RE: MORITURI TE SALUTANT!! [S!4]
09-01-2013, 02:01 AM
Sam's first thought was, Why am I doing this?
Her second thought was, Because I want to make sure she's safe.
She sidestepped a sleeping drunk laying on the cobblestones, and stepped up onto a rickety bridge spanning the small canal.
Her third thought was, That's bullshit.
Her fourth thought was, Forsooth! Such a glow dawns on the inner east, the cities of fortune, the riches of splendor! What better days are these to love and live, my friends?
Ripping off the jaunty hat on her head, she glared at it as she cradled it in her hands. Antonio, his impassive face showing no blush, had tossed it and a variety of clothes at her in a cramped dressing-room before stepping out, closing the door behind him. It was a loud hat, in many ways: raw and fine identity wavered about it, a cotton-wool feeling that tingled her fingertips and whispered strange, meaningless verse directly into her nerves...
She'd picked it because of Antonio; he was following her, she was sure of it. Her old identity - Sam Wün, espionage agent, escape from reality - was slowly fading, but her instincts were still keen. A shadow here, a rustle there; the clues were nearly invisible amidst the general background noise of a dozing Venice. Amidst the amalgamation of murmuring night markets, the not-too-distant rumble of the battlefields by Naples, music-hall strains from the glitz, glamorous Chicago, the deafening sound of someone working hard not to be heard
But did she really want to hide again? (A hardened part of her screamed ‘yes!’, but it didn’t seem so loud now as it had been.) Did she really want to duck back into someone else’s life - when - when the lost landscape of the life she had had once, and could have had, was unfurling again, with its memories and its horror
She would have jammed the hat on her head right then and there, gripped her tatty coat about her, anything to escape the memory that curled tendrils around barricades she’d so foolishly knocked down. She’d been cocky. Arrogant.
That was the only thing she remembered of him as she sat there in the long-emptied church. His unbelievable arrogance, his confidence. She’d liked him for that. And because she’d liked him for his confidence, she let him into hers, and...
The casket was under the ground by now. She could forget. She could forget what he’d done.
The funeral of Mishkalov Vladimirovich Zakharov had been impressive; the good embroidered fabrics and tassels laid on the altar, glints of light from his medals splayed across the prefabricated concrete walls, and laid on a stand in the center of the casket lid, a glittering diamond sparkling in the leftover light from the candlelight vigil. The preacher had spoken on Mishkalov, the War Hero, Mishkalov, the Loyal Soldier, Mishkalov, the Martyr for Freedom. He didn’t say anything about Mishkalov the Rapist.
The pew in front of her dripped tears into a puddle on the floor. They’d all assumed she was too struck by grief to continue to the burial. The casket was just symbolic, of course. The diamond, created from the carbon-based remains of Mish’s earthly body, would be taken to join a dozen others in the Corps’ Hall of Fame. In wartime, heroes are plentiful, martyrs even more so. So; he was dead. She clutched at a fold of her dress. He was dead and she was alive. Whether she had survived - another story. She was wearing the dress she had been wearing that night. Underneath that, the underwear that was not hers. She blinked red-irised eyes.
She had thought that she would feel different. But the world kept turning. Each day a change of clothes away from the last. She cocooned herself in them, in the faint whispers each identity she took left behind in her mind. He was dead and she was alive. She didn’t want to be.
++++++
A bangled, withered hand protruded from within a fortress of gems and shining bells: “Fortunes? Fortunes read, signor?”, wrinkled lips, false teeth called out. Then a splash of muttering: “And ‘push off, old crone’ to you too, and may your hair fall out into your fettucine, you faccia de merda.”
Brown, sparkling eyes, deep-set, tracked a figure carefully skirting the marketplace edge; footsteps growing closer - a figure clearly not wanting to be seen, and the eyes knew why.
No longer running, Lavi sidled from flickering shadow to shadow - every so often the glare from the marketplace outlining her form for a moment. She sensed that her tail was gone, or lost, or left behind in the maze of alleys and canals, yet she endeavored to remain hidden: the blue-gray tint of her skin would betray her transformation to any onlooker. Yet in a way she was beyond caring, really, her furtiveness more a force of habit than actual caution.
