Capital of gold, capital of neon.
Warm bodies swam down the streets, carried by the current. Lizzy haphazardly hurried Andy and Croissant out of the apartment, leaving behind two corpses and an half-assed, apologetic note excusing the tragic passing as an inherently unavoidable stroke of bad luck. Andy spent the last twenty minutes being silently glared down by Croissant, and listening to Lizzy's shaky voice trying to make sense of his decision.
"I just don't- I don't understand, ja p-po prostu w życiu, ale to w życiu n-nie… Żeby to tak człowiek człowieka? Ludzie ludziom piekło zgotowali…? Mamusia zawsze mówiła, "Lizawietko z dala sie trzymaj od huligaństwa, z dala od typów spod ciemnej gwiazdy, albo skończysz na rynku ciał, oj Lizawitetko, oj Lizawietko…"
"Could you speak something we can understand?" Andy annoyedly threw back. It was about time his patience had ran out. Passing by a minefield of people rushing by, street buskers ringing out their pathetically off-tune melodies and most importantly – cobwebs of wash-strings strung up all across the streets. The motorized slum warriors riding their metal steeds through the middle of the street had a real field day trying to narrowly avoid the strings, which felt more like blades when tightened enough. Andy sighed at the sight of yet another motor-scooter flying off in a cartwheel, due to the driver's momentary lack of focus.
"I'm sorry, it's just that…" Lizzy dived down to avoid having her head caught on a hanging flytrap of dirty, wet clothes. "A part of me really wishes you hadn't committed first degree murder, mister Ricketts…"
"Just Andy." He waved off a few kids ogling his halo-nails.
"... The point remains the same, Andy. We should've talked it out, not… not THAT."
"Yeah, baws. Real nice first impression yer leavin'." Croissant cut in with a snortle. Whatever it was that bit her the wrong way, Andy had no idea. She's been on his ass these past couple of days, and he couldn't help but feel incredibly guilty about it. "First ya jam a gun into a door and leave us defenceless, then ya jam some poor guy headfirst into 'a shitter. C'mon…"
"So I was supposed to let him come out and bring his buddies? I was supposed to wait for all of them to drop by and, and what? String us all up like these f-..." Frustration took over, as his face mushed against a pair of drying undies. He groaned in exasperation, then tore the entire string off the nearest wall and stuffed it into his pants, much to the displeasure of a few dwellers sitting idly by. Before they could approach the group and break some bottles over their heads, Croissant grabbed them both and led away into the nearest alleyway.
"Maybe not drown him. There's more humane ways 'ta go, y'know." She huffed, then let go. The touch of her fingers on his skin felt unnaturally cold – alien, even. Gone were the silent, warm hours spent glued together over a desk back at the library, he could tell.
"I didn't really have a cattle-gun there with me. My bad." No one laughed, as expected. Lizzy was clearly out of it, clearly panicking. She yelped a little, then took the lead.
"I think… There should be a way out of here, I met t-this nice old man here yesterday, h-he told me to feel right at home. T-To explore around, that I should c-call him if anything bad happens, That I could find him somehwere around here. A-And that I should feel right at home when d-doing so... Right at home, you know? Like in Kazimierz, just like back there. Just like back in Dzwonek, just like b-back home…"
"Liz? Liz, Lizzy, ya alright?" Croissant stepped up, then took her hand. The report girl's skin felt like the touch of a smoldering branding iron. "... Golly gee whizz, baws, yer burnin'."
"I am? I… No, that's bad. M-Mom would give me onion syrup whenever I h-had a fever. Onion, lemon, honey… W-We had a lemon tree in the backyard, it used to m-move when the city changed locations, l-like, swaying with the wind."
"Lizzy?" Croissant pressed the girl's back gently against a wall, then gestured for Andy to take her side. He did, without any grumbles for once. It felt like his fault for a very good reason, but he couldn't quite fully come clean before himself and own up to it. "... Liz, siddown. Take a breather."
"I'm okay…" She mumbled, now on the floor and hugging her legs. "I'm all… all good. I'm a reporter. I'm a reporter from Kazimierz. I'm here to report FOR Kazimierz. I'm here to… to help… I'm here to help…"
"Yeah, yer helpin' yer folk, Lizzie…" With a tug of her elbow lacking in gentleness, Croissant prodded Andy in the stomach. He shot her a look, but reluctantly lowered himself to the girl's eye level.
"Lizzy? Hey, it's okay. We had no other choice, right? It was either me or him."
"Y-You or him? Mr. Skeet or y-you? That's how Lungmen works…?" She spat through a curtain of wetness that gathered on her lids. Andy felt even worse about himself. "I… We need out. We need out…"
"We do need out. Just need you to lead us out of here."
"Just out, yes… Just out…" She kept mumbling to herself. A moment later, she took her voice recorder out and stuck it to her lips. "... Mówi Lizawieta Brzęczyszczykiewicz, nagrywam z najgłębszych odmętów wielkiego miasta w którym mnie nie powinno nawet być. Szukam drogi wyjścia, gdyby tylko ktoś z gazety mógłby mi powiedzieć jak stąd wyjść, ja naprawdę nie chcę tu być…"
"Lizzy…" Andy sighed. Off she went, spouting Kazimierzian again. Croissant put a hand on his shoulder in a disapproving manner, so he dropped it.
