Faith in Devils
Mike leaned out over the balcony of her 210th floor apartment. Balancing her stomach on the balustrade, she stretched out her fingers to brush the two-ply glass shield surrounding her building. She lowed her eyes from the oil sports her touch had left, to the landscape twenty-five hundred feet below. Her eyes lingered over each fissure, crater and scorch mark. She chuckled weakly as her gaze wandered over a few green patches of grass. The grass would probably be fire fuel before the week was out, but for now, the pale green haze cast out tiny roots of hope. It was persistent stuff. No matter how many battles went on around it, it regenerated it self again and again. It was a lovely thing, a lifeline from a human to hope, to know that no matter how destructive the witches might be, they couldn't even conquer the smallest patch of grass. Earth could, and absolutely insisted on regenerating, so might her people.
Scooting backwards a little, she touched down on the balcony floor and retreated into her apartment. Her very own apartment. It might by small, but it was one of the last to be given out to one single owner. She flopped down on the couch she had all to herself and pushed away a guilty thought about the families renting apartments on the lower levels. They had already been subjected to an order to rent two families to a flat. The only reason her apartment was still untouched, was because levels 150 and up were deemed to difficult to evacuate in case a witch managed to break through the protective barrier. So, in exchange for a little risk, she got an empty flat for an affordable price.
A muffled roar filtered through the balcony door. She stiffened on the couch, then, as a second roar was answered by a crackling rumble, she vaulted to her feet. She hovered for a moment, unsure whether she should run for the evacuation lift or to balcony. Curiosity wrestled fear to the ground, and after a mental ten count, she charged out the balcony door.
It was witches, of course, two tiny figures; one on the ground, the other circling between the decimated buildings of oldtown Tokyo. Both were surrounded by destruction disproportionate to their size. The grass was gone.
A flood of flames erupted from the figure on the ground, incinerating a skyscraper just to the right of the airborne witch. The sound of it reached her a second later, penetrating through the shield. Apparently that had been the source of the roaring. The witch wheeled away form another torrent of flame and swept across the bare ring around her building. Sure that, at that speed, he was going to crash into it, she closed her eyes and held her breath, waiting for the shattering crash. Instead, a sharp tap echoed on the glass, just a few feet from her nose. Her eyes snapped open.
Black coat swirling around him, the flying witch drifted to and fro outside the shield. The hair on half his head was waste length; the other half was singed almost to the scalp, revealing a raw burn stretching from his cheekbone to his ear. Mouth was moving in a plea for help that bounced uselessly off the shield, but she knew what he wanted. She could see it in his beautiful blue-green eyes...sigh...besides; he was rattling the latch to the suicide hatch.
She hesitated. This was a witch. Without witches, there would be no need for a suicide hatch to "escape" through the shield in the event of an emergency. Without witches, there would be no reason for the shield. The idea was to keep them out, not let them in. All the same, it was hard to convince herself that someone in as battered a condition as he could possibly do much harm. She stared at him in consternation. Her common sense told her that she was an idiot for even considering the idea of letting in a witch, but even as she stepped away form the shield, a regiment of tales marched into her head.
Her ancient grandfather Michael had spent the last years of his life whispering tales of witches to her as she played by his bedside. His favorite tale was of a witch named Robin and a possible seed named Amun. She couldn't remember the story, really: it was so long since he had died, but she remembered that that the fairytale witch had been kind, even helping to stop the witches who were not so humane. Before now there had never been a reason to analyze her feelings toward witches in general, but now she found that her grandfather's persistent belief in a good side to witches had planted a seed of doubt in her own mind. Stupid to let a raving old geezer twist her mind so much, but all the same, she leaned across the shield as the hovering witch began to fall, and flipped the latch of the hatch.
It was too late. The witch had lost consciousness, held up only by a residual cloud of craft that was fast fading away. With a squeal she threw her self forward, slamming the suicide hatch outward, and making a wild grab for the witches hand. She caught him, but her precarious balance collapsed under the added weight. She barely slowed his fall for a moment before she and he both toppled downwards.
Mike shrieked, choked, and then shrieked again while the shining surface of the shield flew by. She griped the flying witches hand with all her might, willing him to wake. But he didn't. He continued to fall like a stone, sightless eyes fixed on the receding sky. Finally giving up, mike closed her eyes and shut her mouth. She imagined the tears that were slipping out the corners of her eyes streaming out behind her like a banner of diamonds. She imagined them pattering down over their broken bodies seconds after she and the witch crashed into the ground.
