AN: Finally finished. Thank you for being patient.
The wind blew, cold and desolate, throughout the Seattle scape of the gray seas and the goldenrod flowers that were decaying away from the winter sleet, the cold touch of malevolent winter, returning from her slumber to reign her terror before spring arrived, the maiden with the green dress, the maiden who had the dress full of apricots and hair that fell like tree branches full of green leaves and eyes that were green jaded fires, the winter maiden returned and waved her hand of death all over the city, the ones shivering from the February snowfall were two lone gods in Denny Park, the trees still bare and stretching their skeletal arms towards the sky, wishing to pry it open of rain to drip across their bare and gray backs that were dry and boned, and the lone gods just sat and watched as the people ignored them, the gods that were no longer fearsome or even pitiful gods to them, as they were forgotten a long time ago, and they struggled through this hemisphere of the world, trying to get folklore, trying to get more people to believe in their magic. Xiuhcoatl, the emerald serpent of fire, with his tongue bestowed with jewels and eyes that sparkled in the gray sky's light, he was roasting a squirrel they killed and skewered that they found in the park, innocently looking for a tree to climb, the great god that was his friend Quetzalcoatl killing it with his swiftness and might, and it was the only thing that they could eat at that moment, the great gods of the Aztecs, shed with skin and blood and flesh to have their followers just notice them, they were now only sharing a meager feast of a squirrel, and Xiuhcoatl, his other form a purple chameleon with golden eyes and a horn that was protruding so high, he sighed as he let the flames swallow and burn the squirrel's dried up corpse, and he said, "You know the rules though, Vector. You can't kill an innocent mortal, no matter how hungry or vain or greedy you are. If Chip found out what you did you might as well be no longer a god, but a homeless man that can't even kill someone for food anymore, because you'd be in death row, because that's called cannibalism and murder."
"I know, but…but…" He tried to find an excuse, any that he could tell to his friend, Espio, that would make him a savage much like Shadow claimed the Aztecs were, but even in his feeble mind that was clouded out by all the hunger inside him, he knew it was wrong, he knew he shouldn't have killed and ate an innocent hedgehog, although he was sure that alligators would kill and eat a hedgehog if they were back in the savage wild like Shadow thought he belonged in. And he trusted his animal instincts. They would taste a little prickly, but they were known to have a sweet, gamy taste he knew he would love. After all, some countries actually ate hedgehogs too, and even have said they were a delicacy.
Espio expected more of a response, but as usual, he got nothing. He could only sigh, and gaze at the snow that was beginning to blow overhead. Small little flakes were scattering in the air. They both shivered, being reptiles, the only source of heat they had was the burning trash can, but it wasn't enough. It never was enough to them. They loved to soak as much heat from the sun as possible on a warm summer day, and they wished summer would return in as little as a few seconds, because they thought they could hardly survive the winter, with their food being cold, with their bodies constantly huddled for warmth in their cardboard boxes with only newspaper wrappings to warm their tired souls, and the fact that barely anyone wanted to be outside and they mostly hoarded the food themselves thinking they would go through a hibernation. Espio and Vector's stomachs shriveled up like a peach pit (which they would eat if it was in their hands right now), and they thought the day was dreary, as if they knew on this particular day, they would die soon, without any family or friends to care for them. They knew it was their fate years ago, and they wished they would care, but they never did. It was a fact of life that was dead in their minds, dead for many years, no longer soliciting a reaction from them, used to the concept.
They would probably die before they got to see another warm summer day.
And yet they were used to that concept too.
The god of all gods, Chip, never gave mercy to those who were gods. If the gods lived in misery and hell, Chip would give no sympathy, and wouldn't make things easier on them. If Vector and Espio died, he would simply look for the next person in line to be the next Quetzalcoatl, the next Xiuhcoatl, and never think of the gods who died who fought some demons, who gave their lives to this mission to make the world pure and white as the snow that was falling down in flurries, blinding both Vector and Espio, making them shudder, their bones rattling, and they continued to look for food after they nearly devoured whole their burnt squirrel, anything they could get in their wretched small stomachs that were now only as small as withered balloons at a child's birthday party, forgotten and alone and dead to the child's memory. And they knew they were the same, the unlucky pair that were chosen to die on this February night, as their hearts were just as shriveled, beating uneasily, beating slowly as it grew too restless, and were ready to give up making them live, and only wilt like a dehydrated flower, the heart becoming rotten, brown and wrinkled, the colors faded away and all the vividness and beauty sucked out of it, as the flower would gasp for one last stringent of water, but could find none, and only die in this pathetic and not so amiable way. And they haven't given that much thought until now, when they searched the bins, scraping every last piece of trash for something to eat, but there wasn't a single morsel other than the small bits of fries at the bottom of McDonald's bag. But it wasn't enough. It never was enough. And yet, they still didn't care. Their lives were as meaningless as believing in a great big God in the sky who loved you, knowing that that they were only Aztec gods that no one knew and no one cared but God didn't want anyone believing in any gods before him (even if he was called a loving god he was a very jealous and selfish god) and they would most likely reside in Hell, which they thought probably wasn't so bad, as it was warm and they could have all the meat they wanted, out of the dead bodies of everyone who suffered before them, and they didn't much cared at all how the person felt when they tore their flesh. They were just simply hungry, and they needed everything to think, to think about their lives, to think about their philosophies, to think about how dead they felt and how alive everyone else seemed to be.
