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The Worm Turns [Or, How Ziggy Gets Through Envy]
For long moments at a time, she hazes out of existence, coming back into focus with a jerk, like resurfacing from dark water after almost drowning.
Children approach her on the streets, curious. They pluck at her suit and ask her questions-small questions, in broken grammar. Who and what and where and why. Why is she here? Where did she come from? Why is she wearing the suit? Why does she keep disappearing like that? Who is she?
“I don’t have a fucking clue, kids.” To all of the above. “Go on, go away.”
They don’t.
***************************
“If you’re going to keep this up, answer me one, okay?” The kids group around Ziggy, a range of heights and races and ages, but all made the same by their red eyes and their uncanny peacefulness. None of them jostle for position or pull each other’s hair or interrupt each other. They stand and wait, free of the puppy-like competition and impatience of normal human children.
“Are you guys real?” She sits down, in the middle of the sidewalk, and they cluster around her, anticipating the others’ movements with the grace of dancers, the simultaneity of a school of fish. “If this is a game, if that purple bastard set all this up, is any of this real?”
One little girl steps forward. Six or seven years old, wavy dark hair caught up in pigtails; tan skin, clear and smooth as only a child’s can be; white-shot eyes startling in her small perfect face. “The meat-thing that is real is us. Life-thing that waits above ground is real. Life-thing that waits below ground is real. All thing is real. Happy happy us, best real in air above.” The girl pats at Ziggy’s face-mask. “Meat-thing is real is you?”
“I’m really not sure.” Ziggy catches the little girl’s hand, pushing it back from the mask. “None of you make any sense. But maybe I don't either, huh?” She reaches out and cups the girl’s face with one gloved hand, before hauling herself to her feet and walking on.
The children trail behind her, their eyes as red as flies’.
*************************
One of the first missiles strikes within feet of Ziggy. The concussion throws her into the air, and scrapes her down the center of the street. When she pushes herself up and rubs the cement dust from her helmet’s visor, the children have disappeared.
Scraps of flesh stain the road around her; flags of brightly-colored fabric hang limp and gore-soaked on the rough concrete rubble of the sidewalk. A tiny hand clings like a bloody spider to the glass of a shop window before falling, with a soft plop, to the walk below, chubby fingers curled around air.
No, wait. There’s one child left. A little boy, standing with his arms wrapped around a lightpost. His right leg is gone, and he stares at her with wide red eyes. His mouth moves, but Ziggy can’t hear what he’s saying, not through the explosions and gunfire ratcheting through the air.
She gets to her feet, unsteady, not certain she’s still in one piece herself. Yes, she is. Amazing. How about the suit? …Yes. Lord. Hard to believe, but the tough material held.
She lurches over to the little boy and kneels down. He wobbles on his one good leg, lets go of the lightpost, and falls against her shoulder. Grime and spatters of blood like flyspecks darken his pale face as he turns to whisper in her ear.
“Red worm time.”
Maybe these kids are real. Maybe things like this happen all the time here, wherever here is. Maybe she shouldn’t care.
Or maybe they aren’t real, and that Killgrave son of a bitch has mocked up this whole situation for the benefit of his party guests. Maybe they’re true automatons, unfeeling and uncaring, and Killgrave’s watching right now, directing them, writing their lines for them, so as to best get a reaction from Ziggy.
Or maybe they’re both real and not-real. Maybe they’re like Ziggy, a simulation created by outsiders, made for a purpose with no care for their own perceptions. Maybe Killgrave gave them life and belief in that life-just so that he can take it away now.
She can’t save this kid. His life is already guttering out, blood pooling around Ziggy’s knees as she holds him. Really, she can’t save anyone here. Whoever or whatever’s launching the missiles, if they’re part of the game, part of the simulation, is as much a victim as the children. As Ziggy.
Killgrave’s the one to blame. Killgrave, who’s still three whole sins or more away.
Can she make it that far?
