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 Posted: Tue Dec 25, 2007 4:05 pm
It was snowing, and Gregory Abbot reveled in the cold. The first nineteen years of his life had been spent in flame, and even now, fourteen years since the fires had gone out of him he still marveled at the feeling of cold, the way snow clung to his skin without turning instantly to steam.
You can tell the era, said Shamash, Because at this late hour on the clock of human history they have forgotten the last winner's day.
"It is Christmas, isn't it?" Abbot asked thoughtfully. He pulled his guitar out of its case and laid it in his lap, picking out a few notes. "You better not run, you better not cry..."
Someone shot him an angry look from across the cafe, but didn't follow it up with any threats. He got that a lot. It was the horns - they made him look like a punk-a** gene splicer.
"...Better not pout, I'm telling you why..."
Someone threw a credit chip at his head, the non-verbal equivalent of 'if I pay you, will you shut up?'
"...Santa Claus..."
The boy, intruded Shamash with quite a bit of urgency.
"...Is coming?" asked Abbot, looking up from the instrument.
He'd waited fourteen years for this.
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Posted: Tue Dec 25, 2007 10:11 pm
Why was he out? There was no reason. Ciro, while covered in a stiff, jacket hood and hiding himself as best as possible in the shadows of buildings, had no reason to be out, and yet there he was. He told himself he was just prowling his turf… But deep down he was once more trying to find that florist’s shop.
And while other people were dusted with a light frosting of snow, their shoes crunching in the icy crust, Ciro stood in a puddle, his jacket dampened by the falling flakes.
He was alienated. As usual.
He could hear the strumming of a guitar. His ears picked out the high and low notes of the deep, baritone voice. It seemed comforting; almost like those sappy Christmas albums his foster parents would buy around these times.
Not that Ciro even believed in Christ, let alone his birth being turned into a corporate holiday now used for nothing but capitalistic gain.
As far as he was concerned, today was just another shitty day.
But still… Leaning against a brick wall, secluded in an alley, Ciro was comforted by the music. The words didn’t matter, no. It was the feeling behind them. As far as the avatar was concerned, the song might have been in a foreign language.
Go. That man has something you need to know.
Cautiously… Ciro stepped out of the alley. If Shamash had said so… This man would probably be quite the asset to him.
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Posted: Wed Dec 26, 2007 4:54 am
"There?" asked Abbot, picking out the approaching young man. He didn't need to ask, of course. It was the horns that gave it away, but since in this area of town those could just as easily be splicer's work, it was the steam that confirmed it. The boy was like boiling water.
Ciro Hammurabi, intoned the God. It took Abbot a second to realize that was a name.
"He looks like her," he said somewhat grumpily as he picked out the tune of 'Jingle Bells' on the guitar in his lap.
Only from a certain perspective, said Shamash, in tones that suggested a shrug. He's a spitting image of you at that age.
"I was paler," replied Abbot, segueing into 'I'm dreaming of a White Christmas.' "You guys putting the kids on steroids now? He looks about five years too old."
Sort of. The God's tone suggested he wanted to avoid the subject.
"I'm dreaming of a white christmas..." sang Abbot. "...Just like the ones I used to know..."
He was hit with another credit chip thrown by the grouchy businessman at the next table. Abbot looked up at the young man who had by now arrived at his table and kicked a chair out.
"Sit down," he said happily, "And don't look so surprised."
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Posted: Thu Dec 27, 2007 7:18 pm
Surprised? He had just gotten a chair to the leg. How was he supposed to react? Well, relieved. He’d been hit with things in worse places, and at the very least his family jewels were left intact.
“…” He was not amused to say the least. He knew people must stare at him even despite the hood desperately and vainly trying to cover his horns. He knew that he was lumped with the freaks.
And now this street performing hobo was trying to lump them together? Hell no.
“Maybe you have the wrong idea… But I am not city scum like you. I have better things to do than to glorify my deformities for money.”
That must have been it, right? This man wanted him to be a freak show; show off his horns and make a little moolah.
"…" Shamash opted to keep himself silent in the Godling’s head. For one, he was certain that punishing the boy in such an open area would attract too much attention…
And for another, he was very curious about how Abbot would react to his son’s words.