Still, she jumped when the old gypsy laid a wrinkled hand on her arm - in one motion she pulled it free and took a step, preparing to run. Only in a fit of pique did she look back - to see the gypsy smiling disarmingly, and for some reason that brought her short.
“Esquille,” the gypsy said, raising a palm peppered with bits of bark, “Splinters.” Her smile grew wider, showing yellowed teeth, yet it was not unkind. “Come into my pavilion, bambina.”
A miasma of perfumery and sparkle: that would have been Lavi’s description of the tent’s interior had her eyes not been shut and her sense of smell completely shut down. It was a very mystical atmosphere, the gypsy would have said, but that would have been completely unnecessary.
The fortuneteller, whose name was Jofranka, had had tea ready. “I mean no harm, bambina, but these old eyes, they are very keen.’
Hesitantly, Lavi found her voice. ”How...how so?”
“I see, ma cher, that you have had a curse laid on you.” She indicated the tinge and texture to the adventurer’s arm. “And it is the custom of my people, to-”
“To remove them? To strip them of such ‘curses’?” Lavi fairly barked, her tone suddenly harsh as the foreign anger abruptly returned in a hot flash - but fading as quickly as it had come. “I...I am sorry.”
Jofranka raised a hand, palm away: the universal sign for ‘Don’t worry about it.’ “The others in these three cities are not like I. They do not see like I.” She made a pass in the air, and pointed at her eyes. “These eyes are not of Gagliardi blood.” Pause. Sip of tea. “Mama was of the People, but she ran off - ran! From the Romany! - with a strange, enigmatic man, with strange clothes and strange talk: a man du français; who spoke often of the ‘dans les coulisses’ - behind the scenes. Forbidden talk - but, apparently, not for him. He called himself one of the machiniste...’
A sudden fragment of memory: “The macchinista di scena...someone mentioned them to us. The machinists of scenes, he said.”
The fortuneteller nodded. “They are perhaps a legend, perhaps not; Papa was étrange, but then again he was an étranger among us, and after Mama died he left us once more. They walk among us yet are unseen, they move the world on its axes and change the very lights in the sky.”
A long, deep sigh.
“C’est la vie...c’est Lavi.”
She ignored the look on the druid’s face, and spoke to the perfumed air. “Still, if you will not accept help from me, I would advise, perhaps, that you seek them out. The machiniste. Mon dieu, I make it sound so simple.” Another sigh. “The truth is, ma cherie, you do not find them. I am sure they will find you.”
++++++
Normally being a dark silhouette by an alley mouth was a career with generally terminal prospects, but Antonio’s outline was instantly recognizable and hence exempt from such commoner’s rules. In one hand he held a rolled-up bundle of cloth. In the other he carried a tommygun.
Sam stared at him, the hat clutched between whitened knuckles, halfway to her head; eyes bright and wide in fear and desperation, she fought to move and found her muscles unresponsive-
“Here.” The bundle sailed through the air, knocking the hat neatly out of Sam’s hands. “Your compatriota’s. She left it behind.”
Slowly, Sam unfolded the whispering cloth until it became Lavi Lannon’s robe, with all its distinctive weft and warp and frayed edges. Not understanding, her eyes met the bodyguard’s; red meeting brown.
“Ragazza benedetta.” The gun barrel twitched downwards as Antonio spoke. “I put my faith in you now. This is not a small thing.” He paused, searching for the words. “I, Antonio. Antonio, Patricio, Majeur, Antoine, Gagliardi,” he intoned, stressing the names, “Like others before me, do pledge my aid.” Carefully, he dropped to one knee before her, and recited:
“Through fire and flame, the wound and the shot,
the angel-sweet harmonies have not been forgot;
Second in name and second in plot...”
It was a strange sight to see; Antonio, a large man, dressed in rich finery, kneeling before the strange red-eyed girl with the too-large coat and the tatty orange hat. It was a sight none in Il Maledicta would see personally, yet in mere minutes all would know it had happened.
The followers of the second angel had pledged their allegiance.
