Upside Down

The monster wearing the face of Mr. Pasters screeched, the reverberations tearing through Conor’s head as though living nails were burrowing through his skull and into his brain.

It did not diminish the grim pleasure of seeing the miniature sun bathe the creature in hues of blue while its flesh briefly burned red—then white—before disintegrating into a flurry of sparks that danced upon the walls, cooling to dull orange embers before extinguishing themselves.

Depleted uranium slugs with magnetic cores, slung forth by sequentially activated coils in a cloud of super-heated plasma—Castor rounds could carry the plasma no more than 100 meters as the intense heat melted down the bullet into a blob of liquid metal that eventually disperses and evaporates, leaving the plasma at the mercy of atmospheric “blooming,” the once deadly nebula diffusing into the surrounding air.  The effective range pales in comparison to the average coilgun’s 700 meters, but no one doubts its unrivalled armor penetration or the ability to leave a target screaming in agony from third-degree burns.

At a range of only about 10 meters, the weapon would have over-penetrated, leaving a nicely-cauterized hole in the creature, but little else—and it seemed to absorb bullets with disturbing glee.

So Conor had overcharged the Castor’s capacitors, heating the stored plasma well beyond the recommended safe operating temperature as outlined in the Peacekeeper Weapons Manual.  The slug was already melting in the chamber, exiting in a spray of molten metal as a glob of blindingly bright-orange light trailing a nimbus of white-blue that sailed right into Mr. Paster’s face.

He could already see that it wasn’t enough.

Warped, black, human flesh burst into stars as surrounding skin cooked, hardened, and sloughed off.  Beneath lay ribbons of nauseating reds, yellows, and greens, undulating into tendrils and clawed hands that burst forth to take revenge for the destruction of their disguise.

 He had already anticipated that the creature would survive the blast.

The now-useless smoking hulk of the Castor was thrown at the still-human feet of the monster, causing it to stumble, one of the larger appendages snapping forward to keep it upright.  Conor drew his Devon—a conventional, one-handed, chemical-based slug-thrower—and took advantage of the delay to backpedal past the elevator door, aiming for the zero button on the console with his DID card in hand.

As the doors closed, Mr. Paster’s right eye suddenly swelled and burst like a grotesque balloon, a single needle-thin black tendril shooting forward at impossible speed.

Conor quickly thumbed the emergency shut button and shoved off, falling to the floor and bashing his head against the wall.

Another screech slithered between the doors just before they slammed shut, cutting off both the wail and the tendril with a snap not unlike that of a pencil.

The tendril was buried in the opposite wall, above him, rigid and lifeless.

His breath escaped as he collapsed against the wall, one hand reaching up to nurse the bump emerging at the back of his skull.

His eyes were drawn upwards to the single bulb above, encased within beautiful stained glass bearing a stylistic rendering of the Twin Towers that sit at the center of the grand city of America—the very towers where evil itself had arisen before his eyes—and he wept.

*******

“Cono-ooo-rrrr… Long time, no see…”

Conor was secretly glad that Sean didn’t open the conversation with a punch to the stomach.

“So glad you could take some time out of your busy schedule to grace us poor orphans with your presence.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his armor, perspiration running down his back in little rivulets, and braced for impact.

“Sean, I—“

“The fuck, James?”

Conor winced.

Overhead the sun beat unceasingly upon Manter’s Docks, a repair and refit yard for sea-vessels, one of the best, if not the largest.  An ironclad—the AXS Appalachia—was currently being refitted; a special order by the Expeditionary Committee for a long-term voyage into uncharted waters to the south.  Electricians, welders, engineers, and various assistants crawled all over the gleaming silver hulk, working overtime to meet the contract deadline.

Conor spied the owner, Manter Furrlow, bitching out a couple of familiar faces.  It was still startling to see the burly man sober, though his aggressive mannerisms and almost unintelligible speech still meshed neatly with his childhood memories.

A couple of years ago, Manter’s Docks used to be Manter’s Orphanage, a run-down abomination of rickety plank platforms erected around Manter’s old sailing ship, where many an orphan slaved away to support a cheap fishing business.

Over three years ago, Conor used to live here with Sean.

Conor eyed Sean apprehensively, still wary of a sudden jab to the gut—it wouldn’t be out of character for him to reach for a welding torch either.

Instead, seeing that Conor was out of range, the tanned, wiry youth continued to murder an armor plate with a rivet gun (no less deadly than the torch—Conor kept his distance).

He raised his hand as if to ward off a potential attack.

“I couldn’t just let it—“

Clang.

Conor started as the plate was slammed into the table.

“Yes, you could!  It’s not your problem!  You should’ve been here, for her…”

Sean sighed and set the rivet gun down.  He turned to Conor, gloved hands on his hips.

“Dammit, Conor.  I… sorry.  I wasn’t there to see it, so how could I understand what’s goin’ through your head?  I mean, why would that girl just… jump, right in front of you.  I guess you’re thinkin’ that if you could at least figure out the why, you could bring her parents some peace.  Right?”

Not entirely correct, but glad for the reprieve, he nodded anyway.

“And then, I mean, right after, Hayfa…”

Conor’s fingers reflexively curled into fists.  The name stung, reminding him of his guilt.

Sean sighed, closing his eyes.

“You could have at least tried to be at her funeral.”

Why did he have to remember now? Hayfa hanging on his arm, Sean and Keiran dueling with sticks, and Whip—

Whip?

