✄❀ challenge 43

“Could have been worse,” the Phoenix Tower clinic technicians had said, only half able to smile. His wounds were quite the challenge to smile at.

His shoulder had been cut deep by the shovel. In addition, the deep cut had further ripped its way down his arm and several square inches of flesh had to be patched back on. Ritz was still dazed. He wondered if he should have brought up the Troupe to Ran. He wondered if he should have bothered listening to Val’s story at all. It was as though the cosmos had unfairly decided that this knowledge meant he was ready for a new challenge when he was barely even able to handle the old routine.

“You’ll be able to move it in an emergency, but I’d advise you take it easy for the next few weeks,” the doctor on duty told him. Unlike the public hospital doctors, this man looked spry and interested in what he had to say, which was nothing. “Now let’s take a look at the rest.”

There were a variety of fresh cuts on his arms and legs from what had flung him off the upper floors.

The invisible, stringlike attacks still mystified him but all he could picture for the first few days was the shovel. Magic and swords were one thing, a formality even in a tough battle. But a shovel?

The noise of the blade dragging through dirt seemed to resume whenever the room attained silence. The slow, inevitable crunch that came after the swing, a shower of dirt and roots and rotten petals.

She must have learned that modern tools made for better performances.

—

More on the mysterious body dumper whose handiwork was discovered last month, who has struck again after over a week’s silence. Over to you, Bob.

Thanks Lia, I – ah – I’m standing out in a park between South and Central where the latest discoveries were made this morning, around 6 am, by commuters headed for the Central Commerce Area. You can see this place in the grass blocked off with the – I can’t get much closer than this – this police tape that’s where three coworkers found a severed foot. We also got wind that an arm, no hand, just an arm, was found closer to Central-East.

Awful, just awful. Are the police expecting to find more?

Police are canvassing the area for anything missed, for now this looks to be it but it definitely seems to be the repeated work of a single offender and not a mistake as some believed when the parts first surfaced. The body parts – oh, uh, let me get the picture up – you can see here the body parts were in a similar condition-

The audience won’t see it, Bob, but keep going. Describe it for us.

Well, they were in a similar condition to those found in the last attacks – well, I don’t want to call them attacks. Like last time, a witness told us: the skin was gray and hardened, nails black and chipped but there- hear this – no blood. The muscles were long dried out and had taken on a hardened texture. These people, the owners of these parts, were probably long dead before the dumpings happened, most likely killed even before they were dismembered.

Now I’m sure that’s a relief for our sensitive viewers.

It sure is, Lia. Now the evidence is so old that the police still have no concrete leads but we do have some theories from our viewers like this gentleman here in front of Blue’s Books and Cigarettes. So Blue, what do you think-

—

Magnus visited, eventually. His arrival got a boisterous greeting from the attendants (one had to be on duty at all times when Ritz had come in, and nobody had lifted the order.) Sweeping through the powder blue curtains, he held a hand out to Ritz. His left. Ritz held out his left and shook it, crinkling his bandages but otherwise natural. Magnus nodded to the staff then at Ritz. “Arm doesn’t hurt?”

“No. Not at all.” Ritz began to swing his arm wildly to demonstrate but Magnus halted him with a silent smile.

“Of course. Ready for another challenge already?”

“No. No. But… there’s time.”

“Is there. Well, lucky for you.”

“Yes. I… uh… your people have been outstanding.”

“I’d expect them to be. But they aren’t miracle workers. Your arm might feel fine, but that’s just because you’ve been shot full of painkillers. Overdo it and-” Magnus pantomimed his arm falling out. “Maybe not to that extreme.”

Ritz rubbed his shoulder. Magnus sighed.

“The docs say you aren’t afraid of needles. But you won’t take pills.”

“Your doctor didn’t give me any.”

“Because we knew. We have all your medical records here.”

“What? Why?”

“Since we’ve scraped you up twice now, it’s our duty to know if there’s any strange allergies or quirks you might have. That we aren’t gonna kill you with sugar or something.”

“I don’t think people die of sugar.”

“Huh. I wouldn’t know what they taught you in school.”

Ritz jumped to his feet.

“You and Val know more about me than I do.”

“Hey, hey, just kidding. Actually, your school records are one of the few I don’t have…”

The nurses dodged their path.

“You are free to stay longer. Even if you’d prefer to sleep here, I can arrange a keycard for you.”

“No. I am going.”

“Stiff as ever.”

Slightly rattled, slightly annoyed, Ritz collected his bad from the chair by the door. Magnus followed him out but stopped at the doorway, where he leant and crossed his arms.

“I know a lot. But I’m weak shit. I can’t stop you from doing what you have to. But someone else might. Hell, you might kill yourself with this… revenge plan before it goes through. And that wouldn’t be very fitting for anyone.”

Ritz looked down into the busy rings of hallway in the floors below.

“You live in what people call a modern age. There’s nothing wrong with taking advantage of it and not dying like a rabbit. I watched all your shows. The Troupe’s shows. I was a kid then but I tracked down the tapes. The performance is everything, right?”

“Stop. You don’t know…”

“She had something new when you saw her, didn’t she? Something you didn’t see in the 40-odd times before.”

Ritz felt his stomach churn again.

“I’m not too strong, but I’m good at looking for things. But not everything is answered just by watching the tape or hearing the story. Always kind of wondered what the Asahara Troupe was like. Their sentencing was one of the reasons I decided to come here. There was something about their acts that put grace in violence. They seemed inhuman. Down to how they finally ended.”

“But they didn’t end.”

“Right. There’s the massacre you saw.”

“And now. There’s still Ran… and…”

“Just make sure you can put on a good show when the time comes.”

Ritz paused. He turned was mournfully prepared to convey his understanding, but Magnus’s smug face stopped him on sight. The man could really offset his voice from his expression. So instead Ritz spat (to the horror of the nurses) and jumped down.

—

The Phoenix Tower’s clinic had called and excused him from work for the week, and his bosses had recommended he take as much time as he needed. For once he took them up on their offer, though he knew he would change his mind within a few days. In any case, the first few days were spent sleeping on his decrepit mattress, waking only for the triangle from the toilet, the bakery 10 minutes away, and back to bed, where he ate.

He relaxed. Indignantly he thought, Here, is this taking it easy enough for Magnus’s doctors? but that was as aggressive as it got. He was relaxed. At ease after the rush of learning – or being reminded of – who the Society was. Where the elders came from.

It must have been almost ten years since he had run from the low ceilinged room where Ran was busy killing everyone he’d ever known. A patrol car picked him up and he had been sent to a home for lost kids. He was the only one there. Kids weren’t usually abandoned. There weren’t enough of them. So all the love and excess was poured onto him. The ‘modern society’ as Magnus called it. There had been so much to learn.

Everything astounded and frightened him. Cars, skyscrapers, people of different colors and sizes with alien languages and all kinds of funny, ungraceful habits who screamed when they saw blood. Machines and food caked in oil. Trees that grew out of control and flowers with broken necks and meaty petals, in gaudy colors and wrapped in bundles the size of a person…

He stopped looking once the Old Church entered his sights.

Five years ago. Just before he’d started living on his own. The mother at the Home said,

Why don’t you get out there and make some friends?

The nice father said,

Have some fun…

The priest who dropped by every so often, who seemed to own the building:

God be with you.

