – " he sounds bewildered. "What I'm not understanding is, why'd you let her do it to you at all?"
"Gotten used to the women in my life using me as a punching bag, I guess."
If not quite a snort, the patrician cousin to one: "Don't insult my intelligence."
"My Grade 3 concussion and I wouldn't dream of it." That drawl is familiar: calibrated to provoke. "Untwist your panties, Z. Look, the job got done, right?"
"Took you a long time underground to do it," 'Z' retorts, a little hotly. "You know, most people would be – "
"I'm not most people. As you know." Nothing about his offhand tone has changed, but you hear the end of the conversation. "Rei's okay, I'm okay."
The other guy's voice drops, intent. "Are you?"
Jude doesn't respond.
You hear a noisy exhale. "Fine. You'll speak with the woman, I assume?"
"I will." He does not elaborate.
Before you are ready (were such a thing possible), the door swings open.
...
Something you noticed about Jude right off the bat: he was cagey as fuck.
Not unusual for a boy from the banlieues. What was unusual was the way he managed it. He didn't clam up nor did he deflect. He just had this way of telling you absolutely nothing about himself, without you developing any lucid awareness of not-knowing. You found yourself thinking: he was from such-and-such place, or he grew up eating this food but disliked it now, or his mother had done that for a living. It was never clear if any of these things were accurate; you imprinted them on him, based on crumbs he dropped. Jude didn't confirm or deny.
In some ways, he was a cipher. A chimera. One of those, anyway, or both? Whatever. You couldn't be arsed.
He fit in anywhere. Docile as a goat with Demande and Saffir, just the right kind of wolfish with Emeraude, cocky with the kids like him. You fancied you kind of saw past the defensive measures. He was a moving target, but you were getting surer of pinning him down.
With you, he was deliberate. He liked to push your buttons, your boundaries. Oh, he was deferential to your age and rank, but you valued the knowledge that he would tell you the truth, to your benefit. Always.
...
If you still had any doubts, they're banished when you lay eyes on him.
He's changed out of his gear for the op (if he was ever wearing it at all, you think, recalling what they said about the illusion) for a simple navy suit. White shirt open at the collar, revealing a tan triangle of skin.
He's recognizably Jude, but distinctly someone else: a little older, cleaned up. Handsome like a big screen hero or CT propaganda poster, so stereotypically good-looking it's almost cheesy. You're not sure how you thought he was just a hungry boy from the banlieues. You feel very foolish.
He takes a seat on the leather couch opposite you. "You get all of that?"
Of course he meant you to hear it. Why waste his breath on explaining it all to you? You were always pleased by Jude's casual efficiency, the way he saw the simplest route from Point A to Point B. Now it chills you.
"My son," you whisper.
He doesn't look surprised. "Safe. So are you." The corners of his mouth turn up slightly. "Wouldn't tell us anything unless we guaranteed it."
"That's how you found me." You remember Jude shaking with cold in the banlieues. Waiting for you.
He leans forward, steepling his hands. His demeanor strikes you as remarkably relaxed. It's as if you're not worth his anger, or even irritation. "We knew we had a leak in the Diet years ago, but we couldn't pinpoint it at the time. Once we found him, he led us to you. You led us to everyone else."
Yes. Of course. Your protégé, whom you were so proud to show off. To have on your arm.
As if he's reading your thoughts, he says softly: "This was never your op. It was always mine."
Stupidly, you only now notice that the tattoo on his forehead is long gone. Your gaze drops to his torso, revealed as his jacket's parted to the sides. Under his shirt, you see thick compression bandages wrapped around his chest and stomach. In the complete quiet, his breathing is audibly labored.
"Is your name even Jude?"
Inane as it is, this question seems to take him aback. For a few seconds, it almost looks like he's trying to recall. Finally, he smiles, barely. "It was."
These are not the questions you want to ask.
The questions you want to ask will blow you apart from the inside, streak you red on the walls of Hino's elegant office. You cannot give them voice.
So instead, you say, hollow: "What do I do now?"
He opens his mouth to answer.
...
The door bangs again.
...
You recall seeing Mars on the big screen from time to time, after a raid or attack. Her silhouette against all that orange, a shape both fixed and wavering. Better: you remember the close-ups of the extinction she left behind. It was unbelievable that a single force could cause such damage. Burnt-out skeletons of vehicles, charred husks of towers, metal turned liquid, droids whirring.