"... Jak stąd wyjść, jak stąd wyjść… Ja chcę stąd wyjść, ja chcę stąd wyjść, ja… O, dzień dobry." She stopped all of a sudden, instead turning towards a pile of rags on the floor. With a tiny huff, her legs bent to allow her easier access. "... Dzień dobry? Psze pana, pytanko. Wie pan jak stąd wyjść?" She addressed the clothes, leaving Andy and Croissant to wonder about her mental state.
"... Lizzy, let's just go."
"Why?" She glanced back, blinking curiously. Her eyes were like camera shutters, constantly fluttering when taking in the dim, gloomy surroundings. Light had limited access to the alleyway, and the sounds of the busy street were just barely a static hum of background noise. Like a dumpster baby listening from behind a closed lid, only hearing the noise of a life that could've been when its blood slowly drained from its body. "... Why go? We can ask the nice man. Ask for directions. Psze pana?"
"Lizzy, those are just clothes." Andy loomed over her, unsure whether he should even believe his own words at this point. The stench of the alley, paired with the sight of all the disgusting treasures and daily discards scattered all around made him want to vomit. Croissant for once shared the sentiment, it seemed.
"We should really go, baws." She uttered, taking in the sight of a pile of deformed and torn rubber worms lazily resting in the shade of a drain pipe. Translucent, some thick, some thin, they were all stained by that same whitish, gooey substance. The lives that could've saved Terra, Andy thought. Nimble opportunists grasping onto the possibility of skipping the pain of Terran life and instead ending it all before even gaining the ability to comprehend what the sensation of "pain" even felt like, let alone what it meant and why every human being on this planet should be subjected to a fair share of it during their lifetime. Lizz seemed to finally notice the pile of used condoms and shuddered.
"... W-We… Yes. Yes, I'm sorry." She uttered, then stood. Just as her knees left the muddy sand, the pile of clothes shook and vibrated, overcome with a set of violent convulsions. Vibrant jerks and churns spread out on the floor, before the rags shuffled aside to reveal a disheveled pair of greasy, somewhat fluffy ears.
"Wuh–...? Wha-...?" The living clothes spoke in a daze. Like a wave of death, the overbearing stench of alcohol soon shot into and wrestled the trio's nostrils hard. Andy had to take a step back, Croissant fell right behind. The fabrics shuffled aside to reveal first a snout, then a pair of red circles, two bloodshot eyes crawling all over the place to lazily monitor their surroundings. "... People?"
"People." Andy affirmed. "... You?"
"People, people." The messy ball of fluff grumbled, then rose. "What people? You with him?"
"With who?" Lizzy asked. "Who could we be with? O kim mowa…?"
"Lizzy, sweetheart…" Croissant pushed her aside with a sigh. "Listen, mister, we don't mean no trouble. Just tryin' to make our way outta here, back into Lungmen."
"Back into Lungmen?" His hoarse voice picked up on the lingering detail in her words. "... Honey-pie, you ARE in Lungmen. You're in the best part of Lungmen you could ever ask to be in. You, angel-man."
Andy blinked. "Me?"
"You, you. You free?"
"Free, how?"
"Free, free like a fowl. Any of these pretty dames yours?"
Andy glanced first at Lizzy. Her eyes curled in a daze of festering shock and some empty ignorance of the reality she found herself in. As if she wasn't there with them, but instead gliding cheerfully across the sun-soaked valleys of Kazimierz, far from the neon signs and unfulfilled promises. Then he glanced at Croissant. She glared back, as if to say "don't even think about it." Andy swallowed.
"Nope. Free-fowl."
"Great!" The man shuddered and shed a skin of dirty rags. It fell to the floor, crashed against all the sinful residue staining the pavement. He didn't seem to mind. "You wanna get your rocks off for cheap? Blow off some steam? Do the blowing? Hey, I'm not one to judge."
"Ya–... Naw, naw, he won't be doin' any 'a that." Croissant stepped in with an expression feigning moxy. There was clearly more brewing beyond the veil of initial grit and loudmouthed mettle. "I know yer types, yer… yer disgtustin' Should be ashamed 'a yerself."
"Don't shoot the messenger, lady." The man chuckled. "Just saying. Anything you need, I might have."
Andy found himself unable to stop staring at him. His head was a mess, his thoughts – serpents that wrapped around his brain and coiled through his mind, really coiled a storm. For some strange reason, he felt perplexed by the strange man's hefty claim. "... Anything?"
"Baws, ya–... Baws! Andy!" Croissant shot him a glare and slapped over the head. "No! Bad! Andy, don't even try."
"O-Ojeju… Ojej, ojej…" Lizzy yelped at the sudden display of violence, which earned her an earnest raise of the brow from the strange man.
"Okay, I'm just…" Andy massaged the sore spot, scowling at her like a beaten dog. "... was just curious."
"Don't be. These people ain't no good, believe me."
"I'm right here, you know." The strange man smirked. "Can hear it all fine and dandy."
"GOOD!" Croissant took a certain step too close, getting all up in the poor guy's face. "Ya should, ya scourge! Ya… Ya pathetic excuse of a man, yer disgusting, disgusting and even more disgusting, y'hear? Yer worse than… than…"
"... Than this pile of rubber?" He threw a thumb towards the mound of semen and condoms. "You could say that, dear customer. My dear, sweet customer, go on, I've heard it all."
