Mad Rhetoric

Pain was always the same.

Jarring, searing, hot. A reminder you were mortal, inconsequential.

It was comforting to Them to know that these things did not change, even when the whole of existence could warp and reform itself.

They reminded Themself that this was the price.

Pain for existence. Suffering for life.

This was the way of life, and the way of magic. The price was high for what They did, and they paid it over and over. At this point the price no longer mattered so much as the relief. They would pay any price for it. This drug. The salve for Their addiction.

Magic. White-hot, organic and brutal. Like the cutting of flesh it always extracted a toll, a toll you weren’t expecting, and one that wasn’t as much as you were willing to give. But They knew the price of magic. Knew it intimately. Now Magic only exacted the toll They allowed, and only as much as was reasonable and fair. They flexed their fingers, pawed through the fragments of Their memories, pulling order from the chaos, willing a narrative out of the torn characters, sentences, and paragraphs.

They felt dirt, and water (or was it blood?). It was leaking from Their ears, eyes and other orifices. The world moved slowly at first, the air thick and viscous Their senses not quite able to catch up to the movements. They struggled for orientation. More water leaked from their mouth as they gasped the thick atmosphere, not quite choking, not quite pulling in oxygen. Seconds, minutes passed, and a muffled, piercing scream echoed through it like a sinewy tendon connecting each moment. A rumbling, cresting wave of sound followed, and all at once Their ears were assaulted by a hundred, then a thousand, echoes. All fighting for purchase in each second of air, pressing their voice into each atom of time.

They felt a rough weight on their shoulder, pressing down then pulling up, spinning Them from the dirt to the sky from the comfortable darkness into the harsh, blinding light. The man (no, woman) screamed. Her face contorted in anger, a free hand raising a bloody stone high into the harsh sky. With violent precision it streaked through the pale canvas. A red meteor quickly clouding, then swallowing, the gentle whiteness from sight.

More pain.

A burst of visual sparks erupted as the stone struck Them down, violently, into the dirt. It pistoned into the sky again trailing red, flowing ribbons of blood (yes, definitely blood) through the air. As it threatened once again to embark on its brutal orbit more blood erupted across the harsh canvas. But it was more than could have been rent by the stone. It showered through the thick air, a fine mist of pink rain. The stone arched and continued its descent, though weakly this time, and fell behind the loose, warm flesh of the woman. Her limp body flaccidly pressed Them back into the mud, and once again They choked in air and earth as They struggled to breath.

The Toll was being exacted. Once again Magic had tipped the bargain in its favor and inky darkness overtook Them.

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Where They awoke was comfortable, sterile. They were surrounded by an enveloping softness mixed with safety, there was pain but it was weak and distant, chemically blunted behind a gently closed door. It was bright here too but not so harsh. They felt oriented but groggy. Next to them a man in a gray tweed suit sat cross-legged, dismissively intent on one line in a black notebook. The page was filled with many names, an unnatural amount for the space, each followed by a series of numbers and a clipped, antiseptic sentence or two all periods and block letters. The lines were uniform save one, the line where the man’s pen now hovered. Early morning vision obscured everything in the series save the last two names:

Leslie, Gregory,

The man’s hand obscured the last. Slowly They realized that he was no longer looking at the notebook, but at Them. As Their gaze met his, a wide grin, warm and knowing, spread across his face. Behind him approached a young woman in white. She addressed him, the conversation was muffled but the tone was incredulous, questioning. The man turned toward the woman; his book snapping shut in the process. His body language proffered apology, but his tone was annoyance blanketed in cold rage. In one fluid movement The Book disappeared into his jacket and blended unnaturally close to his body as he buttoned its front. He slung a long black coat over one arm and donned his black fedora. He gave the woman a mocking smile and offered the same to Them with a tip of his hat. The woman gave him an irritated stare as he brushed past and exited to the hallway.

She watched him for several seconds, making sure he had left. Then she turned back.

“I see you’re awake.” She paused, offering a brief silence for a response.

“Some folks weren’t sure you would wake up.” Another pause.

“To be honest, I didn’t think you would either.”

“Can you talk?”

“Do you understand me?”

They wanted to say they did but They couldn’t remember how. Or, They could remember how, but the words didn’t feel right and were not Theirs, they felt like borrowed clothes.

They nodded their head instead. The gesture felt right and the woman confirmed with a knowing smile.

“That’s great that you can understand. If you can’t talk, maybe we can try writing when you’re ready?" She smiled again, hoping for a gesture of assent.

"When they brought you in they said you were good at that, good at a lot of things. Do you remember any of that?”

They gave her a different nod, this time in the opposite direction.

“That’s too bad, I’m sorry, this must all be a bit scary and strange for you right now.”

