[story] cirocco
author: vee h. hariri (thanatophilia)
email: burnabridge [at] gmail.com
This town is not known as Casablanca, even if it's just as difficult to get out of. However, the strict borders have a whole lot less to do with politics and a whole lot more to do with the plague. The plague (not biblical, just terrible) is neither imaginary nor exaggerated; no media fantasy. Anyone over the age of fifteen has seen it (the soft rot, the black sores, blindness, dementia, the works). They have all seen it kill someone they love. Even if they'd thought they didn't love anyone at all. That's why the domes went up, why people gave up everything just to get inside. They're bubble people in bubble towns now and nearly ten years later, there's still no cure. At least, there's no cure more substantial than discontented murmurs.
Johnny used to live in Paris. He was in Paris still when the plague rolled across Eastern Europe like a storm. Johnny watched every friend he had in Paris die. Getting out was too goddamn expensive (who charges people when the world is ending?) Johnny had cradled friends in his arms back then, watching as they went insane, and their skin first turned black then rotted off. Their eyes stopped working and then they died. Johnny has nightmares about it sometimes, wakes up vomiting and shaking, wishing he were dead too. Just so he wouldn't have to remember the smell of it anymore (like spoiled meat, like mold, like sour milk, like stale water and shit.)
Now it's different. He's a bubble boy in an inescapable, impenetrable bubble town and Johnny looks just like Ingrid Bergman as he comes in through the door (the piano man doesn't so much as bat an eyelash). There's something sharp about little Johnny. Maybe it's the hint of his nightmares beneath his makeup; the dark red of his nails. Johnny doesn't talk about Paris and no one in his new life knows just what that city did to him. He wants to keep it that way.
"You look beautiful, Johnny," the barman (not Sascha, but Enrique) says. Enrique always looks absolutely sick to his stomach. His wife and babies are on the outside and he scrimps and saves frantically to bring them in. Travel is expensive. So is quarantine, but quarantine is also brutal. His family won't mind. They won't mind the corrupt officials or the curfews either. At least the water's clean. At least the air is safe to breathe.
"You don't need to flatter me, Enrique," Johnny simpers and preens at his reflection in a wine glass. "I know I look like Ingrid Bergman."
Piano man (Johnny never has learned his name) strikes up a new song, nothing too sentimental. People come here to drink, not to remember themselves.
"Has Louie been in here yet?" Johnny wonders, leaning up over the counter to see what Enrique's got hidden beneath the bar. The best stuff is always under there. "That one," he announces blithely to a small bottle of sapphire blue.
Enrique complies. Whatever it is smells like it must be at least a hundred proof. "Not yet, but--"
"Yeah, yeah," Johnny interrupts impatiently. "Everybody comes to Hedva's." The nasal sneer in his tone is all irony.
Hedva's cafe is a red brick half-sphere building similar in shape to an igloo. It is split into several distinct sections; café and bar as well as casino and dancehall. The café and dance floor are in the room to the right, a large French window defines the area. The bar and casino are to the left, with dimmer lighting, but flashier colors and sequestered tables. The gambling is hidden behind a simple wooden door. Hedva's office and rooms dominate the second floor, accessible by the central stairs.
Hedva herself has to have been eighty-three years old for the past century. She doesn't look a day over forty-five as she descends the stairs to inspect the crowd. Her memory is legendary. She knows everyone by name and if she doesn't, she makes a point of finding out.
She doesn't hobble or stoop as she approaches the bar, handing Enrique a paper bag wrapped around something distinctly bottle shaped. Johnny doesn't recognize the name she murmurs and he is about to ask when Hedva presses a pill bottle into his hand.
"You paying now?" Hedva sounds like she's been smoking since the ice age. She also sounds threatening.
Johnny shakes his excellently coiffed head. "Louie is."
Hedva scoffs, but makes no remark. She reminds Enrique who the bottle is for, then heads back up to her office.
Johnny admires his pills dreamily. Estrogen: harder to get than it should be, but then again, it's hard to get a lot of things. Plague fear is overwhelming. Every human body is a perfect environment for germination, every item dirty, every food infected.
But estrogen, Johnny slugs one back with his drink. He isn't a MTF, not yet, probably not ever. However, he likes to encourage his body to store a little extra fat. He appreciates the softness, even if others barely notice.
Johnny is halfway through his second drink when Louie's hands settle on his padded hips.
"You look beautiful tonight, Johnny," he says dryly, toying with the brunette strands of Johnny's wig. "I'm sorry I'm late, I had to arrest some young men distributing propaganda. Horrible charlatans, lying to people about cures..."
Johnny pretends he doesn't hear the second comment. Politics isn't his gig. He rolls his eyes. "Pay for my pills and let's go."
Louie hands Enrique the cash and they're gone.
Louie, Louis Winthorpe, indeed. Johnny tries to pretend his life isn't a big cosmic joke, but, you know... he deals.
Louis Winthorpe is the chief of police, a short man of approximately thirty-eight. His black and fading to gray hair is cut in a fairly flattering military crop. He is attractive enough, even if a bit soft from all that authority. Most importantly, he's the best friend a girl can have in this town.
His arm is slung possessively around Johnny's waist, fingers toying with the skirt band as they walk.
The streets of Cirocco (just another bubble town like any other, the black nighttime sky has a faint plastic sheen) are unremarkable. The domes were put up in a hurry to deal with the wildfire spread of the plague so all the buildings are made from the same gray rectangular cookie cutter. Every street is the same pedestrian concrete. Who needs a car when the other side of the bubble is a half-hour ride on an electric tram? Johnny hasn't actually looked at anything in Cirocco for a long time. Hedva's is the only establishment in town with a building permit. It's too obvious why that is, so nobody talks about it anymore. Walking through Cirocco is like walking through a thick gray fog.
"We've received word that there was a break from New Titan. A convict and a woman," Louis says. "They seem to be heading for our very own Cirocco."
"Jesus Christ," Johnny complains. "Why do you tell me these things? If they can pay for quarantine, good for them. We both know they aren't going to sneak in." Not in a place where there is one entrance and one exit. The same place, no less, and better secured than Fort Knox ever was.
