Chapter 37

37.

         He’s going to kill me.
         She can hear him coming. Through the door she hears his footsteps, a soft, resolute tapping. With her head covered, she can hear him. His movements are the effortless friction of sand on sand. She can hear everything. The liquid rustling of bone and muscle, the quiet shivering of his clothing, the unhurried even cadence of his breathing. And the other sound. The subaural humming. The one that will kill her.
         All of it floats to her ears through the barriers of her hands. The floor is cold and has been for some time. The floorboards are rattling at a frequency no one else can sense, vibrating in time with the symphony of the planet itself. It’s too easy to focus here. That was always the point. In this empty place there is nothing to distract her. Except for him. Except for his presence.
         He’s not here yet. His footsteps are closer now, he’s in the hallway. They couldn’t stop him. Nothing can. He is a battering ram against inertia, pushing all resting objects out of his path. She knows how it will go. He will search every room, and leave nothing unturned. She will not be able to avoid his gaze. It has seen things far more hidden than her. Cloaked in her focus, there is nothing stopping him from finding her. Then he will kill her. Yes, that is how it will go.
         But it can’t. She has to get out. There’s no strength left in her to jump, barely enough to bend the light around her. If she runs, he will see her. If she stays, he will find her. What is she supposed to do?
         Footsteps scrape outside the door, probing, piercing, curious. It is the sound of an animal gnawing on soft bone. It is all she can do to keep from crying out. A needle tests the air without breaking the tension. Outside. He is outside. Through the door she can see him, a presence held together by flesh. His mind is so beautiful. It’s staring into a garden full of a thousand flowers no one bothered to think up names for because it wouldn’t do them justice. Each petal holds more knowledge than her mind could ever know. A million languages, history stacked like some much firewood, forming a glittering city seen half a Universe away. There’s a star inside his head, and he doesn’t even know. All he sees is the breakdown of the world. And it’s wrong, to see existence that way. It’s better than that. Doesn’t he see? Doesn’t he realize?
         The door rattles. An assault howls like a ruptured spirit toward him and flees screaming, unable to penetrate the gated enclosure of his wondrous mind. He’s too strong. But he can’t open the door. Instantly she realizes her mistake. Of course. Of course. All the other doors were unlocked. This one is not. He’ll know then. How could he not? She has given herself away, as easily as if she had carved her name upon the door. Frustration causes her to bite her lip in despair, buzzing pain radiating down the length of her jaw. She doesn’t taste blood. She never needed to. It was always there. Hovering just outside her senses. It will come soon, though, and she won’t have any left.
         Again, the door shakes, harder this time.
         Then it stops. The silence is a heavy thing, a cage without boundaries. It won’t last. It can’t last. He hasn’t gone anywhere at all.
         Distantly, a humming not meant for ears rises imperceptibly.
         A red slash of light rams through the door, bathing the room in a hue of blood. She promises herself she won’t scream. It’s impossible to stare at the shaft, it’s so bright. It moves up and down the door, creating jagged shadows. Down, then up, then down again and it withdraws.
         The door thumps, a bell broken beyond all repair.
         Slowly, it topples inward.
         He follows right after, stepping into the room with no hesitation of motion. There is coiled venom in his every motion, a lethal form of poetry in his stance. He’ll kill her and her death will be an elegant, cascading thing.
         No. No. She can’t die. Not here. She’s on her feet, drawing her cloak tighter around herself. If he notices the ripple in the air he doesn’t react. His eyes are elsewhere, focused on the gaping hole in the wall, through which the day’s air seeps in, cloying, strangling. Out here, it smells too much like people. She wants the wind to carry her away, to a place where the horizon can always be seen, where the warmth can cover her like a blanket and the night’s breezes can smooth everything away.
         He’s by the hole now, looking out. She wonders what he is thinking, but the details of his mind are closed to her. It might as well be written in a calculus she’ll never comprehend. He looks much the same as she remembers, but vastly more dangerous now. She had her chance in their earlier skirmish and now his strike will be instant and accurate. He will not need a second chance. She will not receive a third.