The priest was from the big white church at the center of the city. The real Church was something else he had completely ignored when it didn’t need to be used for comparison with the Old Church. It was a faraway fantasy castle to his small mind and its dark, dingy focus on the broken down monster in the suburbs.

It really wasn’t too far a walk. Nearly every bus line ended up there eventually.

The body parts had been discovered that week around Central area.

A roach scuttled over his foot. Ritz kicked it to the air then swung and flattened it against the wall to the screeching protest of his noise-sensitive neighbor. Its little corpse slid down and at the same time he sprang up. He jumped into the first pair of clothes he could find and absently grabbed his bag before heading out the door. Time to live a little.

Have fun.

—

An ocean of black, black veils and coats and shoes. Sweating in the beautiful daytime sun, meteing out throaty whispers, coughs and the odd sob. The buses to Central district were loaded with commuters, and they were all in black. Anyone who appeared to have missed the memo and wore their whites or reds huddled shamefully in the standing room near the door and made a hasty escape as soon as they could.

Ritz by luck owned nothing but black clothing, except for his hardy S2 gardening jumpsuit which only managed a dark blue-gray after years of bleaching. So his black shirt and pants, coupled with his constant grimace and aversion to small talk, made him fit right in. He settled as subtly as he could into a cramped seat beside an elderly man in a black hat, black tie, black shirt and black pants.

He fit right in and that put his nerves right on a knife’s edge. All black and hushed, not a smile for miles – it was like a school assembly.

The old man fell asleep, mouth wide and a stream of saliva on his shoulder.

Assemblies were grave affairs. They meant speeches. They meant someone was married or born. Or had failed the clan.

Another sob came from somewhere he couldn’t see.

Ritz pulled himself to his feet, hugging his bag in front of him and stumbled out at the next stop. He was the only one to get out.

A bus full of pale, black clothed, black eyed shadows watched him, heads turning in unison, as the bull pulled away and they continued on their way to a more convenient stop.

Several city blocks down, the four pearl steeples of the Church stood gleaming above the surrounding park and office blocks. Ritz had felt bad that he had ignored the place, but in reality his single poorly enunciated acknowledgements meant nothing. The true Church was a behemoth, it commanded more than enough attention on a daily basis. Its towers were perfectly cleaned, each multicolored glass window perfectly constructed, not a chip or hole in the wall , not a missing pane and absolutely no fallen pillars. It was over five times the size of the Old Church, sealed and shining, and had probably no reason to ever give a thought to what happened to its pitiful cousin.

The modern age. What kind of performances did the priests give? The crowds flocked in on the weekends, chattering in their best dress. The priests always wore black.

Of course, everyone was wearing black today too.

In his eyes still hung the images of the bus crowd, dead ringers for the grim front line at an assembly.

The sun was at its peak, smiling down on this very special day, and Ritz, scarfed and encased in black, was blistering. He mildly regretting getting off the bus so far from his destination. The doctors would be upset. Well, things could be worse. The rooftops were too far apart to run anyway. He was happy to stick to the ground.

—

“Don’t get involved with the Church if you can help it,” Sal warned him.

“Here we go again,” Shel groaned.

It was at the start of the year, and they were tying together triangular arrangements of bell-shaped flowers. There were fifty arrangements to be made and each one was half his height, all arranged to be sent to one address. Ritz had no idea how a single address would accommodate them all, and what a single person would do with them.

“Oh, I’m not about to go burning the place down,” Sal said while Shel continued groaning distastefully, “They are our best customers.”

“I think Long Corp’s a better buyer.”

“Long stands out because he buys on our slow seasons. Church really blows its load all year round, doubling up on Christmas and Easter and all that.”

“Hmmm…”

“Anyway, that’s not the point. Their business is good. But there’s something about their practice.”

“I don’t know, Sal, they’re more or less like the Bible thumpers we used to see in the-”

“But don’t you get it, that’s what’s off about the whole thing.” Sal cut several lengths of tape. “Half of is fine, it’s perfect. They got their nice, smiling men in black with their silly speeches and everyone’s listening, hugs and kisses and rainbows. It’s the other half. The ones who guard when the fat cats- the ones who would normally have nothing to do with God- for whatever reason head into that fortress. The ones they say beat intruders to a pulp for crossing the grounds on closed day. The dead eye guys. And you know what, come to think of it, they’re men in black too. Maybe it’s not that part that spooks me so much that both of them seem to live under one roof. You see a guy in black and never know if he’s gonna put in a prayer for you or rip your head off.“

“Wow, you’re Len 2.0 up in here. Tell me more about conspiracy the rich have with the evil priests.”

“You telling me that beatdown on the news the other day doesn’t mean anything?”

“Hey, the guy just said it was the priests like he said he hadn’t been drinking and trying to drive a car into the church wall.”

“How about what happened to the car? It wasn’t a wall that did that-”

“He’s not scared,” Shel scoffed, then came to watch their progress. “Damn, he’s fast though!”

“Shit, you’re a lifesaver,” Sal laughed, slapping Ritz on the back.

“Looks like I won’t have to get my hands dirty today. Want some coffee?”

Sal laughed loudly then turned back to Ritz. “Look, Ritz, what I’m saying is, you see a guy in head to toe black on the street you give ‘em space.“

Never thought it would be difficult.

The streets in present day were teeming with men, women and children in black, solemn and as quiet as a crowd could manage. None of them looked particularly ‘full of rainbows’ as Sal had said the normal priests looked, but there was little chance these were all priests.

Pulled by the tide of bodies, Ritz trudged into the green parkland surrounding the Southern face of the church. The wall hung over them, glittering for them with the tiny flecks of color trapped in the small white tiles that composed it. Ritz ran his hand over the wall as he passed.

The group slowed to a crawl, and formed a line to the front of the church. But rather than entering, they were congregating under some the shade of wide white canopies. Each had a pointed roof and space for several large cars underneath. The gathering was covering a ground that made Phoenix Tower’s pavillion look like a stage for ants. There was low murmuring all throughout the air, almost lulling him to sleep until a few clear words came from somewhere ahead.

“And how did you know the poor man?”

“Oh, you see, I always spoke with him in the mornings and his family told me–”

A small row of tables lay between the line and the tents. Someone was being questioned. Ritz heard the question again, “How did you know the man?”

The line moved down. He saw at the table nearest to him, a tearful women shook hands with a man in a long black coat and large hands covered in mean, purple scars.

Ritz hurried to relinquish his place in line. He headed for the back and bumped into a group of nervous looking students and thankfully they did not seem upset. But when they pulled up their kind smiles he could also tell they weren’t particularly happy.

“Be careful,” one said softly with a face like a prisoner headed for judgment.

“I know it’s hard,” another said in a hushed tone.

“If you need time, we can wait with you,” offered a third.

“No thanks,” Ritz stammered a bit too loudly.

“It’s alright, we all feel the same,” said the first patting his shoulder as he passed. “How did you know the man?”

His cue to hurry away.

“Stay strong!”