Louis spins him in close, a dancing step, and smiles sharply. This is his most attractive expression, dark and intelligent. It's the glittering shark smile of a corrupt official who makes his money exploiting the desperate, manipulating the greedy and abusing his power.
"There are men on my force with less scruples than I," he says playfully and then leans in to taste the blue flavor of the liquor from Johnny's mouth.
His companion laughs throatily and leans back to breathe, "I don't think that's possible. If you'll please remember just who it is you're kissing."
"Hmm," Louis hums warm, indulgent. "If I recall correctly, the most street smart woman in the entire bubble and also quite possibly the most beautiful... I like the wig."
Street smart? Wounded, more like, Johnny thinks. But he's tougher than that, has moved on, covered that wound with gauze and moved on. He's assured himself, at least.
"I call it Ingrid Bergman and I'm a drag queen," Johnny eyes Louis sardonically before grabbing his hand and tugging. He leads the way, walking surprisingly fast on his classy white heels. "Let's go."
When the plague had taken the last of Johnny's friends, he'd checked their pockets, taken everything and then looted the belongings of any other victims he could find. It wasn't so hard and getting into the vacuum-sealed domes was expensive. Someone was profiting by providing people with aid. Someone with no fear of catching the disease, someone who didn't go to sleep at night wondering whether or not they would wake up schizophrenic with beetle-black sores scrawling up and down their quickly decomposing flesh. Even in the dome Johnny still dreams about it and--
Johnny wakes up gasping in Louis' flat, just past dawn. It's a nice place, filled with various attractive contraband items. Imports aren't a safe business, not when the very oxygen they breathe can carry the disease. Yet many necessities are brought in, supposedly having never touched the air. Johnny has a theory that somebody somewhere found a cure for the plague a long time ago and just isn't sharing in order to keep everyone under their thumb. Johnny thinks Louis has the means to douse all his imports with said antidote long before he ever brings them into his home. The murmurs of discontent and the soft rumors tend to support this notion. Hedva's is a bustling gossip-mill and whispers of the underground cure are plentiful. It's part of Louis' job to keep them quiet, arresting them as charlatans on charges of fraud. Johnny keeps his damn mouth shut.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, feet settling on the feeling of soft carpet. Nobody has carpet. Do you even know how many bacteria could be hiding in the fibers?
It's cold in the mornings. No one is supposed to be out after curfew anyway, so when 9:00 PM hits, the heaters go down and the lights go out until 6:00 AM. An antiseptic cold, it sometimes seems. His bare flesh prickles and Louis reaches out an arm to him, wanting the warmth back.
"I'm going down to the store for some breakfast," Johnny yawns.
Louis grunts and rolls into the blankets while Johnny helps himself to his wallet and his closet. He slips into a frock and reclaims his wig from the bedside. The dresses are used more often by Louis' real lady friends. Johnny simply makes do, heading out into the streets without makeup, but with a pocketful of money, which is just as pretty.
There are few people out at this hour. The heaters have only just come back on so the bubble won't be warm until noon. In the summer it's never cold, always sweltering and the air is close. Frighteningly so.
Johnny stops before the supermarket, examining the gray name plaque by the door to make sure he's where he thinks he is. He's fairly good at navigating, having been here long enough, and goes inside.
As he enters, a woman stares at him in angry disgust. Indeed, his clothes are much nicer than hers. His clothes are much nicer than most people's, really. Most people make do with drab frocks and slacks for their day to day business. However, nice clothes have always been a priority of his. Nice clothes, nice shoes, nice wigs, and plenty of makeup (who wears makeup? Imagine all the filth that could be in it.) He lives in the same shitty one room as everyone else, though. So, the jealous looks don't bother him. Maybe he even dresses this way to garner them. Who knows?
He walks past her in his classy white heels and gets on with his shopping. The shelves are lined with individually wrapped foods. Beneath the florescent lights, they make a sea of shining crystal-clear plastic. They all come from the same place. There's no advertising.
The Cirocco bubble is entirely too small to make everything the people need. A lot comes from outside. They're assured it's all safe, made on sealed farms, sealed factories... but really, it just cements Johnny's theory that someone out there has a cure.
He's just grabbed the safely processed milk when the screaming begins. At first, it's just a woman's startled shriek, "This wrapping is ripped!"
Then another female voice, "Its seal is broken!"
The two chorus together and confused children join in, then more women. Several people rush out of the store as others begin covering their noses and mouths, compulsively scrubbing their skin with little bottles of sanitizer.
The appointed manager comes out of his office to calmly dispose of the item and then disappears into the back again. He is watching a movie, The Bells of Saint Mary's, from the sound of it. Incompetent slug, but that's what happens when the government controls who works where. Apparently supermarket manager is a cushy job reserved for the lazy sons of the influential.
Someone begins to sob and Johnny winces against the racket. Plague fear... it borders on hysteria because the disease is like arc lightning and there is no cure, as far as the plebes know. Every few months the police send out a report that something (always innocuously vague) has slipped past the quarantine. The streets will be empty for two days and then the police will rescind the alarm. It's a special kind of terrorism that Johnny usually ignores.
With order restored, Johnny goes to check out, pocketing the change, and then returns to Louis'.
He meets Enrique in the streets as he's leaving the flat in the afternoon. The man is frantic, says something about his wife and children and then gets down on his knees.
"Jesus Christ," Johnny mutters, closing his eyes and cradling his forehead in one hand. "Why come to me, Enrique?"
"Hedva... Hedva sticks her neck out for no one," Enrique stutters, crawling forward and pawing at the hem of Johnny's dress, "and you are... you are in the captain's bed. He pays for your frivolous pills. If you ask he will loan. Loan only, Johnny. Loan me the money. It will pay for their travel, for the quarantine. I will--"
Louis pays for his 'frivolous pills' because he wins more than half of it back at Hedva's roulette wheel.
"Sleep with him yourself," Johnny answers imperiously, backing away from his hands. "You're my friend, Enrique, but this deal doesn't look like it has anything in it for me."
