Brothers parted by a canal. A bridge which connects them only displays a shared nature.
One with rotting vines atop huts with cyan lights, villages upon villages glued to devices. Large portions of a budget going to a military brushed under the rug.
Another with pipes clouding a thick air of toxins. Beneath layers of dull brutalist buildings with wires for walls, bright near-empty subways flash in a blink with chrome railroads. Condensation leaks on windows with different emotions, but different families scrub them clean under the wired outlines of hope so close.
Meanwhile, a broad-shouldered man in a gray-lined suit with a withered rose in his breast pocket glides across the dystopian floor with nostalgia. He smiles with pitch-black eyes and a clean-shaven face without eyebrows, heavy droopy eyelids, and very faint black hair under a gray fedora.
Counting the numbers on the doors, eager to arrive like a tax collector.
142 . . . 143 . . . and—
144.
The man with thin lips remained with a poker face as he knocked twice on the metal door from below, refusing to raise his hand to knock.
Knock . . . knock.
Waiting patiently, he adjusted the black-withered rose as he placed his arms behind his back, expecting a response.
He felt something watching. Something glinted upward . . .
He looked, but nothing was there. An illusion?
From behind the door, light and careful footsteps traveled to answer.
"Hello?" she asked. A pale woman with hollow eyes, a roundish face, and frizzy brown hair pulled back. A shell of former beauty diminished by countless instances of panic.
"Amira Bakir. I have been sent on watch for you . . ." the man softly spoke.
Confused, "What—"
Then, the watcher barged in like it was his home. He sat down on the couch softly, making no noise for the courtesy of the woman's child—and the neighbors.
Weakly, the woman marched toward the man sitting on her husband's couch. "What is the meaning of this?" she whispered.
"It is under my obligation that I keep watch on you. I am a bearer. Bearer, Cao Zing," he stated.
The woman calmed. She sat gently on her red couch. A window at the end of the small apartment shone brightly in red-oranges of dawn's arrival.
"Did Markus send you?" she laughed, then coughed. "Ahh, always a good guy."
"I have no idea who that is," the man objected.
Her eyes widened. She noticed the black rose and clenched her jaw. Rubbing her eyes and leaving a red tone on the skin around them, she smiled. "So . . . what are you going to do?"
"I'm here to make sure everything goes smoothly." He grinned with purple-thin lips.
"Oh, I get it."
"Now, on most important matters—would you like to discuss more important business?"
". . . Like?"
"Kadir . . ."
. . .
The large window dimmed. Any sounds of weak air-conditioning drowned in silence.
"He was your husband, correct?" he uttered.
"Y-yes . . . what about it?" She looked around in distress, wishing to hold his hand just one more time.
"It's quite unfortunate, and we've noticed there's been a decline in your daily rents for this complex since his tragic passing."
She stared blankly at him with a frown.
She felt her husband's hand again, smiled brightly, only to look down and see she was clenching the sofa.
Her smile faded once again in the face of shameless people.
"We understand it's hard being a single mother . . . which is why we've come to help you, not give you trouble. You are in enough despair as is. There shall be no more," he stated.
She looked up, her heartbeat like drums, her eyes red-white beneath thick eyelashes.
"Relax, it's okay," he said.
Kadir said that to me before. Whenever I'd make a mistake, drop something, say something—he'd always tell me it was okay . . .
The woman smiled in epiphany as the man snapped his fingers. She left the trance, attentive again.
"We notice your declining health, your fall into agony, and we are here to comply . . . it's been indexed, approved, noted, and I'm here to see it transpire."
Frowning, the woman looked with wide eyes at the man who she envisioned as her husband.
I see you. Kadir . . . you were okay after all. I knew Markus was a fool.
She blinked multiple times, and for a moment his jaw was stronger, his hair turned brown, and his smile was familiar. She knew that smile.
"I-I'll do whatever you say, Kadir . . ." she muttered weakly, chapped lips and wrinkles forming deeply around her eyes.
Kadir's blurred façade spoke: "Do you want our daughter to see you starve, Amira? If you really love us, you'll do what's right, dear."
