Tetrahedron - A Story.

Rain's letting up.

Scarred leather shoes splashed onto pavement as he left behind his purpose of breath. He could feel flame wafting from his every movement, could feel the severe sensation of the demon gripping his heart and lungs. His fingertips tingled with heat, his eyes struggled to focus as fire lashed out from behind them. And yet this time, it was different.

Funny how the one man he wanted to kill had been his source of life.

“Life is half spent before one knows what it is.” The words were muttered low. He ducked his head to avoid crashing into branches. With each step he took, the park grew smaller. With each step he took, the night grew darker. Face half hidden by the stiff collar of his coat, the man left emptier than he had been when he arrived.



“Project Eight One Three, you are assigned the identity Hearth Nott. You are a British Citizen with the right of abode through qualifying connections under the Immigration Act of 1971, and have the right to live and work in the United Kingdom.”

“Yes ma’am.”



This wasn’t meant to happen—it wasn’t meant to end like this. Apollo’s death had come prematurely—his story had been ripped in two and forced to finish. And he knew, deep inside him—

What do you know, Eight Thirteen?

“Shut up.”

Pray, tell. What is it you know so well, Eight Thirteen?

“I said shut up.”

Streetlights lined the wet London roads, alive with occasional cars. Gold light reflected, sparkling pieces of a chandelier, an empty room.

Eight Thirteen…

Teeth grit, he felt not the wind that thrashed against him. The damp air was choking and refreshing all at once as he began his sojourn back towards his one-night hut.

Eight Thirteen… Eight Thirteen…

“I said shut the fuck up—”

From an onlooker’s view, he looked insane. Perhaps he was.

Perhaps I am—

He stood alone, a black-haired mystery in a foreboding coat, screaming at nothing.



“You are assigned to seek, kill, and destroy Mr. Finn Harris, also known as ‘Apollo’, after which you are to report directly to me, and me only. Not my associates, not head office, not anybody else but I.”

“Yes ma’am.”



Fist.

A slight whisper, a slice. Fist rammed into the glass window of a women’s boutique. It shuddered, and splintered into a thousand pieces of—his hands were once again coated, and for the first time, it bothered him that there was blood along his knuckles.

He stood, for a while, staring, marveling and hating the red ink that tickled his flesh.

Eight Thirteen…

Throat constricted. He struggled against the desire to destroy the entire building, and everything else around it.



“You are to make no other judgments or decisions other than the ones that are made for you by ADAPT. The Agents of the Deracination of the Abusage of Power and Treasury are to be obeyed, never questioned.”

“Yes ma’am.”



“Where you off to?” A gruff voice. He snapped awake, not realizing that he'd been walking or waving down a cab. Throwing a bewildered look behind him, he could not even see the broken window anymore. The driver waited expectantly. He got in.

“So, where you off to?”

“A room.”

Clearly the cab driver was tired, and glanced at him, weary.



“Yet regarding the rest of the human populace, you are given right and authority to complete your task. You are a god among those men, Project Eight One Three. You experience no fear, hesitation, or confusion.”

“Yes ma’am.”



“The morning was as dark and cold as city snow could make it—a dingy whirl at the window; a smoky gust through the fire-place; a shadow black as a bear's cave under the table. Nothing in all the cavernous room, loomed really warm or familiar except a glass of stale water, and a vapid, half-eaten grape-fruit.”

Silence.

“Don’t know where you’re from, but here in London we need addresses to leave you by.” The driver glanced at the rear view mirror, surprised and suspicious to see him not grinning, but watching the city pass. An unreadable expression. Dubbing him crazy, the driver was about to pull over, when he yelled for him to stop. A fistful of notes and coins came lumbering inches beside the driver's scalp. He left the cab.

It was an old place—one of those rundown motels with the seizurely neons and overweight receptionists. The linoleum was peeling. Ceiling had cracks. He didn't care. Didn’t need anything more than legal sleeping space. Stumbling up the creaking stairs, he could feel his limbs draining.

29.

He’d left the door open. He had nothing anyway. Body was sore, hands were scarred. Everything inside, burning. Couldn’t breathe. Wanted to kill, needed to kill. He needed—



“Your flight will leave tomorrow at zero four fifteen. Arrive with your luggage at zero two fifteen.”

“Yes ma’am.”



Steel, tin, wood, plaster, carpet, blood, skin, linen.

The room was a raging inferno, and Hearth cried out noise. No words, no eloquence. Noise. The imperceptible groans of the soul. Stomach in two, a chest wet with marks, a moan thrown out into the cold, cold night.

Out of breath, body slammed against the crumbling wall, sinking to the ground. Knees bent, elbows pushing against them, head hung. Almost touching the floor.

Eight Thirteen… What is it you know?

“It was not Apollo who was meant to die, but I.”

He remained, head between knees, fists tightening, loosening, tightening, loosening—

Eight Thirteen, you fool.

He stood.

“But what of Lear’s Fool, demon?” He said lightly, as if he were holding a conversation with the voice, as if it were physically there. “He found sanity in foolishness, when all others lost it in solemnity.” He raised both brows before he turned, gesturing to the disarray that once had been a room.

Stop.

What game are you playing, Eight Thirteen?

What are you doing?

Distress coursing along the rim of his lashes, an overpriced brain.

And how does one determine sanity, who made the rules, who set the standard, who scribbled and spat out conditions?

And what if...

What if the man deemed insane was the only sane one of them all?



“Get a hold of yourself, O Mighty Human Torch.”

Hearth didn’t know how long it had been. Years could have passed. He stood, back rooted to the wall, neck numb from memorizing the dust particles on the floor.