Street smart, Louis had said. Yeah, maybe, or maybe just once bitten twice shy. If he'd never been left in Paris, maybe it wouldn't be like this.
"I will be in your debt." Enrique is crying. "My wife... she will make you beautiful clothes. And I will be in your debt, Johnny. I will be in your debt."
Johnny hates this, flat out hates this, but Enrique is making a scene, kissing the pointed toes of his classy white heels.
"Fine," he spits venomously. "Fine."
You'd think he'd never learned.
Johnny is not Louis' only man or woman. It may be safe to hazard he is one of Louis' favorites, but never his only. Asking a special favor is going to require preparation, he's going to have to look absolutely perfect and he's going to have to be ready to bargain.
He starts by brushing out the wig a bit. It's still almost brand new and Louis had confessed affection for the Ingrid Bergman. That settled, Johnny goes to his closet (overflowing, these damn standard issue apartments can't possibly suffice for anyone) and digs out the little black dress. He's a fairly small man as is, slim, and with a judicious use of padding and gloves, he can make just about any dress work.
From his dresser (overflowing, but this, perhaps, has more to do with his predilection for frilly under-things more than anything else) he frees a glossy black slip with a lace edge. Not being a proper lady at the best of times (there's something to be said for being just a little bit trashy), he's never been an advocate of the slip. He's going all out tonight: slip, gloves, perfume, stockings, garters, and the laciest of the lacy under-things.
He is also more exacting and reserved in his choice of makeup. While the shoes he selects are delicate and sleek. They might break beneath him tonight if he isn't careful.
The jewelry he saves for last. He knows he has to wear something Louis bought for him, and that if he does Louis will immediately know he's after something. Johnny frowns. Then again, Louis won't even consider it if he doesn't play by the rules.
He knows the diamonds always make the best impression, so he fastens them on, ready for the bitterness and envy they will inspire. Everyone dresses up for Hedva's. It's the only place to dress up for, what with all the nice restaurants and churches gone. Everyone will be looking good, but Johnny has enough diamond earrings for all six of his piercings.
Louis favors him, because he is intelligent, because he is beautiful, because he is interesting, and because he is quite good at selling travel papers. Eligibility for a visa is tyrannically restricted; getting one through legal channels would take a miracle. As if getting in weren't trial enough. They're all crushed beneath the jackboot heel of fear and bureaucracy. However, even with the plague-hysteria, there are always people looking to get out. Some go looking for freedom, or family. Others are just searching for somewhere without curfews and repression. A place where there is something other than Hedva's, where you're invited to drink and gamble yourself into forgetfulness.
Johnny grits his teeth. He shouldn't think this way. He's got it good here. Lots of nice things, doesn't have to work in a lab or an office, doesn't have to work in a sweatshop or a factory. He hasn't been deported to work outside at the quarantine or a farm. He hasn't died of plague.
Life here's so damn good that one day, he's going to run off with Louis' money and high-priced signature.
For now, he practices smiling in the mirror, flutters his glued on eyelashes and slips a diamond bracelet over his wrist. Its silver setting looks beautiful against the black glove. Johnny has always maintained that gold is tacky.
He arrives at Hedva's just as it's opening. Enrique stares at him dolefully and Johnny considers a drink, but knows that will just make it more difficult to talk to Louis. So he waits in a corner booth and is approached by two different couples. Two young women stifled by this horrible place, and another pair who don't want to raise their children like this. Johnny buys them drinks and tells them the price. The man has to comfort his woman as she cries despondently, but the lesbian couple hands over the money without a word. Johnny doesn't ask where they got it, just promises to have the papers for them quickly.
Having cash for police chief Winthorpe always brightens his mood.
At 7:45, without being asked, Enrique brings him water and aspirin (Do you know what could be in that capsule? Do you even know?) Johnny swallows it with an estrogen and tries not to sweat or fidget as more and more people enter.
Hedva comes down not long after to survey the crowd and Louis is there. He talks with a lieutenant as he approaches. When the lieutenant has gone, Hedva accompanies him to the table. She compliments Johnny and then dryly offers to buy Louis a drink. A thank-you for something Johnny doesn't want to know about. He slips the money to Louis and points out the two women. Louis counts each bill mechanically. He seems distracted.
"You look nice," Louis notes, eyes following the line of Johnny's throat, down to his sharp collarbones and the diamonds lying across them. "One I gave you?"
"As if I have an abundance of diamond necklaces," Johnny replies, sourly.
Louis' smile is dark. "There's something you'd like then." It's hardly a question and Johnny grimaces but sidles closer. Louis tilts his chin up and looks him in the eyes, Louis' blue to Johnny's green. He's teasing and Johnny knew he would. Damn him and his games.
"Enrique needs a loan so he can bring in his family," Johnny proposes bluntly.
Louis rears back a little. He glances incredulously from bar to Johnny, who does look very good tonight, but he is not an entirely shallow man. Though... there is something terribly fascinating in knowing just what's hidden under that dress.
"And why should I do this for dear Enrique?" he inquires. He pats his leg, welcoming Johnny's reluctant frame into his lap. His warm hand slides up Johnny's stocking-sleek thigh, slipping beneath the hem of the dress with the tips of his fingers.
"Because I'm asking," Johnny flirts. His tone changes, he's quite good at this. Louis has always been impressed by his aptitude.
Louis continues to smile. "Enrique could not come to me himself?" He barely notices the tremendous amount of effort it takes for Johnny not to sneer.
"Enrique thought I would have better luck convincing you, since Enrique is not the one you fuck."
Louis raises an eyebrow. "Filthy girl, aren't you?" He reaches an arm around Johnny for his shot glass. He drinks from it with slow relish, making Johnny wait before pursuing. "Why not ask Hedva?"
"Louis," Johnny whines.
"Is his wife quite attractive?"
"Christ, I've never seen her. How should I know?" Johnny retorts sulkily. The police chief laughs and presses his lips to Johnny's throat. Each exhale is warm amusement.
"You smell lovely," Louis breaths, eyes closed contently. "And you've made quite an effort at seduction." Johnny bristles, but he continues unperturbed, "I'll do this for you, and we can discuss your payment later. For now, let me up and I will tell Enrique the good news."
