badly that he sits alone in a dark room for hours and cries for the loss of himself. It is a terrible thing, he knows, to have had so little say in the course of his own life, to have had so many things decided for him before he was even born. To be a soldier in an army of light and blood so
secret that there can never be any acknowledgment of his achievements or failures, not even the most fleeting contact with his brothers and sisters in arms, for fear of discovery.
The invaders are everywhere, and Their agents are everywhere. A moment of weakness, one slip, could mean much, much more than the mere loss of his life. He has dreams where someone (never, never him) has been weak, one of the other nameless, faceless soldiers working secretly in the corrupting cities of the world. In the dreams They walk the streets without fear, spreading the androgyne contagion, and the sky burns with the roaring engines of Their warships.
He often wakes from these dreams screaming, curled in his sweat-soaked bed, the choking smells of diesel and burning flesh still hot in his nostrils. But he does not resist the dreams; he understands that they are an integral part of his vision, part of what keeps him strong and certain and pure. He writes down the smallest details of each dream, everything that he can recall, in special black notebooks he keeps in a windowless room in the center of his house.
For almost a week now there has been a new dream, and he knows that it means there is even less time than he'd thought. He has powerful black wings in this dream, the wings of a fierce avenging angel, and they carry him high above the blazing, dying city of New Orleans. The streets below are filled with fire and lakes of blood that bum like gasoline. The writhing bodies of the creatures in Their truest form, Their primary aspect, cling to every wall and rooftop, Their smooth and sexless bodies white as bone beneath the night sky, the wet red holes between Their legs like the beaked jaws of squid or octopi. In the dream Their voices have joined together into a single, hideous wail and Their black and swollen eyes watch jealously as he passes above Them. The end of the dream is always the same, the part where the man with river names looks over his shoulder at the shadow of the crow falling swiftly across the land.
Michele wakes up in a place that smells like disinfectant and mold and latex. He's lying on a bare metal table and there's insane light, white and blinding light that stabs at his eyes and makes his head hurt even worse. He's dizzy and sick and only wants to go back to sleep. Michele closes his eyes, shuts out the hateful light, and then the voice says, "It's time for us to talk, Michael"
He's trying to think of what to say, something nasty and appropriate-something Robin would say-when he hears a brittle, snapping noise. Suddenly his sinuses are filled with the scorching reek of ammonia. He coughs and gags as the last merciful shreds of oblivion are driven from his reach and there's nothing left but the light hanging above him and the cold against his bare skin. And the voice.
"There," it says. "You can understand me now?" Michele tries to answer but his mouth and throat are too dry, not a drop of spit, and his tongue feels two times too big to be of any use.
"Just nod if you understand what I'm saying," the voice says, so Michele nods. He has realized that his hands and feet are tied firmly to the table with wide leather straps. Then there is a glass of lukewarm water being pressed to his lips and he swallows a mouthful.
"The sedative does that sometimes. It'll pass soon and you'll be able to speak."
The glass returns and this time Michele takes a deeper drink, notices that the water tastes faintly of chlorine, like swimming pool water. But it feels like heaven going down his aching throat. As soon as the glass is removed he tries to speak, but there's only an unintelligible rasping wheeze where the words should be.
"Like I said,
secret that there can never be any acknowledgment of his achievements or failures, not even the most fleeting contact with his brothers and sisters in arms, for fear of discovery.
The invaders are everywhere, and Their agents are everywhere. A moment of weakness, one slip, could mean much, much more than the mere loss of his life. He has dreams where someone (never, never him) has been weak, one of the other nameless, faceless soldiers working secretly in the corrupting cities of the world. In the dreams They walk the streets without fear, spreading the androgyne contagion, and the sky burns with the roaring engines of Their warships.
He often wakes from these dreams screaming, curled in his sweat-soaked bed, the choking smells of diesel and burning flesh still hot in his nostrils. But he does not resist the dreams; he understands that they are an integral part of his vision, part of what keeps him strong and certain and pure. He writes down the smallest details of each dream, everything that he can recall, in special black notebooks he keeps in a windowless room in the center of his house.
For almost a week now there has been a new dream, and he knows that it means there is even less time than he'd thought. He has powerful black wings in this dream, the wings of a fierce avenging angel, and they carry him high above the blazing, dying city of New Orleans. The streets below are filled with fire and lakes of blood that bum like gasoline. The writhing bodies of the creatures in Their truest form, Their primary aspect, cling to every wall and rooftop, Their smooth and sexless bodies white as bone beneath the night sky, the wet red holes between Their legs like the beaked jaws of squid or octopi. In the dream Their voices have joined together into a single, hideous wail and Their black and swollen eyes watch jealously as he passes above Them. The end of the dream is always the same, the part where the man with river names looks over his shoulder at the shadow of the crow falling swiftly across the land.
Michele wakes up in a place that smells like disinfectant and mold and latex. He's lying on a bare metal table and there's insane light, white and blinding light that stabs at his eyes and makes his head hurt even worse. He's dizzy and sick and only wants to go back to sleep. Michele closes his eyes, shuts out the hateful light, and then the voice says, "It's time for us to talk, Michael"
He's trying to think of what to say, something nasty and appropriate-something Robin would say-when he hears a brittle, snapping noise. Suddenly his sinuses are filled with the scorching reek of ammonia. He coughs and gags as the last merciful shreds of oblivion are driven from his reach and there's nothing left but the light hanging above him and the cold against his bare skin. And the voice.
"There," it says. "You can understand me now?" Michele tries to answer but his mouth and throat are too dry, not a drop of spit, and his tongue feels two times too big to be of any use.
"Just nod if you understand what I'm saying," the voice says, so Michele nods. He has realized that his hands and feet are tied firmly to the table with wide leather straps. Then there is a glass of lukewarm water being pressed to his lips and he swallows a mouthful.
"The sedative does that sometimes. It'll pass soon and you'll be able to speak."
The glass returns and this time Michele takes a deeper drink, notices that the water tastes faintly of chlorine, like swimming pool water. But it feels like heaven going down his aching throat. As soon as the glass is removed he tries to speak, but there's only an unintelligible rasping wheeze where the words should be.
"Like I said,
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