Co-written by Katsu and Ryversong
The sky was as grey as his eyes and felt just as closed and as hidden from behind his dark glasses. The wind tossed his long, black coat, wrapping it around his legs, and turning it into a tangled flag of mourning. It tousled his blond hair, an interesting counterpoint of light to the dark of his coat. His hair needed to be cut - it fell well past his shoulders these days - but there was little time for such trivial things. In his hand he held a single white rose, still a bud. He sighed, hunched his shoulders against the cutting chill of the wind, and walked towards the gathered group. He would be recognized there. There was no way around it, but he didn't think he minded overly much. Even if attending this funeral meant the end of him and all he was fighting for he would attend. He would remember. He would remind those who had forgotten what happened, and why.
He looked over the crowd, hunched and huddled, with a curious eye. They were all "free" of the Prozium. It was interesting to him to watch the harsh lines of misery, sadness in their bodies, their faces. He caught sight of a tall, dark-haired man speaking with a woman as familiar to him as his own face. Preston. Anger moved through him in a wave, leaving him tight as the string of a bow as he watched Preston comfort the woman. He could imagine the lies he told her now. It's not your fault. You didn't do it. You couldn't have known. He clenched his jaw and ground his teeth, forcing himself to look away and pay attention to the real reason he had come.
Branston moved closer to the priest, and further from the traitors, taking the sunglasses off and putting them in his pocket. Now was not the time. Besides, he wanted to hear what lies they would tell the paltry few that showed to remember the fallen cleric. To send him off, to wish him well. He wondered if they would remind the crowd just exactly why it was the cleric jumped. Or if they would even care that they had caused the cleric's death just as surely as they had "saved" him. How could they understand? Just what did they think would happen to the clerics?
Drugs, they said. It was drugs that killed him. Drugs. No, it was the revolution. It was the violence inherent to every cleric. It was Preston. How many had to lose just for Preston's damned revolution?
As those thoughts ran through his mind, the funeral ended. Branston looked up just in time to watch them lower the cleric into the ground. He stepped forward, dropping the rose on the casket. He was the only one, and strangely, it hurt. He stood there silent and still, waiting as the wind washed over him, long after everyone else had cleared out. He felt stifled and the wind helped some. It reminded him that he was still alive, still functional in this strange gray world.
He shook his head and turned to leave, only to see the woman standing on the hill, watching him. He stared at her, his eyes clear, taking her in. She wasn't happy, he mused. She looked as though she'd lost weight. A knife edged smile slipped through as he pulled out the glasses that would again close him off from her. As he walked toward he, he idly traced the scar on his temple, the one she'd given him. He had one last thing to say to her.
He moved slowly, with deliberate care and natural grace, until he came to a stop a mere foot of her. He, watched her with the blessed numbness still intact, and when he spoke it was with the flat tones of the days of old. "You can call it what you will, Maria. An accident, a tragedy, but really when it comes down to it, it was murder. Premeditated."
He watched as she tightened. Again watching pain echo through her. Emotion made her weak. He spoke again befor she could voice her protest, lifting a hand in a concilatory gesture, "You are correct, my apologies. Had it been premeditated, had you thought only a little you and your idol Preston, this would not have happened. Understand that, Maria, as you seek to understand me. This is your fault. You caused this. You speak on freedom, and all I see is death. Your hands and mine. You'll never get them clean. The only difference is that I see that, and you hide behind your 'freedom.'"
Branston pulled a shard of glass from his pocket, "This is for you. I wonder you'll remember the mirror it came from. Maybe you'll see yourself a little more clearly in this."
The snap of a gun being released echoed through the cemetary. The sound activated long honed instincts, and he twisted his wrist, catching his own gun. An instant later, he was once again staring at Maria down the barrel of a gun.
"You've killed a lot of people, Branston," she said. "You're my number one priority, but I suppose you already know that."
"Will you actually try this time?" he asked.