Kadir reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a long sharp black rose. He gently laid it on the table with delicate hands and a soft demeanor that reminded her of his grace.
. . .
Soft silence emanated as the rose clinked on the glass table between the red couches.
"Embrace it, darling," he said, a look of yearning on his expression.
He'd always say that to me. It's you, Kadir . . . I never doubted it.
"I'll do anything for you, my love!" she cheered. Some color popped back into her dull flesh.
Kadir leaned in. "I notice some wrinkles on your neck. You should rub the rose there—it will help regain your beauty," he said with an endearing smile.
"Oh, yes dear." She grinned deeply.
She grabbed it. The rose was rather heavy, but she was still delighted to see her love once more. To hear that voice again. To feel his presence again.
Instantly, she rubbed the rose around her neck graciously. She laughed as she regained her beauty. "Haha! I love you, Kadir!"
She cheered, scrubbing the rose violently across her neck. "Anything for you, my dear!"
Vigorously, she felt all her sadness leak out of her body. Every ounce of despair drained as she dug harder with the stiff rose.
"HAHAHAHA!" she laughed, then—
She rubbed harder, giggling through tears. "Am I beautiful, Kadir—am I beautiful now?"The petals drank deep, blooming red.
Her lips cracked as she cackled. "I knew you'd come back, dear! I prayed, and prayed!" She pressed the rose harder, binding it to her very speech, as petals shattered like glass.
With a raspy voice she said, "Do I look like her again, Kadir? Do I? Do I look beautiful again—"
. . .
Amira was exhausted. The black rose dripped.
Kadir watched, his face becoming the watcher. Clarifying itself, he took off his fedora, then peeled away a lattice of blinking blue light from his temple, threads snapping soundlessly like twigs as the sensation of nerves cutting from the skull intensified.
"What a device we bear. Oh well."
The man took a handkerchief from behind where the rose sat and wiped the red rose clean. He stood up, grabbed the ecstatic woman, and dragged her to meet her only love.
"The couch did half of it for me," he whispered.
. . .
He glided out, shoulders firm, posture unbroken—like grief had been tuned into discipline.
"It's okay, Amira. You did good," the watcher murmured.
She smiled, her eyes still wide open, with a smile that would never drop.
Walking through the hall, holding her with one arm, he grabbed another box-shaped trinket from his pocket with a blue button on top.
He pressed it. From below, a team of engineers, doctors, and bearers rushed through the stairs to the scene. The watcher walked down the stairs as nobody paid attention to him. Like a ghoul, pulling another that was invited to become one too.
Chrome-clean stairs now shrouded in dirt and grime from the ground below. Once clean stairs now occupied by only an emergency. Forget joy or liveliness; it was only a jaded first response.
Reaching the first floor, he set the lovestruck gone-too-far aside like a doll. The watcher sighed, flipped open a notebook flooded with tally marks, and added another. Standing there firm, waiting for instruction, he looked like he never blinked, with pitch-black eyes.
Heavy footsteps clanked on the metal-stone floorboards etched with dirt between crevices and cracks in the tiles on sidewalks.
A shorter man, with a laid-back walk, grinning hideously with such confidence. A blue incisor for a tooth peeked out from his full pink lips. Pale skin with fully black eyes that lost their whites widened as he saw the tall man standing. He had a jet-black side part that flew in the direction of the wind.
"She sang lullabies on the way down, eh? Like a hummingbird that lost its voice. Beautiful," the shorter man said.
The watcher stood, nodded swiftly—as if he saw his reflection. A reflection only showing his insides.
Not a sound of respiration—or life, for that matter—came from him. Like a hollow shell of a hermit crab that left. Now left with only rules written in it.
"No need to be so formal, Watcher. Let's see if they're doing their job," the man smiled devilishly, pointing to go up the stairs once more.
"Yes, Yulou," Watcher murmured.
Striding up the stairs, they reached the ruined garden focused on three young flowers—two withered already.
"Tell me, Watcher."
"Hm?"
"When a flower withers, what do you do?"
". . ."
"You plant another. Apologies, I forget you aren't much of a talker, aside from business."