Seeing the hesitation in her muddy eyes, he smirked and continued. "... But you know what? Most people who decided to mix me with the very mud I stand on eventually came 'round. You think I don't know the individual names of every single person who contributed to that little cum-dumpster? They're our esteemed customers, dear lady, I have to know! And I have to remember how they came to be." Andy watched, uanble to tear his eyes off the man's glaring pupils. They were far too large, far too alluring. Like a drop of water into an ocean, he fell too deep into his gaze. "They all said the same thing, y'know. You're all that, you're disgusting and should be put down. But the more we talked? Just a few words, a simple promise, and then what? Then magic." He chuckled, and Croissant stood hypnotized. "Hell, I could pinpoint the exact moment when the gleam in their eyes switched up. When disgust became curiosity. When curiosity became lust, then eventually…" He took a step closer as well, invading the girl's personal space. For some strange reason unknown to either her, nor the stars glimmering above Terra, she did not mind. "... Lust became want. Need, even."
Croissant blinked. Someway, somehow, she did not feel the need to insult the man anymore. She did not feel the need to do anything at all, but give herself fully into his slimy, unwashed hands. Andy and Lizzy both placed a fan of fingers over her shoulders, seemingly somewhat afflicted with her shared daze. Andy did, at least. Lizzy kind of had her own thing going. "... P-Panie Ricketts…? Pani rogalik…?" She uttered, voice broken beyond repair.
"... And… Pardon me, mister, can ya get us a way out of here?" Croissant asked politely, to which the strange man nodded and smiled.
"Of course I can. Express way out of the slums, hm? To get away from the Catastrophe Riders?"
Andy nodded. The man knew exactly what they were there for. Perfect. That's exactly what they needed, he was so happy they met him. Croissant shared his smile, then nodded along.
"The… bikers, yeah. Yeah, just that…That would be perfect, but how do you know…?"
He cut her short, pressing his finger to her lips.
"... You're our esteemed customers, we HAVE to know."
And he took their hands. All of them, all at once. Andy did not even know it was possible for a man to have so many fingers. He welcomed the touch like one would greet an old friend from a time long lost. Like he would greet Lemuel, was he given another shot at meeting her for the first time again. Not with Vinny's barrel to the face for once. He would greet her with a warm hug. A very warm one. These past few weeks, she's been so cold, so careful around him. The red ghost, as his mind once called her – she felt almost akin to a stranger, when she clearly wasn't. She was Lem, just Lem. His Lemmy, after all. But whenever they spent hours at her apartment, when they stayed up into the late hours of the night, when he held her sleepy stature and begged the Law to let the moment last forever, her skin felt cold and prickly against his. Like a false layer – a thick coating of pretty paint that shielded the world from something rotten, something cold as the night itself. Something false splattered over a real issue pushed beneath the surface, as far as a shaky hand could reach. As if she wasn't there because of him, but because of herself. Rampant vines of barbed wire held his heart in a tight grasp at the thought she wasn't trying to help hold his shattering self in place, but instead save herself from being condemned for a crime committed as a child. Andy never showed her the postcards she had him promise he'd bring. He never apologized for leaving, but he got the idea she wasn't looking for an apology. She was looking for a way to apologize, but couldn't ever bring herself to do so.
He never needed an apology.
He needed her arms.
Her warmth.
Her love, first and foremost. He needed her to promise the seven years he spent barely holding onto the thinning line that dragged him through mud, beds of broken glass, scorching hot flames, dark oubliettes and mounds of pure, unfiltered pain were worth it. That not ending it all in Kazdel was the right choice. What else did he have, but for her? Nothing much. A barely functioning company. An employee who's constantly disappointed in her employer, yet always shows up on time with a smile on her face and a bright attitude. Two guns, maybe. And Lemuel.
He wanted to have her, beyond anything else. Beyond any other means to an end that never came, beyond any other need in his life. He'd trade all the oxygen in his breathing-trees that inhabited the fleshy interiors of his lungs, for just one whispered confession.
Just one, quiet "You matter to me" and a crushing hug. Being held for a second or two, instead of doing the holding. His eyes watered at the thought. His body felt the non corporeal warmth of her non-existent arms. They were there, they were hugging him tight, and her lips were in his hair. His curls slipped past her teeth and tickled her tongue, but she only smiled at the gentle feeling. With a soft giggle that bubbled from her mouth, Lemuel only held him tighter. She held him tighter, like a little girl clutches onto a teddy bear after a long nightmare – as if he was the light that led in her life, as much as she was his. As if she understood and accepted the feelings brewing in his rotten brain, all the obsessive tendencies long accepted as simple needs and wants. In his dream, there was a room. Dim, small and stuffy. An air of aroused intimacy nearly wafted about the ceiling corners, halted only by the overbearing stench of cologne and deodorant. It was the same deodorant she's always used. Even back in Laterano, back during those warm, sweaty summers, during those trips outside the city walls, those sessions spent stargazing below an apricot tree. Mostima would usually be there with them, but he never remembered her smell. Never bother to care enough, never even tried. It would've been weird, after all - asking to take a whiff. Lem, however, she never bothered when his head wandered a little too far and gently grazed her shoulder. Maybe even further than that, maybe so far as to picture his curls pressed flush to her sleeve. That's when that overbearing cloud of artificial sweetness flared its way into his nostrils and rattled his brain – more than that, burned itself onto its surface like a branding iron, forever tainting his mind with the memory. In his dream, he lay motionless on a couch, with his head propped by two soft pillars of warmth, a makeshift pillow of familiarity and longing. The pillars refused movement. Their stillness preceded his thoughts, as they came only after his eyes glanced upwards and found themselves lost in a love-struck daze. A gaze. A pair of apricot ovals staring back down at him. There was no pain located within. There was no guilt, and there was no hatred. Only pity.