Ritz toed his way out of the crowd, his back against the spotless white wall, cradling his bag high in hopes of avoiding more bizarre looks and words of comfort. He wriggled free and ran for the empty area of the park on the opposite side of the church. Rounding the tower at the Southeast corner, he saw several dozen trees dotting the landscape, leaves glowing red and amber with the season. Past them, there was a low stone fence and in there…

He closed in on the fence and frowned, dove for a tree and pulled himself up. Rubbing his sore arm once he reached the upper branches he looked out into the slight dip of hill. In a corner there was a slightly worn trail of grass leading to a cluster of gray stones. Most of them were rectangular and waist high, but those closer to the edge of the cluster were tall with pointed towers, or carved with simple shapes and human-like sculptures topping them. They reminded him of the carved hedges in the Eastern neighborhood.

A few steps away from the stones were three men in starched black coats – priests, but what kind? They didn’t seem to notice him. They were talking and looking down the path in a direction Ritz couldn’t see. At their feet they had what looked like a bouquet of white flowers.

A cool breeze flowed through the park. The branches around him rustled calmly, a few of the driest leaves flying free with a crackle. Ritz watched the priests apparently spot what they had been looking for and head towards the building, eventually passing behind one of the towers and disappearing from view.

He decided it wouldn’t be too much of a strain to follow them, but as he moved to drop down, the leaves parted and he saw someone standing at the base of the tree.

He grabbed a branch and froze mid-drop, his heart battering blood against his ears. Below the branches he saw someone in black. Light hair. Crossed arms.

Everyone’s wearing black today. But this one… there’s something different.

Different and he knew it immediately. Pale, his height, no Ran’s height. Ran’s color. Still as snow, not so much as glancing him, but there was no way she wouldn’t have seen him. Out in the daylight, even when he was looking at her from above, she seemed larger, even more monstrous–

His hands were sweating as he unzipped his bag and drew out his sword, brain barely keeping his eyes straight. His arm ached and what little movement he made seemed to explode with noise. His arm swayed. Messed up again. Was it a better idea to run?

Too late to regret it. He needed the sword whether he was going to run or fight.

Still no movement…

He dropped down a branch. Then another. Still no response. He inched towards his route of escape. On more drop, and run. Simple. Just do it.

His boots hit the ground with two quick patters and his muscles coiled for a sprint. That’s when he saw the arm unfold, a hand raised over him, huge and deadly as a bear’s.

Swinging a sword around never took so long. He may have let loose a panicked shout as he did. But thankfully just enough of his scattered training had been hammered in to keep his eyes open. And he saw that he was wrong.

It wasn’t Ran.

It was a man. Instantly he knew they had never met. Never spoken. But he was still familiar.

Upon meeting eyes, they both took a hurried step back (for Ritz it was more of a frog leap.) The man’s swing rushed past, slicing out a pocket of air, Ritz’s sword cut just short with gust of metallic hiss. Then they both awkwardly held in place for a few moments and even more awkwardly, stood up at the same time.

The familiar man spoke first, not that he was any good at it. “I, uh. Sorry.”

“I thought you were someone I knew,” Ritz said haplessly, and lowered the sword against his bag.

He stared at his feet guiltily. A foolish attack over a stupid mistake, and he had struck so slow it would have been a failed attack too. Okay, his sluggishness might have prevented a real disaster. But there was reason to be guarded.

This was a priest. And if it was the beatings Sal knew them for, he was one of the bad ones. He certainly looked like he’d seen some rough housing. There was a bruise on his jaw and both of his hands were bandaged (presumably from landing blows like the one he’d aimed at Ritz). His right eye was obscured with an old bandage and he had a bleary, dull look in his remaining left eye. Definitely not someone he knew, and yet familiar. Maybe it was because he was like a student at the school, but grown. Of course none of Ritz’s classmates had made it to adulthood except him.

So it was more like-

The priest found the words first, “Kinda of like looking in a mirror.” He fidgeted with his collar, which was hiding a long white scarf.

Ritz could only nod.

The priest stared back with his single gray eye and asked stiffly, “Are you here for the funeral?”

Ritz rubbed his eyes.

“How did you know the man?”

—

Having escaped the initial line to avoid the question, Ritz did not have even a lie to give. Instead, he looked at the smatter of red leaves lying in the grass. The priest waited contentedly. He waited so long Ritz thought he might have fallen asleep standing. Then he grunted, “Take as long as you need.”

“I don’t know anyone here. I can go. I’ll go now.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean that you were unwelcome. The grounds are open whether you’re here for the funeral or not. Though weapons are…”

Ritz zipped up his bag and the priest’s glower turned to a slump of relief.

“I apologize if that was out of place. But it’s policy. Enjoy your time here.” And he leaned back against the tree and gazed out onto the hill.

Ritz tugged his bag onto his shoulder but did not leave. Looking at the priest from the back, he really did look a lot like Ran, but then Ran looked quite a bit like Ritz. No wonder he looked so painfully familiar. He even had the bandages. Their meeting was too odd, and surrounded by lines of people dressed like his classmates, he wasn’t quite ready to just brush it all away. If it was a dream, it hadn’t gotten bad yet.

“Who is this man having a funeral?” Ritz asked.

The priest frowned, but just briefly. “I admit I didn’t know him very well either. He came from before my time. I learned he was a longtime friend of the Church.”

“Are you here for the event too, then?”

“Also have to admit, I don’t love funerals. Nobody does but I never know how to act in front of all those people.”

“Yes…” Ritz said with some certainty, though he wasn’t really thinking of funerals.

“But I suppose the man would appreciate everyone who came to pay their respects. In fact I am afraid I can’t pay enough. I can only hope that so many others can cover for my lack of it. They do genuinely care. I know little about the man but I know that he did not require anyone to be here, they are here of free will and kindness, which is all we can ask in his stead.”

“So… are you here for him or not?”

“I have to be here. I work for the Church.”

Ritz was confused. “But why aren’t you at the front?”

“I’m not a greeter. And funerals are more than just the gathering. Besides, I can never stand the speeches… they are always so upsetting.”

Ritz considered. S2 stocked funeral cards, but nobody seemed to buy them so Ritz wasn’t sure what attitude someone should adopt looking to celebrate a funeral. The cards had messages were generic, cheerless and implied nothing so he didn’t give them much thought, lumping them with other mysterious nondescript cards nobody bought, like for Serenity and Platinum Anniversaries.

“My condolences,” Ritz recited. “I am not good at speeches either.”

The priest scratched at the sleeve of his coat. “That’s not exactly the case. The speech writers are professionals. But it’s not them, it’s the guy…”

“He insults the Church?”

“In a way.”

“So bad? Then… face him.” Knowing he would take issue if someone had told him to do the same with Ran, he added, “You do not see like someone who would need to be scared.”

The priest was confused. “Let who know?”

“The man who is holding the funeral.”

“Uh. I may not have been clear. The man I spoke of, this is his funeral.”

“So he is here?”

“His funeral. I… I’ll say it simply, he is dead.”

Ritz was lost.

“And that’s the issue.” The priest shook his head, but like the black clothed visitors, his voice remained soft. “I don’t know what you may be thinking, but here is the truth. He was like any of our elders.

He beat his wife and children and wasted money, which is why he ended up here. He transparently blamed it all on others. He died on a combination of alcohol and some noxious plant. But look how many people are here mourning him. They talk about what a good man he was. He was a ‘father,’ and ‘husband.’ Or a ‘comrade.’ Just because he is gone. Like dying was something he did willfully, for others. It’s not true. Nobody is willing to die. No matter what they say.

There was an embarrassed grunt. “Do you ever think you’ll end up like that?”