“C’mon, buddy. Seriously. You can’t stay here. There’s a shithole of paparazzi waiting to jump.” The man—Viro—was short, stocky, and used to being called Danny DeViro by everyday comedic geniuses. A larger man hovered in the doorway, eyes the colour of green marble.

“He’s right, N. You know the rule.”

“Thank you, Alexander.” Pointedly. “Never stay more than a night,” Viro took a hesitant step towards the unbending spectre. The place was demolished. “And we don’t got nothin’ to pay for this and you know it. You really have to start being more responsible—”

“Take a seat.”

“What?”

Finally, Hearth looked up, bloodshot eyes. “Take a seat.” It wasn’t a request.

The two men knew better than to argue when he was in a mood, and so they did, deciding that the floor was the safest option.

“Look, N—we just want to speak with you.” Alexander.

“Then speak.” Grinned. “And let your words be true, lest they be few.”

“Alright. I know what you’re thinking. You think this is the end, because Harris is dead. You think you can mourn, settle down, live a normal life, have a bunch of babies. But—” glances were exchanged with Viro. “But you have to keep going. You’re not…made for a normal life. When we met you in Sudan—N, you shouldn’t even have been alive. I don’t know what the fuck is up inside of you but you’re something else. You know it too. Controlling fire? That’s some freaky X-Men shit, don’t none of us got that and never will. You’re a good soldier. We’ve aced every mission we’ve gone on. It’s no time to stop. You could be great, N. Don’t fade now.”

Viro. “There’s a battle raging on, N. You can’t just ignore it. The world is in tatters. The global economy’s laying dead in the grave—sorry, too soon—but you know what I’m saying. The only thing left is to fight. You can’t give up now. Whoever’s hunting you down is gonna find you. The only thing left is to fight.”

Silence.

Digits appeared then. Hearth’s forehead, cradled by vein-streaked hands, bulging like bad news. Explosion was a great possibility. There was a 98% chance that he would combust—a 2% chance he would break down. When he finally did look up, the artificial light was cruel. His face was haggard.

“Don’t you see? There is no accomplishment. There is no monstrosity. There is no victory, there is no purpose. You two don’t fear in battle. Not because you’re stronger, but because there is nothing to lose. You have nothing. There is nothing.” He picked casually at the mattress, yanking out a fistful of metal springs. He shook them. “This is nothing. This room is nothing. It’s all fucking vanity.”

Smile, Eight Thirteen.

Shut up.

“My purpose,” voice rising, “Is dead. In all the time you’ve known me, my purpose was one thing. I am a billion questions and no answers. Do I even exist, Viro? Do you, Alexander? Do you?” Louder. “What would you have me do? I believe in nothing.” A crazed look grabbed his eyes and he clutched at his head, neck arched, elbow jerking back and heaving the bedside table against the window. A large crack appeared.

“You fight and fight—Alexander, for power, Viro, for destruction. If fighting would bring to me hope or faith—I would fight.”

“Hope or faith?” Viro stood, slight fear fuelling his irritation. “Don’t bring your philosophical bullshit into this.”

“Hey, relax—”

“No Alexander, I will not fucking relax. I’ve had to keep this trio together, I’m the fucking brains behind all this shit and he’s telling me he wants hope or faith—”

You know what your problem is, Eight Thirteen? You don't know who you are. You were spawned of the demon and so it is he who gives you desire. You were born for Apollo and now that he is gone, you are meaningless. There is—

Voice like a cannon, a thunderstruck room.

“There is no Hearth Nott.”

Instinctively, Viro stepped back, at the sheer volume of it all.

“Tell me where he is, and I will fight for him.”

He was alone.



29.

Why?

Calista DeLorme abandoned the borrowed car when the mad poet left his cab, and proceeded to trail the pavement behind him, chewing on her lower lip as the last drops of the afternoon rain fell to rest upon her dampened locks. She was too far behind the man to follow by anything other than the traces of his shadows, but she trudged on, the pair of ballerina flats on her feet worn from the greedy puddles. Come to think of it, it was unclear whether or not the man who left the taxi was even the darkheaded lunatic.

But DeLorme lived by her instincts.
And if she couldn’t trust her own guts, then she had nothing left at all.

One, two.

She counted the raindrops as they began to slow their pace and smash into her palm at a somewhat consistent pace. The corners of her lips shifted in their positions to form a faint smile in response; the translucency was such an irony. The world as of late, it seemed, had nothing left to lean on other than chaos. Peoples and theories alike fed off confusion like hyenas in heat. And in a society where all were relative, the individual was nothing but an enemy: one’s saint was another’s devil. Each was too multifaceted to be truly understood.

In that sense, perhaps Nott and DeLorme were not strangers.

Six, seven.

DeLorme watched him disappear into the building, and with a quick glance at the battered concrete walls and cheap neon signs reminiscent of strip clubs, was hit with the realization that the entire scenario was completely irrational.

Eleven, twelve.

Who cares?

Fourteen –

She stepped into the lion’s den.




I would tell you what I know – everything that I know.
But I just don’t know. So please stop looking at me like that.

It was real: the warmth of the room, the strands of brunette locks that clung to her cold cheeks, the tension and him. There were times when she felt that the people who she had encountered in the past were nothing but fictional characters: calculated, fabricated and presented in such a predictable fashion. The hero acted his part; the queen flashed her pearly whites and the insane bit into his own skin. And she was getting tired of the trancelike state that life progressed in. DeLorme, she had no home in this place that demanded destroyers to destroy and victims to be victimized.

Blur the lines.

You know, he was real in the ways that they were not.

When he smiled her way, she merely looked sideways. It repulsed her in a fashion that she could not explain. For that second, Calista felt as though he had read her like an open book, as if their lives ran on a parallel. Wouldn’t that be easy though? To have one side for light to reflect off of, to have one true face to be loved or hated, to have no complications. Wouldn’t it be easy, if people could take one glance at you and tell you exactly what you are? But contradictions trailed contradictions and the word ‘complex’ just couldn’t find the exit out of her life.

