B'Sayphe N'Muthon
800 Grape St. New York, NY 11211. 14:00 on Saturday 9 May, 2009.
Malik stands outside an apartment building, wearing a tan peacoat and matching
slacks. On his face are his circle-rimmed sunglasses, and over both hands are brown leather gloves to
match his loafers. Alex stands to his right, shorter in comparison to Malik, but not compared to
any other American woman. A pair of grey jeans hug her legs with a studded belt keeping her pants up.
Tucked into them is a white tee with a simple graphic of a record disc. In her pockets are her two hands,
whose wrists are covered by checkered wristbands. On her throat are stitches closing up a fatal slit, and emerging from her back is a large pair of grey wings to match her partner’s.
“You hot at all?” she asks, glancing over at him.
“Doesn’t bother me,” he states.
“All right, then,” she says, studying the building.
It’s not an elegant complex by any stretch of the imagination. Quite the opposite, it’s a four-story building with railroad apartments inside. At the center of every floor is the building’s stairwell, with two apartments wrapping around for a front and back entrance at either side of each landing. In terms of the Valkyries’ current target, they could both go in at a different entrance and surround him for an easy kill.
But they’ve done that before, and it wasn’t very fun.
Instead, they’ve decided to widen the scale on this approach. Instead of one at the back door and one at the front, they’ll have one at the front door and one on the roof. The target, naturally, will try to escape to the ground floor and run to safety, or at least to some public spot where there’d be witnesses. It’s the lower Valkyrie’s job to force him upstairs instead, where he’ll be chased to the rooftop and meet a quick end at the higher Valkyrie’s hands.
Malik reaches out to buzz for Apartment 301. He waits a moment, then a woman’s voice crackles through the speaker: “Who is it?”
“Chuck Sneed,” Malik says, “I’m here for the production gig.”
“That’s tomorrow,” the voice crackles back.
“Oh,” Malik pauses. He looks over at Alex, who shrugs.
“Could you repeat that?” he continues, “The speaker’s hard to understand.”
“Yeah, I said that’s tomorrow,” the voice repeats.
“I still can’t hear you, I think there’s something up with the microphone. It’s cutting out.”
A pause. A long one. Malik presses the button again.
“To-mor-row!” the voice enunciates. Alex stifles a snicker.
“Listen, this thing keeps cutting out,” Malik says, “You think you could just let me in so we can talk-”
A shrill buzz cuts him off and unlocks the door. Alex chortles as Malik opens it and puts a finger over his lips. Her laughter spills over for a moment, but she soon reels things in as they ascend the first flight of stairs. She stops in front of Apartment 102, her laughter now dead but her grin still alive. Malik keeps going up, where he’ll meet with 301’s tenant to say “Ah, my mistake,” then move up to the roof. As for the real “Chuck Sneed” showing up tomorrow with a completely different name and appearance from Malik’s… Well, that guy can figure things out himself.
Alex listens for the conversation coming clearly from the upper floor. After an apology and the sound of a door closing, there comes the more distant sound of the roof access door being open and shut. Taking that as her cue, Alex knocks on Apartment 102’s door. The inhabitant scuffles around inside, eventually approaching the entrance. His voice, coarse and strained, speaks through the door’s muffling.
“Who is it?” he says.
“You’re Jacob Stecyk, right?” Alex asks, careful to keep her tone lighthearted.
“Who is it?” he repeats, firmly this time.
“Hey, relax, man,” Alex lets her smirk seep into her words, “Andre just wanted me to run some news by you, that’s all.”
“You couldn’t just call?”
“No, we couldn’t. Open the door already.”
“Why couldn’t you call?”
“We didn’t feel like it, now stop being a bitch and open up.”
“I was told he’d only give news over the phone.”
“And I was told to give it in person. Now should I come in and say it quietly or should I yell through the door so everyone can hear?”
There’s some indistinct mumbling as Jacob fiddles with a comical number of locks on his door. Poor guy might not be able to run out the back, Alex thinks.
The door opens to show a tall, lanky Asian man. His hair is none too short, and none too kempt either. Light stubble decorates the bottom of his face, and his narrow eyes shift back and forth to study the hallways behind Alex. Her brows raise in feigned surprise, as though she didn’t know the face of the guy she studied before coming here.