         Further conflict is useless. Escape is all that matters. She can slip out and be away before he realizes what is happening. That will keep her alive. For some reason she cannot take her eyes off the ramrod gash he holds, its light almost too pure for these surroundings, for this place. She has to get away from it. The fallen door is nearby. All she must do is step over out, away from it, and she will be gone. He will not find her. He will not.
         Five steps from the door, she hears him turn, his eyes narrowing. She stops, feeling his eyes go through her, then pull back, refocusing. Oh no. No no no. Does he see her? It’s not possible. It’s not. Some instinct tells her to run. A more intelligent instinct informs her that it would be the last thing she ever does.
         She waits, gathers herself, tries not to breathe.
         He stares, doesn’t move. For a moment there is only the whisper of the wind around the edges of the hole. Oh. She can feel his eyes grating against her, the touch of an abrasive cloth.
         Finally his body relaxes and he begins to turn back.
         Not trusting him, she doesn’t move.
         Then, with a predator’s grace, he spins again and darts forward, the end of the blade snapping up and stabbing right at her heart, his entire body a quicksilver shadow.
         There is no time.
         No , she may scream outloud. It’s not clear.
         All she can do is let go.
         And jump.

* * * * *

         In this sterile place of smooth edges and strange walls they stand around him as he lays on the bed. The identical men bark out phrases that mean nothing on the conscious level. No matter how you stare at them, the view is always from behind. Nobody seems to hear them. Outside men waver like ghost images, two bodies smashed into one, neither noticing the abstraction. The sky is a color that shouldn’t exist. It’s not right. There’s moisture in the air but no ocean. It’s not right.
         The child won’t stop crying. You can see her face, her hands keep covering her face. The air around her bends and ripples as if she were straining against an invisible cage. For an instant her figures blurs and her shape dissolves into words, written in a language you don’t understand. Then the sensation passes and she is back, but no longer crying.
         The air exhales and suddenly there are two other beings in the room. A smell like old feathers saturates the air. You can’t look at them directly, they never seem to be where your eyes are. When they speak their words are constantly darting, hovering around the quiet room. They never move. They’re so fast.
         The identical men part to let them past. You finally see the man on the bed. You’ve never seen him before. There is blood running in a thin trickle from his mouth and nose and ears. The sheets are soaked with blood, a plasma afterimage, a skeleton seeping into the fabric. He is clearly dying. He is-
         “No, this isn’t right. Try again.”
         What-
         The dark man’s cloak briefly obscures him while he rams his knee into the other man’s face.
         Blood and teeth scatter in a fan shaped spray while the dark man pulls the other man’s face close and in a motion so practiced that it appears disturbingly natural he tears off the man’s ears, tossing the fleshy flaps to the side even as the other man with his ruined face continues to scream, his hands trying to cover the holes in his head.
         Something on the dark’s man hands glitters like fallen starlight and his voice is a whisper held only in the collective unconscious, a sigh heard on the wind of a thousand shattered dreams. He has the man up against the wall now. It’s clear they’ve never seen each other before. It’s almost over now. Almost finished. The man’s legs kick out but there’s nothing to hit. Violence always absorbs violence.
         The dark man laughs again, the sound of a child on fire and his hands lashes out, claws moving to rip out-
         “No. Again.”
         The light in the forest is pure, unrestrained, falling down in gentle layers. The trees form a ceiling as high as the atmosphere. Plants curl around a giant metal machine, all coils and hard edges, the forest slowly enclosing it in an embrace that will end with its erasure, a thousand years hence.
         Two people, a man and a woman, walk into the clearing, stepping over the tall grasses infesting the landscape. Dressed in light, loose fitting clothing, they nearly blend in with the environment. Their faces are relaxed and in a sense, beatific. The sound of their combined voices in the otherwise crystalline silence is odd but not out of place. Hand in hand they look at the giant machine. The man says something and the woman laughs, touching his shoulder. Grinning back, he leans over and kisses her. She responds and the two of them slide to the ground, caught in an embrace. Her skin is soft, almost liquid. His hands go to her shoulders, begin to slip off her-
         “No. Ah. No. Too far, I think. Concentrate. Again.”
         - Doesn’t that make a difference to you buggers? Doesn’t it mean something to know that you’re not real, that you’re no more than just-
         “No, still wrong. Focus , boy. Again.”