I am sick of it.

I am sick.

And you are exhausted, aren’t you?

It must be hard, chasing a mirage after another: fighting for the revenge that will never come, struggling for the self you will never know and dying for the justification you will never have the satisfaction of getting. And –

Shit, I don’t know you at all. But I could swear that I did once.

She smiled, reflecting the one that he had tossed her way only a few moments ago. DeLorme knew it was not her place, but she could not be bothered to care. She just wanted him to know.

“You don’t need to betray yourself for the world that only wants to tear you down.”

You’re weary, aren’t you?


“You, come with me.” He took a step forward, before swaying back uneasily. Hearth did not turn, but instead looked sideways, a mirror move of Calista's reaction when he had tossed her that desolate smile.

“Thou wouldst tell to me; and I wouldst forget. Show me; perchance I may remember. Involve me—” He looked straight ahead, hands slung within empty pockets, as he walked past her into the dim lobby, “And I will understand.”

I don’t know what’s going to happen. I could leave you in an hour. I could throw you down. I could tell you everything I know. I could set fire to your hair. I could make you laugh. I could sit and deconstruct you for a week. Hell, I could kill you.

But for the first time, my thoughts belong to me.

You wanna know the truth?

We’ve met before.

The London streets were chilly at night. It didn’t matter. Days, months and years passed as they walked.

“You knew Apollo?” She asked. He didn’t look at her.

“Yeah.”

A nod. “It was sudden.”

“Yeah,” he repeated. “Is that the only reason you’re here? For his funeral?”

“No. And you? Is getting cosy at a strip club motel your way to mourn?” Her voice was playful, and he smirked.

“Maybe.”

“So you knew Apollo, found out he passed away, came to London for his funeral, and now you’re walking the streets with a complete stranger. You must be confident. I could be dangerous, for all you know.”

“So could I.”

Something in his voice caught her off guard, comforted her and set her slightly on edge. “Why are you walking with me?”

“Why did you come?”

She laughed, finally. As if she’d been waiting for him to ask.

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“Because everyone around me was dying. And when I saw you at the funeral, you were the only one who didn’t look sad. You were angry. Like me. Not indifferent, not remorseful. Just fucking angry.”

He wanted to ask, but stopped himself. Apollo always wore a gaggle of women like a bad fur coat everywhere he went. The potential answer was distasteful to him, so instead he said, “Did you see two men exit the building before you came in?”

“Yeah. Your friends?”

A chuckle. “No longer. Did they see you?”

“No, they walked in the other direction.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

He made no reply, simply kept walking. She shivered. He gave her his coat. “What’s your name?”

A pause. Then,

“Calista.”

“Hearth.”

“Well, this is me.” They stopped. It was a nice place, small, out of the way. Clean. She fished her keys out. After a few minutes of failed attempts, she turned. “Would you like to come up? I mean… you basically demolished your motel room.”

He smiled.

She found the right key.

They ascended.



When she awoke, he was gone, a scent of smoke lingering on the couch he had slept on. There was a note, scrawled in messy handwriting. The edge was slightly burnt.

“I’ll see you soon.”

He wasn’t sure how long he’d wandered. He had nothing—a couple notes in his pockets, that was it. He became hungry, bought a bread roll.

“So why are you not gone, demon?” Hearth asked—piercing, aggravated. “Why did you not disappear with Apollo?”

It’s because I love you, Eight Thirteen.

“You’re so full of shit. You’re full of it.”

Oh, you make me smile. Maybe that’s why.

He sighed. He wanted to go home. Where was home? When was the last time he was home? He had a vague recollection of a small apartment somewhere. He recalled the address, figures and letters burnt into his brain.

The strange phenomenon of your body acting without consent.

It was only a few blocks away, as if he had been meaning to go there. No key. The world was faint, trembling. He sat down, suddenly unsure, his head doing backflips. Scarred hands grabbed the banister, begging. Stay open, stay awake, stay alert. Stay—

The world grew dark.



With a snarl, the black-clad man yanked the Chinese girl to her feet. Face contorted with rage, he slammed her into the last remaining wall of the booth. Her body sent the receiver flying. A darkness emitted from the two, a darkness suddenly shredded with laughing fire.

It was as if it were the heart of night, and Hearth Nott had lost the will to try.

Hurling her to the ground like a discarded doll, he loomed over her, eyes glittering with vice. Veins appeared slowly, snaking from his hands, throat, temples—with a sudden yell, he kicked the last wall, crushing it. It rained down in pieces, devoured by the flame.

“Fool.” The word struggled to manifest itself between twisted lips. He kicked at the base, his foot contacting with the remains, mere centimetres from her face. “Fool!” His shoe hit the rest of the base, on the other side of her head. All around him, the world was a blur of rushing night, and he had gripped the phone, wrenched it off, and smashed it into the ground. Again he yelled, willing desperately for control that he had long lost.

And then all at once, he stopped, meeting her eyes with torture.



Hearth…

NO WAIT waitplease, wait for me, I cannot find my heartIthinkI have lost it along the—

Hearth…

“I understand now, why I live, why you live! But it is too late for either of us to make amends, brother?”

The glass doors of the Spanish hacienda exploded into innumerable shards.

“Apollo—” He screamed now, his voice multiplying into ten different tones, chilling reminders of the supernature. Because a WISE MAN once said that nature and supernature are not two separate worlds…

They are different expressions of the same REALITY and
and i
agree with his words because I, I

“FINNEGAN!”



“You’re awake.”

His eyelids felt like insect wings—fragile. The room was deep, black. It was hard to focus. The voice was familiar. He didn’t speak.