Johnny sinks back into the booth and watches as terror and then sobbing joy ruin Enrique's face. Johnny sighs and has to will himself not to slouch, not to sweat, not to fidget, not to give any sign of stress. Composure is all part of the game. He takes a drink from Louis' glass and relaxes.
A few more people trickle in. It's nearly curfew, nearly the end of the night. Hedva, watching from a camera or a hidey-hole or whatever she watches from, comes to take names. Someone asks for the-Johnny-who-sells-the-visas and she points him out, he's hard to miss, she says.
A large and deeply African man sits down across from him and when Johnny raises his eyes, cat-green to the man's almond brown, he takes a hissing breath.
"Adam."
Johnny and Adam met ten years ago in Paris, a few months before the plague really got rolling. It was still just a small outbreak in China, at the time.
Now, a lady never talks about her age, but Johnny was sixteen and Adam twenty-five. Johnny was in Paris because America didn't want him anymore. Adam was living on the Rue Gabrielle with his wife.
It wasn't the sort of relationship one asked questions about. It was the sort for queer bars and bathroom stalls. Adam always wore his wedding band, but whenever the issue of "are you going home tonight?" came up, he would talk as if he would rather march through Hell. Maybe that was why Johnny let himself get involved. The wife must have deserved it, couldn't have deserved Adam. He didn't let himself think about her much. It was alright with Johnny, whose 'home' was across an ocean and not exactly his favorite place in the world either.
"Johnny," Adam smiles, a dark contemplative thing that makes Johnny feel ill. "Johnny..." he repeats. "Barely recognized you, boy. Prettiest thing in the room, as always."
Johnny cuts him off with a voice too acidic for even his own tastes, "Where's your wife?"
Adam's expression (A beard now? Trying to look more distinguished, Johnny just bets) takes on a look of harrowing sorrow, "Lost her to the plague."
"While on the run?" Johnny swallows hard.
"You know about that?" There's shock on Adam's face, passing strange, he's usually much better at hiding it.
"More of a lucky guess."
Adam is chagrinned. "Plenty of people lose wives to the plague. You don't believe just because it's me talking?"
"Where is she?"
"Now, what does that matter?" Adam picks casually at his damn cuticles.
Johnny feels heat (anger and - anger) building in his abdomen. "What the hell do you want with me?"
"Papers," Adam's eyes shine, casual, indeed.
"Johnny," Adam said, sounding strange, almost sad, "who were you before? What did you do, what did you think?"
He was looking out the hotel room window over gray early-morning Paris. The room itself was cramped and poorly decorated, but reeked of them and of sex.
Johnny stared at the dingy white ceiling a while before flatly answering, "A boy."
"Who is this?" Louis asks curiously, settling next to Johnny.
Adam grins a big panther smile of affected warmth, a specialty of his. He takes out a cigarette (how filthy, all that smoke; how filthy). He has never looked particularly like Humphrey Bogart, but smokes as much as anyone in a 1940's flick.
"Louie Winthorpe," Johnny grumbles. "This is Adam, an... old acquaintance of mine." He's no longer sure if he ever knew Adam's surname.
Louis motions jauntily for drinks. "What brings you to Cirocco, sir?" He is pretending to be ecstatic about their reunion, but he's mocking them both. Adam's eyes narrow; he knows it too. "New Titan not to your liking?"
Adam's mouth twitches. "I've not come from New Titan. And I happen to be traveling."
"My apologies, we get most of our traffic from New Titan, I assumed." Louis reaches out and slings a proprietary arm around Johnny's shoulders. Adam looks amused, there is no shame in being beaten by a master and they are on Louis' home turf. "As chief of police I welcome you, cordially. Where are you staying?"
"We're temporarily in standard issue."
"We?"
Adam does not grimace, though Johnny knows that was a slip. "My wife and I. She's not with me."
"Traveling for two is expensive," Louis notes smugly.
"Yes..." Adam agrees in a guarded tone. "It is."
"Well, as you're new to town it is only fair to tell you everyone must be in by 9:00 PM." The cop motions to the clock above the bar. "The hour draws near, if you will excuse us. It wouldn't do for the chief of police to be caught out after hours."
He pulls Johnny up roughly and the two of them leave without a backwards glance, though Johnny can feel Adam's dark (dark and familiar) eyes on him the entire way.
"Louis," he voices once they're on the street. "I'm going home."
Strong fingers grip his arm, perhaps not so soft after all. "Intercity services will be here for him tomorrow," Louis' voice is gentle, pleasant. "Do try to stay out of trouble."
Johnny swallows, nearly choking. "Yes."
Adam was smoking again, stretched out on the bed while Johnny watched the news.
People were just starting to sit up and take notice of the plague. It was sweeping across Russia, had already destroyed China. Safe, sealed cities were in the process of being built. Getting a place inside one would be costly. Scientists and doctors were scrabbling after a cure, but there was no breakthrough, because the researchers kept dying (even inside their safe, sealed labs).
Johnny's mouth was dry. "They think this will spread to Paris in a week. Even though they aren't really sure how it's spreading."
Adam smoked in slow deep puffs. "Nobody can afford those bubbles. Who do they think they're saving?" he mused, appreciative laughter in his throat. "What a perfect racket..."
Sixteen-year-old Johnny looked scared beneath his wig and makeup. Adam grinned nastily and pulled the boy to him in a kiss. "Don't worry, kid, I'll look out for you."
Johnny is halfway through stripping off the little black dress in a rage when there's a knock on his door. Short, but powerful and he answers, half-undressed, wigless. Adam is in the hall, hands stuffed nonchalantly into his pockets.
"I'd almost forgotten you're a natural blond," he deadpans. He always had a nasty sense of humor, black as his damn skin, teeth always a little too predatory in his smile. He'd drawn Johnny in that way, the way that dangerous men do.
"ICS is coming for you in the morning," Johnny blurts out. It's a foolish thing to do, pointless moreover.
Adam pushes his way inside. "Yeah, I know. By the way, your voice sounds different, have you been working on it?" He surveys the room without much interest.
Johnny shuts the door, loudly. "What do you want?"