She stared at him for a long time, as if she were trying to see past his sunglasses and down into his soul. The wind unravelled the bun her hair was in. Branston smiled as slowly, she eased up on the trigger and lowered her gun. "Not today," she said. "It's not the time or the place."
"So be it." He tossed the mirror shard on the ground at her feet. The wind picked up again as he turned and walked down the hill, shoulders back, head up. There was nothing to hide from today. Nothing to fight against that he couldn't face head up. When he reached the end of the cemetary, Branston turned back and saluted his former partner, friend, family, and his newest and best adversary.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
The wet sound of dirt hitting a coffin.
The taste of her own tears.
The cruel sound of Branston's accusations, made into a red-hot needle...
Maria paused, mid-stride, leaning heavily on her cane. Her head spun, and she felt almost as if she couldn't breathe, though there was really no reason for it that she could tell. People behind her cursed at her sudden stop, but she ignored them. It wasn't as if she wasn't visible, her scarlet coat made bright by all of the businessmen surrounding her that wore earth tones. They could damn well notice and go around. The sky overhead was still grey, and heavier with the promise of rain than it had been this morning if that was possible.
She brought a shaking hand up to her eyes, which stung and ached. Tears came away on her fingers, clinging to the leather glove she always wore, and she clenched her other hand into a fist around her cane. This, she couldn't understand, but anger was safe. She knew that emotion like a roadmap. "Damnit, Branston," she whispered, "it's not my fault. We make our own lives. Open your eyes!"
As suddenly as she'd summoned the anger, it was gone, taking the other emotion that had crushed her heart away with it. She smiled. "Idiot. You always were." Someone shoved her from behind and she simply reacted, snapping her cane to the side to land a solid hit on his knee as she activated the trigger for her gun to drop from her sleeve. The businessman that had run into her went sprawling, spilling a cup of coffee across the sidewalk. His briefcase slid into a concrete planter and popped open, scattering papers into the crowd.
He scrambled to his feet in the most undignified manner possible, rubbing his bruised elbows. "What the hell are you doing?" he shouted at her. His light brown hair was in complete disarray, falling over his eyes.
"Watch where you're going." She kept her tone mild. It was the best way to keep the anger that threatened to return in check.
"You were the one standing in the middle of the sidewalk, you stupid bitch!" He scrambled to gather up his papers, cursing all the while.
Maria watched him for a moment, but there was no real threat there. He was slow and complacent, like almost everyone else she ran across. He was one of the people she was supposed to be protecting. She slid her gun back into her sleeve, wiggling it a little until the release mechanism caught it again with an audible click.
The businessman looked up, his eyes wide and startled. It seemed that it was a sound he knew, and he ducked his head so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye. "I'm sorry. I didn't recognize you. Please don't hurt me."
There it was, the fear and loathing that seemed to be everywhere she turned. This, she knew, was the reason she was still fighting with the new ministers, and why there were still groups demanding that the Clerics be put on trial. This was the reason she was watched, always. "It's not polite to shove others in a crowd. Please remember that." The man didn't answer her, and wouldn't even look at her as she walked away, trying to keep her steps slow and measured. She wanted to run, and that didn't seem to make much sense to her mind. She ignored it.
It seemed best to think of other things, and the scent of the coffee that he'd spilled caught her attention, reminding her that she hadn't felt like eating before the funeral. She didn't particularly feel like it now, but physical demands were finally overruling her mind. There was a small cafe just ahead, its awning a bright, cheerful red only a few shades off from what she wore. There were metal chairs and tables in front of it, shaded with umbrellas. Most of the tables were full of people, laughing and chattering as they drank their coffee and nibbled on doughnuts. She'd seen such things often before, but the sight never ceased to amaze her.
How strange. How beautiful. How terrible, wonderful, startling, amazing, fulfilling... the list continued into infinity. This was what she and Preston had fought and killed for, so that the ordinary people of the city could finally lead ordinary lives. And also, so that the Clerics could live those same sort of lives beside them.