“It was easy enough. You don’t exactly make it a point to hide your tracks, do you, Nott?” The voice stood, grew closer. A female. He clenched his right fist.

“You’re strapped down. Don’t even try.”

A name. “Vienna.”

“The one and only.” She sat on the bed, by his feet. He could make out her outline now: voluptuous figure, short hair, lips full of venom.

“Where am I?”

“House arrest,” she replied, and she was right. His eyes, quickly accustomed to the lack of light, took it all in greedily, hungrily. Fluorescent light bulbs dangling from the ceiling—lifeless. Cobwebs. Fragments of dust, rot, mould, they reached high to the ceilings. He lived here, once.

“Well,” he said, voice husky, “I’ve been expecting you for some time. I’d ask you to make yourself at home and offer some chardonnay, but you’ve done half of that and you’re not the chardonnay type.”

“As if you’d have any. What do they serve a man like you, Hearth? Did you drink the Styx dry?”

“Triple hotdog meal out of Cerberus too, or hast thou forgotten?” In the shadows, he chuckled. “You were the one who served it to me.”

He was focused, despite the pounding in his head. Focused, yes, on the little spider hurrying back and forth across his hand. “If I am civil, will you untie me?”

Emotionless, she released him with a none-too-subtle flick of a blade. Letting the spider free to canvas the peeling wall behind him, Hearth watched Vienna with an easy silence that was, perchance, far too easy. One shoe—two. He stood.

He had killed Vienna several years ago.

“You want my blood on your head, Vienna? Things are different now.” Eyes of violet, a single blink. He did not move. “They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Absence breeds denial, denial breeds... well. In which case, it is not absence at all, but denial which colours memories. But we both know you were never one for denial.”

“Oh, but I’m so glad you’ve remembered. I’m not here for blood, Hearth,” she finally spoke in a voice full of false confidence and well-developed certainty. “You could say I’m sightseeing. I’ve an affinity for the craters of people that your demon left behind.”

She smiled then, viciously.

“Things are different, Hearth… starting with you. What has become of your ambition?”

“Still there, merely re-focused.”

The darkness between them was thick, a woolen jumper clinging to sweat-stained summers. He was trying to keep up, trying to remember.

“I doubt you know the trouble you’ve caused everyone.”

Trouble. “So tell me.”

She chuckled. “If I didn’t know you half as well, I’d say you were narcissistic. It would be the least of your flaws. You really want a recap of your glory days?”

“From you, Vienna, always from you. It is a compliment.”

“Then sit the fuck back down.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I was remade, after you killed me.” Remade. “I tracked your activity, your whereabouts. After they lost you in Sudan, everyone thought you were dead. I could never fall for that. You might as well be death itself, Hearth, you can never truly stop existing. It was a few years before you reappeared on the scene with two others—Alexander and Viro. I happen to know of Alexander—he was a formidable fighter in his days. They bought you back to the U.S., set you up with a good place, good work. You were the star of the underground fighting scene for a long time.

All the while, you kept an eye on Apollo, because how else could you have known where he would be on the day of the races? You found him here, in London—it was the first time you’d actually meet him. You fought. He escaped.”

He remembered shock, the shock of Apollo being so young, being a few years younger than he.

“You were a fighter yourself.”

“Of course I was,” she scoffed. “But after you killed me, nobody wanted me anymore. With a single sweep of your arm, my whole career is gone.” She laughed bitterly. “But I doubt you ever knew. You were busy with your obsession. It was Apollo, always Apollo. You spent years upon years tracking him. You bought so many fucking people into your mess, Hearth, I wonder you don’t have a pack of women wanting your head.”

“Leah.”

“Yes, Leah. And Saoi, among others.”

“Where are they now?”

“Just like a man. Leah was at the funeral.”

He didn’t remember anything of the funeral, and the realization chilled him.

“I was there.”

“Of course I know that, what kind of stalker would I be if I didn’t?”

“Leah—how was she?”

“How are you if the person you love dies?”

“She didn’t love Apollo.”

“You wanna bet on that, baby?”

He’d met her at a match, a one-on-one with a guy Alexander knew. He was just starting, just came back from the wastelands of Sudan, was getting used to America, getting used to the West once more. Up there, in the world of corporations and taxicabs, he was lost. Here, underground, he was safe. The ring was his paradise. Here, his purpose was clear-cut—destroy.

Alexander didn’t tell him that his opponent was the current top fighter. Hearth knew nothing but the movements of his opponent’s body, his heartbeats. He was an alchemist, they’d whispered. Hearth didn’t care. He would fight.

She appeared after the fight, amidst the chaos that flared during an assassination attempt directed at Hearth’s opponent. She helped him get the opponent to safety. She was beautiful, he remembered. What she was doing there, he found out only later. The fight had been underneath an opera house, she had been attracted to his black flames.

O Mighty Human Torch.

The next time he saw Leah was the first time he had met Apollo.



The April Races were met enthusiastically year after year, calling all those far and near, for money in exchange of money. Three hours before the races started, but celebrity protocol bound the fame-seekers to come early as possible. The best seats, a chance for their five second shot on camera, more shots for jealousy…

“All your renown is like the summer flower that blooms and dies; because the sunny glow which brings it forth, soon slays with parching power.”

Hearth smiled.

Beauty clashed with beauty. Dandies abounded. Colours, fabrics, brands, hats of every impeccable shape, every fashionable size; laughs of tinkling bells and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row—

He stood out like a sore on a dry knee.

Hearth waited above the glittering garden, hit only by occasional puddles of sunshine streaming through the trees. Breeze. Quaint stone steps. Iron balustrade, wrought with Victorian lace.