++++++
Nestor was ecstatic. He remained ecstatic as he winged his way out into the musty corridors, an equally musty scroll of parchment clasped in his talons.
It was primarily from watching the plan he had fomented slide into place like a well-oiled key; primarily from seeing the librarian bewildered and lost amidst the engulfing drifts of paper; and most primarily the look Chad wore when speaking of the forgery they were about to undertake. Leadership is so easy to take, especially over those who think themselves the leader, and Nestor had a firm grip on Chad’s figurative shoulder (Birds have a different idea about dominance positions.)
Secondarily, Hector had suggested they split up. Of his own accord! Nestor smiled, as much as a bird could do. He hadn’t even had to hint it to the librarian - that would have put himself forward - but hapless, helpless Hector had decided it all on his own! It was moments like these that made life worth living, the avian chessmaster reflected.
Of course, there was the obvious drawback that Chad was now running loose without a guide, in both senses. Still, he thought darkly to himself, Chad getting lost in the labyrinth of Il Maledicta was nothing compared to the havoc he could wreak if not checked by a more - ahem - experienced voice. But there was nothing to be done; if he had protested Hector’s proposal he would have had no reason to be rid of the useless librarian, and he would not be free to enact whatever steps he chose to take now.
Which led to the parchment he held, and the murmurs that he followed. Here and there he would perch on some low-hanging beam and listen to conversation below, before taking flight again down another, somewhat dingier, corridor.
“Downstairs!” “Downstairs?” “Yes, and in the Libraries too!” “Which one? We must hurry-”
++++++
Coughing a little, Antonio stood. “Do not misunderstand me, angelica ragazza. I will not be following your every step - I cannot - my presence is dictated elsewhere.” He brushed dust from his knee, almost absentmindedly, and turned an about-face in the narrow alley. “But I will be there when you need it. As will my brothers in arms.”
“Wait!” The bodyguard made a half-turn of his head. Cocked an ear. Waited as Sam realized she had nothing to say. “What about Francisco?” she volunteered, desperately.
“Francisco?” Antonio’s voice grew grim, and a something flashed in the eye that Sam could see. “That useless testa di cazzo? That succhiatore that thinks nothing of the angeli? He thinks of them - you! - as a toy, a bargaining chip in among the borgata; playing mafioso in the rich rooms of his little palace! Filthy!” He spat against the wall, back still turned, and watched it slide down between two cobblestones. “In due time I will face him, and he will face me. And then he will follow,” he indicated the wet track of spittle, “like that.”
For a moment, Sam turned her attention to the wall, trying to decipher what the bodyguard meant. When she looked up again, Antonio had gone.
And then a bird landed on her head.
++++++
The library was dusty and forgotten; yet its floor had been littered with yellowing sheets when Hector had first arrived; as if in some age past the pages had been ransacked by marauders, collectors or truth-seekers in the pursuit of their respective goals. Standing out amidst the litter now were fresh, white pieces of paper - fresh, in the most literal sense, in that they until recently had been a pile of wood pulp in Hector’s hand.
“All right.” The librarian concentrated, and disorganized wet cellulose wove itself into another crisp sheet. A little squeeze of Gary the Squid, and words began to appear, in careful handwriting, at the top of the page:
From categorizing and producing a rough census of library materials, a particular organizational system appears to be predominant among them. Books, scrolls and other media following this organizational system have the following legend, in this format, prominently printed in some area:
Where Xs denote varying alphanumeric codes which I hypothesize are categorical in nature. By examining the pieces in question it is possible to draw some early conclusions as to their meaning:
The first set varies somewhat between scripts, but it appears that those prefaced with a G center around an extended Italian dynasty by the name of Gagliardi, whereas scripts bearing other prefaces make only marginal involvements with said characters. The letter is followed by numerals, which appear to serve to identify the plot.
Results were inconclusive regarding the second set, as the majority of scripts use the code ‘III’. Most exceptions to this rule were damaged or had sections missing....
…...