         - Sometimes it bothers me, in my weaker moments, but I suppose that happens to everyone. Even the muscles you never use are still there, shriveled and atrophied, just waiting to bother you again. Morality is like that, a muscle you can’t stretch. No matter how much you don’t use it, it never goes away completely, no matter how much you want it to. That said, I really can’t understand . . .
         “This is nonsense. We’re going to have to try again-“
         - . . . why Valreck never suspected that his friend was killed. For such a smart man, he came to all the wrong conclusions. Oh well.
         “What?”

* * * * *

         Falling.
         She’s falling.
         The world dilates, warps, climaxes and pushes her through an inverted gap. It hurts, but she never feels anything. A cloven hand tears a gaping hole in space and she tumbles through, landing on the hard dirt of the ground, expelling the breath from her body. The outside air is no comfort. This isn’t freedom. She’s not safe. All other suggestions are a lie. Getting to her feet she sees people staring, wondering where she came from. Of course. They’ve never seen her like this, in the flesh, outside. She was only the spectre haunting the peripheries of their awareness, the flicker that disappeared whenever someone looked too closely at it. That way, she was ingrained, part of the machine. Now, she’s the alien, expelled from the lattice. A irrelevant gear thrown from the system. There’s a throbbing in the back of her head like a tumor slowly devouring her brain and a trembling deep within her muscles. She shouldn’t have done this. She shouldn’t have jumped. It wasn’t worth the risk. He’ll be able to find her now, out here in the open. With a groan of pain she tries to cloak herself again and only partially succeeds, part of her arm, her chest and half of her face disappearing, leaving her disembodied and grotesque. It’s a glimpse of the future. Of what will happen when he catches her.
         She can feel his eyes now, blunt orbs piercing her from above. Looking at the house she came from, she can see a glint of crimson light in a window. Even far away, it’s too close. She has to get out. It’s the only option. The other is to kill him and it’s not possible. To do that she would have to destroy what he was. And that couldn’t happen. It went beyond his body, went beyond his life. Her mother had warned her, in the knife-edged moments between alertness and sleep, as the chill of the night swept in on smothering wings, she had been warned of the lighted ones, of them and their agents. Once they’ve decided to come for you, there is nothing you can do.
         The alley on the side of the house flashes red, and instantly she’s on her feet. He’s there, in the darkness. Coming for her. He’s there, emerging from the space, the blade held in his hands like a casual death, his movements taut and sinuous. He’s shouting something to her. She can’t make out the words. All she hears is the thundering of her heartbeat. She can’t quiet it. The exercises aren’t working.
         The man takes a step forward, his stride slowly accelerating. The blade touches the dirt and carves a groove in the soil, an action the man doesn’t even notice. Oh. Oh damn. That will be here, when he’s finished. He’s coming closer. She has to leave.
         There’s no time or energy to jump. Her body protesting every motion, she runs, almost tripping in her haste. She runs for the nearest set of houses. This town is a maze. It has to be. That’s the way they wanted it. For this very reason. It’s not clear if the ruse will work. He’s beyond mazes, beyond patterns. His mind is a knot tied without hands. Every entrance takes you back out. She’s never seen anything so perfectly sealed.
         Running, she has no defenses anymore. Thoughts flutter around her like attacking birds, pecking and prodding at her. The silent voices of a hundred people funnel to her, begging for her attention. None of them can touch her. It might as well be static, falling like a shower of sand into the lake of her mind. She has to remain still, calm, serene. But she can’t ignore any of it. The children are the worst, their minds constant shrieks, pulses of violent light in gaudy shades, gradients of sounding blurring all her thoughts. How do parents stand it? she wonders.          In the reflection of a window she spies a bloody slash of an eye. She doesn’t dare look back. There’s no telling how close he is. He is velvet strolling on silk, his passage disturbs nothing, while hers is a stone dropped into a river, the underwater ripples spreading far and brushing against all. They look at her as she runs but they don’t stop. Why should they? In their lives she’s an unwelcome cacophony. Any other interpretation is just delusion. She’s always known it. The others may not have accepted, but she’s always known.