A hat overshadowed his face, still bearing the burns from his battle in the opera house. The left side was nothing but burnt flesh. A matching black and white chequered shirt. Dark suit; frayed and ripped. One silver chain hung from his neck, bishop-shaped pendant.

As he swung himself to sit on the balustrade, Hearth felt occasional glances wash over him. Condescension, disgust. His violet gaze met them squarely, amused. A sorry-looking jester with half a face made for bitter eye candy. He grimaced, eyes flashing with impatience. He did not even know why he had agreed to come at Leah’s behest. A random promise of what?

Why am I here, demon?

He scanned the scene before him, keeping an eye out.

A few more glances; one of pity, and Hearth laughed outright, arms outstretched towards the passer by.

It is never wise to pity those who are—

Are you mad?

“Do I look in need of money? Feel free to donate to my cause.” As the stranger passed quickly, Hearth grinned, and called after him. “Go where glory waits thee; But while fame elates thee, O! Still remember me.”

He laughed.

By himself.

He exhaled and swung back around, making his way down the steps, two by two. Hands shoved in pockets, eyes sparking. They were all actors in their prime.

Every single one of them.

He made his way nearer to the tracks, elbows resting on the railing, looking out at the horses. The chatter had grown faint. Finally, he felt her eyes lock onto him, and he spoke as she drew near.

“They say horse sense is a good judgement which keeps horses from betting on people.”

She chuckled. “You obviously don’t belong here; the calibre of two different types of people is unavoidably apparent. You’re too honest for this breed of men.” She leaned forward to mimic his standing. In the silence, she turned again. She avoided bestowing too much attention upon him. He raised a brow, took in her long blonde curls, her deep blue eyes, her lips painted scarlet.

“And you, beauty among beauties, hast thou come to stare at the beast?” He straightened too, daring her to stare at his grotesque display of burns. “Refreshing to know you regard those of your station so highly. One such as you should be there—” His blackened right hand motioned back towards the garden, “And not here. Unless, of course, you wish to waste your time with a madman?”

“Define sanity for me, Love. The limitations of the mind are simple: logic, reason, possibilities. Insanity is just the ability to override those strict parameters. Time with a madman is not a waste.” Hearth reminded Leah of an animal; a sly, slick predator with too much intelligence to be anything short of lethal. His controlled manner of speaking unconsciously made her figure bristle, as if she were the prey of a deft hunter.

The breeze blew slightly, tossing the tails of his shirt.

And to Hearth? Who was she? Her posture reflected disinterest, yet she lingered. He had never been one to understand women.

“A man once said: I used to gamble. Now I do so mentally. That’s how I lost my mind. I have reason to suspect he was documenting my life.”

He grinned. She laughed, and the sound was somewhat soothing.

“I used to gamble much more precious things than funds, but after losing so much without a single victory to sustain the will—the exhilaration is lost.”

“You weren’t surprised with the fighting scene.”

“No, I’m well and familiar with it.”

“You are not a fighter.”

“I fund events. I was unaware, however, that there would be one held beneath the opera house.”

“You fund, yet are no gambler.”

“Not anymore.”

“You walk with the air of a Princess; and speak with the air of a Queen—yet I see daggers hidden within the folds of your expensive clothing; I see sheathed swords hanging by your side.” He began to step towards her. “You are a vision; most likely rivalling the Maiden of Troy, a Cinderella scorned, you speak as if hiding, then exposing, then hiding again. Complex, messed-up, and smoothed over with pearly paint—”

He stopped, looking down at her.

“My dear, however do you manage?”

She did not reply, and he continued, eyes dancing.

“You are willing to spend time with a stranger. ‘Go to friends for advice,’ they say, ‘to women for pity; to strangers for charity; to relatives for nothing.’ But you don’t want charity, do you?”

He took a step back, watching her.

“What do you want, then?”

“What do I want?” She paused. “A memory, Love.”



A memory.

What were his memories of Leah?

Golden hair, thousand dollar dresses, limousines. They went to a carnival once, took her out on a couple dates. He never fucked her. She came to all his matches. Did she love him? He didn’t know. But she became his, his property, and it was she who introduced him to Apollo, not knowing.

He had waited till the races were over, after Leah had gone home. He found Apollo. In the night, the empty stadium, they fought. It was as Vienna said—Apollo escaped.

They fought a second time, and Apollo had him taken away. Leah thought him dead. He wasn’t dead. He escaped. But Leah, she didn’t know. She found Apollo, screamed at him for killing Hearth. Apollo had denied it—had, for some unknown reason, felt the need to defend himself against this woman. He told her Hearth wasn’t dead. That Hearth escaped.

“Your glory days,” Vienna repeated, lighting a cigarette. They smoked now, out on the balcony. “It may be over for all of us real soon, but holy hell, Nott. Your fucking glory days.”

2005.

He escaped from Apollo’s men, and he was on a rampage, a new sense of purpose. Underground, he established himself, channelling fear into his opponents. They had always welcomed the uncanny here—legends, witches, robots—but he was different, reckless, cruel. He bought his black flame beyond the ring, he bought it aboveground. He became a modern-day mercenary, not because of money, but out of bloodlust. He, Alexander and Viro. They went on missions, passed with flying colours. He craved Apollo and because he had to wait until he could have Apollo, he had everyone else. Men. Women. Children. Animals. Dead, all of them.

The Demon, they called him. The Mad Poet. The Black Flame. That was what they knew of him—the strange spectre who wielded a supernatural flame, who spoke in strange voices, who muttered to himself. The murderer. The killer. The psychopath.

Where did his black flame come from? Sudan, some said. A Shaman. Black magic. Animism. Science, others said. What did he look like? Nobody was sure. He was a cyborg, a ghost, death.