Some things were a little more slow in coming.
Maria limped her way into the shop. It smelled rich with coffee, cream, and the cinnamon sprinkled on top of coffee cake. It was warm in so many ways and brought a smile to her face. Her cane ticked for each step she took across the violet tile floor to the counter. The boy behind it couldn't have been more than fifteen; he had bright blonde hair and blue eyes. The color of her coat seemed to fascinate him, but nothing more.
"What can I help you with this morning?" he asked.
"I'd like a cup of... decaf, please. And a sticky bun."
"Coming right up!" He disappeared behind the large contraption of black plastic and shining chrome that somehow produced coffee. She leaned against her counter and looked out at the people in the shop. They were quieter than the crowd outside, most of them reading as they sipped their drinks. In a corner, two older gentleman played chess on a battered wooden board, silent and serene.
She imagined herself at one of the metal tables, a paper spread out around her. The image didn't work in her mind at all. Preston could do it; he was quiet and innocuous, and nearly everyone had forgotten him because he'd chosen to go back to his family. He was still awkward and fledgling in his own way, but he was becoming more at ease with the world they'd made. Besides, she didn't read the paper often any more, and never in public; it depressed and angered her by turns.
Footsteps sounded behind the counter, and she turned, digging a few coins out of her pocket. It wasn't the boy, now; it was a woman who was obviously his mother. She had threads of grey in her hair, and deep lines of pain and worry set around her eyes. Maria smiled politely as she set the money down on the counter.
"I recognize you," the woman said.
"Pardon?"
"I know who you are," she said, her hands trembling, "and what you are." She shoved the money back across the counter at Maria, who shook her head. "Get out of my shop."
"The revolution is over, ma'am," Maria said.
Hatred burned in the woman's gaze. "You came to my house. Your men pointed a gun at me. You went into my bedroom and dragged my husband out of his bed, breaking his arm. Then you stood as witness as they led him away to be burned alive in the city furnaces. They should have hung you from the top of the tallest building and let the crows pick at your eyes. Burn in hell."
Maria wanted to argue with her, make her understand something that she still hadn't resolved in her own mind. She felt everyone in the shop watching her; even the old men had paused in their game. "I apologize, ma'am," she said, "I'm sorry you feel that way." She turned to leave.
"Take your money. I don't want it."
She glanced back. "Then throw it in the trash." Her pace careful and measured, she walked out of the door. One hand was clenched tight around her cane, the other shoved in her pocket so that no one could see her shaking.
She couldn't remember. Even with the situational run-down the woman had given her, she couldn't remember, and that made her angry. Her memory had never failed her before, but her thoughts felt frantic and disorganized. For a moment, she paused, intending to turn back. She needed to know a name, a face, a time. Anything to help her remember this candle of humanity that she had snuffed out. Her hip, screaming messages of pain up her spine, brought her back to her senses. Going back would be idiocy. Instead, she continued on her way, her face betraying no conflict.
But her eyes stung, and that made her angry too. A light mist of rain began to fall from the sky.
She walked down the street without ever looking back, then turned a corner into an alleyway. Her steps a little frantic now, she limped down the narrow brick passage until she squeezed past a stack of crates. She was hidden from the street.
Her cane clattered on the asphalt, and she sank to the ground with her back pressed against the wall. She wanted to vomit, but there was nothing in her stomach, and she ended up doubled over in pain, clutching her coat so tightly that a few stitches popped. For the first time, she really felt the hunger, the absolute need for escape from the anger and despair. If someone crossed her path at this moment, she would kill them, empty her guns into their head until she was covered with a fine mist of blood, she knew it. She was the monster, after all.
Prozium. That was all she wanted. One quick sting, then nothing but cool, blessed mental numbness. It was liquid certainty, and a cessation of pain. She frantically dug through her pockets, though she knew she'd find nothing. Enraged, she pounded her fists on her knees, then clutched them to her chest, curling up as small as possible, bowing her head. Chocolate brown locks of her hair hid the world from her, or perhaps it was the other way around.
