I know, I know, I should be writing Nanowrimo. This sort of stumbled out of its own accord. Let me know if you like it / hate it / don't consider it worthy of either emotion. Thanks in advance!
Spoiler:
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He still thought Efrem might be stopped, until he found the wings. They were in a garbage bin on the curb, snapped viciously to size and wrapped in black garbage bags like pale corpses. He imagined Efrem breaking them over his knee, battering them against the brick corner, wrestling them into the plastic. At the bottom of the bin there was a bandsaw.
Raziel sat on the curb like a drunk and cried. When he was finished, he fished out one of the broken wings and stowed it in his coat. Then he followed drops of blood on the concrete. Smoke swirled around his fist and solidified into a gun. Anachronistic. A flintlock or a musket. It didn’t matter.
Efrem was pissing when he found him. He had never seen that before. His turned back was an ugly and uneven landscape. The four stubs were twitching indistinctly beneath his sportcoat and left delicate dark spots where they tented the fabric. There was a stink of alcohol and smoke and bitter white powder.
“You found me,” he said.
“I watched you fall,” Raziel said, leveling the heavy wood and metal. Efrem gave a satisfied sigh and pulled his pants up. Then he addressed the wall.
“If God is good, why would he deny us? He lets man cavort and wallow in debauchery, requiring only obedience to his creed for redemption. Salvation. We live in untouched, icy purity. A joyless city. Is it any wonder that I wanted to fall?”
“We are held to a higher standard than man,” Raziel said. “You have to come back.” He said it desperately, knowing it was too late.
“He’s not coming back,” Efrem said slyly. “Why should I?”
“There’s a penalty for blaspheming,” Raziel said. “And for falling.”
“What about deception?” Efrem asked, wheeling around. “What about an empty throne room where you say God keeps himself locked away?”
“Sometimes it’s more important to know what should be than to know what is.” The gun dissolved and he folded his arms.
“He’s gone, and the angels will keep on falling. Your little council won’t stop it. Eventually you’ll want to fall, too, and I’ll be waiting down here to welcome you. Not with vindictive triumph, but as one welcomes a lost brother.”
“When he comes back, your weakness will bind you where you stand. You’ll all be extinguished.” Raziel’s voice was vibrating. “You’re undeserving, Efrem. We were meant to be gods. We were next to Authority.” Raziel pulled one severed wing from his coat like a magician. He dangled it from his gloved fist and shook it gently, sprinkling blood onto the concrete. Efrem’s face contorted.
“Put that away,” he snapped. “We were never next to him.”
“We were his first creation.”
“His first and unloved,” Efrem said, tearing the wing away. Raziel let it go. “His prototype. Why would he create man? I can tell you, Raziel. We were too good.” A fistful of bloody feathers ripped loose like paper pages. He tossed them in Raziel’s face.
“Too strong and too much like him. So he tries again. In his own image, he says, he lies. He makes something weak and crippled and ugly. Why?” Efrem stepped on the tip of the wing and pulled, tearing it in two.
“I can tell you again, Raziel. His ego. When God was alone, how could he know he was God? He made angels by accident. He made man, like a sadist, so he could revel in his ego. That is the secret to all of creation.”
The last words were strained as he ducked under Raziel’s knife. It shattered against the brick wall and reassembled in his other hand, already swinging. Efrem reversed the severed wing and the blade bit into it. The impact fractured his wrists, but he held on doggedly, folding it around the knife.
“I’ll extinguish you myself,” Raziel said, forcing Efrem back against the wall. He twisted at the knife, trying to force it through. His forehead pressed against the brick beside Efrem’s shoulder. He didn’t look at him.
“You still don’t know where he’s gone, do you?” Efrem asked, laughing viciously. He broke away, and Raziel stumbled backward. Efrem straightened his jacket, made a bow, and turned to walk down the street. The flintlock was back in Raziel’s hand, shuddering. He could puncture a perfect cauterized circle through Efrem’s spine.
Instead, he followed at a distance. Watery sunlight was leaking through empty streets, but Efrem walked only in shadows. He went to a door in a dingy building. Raziel followed him through, down the chipped steps. It was dark inside, filled with man and woman. Their eyes slid off of him, but they saw Efrem. Some of them knew him by name. Raziel watched it all clinically, trying to understand why his old friend would bring him here.
Bodies slid and rasped against each other. Exhausted dancing with hooded eyes. Clammy skin and eyeshadow bruises. Smoke, like the fumes from Gomorrah. Raziel went after Efrem, drifting through the crowd untouched. There was a smaller room in the back, with ratty curtains. A man sat at a table. There was a plastic tourniquet tied on one arm, divvying up goose-bumped flesh. Dice revolved in his hand, then spilled out.
His face was covered, swathed in scarves. Efrem slumped down at the table and looked up at him with laughing eyes. Raziel didn’t understand.
“We were the prototype,” Efrem said. “He got it right the second time. There’s nothing better than being insignificant, see.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Raziel, and he leaned across to strip the scarves away. Light erupted from underneath, and he was reduced to ash.