Suddenly, Adam is very serious, quiet and harsh in such a peculiar way. "Papers, for Marian and for me." He is holding out money, more money than the documents are even worth. It doesn't matter.
"No." It's the only answer Johnny can give, but Adam doesn't understand that, perhaps he can't.
"Look, I'm not asking forgiveness for--"
"Leaving me to die," Johnny observes dispassionately.
"Yes," Adam's smile is nostalgic. "Yes, I didn't really expect to be seeing you again and I'm not apologizing. I'm asking you to set that aside and help me."
"No."
"Johnny--"
"No, I... I can't get papers for you. Cannot." Johnny motions around at the fine clothes and jewelry. "Whatever you've done, the goddamn ICS is after you. Winthorpe is chief of police, he can't look bad in front of Intercity and I get the papers from Winthorpe. He doesn't want you leaving. No."
Adam puts things together quickly and his face falls. How unlike him...
A week after the plague found America, Paris was hit and they robbed the diamond exchange. With half of the city ravaged and the last living defenders of the cache gunned down by Adam, it was too easy.
Johnny was in shock as he helped Adam load the truck. He'd never touched a gun before. Maybe it was high time.
"We'll pay with these, straight up. Jesus Christ, even America is wasting away and they're charging people," Adam was muttering to himself feverishly. When they could carry no more, he turned, "Go get your things, Johnny. We'll meet you at the train station in half an hour. Marian's bought tickets."
So Johnny took off at a run, terrified but so glad Adam was going to help him even though he was just an affair and a tranny boy at that. He packed haphazardly, whatever was in arms reach and then sprinted for the station.
The platform was thronging with panic and the high scent of animals. He climbed up onto a stone column to watch and wait for Adam; tall and dark. His heart was thundering in his throat, his green eyes were darting rapidly across every face.
The train blew its whistle and still Adam wasn't there.
The train left the station and he waited for hours. Eventually he headed for Adam's flat. He'd known the address for a long time now, but he had never been there before. The door was locked but Johnny could read the note pinned to it just fine.
"Is there anything you can do, Johnny?" Adam asks quietly. He scratches at his beard, a habit he didn't have ten years ago.
Johnny approaches him out of curiosity and in his mind there is a momentary flash of possibilities and of cruelties. Gradually, they fall together like old times and Johnny thinks he must have been the one to instigate this, but there was a moment (that momentary flash) where they were both tipping forward precariously. The beard is strange, bristle and wire and Adam's tongue is gentler than he remembers. After all this time he still tastes of smoke and ash.
"Can you do anything, Johnny?" he whispers.
"I... yes," Johnny admits wearily, sagging, he lets Adam's arms support him. "And I'll be able to get them early."
"How early?" Adam prompts breathlessly.
Johnny grits his teeth, trying to regret this. "7:00. Stay out of trouble for one hour tomorrow morning and you can get out."
Adam kisses him again and touches the short blond hair he hides beneath a brunette Ingrid Bergman wig.
"There's something I need you to hold for me."
"No." Johnny shoves him back, but Adam has already pulled it from his pocket. It's a clear vial. Johnny's mouth is bone dry. "What is that?"
"The cure to the damn plague, obviously," Adam snaps impatiently. He sees the incredulous rebuke on Johnny's lips and cuts him off, "You think anything short of the savior of mankind would motivate an asshole like me? You said it, Johnny, I left you to die, but this is the cure."
Johnny believes him. Johnny always knew there was a cure. Maybe that's the romantic in him, but it always seemed like there just had to be. "How did you get it?"
Adam laughs, like he hasn't planned this answer, like it's irrelevant. Maybe it is. "You don't know why I was arrested. Hah, well, that's what happens to people who resist authority."
"You would," Johnny mouths, but knows the sarcasm isn't worth anything. Not while that vial is glinting between them, like a diamond in Adam's dark fingers.
"Yeah, I would. In prison I met up with another guy, a lot like me, except he was in a group, a resistance, if you will, and guess what they'd stolen? Guess what he was hiding in prison with him?" The pieces fall into place as he speaks and Johnny's heart is beating in his throat. "So when I broke out, I took it with."
"They've had it the whole time," Johnny croaks. Maybe everyone on Earth knew it, but the anger and betrayal and desperation isn't any less for the knowledge.
"They?" Adam laughs, a painful barking thing. "We don't know who they are yet, but we can't start looking until we stop dying just from breathing." He presses the vial into Johnny's hand, which trembles softly.
"But where is it going?" Johnny's words are almost a reverent whisper.
"Hyperion," Adam says firmly, like an adult to a child. Johnny doesn't get the chance to be indignant, "to a 'Doctor Ran', he can make more. So... so, no chances," his voice has taken on a strange and sad quality Johnny remembers from a memory that smells of smoke. "Take it."
Johnny does, curling his fingers one by one, then tucking it between padded breasts, close to his heart.
Adam smiles, a haunted expression.
"Still the prettiest girl in the room," he says and they kiss one last time as if it is an inevitable action, strings jerking, well scripted.
"I really loved you, back then," Johnny confesses as way of goodbye. Adam says he's so very sorry, but Johnny doesn't believe him.
The plan is to go to Louis' early with breakfast, act as if everything is normal and say he is going to deliver the lesbian couple's papers. It isn't unreasonable, he's met clients for breakfast before, seen them off by noon. Especially if they've paid cash.
Johnny sleeps poorly that night, dreaming of Paris, of Adam and the plague. His friends had all died. He doesn't know how or why he didn't, he just knows they did. Adam was gone too and he was alone. The present doesn't feel so very much different and he's so tired --
He wakes up bathed in sweat, shivering in the early-morning cold. The city heaters haven't even been on an hour yet. He showers.
Adam was looking at him, watching as he dressed, smoking absentmindedly.
"Johnny-boy, why do you dress like a girl? Frock or no, you'd still be the prettiest thing in the room."
Johnny looked up through plastic eyelashes, petal pink lips pursed.
"Because I like to look pretty. Why do you cheat on your wife?"
Adam smiled, as if Johnny had said something terribly naive. "Cheating is the only way to maintain a marriage."