Against this, you found her beauty...jarring. Her face pure and removed. Seemingly untouchable. Flame poured from her hands and embers snapped under her feet. You remember thinking it was like...she came from a book of religion. An apparition.
A punishment.
...
She doesn't look like that now.
For one, her stature's less than imposing in person. Shorter than you by several inches, despite her heels. She's wearing a gown, long and red. Vaguely, you remember she was supposed to be at a party.
For another, there are deep smudges under her eyes that make her look strangely like the girl from the photos: sullen and restless. Her expression is avid, eyes snapping with impatience.
Poised in the doorway, her dark gaze slides over you as though you're not there. And then, she's swept past you altogether. The smell of her fills your nostrils, smoke and something more inscrutable.
She takes his face into her slender hands. Her thumb brushes under his eye; you belatedly register a bruise there, from when you smacked him-Hino. Her touch is more careful than you'd expect. Protective.
Her back is to you. It occurs to you that you've been completely erased.
He greets her with something you don't hear, and you hear her indrawn breath.
"Please don't." She sounds close to laughing or crying; her voice is husky. Maybe it's always that way, you don't know. "It's not worth this."
"You are, though," you hear him say. "As it happens."
Teasing, low. His voice – the love nakedly there for anyone to hear – is a torch thrown on your pyre. You look away, feeling so very old and tired. But there's nowhere you can go.
The black curtain of her hair falls as her head bends to his, intimate. You have to wonder why she's doing this in front of you – does she know? – but even if she does, she doesn't seem the type to mark her territory, or do things for show.
And then, all at once, you get it: you're no more than a fly on the wall. A non-entity. You might as well be in their bed.
One revelation after another: you're not cuffed or confined because there's nothing you could do to either of them unless they allowed it. You're not a threat. You never were.
She murmurs something muted, lips moving against his forehead. His eyes close briefly in reply; his face twists like you've never seen before. You can't identify the emotion. It verges on anguish.
And then, as swiftly as she entered, she's gone, without a glance in your direction.
You think again of the smoking ruin Mars leaves behind. Here, in this room.
...
"You're free to go." All warmth in him had left with her. His loose posture flexed abruptly; he stood all at once, eager to be done. "No one will give you trouble."
Unspoken: they had no reason to. With Wiseman gone, you had nowhere to go, nowhere to be. Beneath their notice: an ant without a queen.
"Wait," you managed.
He paused, at the door already. A blond brow lifted. Curiosity, maybe.
"Was any of it real? For you?"
He looked at you, inexpressive. There were white lines of exhaustion extending from the corners of his eyes. How did you miss them?
He must have anticipated this question a long time ago. Maybe while he was curled up in the icy street, waiting for you to find him. Lying there as you approached, your ragged jacket at the ready – he had already drawn an unbending line, from that moment to this one.
"Yes," he said.
...
CT is overwhelming enough at night. In the day, it's like standing on the surface of the sun.
The shining structures soar so high you can't see their apexes, though the sky is mostly clear with a few innocuous puffs of white. Everything crystal; you look down and see clouds, look up and see water. It's so disorienting you feel bile rising up your gorge, like your body thinks it's been poisoned.
You make it only a few steps before you sink to your knees, ignoring the confused glances of passerby. Crawl to the nearest bench in the park and clamber onto it, gasping like a fish.
A small girl and even smaller boy dash past, shrieking with delight. The girl wields a toy wand you recognize from the big screens as a replica of the Queen's. As you watch, she gravely thwacks his shoulder with it; he bows his head, accepting defeat? benediction? with adult grace.
Everything is so blue. It hurts too much to look at.
So you close your eyes and lift your face. The sunshine is warm on your eyelids, makes them pink inside. The breeze rustles chattily through the tall, new-leaved trees. It carries on it a palpable sweetness. You can taste it.
Your cheeks are wet. Tears drip off your chin, unceasing.
...
"I asked what you were willing to do. And you said, 'anything.' "
You nodded. You remembered.
His hand on the knob, over his shoulder: "Do you remember what I said?"
The door shut softly behind him.
...
You wonder what you will do next.