Their skins felt as wrinkled. Shriveled folds that they could peel back and see shriveled muscles and shriveled blood. They've been eating trash for so many years that their body might as well be the same as their stomachs, their hearts. They knew what they were eating wasn't healthy, but they also knew they haven't got a damn choice in the matter. They weren't like the rest of the free people, knowing what meals they could choose, having a good dinner at the end of the day. They never had enough to eat, and it never was any good. They wondered what it was like having good food, having those cold fries warm, having them drizzled with cheese and bacon and chili and ranch, and it literally made them drool, made them feel hungrier, but they could only sigh and look at another trash bin and find nothing. And their lives were still nothing to Chip. He didn't care. He was the unloving god in the sky who wished to rain down more thunderbolts on your stupid crusty head filled with stupidity and hypocrisy.
In the next bin they found a cold half eaten pizza crust. And as they usually did with most of the food they found, both Vector and Espio fought over it.
"I found it first."
"No you didn't! I'm hungrier, so I get to eat it!"
"You could eat an entire horse and still be hungry. You never think of being grateful for the food you eat, don't you? When was the last time you said grace? At your grandmother's house five years ago?"
"Why do I need to say grace when I'm about to die from how much food I only get because of you!"
And before Vector could continue to batter him with insults, Espio punched him in the snout, him flinching, leaving him to eat his prize: a piece of bread that was possibly moldy or wet from the snow. And he thought it was better than the last thing he ate: a squirrel whose insides and tail and skin were so burnt it was like eating charcoal, completely black and dusty and crispy and stones and all.
"And why would you let your good friend suffer like that, Espio? Especially when you don't want him to eat hedgehogs anymore? Damn you you ass!" He rubbed his snout, thinking of his stomach that crawled like a tiny insect, wishing to eat and eat and eat like a king that Espio seems to be, a feast fit for kings like him, full of all the moldy bread and cold french fries and rotten apples and burnt to black squirrels he wanted.
Espio simply said nothing, only wanting to fill up his crawling stomach with more food, as he searched the bin and simply found nothing worthy for him. Nothing that he considered edible, unless Vector himself wanted to try to eat it, as he usually chewed on the ends of plastic and smoked the small butts of cigarettes that were only a nub to ease him of the stress of their inevitable deaths. The plastic was his substitute bubblegum, to ease him of his hunger pains, to ease him of the fact that Espio didn't at all cared about his suffering and would rather fulfill his needs before him. Some friend he thought he was. He wasn't even sure why they even stuck together, much like paste. Even in death everyone would remember Vector and Espio seeming like the best of friends, even if all they thought was that they were a parody of a friendship, people who didn't care for the other unless they needed something, willing to backstab each other for drugs and money or whatever else they would've loved to have in their possession. Gods who were part of the same culture had to stick together, even if it seemed that both Quetzalcoatl and Xiuhcoatl, although similar in name and appearance, had nothing to do with each other, but merely lived in the same part of the world, the same apartment, without saying a single word to each other or even realized that they existed.
Vector thought if he never met Espio, if he never even considered being a god in the first place and got kicked out of his own home by his conservative family who were sick of his pot smoking habits and him dropping out of high school and thought he could've been one of those evil, sinful Wiccans simply because he had a fondness for the other gods other than their own that they constantly told Vector to worship even if he thought he didn't much care at all for the Christian religion (as he thought they were all hypocrites and liars, as he met God, and he was an asshole who didn't much cared for your suffering and only wanted the gods to work until their bare backs were ripped and fleshed open for the flies to settle in.), then they wouldn't be here, they wouldn't be homeless in this awful city where it rained and snowed nearly everyday, where everyone ignored each other, where everyone seemed to forget about their histories and pasts and only focus on the future, the future future future, where they would make so much money if they tried this, would get a promotion if they did that, caring only about money, and not them, the homeless and the suffering and the flowers that continued to wilt and die underneath their feet struck with greed and envy. And he thought Espio was one of those people, as he let him suffer when they tried to get food, made him suffer when they would battle against the other gods. He thought he was only a pawn to king Espio's chess set, and he never understood how the game would end, how he, the bishop, could end the game and put an end to his reign of greed and villainy, but yet even if he hated him, he stuck with him. Glue. Paste. Whatever people called it. They stuck like that. With the melting's of horse hooves and horse bones.
He readjusted his muffler against the incoming cold, the snow that felt like icy knives, their breath visible in the air much like they were ancient dragons billowing smoke from their nostrils as they protected their rotten treasure, Vector nearly burning his hand smoking all he could from the short stick of a cigarette and took as much as a long drag he needed to comfort him. Espio simply said nothing again, as he thought on his life, his choices, his last few years that he had been with Vector, the alligator that his parents thought he was nothing but a "no-good, dirty, LSD-using and Satan-worshipping hippie", realizing that his parents were similar to his in that regard, that they were both as conservative as they wanted America to be, making every single McDonald's and restaurant in the city of Seattle tune into Fox News and hear all the slander against their presidents and the gays and any self-respecting person who was making a difference in the world and didn't much at all care for whatever Glenn Beck or anyone had to say about them. Vector told Espio many times that he considered himself as a "changer of the general public's philosophies", that he would one day get everyone to listen in on John Lennon's words, they would all know peace was the only way against this life, that God simply wanted his so-called brethren to just live as peacefully as possible in this damned, cold world that had so many blind deaf and dumb people that never cared for anyone else but themselves, and he said that one day he would be able to change that, he would be able to change everything, as Vector sometimes believed that he was chosen to be a god from Chip, that he would be the new prophet, as the times were achangin', they were forming and they were becoming as irrationally colored and shifting like kaleidoscopes, with its many different shapes and forms and diamond-encrusted skin that the people swore their society was like, perfect and clean and full of godliness, when he thought he would be the Aztec god who would change everything, make them become peaceful savages, to eat meat all they wanted, to no longer argue and fight and kill and murder and steal, but Espio thought that Vector was as hypocritical as his words, as he tried to kill a mortal just a day ago, and he could only listen to his small mumbling tirade about how these people needed to change, how these people needed to listen to new gods instead of old ones like God, and he simply turned in his newspaper covered self to try to sleep in their little abode, a cardboard box that was wet and smelled damp as the snow continued to pile up, and he shivered as Vector wrote down in his notes on what he needed to do to make his own little special revolution happen, his own little dose of insanity in the masses.