         Her chest hurts. Her legs are weighted and dragging. This can’t go on. How far has she run? Risking a glance back, she spots his layered silhouette no farther than a brief sprint away, the blade a torch threatening to outshine the day. She thought he might sheathe it, out here, in the open, but perhaps he does not care anymore. But he’s too close. Far too close. And she can’t run any longer. He knows this, he can tell. His words are still floating to her, ambiguous darts trying to pin her into place, seeking to wear her down. She can’t stay. She won’t.
         If she can find a place to hide, she can regain her strength and jump again. The nearest door offers as much sanctuary as anywhere else. She throws herself against it, bruising her shoulder. Sensing a new tactic the man speeds up his pace, still shouting at her. He could have killed her a million times by now, the mad thought emerges, taunting. Why hasn’t he? He must have something worse in mind. A method uniquely his.
         The home she stumbles into has three men and two women sitting around a table, the remnants of a meal scattered about. Beyond them stairs lead to intended safety. They stare at her, uncomprehending. She’s seen them before, she knows now. Seen the plainspoken tapestry of their hopes and dreams, performed her own alterations until it was more in line with the vision she had for all of them. This house is new, built recently. They thought its placement was their idea. In some ways, perhaps it was. But sometimes ideas need prodding to germinate properly.
         She plants an idea, lets it grow now. It only takes an instant. Sometimes it scares her how accustomed she has become to these methods, these techniques. If it leaves a scar, it’s not on her skin. Is that selfish, to try and survive by any means possible? To take advantage of others who cannot defend against your motives? Would any of them do differently in her place? She could not say. All she knows is she wants to live, even if the living is without purpose or drive or direction. That will come, in time and if it doesn’t come, then perhaps living is its own purpose. It may be. But she wishes it to continue.
         They’re getting up from the table now, with fire and fear in their eyes. Part of them knows what’s coming. Even a cornered animals understands which actions are involuntary. Perhaps he won’t kill them. She wants to care, she really does. But there’s just no time. Everything breaks and falls and in the end the best we can do is try and figure out what order the pieces might have gone in. Her nerves have gone numb now, burned away by the final violation. To make her feel now would be a great effort indeed. And no one here can do it, not anymore. Not all the mournful sand in the world will fill the hole engulfing her chest now.
         Weak, she falls again. Standing, they do not help her. Struggling, she rises to her feet just as footsteps whisper in the doorway. Turning, she sees him, the red glow lighting his way, bleeding all over the door, the floor, the walls. It barely touches his face. It’s not meant for him. Is it true they cannot be hurt by their own weapons? Who knows? What does it matter, anymore?
         Before her, the people tense, already spreading out to corner him, oil soaking the room’s pores, suffocating it. Her seed was fertile and its roots lodged deep. He can destroy what’s on the surface but it will always grow back. That was always their secret, what Mandras promised them. Nothing ever fails, it just goes into hiding and waits for the right moment to present itself once again. Nothing ever dies, truly. She wants to believe that, desperately. But she’s just not sure anymore.
         Stumbling and staggering, she races for the stairs, to its implied safety. The people move forward, hardly noticing her. And why not, her part in this portion of the action is done, she was barely even a catalyst, more a pivot, or a filter. On some far away world, this has happened already. On some world, perhaps she wins. Maybe it’s here. She can’t know.
         They are surrounding him by the time she reaches the stairs, throws herself onto its comforting solidity, ready to carry herself upwards and away. Nobody makes a sound. She wishes they would. It only heightens how unnatural this situation is.
         Crouched on the stairwell, she casts one last glance back near the door. Their faces are bathed in bloodlight now, and so is his face. It nearly obliterates his eyes, causing him to have two dark pools sunken into his face. It gives him a blank, deathless gaze. It’s impossible to know what he sees.
         But she knows. She does. Because she can see. His gaze is an insidious magnet, and she knows. Right where he’s looking.
         Not at any of his imminent assailants.
         But at her.
         Directly at her.
         There’s a smile in the blank pits of his face.
         With a motion that suggests all the time in the world, he raises the blade. His expression never changes. He has been ready for this ever since they met. Doesn’t she see? It won’t take long at all.
         Without communication, the people lunge forward as one, seeking to extinguish the light. Doesn’t she see? They’ll fail. Can’t she see? Right before her eyes, they’re going to fail.