Andy wasn't sure why. He never wanted pity, he wanted her to be near him, but the pity made him feel strange. Guilty, almost. Why did he need her pity, he wasn't sure. To make sure she wouldn't crumble and sprinkle into dust like a figure made of sand, he reached out to touch, to grasp and caress her cheek. Just like during that memorable night in her apartment, just like when alcohol took the reins and led them towards a sobby night of memories being reanimated back to life. There was nothing to reanimate now. Just her face, her crimson hair and her eyes. And his hand, craning upwards and climbing like a flower beneath the golden sun.
.
"... Awake, yet?"
.
She called out to him. Andy froze, for her voice wasn't hers. Instead of the carefree, girly warbling, her vocal cords produced a sound far more hoarse and cold. Chilly. His bones immediately felt the decrepit hands of shame tightening around each one of them.
"E-... Excuse me…?" He asked, quietly. Lemuel let out a sigh, yet continued carding her gentle fingers through his messy hair. The tail of curls once so carefully constructed by Croissant must've come undone somewhere along the way, but Andy couldn't remember when. He couldn't remember anything. Nothing at all.
"It's alright. I'll just count the sleepy time as extra if you wanna snooze." She responded, then took to twirling a few strands over his wet forehead. "... You can just stay here for as long as you'd like, Andy. No one's judging. We're far past that."
"..." Andy blinked. The pair of apricot eyes seemed a little duller than usual, a little less lively. Her room was different too, it was… smaller. It was smaller and the smell of intercourse in the air wasn't quite there the last time he paid her a visit. But the deodorant, the cologne, it was still so strong… "... Lem, where-, where are we?"
She smiled. Her short hair fell a little over her face, which made him appreciate her overbearingly idealized beauty just a little more. "... I told you to stop calling me that, silly. You know it makes me feel weird."
"... You never mentioned." He mumbled back, lost in her barely glowing eyes. The room was far too dark, too. There was a faint glow of moonlight seeping through a window, but nothing much other than that. Her halo was dim, her wings were nowhere to be seen… and there was something poking from the top of her head. Something small and fluffy. "... Should I call you Lemuel, then? Lemmy? Exusiai…?"
Lem chuckled. "You're really impossible, you know that? But if you insist so bad, then… I kind of like "Lemmy." Lemmy's cute."
"You're cute." He mumbled, much to her content. She let out a gentle purr, and her lids fell slightly over the apricots twirling in her eyes.
"You charmer. You're really weird, you know that? Far too talkative. No one else babbles as much as you do."
"Should I stop…?" Andy felt his senses slowly coming back to him, and he curled his hands to a tiny triangle over his sweater-clad stomach. The sweater offered a nice contrast to her sweat-soaked stench of deodorant, instead offering nothing but the purest of washing machine smells, courtesy of Croissant's cheap laundry detergent pickings. Lemmy slid her hand down his cheek, leaving behind a trail of lingering warmth.
"... No. No, I kind of like it. You seem like you have a lot of issues, Andy. Barely any brain-scramble left in the pan, is there…?"
"... But you know why." A little ashamed of his own lacking psyche, his voice came out nothing but timid. "Because I didn't give up. I didn't give up, just for you, you know that."
"Yeah, I'm…" She took a moment to sigh and snicker. "... ACUTELY aware of how much you wanted to kill yourself, Andy. You told me all about it. You kept telling me you wanted to see your Lem."
Andy stilled his gaze over her soft features. "... But you're here. Right, Lemmy? You're here."
His voice hoped her words would work like a fluffy bandaged wrapped tight around his lacerated heart. Lemuel shook her head in disbelief at his antics, his hopeful puppy-eyes and the hand desperately gripping her cheek.
"I'm here. I can be your "Lemmy" for a while longer, Andy. I can tell you need it."
"..." Andy felt his head sinking into her lap. It felt so soft, so innocently untainted by any burdens or worries. No scars on her stomach, no blood on her hands. No blood, but his own. "... Lemmy?"
"Hm?"
"You… flinched when I told you how many people I've killed." His eyes fled her gaze. The sight of her shocked face still gnawed at his conscience. "... I'm sorry. I needed to see you. I promised myself I would, and it hurt, but I did it."
"..." Her fingers turned to stone in his hair. After a moment of hesitant silence, their idle caresses resumed. "Of course you did. You did everything right, Andy. Your Lemmy is soooo proud of you, I bet."
"..." That rubbed him the wrong way. "... But you're…? You're Lem? You're Lem, right?"
Lemuel sighed. "... No, Andy. I can be, if you insist, though. I was never much into roleplay, but… You're pre-paid. I can be your Lemmy."
His heart froze.
"... You're not Lem?"
"...?" Not-Lemuel narrowed her gaze at his avid change in demeanor. "... Names don't really matter here anyway, do they? It's kinda weird, but I might as well be."
Andy shuffled off her lap, then sat up straight on the couch. The sticky wetness that assaulted his fingers upon touching the cheap surface elicited some sort of response deep within his stomach. "... Who are you?"