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Posted: Fri Dec 28, 2007 8:39 am
"Actually, I play in clubs most of the time," replied Abbot, not missing a beat. "This is just a hobby." He smiled - he had straight teeth, like a row of chiclets, but yellowed from cigarettes - and motioned to the chair again.
"Have a seat," he suggested, though it was no less of an order than before.
"So tell me, do you greet everyone as 'City Scum', or am I getting special treatment because I'm family?"
That was a stupid thing to say, Abbot, rumbled Shamash.
Abbot would stay cheerful, or at least, he'd try. After all, this should have happened years and years ago.
"What are they putting in milk these days, anyway?" he asked.
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Posted: Fri Dec 28, 2007 10:37 pm
Ciro felt himself getting more and more aggravated. Now he was FAMILY just because they were both freaks?
Oh, no, he’s dead serious. Shamash interjected lazily, almost enjoying the reaction Ciro would have. He really is your father.
And it really felt like Christmas for the Godling. Mere days after finishing off his mother… He had a shot at his father? He could feel the temperature rising from his body; the steam growing more and more into a fog.
Before shutting down completely.
Delicate little flakes of snow drifted down to those impending horns, to the blindfold, to Ciro’s exposed skin, yet they did not melt. His body was turned down, now on par with everyone else.
A few of the customers were staring widely, though many more were trying to ignore the duo of men.
Just as easily as I can cut off your powers… I can give them back to him.
…And I’m sure he’d love to know what you did to your mother.
And there he had it. Shamash had nearly pulled a gun to Ciro’s head: he wanted them to talk, and he was all too willing to risk both his godling’s lives as well as everyone else’s lives to accomplish this goal. He was plotting a bigger move in the game of human chess, and Ciro knew he was nothing but a pawn.
At least Ciro had learned something: Shamash was playing both sides of the fence. He had contact with his father this entire time. And yet he waited until just now to let this tidbit of information free.
Now, after their chance at a family life was gone.
Now, after he had ruined his own life.
Now, when Ciro didn’t need nor want a father.
Now… Have a seat. Shamash’s deep voice echoed Abbot’s, but with a far harsher tone to it.
Ciro nearly kicked the seat over flopping into it. His scowl was enormous, and his entire body seemed filled with rage, though snow still seemed to stick to him.
“Well… What in the hell do you want?”
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Posted: Sun Dec 30, 2007 5:23 pm
"I'm not allowed to meet my own son for coffee?" asked Abbot. He sounded cheerful, but the look in his eyes said play along or else. He was remaining alert - after all, he knew the look in Ciro's eyes. He saw so much of himself at that age - whatever age this was.
The magically induced hormones probably didn't help, said Shamash. Coyote did it first. He was trying to cheat.
"Yeah, whatever," Abbot, who was not quite sure who Coyote was, replied to the god. He fixed his attention back on Ciro.
"Just so you're not bitter with me, I thought you were dead until two weeks ago," he said in compromise.
He plucked a few notes on the guitar, tugged a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and offered one to Ciro.
That is not typically what responsible adults do, Shamash said.
"No one said I was a responsible adult," replied Abbot, taking a cig for himself, producing a lighter from a different pocket somewhere else on his jacket, lighting it, and taking a long drag.
"I'm supposed to be training you," he said to Ciro as he blew smoke rings at the business man who had previously assaulted him with credit chips. "Shamash's orders."
He noted the blindfold.
Self-inflicted injuries, Shamash told him.
"If you were trying to commit seppuku, your stomach is significantly lower, kid. Or is that the fashion lately?"
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Posted: Wed Jan 02, 2008 12:07 pm
Ciro heard the click of the lighter and the smell of smoke drifted to his nose, but there were no eyes to catch Abbot’s offer. He removed from his own pocket his own cigarettes. An act of independence as well as a misunderstanding. Disregarding a lighter, he simply took a drag, his fingers holding the end as the tip subtly lit.
He felt no need to add snarky comments or insults. No, Shamash had something to say. And when the word ‘training’ had come out... Well, that was what Ciro was talking about. Strength and power. Those were what were required in the game.