         The room creaks with menace.
         A blade begins to sweep downward.
         Eyes regard her without pity, daring her to blink.
         Unable to see any more, she flees.

* * * * *

         “. . . how I showed you, boy, pinpoint and excise, the moment is a lone island in a depthless sea and all you are doing is cutting it out . . .”
         - make all kinds of assumptions, except for the right one, as long as you don’t give him a reason to believe there is a right one, if you follow what I’m saying
         “No, further back. Picture the sound behind the voice, the face behind the words. You’re not going forwards anymore, but hovering over the same moment.”
         - always amazed me about the guy, especially in this case was how easy it was for him to make all kinds of assumptions, except
         “Control. I know you have it, it’s the one thing I’ve taught you all these months. Use it now . . . pull back and focus, find the scene, describe it . . .”
         - take it? Not well at all, honestly, I really thought he was going to kill someone, understandably so, but what always amazed me about
         “Who is speaking? It’s some point in the future, but how much further? I believe I know what they are speaking of, but why? You have to go back more, ignore the strain, it will pass. I cannot help you unless you help me.”
         - good idea, it will give us a chance to finish this up right. Don’t screw it up, give him an opening and he’ll kill us all. You didn’t see him last time. How did he take it? Not
         “Just a little further, please. That’s all I ask. Stay with me for just another minute.”
         - a good idea, it will give us a chance
         “Please, just . . .
         - think it’s a good idea, it will give
         “. . . another moment, lad, that’s all I ask . . .”
         - him, yes, I think it’s a good idea, it
         “. . . all I ask . . .”
         - Killing him, yes, I think it’s a good idea
         “Boy? Who is it? Who are they?”
         - Killing him, yes
         “Can you tell me? Do you see?”
         - Him Kill yesing
         “Do you?”
         - ingkill seyihm
         “Jaymes? What do you see?”
         - lilkngi yeshim
         “Jaymes?”
         - yes killing him
         “Dammit.”
         - yes

* * * * *

         From the downstairs she hears no sounds. Over so fast? Perhaps she blacked out and missed the entire cruel affair. They didn’t kill him. They never had a chance. Any second she’ll hear his footsteps, unhurried and certain, moving up the steps with barely a creak. Where else is there to go? She can barely move, her stomach clenches with nausea and the weakness in her limbs penetrates right to the bone. At some point she fell on the floor and was unable to get back up. She doesn’t remember doing so. It’s so hard to think, to remain focused. Memories of bodies burst like old fruit and torn as if by a storm of claws linger in her mind, corpses bobbing to the surface unimpeded, refusing to sink and be seen no more. Stagnating, they pollute and foul everything they touch. Why can’t she stop shivering? It’s his fault, he did this, invaded her mind. He would have killed her but she survived, she escaped. But only to this, to this place where a different death is stalking her, drawing closer with every delayed second.
         Was that a scuff of leather on wood not too distant? She tenses, preparing to flee, but there’s nowhere to go. All the effort is just theatre, the cornered animal’s refusal to accept what remains stoically inevitable. But she’s not like that. She’s no animal. There’s always a way out. For her whole life she’s been seeking the exit, the valve to vent any situation. Nothing is enclosed, nothing is a box, the opening just requires the right insight. She’s not trapped now, she never has been. If there’s a way in, there must be a way out as well.
         Shaking her head to resolve the clarity of the world, she regards the bedroom she finds herself in. A door behind her lies disturbingly open, but no one is there to greet her, no shadows lurk in her view. There is still no sound from the rest of the house. Perhaps they all killed each other. Perhaps he fled, unable to stomach killing those who were not his quarry. Was that one of the rules? That they could only harm the person they were seeking? It made sense. She wished it was true.