Ritz’s expression indicated that he did not follow. The priest’s face went blank, and he stared back out at the hill. “It may be selfish but I do hope that I get remembered as more than I was. I think I will be. People are like that. Kind to the dead.”

“I thought the dead were for strengthening the barriers. They don’t have a need for kindness.”

Now the priest was taken aback. “Excuse me?”

Ritz stood beside him and stared out at the little cluster of rocks on the hill. “I can’t believe all those people are here for a dead man. There really is so much I haven’t learned.”

“I have to ask: where are you from?”

“I’m from here.” It was a question he’d gotten before. At the shop, people sometimes got a laugh out of it, it was just another joke he hadn’t intended. But the priest stared him down like a hawk.

“You don’t remember taking a train or tunnel in?”

“Into the church?” It made no sense, there were no trains. No trains that ordinary citizens were allowed on, and anyway if he got stranded far away, he’d miss work and challenges.

“No. Into the city.”

“I always lived here, though I didn’t know any of it until I…” Ritz felt the sudden need to guard it all. “You know about the Asahara Troupe?”

The priest turned and faced Ritz like a rather battered reflection. With massive gripped fists at his side. Ritz took a quick step back. He threw a few meters distance between them with a long leap.

The priest, in no hurry, took a single lumbering step. “I know the story.” he said in his same dry, level tone. “They were before my time. I thought they had integrated.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Nobody has heard from them in years. Where have they been hiding? Why turn up now? And why here?”

Val was right. Massacres were probably the first to cross the guy’s mind on hearing the name. Ritz assured him, “It’s just me. My… the Troupe were all killed. Ten years ago.”

The awkward pause returned.

“How- You’re not one of them, then?”

“I am. The last… no, one of the last. There are two. And, uh… ”

“Why are you here?”

“You, um. I wanted to see where the bodies were. The parts, the ones in the news.”

The priest eyed the sword that was poking free of the bag.

“I didn’t do it! Or I… I wouldn’t have come.”

“Then why do you have that?”

“In case I saw the killer.” Killer? Why did I say that. The parts came from bodies that were dead a long time… “I think it is someone I know.”

“If you know them, why don’t you go to the police?”

“She won’t let the police do anything. I have to kill her, that’s the only way.”

“Patch,” called a voice from beyond the far corner of the Church. “The equipment is ready. Did the guys prep the plot?” Another pale man in a straight black coat peered around the bottom of the looming white tower. He was older, build like a truck, twice the size of Ritz and had a bandage over his cheek.

Another obvious bad one, Sal might say.

The priest, ‘Patch’, turned. He and Ritz had both jumped to attention and posed to look casual, but every muscle still tensed for a trouble to break out should one of them move out of line. The older priest was not fooled for a moment. He frowned and moved his bulk out from behind the corner threateningly. “It’s an important day. Nobody is starting anything, are they?”

“It’s under control.” Patch deflated, and sank into a relaxed slump. He and waved a hand at Ritz. “That’s enough.”

Dumbly, Ritz stowed his sword away again and zipped up the bag.

“Is he here for the funeral?”

“No, just visiting.”

The older priest raised an eyebrow. “Family of yours? Didn’t know you had any in town.”

“We’re not related,” Patch said, and Ritz was saved from hastily putting forward his rebuttal and consequently his foot his mouth.

“Who’d have thought,” the old priest mused, looking from one to the other. “I’ll catch you later.”

He and Patch exchanged a look.

Then the older priest went back to the corner, heaved a sharp ended shovel over his shoulder and left, whistling.

As the blade disappeared around the corner Ritz’s hairs stood on end. A leaf fell, tapping the trunk of the tree and with the single tiny noise he he swept the sword out of his bag again and launched, so quickly that he had already started running before Patch could say anything.

Ritz himself was blind to all else until he heard the thudding of feet after him. Quick, but what pointless noise! The instructors would gouge at your toes for that. A blazing shadow lashed out towards him.

He spun on his landing foot, darted up the wall of the building, and launched, a filthy footprint left on the jewel flecked surface. The height of his swing caught Patch by surprise and halted hm. Ritz circled and made a wide swing. He caught a glimpse of Patch winding up. ramming a punch straight into his gut. His ears felt inverted with the thump. Ritz gagged, but through gritted teeth, clubbed at the priest’s blind half with the butt of his sword and kicked off his shoulder.

A second arm sped out and grabbed his scarf. Again he gagged and dropped, but having been choked more than enough by Ran (and often by invisible forces), he easily landed on his feet, ducked and twisted away.

A meteoric punch drove down, grazing his side as he slipped back. Ritz thought he heard thunder when it landed on the packed soil. He rolled again and tossed his bag as far as he could and uprighted himself, feeling lighter. He had barely regained footing when another blow flew his way, softly catching the end of his scarf, withdrew, then another.

Ritz extended his blade, not quickly but more as a threat. Weapons versus bare hands. The tip jabbed forth. But either half blind or half asleep, Patch didn’t stop and followed through, his arm slid against the blade, tearing at his shoulder, and Ritz felt his jaw compress. He flew.

Patch caught him by the scarf again, and was winding up.

Not taking another one of those.

Ritz kicked him with the grace of an upturned helicopter. It took a barrage of hits for the monstrous grip to release, and pointed kick to the jaw.

Patch let him go, groaning but instead of pulling back, released a smash, downward. Ritz stumbled away on his hands.

They were both bleeding, coincidentally, at the mouth and shoulder, neither more than the other. That wasn’t right… wasn’t right. Ritz poised himself again. He jabbed again and at the same time, slid a step away. Patch swung too, but late. Correct move now. The sword should have reached first, this time aiming to tear into meat where it would hurt.

The blade met a hard block. For a chilling moment, Ritz thought of the shovel that Ran had held to stop him. But there was nothing like that now. And he wasn’t stopped immediately, but grinding slowly, painfully, bloodily to a halt, just short of his mark.

Patch was gripping the blade in his palm, his grip and skin and bone reducing the attack to a full stop in his hand. Fingers intact.

Ritz pressed through and felt the pop of muscles and flesh but didn’t make it much further. The blade screamed against Patch’s bone, tendons or whatever it was he was made of.

It all happened in less than a second. The punch was still coming. Luckily, Ritz was fast. But the sword was just not working for this confrontation. Really, it wasn’t his at all.

Someone had to give.

He pulled right and the blade twisted free from Patch’s vice of a hand, didn’t sink further but instead struggled a shallow cut in his chest. An instant later, the punch landed, but the blade was between them. Patch struck the blade like a hammer and Ritz saw the metal bend, tiny cracks exploding outward and then CRACK

–the blade snapped.

Ritz fell back.

The sword had courteously broken into two main pieces. Half was still attached to the handle. Patch was left holding most of the blade in his mangled palm. He threw it to the side and gripped both hands into fists again. Ritz gingerly lowered his stance and pointed the broken blade forward.

Then, when neither moved a while Patch eased out of his trance and after a flicker of pain, guiltily bent to pick up the broken blade.

“Excuse this, can’t leave something sharp out here, kids come back here and if someone tries to grab it, you know….”

Blinking to his sense, Ritz lowered his arm. The handle he was so used to felt despairingly light. He went to retrieve his bag from where it had rolled.