He thought the rotten meat he kept eating was getting to him. Eating so much gray and maggoty meat could also make your brain dead and gray and covered with a blanket of maggots.
Their parents once upon a time even considered taking them to psychologists, interventionists, therapists, to find out how crazy they were from their drug use, their Satan-worshipping and Democrat-loving ways that his parents wished to purify them of, wringing them dry of all of their insanity like washcloths twisted to let loose the ammonia, but nothing seemed to work, and they were freed to do whatever they wanted in the next city, the wonderful, rain-sodden piece of earth and sea known as Seattle, and their parents simply forgot they were here, or that they even gave birth to them. Espio once tried to call them to see if they could give him a couple dollars (just to buy food and maybe pot) but all he met on the other line was the droning beep of the answering machine, their messages full of his other requests, that they refused to erase simply because they never wanted to hear his voice again. And he would only hang up the phone and realize that he was here forever, as a homeless teenager, with nowhere to go and nowhere to live, nothing to eat and no one realizing that he was a living suffering being much like they. And he tried to give a moment's care, but he couldn't. He simply wished he was never born to parents much like the ones he was given to by the god that they thought was so loving, who cursed him with automatic bottom feeders like 60% of America really was. The fish that continued to eat the scum of the sea, making it clean for everyone else who wanted to swim in it. And like Vector's rotten meat, all that scum made your brain into green scum that could only think in irrationalities, like a schizophrenic who belonged in a mental ward.
Vector found another stub of a cigarette as he finished his notes for the day ("Five notes! That's a lot! Time to take a break!"), and smoked that too. The silver hands of the smoke rose throughout the arctic park, no one noticing them, no one giving a care that they were chosen to be sacrifices to Chip's little game. Vector thought he could feel the signal that there was a demon egg somewhere close in the city, but he didn't bother to tell Espio. He didn't bother telling to himself that they needed to find something to give to their folklore to keep them alive, to keep their hearts beating in the tune of the war drums, but Vector knew he was nothing but a weak god who had weak ways of thinking, and he simply sat on an overturned bin, stomping on his short cigarette, wishing that the bin had a feast ready for kings like him, kings who knew the truth of the world, and not the bastard Espio who simply took everything away from him.
If he wanted to, he could take another cigarette, light it up, and set the box on fire and kill the god beside him, but he didn't. He wasn't sure why he didn't.
As the snow continued to fall, Vector's breath steaming from his mouth, he thought he could feel another signal inside him, that continued to glow and thrust and boom, that another god was coming in the Seattle streets near them, accompanied with another person, a regular person who knew a little of the gods' lavishing and desolate lifestyle, with the diet of rotten meat and rotten food and cigarettes that were only small ends of their paper wick fingers. He sighed, as he looked beyond the winter landscape as the snow kept piling up, the cold icy stars gathering around them and making them wonder why they couldn't return to their mother's house, back when they weren't so liberal against their conservative beliefs, and they would warm them up with a nice cup of hot cocoa and a roasting turkey in the oven like his mother used to give him, even if it wasn't near Thanksgiving. He even wished he could catch a whiff of turkey again, but he could only catch a whiff of garbage and piss, as he assumed the next people in line waiting for them were homeless too, as they only lived on worms and old french fries and elephant ears like swallows and albatrosses did, while they slept in garbage and wanted to live only with the doctrines of garbage ("One man's trash is another man's treasure!" And "Get rid of all the sharp and nasty things, and garbage bags can be a nice place to sleep. Hotels? Pah! Who needs them!")
Wave was a teenage purple swallow, with her bell-bottom jeans and fur coat feeling so little against the cold. Storm, her brother, got her the fur coat, but couldn't afford her any boots; any warm pants to wear for this weather, while Storm himself was wearing only a scarf, as he could never find anything that fitted him. Storm was about a teenage age as well, being the biggest out of the whole family, as their distant brother, who was off somewhere, trying to be the greatest god in the world, was even smaller than his sister, but Storm had the genes of their father, the great big bird that always ate and ate and ate and had such a big puffy white chest and those clear, hard-set blue iron eyes that always seemed to strike fear into anyone's hearts. Storm, while he was big, thought he couldn't stand the cold, as he was huddled over to his sister, which she kept saying to him to get further away from her so she wouldn't trip, and he kept mumbling about something about his money, that he only needed some more cash before they could get a warm espresso, have a nice warm jacket for him, maybe some boots for his sister, and then they could live a happy life being homeless and only getting beggar's money and some money from selling trinkets from the trash they found that no one knew was worth anything, but as Vector watched them, he could only think it was a sad, pathetic sight, to see this god depending so much on his sister, seeing them suffer as much as they, to hear that their brother has abandoned them for the pursuit of being the most heard of god around the city, and he stood still, staring, as the February cold wisped around him, the small flakes of snow sticking to his scarf, sticking to his fingers, sticking to his eyes and making him blink a few times, as Wave gazed at him with contempt, and said, "Are you the ones who made my poor brother suffer? All he wants is a little demon egg, and you just had to take it away from him, didn't you? I'll never forgive you! I'll never forgive any of you gods who are selfish enough to take away my brother's will to survive!"