Her breath came in harsh gasps, and hot tears spilled down her cheeks. "Oh God, Branston, I can't do this any more," she moaned, "I can't do this. I can't! Please, find me. Find me... why aren't you here? You... promised... to put a bullet... in my head."
The rain began in earnest, then, bathing the alley and soaking through her coat. The world smelled like the funeral.
Branston shook his hair out of his eyes, leaning back against a tree. He may have walked away, but he didn't get far. He never did. He stayed by his tree long enough to watch Maria walk away, her head high, misery etched into every line of her body. Instinctively, Branston turned and walked after her, following at a distance enough to keep her in sight without making her wonder. Once a cleric, always a cleric, and Maria had always been good. Her senses had been honed, sharp as a surgeon's scalpel.
He watched with a grim smile on his face as she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. He wondered what was going through her mind, how close to the edge she was, as he casually jostled the man in front of him. Branston carefully moved to the side as the business suited sheep plowed into his ex-partner. He'd hurt her with his words. she couldn't hide it, not from him. How far would she go this time? Each little push moved her a step close to the edge. Soon, even Maria would have to break. He smiled a little as he remembered her temper. What a glory that was to see.
He watched, every bit the scientist, as Maria clung to her emotions like a tattered coat against the wind. He watched as she walked into the coffeeshop. He felt a wave of satisfaction, coupled with something he couldn't even begin to understand - though some would call it sympathy, as the shopkeeper ordered Maria out of the shop.
He stood in the alley, so close. Listened to her plea.
She didn't hear his footsteps. She didn't hear anything but the rain and the pounding of her own heart. But she certainly felt the cool barrel of a gun pressed against her temple.
Yes, this was it.
It felt like the caress of a lover, and she let her eyes slip shut, waiting to hear the click of tightening machinery. Would she feel the bullet rip through her skull, or would it all happen so quickly that she'd be dead before the smell of powder and the roar of the gun registered in her ruined mind?
A shockingly gentle finger touched her chin, tilting her head up. The deviation from the script she'd plotted out in her mind was disturbing, and she opened her eyes. Her hair hung in ragged, dripping threads across her face, but she could still see him. The unchanging grey of his eyes was like cold water on a burn; the color soothed her. Suddenly, everything was right in the world, because she had looked into his eyes again, if only for a few moments. She had to wonder if this was a normal feeling when one was confronting their own death.
"You were right, Maria. Not today," he said. His voice sounded strange, and different, jarring. It held just the smallest note, the tiniest hint of emotion.
Her heart felt hollow as he tucked his gun back up his sleeve. She knew her longing showed in her expression, but didn't particularly care.
The world seemed to stop as he gathered her up against him. An unseen hand squeezed at her heart, catching her breath with an odd sort of exquisite pain. He was warm, and not quite certain what else to do, she slipped her arms around him. She was shivering, now, and her fingers dug into his back.
"We don't ever get to be normal in this world you've created," he said. She closed her eyes tightly as he stroked her hair, trying to memorize his scent: rain, salt, sorrow, and warmth. There was only a small strip of skin exposed above his collar; she tilted her head to rest her lips there.
She didn't understand this, but perhaps he did. Or perhaps it was only important to once again follow the instincts she'd always listened to before.
Branston settled her back down on the floor of the alley before letting go, much more slowly than she would have expected. His voice was soft as he spoke. "Now we deal with this world as best we can."
She watched him go; half wanting to reach out and grab the tail of his coat as he stepped by. "Branston," she called after him. He paused, to her surprise. "Tomorrow, then?"
He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. "Always tomorrow." Then he was gone.
The rain continued on, and she turned her face up to it, opening her mouth to drink in a few drops. She could breathe again, her chest no longer hurt. Even more strange, she no longer wished for Prozium, or the swift death she had been promised. Instead, she could think of only one thing. "Tomorrow," she whispered to the rain.