Her head tilted. As soft as the moonlight adorning her face and casting her shadow over the cramped room's floor, her hands joined in her lap. Just now, Andy started noticing all the little details and errors that made Not-Lemuel be. Her hair, a little off in the moons' glow. Her eyes, slightly less apricot than the real deal, maybe more copper than anything. No wings, no halo, but a pair of short, fluffy ears… And the clothes. Lem could never. Not like that. Her stomach was poking out, her skirt hung a little too loose, a little too short. Lem would never wear a pair of stockings this torn and ripped. Andy knew she wouldn't.
"I'm your Lemmy, I guess." Not-Lemuel spoke with an amused melody to her voice. "Or whichever other person you need me to be."
"I…" His cheeks flared up. How the hell did he end up here? Where even was his mind at? The past few hours were a blur. "... But where are we? What is this?"
"My room." Not-Lemuel answered, despite the room being nothing like how Andy remembered it. There were no figures of tiny saints holding up rifles and candles, no letters to Lemuen anywhere. "... Call it an "office," if it helps."
"What office?" He kept digging. "What is this place, is what I meant."
"Andy." Not-Lemuel stifled a smile. "You worry too much. You and I know I don't get paid enough to deal with panic attacks. Relax."
"But…" Her words only served as oil to douse his flames of worry. "... I'm lost."
"I know, Andy." She gave the spot next to her a gentle pat or two. Andy reluctantly shuffled close. "... And I'm here to help you figure it out. At least for now."
With those soft words, Not-Lemuel cradled his head and carefully led it back onto her shoulder. Andy felt his back and even halo stiffen at her touch, but let her do it anyway. Her hands immediately traveled upwards, right to the brim of his ring of light, and gave each individual nail a little love-tap. "... I kinda dig these. And they really don't hurt you at all?"
"... Where are we?" He ignored the words completely, much to her gentle amusement. "Where's Croissant? Lizzy? That-... That guy from the alley?"
"They're somewhere. And you're here." The way she caressed his hair made him feel a type of way previously unheard of. Andy couldn't tell whether it was his fight or flight response tingling, or something far more embarrassing. "Maybe you should worry about them after our little session."
"Session?"
"Andy, please." She gave him a silly look. "You're playing dumb again. I told you it doesn't look good on you."
"But I'm…" His mind sought desperately for an answer, but the file cabinets in his brain where the memories of the past few hours should be, were empty. "... I don't know who you are."
"I'm Lemmy, for now." She repeated, much to his grumbly annoyance. "Oh, don't be like that. C'mere."
With a soothing motion, she brought his head back onto her shoulder. Andy couldn't help but shudder under her gaze, those familiar, yet alien eyes. Seeing her clothes, feeling the stench of aroused sweat and the product of intimacy wafting about the air, his mind led him only towards one conclusion.
"... Is this a joy den?" He asked, begging silently for her to give a negative answer.
"A "joy den?" Not-Lemuel snickered at the name. "... One way to call a brothel, Andy. But yes, it is a "joy den." A very perceptive boy, you are."
Her biting remark left him feeling a little breathless. "... That means you're a joy-girl?"
"A what?" Some genuine glee crossed her eyes. "Joy-girl? Andy, are you sure you're old enough to be here?"
"I think so…?"
"A call girl, a whore, a lady of the night, a product, a means to your end, a companion, an escort…" She listed off, as if humming a little tune. "... A prostitute, if you will. But I haven't ever heard "joy girl" yet. It sounds nice, though. I think."
Not-Lemuel ruffled his hair. Her touch came and went, but it felt unpleasant. Like when leaning towards a campfire, the blazing warmth scorching one's face.
"... Did we do it?" He asked, curling in shame. Not-Lemuel tilted her head and glanced down past his halo.
"... Did we have sex? No, you little weirdo. You wanted to do anything but that."
A massive wave of relief washed ashore the burning sands of his troubled mind. The fact he didn't do anything during his blanked state came as a bucket of cold water poured straight into his overheating brain. But, still…
"... Then what did we do? How long has it been?"
"Mmm…" She hummed, lost in thought. "About two hours. Maybe more, maybe less. I don't usually count time anyway. When clients take too long, a boy from security comes to drag them out."
"Oh." Andy shuddered at the thought. "... And the other thing?"
"You wanna know what we did? You've forgotten already?" Her eyebrows rose, yet there was no judgment in her eyes. Only soft, loving understanding. "... Must've been real dazed. Or drunk on me."
Andy's cheeks flushed with heat. The situation wasn't ideal, he knew, but hearing about what he might've done or said to this girl stuffed him with anxiety.
"... Was it that bad?" He asked, quietly.
"I'd say it was pretty bad. I felt bad. As if I was the one taking advantage of someone, for a change." A gentle breath left her nostrils in an amused fashion. "... You came to me, begging nearly. Apologizing for gods know what. I didn't really know what to do with you, you lost pup, so I dragged you back here. Better than being ogled by those pigs outside, anyway."
Andy felt his limbs shriveling. "I'm sorry. I must've mistook you for someone, I'm really sorry."
"It's okay." She calmed his worries with a few more brushes through his hair. "You paid like a good boy. And you were very, very polite. Almost begged me to put my clothes back on."
Between her soft giggles, and his thudding heart, he felt a conflict of feelings fighting for control. On one hand, he needed to congratulate himself for keeping it civil during something he could only presume to be a mindless daze. On the other, what the hell was he on?
"... And then? Did we just talk, or…?"