Espio arose from his newspapers, his eyes tired with sleep. He was about to tell them a thing or two about what he thought about Storm, their ignorant, idiot brother who couldn't even tell his lefts from his rights (he even questioned if Storm was a little retarded), until Vector stopped him with the motion of his hand, as he picked up another stub of a cigarette ("three stubs of a cigarette made a whole cigarette stick!") and began to smoke that too, as Wave could only stare at them with hate, and he sighed, a tongue of smoke pilfering from him.
"Look lady, we know nothing about that. We haven't got a demon egg in what seems to be ages. We're not the culprits here. I suspect that it was those hedgehog fellas. You know, he's blue, and another is black and red. The blue one…seems to have a kind of hidden power to him. Like he was born to be a god. His brother was a god too apparently, so maybe it runs in the family. Like yours. Isn't that Jet fella of yours pretty strong?"
"Once you're in my presence you will never use my brother's name around me ever again," she remarked, frowning. "His name is forbidden here."
She could only shake her head, noticing how God suddenly made the A/C rise up in his world. She clasped herself in her big furry brown coat, and said, "If what you say is true, then I guess it's Shadow and whoever the new recruit is that I'll have to give a piece of my mind to. I'll find them, and I'll have a talking to them, if anything, to tell them to leave Storm's demon eggs alone! He fought for that egg nail and bone but yet they still took it from him! Don't they know my brother is dying? He hasn't had a single demon egg in a week! What am I going to do if both of my brothers are gone? I can't become a god myself just to avenge their deaths, especially if the god lifestyle doesn't appease me at all!"
"Welcome to the club, sister." Vector exuded a breath of smoke before he stomped on the small stub of a cigarette, having his fill for now. Later he was going to need more. He hated this tobacco habit, but it was the best thing for them other than pot right now, and if he could just smoke the ends of cigarettes for free, then what was the problem? Except black ashed lungs and feeling shitty and gritty in mood simply because he can't have a cig whenever he wanted when him and Espio had to go to no smoking parks or a restaurant that wouldn't let them smoke (not like they would ever go into a restaurant anyways, having no money and smelling like shit and drably in appearance.) when he needed the nice hit of nicotine running in his bloodstream. The cigs kept him warm, at least for a short while, which was better than being like Storm, who only had a scarf and nothing else, the ends of his feet blue and chiffoned with ice.
"Well, unless you have anything more to say to us, then scram. We could sympathize with how much your brother is suffering, but we got bigger problems ourselves. We haven't had a good meal in weeks and at least you have a fur coat on you, because we have nothing on us, and we're coldblooded for criminy's sake! Unless you know of a good place that can give us good meals for bums, then…"
"You have to tell me where those hedgehogs are at, Vector. You have to tell me." She watched him meticulously, as she wished she could grab onto Vector and shake him like she did to so many other animals, but Vector had no fur, and absolutely no coat, but she held onto him, wanting where they last saw the god-born and the godless, the two hedgehogs that she knew were so different, that she couldn't think of why they were both together, except to steal her brother's precious demon eggs, to let these two creatures that she hated with all her black-tinged heart die out in the alleyways of Seattle, much like her brother would soon, much like she will soon too, without the aid of her brother protecting her, without the hunt for her other brother, who will forever be nameless, and telling him that all this god business was nothing but a tricky business, a deadly business, a sick business, and she needed to live like Storm and only collect demon eggs once in a while to feed his folklore, but nothing more and nothing less, but she knew he would hate the lifestyle of being homeless and sick and poor, having no elegant food and wine like he was probably feasting on, but Wave tried to live on after her mother died, after their father went to a far away place and never returned, the bird with the blue eyes that shined only as brightly as bromide, and to her sadness, only Vector replied that he hasn't seen them since he tried to eat the blue one without the godless one who soon chased him away and threatened to tell Chip of his broken law, and he had no choice but to let him go, lest he would die just for the satisfaction of a meal that didn't taste like maggots.
"Though I'm sure they're out for more demon eggs, like they said they would find." He didn't tell them of the demon egg radar emanating inside of him. He wished to remain that a secret, lest the sister and brother would cause a scene and fly off and get themselves hurt against the god-born that was going to be so powerful. He tasted in his blood that he would not be defeated by anyone for a long time. At least, not yet.
Vector only knew that would lead to more troubles to him and his friend, and he watched as Wave's hands relaxed, her chest getting lower (as custom for birds to heave their chests when up against a threat or danger), and she let him go, expecting to see the small tears in her eyes as she said to her brother, almost without hope, "Come on Storm. They know nothing about the hedgehogs. We will get revenge on them. We will. And I will make sure your sister looks after you. Your sister will always look after you. And you will always look after me. We're such a happy family, aren't we Storm? Especially that our mother is dead. Especially that our father never returned. We're a happy family, all up in that bare, naked pear tree.