Yulou looked up at the frame of the wired border to the field and smiled at something that blinked lightly at him. Tightly, he gritted his teeth as he nodded his head.
Entering the garden, a mural with staring dead eyes following, Yulou scoffed. Watcher walked heavily but gently, while Yulou showed no courtesy and stomped vigorously.
Over a dozen people were silently scuffling throughout the living room. They finally noticed the man.
"Head Bearer Yulou!" they cheered in unison.
However, another voice from a doctor arose: "Fourth Lantern of the Lighthouse!"
. . .
Silence. The man immediately regretted what he said.
Sht! He'll turn me into another one of those freaks around the country! Stupid! Stupid! Why do you never think before you speak?*
Yulou laughed. "Ahh, what a name! Been years since I heard that one."
Oh thank Zaleth. I forget he's forgiving.
Laughter arose. The room brightened with hard workers as Yulou watched with a hard-staring gaze.
All the men laughed as half scrubbed the carpets, furniture, and windows. Meanwhile, the others were huddled up, covering a flower grown on their own terms.
A marching step.
Yulou cleared his throat. Even the air went silent.
Eyes imprinted into the souls of every man in the room.
"We are not here to laugh. We are here to work. Now, do you people forget there is a little girl here?"
. . .
The workers seemed confused—doctors, police bearers, engineers—all stumped.
In a flash, Yulou opened the door of the only small flower remaining, still blooming bright red.He turned on the light-blue lamp in her room, filled to the brim with figures, blocks, and all sorts of devices laid about. The girl's bed lay neat with her under the covers.
Yulou walked slowly toward her, dodging every obstacle on the ground, and tapped her lightly. She turned over, rubbing her eyes.
"Good morning, sweetheart . . ." Yulou smiled with long lips.
The girl widened her eyes. "You're not my mommy. Where is she?" she whispered innocently.
"She's a little sick. My friends are doctors and are helping her," he smiled.
The girl frowned. "I'm hungry. Can my mommy make food?" she asked.
"No. Matter of fact, why don't I make something for you? We can be friends."
"Okay, mister." She yawned.
"C'mon, your mommy will come back momentarily." He grinned. She smiled and held his hand as they got up and walked out of the room—only to see the house empty. Not a laugh from a doctor, a footstep from an officer, nor a twist of metal from an engineer.
There was nobody, except for Watcher.
"Big man," the tired girl said as Yulou guided her to the kitchen.
"Yes . . . big man. Would you like something to eat?" He opened the refrigerator in the island beside the rooms and behind the living room, leaving an open space to see the large window at the edge of it.
"There's eggs," he said. The girl nodded quickly.
Luminant, the morning's cry shone through the window with a yellow hue, beams illuminating the red couch.
Watcher closed his eyes, pushed his fedora downward, and tightly held his hands together. Yulou stared at the light, embracing it.
"Ahh, the only light we truly get in the day. What a spectacle. I always miss it."
He prepared scrambled eggs. Salt lingered in the thin air, smoke hailed in the kitchen, and he lathered the egg in honey, drizzling each bit as he cut them up. Serving the girl with a small fork and plate, he laughed.
"Thank you!" the girl cheered. Looking down to grab the fork, she noticed the bits of egg were pieced to shape a flower.
However, as it went down to the core, it was evidently burnt. A crisp incinerated carefully.
She took a bite. A mixture of honey, egg, and care flooded her mouth—a taste that had her shed a childish tear.
"I love it, Mister!" she said while chewing happily.
Yulou chuckled. "Hah. I'm glad . . . do you love your mommy?"
"Yes I do!" she said, smearing honey around her mouth.
"You should. And I think she loves you more than you know."
"Really?"
The man scoffed. "Yes . . . really."
What a nice girl. Maybe one day she can be happy. But I'm much happier in the way she will be.
. . .
Once cherished, the morning's bright beam of light died down, while Watcher and Yulou walked down the hallway.
Watcher cleared his throat. "What do we do all this for, Yulou?"
Yulou looked up, his black eyes consuming any affirmation within oneself. "What do you think is necessary for one to achieve what others don't?"