He doesn't dress up before heading to Louis', slipping into just a skirt and blouse. The vial is quickly sewn into his bra.
He buys coffeecakes at the store on the way, and takes the long route to steel his nerves. He walks all the way to the edge of the dome and stares out the fish tank to the distorted world outside. There isn't much there. Huge tracts of land were cleared, decimated, to make room for the bubbles. Nature's having a hard time coming back. The sight makes Johnny feel calm, though, and a little brave and when he makes it to the top of Louis' stairs he knocks fearlessly on the door. Winthorpe answers grumpily.
"What is it so early?"
Johnny does his best to sound businesslike. "Those women who paid cash yesterday, I'm going to meet them for breakfast, take them the papers."
"Yes," Louis reflects, seeming nonplussed. "I filled them in last night, they just need names." He looks closely at Johnny. "It's good to see you weren't arrested along with your friend. I thought you might be, you know. You can be rather sentimental."
Johnny curls his lip, falling into pattern for a game Louis doesn't know they're playing. "Friend? No. He used me to cheat on his wife and then abandoned me when the plague struck. He can be arrested - in fact, he could die for all I care."
Louis makes a cagey grin and takes a piece of the coffeecake. "Ah, so there was a young naïve Johnny after all. How astonishingly human."
Johnny pulls a face and heads for the door huffily.
"Ah!" Louis calls after him and when he stops, the cop motions to the dresser and an envelope. "Take Enrique his money, yes?"
Johnny simpers and returns for a kiss. "See you tonight," he says before leaving to run his errands.
The ICS uses the local Cirocco jail as their headquarters for the interrogation of Adam Saab and his wife, Marian. The ICS are under contract from a private individual. Call them Pinkerton Men if you want, but there's a fat profit to be made there.
Adam was jailed in the city of New Titan three years previous for vague reasons (rubbing the New Titan chief of police the wrong way). After three years without her husband, Marian Saab made plans to break him out of jail and flee. Adam used her plans to smuggle out a highly sought after vial of antidote; the antidote. They made for the city of Cirocco, nearly unimpeded.
Marian is a beautiful woman, fair skin, golden hair, and blue eyes. Her reasons for staying with scum like Saab are her own. She probably deserved better. The ICS men are ruthless in interrogating her. Their violence towards his woman affects Adam very little. So they search him, do not find the vial, and then put him through the same trial of abuse.
"Where is it?"
They shoot Marian when he does not answer. She gasps wetly on the floor until she dies.
"Where is it?"
Adam will not answer and Louis Winthorpe, Cirocco chief of police, intervenes, sweat beading on his brow.
"Where is Johnny?"
Saab smiles. He never intended to meet up with pretty little Johnny. He had passed the torch when he said take it. It seems Johnny understood. Maybe he learned the lesson after all.
"Where is Johnny?" Louis asks, but he knows the answer and he shoots Adam Saab in the head when he laughs.
There's a boy on the streets of Hyperion.
the end
email: burnabridge [at] gmail.com
This town is not known as Casablanca, even if it's just as difficult to get out of. However, the strict borders have a whole lot less to do with politics and a whole lot more to do with the plague. The plague (not biblical, just terrible) is neither imaginary nor exaggerated; no media fantasy. Anyone over the age of fifteen has seen it (the soft rot, the black sores, blindness, dementia, the works). They have all seen it kill someone they love. Even if they'd thought they didn't love anyone at all. That's why the domes went up, why people gave up everything just to get inside. They're bubble people in bubble towns now and nearly ten years later, there's still no cure. At least, there's no cure more substantial than discontented murmurs.
Johnny used to live in Paris. He was in Paris still when the plague rolled across Eastern Europe like a storm. Johnny watched every friend he had in Paris die. Getting out was too goddamn expensive (who charges people when the world is ending?) Johnny had cradled friends in his arms back then, watching as they went insane, and their skin first turned black then rotted off. Their eyes stopped working and then they died. Johnny has nightmares about it sometimes, wakes up vomiting and shaking, wishing he were dead too. Just so he wouldn't have to remember the smell of it anymore (like spoiled meat, like mold, like sour milk, like stale water and shit.)
Now it's different. He's a bubble boy in an inescapable, impenetrable bubble town and Johnny looks just like Ingrid Bergman as he comes in through the door (the piano man doesn't so much as bat an eyelash). There's something sharp about little Johnny. Maybe it's the hint of his nightmares beneath his makeup; the dark red of his nails. Johnny doesn't talk about Paris and no one in his new life knows just what that city did to him. He wants to keep it that way.
"You look beautiful, Johnny," the barman (not Sascha, but Enrique) says. Enrique always looks absolutely sick to his stomach. His wife and babies are on the outside and he scrimps and saves frantically to bring them in. Travel is expensive. So is quarantine, but quarantine is also brutal. His family won't mind. They won't mind the corrupt officials or the curfews either. At least the water's clean. At least the air is safe to breathe.
"You don't need to flatter me, Enrique," Johnny simpers and preens at his reflection in a wine glass. "I know I look like Ingrid Bergman."
Piano man (Johnny never has learned his name) strikes up a new song, nothing too sentimental. People come here to drink, not to remember themselves.
"Has Louie been in here yet?" Johnny wonders, leaning up over the counter to see what Enrique's got hidden beneath the bar. The best stuff is always under there. "That one," he announces blithely to a small bottle of sapphire blue.
Enrique complies. Whatever it is smells like it must be at least a hundred proof. "Not yet, but--"
"Yeah, yeah," Johnny interrupts impatiently. "Everybody comes to Hedva's." The nasal sneer in his tone is all irony.
Hedva's cafe is a red brick half-sphere building similar in shape to an igloo. It is split into several distinct sections; café and bar as well as casino and dancehall. The café and dance floor are in the room to the right, a large French window defines the area. The bar and casino are to the left, with dimmer lighting, but flashier colors and sequestered tables. The gambling is hidden behind a simple wooden door. Hedva's office and rooms dominate the second floor, accessible by the central stairs.
