The moment the sun bid farewell, candles of red burned behind the closed door of the Fifth Church of Blood. Monks of grey beards gathered in the main hall. Each one held a candle in their hands, while a white cloth bound their sight. Even covered, their eyes radiated a weak glow.
The smoke thickened with incense and iron scents, wrapping its presence between every cold stone. Two columns of worn-out robes and hidden faces under hoods started humming in a low voice, three steps apart. A gong reverberated from the empty upper gallery.
"Þū gehȳrdest his stefn." The voices echoed between the columns supporting the high arches.
The west side door revealed three women clothed in the same robe as the monk, but without eyes blocked. The first one with a ring of white on her left sleeve had a white bread put on an iron plate.
"Þū hæfst giefu."
Following closely behind, the middle woman stepped with caution to not spill any liquid from a golden cup. Her right sleeve harbored the same white ring.
"Befōh hit."
When the trio reached the altar at the center, they rested the bread first, then the cup, and a small incense burner of darkened steel on the stone table. The smoke covered the flat surface, expanding to its edge before falling on the ground, covering the used stones.
At the same time, the last women with a ring of white around the neck put her hands over her eyes, the others followed. With the three facing different sides of the stone table, only the east was opened by two columns of monks. Faint footsteps echoed in the hall.
A small breeze enveloped the rising smoke before the east door opened. A monk with a white scarf falling on his shoulder led a man in his thirties. "You heard his voice." The voice wasn't old.
The man nodded. His legs were trembling. The cold made his skin crawl with waves as his clothes fell on the stone. He cast one look at the monk next to him. There was no response. He gulped and dropped his underwear. One hand covered his penis while the other tightened against his opposite arm.
The leading monk advanced, but not toward the two human-made columns, to the side, toward the left corridor. No light came from the other side of the stained glass windows. No city, only the church. Step by step, the man followed the monk. His sole hit a wooden bench. The monk didn't pause.
Multiple eyes painted on the glass seemed to follow the man. Each time he cast a glance at them, they met his gaze, no matter the angle. He bumped against the monk. "...Sorry. I, I didn't."
The monk exhaled and continued at a slower pace for the second round along the main hall's walls. Wax dropped on the floor in silence. The man shivered. Both hands rubbed his arms, giving a hint of warmth.
When they passed for the third time behind the stone table on the north side, the man couldn't stop in time and fell. "Damn." He heard his knee cracking but no pain called. Back to the east side, in front of the door, was carved on the stone a basin of bottomless darkness.
He froze, it wasn't there before.
"You have a gift." The monk waited next to the basin.
The man's eyes hurt. He shook his head. "...No, don't." He stepped back. His back touched a pillar. The door on the left was closed. It didn't move, no matter how hard he forced the handle. The smoke filled his lungs. He coughed.
He glanced at the monks in vertical rows, they didn't move. The white scarf also remained in the same position. His heartbeat accelerated. Left leg, then right one, nine meters away from the basin, he sprinted and slammed into the door. It didn't budge. "Fuck... it hurts."
He crawled on hands and knees, hitting another wooden. Sweat covered his forehead. The main entrance, closed. His right foot tripped against an uneven stone. He rolled forward without injury. He grabbed a six-branched candelabrum, empty of any candles to hit another door.
The metal bent. The exit stayed closed. He screamed, but the voice remained in his ears. He closed his eyes. Tears ran down his cheekbones. Only one question stayed in his mind, why?
"Embrace it."
He opened his eyes. His heart stopped for a second. In front of him, the basin. He looked back. Gone were the monks. Just him. No doors. He opened his mouth. No sound escaped. One foot advanced. The other followed then stopped, above the basin. The liquid reflected none of his body.
He closed his eyes. Gravity dragged him hard. It was cold. He couldn't breathe. Viscosity glided along his feet, legs, torso to his head and above. Time seemed to freeze. He wasn't dead, but no air filled his lungs.
First, he heard distant whispers, then his feet impacted reality.
In front of him, the two columns of monks. Behind him waited the one with the white scarf.
He walked, but this time the cold didn't bother him. "Þū gehȳrdest his stefn" He passed the first row of monks. His back straightened. "Þū hæfst giefu" The monks he passed dropped to their knees. "Befōh hit" He inhaled one step away from the stone table.
"You heard his voice." The woman on the left said. "You have a gift." Came from the right side. "Embrace it." The three women turned their backs to the table.
The bread melted on his tongue. That was nothing like wheat, richer in taste, crunchy and yet melting. The savor turned into a juicy aftertaste of earth.