Laboriously, by the flickering safety lamps that served for light in the library, Hector wrote. Every so often he would pick up a book or page by the pile next to him, and cross-reference. Less often, he would take a pocketknife from its secret cache in his peg leg, and whittle down wood shavings from a broken chair leg, adding them to a little bowl of water, and craft a new page from the fresh wood pulp.
…...
…the last section is the most varied code of all, ranging from ‘NR’ to ‘AE’ and ‘SQR’, but a large fraction seem to be dominated by ‘NHE’. A common thread remains elusive.
Carefully, Hector put down the paper. All around him, the library murmured. The faint sounds of rats scratching in the walls, pages rustling, the miniscule noises of dust settling into grooves and gaps in the ground - they were more oppressive than any silence could be. They said: We will be here long after the last human dies. We will never change, never die, until the books themselves rot away and the rats starve to death, and even then dust on unbroken dust will coat every unloved surface. For from dust you were formed and to dust you will return, but dust itself does not die.
He looked down at the paper to find that he had scrawled thoughts on dust onto his organization chart. Sighing, he wished he had a clock; then perhaps the indeterminate passage of time would be quantized, sliced into manageable bits - but his wish went unanswered.
He’d been excited to suddenly be part of an adventure. Then he’d been bewildered, terrified, surrounded by things he couldn’t understand, almost dying - but now that he was back in a role that was, for all intents and purposes, the same one he had left behind in the mundane world, he chafed against the ordinariness of it all. Only the prospect of perhaps fulfilling the goal the strange woman had given them - destroying this Imago Dei - gave him any hope to move forward.
Still, he wouldn’t be himself if he couldn’t do the job in front of him, he mused, as he lifted yet another heavy tome from its dusty place.
++++++
Okay, went Sam’s thoughts, which were behaving a little better now, There’s a bird on my head. Now what?
It was followed up by, I’m an angel now? As if!
And then, How about what Antonio said? What did he mean, ‘follow like that?’
She must have said that last one out loud, because a sarcastic voice replied from directly above her head: “He means a firing squad, bambina, as they say. You know. Against the wall and all that.”
For a long moment there was silence. Then, an even longer silence, shattered eventually by the fluttering of wings, and the sudden appearance of a large olive bird perched on a railing opposite the alley. Suddenly, the issue of the bird on her head no longer weighed on Sam’s mind.
“Nestor Notabilis,” the parrot - it had to be a parrot, or some other kind of talking bird, Sam decided, or else she’d go insane - said, flashing the orange underside of a wing, “Interlocuter, messenger, wanderer - and now, guide to the Second Angel. How are you, young miss?”
“Wha-”
“Pardon me! Where are my manners?” Nestor interrupted, without irony. “This is for you.” With a flourish and a flap, the parrot deposited the parchment scroll on a nearby crate. “You’ll have to come and get it, I’m afraid. This is rather important.” He gave the girl an appraising look, and continued, “Besides - besides, besides! You could stand to take some sunshine, it seems.” And here, if he had been human, he would have flashed a brilliant, toothy smile.
Sam didn’t trust it, or ‘Nestor Notabilis’, but she stepped out of the alley anyway; it was either that or set up shop there (which, to be completely fair, a perfectly legitimate business strategy among the Gagliardis). As she drew closer to the parrot, however, she saw him edge imperceptibly away, as if suppressing a basic avian urge to fly away. A heartening thought - for once, she considered, while her hands picked up the scroll and broke the seal. Then she read the lines - one typeset, one handwritten - on the parchment, and all other thoughts were driven from her mind:
REFERENCE: Second Angel (side), The. Version XXVII, Edition 2.28a [G13.III.S.NM.O.NHE]
“The Second Angel arises. And she shall be called the Changeling, for in her escape she will become like us; she will have been walking among us all along.”
Her second thought was, Because I want to make sure she's safe.
She sidestepped a sleeping drunk laying on the cobblestones, and stepped up onto a rickety bridge spanning the small canal.
Her third thought was, That's bullshit.
Her fourth thought was, Forsooth! Such a glow dawns on the inner east, the cities of fortune, the riches of splendor! What better days are these to love and live, my friends?