". . ."
Grinning, Yulou answered: "Doing the things no ordinary man wants to do."
The wired hall shriveled in the sight of him, and his voice with heavy bass.
"The fact is, those who have any form of control, fame, status, money, whatever it may be . . . everyone you admire, everyone you envy—their hands are red. They just wear better gloves. I simply chose not to hide the stains. I am not ashamed."
"I hate it, but I love the thrill of the reward. It makes me forget that I'm doing wrong in the first place—because if it's helping me, why not do more? It's simple logic. Even you can understand."
He whispered: "Two flowers that withered, but their roots still whisper underground, climbing relentlessly."
Watcher nodded. They walked down the stairs again. Children's laughter shrouded the halls with an open gate to the new land.
. . .
Dimming, the morning light fell.
Books. So many books. Oh, how I wish I had the time! But I'm bound to a military. My foster parents never had the money for higher education.
A library of textbooks, novels, and comics suffocated the tall room. A long white-haired pale man walked across it with a black button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up, as his eyes widened in awe.
Oh, the motivation to know everything, but the drive to do nothing. It conflicts with me. What a dream this is. Nobody can bother me!
Suddenly, the ceiling cracked. A white cluster of light brightened the wrinkled spines of knowledge as a deafeningly deep voice burst the man's eardrums.
A voice that echoed in gold glory, sending a message that could faintly be heard.
What is it saying?
Suddenly—
SNAP!
Hallways of a library diminished as the real world came again.
"You should've slept earlier, Mercury," a blurred Lisan said.
Mercury rubbed his eyes and got up out of bed. "You didn't have to yell, y'know. I had an amazing dream in a library."
The golden-eyed man with tiger-like hair chuckled. "A library . . . you?"
"Yeah yeah, say all you want, but I love books. I never had time to read many, so I wrote my own on voyages in my time in the military," Mercury scoffed.
Turning backward, he noticed the light was not there.
"Lisan. When was the light fall of Zi Jin Cheng?"
"About an hour ago."
"We missed it! I swore to myself to check on Amira at that moment. Let's go."
Lisan nodded as he left the room. Mercury grabbed the bag of items by the side of his bed and rushed out the door to get to the black car.
Gracefully, the priest marched carefully across the red carpet as he held his healed hands together in prayer.
"For our Zaleth, prosper our lives—for we do not deserve it, but we purify in your gift," he whispered. "The suffering you gift is neither just nor unjust. That portrays you are ubiquitous, Lord Zaleth."
Softly, Lisan reached to a door and opened it, for it was unlocked . . .
He opened it to see—
The receptionist woman. She was kneeling, praying, with glowing blue eyes.
She echoed robotically: "Father . . ."
Hostility forgotten with careful thought.
"You left the door unlocked for me."
"Yes, Father. I understand. In that long night, the pain I went through purified me. I feel anew. I want to be a normal girl. I want to walk forgiven . . ."
"I'm glad you made up your mind . . . you are forgiven, my daughter."
The receptionist, with wide eyes, looked at the man. He was awfully skinny, veins etched along bones that seemed too heavy for his skin. Rolled up sleeves display veins etched along bones that looked too heavy for his skin.
"What is your name?" Lisan asked.
"I-I don't have one."
"Then we shall give you one. A name fit for rebirth. How does Sara sound?"
"It's beautiful, Father. I've been waiting for one." She trembled, but let her tension go at ease.
Silence stretched wide between them.
"Very well. From now on, you decide what you are. You hold the power to wake the unaware, to make it truly see."
What does Father mean by that? Is he telling me something?
"Remember it. Now, shall we go?"
Ecstatic, Sara jumped up from her knees and nodded as they both left—a replicant and a priest, walking across the dreadful hall with new eyes.
"Do you see now?"
"I see, Father Lisan. I was birthed here, ordered here, that's all."
She's aware, but not a Mercury.
Sara and Lisan laughed as they descended. Behind them, the door gaped open. . .
She wanted to turn back to the easy way. The comfortable way. But—
Suffering builds connection. It never fails. . . .