Souls of the Night

by Quinn Taxon

In 2023, most of humanity has come to terms with sharing their world with gargoyles. With civil rights came new problems and duties, although Brooklyn and the clan still consider it their duty to protect their castle, their city and its citizens. Lexington, now 25 years older, meets a strange man through a mishap with whom he forms a bond that goes far beyond friendship.

1. Chapter 1 - Prolog

Hello folks,

This is a story about the characters from the Gargoyles series in present-day New York. Mainly it will be about Lexington, who finds a human friend - and maybe more.

M Rating due to themes of atypical depression, physical and mental abuse in family and religious contexts, rape, vigilante justice, violence, murder and strong language, and in later chapters, the theme of same-sex interracial relationships. Please do not begin reading if any of these points trigger you.

I apologize in advance for the poor translation. I speak and write very rarely English and have to rely mostly on the translation programs.

Nevertheless, I wanted to give something back to you for the many wonderful hours with Maggie of Manhattan, The Journey home, Gargoyles: A new beginning and many more lovely stories. Despite the topics I mean my story also very affectionate -.-

Beta- readers who like to have the chapters always first and want to sort out the worst mistakes, can write to me.

Thanks a lot, Quinn Taxon from Germany

Souls of the Night

1.

What are you looking for, Uncle Lex?"

Heather's little claws pierced my wings, stretched between my arms and legs as she climbed up me. I heard the seams of my shirt tear and lifted the clan chick over my head,

setting her on my lap and rummaging in the box among the cables.

"I'm looking for a USB drive. It has old data on it that I should back up. I remembered recently that I still need to transfer the data."

"Transfer?"

"I've done that every now and then over the last few years when new data media came around and became well-engineered. I think now I'll load it into one of my backed up clouds."

"USB sticks are so 2010, I can't believe you didn't think of this sooner," Nashville grumbled from the couch where he was zapping through Netflix. The son of Brocklyn and

Katana had really developed into a sullen teenager over the past few years, and I thought it was funny how much he resembled his dad with his often pointed tongue, despite

his ice blue coloring . Nashville's sister Tachi, on the other hand, was shy and didn't talk much. And when she did, it was better to cover the ears of small children. Heather

here was curious, often downright pushy, and could easily talk your ear off with her stories if you didn't whistle back.

"Yeah. I guess missing out like that isn't like me. I've been busy with other things," I said thoughtfully, pulling a huge tangle of various cables out of the box. Just a few years

ago, I had needed each one. Now they were useless. It amazed even me how fast humans' technology was developing even though I felt like I was in my element with that.

The fact that the first data carrier around 1995 had been a floppy disk and everyone had considered that to be the crowning achievement of human innovation was just

laughable from today's point of view. But time moves fast and even Gargoyles tried to keep up as good as they could. And I, as the tech geek of the clan, felt called to lead

the way in this regard. The last years I had worked sometimes more, sometimes less intensively with different pioneers of the technology, IT and robotics industry, sometimes

for the private economy, sometimes for the military. It had always been most difficult to design the firewalls and encrypted protection programs of my innovations in such a

way that my human colleagues did not use the files and machines for more terrible things than for what I had developed them for.

For the last few years, I was the unofficial head of Xanato's IT department, developing hacker-proof programs for banks, for Wall Street and other stock exchanges, for large

companies. I envisioned a world where hackers could no longer loot pension funds, manipulate stock prices, or damage electric companies and thus the power supply of an

entire country. Although Xanatos sold these security systems for expensive money, I still considered my contribution quite important, was even a registered partner in our

newest company. No Gargoyle cared much about money, but the fact that revenues were split fifty-fifty was only fair. Some of us had found jobs in the human world. Small

tentative steps in our integration. But my efforts, even though I had less direct contact with humans, probably earned the most. In the meantime, the clan itself needed

money if we wanted to live permanently with humanity. Even if cash meant nothing to each of us, and we even recognized it as the root of quite a few evils, we all knew that.

Thus money was probably a necessity. The private tutors of the young, who were well paid for their nightly lessons, the tailored clothes we now wore, the technology we

surrounded ourselves with, the ever-present damage caused by our nightly actions, which we, as citizens, naturally had to pay for. All this Xanatos and after him his

descendants would probably pay. But it didn't hurt to have a clan-owned cushion that we could access in case the wind might turn against us.

Finally, I found what I was looking for and lifted up the stick, which was barely bigger than my claw.

"What's on it?"

"Data. From the past."

"How much past?"

"From iiiiiinfinitely long ago. When we still had to protect humans from dinosaurs!"

I tossed her onto her back in my lap and tickled her through that she was quivering and pushing through her back as if a fit of joy was taking over her body.