Ripping off the jaunty hat on her head, she glared at it as she cradled it in her hands. Antonio, his impassive face showing no blush, had tossed it and a variety of clothes at her in a cramped dressing-room before stepping out, closing the door behind him. It was a loud hat, in many ways: raw and fine identity wavered about it, a cotton-wool feeling that tingled her fingertips and whispered strange, meaningless verse directly into her nerves...
She'd picked it because of Antonio; he was following her, she was sure of it. Her old identity - Sam Wün, espionage agent, escape from reality - was slowly fading, but her instincts were still keen. A shadow here, a rustle there; the clues were nearly invisible amidst the general background noise of a dozing Venice. Amidst the amalgamation of murmuring night markets, the not-too-distant rumble of the battlefields by Naples, music-hall strains from the glitz, glamorous Chicago, the deafening sound of someone working hard not to be heard
But did she really want to hide again? (A hardened part of her screamed ‘yes!’, but it didn’t seem so loud now as it had been.) Did she really want to duck back into someone else’s life - when - when the lost landscape of the life she had had once, and could have had, was unfurling again, with its memories and its horror
She would have jammed the hat on her head right then and there, gripped her tatty coat about her, anything to escape the memory that curled tendrils around barricades she’d so foolishly knocked down. She’d been cocky. Arrogant.
That was the only thing she remembered of him as she sat there in the long-emptied church. His unbelievable arrogance, his confidence. She’d liked him for that. And because she’d liked him for his confidence, she let him into hers, and...
The casket was under the ground by now. She could forget. She could forget what he’d done.
The funeral of Mishkalov Vladimirovich Zakharov had been impressive; the good embroidered fabrics and tassels laid on the altar, glints of light from his medals splayed across the prefabricated concrete walls, and laid on a stand in the center of the casket lid, a glittering diamond sparkling in the leftover light from the candlelight vigil. The preacher had spoken on Mishkalov, the War Hero, Mishkalov, the Loyal Soldier, Mishkalov, the Martyr for Freedom. He didn’t say anything about Mishkalov the Rapist.
The pew in front of her dripped tears into a puddle on the floor. They’d all assumed she was too struck by grief to continue to the burial. The casket was just symbolic, of course. The diamond, created from the carbon-based remains of Mish’s earthly body, would be taken to join a dozen others in the Corps’ Hall of Fame. In wartime, heroes are plentiful, martyrs even more so. So; he was dead. She clutched at a fold of her dress. He was dead and she was alive. Whether she had survived - another story. She was wearing the dress she had been wearing that night. Underneath that, the underwear that was not hers. She blinked red-irised eyes.
She had thought that she would feel different. But the world kept turning. Each day a change of clothes away from the last. She cocooned herself in them, in the faint whispers each identity she took left behind in her mind. He was dead and she was alive. She didn’t want to be.
++++++
A bangled, withered hand protruded from within a fortress of gems and shining bells: “Fortunes? Fortunes read, signor?”, wrinkled lips, false teeth called out. Then a splash of muttering: “And ‘push off, old crone’ to you too, and may your hair fall out into your fettucine, you faccia de merda.”
Brown, sparkling eyes, deep-set, tracked a figure carefully skirting the marketplace edge; footsteps growing closer - a figure clearly not wanting to be seen, and the eyes knew why.
No longer running, Lavi sidled from flickering shadow to shadow - every so often the glare from the marketplace outlining her form for a moment. She sensed that her tail was gone, or lost, or left behind in the maze of alleys and canals, yet she endeavored to remain hidden: the blue-gray tint of her skin would betray her transformation to any onlooker. Yet in a way she was beyond caring, really, her furtiveness more a force of habit than actual caution.
Still, she jumped when the old gypsy laid a wrinkled hand on her arm - in one motion she pulled it free and took a step, preparing to run. Only in a fit of pique did she look back - to see the gypsy smiling disarmingly, and for some reason that brought her short.
“Esquille,” the gypsy said, raising a palm peppered with bits of bark, “Splinters.” Her smile grew wider, showing yellowed teeth, yet it was not unkind. “Come into my pavilion, bambina.”