"Mostly talked, yeah." Not-Lemuel affirmed. "You kept clinging to me like a little stray. Really, at times I felt like you'd die if I let you out of my arms. So I just let you. Kept calling me "Lem", too, and I kept saying its weird. But you never bothered, you just kept going, kept up with your "Lem's" and "Lemmy's", and "I love you's", and other sobby confessions."
"Others?" His heart dropped. His brain tried persuading him to just apologize, stand up and leave, but his soul needed to know. Her words were like feed for his core, and he's never felt this information hungry. "Even worse than repeatedly confessing?"
"Yeah…" She sighed. "But in a sad way. You told me a lot about you, Andy. A lot about this… this "Lem" of yours, too. I felt bad." The last statement came out with an air of disbelief to it. Not-Lemuel seemed to enjoy the feel of his hair on her fingers. "I felt terrible, even. And I've been doing this for eight years, since I was twelve. But I played the role, I was your Lemmy for the night. And you kept babbling. You couldn't ever shut up, Andy, even when I tried to shut you up. I gave up on trying to stuff your mouth with my tongue after ten minutes or so, you know?" She giggled, Andy blushed. "You kept saying you needed me. Or, not me. Lem. Kept hugging and sniffling, whispering and babbling. About a war, mostly. I've had a few soldiers here with me, but not a single one of them was like you, you little weirdo."
Andy felt small. Tiny, even. Absolutely miniscule beneath her eyes, not even the grand cathedral from his dreams could make him curl up into the size of a tiny bug.
"So insecure about life. About belonging. Most people come here to satiate bodily needs, not mental." She kept going, softly as ever. "... But I can't say I minded."
"You didn't?" Andy perked up. Not-Lemuel shook her head, then addressed his cheek with her thumb.
"No. Between all the throwing around, the gasping and huffing, it felt nice to be held. To hold someone back." Her eyes glimmered in the moonlight, as Andy stilled, mesmerized. "It felt nice, being your Lemmy for a few hours. Seeing someone so mindlessly devoted. I'd say it broke my heart too, but you can't really break something that's not there, can you?"
"..." Andy tried hard, but couldn't quite understand her statement. "... What does that mean?"
"Andy, I get a lot of customers here. Far too many." She poured her word-balm all over his eager ears. "Most of them come and go, some of them come back and cradle me in their arms at night, while pumping away. They keep telling me things in their thoughtless dazes. They keep saying how much they love being here, how they love my body, my smell, my "feel", my presence… how they love me. Sometimes they say that, imagine that. That's only when they're just that downright pathetic."
"... And?"
"And it makes you wonder, Andy. What does it mean to love someone? Or something. I'm a someTHING in these people's eyes, let's be real." Not-Lemuel bared her teeth in a smirk. Andy kept listening, though his heart would've preferred not to. "... And I sit here between clients, cleaning off, wiping the bed, myself, and I think. I think about love, about all the fairy tale bullshit people believe in, and I come to the same conclusion each and every time. That love is either a transaction or it doesn't exist. That it lasts as long as these people are willing to pay, or that there is no such thing in the world."
"..." A serpent-like presence wormed its way into his bowels and bit his intestines hard. It crawled inside, then twisted and twisted, until a tight knot had formed and his stomach felt nothing like it should. He gathered the last of his frail ends of mental fortitude and mumbled. "... That's not true."
"..." Not-Lemuel sighed in pity. "... If it was anyone else saying that. Anyone else but the person who made me realize."
"Why? What, why me?"
"Why?" Her hair fell over his eyes. It felt so warm, so cold at the same time. A conundrum of the century – how could something so beloved be so repulsing? "Because you're here. You said all these nice words, but they weren't meant for me, were they? They were meant for your "Lem", whoever she might be. I'm sure she's a lovely girl. Lovely enough for you to lose your head, isn't she?"
"I still don't understand…"
Her lungs filtered a quiet breath.
"You said all these words, but they were meaningless. You poured your heart out to the wrong person, which is… as comedic as it is grim. And I almost did believe some of them at some point. I almost felt genuinely loved tonight, the sort of love that extends beyond physical needs and lust." Andy felt her fingers twitch in his hair. Painful, but manageable. "... But now? None of it ever existed. That love you thought you felt? That I thought I felt? None of it ever mattered, because it never existed in the first place. Because it doesn't exist, Andy. Because there is no love in the world. Just… Just look at you. You spilled so much tonight. You spilled everything you had inside, but you didn't even bother to make sure you were spilling it to the right person. It's as if… as if you can't live not without your actual "Lem", but just the idea of her. You're hopeless about the idea, not the person. And it's not love, it's obsession. A sad, hurtful obsession."
.
"..."
.
The room fell silent. Andy found a small sense of enjoyment in watching the glimmering hue left by the moon, that just barely seeped into the room through a tiny slit. The visceral burning that spread through his body like a wildfire hadn't even begun to dim, only growing in intensity with each second passed. Like a clock ticking away the breaths left for him to take, a pendulum swung back and forth his insides, hung somewhere from a knot around his stomach. Each tick was a knife jabbed hard into his heart, making it pathetically squirt blood and splatter the walls of his flesh even more red than they already were. Each beat of his heart forced the words "that's not true" to be buried deeper and deeper in the most intimate and unreachable corners of his mind, waging a winning war against his tongue which so eagerly wanted to spout them religiously without even thinking them through.