Strength and power, and people. Followers. Ciro’s mind quickly analyzed the situation. His father was a musician. In clubs, no less. Assuming that his father had any skills or connections whatsoever, Ciro could use that….
But then, any idea he might have had was shot down with Abbot’s rude tone and judgmental nature. What he had done to himself… That was his business and his alone. And if someone who went through life easy, not even having to raise their own god damned son thought they had a right to judge that….
“Maybe you’ve never been left for dead by your parents,” Ciro’s tone was calm, yet harsh as he offered his critique, “Maybe you weren’t raised by people trying to convince you you were the end of the world. And maybe, just maybe, you weren’t tormented since childhood by a sadistic god that wants nothing to destroy the world. Maybe you weren’t branded from birth, ostracized, and tormented because of that god.”
Actually… He has.
And Ciro… Ciro was finally speechless.
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Posted: Wed Jan 02, 2008 2:00 pm
"Is that your story?" asked Abbot. He sounded... amused, but in an oddly pained way. "Is that your story?" he asked again, and roared with laughter.
"My name's Gregory Abbot, kid. Mommy and Daddy? Religious out the wazoo. By the time I was seven I was convinced there was evil in me and I had to be punished for it. When I was eight I talked to the voice in my head for the first time, and he told me that I would inherit the world. He made me practice for hours a day for the next four years things that made my whole body bleed. I ran away to the scene when I was twelve and learned things about the world that you can't learn anywhere else. I learned about people, I learned about pain. And you know what? When I was nineteen frickin' years old, when I'd been going through hell daily, the voice in my head tells me that he ******** up his timing and I've gotta throw everything I'd worked for away so you could have a shot at what had been promised me."
He sat back and picked out a few notes of 'What child is this' on the guitar.
"So that's my story," he finished, "So maybe I have."
He played out another few chords of the song, enough to make it recognizable as it hung in the air.
"Have you put him through half of what you put me through?" he asked Shamash.
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Posted: Wed Jan 02, 2008 11:54 pm
That’s supposed to be your job.
“Oh, you’ve had a shitty life.” His voice made it clear that he was mocking Abbot now, “A real bang-up job, you. Look at you. Here your moping and complaining your a** off because your life was hard. Well s**t, what possessed you to offer your own god damned son to that? Huh, yea. Agony, pain, torture, insanity, self-doubt-, self-loathing, self destruction! Those all sound like the perfect things to give to your only son!”
“Only, hell!” He was laughing himself now, impressed by the callousness that this man could have. How hypocritical he could actually be. “Nope! Rather than try to fix the s**t you lived though, you decide to make it worse. Dump the goddamn kid on the streets, just like you. But no, don’t wait till he’s bleedin’ twelve; that doesn’t make you tough. Wait till he’s a day old. That’ll toughen him up. You b***h and moan there, but you did nothing but make my life hell. All this s**t you’re blaming him for… ********, you did it just as bad.”
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling roughly and looking away.
“No, no. You made it worse. You sold your son and didn’t even goddamn decide to tell him what was going on. ********. Do you even know what an upper hand I could have had? You could have explained, you could have trained me, you could have prepared me for this goddamned game and that jackass in my head’d have it all sealed and done by now. “
“But no, not you. Gregory Abbot. You dump your chance at happiness with your mutant son in the trash. You and that goddamn tramp. So don’t ******** complain to me that you had it bad. Couldn’t have been too horrible if you thought I’d handle it just fine.”
He took another drag, hoping his words and his point could sink in properly.
Ciro's voice died down, almost a pained whisper now. “How can you just sit there in your self righteous glory after what you did? ….How can you justify selling your own son’s life?”
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Posted: Thu Jan 03, 2008 3:38 am
Abbot was oddly grim. This wasn't how he'd plan things to go, and certainly they'd be far different had things turned out as planned all those years ago.
"I didn't do that," he said after a long moment of silence. "The plan went exactly as you just described. We would have been happy and I would have taught you everything you could possibly have needed to know and we wouldn't be sitting here singing Christmas carols no one remembers the words to right now."
He took a last whiff of his cigarette, dropped it, and ground it out with his foot.