A miasma of perfumery and sparkle: that would have been Lavi’s description of the tent’s interior had her eyes not been shut and her sense of smell completely shut down. It was a very mystical atmosphere, the gypsy would have said, but that would have been completely unnecessary.
The fortuneteller, whose name was Jofranka, had had tea ready. “I mean no harm, bambina, but these old eyes, they are very keen.’
Hesitantly, Lavi found her voice. ”How...how so?”
“I see, ma cher, that you have had a curse laid on you.” She indicated the tinge and texture to the adventurer’s arm. “And it is the custom of my people, to-”
“To remove them? To strip them of such ‘curses’?” Lavi fairly barked, her tone suddenly harsh as the foreign anger abruptly returned in a hot flash - but fading as quickly as it had come. “I...I am sorry.”
Jofranka raised a hand, palm away: the universal sign for ‘Don’t worry about it.’ “The others in these three cities are not like I. They do not see like I.” She made a pass in the air, and pointed at her eyes. “These eyes are not of Gagliardi blood.” Pause. Sip of tea. “Mama was of the People, but she ran off - ran! From the Romany! - with a strange, enigmatic man, with strange clothes and strange talk: a man du français; who spoke often of the ‘dans les coulisses’ - behind the scenes. Forbidden talk - but, apparently, not for him. He called himself one of the machiniste...’
A sudden fragment of memory: “The macchinista di scena...someone mentioned them to us. The machinists of scenes, he said.”
The fortuneteller nodded. “They are perhaps a legend, perhaps not; Papa was étrange, but then again he was an étranger among us, and after Mama died he left us once more. They walk among us yet are unseen, they move the world on its axes and change the very lights in the sky.”
A long, deep sigh.
“C’est la vie...c’est Lavi.”
She ignored the look on the druid’s face, and spoke to the perfumed air. “Still, if you will not accept help from me, I would advise, perhaps, that you seek them out. The machiniste. Mon dieu, I make it sound so simple.” Another sigh. “The truth is, ma cherie, you do not find them. I am sure they will find you.”
++++++
Normally being a dark silhouette by an alley mouth was a career with generally terminal prospects, but Antonio’s outline was instantly recognizable and hence exempt from such commoner’s rules. In one hand he held a rolled-up bundle of cloth. In the other he carried a tommygun.
Sam stared at him, the hat clutched between whitened knuckles, halfway to her head; eyes bright and wide in fear and desperation, she fought to move and found her muscles unresponsive-
“Here.” The bundle sailed through the air, knocking the hat neatly out of Sam’s hands. “Your compatriota’s. She left it behind.”
Slowly, Sam unfolded the whispering cloth until it became Lavi Lannon’s robe, with all its distinctive weft and warp and frayed edges. Not understanding, her eyes met the bodyguard’s; red meeting brown.
“Ragazza benedetta.” The gun barrel twitched downwards as Antonio spoke. “I put my faith in you now. This is not a small thing.” He paused, searching for the words. “I, Antonio. Antonio, Patricio, Majeur, Antoine, Gagliardi,” he intoned, stressing the names, “Like others before me, do pledge my aid.” Carefully, he dropped to one knee before her, and recited:
“Through fire and flame, the wound and the shot,
the angel-sweet harmonies have not been forgot;
Second in name and second in plot...”
It was a strange sight to see; Antonio, a large man, dressed in rich finery, kneeling before the strange red-eyed girl with the too-large coat and the tatty orange hat. It was a sight none in Il Maledicta would see personally, yet in mere minutes all would know it had happened.
The followers of the second angel had pledged their allegiance.
++++++
Nestor was ecstatic. He remained ecstatic as he winged his way out into the musty corridors, an equally musty scroll of parchment clasped in his talons.
It was primarily from watching the plan he had fomented slide into place like a well-oiled key; primarily from seeing the librarian bewildered and lost amidst the engulfing drifts of paper; and most primarily the look Chad wore when speaking of the forgery they were about to undertake. Leadership is so easy to take, especially over those who think themselves the leader, and Nestor had a firm grip on Chad’s figurative shoulder (Birds have a different idea about dominance positions.)