         A stray breeze strokes her face, bringing with it a hint of the day’s warmth. To her skin it was still too cool. She had never gotten used to the temperature here. An open window is the culprit. Muscles fighting every motion, she lifts herself to her feet, struggles to reach the opening. Outside, the streets are nearly empty. Does the village shut down in the mid-afternoon? She can’t remember. These people are not her people and for all her time here they never will be. She never sought proper entrance, never decided to assimilate. And now the only protection, the only help she’ll receive is through coercion. But no one fights less than the person who does not wish to fight at all. He would have told her that, were he alive to speak. His removal from her life is a needle that has not yet reached her heart. But when it does, the pain will be swift and sharp and agonizing. She wishes there were time now to allow this grief, so tentatively held at bay, but there isn’t. Perhaps it matter little. He is dead now and he will remain dead tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after. The breeze drifting in seems to carry the sweet musk of his scent. It’s only a memory. The needles shifts and she feels suddenly weak.
         Thrusting aside those thoughts, she considers the window again. It’s the quickest escape and perhaps the only option. If she jumped out she might be able to slow her descent enough to cause minimal damage to herself. It’s risky. But so is staying here. Maybe if she went and checked first, to see what happened.
         And then, without warning, he’s there, in the doorway. A streak of crimson touching the floor is only the first sign. Spinning around, her back to the window, she turns just in time to see him step into the room. The blade is held down, a sliver piercing her shadow, intersecting her head and shoulders and splitting them in two. In the better light of the room, she can see him clearer, he appears far more solid than before. There’s blood on his face, his clothes. Only some of it might be his. There are scratches on his face and a gash on his forehead. All of the wounds match the color of the blade. Her eyes keep going back to it, even as it hurts to stare directly at it. He hasn’t said anything to her so far. For some reason, she expects him to. She doesn’t know why. What would he ask her? To surrender? She’s already given him her decision through the desperate flailing of her actions, the headlong race to escape whatever grim purpose he represents. She can’t read what’s in his eyes, there’s anger, maybe, but also a strange weariness and a pointed sadness. Who it’s for, she has no idea. Certainly it isn’t for her.
         She wishes he would say something. She hopes he’ll leave. For some reason, it appears he’s waiting for her to make the first move. And why not? He’s got her right where he wants her, trapped, tired, seconds from collapsing. The wall is supporting most of her weight, and if she were to lean back and let go, the only thing that would catch her is the ground fifteen feet below. It’s not a completely frightening prospect.
         He does step forward now, the tip of the blade still hovering scant inches from the floor. Close up, she can see he’s limping slightly. There’s blood welling up under his fingernails, which is strange. Something about him isn’t right. It’s not.
         It hits her then, with a clarity that must be imposed from without, so suddenly does it strike her.
         He’s dying.
         He’s dying and he doesn’t know.
         He comes toward her again now, and she can see the shift in his stance, the slow tightening of certain muscles. He’s afraid she’ll go out the window, she realizes. He must wish to kill her himself.
         But that won’t happen. It can’t happen. There’s always an exit, always an escape. Nobody ever said it had to be painless.
         And so she leans back and lets go, and goes out the window.
         There is a dizzying sense of gravity’s loss and the desperate feeling she has done something terribly wrong. The expanse of the sky spreads out before her and the sun catches her eyes, bleeding away her vision and reducing everything to a washed out blur, a photograph too long exposed, the view one might see only seconds after the bomb has been dropped. The flat hole of the window is falling away, time dragging itself through clear sludge, jammed into an opening too small to see. In the old stories, this is the point where the hero appears, swinging on a conveniently placed rope, to snatch her away and rescue her. But there are no heroes anymore. It’s a myth that died with the rest of them, its corpse bloated and decomposing in the heat, the taste too rancid for even a starving carrion bird. Survival is the new heroism but the rewards are scant and the cheers nonexistent. The best you can hope for is a slower descent than everyone else. But in the end, the impact hits you just the same.
         A rope may not appear but there are strings in the air, invisible tendrils hanging from weightless clouds and she grabs one now, jerking herself to a halt with a shock that drives directly to the center of her mind. Tears come to her eyes unbidden and for a second the strings nearly slip free. Blinking away the pain, she bites her lip and pulls, the air ripping her upwards, her body almost dangling limply, the window now falling away from her in the opposite direction, the sky growing wider with each gathering second. She’s suddenly lightheaded and the temptation to allow herself to be carried forever skyward is maddening, to be freed of restraints, free of this crushing weight. Once, she thought if you went high enough, then your body would be cast off and fall away, burned away by the sun’s glare, leaving you transfigured, bodiless and unhindered, forever free. Years later, she discovered the truth of this, and the cost it exacts on those who force themselves through the unforgiving filter. If they were human once, that was the case no longer.