The golden cup weighed more than one hand could bear. Traces of broken lines covered one side, and no liquid escaped. Dark, almost opaque, with a warmth that clung to the throat. A weak, but present liquid fire filled his body with vitality.
From the table, the incense burner floated in one motion into his hands. The surface dulled by age and smoke burned his flesh. Blood flooded from the cauterized cut, and the smoke multiplied. Multiple threads dripped on the stones below. He exhaled.
A white scarf was placed on his shoulder. The monk behind him no longer hid his young face under the hood. The redhead made a triangle in the air and the man mirrored it. In the distance, a bell echoed ten o'clock at night.
The motorbike slowed down. One more corner and it would reach its destination, Park Row Street. Even after Eleven, small groups gathered in alleys, smoking and whispering, but none came near the motorbike. A clown duo laughed on the ground while a man in a black suit covered in vomit lay unconscious.
The rider stopped at the streetlight, meters away from the clown with green hair. A mother sped up to shut her door in the building next to them. The rider approached the duo. The second clown smiled wider as the rider crouched down to touch the unconscious man. Bit of blood dried up on the skull's side.
"Don't bother." The clown with red nose makeup took a puff. "Our little friend here is all out of cash."
"We squeezed him dry." The green-haired one nodded, accepting the cigarette.
They laughed again. The rider remained silent, his hand on the man's head for a full minute.
"...Looks like a psychic, gotta call the Bat." The red nose clown put his hand on his friend, who retrieved a spray paint from his pocket. The metallic bottom witnessed a dent, stained with a hint of red.
The rider returned to his motorbike, followed by the clown. Hands in pockets they didn't bother hiding their intentions. He stored his helmet when a white glove shut the motorbike's compartment.
The redhead sneered at the clowns. The green-haired clown didn't have the time to react when a black-suited arm wrapped around his neck. The red nose one turned his head to meet the black suit man's unfocused gaze, a faint trace of red circled his iris. A pair of arms blocked the clown's oxygen, like his friend, he saw the cloudy sky before nothing.
A bit more than a minute later, the black-suited man dropped to the ground, sleeping. The two clowns stood motionless near the motorbike, a hint of red around the pupil before it disappeared like the rider crossing the Park Row for the next street.
From a distance, a lone figure stood under the dim streetlight, one foot against the Playhouse Lantern's wall. Tall for his age, though its tense posture ready to pounce on anything, hid his real height. Despite the dark hoodie hiding most of his face, the redhead recognized him at first glance.
Three quarters late and still waiting. Isaac didn't disappoint him. He pressed the shutdown button just as his phone began to vibrate. Isaac hit the wall with the back of his head before walking another round. Humidity stuck to his jacket.
The redhead sprinted toward the entrance. The door opened before he could reach the handle. A concession worker let him pass as he took a deep breath of cold air. A lot more degrees greeted him inside. Amber lights glowed from lantern shaped fixtures along the walls, flickering with every movement.
He passed a woman dressed like a waitress, a broom in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. Her thin neck and narrow wrist betrayed her small frame. He noticed her familiar green eyes darting around the velvet floor, searching for the wasted popcorn, tissues and other unwanted. Dark bags and deep wrinkles under the eyes made her look older than she was, despite her healthy brown hair.
On the second floor, the redhead looked through the windows at the teenager finishing another round outside, arms crossed, still waiting. Behind, the doors opened for a technician carrying a lighting rig, the weight of the equipment demanding all his focus as he stepped into the room marked '2G'.
Almost two hours, time was ripped.
The redhead's eyes glowed red for a second. Across the street, at the junction to Park Row, a figure kicked a trash bin into the alley as he sprayed yellow under a fading neon. The sound, then the color pulled Isaac's attention. Still no blessing in sight. He descended the floor, crossed the street, and watched from behind a parked car. A bird of black feathers perched on a window's edge.
"Try again." A voice whispered.
The fight was quick. Anger present, but not what he waited for. The stimulation wasn't enough. The redhead dashed back toward his motorbike on the other street. The red nose clown and the black suit man stood up. With the strength of three, they had no trouble choking out a group of sleeping men and women slumped against a brick wall.
They dropped a syringe, scratched the sleeves en even kicked the man in the groin to no avail. Six might do, but he wasn't certain. He glanced at the group. Rags, cracked lips, damaged arms with blue dots, they were too weak. He had to move fast. With eight people, three more should do easily.
The group advanced, growing to the amount needed, but in the dark alley, there wasn't a lone Isaac. Two more visitors sandwiched the teenager. One smaller figure on top of Isaac, flattened against the concrete. There was a pulse, from two sources.