“I thought you were Polish,” she says.
“And Korean,” Jacob retorts.
“Well, color me racist,” Alex steps past him.
A thousand computer servers surround her – well, something closer to twenty, but whatever – alongside five sets of monitors, keyboards, and mice.
Mouses? Mice. Yeah, “mice” seems right, Alex thinks. Only two screens are on; one with a poorly-typed eMail from a supposed Nigerian prince, and one with an all-too-flashy MySpace page. The profile on display is a frankly insulting clash of colors, graphics, and Blingee gifs.
“Ever heard of Facebook?” Alex asks, turning to Jacob. He’s not in a conversational mood.
“What’s the news?” he asks.
“Oh, right, the news,” Alex says, bringing her left hand up to scratch the back of her neck. She notices Jacob’s eye twitch upon noticing the stitches over her throat. Alex’s right hand goes into her pocket, then in a flash, she flips out a pocket knife and steps toward Jacob.
“Christ!” he takes a step back towards the door, crouching slightly and holding his hands in front of him, “Listen, man, let’s talk about this! Let’s talk about this.”
“I feel like I talked a little too much,” Alex doesn’t slow her advance, “Hold still, it’s stabby time.”
Jacob curses and turns to run, but instead of going downstairs like Alex expects, he heads straight for the floor above. Not one to deny his chosen fate, Alex springs forth and chases. Jacob beats her to the landing, and in just a leap Alex catches up right away. Jacob turns for the next flight, and just as Alex does the same, he vaults over the railing to land on the downward stairs. Alex flinches, and so does time. She doesn’t let it stay still for long, though, and lets time resume for her target to skip the whole flight of stairs. A grin sneaks onto her face as she launches down to chase after him.
Attaboy, her mind hums. Jacob rushes past his own door to get to the last flight down, only for Alex to swoop down from the landing and pin him to the stairs. He struggles, using every muscle in his body to try throwing her off, but can’t come close to making Alex budge. She grips his hair and yanks it upward, holding the point of her blade against his throat.
“It was a good try,” she congratulates.
“Fuck you,” Jacob groans.
“Nah, I don’t swing that way,” Alex taunts.
She shifts her weight to one side and loosens her grip on the knife, ready to give control to Jacob. He takes the bait, throwing her off of him and knocking the knife out of her hand.
Alex tumbles down the stairs, feeling no pain and taking no damage. In a flash, she springs to her feet to block his escape. With no other choice, Jacob springs upstairs and Alex follows after grabbing her blade. She keeps herself at a careful distance, positioning herself so his path would be blocked if he tried the vaulting-downstairs trick again. Jacob again flies past his apartment, making his way up the building with Alex in tow. The two ascend until Jacob heaves himself through the roof access, where a sudden hand yanks him back and shoves him to the floor. He tries to get up, but a swift kick to the ribs keeps him down.
“Fuck!” Jacob heaves, clutching his chest.
Malik stands over him, cigarillo in mouth, pointing a chrome revolver between Jacob’s eyes.
“Richie! It was Richie’s idea, he– he– fuck!” Jacob babbles, “Yeah, I played along, but only ‘cause he–”
“Do you know how high the waters rose in the Great Flood?” Malik booms.
“I– Do I what?” Jacob sputters, his eyes flitting between Malik and the now-caught-up Alex.
“Should you add the numbers together in ‘.357,’” Malik declares, “You have 15. The number of cubits that the waters would rise above the highest point on Earth.”
“What does–”
“The Ruger GP100 1773 may not have a seven-inch barrel by default,” says Malik, “But you may extend it, should you know proper gunsmithing. Thus, I have seven bullets within seven chambers, to be fired from seven inches.”
Alex turns her head away to hide her smirk. Jacob opens his mouth, but Malik’s speech stays faster on the draw.
“When their pairs are arranged in reverse, 1773 becomes 73:17. A psalm which quotes, ‘Til I entered the sanctuary of God; then I understood their final destiny.’ The destiny, that is, of the wicked.”