"You want someone to blame," he continued evenly, trying to restore calm, "You want to blame your mother."
He frowned and tugged at one of his dreadlocks for a moment and went back to the guitar.
"Do you want the short story or the long?"
You're being stupid, Abbot, said Shamash.
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Posted: Thu Jan 03, 2008 9:04 am
Ciro felt, for one brief, flickering moment, pity for this man. For the first time in his life... He realized that he had been wanted. At least by someone. He could have had a normal childhood. Accepting parents. Hell, his father would have been through the exact same things that Ciro was going through now.
And… from what he gathered, a woman screwed it up.
He was pretty sure he could figure the story out. The woman, his mother, probably wasn’t clued into the situation well enough. She was probably exactly how Ciro had pictured her every time he thought of his abandonment. She was probably scared-- terrified—and knew that there was no way to raise this child normally. No, forget the child, how could she personally live normally with such a burden on her life?
Yea, Ciro was pretty sure he had it figured out.
With a swallow and a frown, his voice was raspy. The smoke still lingered in the air from his dying cigarette. The glowing tip at long since reached his fingers, but through callous and burn, the pain failed to reach him.
“Don’t bother.” It was clear to both the man and the God that this was one of the most difficult things that Ciro would ever say in his life, “It’s over.”
His dry, cracked hand covered his face as he finally began to cave into stress, before rubbing at his neck in order to try to release at least some of the tension that had built up.
“Just… Tell me about the training. We’ll just have to make up for lost time now.”
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Posted: Thu Jan 03, 2008 6:09 pm
Abbot nodded, figuring that was about as close to an acceptance of apology as he would ever get.
He's rarely this understanding, noted Shamash. I think you've hit a nerve.
"Judging from the cigarette trick," said Abbot, "I'd guess you have some degree of control over your powers. How much? How often do you lose control, or fail to perform where you need to? Have you learned anything about justice? About reading memories through touch or transferring them?"
He doubted that - it was one of the few powers he'd retained. The giving and taking of memories. In a few ways he was glad of it - they had helped him piece together what had happened to his life.
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Posted: Thu Jan 03, 2008 9:01 pm
He thought about how often his powers had helped or harmed him… Really, not since those last few battles with the Gorgons had he needed them in an actual fight. It seemed no matter what, as long as he felt the need, the flame came.
“Since the fever… When I first got them… You know, when that a*****e lit me on fire and let me run free with no explanation… They’ve only failed me once. “
The minotaur battle… That was your own fault for weakening yourself. If you would just go by my flawless plans, you would have won easily.
“Right, the fight with the minotaur. But that was my fault. As far as the flames go… I need them, they come.”
He thought about it, and just what difference his training had made.
“I can concentrate the power and location of the flames pretty well now… But unless there’s fuel for the fire to catch to, it just stays stuck to my body. It’s not ranged at all…”
His boot kicked against concrete and he leaned back in his chair almost casually, though his face was still showing signs of annoyance.
“As far as justice, I could recite Hammurabi’s code from heart while stoned if you wanted. And I’m pretty big on some of the revenge rules…”
But then confusion slid onto his face as he tried to understand just what Abbot was talking about; transferring memories? What… He had never heard of anything like that. It seemed out of Shamash’s range.
“And the memory thing… Hell, no. All he’s given me so far is the flames… I just figured that was all he had to give.”
A deep, sadistic chuckle came from the God in Ciro’s head. Shamash had found that statement very, very entertaining.
That’s just all I’m willing to trust you with, thus far. Your history isn’t exactly that of a model student.
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Posted: Fri Jan 04, 2008 2:21 pm
"I don't mean the code," said Abbot, laughing. "The code's no good if you don't know what happened. The fire will get the job done, but..."
He lowered his voice, suddenly wary of the businessman at the next table.
"I think someone may be eavesdropping," he said, "But it's called psychometry - the ability to extract memory of events from objects and people. I've got a feeling that once you get the fire under control we can start practicing with it."
He ran a finger across the table top and an image of himself as a much younger man splashed across his vision.
"The City will speak to you, Ciro, and that's the best advantage you can get."
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