The red nose clown pounced on the Darknight, followed by a grey bearded man and a white haired grandma, while the black suit man and the junkies circled around the target, swinging a baseball bat or glass bottles before one of them got stuck in green slime.
The redhead's hand grabbed Isaac out of the alley, but his gaze focused not on him or Batman, but on the other figure convulsing on the ground. A new scent. A harsh caw followed the duo mounting a black motorbike.
Towering brick warehouses, a cold silhouette of half shattered windows carried the scent of old machinery and the bitterness of burnt oil. Inside, dust covered the broken panes and torn cardboard used for fortune beds alike.
Unbothered by the smell, Silas parked his motorbike, and pulled a pale red frame to the side, revealing its interior. Inside the hangar, empty wooden boxes lay among torn rail bars. He dragged Isaac on a rectangular one for both to sit while twenty meters in front, another box with a fading red marking 'FRA.IL.'.
"What are you doing, Silas?" Isaac flinched.
"Wait a moment." Silas murmured, eyes half closed. One hand pressed against Isaac's skull. "I need to focus."
Isaac's breath quickened. Thirty seconds passed. Silas didn't stop. "I, don't swing that way."
"...Shhshhhhh..."
Pale light leaking through the roof reached a loose sheet of metal. Its subtle move echoed through the empty halls. Isaac swiped his forehead, displacing his wet and messy hair. Like a small needle, a dot on his brain, ticked. A bit stronger. Chains hung from the ceiling sang a complaint. "My head hurts."
Silas stayed silent, breathing slowly. Then removed his hand and walked to the box in front of them. Isaac noticed a crowbar on its side. It was too familiar. He opened his mouth, the tongue rolled up, but no word escaped.
The crowbar in hands, Silas put the flat head against the box's side edge, into a split between the wooden planks. A kick sank the bite deeper, enough for it to hiss. Casting one glance at Isaac, he rolled up his shoulder before taking grip at the end of the crowbar for maximum traction.
With one pull motion, the plank deformed but didn't open. Iron nails relaxed. He inhaled. The plank broke.
Isaac froze. Crawling on the ground, a feminine figure.
"You can save her." Silas lifted his arm high. The red color stayed hidden from any light. He didn't speed up when Isaac trashed away his sitting box to sprint toward him. "Show me." He said when the metal gained speed.
Fire filled his lungs, but Isaac didn't care. One second, and half the distance crossed, but it wasn't enough. The familiar hairstyle and thin figure he saw every morning stared motionless. The deafening impact already crushed part of it when he grabbed the body without stopping, not caring for the box scarring his face.
He stumbled meters away against metal mesh and forsaken dog food cans, protecting what was in his arms. His eyes saw the world in red. "...Silas."
The trace was there, like before, but no clear signature. Silas nodded. It was enough for now.
Silas lowered the crowbar. The body in Isaac's arms shimmered, then dissolved into a gathering of black feathers. In the center of its mess, a single red eye stared at nothing. Isaac tightened his embrace. It was cold. It wasn't her. Thanks god it wasn't her.
"Do you heard his voice?"
"Motherfucker."
The raven corpse exploded behind Silas. Isaac's fingers clawed the redhead's vest, piercing small holes on the fabric while a familiar click made Isaac stepped back, a metal barrel pointing at his stomach. Silas stared at Isaac for another minute. His teeth clenched hard. A bit calmer, but more would lead to something he didn't want to see.
"The clown you attacked before... left alive. They won't forget either. And you running around for your target..." Silas put the weapon back in his pocket. "You also want to protect your mother, right?"
Isaac's fist made his knuckles white. His head lowered, and his stare returned to the redhead.
"You'll need more than just anger."
Silas waited for an answer that never came. He let out a sigh. Isaac needed more time. He stepped in. His face, one inch from the other, vulnerable. With a slow but constant speed, he took out the gun once more, but this time the barrel and the trigger on his side.
"Here, take that, my friend." Silas held the gun.
Isaac blinked. Once. Another one. His breathing hurt his chest, beating hard and slow. The cold embraced his palm. Heavy of a duty he couldn't accomplish at that time. Someone patted his shoulder. His eyes fixed the darkness on the ground.
He stood there. The wind carried the echo of a fleeting engine. The feathers slid to the side. He couldn't feel his fingers. The barrel reached his temple. There was no one to stop it. The index on the trigger stayed locked. One feather dissolved.
Just one more step, and maybe this dream would finally end. His index trembled. He wanted a sign. Someone, anyone, to save him. Only the silence responded. His vision blurred for a second. The splash of ink on the sea of grey was gone. Was it truly there at the beginning? He lowered his arm, nobody could escape, he couldn't.