“Jesus Christ,” Alex mutters, failing to stifle a laugh.
“I allow my companion to use the Lord’s name in vain,” Malik comments, “Because like myself, she has entered the sanctuary of God the Father. She understands our final destiny.”
The light of God touches down on Malik’s revolver, blessing its barrel with a sheer glint. Jacob barely has time to vocalize when the hammer comes down and judgement shines between his eyes. God’s arm gives a mighty clap from Malik’s pistol, announcing the death of one Jacob Stecyk.
“Psssh, ha-ha-ha!” Alex heaves, turned away from the body. Her whole body quakes, almost seizing from laughter as she tries to speak through the hysteria, “Holy shit! Holy shit! Oh… Oh, man, where did you get all that from?”
Malik brings his gun to his coat, holstering it within. His mouth’s corners turn up, not bothering to hide his amusement.
“I wanted to do a spin on that Pulp Fiction scene,” he says, “I looked up some numerology, flipped through a few passages…”
“Oh man, that was schizo… Hah…” Alex’s heaving slows down as her nerves come to rest. Her grin stays up while her laughter finally dies down, then she looks over to Jacob’s body.
A red blossom has sprouted from his forehead, planted by the bullet ripped from Malik’s revolver. Blood trickles down either side of his head, laying a crimson pillow for his head to rest. His eyes gaze at the sky, seeming just as alive as they were when he was pleading for life. Alex gazes into them, waiting for a twitch. Waiting for a blink or a flutter or a glance in one direction to prove that somehow, some way, a mortal man survived a magnum to the dome.
Then, to her relief, a white mist begins to seep from the body.
“Damn,” Malik says with a click of his tongue, “Forgot it’s my turn to reap the soul.”
“Nah,” Alex waves her hand, “I can handle it again.”
Malik shakes his head, “You already did it twice in a row.”
“So you do it the next three, it’s no biggie,” Alex shrugs.
She lifts up the back of her shirt, where a sickle had been strapped around her torso, and unsheathes the reaping tool. She crouches next to the cadaver, studying the vapor spilling out of it. It darkens in color, becoming grey for just a moment before turning indigo. It whimpers softly, its voice strained like that of a hurt puppy.
God, how annoying. That shrill whining, trying so hard to sound like anything other than the voice of someone who tracked down girls to get kidnapped. Acting as though making her feel bad would ever undo the sins that doomed it to Hell.
“Shut up,” she mutters, watching Jacob’s soul take shape above his body. The vapors swirl together, coalescing as an orb tethered to Jacob’s chest. Two arms burst out and clamp their hands around a head which shrieks for help. It begs for a doctor to fix its skull, it pleads for a lover to comfort its agony, it cries for a priest to forgive its misdeeds. But the only help it deserves, Alex knows, is that of a shepherd to lead it to slaughter. She snatches the tether holding the soul to its body, tightening her grasp until the spirit flinches. She pulls away slowly, letting the cord grow taut and reeling a yelp from the soul. Her sickle comes forth, its blade curving around to tease the spirit’s tether like a knife to a steak.
Savoring the moment, Alex turns her blade to tear at the cord’s surface. The soul lets out another screech, its remorse turning to music in Alex’s head. She cuts slowly, drawing a painful symphony from Jacob’s soul before ripping her hand back and snapping the tether. The spirit’s voice ends there, with Alex still gripping its tail. Her fingers curl to tighten their hold, but as always the soul fails to stay in place. It slips up to the marble clouds above, keeping its appointment with Saint Peter. Alex keeps her gaze on the soul, watching it float like a balloon to the heavens. Once it’s too small to see, her view drops back down to Malik.
He leans against the roof access, an inch of tobacco left in the cigarillo between his fingers. His jaw is still tight from the spirit’s scream ringing in his ears.
“Sad you missed out?” Alex smirks.
“Still hate that sound,” Malik grumbles, “I don’t know why I keep letting you reap when it’s just as stressful as doing it myself.”
“Eh, you’re just a pussy,” Alex says, crossing her arms.
Malik says nothing. He only drops his cigarillo and turns to open the door, nodding for Alex to pass through.
“We’re done here,” he says.