“Do you want this back?” Patch asked, holding the piece by its tip. Ritz shook his head and Patch put it carefully into a pocket, only then did his injuries seem to dawn on him. Admirably enough, he only seemed to go white and flail for a short time before discovering nothing was lost or broken on himself. Then he held his bloodied hand out to Ritz and said, “What got into you?”

“Sorry.” Ritz thought he saw bone through the gaping red gash.

“Not this,” The priest lowered his bleeding hand and halfheartedly wiped it against his black coat, which he quickly regretted. Wincing, he continued, “I meant why did you attack? There was no reason.”

“Who was that man?”

“Who- what, you mean the one who saw us a moment ago? That’s just Lazlo, he works here too. I don’t know what you thought he meant but he wasn’t about to harm you if-”

“He had a shovel.”

“Oh…” Patch ran his clean hand over his face. “Okay. If you have a phobia it can’t be blamed. But I admit, I didn’t expect an Asahara member with that, for all they’re known for.”

“I don’t have a phobia,” Ritz said, hoping he didn’t look ill. Leaving the priest to contemplation he checked on the hillside again. Now, not far from the cluster of stones, there were four black-coated priests digging out a large area pent off with stakes and string. “What are they doing?”

“Digging the grave, of course.”

“What? A hole?”

“Yes. For the body. If you want to avoid the crowd, they’ll be around there. Soon… As soon as the speeches are over.”

“For the body.” Ritz repeating this absurdity. “You put the dead man in and then…”

“Cover the hole.”

“How can you do that?”

“It is a little odd, middle of the city... Nowhere to expand to, but it wont be a problem for a while yet...”

“But why let them… let them have the space?”

Perhaps used to Ritz’s naivete, Patches just shrugged. “Respect.”

“But bodies will rot. Minutes away from the houses. Shouldn’t they be used for better measures?”

“The respect is for the body. The one who died.”

It still sounded insane. “If I died, I would want to be used. To strengthen barricades, or feed the needful.”

He caught one baleful look from Patches. “Well, that’s fine enough, I… think. I don’t know how you were taught. Maybe it was tradition.”

“Yes, a tradition.”

“Tradition here is people get funerals and they get buried. While space lasts. Some prefer to be burned up, and that’s their choice.”

“That’s a good one too.”

“It’s a matter of respect. If they would have wanted it, then I believe it can be accepted as a good end.”

“What if they have not decided what they want to do?”

“That’s what friends and family are for.” They both paused and considered their futures. The priest added with some consideration, “Failing that, tradition.”

“I have no friends,” Ritz said flatly.

“Uh,” Patch muttered. “You’ll be alright. Avoid telling people you’re one of the Asahara Troupe.”

“What would happen if someone asks you to kill them?”

“That seems... unlikely. Unkind if the one asked weren’t willing. Though if asked to kill another on their behalf, then-”

Ritz interrupted his scenario. “What is the rule if someone kills themself?”

“Rules? I shouldn’t have made it sound so harsh. It’s more... respect. To the dying. Or if you’ve been asked to kill, respect to yourself. So suppose.” The priest shook his head. “I shouldn’t be the one you talk to about this. Come by on the weekend. Someone who is, um, a designated speaker will help.”

“Why not you?”

“I’m not, never was a good speaker…”

“Me neither.”

The priest said nothing. There was a contented silence. They looked out onto the empty graveyard again. The hole was waist deep.

Someone will be put there, Ritz thought. The Society would see it a waste. But then they saw so little. The elders wouldn’t know such a space existed. Maybe being put in the ground isn’t so bad. The dark and quiet isn’t for everyone but you don’t care what happens after. The last anyone sees of you, you are complete. That’s a service. You disappear whole, to anyone watching it’s like you will be complete forever.

It beats being hammered into a wall or broken into pieces everyone would rather forget. We are performers, why would we want to be forgotten like that?

And that horrible tiny voice in the background, These teachings have never made sense.

The diggers patted displaced dirt into a pile. Their shovels shone in the noon sun.

“I should get to helping them,” Patch said. They both looked at his hands and a the soggy slash from his chest to his shoulder.

“Go to hospital,” Ritz suggested.

“Hm. I should. But I have a duty to do.”

“I know,” Ritz said, and he meant it.

“Maybe I’ll see you again.”

Ritz left without another word and when he looked back, Patch had disappeared past the dimming white tower set into the Church’s corner. A few curious visitors had started milling around the graveyard early.

The dead man was a terrible person, the priest said. But he has so many friends. Maybe I can find some to take care of me when I die.

He returned home, straightened the sheets, watered his plants, opened the blinds and chased the vagrant off the fire escape outside.

What is a useful friend? They have to be younger, I think. I wonder if the dead man was old? There were many young people at his funeral.

He opened his bag and checked his alarm clock’s batteries, following that, he queasily removed what remained of his old sword. A few flecks of enemies’ blood. Though not the enemy he had intended to use it own. There was remorse, but it was washed away with reasonable relief. The priest had stopped upon breaking it. Ran would have sent the edge back at him, into his eye or lungs.

Maybe I can afford to have older friends. I may easily die before them.

He took the machete out of its cardboard case and pried off some rust.

—

“What is this?”

One of the only times Ritz had ever inflicted so much as a scratch on Ran was during challenge #4.

Classes at public school were as much a nightmare as at the Society’s training school, in slightly different way. Ritz could not understand what was spoken to him, could not read the words set out before him. He didn’t mind sitting at the desk and waiting for the day to end, but recently, the school had finally taken issue as he was approaching his last year. They spoke to the Home’s parents and made them tense and icy.

It didn’t help that he was intermittently running out to challenge Ran and winding up too injured to attend.

School wasn’t all bad. Some of the ‘cool guys’ had given him high fives and kind words when he had crushed the nose of a particularly loud classmate. The classes never involved swords or beating or humiliation, which was quite a relief. But his inspiration came when a teacher had also given out some dangerous looking implements for Math class. They were packaged with some plastic shapes, a ruler, and a calculator with a hundred tiny buttons, heavy as a brick. The dangerous implements were called Compasses but Ritz had seen a compass before and knew they looked nothing like these sharp metal wishbones. They were for drawing circles.

He’d been having a rough year. Seeing that needle point pivot immediately brought his mind to stabbing Ran through the heart.

“Don’t lose these,” the teacher warned. “You won’t get your deposit back.”

Ritz took them all to his next challenge. Ran had him by the throat. The little silver stick was entirely hidden by his thrashing hand and she didn’t see it coming like she had the steak knives and aluminium bats he had previously lost in the Old Church.

Her eyes widened when the pin sank into her cheek. He had rarely ever merited such a reaction, even in the years afterward. She threw him aside like an old towel and pulled the compass out into her hand, blood running down her chin. Held it up to the light.

“Interesting.” Then she stabbed it into the fleshy back of his shin, past the needle and its little screw, embedding the tool nearly all the way to the little plastic handle. “An amusing prop, not bad for you picking your own. But not fitting for a final act.”

She threw him the sword. It had a circular guard and a thin blade, like the kind used at the school, but when it landed in the grass it shifted out of its case and he saw the blade was not wrapped as the practice weapons were. It filled him with confidence. A gift, he’d take it, if it meant evening up the fight.

He put his hand on it, and limply dragged it out. The blade was already scratched and had a hairline crack near the tip. But there and then, it looked brand new. A new hope. Ran sat on the fallen column expectantly.