No—there was no other.

Conor forced himself to relax.

“I know.  I’m sorry.”

Sean scrutinized him for a moment.

“Well, just because I understand, doesn’t mean Keiran will.”

Conor looked upwards to a small boy in a work harness suspended from the scaffolding, sealing a joint with a welding torch.

“Could you—?”

Sean cut him off with a quick jab to the gut.

“No, Conor.  You’ll have to talk to him yourself.”

Thank God for armor, otherwise he would’ve been on his knees.  Instead he only flinched.  He almost smiled.

But… No, it was far from over.  And he doesn’t think he could bear to face Mace now, with no answers to give.

How could he tell him that the girl knew what would happen to Paige?  That if he believed her, then Paige might still be alive?

That it was his fault.

“Sean, I can’t—“

Sean reached for the torch.

“Hear me out, Sean.”

He stopped mid-motion.

“I still have to check something out.  Just tell Mace that—“

“Who?”

Conor froze.

Memories and old dreams bubbled to the surface, threatening to drown him; he struggled to control his breathing.

“Listen, Sean, I have to go—I’ll call you later, okay?”

Conor turned to leave.

“What the fuck is going on, Conor!?” Sean called after him.

“Later, Sean!”

He walked out as fast as he could, resisting the temptation to run.

It felt like a ghost was at his heels.

*******

“Mr. Pasters?”

Beyond the grand windows, far above the clouds and the lights of the city, billions of stars twinkled and delivered their brilliance into the Archive lobby unhindered.

An aging, dark-skinned man garbed in robes of velvet and sapphire raised his bespectacled eyes from the digipad propped upon the desk.

“Yes… and who might you be?”

Conor took off his helmet and placed it underneath his right arm.

“Corporal Conor James, sir.  We talked on the comm.”

The man peered at the rifle slung over Conor’s back and the gun in his holster.

“You dare bring weapons into a place of learning?”

“Sir, I am required to be armed at all times and am authorized to carry them anywhere inside the Towers.”

Mr. Pasters raised an eyebrow.

“Really?  And that includes bringing a MA-42 Castor anti-armor rifle?  Overkill, wouldn’t you agree?”

Conor was taken aback and lost a bit of his composure.

“Sir—?”

The librarian extended his arms outward and waved them at the numerous tomes that lay upon the shelves surrounding him.

“I am an avid consumer and preserver of knowledge, be it the chronicling of the First War of Kings or the weaponry used by our Peacekeepers.”

He lowered his arms and folded his hands beneath his robes.

“This includes knowing that you are not a Peacekeeper, but a Wall Patrol Officer, and that carrying anything larger than a sidearm requires special permission from the Twin Tower Security Authority.”

“Sir, I—“

“You are here about ‘Dream Sickness,’ no?  The ancient myth concerning nightmarish beings from another world that stole the bodies of humans using their dreams as a bridge?  What might have actually been a plague, wildly theorized to be responsible for the Silent Centuries?  A fairy tale that, for some insane reason, you not only believe has some merit, but also connected to that terrible incident on the Wall?”

Conor shifted uncomfortably.

“I guess I’m becoming pretty famous.”

The old man smiled.

“Indeed you are.”

He reached down and retrieved a key card from the desk.

“Come, young man.”

Conor stared in bewilderment.

“Excuse me?”

“You desire answers, a reason for what happened to that poor young woman.”

“I—“

He held up the card, shushing him.

“I don’t know how you came to conclude that a mythological disease had anything to do with that terrible event, but if it will put your mind at ease, I have a few writings on the subject that you could look at.  But I must warn you, they hold no answers for you.”

Conor bowed his head.

“Thank you, sir. This means a lot, even if you don’t believe me.”

The librarian’s smile grew wider.  Almost impossibly wide.

“Oh, dear boy.  Quite the contrary.”

*******

“I GUNNA SMASH YOUS!!!”

The children screamed in terror as their caretaker thumped across the planks in a rage, the remnants of Sasuke’s latest prank plastered all over his face.

Despite his bulk and drunken gait, every orphan at Manter’s knew full well his aptitude for tracking down and catching his unruly charges—then beating them to a pulp.

Sean observed this with boredom; it has been a regular tradition at the orphanage for as long as he could remember and unlikely to ever change. 

He sat down on a piece of driftwood, next to his 11-year-old companion, who was sketching on his pad.

Looking over, he could see the rough pencil lines beginning to take on the image of a boy in a torn shirt and pants, no different than any of the other orphans, but sporting tall tufted ears and a long, thin tail.

Conor had been drawing this ‘cat-boy’ for a while now.  Sean didn’t get why he was so obsessed.  

Normally didn’t care much either, but what else is there to do on this stupid beach?

“Hey, Conor.  Who’s he?”

Conor did not look up.

“My… friend.”

“Friend?”

“Friend.”

What a stimulating conversation.

“Like, what?  Imaginary friend?”

Conor’s brow furrowed.

“Not really.  I see him in my dreams.”

“Huh.”

“He comes from the upside down.”

Now that sounded even more stupid.  Not even gonna bother asking.

“Does he have a name?”

Abruptly Conor looked up at Sean, bewildered.

“Of course he does.”

Sean rolled his eyes.

“Then what is his name, doofus?”

Conor replied in a tone suggesting that the answer was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Bobby, of course.”