Thoughtful SWAPM. ISO a LTR, with you – yes, you. 6’6, black hair and purple eyes. I have a tendency to talk to my invisible friend, and sporadic urges to recite passages from Hegel, Homer, Alighieri, Thoreau, Nietzsche and Freud, though the latter two I end up critiquing. Or we. We, yes. I should mention that in the past, I have been diagnosed with Schizophrenia, along with what I call my “Happy List of Disorders”: Antisociality, Combined-Type Attention Deficit Hyperactivity, Intermittent Explosivity, Borderline Personality Disorder, Depersonalization, Histrionic Personality Disorder, Depression, Bipolar Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Schizoaffective Disorder, Schizotypical Disorder, and last but not limited to, Shared Psychotic Disorder. Though the previous diagnoses have come from different doctors, all doctors (ALL DOCTORS) have listed me down with clinical Pyromania. Oh, and before I go, I am an experienced musician, struggling artiste, dubbed a villain, yet interested in exploring my inner spirituality. Has trouble with technology and expressing regular emotions. Enjoys a physical challenge, long conversations, midnight nature hikes, books, coffee, opera, Chopin, and acoustic guitar concerts.



They couldn’t catch him. He had learnt how to play this game all too well. People were, above all else, interested in saving their precious behinds. How do you threaten a superhuman? He was in his prime. He was unstoppable. He was outside himself, he was everywhere. He had no will to contact Leah again, a few months into his new state of being, he had seen her on the television. Finnegan Harris’ new girlfriend. After all those months being with her, now Apollo’s girlfriend. No time for shock, for hurt. He nurtured his anger, let it grow, knocked up one more sin onto Apollo’s death list. He had no conscience, he thought, until he met her.

Saoi.

___

June, 2007.

New York. Hearth walked through Central Park, sounds of laughter and children, of days nonexistent to him. His stride was easy, a lilt in his step; inside he was burning. He’d given way to his mental eulogy. To lose control to control; to explode with utter evil was not something that made him feel particularly cosy inside. The journey had been painful, had been heartbreaking—

It would’ve been if you had a heart, Eight Thirteen.

Still breathing, still living, still pining for Apollo’s blood. Desire haunted his every step, flirted with every trail of smoke, tempted with each shuteye. He stopped dead centre of the winding path, gazing at the road ahead of him.

“Happy the man, of mortals happiest he,
Whose quiet mind from vain desires is free;
Whom neither hopes deceive, nor fears torment,
But lives at peace, within himself content;
In thought, or act, accountable to none
But to himself, and to the gods alone.”

And who are you accountable to, Eight Thirteen?

___

This is the story of a man who is a stranger to himself.

___

He was disconnected from his own soul, beyond confusion, beyond pain. Emptiness, cold and searing. His spirit floated in continual limbo, drifting endlessly. Good has no part with evil. Hearth, perhaps better than most, knew this distinction well. Was the phrase overused? There is no rest for the wicked.

Truth is never overused.

The sound of his own heavy step broke his train of thoughts and he continued on his way, and there she was behind him, and she called out his name.

“Hearth…”

He whisked his head around, black hair whipping through the air and against his cheekbone, unconscious of the flame around his pocket-bound wrists. Fingers clenched, jaw tightened, he fixed hauntingly dilated eyes upon the human who had uttered the word.

She might as well have screamed out Apollo.

What did she know? Did she know of the underground? Of Alexander, of Viro, of their mercenary work? There was something about her, a strange, sadistic longing in her movements. He knew it too well—had seen it in everyone who had lusted for his abilities, his black flame. The fire died down as he spun on his heel, re-directing his stride towards the young woman. A disarming smile; the uncanny in his watch. A brief raise of eyebrows. He acknowledged her presence.

“You’re this close to screaming for death, mademoiselle.” His tone was easy, his motions were smooth. Resting back against a nearby tree, he watched steadily. His form was still, untouched, grazed by the shade of netted leaves. Booted ankles crossed over one another.

“I have learned that screaming does nothing.” She found a tree opposite and leaned upon it with a sigh. “You must whisper to get death’s attention.”

She spoke too lightly of things far too deep and he was irritated. She was small, petite, attractive. Still a child.

“I am looking for death, you do not have to understand. I need your abilities. Teach them to me. I need to know how to generate your black flame.”

“Let’s keep this simple, yes?”

He bowed his head slightly, the structure of his face growing angular as the shadows became visible.

“Do not wish for what you do not understand.”

“Hearth… It is no harm, death is a mother to me.”

“No harm? Hell is full of good intentions, I’m sure.” He made no move to exchange names; merely looked at her with eyes devoid of apparent humanity. He sensed emptiness that mirrored his own… an emptiness that she sought to fill with—

Fire.

Leering, he narrowed his eyes, lips curling into a cunning smile. A cock of his eyebrow, tilt of hand. He knew what she wanted. He could feel it. Had not the object of her desire been thundering inside of him, he would have dismissed her as a damaged product of society. But no. No, she—

Head tilted, gaze angled. Uncrossed ankles, crossed arms.

“No man can take another’s destiny… and all the wishing in the world will not make it so.”

“You are a riddle,” she said. “One I am sure I can unravel.”

Out of the blue, he laughed, startling adults and children alike. Widening his eyes, he hissed at a pair of staring lovers that passed by, smile immobilizing.

“It is not worth it, mademoiselle.” He turned to leave. His words blasted through the air as his looming form aimed to depart. “All wish for knowledge, but no one wishes to pay the price of it.”

“What?” She yelled, ran to catch up with him. “Y-you can’t leave. Not now. I’ve been searching the underground for you. My name is Saoi Yutaki. I’m a fighter, Hearth, I am good at what I do. All I ask is you mentor me, give me the demon.” She staked herself in front of him, pushed her hand against his chest—and recoiled. Heat emanated from his body, yet she persisted.