"But I want it to exist." Is the only thing he could mutter. Not-Lemuel stopped touching his hair. The room felt distant. Andy wasn't quite there.
"You wouldn't be alone in that." She replied, softly. Hints of a certain weight shined through her quiet voice, but Andy couldn't gauge why. "But that's the reality of things. And we can't just change reality. We're nobodies. You and me."
Him and her. Andy and Lemuel.
The clock struck an hour of spiritual cleansing. Enough pleasures of flesh for you, dear sir. A queue awaits and you're taking up the spot. Not-Lemuel lazily rose from the couch-bed, helping the boy up along. They walked reluctantly to the door.
"... Find yourself out there. You're really deep somewhere you shouldn't be. I can tell you shouldn't." She took his face in her hands to give him a parting kiss on the cheek. Andy, now fully conscious of his being, felt a tiny flutter of unfamiliar warmth rapidly cascading from his brain down onto his features. "... Find who you need to find, and… and leave. And don't ever come back. I don't want you to become another regular, you tiny, little weirdo. You deserve better."
He found a slither of affection in her words. With a nod and a stifled "Thank you", Andy left an uneasy Not-Lemuel watching his parting steps. Outside, a corridor assaulted and battered many times over awaited. The stench of cigarettes took him out.
Shapes and colors danced across his eyes. Tall and short, dim and bright. Men and women, dressed and nude. Andy saw groups propped by walls, and walls propped by groups. In a confused daze, his feet took him down an endless flight of stairs, where a pair of happily blissful lovers awaited on every step. He tripped over and over, legs caught on, a pile of discarded clothes, a bare rib, a splatter of hair, ears and tails, limbs and bodies, flesh and drool – knees, thighs, stomachs, heads, breasts, arms, wrists and mouths. Eyeballs that remained lidded never bothered to glance at him, instead savoring the pleasure of a warm body at their disposal. Andy walked and walked, carrying on down the stairs and swimming along the rivers of colorless goo that spilled from each pair of lovers, all of it cascading down the steps like some cruel waterfall of life that wasn't meant to be. Everyone involved seemed to have a very clear cut agenda for the day – a list of do's, not don'ts. Hours of moaning, meters of bare skin, liters of warm sweat wafting across the stuffy confinements of the establishment, all packed into a tiny hellhole of sinful lusting and mindless yearning. Andy stumbled out the main door, being pushed forward by the ball of vomit forming down in his throat. He swallowed and took a look around.
He didn't know if it could even be called "Lungmen" anymore. The sight was more akin to a decrepit little village his brain could scramble from the memories of Kazdel – where no law or order ever dared poke their golden heads, and where the urge for a market as free as a fowl long outlived the feeling of shame or guilt that came with casting away everything for a fistful of shekels. The "main street", if it could even be called that, consisted of a canyon dug between two towering walls peppered with windows, balconies, neon and traditionally metal-sheet carved signs, and a lot, lot of eyes. Andy felt under constant surveillance from each and every side, not just the skies, but also the streets. The shady underbelly of the slums seemed to be bustling with life, welcoming all sorts of people – foreign to poverty and dwellers alike. Lungs covered in silks traveled the ocean of loud, overly talkative souls. Andy couldn't tell whether they were lungs. Maybe-Lungs. The Maybe-Lungs wore masks to protect their day to day lives and prevent the lesser-humans of the shady slums from meddling with their packed schedules. A few buskers broke apart a merchant of left goods and waved the rich lizards over, then led them away into an establishment nestled neatly between a fried finball joint and a rat infested dumpster. Andy took his wobbly legs and carried on through the street, carefully dodging the gazes above, cast by men and women ogling from windows, smoking cigarettes and tending to drying clothes sprung high on fishing reels. Andy had one just like them shoved into his pants, along the forecasts purchased from Vic. Not that it mattered, but he just felt like connecting himself more to the world presented before him. As if to point at the grumpy, terribly disheveled and downright skeletal Feline women with cigarettes hanging from their mouths and shout "I KNOW THE STRUGGLE! I AM WITH YOU!" A group of wandering Durin pushed aside his legs and angrily threw him a few biting remarks about taking up street space. Andy blinked the daze away and headed forward, towards the shiny building where the buskers were headed.
Gazes below ran down his body like sweat, all non-consensually groping and touching him with their hungry eyes. Women waiting by dark alleys fluttered their ears and fluffed their tails, sending him alluring winks and smirks, only to be swept off their feet by a passing group of suit wearing Lupos and Felines, the bankers he's seen at the start of his journey. So that's where they came to blow off steam. Curious.
With the sounds of their eager whispers and pleas behind his back, Andy stood before the shiny entrance. A bright sign proudly pushed forward a hefty slither of neon light formed to say "TOP L. M. DOLLA' CASINO!" Whatever it meant, he felt the need to enter. The pronunciation reminded him somewhat of Croissant and his heart stopped at once.
Croissant.