         It is not a fate she wishes to share. Letting go is hardly a choice by the time she has gone high enough to decide and the landing on the roof of the house is a jarring rattle, the rough surface scraping her hands and clothes. But she’s alive. She’s safe. For the moment.
         Nimbly, numbly, her body crying out for rest, she makes her way among the dead leaves and other remains on the slanted roof. The world tilts and threatens to slide away, her feet struggling to find purchase. The houses here are close together, squat monoliths rising above a barren plain, the spaces between them barely enough to warrant expansion. Everyone trapped in their square prisons, unable to have more, prevented from even wishing. It doesn’t matter, the closeness is suitable for her purposes. The more distance the better. Gathering herself, she jumps to the next house, landing with both hands and feet, cutting herself further, shoving the pain further and further away, trying to cram it into a single point, feeling it trying to swell and escape with every passing second, the pressure rewriting the contours of her mind, pulling her down, rooting her into immobility. But she has to keep moving. The goals haven’t changed. Find a safe haven, rest, and get away. So far she has accomplished none of these. Perhaps she still has a chance.
         There are two houses between her and her pursuer now. People are on the streets but none notice her, no one bothers to look up. Is that because of their influence? Is this what they’ve done to these people? They had hoped to integrate themselves seamlessly but it had been impossible to resist making changes. But too many alterations to the course of things has been made and now it’s a mass of poisoned minds, all traveling along segregated tracks, confined to their courses, unable to conceive of other paths. That’s not what they meant to happen. But it did. It’s no clearer from up here but she sees it now. It’s so cold on the summit, the wind is burrowing into the tears and rips in her clothing, sweeping all the warmth from her skin. She has to get away from here. But she’s not sure how to get down, it’s doubtful that she has the strength to slow her fall enough to avoid being hurt. But some of the houses have roof access. All she needs to do is find one of those. That’s it. Simple.
         The next roof is more ornate in its construction, all ridges and a high lip, and crossing over to it takes more effort than she anticipated. Crouching at the edge, she draws in a shuddering breath, knowing that she has to keep moving again soon, or risk being unable to move again. But she’s tired. The last few hours have been a battery of punches she has been unable to block and the toll still remains to be paid. She should cloak herself and just stay, hidden. But he found her that way. If she loses motion, she loses the game.
         So, no, she has to leave, she has to keep going. Rousing herself, she shifts her position, weariness tugging at her legs, her arms, her mind. This has gone on for too long and she just wants it to end. But it can’t. Not until someone gives up. And she’s standing far closer to the end than her stalker is and when it comes down to it, he’ll push her over before she can reach out and take him with her. And even then, he’ll fight her the entire way down.
         Slowly, too slowly, she clambers to the tip of the roof. A breeze catches her sideways and she involuntarily shivers, clutching at her clothing and drawing it closer to herself. Perched on the roof, she feels as high as she can go. There are higher places, no doubt, but she will never reach them, she’s reached her pinnacle and the only place left to explore are the flatlands and crannies that exist on the way down.
         As she prepares to descend, the wind sighs again and she shudders, ready to leave this roof, this village, this world. A bare flicker of recognized sound causes her to stop. Turning, she finds herself not even surprised. Of course. How fitting. There’s not even room in her to panic anymore.
         He’s there, little more than a house away, moving across the rooftops like he was born to it. The blade is nowhere in sight. Perhaps he sent it to search for her, it could be sniffing for her even now, ready to burst up from underneath the roof in a flash of vibrant death, impaling her before she can even fathom what is occurring. But, no. No, she’s becoming irrational. The blade is still there, at his side like always. Only his hand can wield it, but it takes a hand nonetheless. He’s already spotted her and his steps have a driven purpose to them, covering in seconds the same ground that has already taken all her time and energy.
         He will be here in mere moments. Her errors come to her, one by one, not laughing, not saying a word, just lining up before her and staring wordlessly, their admissions self-evident. Of course he would know she went up. All he had to do was look down. There was only one other direction. But how did he know she didn’t jump? Perhaps he guessed. It doesn’t matter. Coming up here was a mistake, he’s far more agile than she is and in her condition she’ll never outrun him. There’s nowhere to go anymore. No place to go but down.