“I am afraid it is much more… complicated.” His vision slimmed as a smile threatened to slide, feeling her finger run down his arm. People around them had started to peer, discreetly.

“I don’t care. Death is worth it all.” Red Riding Hood was consulting with the Wolf.

Black, almost translucent, spiralled slowly about her neck and chin as his fists turned into iron, restrained rage groaning for recognition. His teeth grinding, row against row.

“Do you read, Saoi?”

“I…”

He chuckled, before taking her jaw between his thumb and index finger, forcefully thrusting her face upwards. He towered over her—six feet and six inches of riddle. He cast an eerie shadow across the walkway, the head of a beast hovering about the footpath, an unnatural stain.

“Perchance you have read this. ‘Imagine the person who has just entered hell. After a roar of physical pain blasts him, he spends his first moments wailing and gnashing his teeth. But after a season, he grows accustomed to the pain, not that it’s become tolerable… but that his capacity for it has enlarged to comprehend it. Though he hurts, he is not able to think, and he instinctively looks about him. But as he looks… he sees only blackness.

In his past life, he learned that if he looked long enough; a glow of light somewhere would yield definition to his surroundings. So he blinks and strains to focus his eyes, but his efforts yield only blackness.’” Eyes whisked to the left—voice lowered into a whisper.

“He waits.”

His fingers tightened.

“He sees nothing but unyielding black ink.”

Tightened.

“‘It clings to him, smothering and oppressing him. Realizing that the darkness is not going to give way, he nervously begins to feel for something solid to get his bearings. He reaches for walls or rocks or trees or chairs; he stretches his legs to feel the ground and touches nothing.

Hell is a bottomless pit; however, the new occupant is slow to learn. In growing panic, he kicks his feet and waves his arms. He stretches and he lunges. But he finds nothing. After more feverish tries, he pauses from exhaustion, suspended in black.”

Suddenly he flung her face to the side, growling. “Suddenly, with a scream he kicks, twists, and lunges until he again is too exhausted to move. He hangs there, alone in his pain. Unable to touch a solid object or see a solitary thing, he begins to weep.

His sobs choke through the darkness. They become weak, then lost in hell’s roar. As time passes—’” Hearth stopped abruptly, still as a stone, eyes locked onto Saoi’s. The end of the story would be found later; for now, he would not—could not—

He would not subject another pitiful being to the demon’s control. He would not.

“As the Lord liveth, sinner, thou standest on a single plank over the mouth of hell, and that plank is rotten. Thou hangest over the pit by a solitary rope, and the strands of that rope are breaking.” He turned away. “Save your soul while you can.”

___

Six months later, she returned from Sudan, with the black flame. He met her at a hotel, murderous.

___

With a snarl, Hearth yanked Saoi to her feet. Face contorted with rage, he slammed her into the last remaining wall of the booth. Her body sent the receiver flying. A darkness emitted from the two, a darkness suddenly shredded with laughing fire.

It was as if it were the heart of night, and Hearth Nott had lost the will to try.

Hurling her to the ground like a discarded doll, he loomed over her, eyes glittering with vice. Veins appeared slowly, snaking from his hands, throat, temples—with a sudden yell, he kicked the last wall, crushing it. It rained down in pieces, devoured by the flame.

“Fool.” The word struggled to manifest itself between twisted lips. He kicked at the base, his foot contacting with the remains, mere centimetres from her face. “Fool!” His shoe hit the rest of the base, on the other side of her head. All around him, the world was a blur of rushing night, and he had gripped the phone, wrenched it off, and smashed it into the ground. Again he yelled, willing desperately for control that he had long lost.

And then all at once, he stopped, meeting her eyes with torture.

“Where is Saoi now?” He exhaled black flame, and it was entertaining.


“Not sure,” Vienna replied. She exhaled normal smoke.


“So let me get this straight. First I was lost in Sudan, Alex and Viro found me, turned me into an underground star.”


“Yep.”


“Then I met Leah, we had a thing, I fought Apollo, he had me taken away, I escaped, went back home to the underground…”


“…and basically became an international terrorist. You’re wanted, Hearth. The problem is, you’re travelling under a million aliases and they don’t know what you look like. You killed everyone with that kind of information who’d tell.”


“So they still don’t know who I am?”


“No. They’ve researched into your time in Sudan but can’t find anything
solid. It’s like you became a hermit for a while there.”


“I was a fighter. I killed you during a match.”


“Don’t rub it in, superstar.”


“But you’re part machine, part human. You were remade.”


“Yeah, but no Transformers robot shit. Most of it is in my brain.”


“During my height of activity as a terrorist I… passed the black flame onto Saoi.”


“It was her choice.” Vienna’s eyes were cold.


“Do they know why I became a terrorist?”


“They figured it was a callout to Apollo. Kind of like, come and fight me or I’ll keep killing people. But only you know the true answer, Nott.”


“Sudan is where I got the black flame.”


“You had abilities before Sudan. But you never called it a demon. It was merely science to you. After Sudan… after Sudan, you spoke to it.”


“Before Sudan, before finding the underground, before killing you. Where did I come from?”


She shrugged. “Where does any demon come from?”




He and Vienna fuck. It’s good—she is curvy, her face is exotic, dark, catlike. She screams when she comes and he is on a high, and he realizes she was not just smoking tobacco. When they are done, they sleep apart—Vienna is gone, knocked out for the count. He lays alone, staring at the ceiling.

Thanks to the woman beside him, the memories are flooding back. It is hard to stop them.

He remembers Apollo, the youth, the world star. America’s sweetheart. He was an heir to a large fortune, possibly the future President, the youngest they’d ever have. He was a threat to old powers, he would have promised revolution. It was too much.