Storm gazed at the tree, soiled with snow that rested on it like dormant little fuzzy creatures that were cold to the touch and always drifted to the world in small little packed balls, his voice faltered as he touched the pear tree with his own gray silver feathered fingers and said, "Wave, this will be ours? This will be our…pear tree? Our family tree? With our mama and papa and Jet…"
"Ssssh! Don't say his name here! It will bring upon bad luck! And we don't want that when you're a god Storm, we certainly don't want that."
He stared at the pear tree, his body completely motionless, save for the shaking of the frost, and he repeated to himself, mumbling, "And we don't want that. We don't want that…"
And she smiled, as she went over to the snow, and with her pale purple hands modeled two little white birds out of snow, that looked as if they would spring to life and chirp and sing even if the air was as piercing as little pin-needles, one bigger than the other, with bored in eyes that gazed out to them, the birds resting furtively on their branches, in the snow winteriness, while the cold and bitterness continued to blow all over the Seattle streets.
And Wave and Storm left the two snow birds, clinging to each other throughout the shivers of ice, as they traveled to 5th Avenue North, headed to Memorial Field, hoping there was another demon egg there. But Vector thought he saw them galloping with such strident steps that they looked happy, as close as a family tree could be, the two lone birds waiting for their bunches of fruit from the pear tree. Like the Christmas song he heard every December. And he hated it. He didn't even want to think of Christmas. He didn't even want to think of happy families, of happy people, period. He despised anyone who could look upon the society of today and claim that it was a beautiful world out there. He hated them all.
And Vector hurriedly grabbed another short nub from the bin and smoked that too. He was getting nervous. He always was when he saw happy people. People who were much happier than they, the one sleeping in a cardboard box in winter, the one surviving on only short little sticks of cancer. And he sighed, the smoke blowing away from the smokestack, as he stomped on the cigarette and walked away, back to Espio, and he prepared himself to sleep with newspapers and a wet moldy box too.
—
It was snowing, as it was caught in their quills and scarves, as they flew on their white flamed wings to the building that was known as EMP, the building that was strangely shaped like a heart, the golden rusted jewel that laid on the Seattle's very chest and throne of the city, where he was sure many people would be going into it today, as it was the weekend. The perfect time to see things, to watch movies and to go out to see bands playing, to go out and sit on your very chair and…write.
The memory of his brother writing those stories came back to him. His brother was in his body, and he thought that was exactly he was thinking of, to get him to start writing for him, to get him to write depending on his words, the very song in his soul, to print out the letters, to play the typewriter like a piano and perform a gorgeous song that would entrance millions, to play it like a baritone that would enhance so many people's lives, play it like the trumpet, belting out the loudest sound, the scream of writing, the vociferous voice of words and letters and sounds and clacking out the keys like a jazz musician on the stage, belting out the haunting melodies and letting everyone listen to you, the sound of your screams and your whispers and your ramblings and the thoughts that kept running and running and running on its white hooves, the voice of your brother telling him to write, RIGHT NOW!
"Do I have to?"
He was in the cafe, surrounding by many black faces, black voices and black silhouettes, as they all sat in the inviting golden sphere and drank their coffee and cappuccinos and their lattes as black as their souls, as he imagined the hot filth traveling in their stomachs he imagined how hard it would be to lift his hands and start typing on the typewriter, the one that was missing a period, the one that he had to fill out with dashes and later make them into dots. And his brother would hate that. But oh well, you had to write, didn't you? That was your promise as a god, to fill out the biggest stories, to fill out the biggest monsters the literary world has ever seen, to see the gods in his world flesh out, the ravens, with their black wings the very same cloak as the night and stars, their eyes shining like planets, their talons being the milky ways, as they all sat and watched him try to type out a single word, any word, to tell to his friends, to tell his parents who were now all alone in the world without their children, to tell to his old teachers who he never really missed, to the WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD WITH ITS CANVAS THE WHITE STARS AND THE CROWS STARING AT HIM WITH THEIR EYES LIKE THE COLORS OF NEPTUNE AND URANUS, STARING, STARING, STARING.
And his brother said to him, "It's not hard! Elves won't come in the middle of the night and finish this story for you when you're sleeping! Just write!"
The ravens gazed at his fingers, that were still still, still white, still not fleshed with black ink and the machine to type out more of the ravens that wished to have their story, their make their world come alive and real and born, and all Sonic had to do was press one single key and start typing.
Just start, and everything else would come naturally.
The ravens squawked, before his finger could reach for one of the keys, before his brother could scold him even more, as Sonic saw that he was in the air, skidding in the great white and cerulean blue, his wings feeling so wide and so free and like the same canvas as the sky with its white little puffy faces, before Shadow told him to stop, because they could see the heart of Seattle, and they were here.
He thought if he stared at the heart of Seattle any longer, it would begin to beat, with the music and bands inside it ringing throughout the streets. The metals were reflecting the morning sky, with the sun glinting off its skin, the tangerine color and the cerulean mixing together, creating a heart that not only seeped of music, but of color, of brilliance and of bright vivid hues.
And also of demon eggs.
The surrounding world around the egg began to distort, reality wavering in their vision. They began to see men who had the heads of sheep, black ewes that bleated their songs before they went inside, hearing the men call them "sheeple" allowing them inside, to listen to their "sheeple" music. The sheeple were beginning to form tiny arms, hooves at the end, as there were hooves on their feet, but yet they stood upright, with their sheeple children in tow, waiting for the sheeple band to play. The sheeple always gathered in groups, they always gathered where music was around, because that was the only way they would function, otherwise some sheeple laid flat on their sides, their arms constantly floating side by side, like little plastic toys that never got to run and never got to be played with their children. And some sheeple were sad, and they bleated mournfully, on the death of their souls.