It did feel scary, and strange, but also familiar, like an old plot in a new story or the opening moves to a old game. They had been in this play before They just didn’t know the setting or actors yet. The woman probed Their face as They thought, an expression of charity and pity falling across hers as she did.

“Well, I’ll leave you for now.” She said with a smile. “Hopefully, you’ll get some visitors that can help you remember.”

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It was weeks before They had another visitor. They came to understand the woman was a healer and helped Them to regain their strength, awareness and speech. Their true memories were still just out of reach. There but not there, like grasping a bubble in rushing water. But slowly They came to know themselves in a way, as though through a mirror.

They also came to know they had the same anatomy as the woman, so They became “she”.

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Like a well-practiced dancer, she was slipping into her skin, stepping into customs and history that were hers but not hers. Exacting her side of the magical bargain, learning to live in her new reality.

One day a man with knowing eyes and matching familiarity came to her.

He offered condolences about her partner (or lover, he did not provide a clear distinction). He said something about contributions, duty, and military honors. His tone incensed her anger, and contempt bloomed along with his platitudes but she was unsure why. It felt like a billowing shadow of who she once was. Somehow she knew she could kill this man, SHOULD kill this man, but an instinctive calculation stopped her. With his platitudes he slipped her a thin, rectangular piece of paper inscribed with a name she didn’t recognize.

“It’s a check for twenty thousand dollars.” He paused as she slipped it from his fingers.

“I know it’s not much, there will be more after all this gets sorted. Think of it as an allowance. Or a severance. It’s up to you.”

She took the piece of paper, wanting to shred or burn it, but knowing that she would need to keep it, to use it and to keep on living.

She knew that allowance meant that this would not be the last time they would meet. She would need to be ready and what he gave her would help her do that.

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Months had passed, and her $20,000 had turned into $750,000, which that was now slung in a pack across her back. It was past midnight, and the wharf was quiet and empty, the air sticky. She shifted her weight to cradle the FAMAS F1 casually, but expertly in her arms. Pulling a last drag from her cigarette she probed her memory. The memory wasn’t hers, but she knew how to use it now. Like a roll-a-dex for people, facts, skills and emotions. One she could reference whenever she needed, a second skin hiding a primal, animalistic being of awe and terror.

The man approaching matched her memories, his features were somewhat older, more gaunt and unrested.

“I hoped we would never see each other again Ms. Valentine.”

“The feeling is mutual Norio, but here we are.”

“Do you have the money?” She gestured to her pack.

“Do you have a name?” He shook his head.

“All I got is an address. That’s the deal.” She was annoyed by the statement and contemplated killing him. But getting the slip of paper while ducking the snipers would be more trouble than it was worth.

“Fine.”

She dropped the pack. He anchored the paper under a small stone. They approached then passed in the darkness. He was supposed to continue on, no questions, transaction complete. But as he lifted the bag, a worried sigh escaped. He turned. She and the paper were gone and he was alone.

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It had been four and a half years since she left the field hospital and two since getting Norio’s lead.

A jagged scar above her right eye was the only visible indicator that she was the same person. Her body was lighter, lithe, lean, and dangerous; she wore the confidence of precisely controlled violence, and the posture of well-honed tactical ingenuity.

She remembered things that she should not have from faces she once wore and people she no longer was. An exquisitely deadly sword was strapped to her back, blood oozed down her shoulder from a fresh knife wound and she trained the sight of her FN P90 on the small of the man’s back. Her breath was hot with exertion and blood pounded in her ears. But her hands were stone, her blood cold, her mind a coiled viper. She didn’t speak but slowly stepped closer to the figure at the precarious tip of the rocky knife. She could hear waves breaking in the distance and menacingly strong wind gusts threatened to throw them both to the jagged rocks below.

“Welcome Ms. Valentine. Or was it Mr. Pierce? No, Mrs. Kanno?”

She was silent.

“I see you finally remember who I am.” He did not turn, the statement matter of fact but soft, pulled over the cliff’s edge by the howling wind.

She remembered him by many names.

The Horseman. The Collector. Decay. Entropy...

Death.

He was the one Time feared, he who stands at the end of all things. The exacting calculator, the actuary of existence. She did not speak, but instead focused her glare into the grey tweed of his jacket, as if the anger behind it could somehow burn him from reality.

After a long moment he turned, meeting her gaze.

“You remember me. But, I wonder, do you remember you?”

His eyes squeezed to thin slits, the solid blackness of his pupils burrowing into her own, searching, extracting. His eyes relaxed, finding an answer. After a long second he let out a breath, his posture softened, a mixture of relief and resignation.

“It appears not.”

She opened fire.