He attempted to stand, but yelled in pain and fell onto his school bag. The zipper burst. There was an explosion of paper and math supplies. He yanked the compass out of his leg and threw it. He didn’t get up after that.

He dropped out of school the following week and the Home helped him find a job at the library. It was quiet there too. With his first paycheck he paid off a fine to the school for losing a compass. With his next he bought some some oil, a cloth, and a long gym bag that said

CHAMPIONS AREN’T BORN

THEY’RE MADE

And polishing the blade in the privacy of a library media lab, he raked together some hope. With this, things would get better.

—

The bell above the door swung and chimed. Shel looked up from the computer. A snappy looking thug in a black jacket swaggered in carrying a clipboard and a box that was taking a toll on his knees. Shel was headed for the emergency drawer when the man waved over at him.

“Express postage. Got a package for you. Sign here, sir.”

They both paused. The courier’s knees shuddered. “Soon, if you can.”

“Alright,” Shel backed out from behind the desk. He tapped the end of his ballpoint pen and hovered over the clipboard. “Wait, this isn’t for me. It’s for my colleague.”

“He wasn’t home, sir. But Mr. Long instructed me to leave it for him here if that were the case. You must be Shel, then? Please sign here.”

Shel went ahead and did so. The courier, though obviously strained, gently and patiently lowered the large box onto the central worktable. It was a sort of suitcase: rectangular, longer than Shel’s arm, and made of metal painted dark, with subtle engravings at the edges, coiled and flecked shapes like leafy vines. It had two clasps to keep the lid on and a broad silver handle. It was clearly made to protect from or keep in something dangerous.

Shel eyed it warily. “Can I know what it’s in it?”

“Careful guy, are ya? Don’t worry, Long wanted to get you he’d do better than set out bombs and shit under his name.”

“Oh, I wasn’t worried about that,” Shel chuckled.

“It’s a thank you gift to Mr Ritz for helping him out. That’s all I know.” While Shel was inspecting the address, the courier quickly beelined for a midnight blue truck parked outside. The truck was flanked by three greasy looking hoods in leather, surly and slumped on their trademark black bikes.

“Wait-” Shel began, before thinking better of it. He went for the phone, dialing like lightning. Sal would be home, recovering from a football game with the police academy. But to his surprise, the courier responded before his phone call was answered.

“Going to be a minute unloading the rest!” Then in a voice directed outward, only slightly muffled, “You assholes come here to sleep? Keep sleeping then, you ain’t getting paid.”

The bikers jumped from their seats and scurried to the back of the truck to help. Large, uneven shapes began to obscure the light coming through the front window. There was a rustle of leaves and hands. Then the crash of ceramic hitting a bike and the guttural howl of its owner as if the machine were as precious as his own body.

Sal sat dumbfounded with the phone hanging in his hand.

“What’s up?” Sal asked when she picked up on the other end of the line.

“I don’t know, but you should be here to see this.”

The courier was back, he and his four friends huffing at the small doorway which was not going to accommodate the rest of Ritz’s gifts. “Hey man, think can we put these out in front?”

“Sure. To the side a bit,” Shel said, smiling sweetly.

“YOU HEARD HIM,” roared the courier.

“What was that?” Sal asked over the line.

“Looks like Ritz has been socializing.”

—

The dreaded night arrived, it was time to be social. Ritz’s shoulder was throbbing so he went to the public hospital for a quick checkup. There was not a thing wrong with his movement, and no infection in spite of a few snapped stitches during his altercation at the church. There was a smooth purple scar with a faint line of scabs – the mark of a talented attacker and medical attentions.

“You’ll be fine,” the nurse assured him. “Just take it easy.”

“I have a big game tonight.”

“Is that so? What do you play?”

“Um… Football.”

“Ooh.” The nurse winced. “You won’t die. Are you a good kicker?”

Ritz had no idea what that meant, it sounded suspiciously like one of those idioms Sal would use to trick him. “Um. Yes. Do you have any painkillers?”

The nurse went to dig around while Ritz waited in the lobby. He paced up and down the hallway, avoiding a line of waiting patients, dodging sprays of mucus and spit. Flu season. He hadn’t been feeling so well, maybe he was coming down with something too.

The nurse returned with a small orange bottle in a bag. “There you go. Just something simple.”

“Thank you.” Ritz stood, crinkling the paper.

“Yes?”

“Did someone who looks like my brother come in the other day?”

“Looks like…” she frowned, “Would he be your brother or not?”

Ritz didn’t know how to answer this question. He bowed his head and left, trundling behind a wheelchair. He was going slow and only wished he could go slower.

Of course his arm was better. He suspected the slight soreness now might have been the pain coming back to haunt him after being loaded with pricey painkillers on the most critical nights, courtesy of the Long Corporation. These weeks had actually been his most painless recovery yet. There was something else.

The sword breaking coupled with Ran pulling out new tricks worried him. As much experience as he had in fights (though not fights he could win), as far as he knew, the Society – well, the Troupe – never used heavy weaponry. They were very much channelers of wind and air – swords were heavy for children, but those days were past for him. The greatest force he’d ever been prone to was the impending ground after a failed jump. To be crushed with a shovel was a terrifying prospect.

Maybe that was also why he had done so badly against the priest, a slow one-eyed brawler. Maybe if he swung hard enough he could have taken the man’s fingers off like he had with Len.

He might never be sure. The priest was absent the next time Ritz had visited the church. The grounds were empty too. He went up to glittering white Church’s twin entrance doors, which were both properly hinged, unlike the Old Church’s accidents-in-waiting.

The hall was tall, wide and empty, with thin iron electric sconces that were not on, the only light was the sun that made it through the windows of the side rooms. Someone was speaking further inside, floating down from a chapel far down the white-walled hall, far out of sight.

Greatest prophets from time… no man may take my life…

The voice was full of conviction, but distant. Echoes suspended in a dream that was intentionally hiding from him. Considering his past church experiences, he didn’t want to head in and break the peace.

So instead, Ritz had gone up to the new grave. There was a little rectangle of pleasant looking soil, a few white pebbles among fresh earth, and a pointed obelisk roughly his height which had a plaque engraved with a name and some numbers, and the title beloved father, brother, husband and friend.

It sounded slightly embarrassing, to admit someone was your father or husband. We all belong to each other, something the Leader said. It was more like they belonged to the strongest, which turned out to be Ran.

Friend, now that one was the most unusual. Your family could be your Best Friend, but it was important to make it clear you were blood-related. Occasionally illegal not to. That’s what the teachers at public school said. Ritz didn’t have any of the above so it didn’t matter. Well, maybe he did now.

Not being blood related simplified the classification process – friends only. Would Magnus claim to be his friend if Ritz were to die that day? Probably not, he admitted. Magnus was always busy. He was the one who believed running away from Ran, just ignoring her, would be the best option.

Magnus, you wouldn’t be alive if I hadn’t been looking for a way to defeat her.

What about Sal and Shel? They reminded him more of the Home mother and fathers. Sal being the father, most likely. They were kind, and he learned as much from them about irony and plant care as he had learned from the school. Considering the future, maybe they had taught him more.

They would notice if he died.

What about Val? Ritz could see Val saying something so brutal as “Yep, my friend Ritz. Died with a shovel through the skull, he was a funny guy while he lasted.” And then maybe he would laugh. Val was not someone to have at a funeral but maybe…

He wasn’t alone. Even though the Asahara had failed their vow of togetherness to each other, he had a handful of people who might come to say he was something to them. A good assistant at least, he never forgot to take out the trash, did he? And fuck the massive black assembly, small audience would do just fine.