But somehow a distant shout broke through her sentimental thoughts. She opened her eyes and saw another witch beside the fire craft user. As she stared, the new arrival raised her arms to the sky and braced her legs. Mike, still hundreds of feet in the air, felt a jolt, as if she had flopped into a firm mattress. The witch kept falling, and was brought up short only by her grip. She clenched her teeth as her arm took his full weight. The fire witch shouted something else, and his companion dropped her arms. Mike bit down hard on her tongue as she dropped another fifty feet. The fire witch shouted and waved his arms and her progress was stopped once again. This time her fingers slipped and only a wild swing by the other arm managed to save her witch from falling. Hysterically, as she felt her self begin to drop again, she screamed at him to "wakeup, you jerk!" Her tears had not stopped, and now were now beginning to drip into his face. One splattered onto his cheek and dribbled down to his mouth. Jerkily, he licked his lips. His eyes snapped open. He stared at her for a moment, and then took a glance below. "Yikes!" he muttered. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed her wrist with his free hand and surged upward. A rush of air blew her hair in her face as the witch shot past. Still spitting out hairs, she felt a muscle-tearing wrench on her arm. She squawked her pain, and felt him stop pulling. He let go of her arm and grabbed her around the waist. Holding her as gently as he could, he pulled at her. Failing to budge her even an inch, he circled below her and made a half-hearted effort to push her up instead. She seemed to be fixed in the air as if it were tar. Giving up, he whorled in mid air and shouted down to the witches on the ground. "Let her go!" he called, "I won't let her fall!"
How odd, she thought, why does he think that will make a difference?
Yet it obviously did, because the fire witch, after considering for a minute, turned his golden head to his partner in crime and gave her the order to release her. With a squeak, she fell, crashing into her witch's back. He grunted and there was a moment of chaos as her fought to get a hold of her. She finally ended up slung over his shoulder looking along his back to the ground. As her witch rocketed upward, she caught the eye of the fire witch. With a sweep of his arm, he gave her a respectful bow. His accomplice nodded her head at her, and then the two of them disappeared.
"How odd...respect and even concern from people—um, witches—who are trying to kill our race..." she just had time to whisper before they were at her open suicide hatch. Her witch passed her through, and deposited her on her balcony. He started to climb through himself.
"Do you mind?" he grunted.
"Ah...well I guess not," mike muttered, climbing to her feet. He waited a second to see if she would change her mind, then hopped from the hatch to her railing.
"You need some rest after this." He informed her once he was standing squarely on two feet. She leaned her head back a little and peered up at him. She needed rest?! Look at him!
"I don't think so," she argued with a frown, "You need..." His hand whipped out of no where and chopped into her neck.
Mike leaned out over the balcony of her 210th floor apartment. Balancing her stomach on the balustrade, she stretched out her fingers to brush the two-ply glass shield surrounding her building. She lowed her eyes from the oil sports her touch had left, to the landscape twenty-five hundred feet below. Her eyes lingered over each fissure, crater and scorch mark. She chuckled weakly as her gaze wandered over a few green patches of grass. The grass would probably be fire fuel before the week was out, but for now, the pale green haze cast out tiny roots of hope. It was persistent stuff. No matter how many battles went on around it, it regenerated it self again and again. It was a lovely thing, a lifeline from a human to hope, to know that no matter how destructive the witches might be, they couldn't even conquer the smallest patch of grass. Earth could, and absolutely insisted on regenerating, so might her people.
Scooting backwards a little, she touched down on the balcony floor and retreated into her apartment. Her very own apartment. It might by small, but it was one of the last to be given out to one single owner. She flopped down on the couch she had all to herself and pushed away a guilty thought about the families renting apartments on the lower levels. They had already been subjected to an order to rent two families to a flat. The only reason her apartment was still untouched, was because levels 150 and up were deemed to difficult to evacuate in case a witch managed to break through the protective barrier. So, in exchange for a little risk, she got an empty flat for an affordable price.
A muffled roar filtered through the balcony door. She stiffened on the couch, then, as a second roar was answered by a crackling rumble, she vaulted to her feet. She hovered for a moment, unsure whether she should run for the evacuation lift or to balcony. Curiosity wrestled fear to the ground, and after a mental ten count, she charged out the balcony door.
It was witches, of course, two tiny figures; one on the ground, the other circling between the decimated buildings of oldtown Tokyo. Both were surrounded by destruction disproportionate to their size. The grass was gone.
A flood of flames erupted from the figure on the ground, incinerating a skyscraper just to the right of the airborne witch. The sound of it reached her a second later, penetrating through the shield. Apparently that had been the source of the roaring. The witch wheeled away form another torrent of flame and swept across the bare ring around her building. Sure that, at that speed, he was going to crash into it, she closed her eyes and held her breath, waiting for the shattering crash. Instead, a sharp tap echoed on the glass, just a few feet from her nose. Her eyes snapped open.