Secondarily, Hector had suggested they split up. Of his own accord! Nestor smiled, as much as a bird could do. He hadn’t even had to hint it to the librarian - that would have put himself forward - but hapless, helpless Hector had decided it all on his own! It was moments like these that made life worth living, the avian chessmaster reflected.
Of course, there was the obvious drawback that Chad was now running loose without a guide, in both senses. Still, he thought darkly to himself, Chad getting lost in the labyrinth of Il Maledicta was nothing compared to the havoc he could wreak if not checked by a more - ahem - experienced voice. But there was nothing to be done; if he had protested Hector’s proposal he would have had no reason to be rid of the useless librarian, and he would not be free to enact whatever steps he chose to take now.
Which led to the parchment he held, and the murmurs that he followed. Here and there he would perch on some low-hanging beam and listen to conversation below, before taking flight again down another, somewhat dingier, corridor.
“Downstairs!” “Downstairs?” “Yes, and in the Libraries too!” “Which one? We must hurry-”
“An angel?” “Two!” “Already? But, but it isn’t time!” “It’s time somewhere-”
“Ha! Told you - your copy isn’t worth the paper it’s written on!” “Shut up! Which way do we go?” “I heard down in the cavern-” “Ugh, with the damn Italians?” “I know you hoped they wouldn’t turn out legit, but-”“I heard the First has already disappeared somewhere!” “Oh?” “And the Second is on the move!” “Places! Places! Crap-”
++++++
Coughing a little, Antonio stood. “Do not misunderstand me, angelica ragazza. I will not be following your every step - I cannot - my presence is dictated elsewhere.” He brushed dust from his knee, almost absentmindedly, and turned an about-face in the narrow alley. “But I will be there when you need it. As will my brothers in arms.”
“Wait!” The bodyguard made a half-turn of his head. Cocked an ear. Waited as Sam realized she had nothing to say. “What about Francisco?” she volunteered, desperately.
“Francisco?” Antonio’s voice grew grim, and a something flashed in the eye that Sam could see. “That useless testa di cazzo? That succhiatore that thinks nothing of the angeli? He thinks of them - you! - as a toy, a bargaining chip in among the borgata; playing mafioso in the rich rooms of his little palace! Filthy!” He spat against the wall, back still turned, and watched it slide down between two cobblestones. “In due time I will face him, and he will face me. And then he will follow,” he indicated the wet track of spittle, “like that.”
For a moment, Sam turned her attention to the wall, trying to decipher what the bodyguard meant. When she looked up again, Antonio had gone.
And then a bird landed on her head.
++++++
The library was dusty and forgotten; yet its floor had been littered with yellowing sheets when Hector had first arrived; as if in some age past the pages had been ransacked by marauders, collectors or truth-seekers in the pursuit of their respective goals. Standing out amidst the litter now were fresh, white pieces of paper - fresh, in the most literal sense, in that they until recently had been a pile of wood pulp in Hector’s hand.
“All right.” The librarian concentrated, and disorganized wet cellulose wove itself into another crisp sheet. A little squeeze of Gary the Squid, and words began to appear, in careful handwriting, at the top of the page:
OBSERVATIONS ON LIBRARY ORGANIZATIONAL SYSTEM (PROVISIONAL)
From categorizing and producing a rough census of library materials, a particular organizational system appears to be predominant among them. Books, scrolls and other media following this organizational system have the following legend, in this format, prominently printed in some area:
[XXX.X.XX.X.XX.X]
Where Xs denote varying alphanumeric codes which I hypothesize are categorical in nature. By examining the pieces in question it is possible to draw some early conclusions as to their meaning:
[XXX.X.XX.X.XX.X]
The first set varies somewhat between scripts, but it appears that those prefaced with a G center around an extended Italian dynasty by the name of Gagliardi, whereas scripts bearing other prefaces make only marginal involvements with said characters. The letter is followed by numerals, which appear to serve to identify the plot.
[XXX.X.XX.X.XX.X]
Results were inconclusive regarding the second set, as the majority of scripts use the code ‘III’. Most exceptions to this rule were damaged or had sections missing....