And as the sheeple's eyes reflected back, he thought he could see his soul, the two hedgehogs that were inside the same body, one big and although scrawny, he was much bigger than the small, frail one, trying to breathe his last breaths on the world, the sky looking like a reddened bruised, tinged with violet blood, as the violet liquid continued to seep into the sky, as the sounds became louder, as the sheeple began to gather, as the concert began to play, for all the sheep men, for all the sheep women, for all the sheep children, all gathered up in their woolly coats and ready to hear them yell and bang some instruments…
Sonic was too busy paying attention to this brand new world he was in, rather than the demon egg, which began to crack, and the monster began to seep, the devil creature smiling with a big wide grin, a guitar hidden inside it in the embryo, its tail and horns growing and becoming blacker with the arrival of the February air.
"You idiot! You need to stop daydreaming! The demon is alive, and it's going to kill all these people now, come on, get your head in this fight, work with me here!" Shadow called, his voice barely reaching his head.
Shadow launched itself against the infant demon, that grew like an inflatable toy, the child's claws puffed and fleshed and sharpened, being blown to blades that were about as tall as their bodies, the fangs crawling from its mouth, the white bladed mountains wishing to make the others bleed and to let the child eat, the feet turning into hooves like the goat body of Satan. The child held onto his guitar with unshaken and ample knifed fingers hanging above them like silver sharp curtains, hearing all the sheeple bleat his name, hearing his simple commandments, to kill themselves, to kill themselves, to kill off all their emotions, all their memories, everything that made them themselves, because all the sheeple were all the same, with their simple voices and their simple minds and their simple bodies, as they stared at the stage that was changing colors as if they ingested so much LSD, the devil child playing a song that although it was evil and dark and sinister, it was melodious, and the sheeple listened, and so did Sonic, which he thought he couldn't do anything, because his brother was waiting, hoping, hoping that he would die right on stage, along with the other sheeple, because his voice was no longer useful if his brother would never allow him to write a story. It was an unheard of voice, a voice that never traveled far from his mouth, and it was useless, and it begged to die, it begged to be free in the land of gods.
His brother wanted so much to be a god again, he thought. Not inside his body. Was this simply a trick from the devil child, to make his other soul inside him, perched like the moon inside a bird cage, wanted to be free from himself, to be granted freedom, to shine out in the world like moons were supposed to do, without him keeping him inside his heart, inside that dirty rotten bird cage that he could only feed him with a spoon full of soup that was watery and tasted like nothing, his soul not even being fed properly?
His soul wanted to scream inside him. There were so many things it wanted to express with its words and songs, but it couldn't, as it was locked inside with barely any food and water, a prison as the moon continued to shine and continued to sleep and weep, but there was nothing it could do, it was locked inside, it was cold and dead and thrumming with cold. He wanted the soul to be alive, to be beating with warmth, but his brother told him it wasn't, it wanted to tell the world of how much it was decaying with the rusty knife inside its mouth and throat, but it could only gargle. Only blood could pore out from its guthole.
The sheeple were throwing suicidal devices into the bucket. Knives. Razor blades. Guns with one bullet shell inside them. A rope that was coiled to fit a head shaped like his. Pills filled with cyanide, the red and white capsules lying awake for him, waiting for him to take it, to have his stomach bleeding, to have his throat seeping of blood, to have the cyanide cutting up everything like curled blades, the eyes of the pills appealing to his brother, the dead soul inside.
You always wanted to die too, don't you Sonic? Don't you?
Dying wasn't an option. Living was. Defeating this demon child was. He could tell that Shadow couldn't do this by himself. And he rose in the air with sheened wings that were pale like the moonlight inside of him, and he raced to the child, who was singing a song that he couldn't tell what language it was in. Maybe Russian. Maybe Portuguese. Maybe the language of devils. He could never tell, and the sheeple were taking the cyanide pills and the knives and the guns and the ropes one by one, dying, the blood being spilled to the gutter, where the rats ate it.
The rats at the end of the underworld he heard about in what seemed to be so long. What did they have to say about anything?
But none of that really mattered, Sonic thought. His wings glowed in the dark light, as Shadow dodged his claws, as he fired yet another galaxy bullet to his gut, but even the power of black holes and a galaxy being born wasn't enough to kill the child. It was going to take so much more. It was going to take the power of God.
His staff glowed a pale blue, looking like rustic aquamarines as he waited until it was glowing and full of might and full of power that he knew defeated Storm, the thunderbird, and he fired a beam towards his back, the child laughing and guffawing that he knew these gods powers were useless, that he would make everyone in his entire dark black-lit world die off one by one by suicide, that he wanted it that way, because he was sick of sheeple, he was sick of animals, he was sick of humans most of all, especially ones who had the hearts of animals, the hearts of pigs.
And Sonic didn't even have to look. He knew that the beam simply did nothing against him. He flew off into the outer field of the glowing heart, wondering when his next move would be, seeing the sheeple dying more and more, seeing their bodies moving like little plastic toys gyrating against their smooth white coated bodies, and then slowly bleating away, slowly whining and dying to a full stop. And the sheeple said they didn't need his help. Because they wished to die. They wished to rot away. They wished to become lamb chops to the farmer; they wished to have their bones and stomachs hollowed out to make instruments to the mad men on the hill in the Arabian countries. They wished to have their hooves turned to glue. They wished to have their bones molt to Jell-O.