Even during the last hour of allowed subway traffic, people pushed thones in front of them to enter the wagon. Since seven lines were still under maintenance, the other thirteen, especially the H4 and H6, which partially replaced the H5 were overwhelmed by an unexpected crowd.
A teenager with a gold chain around his neck threw an empty beer can onto the tracks, a girl under his arm. Another friend in a dirty white suit pushed him away to take a selfie with the other girl. He stepped back, his shoe flattened less than a millimeter of Isaac's reinforced boot.
His hand grabbed the golden chain and the white collar. He barely registered his fingers motion, and slammed him against the ground. The shock reached his brain two seconds too late.
People stepped back, clearing space around him. Some walked away toward the exit. One minute until the next train.
On the ground, the teenager grimaced. "...Dude?" His hand brushed the dust off his clothes as his friend pulled him up. He looked at the girl's red cheeks and lifting lips. He noticed the thinning crowd feet away. "Got a problem, you sucker?"
The words didn't make sense, only a blend of different frequencies reached his ears. Isaac sidestepped the punch, his knee raised at the same time. The teenager dropped to the ground. Tears swelled up on his face.
Automatic voice announced the train at the same time one girl dragged him near the closest wall, while the teenager in a white suit tried to kick Isaac on the shoulder. His action had already started, but the second girl jumped in between. "Sto..."
Her words never came out. Isaac's right hook deviated the other teenager's foot, which ended up on the girl's throat. The jab with his left arm dug deeply into the teenager's ribs, propelling him away. His upper body hung over the platform edge. A small trace of red colored his side.
Isaac's ribs trembled. It wasn't him. Yellow light became brighter. One girl screamed. The rails screeched, but the train couldn't stop. His pupil dilated. That face, wasn't it his own? He rushed forward as the yellow colored more than the white.
Isaac released the teenager's leg. His nose burned red, yet he was breathing. One second too late, and... His shoulder rammed into a man in a green uniform, who yelped in pain as Isaac sprinted toward the surface. He needed air. Anywhere but here.
He gritted his teeth. Green light above cars streamed at every intersection while yellow light cut through the alleys, and pale white leaked from the closed shops. All watching his every step. He stopped only when the street no longer showed him where to go.
A few men on the sidewalks lifted their mugs to sip, a dog sleeping at their side, its tail wagging a bit. The farther he advanced, the more rags and patched-up overcoat fought against the night. Yet many held a mug, a plastic drink, or a cardboard cup.
He passed a building split in half, a bonfire burning on the second floor. The air was fresh but none calmed his lungs. His legs advanced before he noticed the pothole. He saw his body almost falling, but his other leg stomped in front to continue.
At the edge of the square, he sat down. The stone surface smooth by years of use offered no resistance to his hands. He didn't want to. Liquid covered his sight. The gentle sound of dripping and splashing masked the distant noise his head.
Despite the mineral all around, he wasn't suffocating, his mouth just above the surface. His blood slowed down. His fingers tingled as if they were returning from somewhere far away. No stars in the sky, or maybe he couldn't see them. His back followed the curve of the basin, slightly undulating.
Ripples distorted the surroundings like a moving mirror. "Isaac." A whisper made him leave the water.
Violet eyes reflected the fire burning away. Her hand reached for his face, cutting off anything he wanted to say. A faint scent of sweetness filled his nose. Her face contracted for less than a second before returning to its calm. Her palm paused against the corner of his blueish lips. Warmth bloomed under her touch.
Water drops pearled on her hand. "Like them, you carry so much pain." She brushed away the black hair hiding above his eyebrow.
Isaac gulped. His breath was stable. Under the blue robe, a rectangular shape sided to her side while a grocery bag awaited at her feet. That was the same, back under the bridge. She told him something similar at that time.
Water dripped from his hair. Her voice wasn't this close. He remembered. "Fear." He said.
A budding smile rose. She nodded. Her hand returned to her side. "Anger."
He inhaled. The smell of industrial food filled his lungs for the last word. "Hunger." He accepted the half drunk tomato cup, but didn't drink. His head slowly turned left as he put his free hand above his eyebrow, as if it could help seeing behind obstacles.
She let out a chuckle. The cup was at her face level. Her gaze seized him, trembling. Both hands stabilized the drink for one sip. He smiled, then drank the remaining in one go. She shook her head.
"Next time Isaac." She lifted the grocery bag.
Without thinking, his hand grabbed toward her arm. The blue fabric avoided it. His shoulder lowered. "...I, I. Can you... Wait a moment." He let himself drop, back against the mineral texture. She took a seat on the fountain's edge, the stone barely shifting under her weight. The sky was lighter, without a sun. He had to go home. He left first.