…...
Laboriously, by the flickering safety lamps that served for light in the library, Hector wrote. Every so often he would pick up a book or page by the pile next to him, and cross-reference. Less often, he would take a pocketknife from its secret cache in his peg leg, and whittle down wood shavings from a broken chair leg, adding them to a little bowl of water, and craft a new page from the fresh wood pulp.
…...
…the last section is the most varied code of all, ranging from ‘NR’ to ‘AE’ and ‘SQR’, but a large fraction seem to be dominated by ‘NHE’. A common thread remains elusive.
Carefully, Hector put down the paper. All around him, the library murmured. The faint sounds of rats scratching in the walls, pages rustling, the miniscule noises of dust settling into grooves and gaps in the ground - they were more oppressive than any silence could be. They said: We will be here long after the last human dies. We will never change, never die, until the books themselves rot away and the rats starve to death, and even then dust on unbroken dust will coat every unloved surface. For from dust you were formed and to dust you will return, but dust itself does not die.
He looked down at the paper to find that he had scrawled thoughts on dust onto his organization chart. Sighing, he wished he had a clock; then perhaps the indeterminate passage of time would be quantized, sliced into manageable bits - but his wish went unanswered.
He’d been excited to suddenly be part of an adventure. Then he’d been bewildered, terrified, surrounded by things he couldn’t understand, almost dying - but now that he was back in a role that was, for all intents and purposes, the same one he had left behind in the mundane world, he chafed against the ordinariness of it all. Only the prospect of perhaps fulfilling the goal the strange woman had given them - destroying this Imago Dei - gave him any hope to move forward.
Still, he wouldn’t be himself if he couldn’t do the job in front of him, he mused, as he lifted yet another heavy tome from its dusty place.
++++++
Okay, went Sam’s thoughts, which were behaving a little better now, There’s a bird on my head. Now what?
It was followed up by, I’m an angel now? As if!
And then, How about what Antonio said? What did he mean, ‘follow like that?’
She must have said that last one out loud, because a sarcastic voice replied from directly above her head: “He means a firing squad, bambina, as they say. You know. Against the wall and all that.”
For a long moment there was silence. Then, an even longer silence, shattered eventually by the fluttering of wings, and the sudden appearance of a large olive bird perched on a railing opposite the alley. Suddenly, the issue of the bird on her head no longer weighed on Sam’s mind.
“Nestor Notabilis,” the parrot - it had to be a parrot, or some other kind of talking bird, Sam decided, or else she’d go insane - said, flashing the orange underside of a wing, “Interlocuter, messenger, wanderer - and now, guide to the Second Angel. How are you, young miss?”
“Wha-”
“Pardon me! Where are my manners?” Nestor interrupted, without irony. “This is for you.” With a flourish and a flap, the parrot deposited the parchment scroll on a nearby crate. “You’ll have to come and get it, I’m afraid. This is rather important.” He gave the girl an appraising look, and continued, “Besides - besides, besides! You could stand to take some sunshine, it seems.” And here, if he had been human, he would have flashed a brilliant, toothy smile.
Sam didn’t trust it, or ‘Nestor Notabilis’, but she stepped out of the alley anyway; it was either that or set up shop there (which, to be completely fair, a perfectly legitimate business strategy among the Gagliardis). As she drew closer to the parrot, however, she saw him edge imperceptibly away, as if suppressing a basic avian urge to fly away. A heartening thought - for once, she considered, while her hands picked up the scroll and broke the seal. Then she read the lines - one typeset, one handwritten - on the parchment, and all other thoughts were driven from her mind:
REFERENCE: Second Angel (side), The. Version XXVII, Edition 2.28a [G13.III.S.NM.O.NHE]
“The Second Angel arises. And she shall be called the Changeling, for in her escape she will become like us; she will have been walking among us all along.”
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So very British / But then again | People are machines Machines are people | Oh hai there | There's no time
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Superhero 1920s noir | Multigenre Half-Life | Changing the future | Command line interface
Tu ventire felix? | Clockwork for eternity | Explosions in spacetime