He forgot all about her. Croissant and Lizzy, wherever they could be. The guilt crashed against his brain like a speeding, bubbling wave, and washed over it completely. It just now occurred to him that an employee, or even more than that, a dear friend that he felt responsible for to a degree, was nowhere to be seen. And he wanted to see her. Out of his nightly dazes, free from Lemuel's pooling eyes that dragged him below the surface, he felt utterly awake and permeated with worry, his heart only accentuating the growing tension by beating out a rapid tempo. He took a step back out onto the street and immediately stopped. The river of noises, shapes and sounds parted, gathered by the entrance to a shady joy-house adorned by promises of quick relief. For now, they stood around an anthill of limbs and noises, of curses and screams. The deep slum dwellers stood and watched, as a group of disgruntled buskers dragged a Sarkaz bunch out into the middle of the street. Two lonely devils! Their clothes varied vastly from the surrounding tornado of souls that spiraled all around, boasting vivid brandings on each of their hoodies, stripes on their pants and loud words along the brims of their hats. The Sarkaz had to be modern youth that somehow ventured too deep into the slums. Why? Andy had no idea.
"Devil scum. PICTURES? YOU COME HERE TO TAKE PICTURES? DO YOUR EYES WORK?" The musk-permeated buskers yelled. They weren't the most well built or intimidating, but the sheer number of them far exceeded the youth's capabilities to defend themselves in any way. "NO PICTURES ALLOWED!"
Mumbling and terrified grumbling came from the devils. Their tails curled, eyes glassed with fear, all at the sight of all the eyes around and above, all gawking with anticipation, excitement and lazy joy. Not a single helping hand in sight.
"We didn't mean to! We didn't see a sign!" The braver of the two spoke, then stood to his feet and rose against the loudest busker. His horns curled far above the rag-clad dweller's Ursine ears. "We took a pic, so what. Who cares? They were out in the open, what does it matter if someone takes a pic of them fucking? Who cares? It's not like…"
His mouth twisted, then shut. The busker allowed his hand to wander up, high above his own head, fingers curling in certain intent. Andy stood on the doorstep of the golden gates, and watched as the Sarkaz quite literally lost his head. Muffled screams poured from his lips which seemed to melt together into one, as his companion watched in utter shock and terror, accompanied by the grim laughter and chortling of the gathered. The busker continued his hand movement, with his eyes gradually softening from stern annoyment into sadistic amusement, watching his conductorial movements eliciting a cacophony of screams and writhes from the youth. Black tar poured from the poor devil's ears and slithered its way down his neck, as he fell to his knees and grasped the sides of his face with any fingers available. It was a terrible idea, as they simply melted onto his skin and remained pressed into his temples, only adding onto the presumed pain. The expensive clothes, the horns, the hair, it all started flowing like ice cream – melting beneath the busker's arts and washing down the devil's rubbery skin. All that was left when the screams died down was a pile of bones that laid amidst a pool of crimson substance that wasn't quite liquid. The busker spit on the pile, and it sizzled right back. The crowd seemed overall pleased.
"... You can have the other one, you dogs. REMEMBER OUR KINDNESS, AND ANYONE WHO PRESENTS A PIECE OF HIS MEAT ON CHECKOUT GETS FIFTEEN PERCENT OFF A GIRLIE!" He yelled into the brewing melt of people, taking his entourage of other buskers and climbing back up the stairs of his sinful kingdom. The last thing Andy saw was the terrified face of the other Sarkraz, who just barely caught a sliver of eye contact with him. One moment, the fear and genuine helplessness embedded within his eyes was there, and another, it died – buried beneath a crawling pile of hands and rags, of blackened crystals and screams of excited eagerness.
"Pardon, my good sir."
A voice heavily out of place perked his ears up. Andy turned to face it, only to meet a suit. Quite unlike the banking suits playing with joy-girls outside the establishment, this one had a certain amount of flair to him. Well groomed and all the usual sham, but also with something uniquely out of place for the deep slums. Something far too wormy for the clueless coin-chasers of the outside world. Something professional. If the people above were just slaves to a system created by the need for a non-corporeal "goal-in-the-form-of-a-finish-line" to exist, then this slimy worm-man seemed like a wealthy investor picking and choosing said slaves for his own sicklish needs. Andy blinked.
"I think there's a person dying outside." He threw a thumb behind, but the crowd seemed to be dissipating already. Not even a drop of blood remained of the Sarkaz.
"I'm sure you're seeing things, dear sir." The worm-man politely pointed out. "Things that shouldn't be seen. Unlike the things that I'd like you to hear, that is."
Andy felt a little queasy. The thought of Croissant being disassembled limb by limb or put to work in a joy-house still scourged his frailed mind. "I really don't have the time, sorry."
"Oh, but a moment." Worm-man spoke once more. He could've been a Lupo, or a Perro, or an Aegir, or an old god from a civilization long forgotten, or he could have even not been there at all, Andy couldn't tell. He flashed him all his wormy teeth, and they seemed not nearly as rotten as they should. "Perhaps I may interest you in a certain business opportunity?"
"I'm busy, man."
"Aren't we all?" Worm-man chuckled. The sound sent his spine into a shriveling fit. Andy felt trapped, used. He could feel the man's well dressed hands reaching into his own pockets already and there was nothing he could do to stop him. "Good sir, Mother Nature breeds only those whom she finds use in. Being her lovely helping hands already makes us the busiest we can be, does it not?"
"I'm seriously not interested."
"Andy, please." His wormy hands slithered behind Andy. He never even noticed when the two of them had entered the golden establishment, only when the worm-man closed the radiant gates shut.
That caught his attention. That, and a single, meaningless word.
"How do you know my name?" Andy muttered, tugged in each side by an approaching sense of dreadful disbelief.
.
Worm-man's smile grew in intensity, as if preparing to swallow the boy whole.
.
"You're our esteemed customer, Andy. We HAVE to know."