They only ever fought three times—the third time, Apollo had been in hiding; he had to have known they were trying to kill him. It was in Spain, at a private hacienda. Apollo had escaped again, and Hearth had not been able to find him until his death. He had found Leah sometime in between and almost tortured her for information. She had already been beaten for it by the authorities—she was in a wheelchair when he found her. After years, he had spoken to her again. After years, and all he could say was, “Where is he?”

Was that the kind of man he was, now?

___

2007.

“Where is he?” He finally spoke. He hadn't said a word, not since grabbing her from her home, shaken. Not a word while travelling, not a word as he checked her in for a physical, not a word as they had approached the Dance Club, El Bembe in Boston—

But now, he spoke. He squatted beside her. They overlooked the impressive dance floor, bodies writhing, slimy. She was weak, soft.

“What makes you think I know, Hearth?”

His eyes were threatening, glimmering, looking up at her. A scowl materialized on his battle-scarred features, and for a split second, he wished he could shove his fingers down her throat and wrench it out of her.

“I do not have long—do you know that, Leah?” Leah. Did she know how he’d seen her face on television, in the newspapers? With him, his rival, that motherfucking Prince they called Apollo. The scowl faded—his voice was broken. And that is what he was. It was almost a whisper now.

“Tell me.”

A dull, sweeping sensation began to spread through Leah’s seated figure, heavy sedatives, a sharp inhale. Harsh heat in unforgiving waves began to pulsate, the absolute sense of pain beginning to obscure her concentration, her questions already muted by Hearth’s inquiry. His voice was contrary to how she had experienced it before—quiet, pensive, dangerous—threatening and thoughtful with the necessary fluidity of a predator. Meeting his gaze with her own, Leah was painstakingly aware of the subject, yet something sharp resonated within her.

She was resentful, and Hearth knew it well.

How long had it been? Years.

As she tried to stand, Leah realized that her explanation could never be comprehended by a man like Hearth. His kind of love was defined as an antonym for loathing; a mere ghost of a perception. He understood conceptual caring—something to be studied, not experienced. Watching the rage build into him he seemed more enslaved than Leah had ever dared to imagine.

“Through these bars I'll strain my voice. So you tell me. Why does the caged bird sing, Hearth?”

“The caged bird cries—it does not sing. But those who hear are not jailed, but free; Mistaking tears for melody.”

She turned away. He stood. Grabbed her by the waist, forced her to him. His breath, warm on her ear. His eyelashes, his lips. “Did you think Finnegan would save you, Leah? Leave the Beast for Prince, is that it?”

He laughed.

“You don’t know what I’ve been through these years, what I’ve seen. What I’ve smelt, tasted. Life is nothing, Leah.” And just as suddenly, he let go. “Yet, you don’t understand.” A dimple flashed as he smiled—for all his scars, dangerous charm collided into view. “Would you deprive a dying man of his only wish? What the eye does not admire, the heart does not desire. Yet from the deepest desires often come the deadliest hate.” He raised a brow, raising his hand to stroke his chin. Tilting his head to the right, he tossed his arms wide open, clearing a space around the two. “I hate. Perchance you ask why I do that. I know not, but I feel that I do and I am tortured.” A grin. “Wir haben nur einen einzigen Hass, Wir lieben vereint, wir hassen vereint, Wir haben nur einen einzigen Feind.”

___

We have but one, and only hate. We love as one, we hate as one. We have one foe and one alone—

___

“I do not know you, Leah. For as the seasons change, so do you, and as the sun ever rises, so will I ever remain the same. Have I changed? Did you know me before? I do not know you.”

His voice was steady—his hands shook.

“Do you not understand? Anger may repast with thee for an hour, but not repose for a night; the continuance of anger is hatred—”

Break.

His hand came weightily, fist smashing upon the balustrade which overlooked the entwined limbs, wrapping, swaying, below. And yet there was no thunderous yell from Hearth—but instead a hissing exhale.

“I can see Apollo burning in your eyes. You will tell me, Leah.”

Step.

“For never can true reconcilement grow… where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.”

___

She never told him—would never betray the Sun for the Moon.

___

He tossed, turned. Somewhere between wake and sleep, he thought he was on Calista’s couch.

Was that it? He was a fighting machine imbued with pyrokinetic abilities, created to kill Finnegan Harris, was lost in Sudan, came back different became an underground star to call Harris out got involved with a stream of women Harris died he -

At this particular moment in time, Hearth Nott needed another storefront window to punch.

Basically, he was free. But could someone like him live a normal life? He mulled over the possibilities. Sitting on his thick balcony railing, cigarette lit by his own hand (it was a cool party trick), he fantasized. Say he was married, and his wife (Vienna, for now) was still in bed. Say all he needed to do was get back in there, cook some breakfast - he could do it, right? The idea was somewhat plausible, and even somewhat endearing. He turned.

She was gone.

Leaning back to rest his head on a creaky column that hadn't been wiped down for years, he grinned.

He'd have to find a new girl, eventually.

That's what normal guys do, right?

Did he have to get a job too?

"Maybe I'll get a dog."

Wow.
This was powerful.
From the masterful dialogue to the post-modernist plot to the great characterisation of our protagonist, who I dare not call Hearth Nott (that name is a remembrance of his former "owners", I guess I could say), this was a great read, and had me in total-immersion mode. I especially liked the way that you presented the dialogue. Overall, this was an excellent story. I don't have any criticism to say - I enjoyed everything about this. I know that often taste in literature, especially in this day and age, is very subjective, but I have the confidence to say that this would be a great submission to a publisher!

whoa, you actually sat down to read it all! i'm incredibly impressed and flattered, thank you so much for taking the time!

i'm actually editing it a bit to fit into a fiction world (so no more london, america, etc etc), but yeah.

thanks again!