He was hearing so many of the wishes of the sheeple, that they wanted to die in this world, they wanted to be left behind, but Sonic knew he couldn't do that. He was Yahweh. He had to protect. He had to defend.
His wings flapped higher and higher, until he could see the black hard rolls of the ram's horns, the child continuing to play a song that was killing thousands by the minute. He wasn't sure of any other powers he had, other than to listen to the world's prayers, and his staff that was having no effect on the demon. He wasn't sure where Shadow was, but he assumed he was formulating a plan.
His brother continued to whisper to him, in a voice that was the same as a shy child's. You always wanted to die, don't you Sonic? Don't you? Don't you? His mouth was a little black o that hungered for him, ready to lunge out and suck out the soul inside him that wasn't suicidal, the hungry little boy wanting more and wanting to feast on the misery of his parents, and he aimed the staff directly at the demon's child head, letting it glow a vibrant blue hue, then firing another beam, a circle of light emanating from it.
The beam hit the child, but seemed to have no visible effect, other than him growing annoyed. And he said in his voice that was full of tempers, full of fire, "Now you're really starting to piss me off, you stupid lowly god!"
Gods were lowly. They didn't belong in this human world. Demons did. How did that made sense? But nothing was making sense here. Nothing did.
Shadow leaped into the bucket of the suicidal machines and machetes, pulling out the pills of cyanide, the white and red capsules full of venom, as the child laughed and continued to play and belt out his song to the dying thousands, the dying sheeple in the heart of Seattle, as he said that the demons were the ones who truly belonged to the humans, it was the demons who could feast on this world and not give a damn whether God could say no or not. His claws stretched out upon the silver canvas, and he screeched like a bat, he sang of his sorrows and he sang of his battles, the one he was willing to win tooth claw and nail against the two lowly gods who were challenging him, the gods who would be nothing but worms in the dirt, Yahweh and Yehl, who didn't deserve at all to be alive.
His teeth ran across his face, as he roared and wanted to crunch on the god's bones, he wanted to eat them, he wanted them to beg for mercy from his father Satan, and he wanted more sheeple to worship him, like they should've at the beginning of time, when he was simply a snake who told Eve of how delicious that apple was at God's fruit tree.
Shadow bounced the pills in his hand, as he soared above him, and said to the demon child, "We are gods, and we will always rid of you, you lowly demons. We will make you decay, we will make you melt like the black vomit you are, we will watch you as you cringe and cry like the little shriveling red-faced infants you are, as we will put you back in Hell's hole. You don't deserve to be here. Satan isn't God. Chip is, and he will always rid you all back to the rot where you belonged.
And he dropped the cyanide pills into his mouth, the demon child recognizing his own suicide, the death of his organs that were as black and hollowed out as the stomachs of the sheeple being made into canteens, into instruments.
His mouth foamed of blood, as he cried, as the white tears flowed from his eyes and into his mouth to calm the hot flow of blood, but it continued to bleed, it continued to make him die and retch, as his dirge was over, as the sheeple were beginning to be free of their spell, as they no longer wanted to end their own lives, and Sonic's moon soul was beginning to be quelled, but it still remained inside its cage, with barely any food and drink, and still it sang a mournful dirge. One song was beginning, and one was ending.
The demon bled in shades of rubies and violets, as it soon shriveled to a small infant, no longer a tall and proud monster, and then back to the black egg it was, before it soon vaporized to the small black shells of the egg's crust, and Shadow knew that his folklore was earned, that he would be yet another living god among the others, and while some may argue that he didn't need anymore, he was only proud to be stronger, that his heart was beating as fiercely as it did before with the flames rocketing inside the steel steam pipes of his industrial heart.
Sonic flew back down to the ground, hiding his staff, and he felt disappointed that he didn't win this battle, but he was glad that Shadow had won all the same, that he had yet more days and weeks to live, the god with his black tin wings and his tin beak being as sturdy as they were before, even if they were showing their rustic age. He saw the carnage of the people who used to been sheeple, the people who thought suicide was the answer, as their organs were spewed by the cyanide, their knives were thrust into their hearts, the razor blades searing through their wrists like fire, and the nooses and guns that were strung around their heads like Christmas lights, allowing themselves to be either suffocated as they hang as a bright flashy direction or had their brains decorating the heart of Seattle. And he thought it was sad all the same.
That his brother was going to be like them. That his brother, the one he loved, was going to be like him.
—
"We just got reports of a mass suicide during a concert at the Experience Music Project building, at 324 5th Avenue North. The strange thing was, was that there were so many varied methods of suicide, as some died from overdose, some died from wrist cutting, and some died by hanging and shooting. The police are cleaning the area and ambulances are disarrayed, identifying the bodies. Police have said the victims range from being five to forty years old, and that this may have been a cult meeting, though we are not sure which band had dealings with a Satanic cult (I'm pretty sure they're Satanic said the reporter, as he thought he could see blood printing that a demon was here, telling them all to die) so deep to have an outbreak of suicide. We will bring more news on this incident as it happens…"
"Turn it off, Sonic. We don't need to hear anymore."
And he turned the old ancient TV that was still in black and white off.
"Chip is going to be angry with us that so many people died, but I guess we just simply tried our best. That wasn't an ordinary demon. It couldn't be killed from our powers. I knew we should've got that earlier, but I know it's simply your own damn fault Sonic, for standing there, staring into space, not killing the egg before it hatched."