Hedva herself has to have been eighty-three years old for the past century. She doesn't look a day over forty-five as she descends the stairs to inspect the crowd. Her memory is legendary. She knows everyone by name and if she doesn't, she makes a point of finding out.
She doesn't hobble or stoop as she approaches the bar, handing Enrique a paper bag wrapped around something distinctly bottle shaped. Johnny doesn't recognize the name she murmurs and he is about to ask when Hedva presses a pill bottle into his hand.
"You paying now?" Hedva sounds like she's been smoking since the ice age. She also sounds threatening.
Johnny shakes his excellently coiffed head. "Louie is."
Hedva scoffs, but makes no remark. She reminds Enrique who the bottle is for, then heads back up to her office.
Johnny admires his pills dreamily. Estrogen: harder to get than it should be, but then again, it's hard to get a lot of things. Plague fear is overwhelming. Every human body is a perfect environment for germination, every item dirty, every food infected.
But estrogen, Johnny slugs one back with his drink. He isn't a MTF, not yet, probably not ever. However, he likes to encourage his body to store a little extra fat. He appreciates the softness, even if others barely notice.
Johnny is halfway through his second drink when Louie's hands settle on his padded hips.
"You look beautiful tonight, Johnny," he says dryly, toying with the brunette strands of Johnny's wig. "I'm sorry I'm late, I had to arrest some young men distributing propaganda. Horrible charlatans, lying to people about cures..."
Johnny pretends he doesn't hear the second comment. Politics isn't his gig. He rolls his eyes. "Pay for my pills and let's go."
Louie hands Enrique the cash and they're gone.
Louie, Louis Winthorpe, indeed. Johnny tries to pretend his life isn't a big cosmic joke, but, you know... he deals.
Louis Winthorpe is the chief of police, a short man of approximately thirty-eight. His black and fading to gray hair is cut in a fairly flattering military crop. He is attractive enough, even if a bit soft from all that authority. Most importantly, he's the best friend a girl can have in this town.
His arm is slung possessively around Johnny's waist, fingers toying with the skirt band as they walk.
The streets of Cirocco (just another bubble town like any other, the black nighttime sky has a faint plastic sheen) are unremarkable. The domes were put up in a hurry to deal with the wildfire spread of the plague so all the buildings are made from the same gray rectangular cookie cutter. Every street is the same pedestrian concrete. Who needs a car when the other side of the bubble is a half-hour ride on an electric tram? Johnny hasn't actually looked at anything in Cirocco for a long time. Hedva's is the only establishment in town with a building permit. It's too obvious why that is, so nobody talks about it anymore. Walking through Cirocco is like walking through a thick gray fog.
"We've received word that there was a break from New Titan. A convict and a woman," Louis says. "They seem to be heading for our very own Cirocco."
"Jesus Christ," Johnny complains. "Why do you tell me these things? If they can pay for quarantine, good for them. We both know they aren't going to sneak in." Not in a place where there is one entrance and one exit. The same place, no less, and better secured than Fort Knox ever was.
Louis spins him in close, a dancing step, and smiles sharply. This is his most attractive expression, dark and intelligent. It's the glittering shark smile of a corrupt official who makes his money exploiting the desperate, manipulating the greedy and abusing his power.
"There are men on my force with less scruples than I," he says playfully and then leans in to taste the blue flavor of the liquor from Johnny's mouth.
His companion laughs throatily and leans back to breathe, "I don't think that's possible. If you'll please remember just who it is you're kissing."
"Hmm," Louis hums warm, indulgent. "If I recall correctly, the most street smart woman in the entire bubble and also quite possibly the most beautiful... I like the wig."
Street smart? Wounded, more like, Johnny thinks. But he's tougher than that, has moved on, covered that wound with gauze and moved on. He's assured himself, at least.
"I call it Ingrid Bergman and I'm a drag queen," Johnny eyes Louis sardonically before grabbing his hand and tugging. He leads the way, walking surprisingly fast on his classy white heels. "Let's go."
When the plague had taken the last of Johnny's friends, he'd checked their pockets, taken everything and then looted the belongings of any other victims he could find. It wasn't so hard and getting into the vacuum-sealed domes was expensive. Someone was profiting by providing people with aid. Someone with no fear of catching the disease, someone who didn't go to sleep at night wondering whether or not they would wake up schizophrenic with beetle-black sores scrawling up and down their quickly decomposing flesh. Even in the dome Johnny still dreams about it and--
Johnny wakes up gasping in Louis' flat, just past dawn. It's a nice place, filled with various attractive contraband items. Imports aren't a safe business, not when the very oxygen they breathe can carry the disease. Yet many necessities are brought in, supposedly having never touched the air. Johnny has a theory that somebody somewhere found a cure for the plague a long time ago and just isn't sharing in order to keep everyone under their thumb. Johnny thinks Louis has the means to douse all his imports with said antidote long before he ever brings them into his home. The murmurs of discontent and the soft rumors tend to support this notion. Hedva's is a bustling gossip-mill and whispers of the underground cure are plentiful. It's part of Louis' job to keep them quiet, arresting them as charlatans on charges of fraud. Johnny keeps his damn mouth shut.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, feet settling on the feeling of soft carpet. Nobody has carpet. Do you even know how many bacteria could be hiding in the fibers?
It's cold in the mornings. No one is supposed to be out after curfew anyway, so when 9:00 PM hits, the heaters go down and the lights go out until 6:00 AM. An antiseptic cold, it sometimes seems. His bare flesh prickles and Louis reaches out an arm to him, wanting the warmth back.
"I'm going down to the store for some breakfast," Johnny yawns.
Louis grunts and rolls into the blankets while Johnny helps himself to his wallet and his closet. He slips into a frock and reclaims his wig from the bedside. The dresses are used more often by Louis' real lady friends. Johnny simply makes do, heading out into the streets without makeup, but with a pocketful of money, which is just as pretty.
There are few people out at this hour. The heaters have only just come back on so the bubble won't be warm until noon. In the summer it's never cold, always sweltering and the air is close. Frighteningly so.
Johnny stops before the supermarket, examining the gray name plaque by the door to make sure he's where he thinks he is. He's fairly good at navigating, having been here long enough, and goes inside.