Black coat swirling around him, the flying witch drifted to and fro outside the shield. The hair on half his head was waste length; the other half was singed almost to the scalp, revealing a raw burn stretching from his cheekbone to his ear. Mouth was moving in a plea for help that bounced uselessly off the shield, but she knew what he wanted. She could see it in his beautiful blue-green eyes...sigh...besides; he was rattling the latch to the suicide hatch.
She hesitated. This was a witch. Without witches, there would be no need for a suicide hatch to "escape" through the shield in the event of an emergency. Without witches, there would be no reason for the shield. The idea was to keep them out, not let them in. All the same, it was hard to convince herself that someone in as battered a condition as he could possibly do much harm. She stared at him in consternation. Her common sense told her that she was an idiot for even considering the idea of letting in a witch, but even as she stepped away form the shield, a regiment of tales marched into her head.
Her ancient grandfather Michael had spent the last years of his life whispering tales of witches to her as she played by his bedside. His favorite tale was of a witch named Robin and a possible seed named Amun. She couldn't remember the story, really: it was so long since he had died, but she remembered that that the fairytale witch had been kind, even helping to stop the witches who were not so humane. Before now there had never been a reason to analyze her feelings toward witches in general, but now she found that her grandfather's persistent belief in a good side to witches had planted a seed of doubt in her own mind. Stupid to let a raving old geezer twist her mind so much, but all the same, she leaned across the shield as the hovering witch began to fall, and flipped the latch of the hatch.
It was too late. The witch had lost consciousness, held up only by a residual cloud of craft that was fast fading away. With a squeal she threw her self forward, slamming the suicide hatch outward, and making a wild grab for the witches hand. She caught him, but her precarious balance collapsed under the added weight. She barely slowed his fall for a moment before she and he both toppled downwards.
Mike shrieked, choked, and then shrieked again while the shining surface of the shield flew by. She griped the flying witches hand with all her might, willing him to wake. But he didn't. He continued to fall like a stone, sightless eyes fixed on the receding sky. Finally giving up, mike closed her eyes and shut her mouth. She imagined the tears that were slipping out the corners of her eyes streaming out behind her like a banner of diamonds. She imagined them pattering down over their broken bodies seconds after she and the witch crashed into the ground.
But somehow a distant shout broke through her sentimental thoughts. She opened her eyes and saw another witch beside the fire craft user. As she stared, the new arrival raised her arms to the sky and braced her legs. Mike, still hundreds of feet in the air, felt a jolt, as if she had flopped into a firm mattress. The witch kept falling, and was brought up short only by her grip. She clenched her teeth as her arm took his full weight. The fire witch shouted something else, and his companion dropped her arms. Mike bit down hard on her tongue as she dropped another fifty feet. The fire witch shouted and waved his arms and her progress was stopped once again. This time her fingers slipped and only a wild swing by the other arm managed to save her witch from falling. Hysterically, as she felt her self begin to drop again, she screamed at him to "wakeup, you jerk!" Her tears had not stopped, and now were now beginning to drip into his face. One splattered onto his cheek and dribbled down to his mouth. Jerkily, he licked his lips. His eyes snapped open. He stared at her for a moment, and then took a glance below. "Yikes!" he muttered. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed her wrist with his free hand and surged upward. A rush of air blew her hair in her face as the witch shot past. Still spitting out hairs, she felt a muscle-tearing wrench on her arm. She squawked her pain, and felt him stop pulling. He let go of her arm and grabbed her around the waist. Holding her as gently as he could, he pulled at her. Failing to budge her even an inch, he circled below her and made a half-hearted effort to push her up instead. She seemed to be fixed in the air as if it were tar. Giving up, he whorled in mid air and shouted down to the witches on the ground. "Let her go!" he called, "I won't let her fall!"
How odd, she thought, why does he think that will make a difference?
Yet it obviously did, because the fire witch, after considering for a minute, turned his golden head to his partner in crime and gave her the order to release her. With a squeak, she fell, crashing into her witch's back. He grunted and there was a moment of chaos as her fought to get a hold of her. She finally ended up slung over his shoulder looking along his back to the ground. As her witch rocketed upward, she caught the eye of the fire witch. With a sweep of his arm, he gave her a respectful bow. His accomplice nodded her head at her, and then the two of them disappeared.
"How odd...respect and even concern from people—um, witches—who are trying to kill our race..." she just had time to whisper before they were at her open suicide hatch. Her witch passed her through, and deposited her on her balcony. He started to climb through himself.
"Do you mind?" he grunted.
"Ah...well I guess not," mike muttered, climbing to her feet. He waited a second to see if she would change her mind, then hopped from the hatch to her railing.
"You need some rest after this." He informed her once he was standing squarely on two feet. She leaned her head back a little and peered up at him. She needed rest?! Look at him!
"I don't think so," she argued with a frown, "You need..." His hand whipped out of no where and chopped into her neck.