“Okay, kid. You’re right. It’s red worm time.”
She doesn’t know what that means to him. But she can make it mean something to her.
Children approach her on the streets, curious. They pluck at her suit and ask her questions-small questions, in broken grammar. Who and what and where and why. Why is she here? Where did she come from? Why is she wearing the suit? Why does she keep disappearing like that? Who is she?
“I don’t have a fucking clue, kids.” To all of the above. “Go on, go away.”
They don’t.
***************************
“If you’re going to keep this up, answer me one, okay?” The kids group around Ziggy, a range of heights and races and ages, but all made the same by their red eyes and their uncanny peacefulness. None of them jostle for position or pull each other’s hair or interrupt each other. They stand and wait, free of the puppy-like competition and impatience of normal human children.
“Are you guys real?” She sits down, in the middle of the sidewalk, and they cluster around her, anticipating the others’ movements with the grace of dancers, the simultaneity of a school of fish. “If this is a game, if that purple bastard set all this up, is any of this real?”
One little girl steps forward. Six or seven years old, wavy dark hair caught up in pigtails; tan skin, clear and smooth as only a child’s can be; white-shot eyes startling in her small perfect face. “The meat-thing that is real is us. Life-thing that waits above ground is real. Life-thing that waits below ground is real. All thing is real. Happy happy us, best real in air above.” The girl pats at Ziggy’s face-mask. “Meat-thing is real is you?”
“I’m really not sure.” Ziggy catches the little girl’s hand, pushing it back from the mask. “None of you make any sense. But maybe I don't either, huh?” She reaches out and cups the girl’s face with one gloved hand, before hauling herself to her feet and walking on.
The children trail behind her, their eyes as red as flies’.
*************************
One of the first missiles strikes within feet of Ziggy. The concussion throws her into the air, and scrapes her down the center of the street. When she pushes herself up and rubs the cement dust from her helmet’s visor, the children have disappeared.
Scraps of flesh stain the road around her; flags of brightly-colored fabric hang limp and gore-soaked on the rough concrete rubble of the sidewalk. A tiny hand clings like a bloody spider to the glass of a shop window before falling, with a soft plop, to the walk below, chubby fingers curled around air.
No, wait. There’s one child left. A little boy, standing with his arms wrapped around a lightpost. His right leg is gone, and he stares at her with wide red eyes. His mouth moves, but Ziggy can’t hear what he’s saying, not through the explosions and gunfire ratcheting through the air.
She gets to her feet, unsteady, not certain she’s still in one piece herself. Yes, she is. Amazing. How about the suit? …Yes. Lord. Hard to believe, but the tough material held.
She lurches over to the little boy and kneels down. He wobbles on his one good leg, lets go of the lightpost, and falls against her shoulder. Grime and spatters of blood like flyspecks darken his pale face as he turns to whisper in her ear.
“Red worm time.”
Maybe these kids are real. Maybe things like this happen all the time here, wherever here is. Maybe she shouldn’t care.
Or maybe they aren’t real, and that Killgrave son of a bitch has mocked up this whole situation for the benefit of his party guests. Maybe they’re true automatons, unfeeling and uncaring, and Killgrave’s watching right now, directing them, writing their lines for them, so as to best get a reaction from Ziggy.
Or maybe they’re both real and not-real. Maybe they’re like Ziggy, a simulation created by outsiders, made for a purpose with no care for their own perceptions. Maybe Killgrave gave them life and belief in that life-just so that he can take it away now.
She can’t save this kid. His life is already guttering out, blood pooling around Ziggy’s knees as she holds him. Really, she can’t save anyone here. Whoever or whatever’s launching the missiles, if they’re part of the game, part of the simulation, is as much a victim as the children. As Ziggy.
Killgrave’s the one to blame. Killgrave, who’s still three whole sins or more away.
Can she make it that far?
“Okay, kid. You’re right. It’s red worm time.”
She doesn’t know what that means to him. But she can make it mean something to her.