"And why are you blaming it on me? Remember that I have my brother inside me, who actually felt like dying from that demon, so I could barely do much. My brother controls me too you know. He wanted to write a novel and I told him no and before I knew it the egg hatched…" He sighed, as he let his legs dangle in what seemed to be the road below, not at all afraid of falling off the building. He faced death too many times now, and he thought he wasn't afraid of it anymore.
"Even if we defeated that demon, we simply cannot allow any more of these eggs to hatch, Sonic! Do you hear me? Next time we find one, we're going to kill it before it comes out. You better hope we don't find another one for a while, because with your brother inside you, we won't be able to kill another one as fast as say Storm, who doesn't have any distractions other than his sister to worry about when he needs more folklore in his system. Those demons are very powerful, and we cannot let them defeat us, especially you, since you're supposed to be so damn special, even if you have your brother distracting you all the damn time."
He felt yet more phlegm coming in his throat. He hacked and coughed, as yet another bloody ball of spume erupted from him, wishing that at least his brother's sickness would stop. That he didn't want to die from the same illness that killed his brother, before he revived him.
"And if you don't find any more folklore in as soon as a few weeks, you will die because of your brother. I am sure of it," he said, nodding with a scowl.
He sniffled, as he gazed at the cars below him, seeming to be swallowed up in all the traffic, no longer recognized so boldly in the street, blending in with all the other taxis, all the other cars that had no huge purpose in the world, all the trucks and all the reds and whites and yellows and blues. He gazed also at his hand, as he let it touch the side of his cheeks, still roughened by Quetzalcoatl, still bleeding from the needle inside him.
And he wondered sometimes how much it would take for him to jump out of this world, into the streets, into the cars below him. To land on the roof of them, to have his body become crushed, to have his bones and blood become withered away as the car would be soon taken to the dump, as the owner could barely think of driving it anymore. The blood rusting away in the bright yellow paint that used to be so bold, so shining, in the daylight.
He could imagine the typewriter in his hands again, ready to type out a single word in his loud voice, as the crows and ravens watched him with their mercurial eyes, as their wings were simply black oil, their wings full of liquid, as they would fly into the afternoon sky, it now velvet with a touch of red, the bleeding sun sleeping and trying to dry out his wounds.
He wished he could make it all go away. The suffering he was experiencing, deep inside him.
His brother was here. To make it all go away. But his brother had problems for himself to take care of. His illness. His fragile body. His bones made of porcelain and his face that shook like glass plates inside a cabinet every time he walked. His bones that were shaking inside his skinny skin. And he thought he wanted to cry seeing his brother this way, the brother who was sick, who was dying, and who was going to make the both of them suffer if he couldn't do anything about them.
And he thought that he didn't want to live. No. He wanted his brother to take his good, able body and run free with it. He would rather have his bony structure, his skeletal stomach, his eyes that seemed as if they were bursting from his skull, the quills that were barely on his head, the IV wires inside his nose, he wanted to take away everything and make it his own, while his brother got the good fortunate body, where he could write his stories with his good prickly fingers, and not his small stubs like cigarettes that barely had much tobacco and nicotine in them.
Shadow was smoking one of them right now. He was out of Marlboro's. He would have to make due with a used cigarette that tasted faintly of menthol.
He listened to the cars at the street, their lights flashing on in the darkness, the people, blind deaf and dumb as they were, ready to march out into the streets, ready to become alive like raccoons, like bats that have been hiding in their caves for far too long. They were ready to drink their alcohol, to find women to have sex with, to drive recklessly, to commit crimes, Seattle became much more alive at night, with sin, with evil, and they, only as gods that couldn't interrupt the choices of humans, could do nothing about it.
And as he sat, watching and observing, he heard a faint voice in his head, sounding like a crying child. He thought it was his brother. But it wasn't. It was the prayer of a mournful child.
"My name…My name is Miles Prower…I am very sad and lonely…" His voice was coming in like a radio full of static, his voice careening off to screeches and vivid images in his head. "I don't have any friends…My mom and dad don't much care for me…please, send me an angel. Send me a fairy godmother like I see in Cinderella, and make me good and whole again…I feel like my heart is dying…My heart needs to have a new place, a new whole inside my body…"
A prayer. Someone was actually relying on Sonic, to make a new beginning for him? He thought it was ridiculous that anyone wanted to rely on him for anything. But yet the child's voice sounded as if it was stifled from tears, and it sounded like he could barely breathe out his words, his sadness choking him.
"Please give me an angel…someone who will look over me…take care of me…I swear if anyone can ever do this for me…I will love them, forever and ever…"
And with the sound of him choking and stating in his sorrowful voice "amen", his brain received yet more vivid visions, of where the young boy lived, a couple of miles away from him, but Sonic could do it. Gods were amazingly light-footed.
But what about writing my novel? What about my deed as being inside a god's body to write out my soul?
What about defeating the next demon egg? Or are you going to help me in doing that too? So you can actually live out more than a week because of your damn illness?
He winced, as he thought of this, that he would be betraying both promises, one from Wind, one from Shadow, but he swore that he would return, he swore that this would be a good cause in the end, and maybe Chip would reward him, for being a nice god, a god that can make a difference in someone's life.
And he flew off in the amber sky, as Shadow continued to gasp out more smoke in the smog of Seattle with his menthol cigarettes, as the bleeding sun began to sink down, plunging the world into a river of stars that reflected his face as if he was gazing at the surface.