At his core, Ritz was not a very good performer. He lacked something every other member of the Troupe had. But you knew that already.

There was a wreath of pale flowers around the obelisk, a few days old. They did not have any water and their stems and roots were snipped. A few of the leaves and flowers had already rotted. Ritz picked them out and took them to the nearest trash can, which turned out to be ten minutes away in the city.

Magnus can buy a gravestone. Val can make a funny speech, I know that. Shel and Sal are used to sending flowers. That’s everyone I know.

He wasn’t happy, but content, until he recalled the one person he forgot.

—

What was that you said Bob – what was it they discovered?

Our sensitive viewers may want to change the channel about now, Lia, the word on the street is the police have discovered a new addition to the grisly collection of parts from this serial dumper – a head.

A head!

A severed head, yes, I have reliable sources saying that’s what it is. Like the other body parts, it’s believed the owner was already deceased when his, or her, head was removed. But unlike the previous parts the head was dumped in an alley corner, right at the back against a fence- and wasn’t discovered immediately. It’s likely it was left the same night as the disembodied arm from a few weeks back.

Police must be beating themselves up over that.

Oh, I’m sure they wish they got there sooner – for more reasons than one. We had a few hot ‘n humid days this fall so decay had begun to set in – rotted eyes and skin falling off, horrible sight, I hear from the guys who discovered it, a group of bikers from around East district. Light hair and skin, hear. Could be anyone you you knew, head lying against the sidewalk. To think – tough guys up on their hogs scared as kids – well, you know I don’t blame ‘em.

It IS a funny image though, isn’t it Bob?

Ha ha, indeed it is. So I believe the forensics lab is in possession of the head now and they are refusing to release photos but while we wait for the official press release, we’ll continue this report with our popular “Theories from the Street” segment and I’m here today with our local grocer who has some novel thoughts on this serial dumper and potential murderer…

—

“Think it’s gotta be the work of some… bzzt… aliens on the hills just waiting…fshh… studying how we work- fzzzz… take us all prisoner and use our skin to make their…”

He could hear the radio from the street outside. A bit like the echoing speech from the depths of the white sunlit Church, it came from well out of sight. And from a much darker place.

It was a warm night considering winter was upon them. Ritz shivered regardless. Ran was turning up with all kinds of things. He had never seen or heard a radio in there during any of his past challenges. The faraway crackling theory on alien body harvests continued over the hiss of the wind through the cracked walls. He wrapped his scarf around his head and shoved the tail ends into his jacket. The altercation with Patches had made him wary of the ends getting grabbed.

The radio report dissolved into waves of static.

Ritz slid the cardboard casing off his machete. It was intact, a bit rusty, but all the polishing in the world wasn’t going to make the thing look good. The ‘case’ needed some new masking tape too.

A few of the pale petals snuck their way out of the holes in the wall with a particularly powerful gust. It was time to head inside. His arm ached as if it were broken.

Ritz inhaled deeply, held the machete low and entered as leisurely as he could.

“Ran, I’m here.”

Nothing but the fizzing radio and wind. His feet sank into the sea of grass and tiny flowers covering the floor, took a few steps. Still no sign of life. Then a slight whine to his right.

Ritz held up the machete and there was the snap of a string popping off the blade, but no visual cue. He turned and blocked the same, but this one didn’t pop and continued to press and drag him to the corner before withdrawing, stripping a line of skin from his cheek.

There was another strike and another. They were slow at first, but accelerated before he knew it. Like a one of his lessons. He was able to adjust to a point before it became clear the whips would be unblockable and flay his face from top to bottom.

Ritz sank low and flung himself towards the door. A foot away, it slammed shut and like a shadow Ran emerged from the wall behind it.

“You’ve finished with your dual sword phase?”

“I guess so.”

“Good. It was appalling. Think of this slow start as a reward for a single good choice.”

It stung a little. He was just a dumb kid again. Ran reached out a hand, dark and cracked beyond a natural humans’, and he automatically shot back, blade outstretched. She closed instantly and they continued their exchange until he backed against a wall – not a brick wall but an invisible net of wires cutting into his back.

She closed one last time. “And that’s the weapon you chose?”

Ritz looked at the cracked ceiling and then at the ground. “The other broke.”

“Not an attractive thing.”

“It was from a friend. At least it wasn’t broken when I got it.”

“A friend?”

He couldn’t tell if Ran was stunned or fuming, but in the seconds she didn’t move, he jumped onto the invisible net behind him. It sank slightly, but it would old. He teetered slightly, swung out an arm for balance, and took off.

It was like running on air.

He held an arm in front of him and ducked under a wire at neck level. There was little way of knowing whether he would be mis-stepping and tripping to the dirt but it was a string, a straight line somewhere. It was a steep incline. The far wall.

Of course this didn’t help when the tightrope suddenly dropped. Ritz jumped and caught a bent windowframe, crashing against the wall in landing.

His shoulder ached again but there wasn’t time to worry. He was on the second storey, not a good place for a heavy-

From the back wall, Ran emerged, shovel end first, directed straight for the elbow holding him up, Ritz tucked his hand back against his chest and dropped.

Hitting dirt had made a noise but the flying spear into the wall rocked the entire structure. A fraction of ceiling crumbled. And for a moment, Ritz saw the vibrations running through the spider web of wire that crossed the levels above, a cage with bars flashing silver as though charged with a current, then fading into the shadows again.

The rapid tiny movement filled the complex with a deep wobbling hum. It was like being under some heavy liquid. Ritz felt sick. Even out of sight, the shape was imprinted in his mind, cuts in gel mold.

He reached out a hand and caught a wire as he fell, and spun himself onto it, backing to the center of the floor. Nobody could jump that far.

Ran’s silhouette appeared in on the windowsill under the frame he had hung from. Her shape seemed to twitch.

A stirring to his right. He held up the machete. The force of a single wire shoved him back, but he remained standing, his footing gripped by the deep tread of his non-slip work boots.

It was an unusual feeling, of not being rushed. Ritz turned the blade outward and grabbed the wire with his free hand.

“What are you doing?” Ran was approaching behind him.

What he was doing was sawing. He sawed at the wire and wished for S2’s worktable. And maybe the silver scissors. Would they have helped? The string wasn’t breaking. Maybe a scissor made of swords.

crack

His sword gave first. Ritz groaned, and slipped under the press of wires, swinging underneath the one he stood on like a pull-up bar, uneasily landing on his feet. Ran stood before him. To anyone else, they looked as though they were floating.

Ritz slipped to the ground he saw her make an action a bit like snapping her fingers.

The wires closed around him like a cocoon. He streamlined and slid from their shrinking grasp until he was only suspended from the wrist.

The radio whispered briefly, “…and around the neck, reports say they saw…”

Ran frowned as Ritz struggled to free his arm from the lock. But this time, he made it. He slithered free and dropped. Left in the tangle was a crumpled black bag with unreadable white letters. Her fist tightened and the fabric of the bag twitched and split.

Planting his feet back onto the soft ground, he shook soreness from his arm and walked towards the door. He heard nothing behind him but knew she would be on him in a second should he try to be clever or defend his life in any way.