         They stare at each other across the last gap. He doesn’t move toward her, instead standing with the balls of his feet balanced on the edge of the roof, holding his position without any hint of trembling effort. The wind rustles his hair, blowing strands across his eyes, none of which he makes a move to brush away. He’s sweating, but it’s quickly drying in the chill. His heartbeat is steady, implacable. Two more steps and she’s dead. Two more steps. That’s all. It’s too simple. It shouldn’t be that easy. She should care more. But she doesn’t. Not anymore.
         Still, she has to go through the motions. It’s expected of her, of course. Swinging her legs around toward the descending portion of the roof, she begins to slide down. It’s possible she has just enough strength for a jump. If she times it right she can wait until just when she hits the gap and then jump back behind him, perhaps to where this all started. Misdirection. It’s the key. It might be the slim advantage that she needs.
         She’s sliding down now, her momentum unchecked, the tip of the roof already a forgone memory, a place that she visited in another life, when she was another person. Her mind prepares the weaves and calculations necessary to make the jump, actions she’s done a million times before, always coming to her naturally. It’s a struggle this time, straining broken thoughts through a mesh far too tiny to accommodate the mess her mind has become. The edge beckons now, rushing closer and closer. Far away she feels the roof shudder as he lands on it, feet scratching and scrambling to continue the chase. He won’t reach her. There’s no time. Not anymore. She doesn’t dare look behind her. It won’t matter. No matter how close his face is, it’ll be too far away soon enough.
         Another second. The air ripples and begins to bend.
         His voice cries out again, unintelligible.
         Two views overlap, a picture going out of focus, revealing an invisible kingdom at the foundation of your vision. The familiar tugging begins.
         She feels more than sees the flash behind her.
         The wind has stopped for some reason.
         The edge of the lip is at her feet. She can barely see it.
         Only another fraction of a second of a moment.
         A sharp, cold sensation tears through her shoulder suddenly and too easily and the world breaks down into jagged fragments. The jump falls apart and everything shifts into too clear focus. But nothing is clear. There’s no time to even scream. Something stops her from doing the stupid thing and putting her hand on her shoulder. There’s a red glow burning into the side of her face but there’s no heat. How strange. How utterly strange. Her clothes are becoming wet and heavy. She can’t see what happened. She knows instantly.
         Even as she plunges off the edge of the roof, she knows.
         The fall is not as far as she fears and is over far too quickly. Too soon she’s on the ground, her face pressed into the dirt, too numb for tears, too agonized to howl. She can’t feel her left arm and her other shoulder is acting broken, a grinding spike of pain slowly being wound around the joint. It hurts to breathe and she swears that something is shifting inside of her with every inhalation. Weakly coughing, she tastes blood. The red glow hasn’t faded at all. By now she thought she would have gone blind. It hurts the least of all.
         A moment later he’s there, the light tap of his landing a graceful counterpoint to her own graceless plummet. His shadow falls across her but in this narrow space it feels no different. It’s already cold here. It’s so hard to see. With surprising gentleness he tugs at something in her body, and the light expands, bleeding into the air, tainting it crimson. This is it, then. Where it ends.
         Somewhere, deep inside her mind, behind a door she thought she had closed, a voice whispers, Let me in.
         Distantly she hears blended voices speaking, abruptly stop and then the retreating thunder of running footsteps.
         Let me in, the voice whispers again. I can help you. You know I can.
         Above her, the man murmurs, “She’s my daughter, you see. I’m afraid I couldn’t just let you go.”
         You know how to let me in.
         “So why don’t you tell me where they are.”
         Do it.
         He’s not touching her. She can’t stop from shuddering. There’s a spring slowly uncoiling in her mind and when it finishes unraveling she’ll be done. She doesn’t want to die. Not here. Not with him.
         “And maybe I can help you.”
         Do it, the voice cajoles again.
         And this time she listens.
         And open the door.
         And lets it in.
         “How does that sound?”
         Excellent.
         And she has only one second to let her lips twitch into a blood speckled smile.
         Before she lets go one more time.
         And is gone.