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He still thought Efrem might be stopped, until he found the wings. They were in a garbage bin on the curb, snapped viciously to size and wrapped in black garbage bags like pale corpses. He imagined Efrem breaking them over his knee, battering them against the brick corner, wrestling them into the plastic. At the bottom of the bin there was a bandsaw.
Raziel sat on the curb like a drunk and cried. When he was finished, he fished out one of the broken wings and stowed it in his coat. Then he followed drops of blood on the concrete. Smoke swirled around his fist and solidified into a gun. Anachronistic. A flintlock or a musket. It didn’t matter.
Efrem was pissing when he found him. He had never seen that before. His turned back was an ugly and uneven landscape. The four stubs were twitching indistinctly beneath his sportcoat and left delicate dark spots where they tented the fabric. There was a stink of alcohol and smoke and bitter white powder.
“You found me,” he said.
“I watched you fall,” Raziel said, leveling the heavy wood and metal. Efrem gave a satisfied sigh and pulled his pants up. Then he addressed the wall.
“If God is good, why would he deny us? He lets man cavort and wallow in debauchery, requiring only obedience to his creed for redemption. Salvation. We live in untouched, icy purity. A joyless city. Is it any wonder that I wanted to fall?”
“We are held to a higher standard than man,” Raziel said. “You have to come back.” He said it desperately, knowing it was too late.
“He’s not coming back,” Efrem said slyly. “Why should I?”
“There’s a penalty for blaspheming,” Raziel said. “And for falling.”
“What about deception?” Efrem asked, wheeling around. “What about an empty throne room where you say God keeps himself locked away?”
“Sometimes it’s more important to know what should be than to know what is.” The gun dissolved and he folded his arms.
“He’s gone, and the angels will keep on falling. Your little council won’t stop it. Eventually you’ll want to fall, too, and I’ll be waiting down here to welcome you. Not with vindictive triumph, but as one welcomes a lost brother.”
“When he comes back, your weakness will bind you where you stand. You’ll all be extinguished.” Raziel’s voice was vibrating. “You’re undeserving, Efrem. We were meant to be gods. We were next to Authority.” Raziel pulled one severed wing from his coat like a magician. He dangled it from his gloved fist and shook it gently, sprinkling blood onto the concrete. Efrem’s face contorted.
“Put that away,” he snapped. “We were never next to him.”
“We were his first creation.”
“His first and unloved,” Efrem said, tearing the wing away. Raziel let it go. “His prototype. Why would he create man? I can tell you, Raziel. We were too good.” A fistful of bloody feathers ripped loose like paper pages. He tossed them in Raziel’s face.
“Too strong and too much like him. So he tries again. In his own image, he says, he lies. He makes something weak and crippled and ugly. Why?” Efrem stepped on the tip of the wing and pulled, tearing it in two.
“I can tell you again, Raziel. His ego. When God was alone, how could he know he was God? He made angels by accident. He made man, like a sadist, so he could revel in his ego. That is the secret to all of creation.”
The last words were strained as he ducked under Raziel’s knife. It shattered against the brick wall and reassembled in his other hand, already swinging. Efrem reversed the severed wing and the blade bit into it. The impact fractured his wrists, but he held on doggedly, folding it around the knife.
“I’ll extinguish you myself,” Raziel said, forcing Efrem back against the wall. He twisted at the knife, trying to force it through. His forehead pressed against the brick beside Efrem’s shoulder. He didn’t look at him.
“You still don’t know where he’s gone, do you?” Efrem asked, laughing viciously. He broke away, and Raziel stumbled backward. Efrem straightened his jacket, made a bow, and turned to walk down the street. The flintlock was back in Raziel’s hand, shuddering. He could puncture a perfect cauterized circle through Efrem’s spine.
Instead, he followed at a distance. Watery sunlight was leaking through empty streets, but Efrem walked only in shadows. He went to a door in a dingy building. Raziel followed him through, down the chipped steps. It was dark inside, filled with man and woman. Their eyes slid off of him, but they saw Efrem. Some of them knew him by name. Raziel watched it all clinically, trying to understand why his old friend would bring him here.
Bodies slid and rasped against each other. Exhausted dancing with hooded eyes. Clammy skin and eyeshadow bruises. Smoke, like the fumes from Gomorrah. Raziel went after Efrem, drifting through the crowd untouched. There was a smaller room in the back, with ratty curtains. A man sat at a table. There was a plastic tourniquet tied on one arm, divvying up goose-bumped flesh. Dice revolved in his hand, then spilled out.
His face was covered, swathed in scarves. Efrem slumped down at the table and looked up at him with laughing eyes. Raziel didn’t understand.
“We were the prototype,” Efrem said. “He got it right the second time. There’s nothing better than being insignificant, see.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Raziel, and he leaned across to strip the scarves away. Light erupted from underneath, and he was reduced to ash.
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