She was, apart from the two eggs guarded deep down in the castle, the youngest member of the clan.

Yes - the Manhattan Clan grew and prospered - like most clans all over the world that had revealed themselves to people in the last 20 years. Now we were - thanks to the

Internet in constant exchange. Last year there had even been a kind of population census. 1845 in 14 clans known so far- the eggs included. From Alaska to Chile- from

South Africa to the Emirates to Russia, on every continent clans had managed to survive through intelligence, secrecy and yes- sometimes by partnering with humans. And

since they had revealed themselves, the clans continued to grow. Except for the countries or country leaders who had not been able to come to terms with the existence of

this ancient but for them new species. The clan from Zambia, had been crushed in the two thousand by a wild pack of peasants in the daytime. The clan from Syria had been

completely wiped out in a daytime drone strike a few years ago. The two clans from India, before the leaders there declared them fair game, had been taken in by Pakistan

and given protection. Most state governments did so, unable to bring themselves to give the Gargoyles civil rights, but not wanting to be accused of contributing to the

wanton extinction of an intelligent - and perhaps useful - species.

Well- there were many good examples and some bad. But all in all, it went well.

1845 - It sounded little, but for a species of which almost every clan thought they were the last of their kind, it was enormous.

I looked at the clock.

"Don't you have class soon?"

Nashville groaned, sliding off the couch onto the floor like he was melting. "Math! What's the point of math? I'm going to be a clan leader like Dad, what do I need it for?"

I laughed. "Yeah, your private lessons with the professors to get a degree equivalent to the university are definitely not easy. But you're lucky. You're all lucky. Never before

have gargoyles had the same educational opportunities as humans."

"Once I get-."

"Whether you become a clan leader is for Brooklyn to decide-in a few years after he weighs your abilities against those of your siblings."

"Exactly! I too can become clan leader!" shouted Heather, leaping to her feet, spreading her wings, and throwing herself into a heroic pose. Nash stood up, rolling his eyes.

"Great, then we won't be patrolling for criminals but to guard the city's candy stores. At the latest, the clan will disband."

"You wouldn't be the best fit either!«, Heather insisted, crawling on top of me again to hiss at her brother from my back. »Better Tachi then!"

Nash stood up and grunted in amusement. "Yes- excellent. Miss Silent would lead the clan back into anonymity- like the Middle Ages."

"There's plenty of time before then. Brooklyn will already put you through your paces. That's the way it was with us, and that's the way -."

"-the way of gargoyles!" both Nashville and Heather finished my sentence and Hudson's old mantra at the same time. Heather and I laughed and even the teenager chortled

two-three times but it stung me-as it usually did- when I was reminded of Hudson.

"Come on now, if you dawdle around, I'll just get nagged again. Bye Lex."

I raised my hand and got an exuberant wave back from Heather before her brother pulled her out the door to my room. Still in the hallway, I heard their voices.

"Can we grab a bite before?"

"We'll see."

I turned around again. The stick was warm in my hand and made me sigh. How time passed.

Yes - the clan prospered. But even with us there had been losses. Even if Hudson's sacrifice had secured us widespread acceptance at the time. He didn't have to do it then.

Not like that. Dogged, stubborn, and proud. The nights had not stopped him. Nor had the rest of us. Alexander, with the help of his teacher Puck, had been able to cast a spell

that took away our stony sleep without turning us into humans like Demona. We had been able to walk in the daylight, to see the sun - for the first time in our lives. But no

one had been interested in those days in the deathly pale disc that lay over the scene of the disaster. Too many people had died, too many were perhaps still alive under the

rubble. The mutants - because Derek Maza knew what equipment offered the best protection - had outfitted themselves better than we had. Even the clones joined us after

two days. We all worked until we dropped. Like the first responders, the firefighters, the police officers, the countless volunteers. We had all been New Yorkers then. When we

woke up that first night after the disaster, pulled the first people out of the rubble, up where men and working dogs couldn't go, where heavy equipment would have

destroyed more than it helped- that's when people really saw us- and realized that we were their kind. A part of this great island. It was a cruel time, but one full of love - at

least for all those who helped, and thus for us as well. I still remember the old ladies who brought us food. The young man with the mohawk who rinsed my eyes with water

when they were caked with dust, the cheers and the exhausted thanks every time we pulled a person out where no one else could. The love of today- more than twenty years

later was nothing like it was then- we never expected it to be. Love fades in humans over time but there remained the acceptance of most of them and the never spoken

assurance to never again let an association like the Quarrymen arise.