“I wasn’t planning on leaving yet.”

“Where are you going, then?”

“I’m going to sit.”

He did. The radio made a loud crackly effort and through the noise Ran landed in front of him. Ritz ignored his heart trying to make its way out of his chest cavity and sat still.

“Ran, do you really want to die?”

“Of course.”

“Then why do you fight?’

“For you.”

“I might die first.”

“You won’t. Haven’t you been convinced of that yet? You must get your revenge. Would you be satisfied killing a dog that was half dead? Where is your sense of glory?”

Ritz put his head against the wall. “Schools are always the same. I have to say words before know what they mean and they become so common. Revenge and glory… the performance… I don’t need them.”

“You-”

“No, listen! I never got to be in a real performance anyway, I never would have been. The Asahara Troupe were never going to put on a show again. Because they FUCKED it up long before my time.”

Ran was silent.

“Did you know? Outside here-” he gestured at the black walls, “People do their best not to think of the Troupe. They do not care that we disappeared. You know what I was told? To make friends, do not tell people I was one of them.”

“You cannot abandon your home so easily,” she said, then she said his real name.

Ritz wanted to scream. “I lived outside for over ten years! That is my home! Out there, everyone talks about where they came from. What they’re in for. What I have behind is a massacre nobody had heard of or wants to know, and hospital visits until the end of time. I want to be able to think of something new!”

Ran strode closer and Ritz sat straight in terror, like he was back at school expecting punishment. Ran leered at him. “You spoke of friends. I would say you are already completely engrossed in your ‘new’ world. Maybe… too much so.”

Ritz stood. He was taller than Ran. How had he not noticed that before? The imprint of his first challenge must have really stuck. That’s right, it had been five years and she was really…

“Small… the Society, the Troupe’s world… there was nothing I want from there.”

“Then you understand why they had to die.”

He reared back and punched her, right across the jaw, with his free hand.

“I want to make friends. You know for years, the new schools I went through kept asking ‘have you tried making friends? can you talk to a friend?’ And I had to say, I don’t know what that is! I don’t know what it’s like! What do I say to have friends? Do I lie and not tell them that all I can see in them in hideous performance and poor balance? They say ‘smile’ and do I lie then too? What is a smile? You know? They say it means your happy. I had never heard of such a thing. Did the Society care if we were happy? We were not to be alone, but you are not alone in prison. You are not alone in hell.”

He dropped the sword and battered her back. Her upraised hands were clenched in fists, the craggy skin of her iron claw blocking him shieldlike, but not returning any blows. There was a pleasant wetness on his hands but he barely noticed.

“And the dead! The way this… ugly outside world treats their dead. They bury them. They have no need to eat them or burn them or nail them as warning to children or hide them, their bodies are intact. It’s respect. And… I want… I want that. I want to find people who will say they knew me, dig me a hole and ask everyone who passes how they knew me and miss me. It’s selfish but the world is bigger than I knew. It has enough for me to be happy with if I try, I don’t need a big ceremony, you should have seen the one…” He paused. “And…”

He slid through the dirt and met her arm with a crunch.

“Ran, I do not like you but I do… respect you. You can’t control what happens after death, but the respect of others will do it for you. Isn’t it best to live in a world like that? I want you to be able to pass and lie at peace among the flowers. You should see the place. You should see the city’s Church, the real one, and you’ll never want to come back here again. Everyone dies eventually, but we don’t have to die here.”

“Even if I kill you as you request, not even the Society is here to take notice. It isn’t even in keeping with their performance ideals. And you will be alone.”

Ran’s eyes peeked out from behind her fist. Against his better judgment, Ritz stopped.

“Alone? You don’t understand.” She struck him, a quick left. He wasn’t sure if it was a punch or slap or even a slash with some unseen razor but his neck stung even through the thick scarf. “That’s why you must not give up.”

“No. I’ll leave and not come back.”

“You won’t do that.”

“We will both live. If you choose to spend it in here, so be it.”

The next blow came like a car compressing itself into his face and he saw it. The massive right, metal shelled and swung like a club.

CRUNCH. He fell back, but was kept just barely upright by an array of wires. Head bobbing like a puppet, his scarf came loose. She made another lightning blow to his cheek then his head was battered upright. She put a foot on his shoulder, the sore one. Of course she hadn’t missed that.

“This is a command, as your leader.”

Leader?

Ran let him fall back but not quite rest. He kicked at her and she hopped over it easily and strode around to his side, somehow not catching in any of the wires.

“As you know, the Leader will not just meet an ordinary end. You cannot simply wait to outlive them. What the Leader says, goes. And I say you must do this because nobody else can do this. I don’t want any others involved.” Her face loomed close. “And with all your admiration of the dirty world beyond those doors, I’m sure you don’t sincerely want them involved. Do you?”

So Ran’s the Leader…

That means I have to come back or…

Ran picked the machete off the ground with the slender fingers of her left hand. She twirled it briefly and pointed it at his chest.

“You were afraid last time. But that was just a tool. Neither of us mourns that old sword of yours.”

She turned it in one hand, rolling it, getting to know the feeling.

“For years I have avoided the blades. A mercy to you, a reprieve for me. But it didn’t work out for either of us. So take this lesson: don’t put too much thought into your tools. Recover and try again.”

She stabbed him clear through the arm and the soreness exploded into blinding pain. She too a wide, careless swing and brought it in again, this time into his chest. Ritz didn’t make a noise. Breath steaming, she swept the blade up in a spray of dark blood and stabbed him again. It might have been the last, or it could have happened again and again. He couldn’t quite register what happened and kept replaying it. I’m going to die!

He didn’t of course. But that just meant it kept on going.

I’m gonna die I’m gonna die I’m gonna die this time I’m-

Eventually, he stopped flinching and with a final blow she left him sag down. As he tried desperately to take a breath that wasn’t filled with liquid, she stepped back and smashed the machete on the stone wall. It just took one strike. Perhaps it had been weakened, but it cracked like glass. Didn’t even leave a satisfying scratch on the wall.

“Let your friend know.”

He fell, not with a thump but with a slow slide off the net at his back.

He could barely turn his head. A rock was jutting uncomfortably into the base of his neck and he couldn’t manage as little as that. An oppressive inky cloud was washing over his vision. Ran’s face was overcast. Helplessly, Ritz spat at it just dribbled down his chin. “It doesn’t matter,” he gurgled. “This is the same as always. I don’t expect to win anymore. Cut off my arms and legs if you think it will help.”

Ran stood over him, eyeing him with a chilling fondness.

“Good speech. But poor performance.”

“Whatever.”

Ritz’s eyes closed but he couldn’t sleep for what felt like an eternity. The last he felt was someone’s hand behind his head, raising it gently and lowering it off the rock onto the more comfortable bed below and he sank into the layer of mulch, lulled by the song of wind and static. Ran vanished and so did the radio.

Hours later, his half open eyes were filled with smoke. He smelled it too. He was afraid, but could not move. But soon, a mechanical roar assured him it was not what he feared. Then his alarm went off.

“Shit! Scared the hell out of me.”

“Don’t drop him.”

“Fuck, I don’t think he could be much worse if I did.”

“Shut up. I think he’s awake. Hey. Hey man. Hang in there, someone sent you a present today. You can’t go without seeing it. Hello? God- look at his shirt, what the hell–”