When the towers fell, the last hatred against the non-humans of New York also fell in the following days - even if it is terrible to connect the attack on the World Trade Center

with something good. Humans worked alongside gargoyles, mutants and clones and no one questioned that. Everyone made sacrifices and suffered during those weeks. Today

I still had scars on my arms from digging in the rubble. But no one sacrificed more than Hudson. He could have taken more breaks like the rest of us. Could have worn the

firefighters' protective gear, at least the respirators donated to us by the New Yorkers. Could have eaten and drunk like we did, could have washed off the toxic asbestos dust

every hour like we did because Elisa had advised us to do it over and over again in the briefings. But none of this he accepted. Even Goliath's order had been ignored by the

old warrior to dig in the ruins for buried people, so high in the mountains of rubble that even we felt nauseous and had bad premonitions. He literally threw himself into the

mountains of rubble, which the first responders called The Pit. In all, we rescued 283 people from the rubble, and I had no doubt that Hudson found most of them under

pieces of concrete and bent iron bars. What might that have been due to? To his stubbornness? To his experience as a former clan leader? Or had he simply heard more than

we did, despite the noise of the people, the roar of the excavators, and the deafening grave silence over the disaster site. Didn't they say that when one sense fades, the

others only grow stronger? Had he just heard the cries for help of the buried or the shallow breathing of the half-dead better at this point because of his injured eye where we

no longer did? Maybe it had been a combination of everything.

Magic had always been a tricky thing. Even executed perfectly correctly and backed up with the clearest instructions, it always had a price. Our price was that, in addition to

our stony sleep, we were incapable of any human sleep. We became tired, negligent, saw things that did not exist, became unstable and irritable. But even half-dead from

exhaustion, we could not sleep. It would have been only a matter of time before something bad happened. As it happened to Hudson. But everything has its price.

The rest of us - our lungs attacked by asbestos dust and smoke, barely able to think clearly from lack of sleep, our claws brittle and arms and legs torn open but unable to

close our eyes

to the suffering and ready to fight on as gargoyles do, Alexander put us back to stony sleep after 6 days. Hudson refused. He grabbed Owen, who of course did not identify

himself as Puck in the hustle and bustle of the helpers, and threw him through one of the tents. This so frightened the then five-year-old Alex that he didn't dare cast the spell

against the old warrior's will. Who could have blamed him? He was in fact the grandson of Titania and thus, through three corners, one of Oberon's powerful children - but

first and foremost he had been a little boy.

At the beginning of the seventh night, after we had broken out of our stony skins, lungs largely restored, heads clearer, footsteps firmer again, Elisa had stopped us before we

could glide back to the scene of the accident. She led us instead to a tent in Central Park. A huge tent. The size was necessary. To keep the dead from being exposed to the

world's gaze. And there, at the end of an endless line of body bags, Hudson was resting on the grass. Covered with a blanket because no body bag would have been big

enough for him. Hudson had been crushed to death when some debris had collapsed. Had he been asleep before that, had he not already been completely exhausted after

seven days and nights, he might have jumped to the side. As it was, his neck had simply been broken. Gargoyles were stable but no one was immune to 15 tons of concrete.

The doctor who had approached him said that his lungs would have been so damaged by the smoke from the fires, the toxic gases from lead, dioxins, fiberglass and sulfuric

acids, the concrete dust and the asbestos that it would have killed him in a few hours or days anyway. He had looked peaceful. Dusty, full of gray encrusted wounds - but

peaceful. They had folded his hands like a human being. Someone had placed a rose on his chest. That had been the worst and at the same time the most beautiful thing I

had ever seen. This one rose, put there by a person we would never know, but which expressed nothing other than what we were. Part of their world.

We did not know who had taken the photos that night. The mourning of the clan that night, all our tears went around the world. So did the way we got back to work

afterwards. So did the thanks we received from citizens and high profile individuals.

We all would have exchanged the Presidential Citizens Medal which was given to all of us as well as posthumously to Hudson by the President, even the citizenship and

honorary citizenship of New York, if it would have brought Hudson back to us.

But it was hard to deny from today's perspective. His sacrifice had paved the way for everything we could be sure of today. As sure as it would ever become for Gargoyles.

---

So- now I dared to upload the first chapter of my story. It's kind of a prologue to introduce who my one main protagonist is and how the Gargoyles/Non-Humans finally got halfway accepted by the New Yorkers. What could be better than their active support after 9/11? It pains me to lose Hudson but in 2022/23 he would be what - almost 80 I think. And a character who is truly frail would have become just a footnote in my history and that would go against the pride of a warrior like Hudson. So- an honorable death.

I think I'll upload a new chapter every few weeks - the next ones will also be much more lively and maybe a little funny.

As I said - beta readers are most welcome - I have written to some who I thought would not be put off by the M rating but have not yet received a reply. I would really need help in not slipping into MA rating content from an American/English perspective and where I would need to cross out what, to stay at M.

Thank you very much, Q.T.