As he enters, a woman stares at him in angry disgust. Indeed, his clothes are much nicer than hers. His clothes are much nicer than most people's, really. Most people make do with drab frocks and slacks for their day to day business. However, nice clothes have always been a priority of his. Nice clothes, nice shoes, nice wigs, and plenty of makeup (who wears makeup? Imagine all the filth that could be in it.) He lives in the same shitty one room as everyone else, though. So, the jealous looks don't bother him. Maybe he even dresses this way to garner them. Who knows?
He walks past her in his classy white heels and gets on with his shopping. The shelves are lined with individually wrapped foods. Beneath the florescent lights, they make a sea of shining crystal-clear plastic. They all come from the same place. There's no advertising.
The Cirocco bubble is entirely too small to make everything the people need. A lot comes from outside. They're assured it's all safe, made on sealed farms, sealed factories... but really, it just cements Johnny's theory that someone out there has a cure.
He's just grabbed the safely processed milk when the screaming begins. At first, it's just a woman's startled shriek, "This wrapping is ripped!"
Then another female voice, "Its seal is broken!"
The two chorus together and confused children join in, then more women. Several people rush out of the store as others begin covering their noses and mouths, compulsively scrubbing their skin with little bottles of sanitizer.
The appointed manager comes out of his office to calmly dispose of the item and then disappears into the back again. He is watching a movie, The Bells of Saint Mary's, from the sound of it. Incompetent slug, but that's what happens when the government controls who works where. Apparently supermarket manager is a cushy job reserved for the lazy sons of the influential.
Someone begins to sob and Johnny winces against the racket. Plague fear... it borders on hysteria because the disease is like arc lightning and there is no cure, as far as the plebes know. Every few months the police send out a report that something (always innocuously vague) has slipped past the quarantine. The streets will be empty for two days and then the police will rescind the alarm. It's a special kind of terrorism that Johnny usually ignores.
With order restored, Johnny goes to check out, pocketing the change, and then returns to Louis'.
He meets Enrique in the streets as he's leaving the flat in the afternoon. The man is frantic, says something about his wife and children and then gets down on his knees.
"Jesus Christ," Johnny mutters, closing his eyes and cradling his forehead in one hand. "Why come to me, Enrique?"
"Hedva... Hedva sticks her neck out for no one," Enrique stutters, crawling forward and pawing at the hem of Johnny's dress, "and you are... you are in the captain's bed. He pays for your frivolous pills. If you ask he will loan. Loan only, Johnny. Loan me the money. It will pay for their travel, for the quarantine. I will--"
Louis pays for his 'frivolous pills' because he wins more than half of it back at Hedva's roulette wheel.
"Sleep with him yourself," Johnny answers imperiously, backing away from his hands. "You're my friend, Enrique, but this deal doesn't look like it has anything in it for me."
Street smart, Louis had said. Yeah, maybe, or maybe just once bitten twice shy. If he'd never been left in Paris, maybe it wouldn't be like this.
"I will be in your debt." Enrique is crying. "My wife... she will make you beautiful clothes. And I will be in your debt, Johnny. I will be in your debt."
Johnny hates this, flat out hates this, but Enrique is making a scene, kissing the pointed toes of his classy white heels.
"Fine," he spits venomously. "Fine."
You'd think he'd never learned.
Johnny is not Louis' only man or woman. It may be safe to hazard he is one of Louis' favorites, but never his only. Asking a special favor is going to require preparation, he's going to have to look absolutely perfect and he's going to have to be ready to bargain.
He starts by brushing out the wig a bit. It's still almost brand new and Louis had confessed affection for the Ingrid Bergman. That settled, Johnny goes to his closet (overflowing, these damn standard issue apartments can't possibly suffice for anyone) and digs out the little black dress. He's a fairly small man as is, slim, and with a judicious use of padding and gloves, he can make just about any dress work.
From his dresser (overflowing, but this, perhaps, has more to do with his predilection for frilly under-things more than anything else) he frees a glossy black slip with a lace edge. Not being a proper lady at the best of times (there's something to be said for being just a little bit trashy), he's never been an advocate of the slip. He's going all out tonight: slip, gloves, perfume, stockings, garters, and the laciest of the lacy under-things.
He is also more exacting and reserved in his choice of makeup. While the shoes he selects are delicate and sleek. They might break beneath him tonight if he isn't careful.
The jewelry he saves for last. He knows he has to wear something Louis bought for him, and that if he does Louis will immediately know he's after something. Johnny frowns. Then again, Louis won't even consider it if he doesn't play by the rules.
He knows the diamonds always make the best impression, so he fastens them on, ready for the bitterness and envy they will inspire. Everyone dresses up for Hedva's. It's the only place to dress up for, what with all the nice restaurants and churches gone. Everyone will be looking good, but Johnny has enough diamond earrings for all six of his piercings.
Louis favors him, because he is intelligent, because he is beautiful, because he is interesting, and because he is quite good at selling travel papers. Eligibility for a visa is tyrannically restricted; getting one through legal channels would take a miracle. As if getting in weren't trial enough. They're all crushed beneath the jackboot heel of fear and bureaucracy. However, even with the plague-hysteria, there are always people looking to get out. Some go looking for freedom, or family. Others are just searching for somewhere without curfews and repression. A place where there is something other than Hedva's, where you're invited to drink and gamble yourself into forgetfulness.
Johnny grits his teeth. He shouldn't think this way. He's got it good here. Lots of nice things, doesn't have to work in a lab or an office, doesn't have to work in a sweatshop or a factory. He hasn't been deported to work outside at the quarantine or a farm. He hasn't died of plague.
Life here's so damn good that one day, he's going to run off with Louis' money and high-priced signature.
For now, he practices smiling in the mirror, flutters his glued on eyelashes and slips a diamond bracelet over his wrist. Its silver setting looks beautiful against the black glove. Johnny has always maintained that gold is tacky.
He arrives at Hedva's just as it's opening. Enrique stares at him dolefully and Johnny considers a drink, but knows that will just make it more difficult to talk to Louis. So he waits in a corner booth and is approached by two different couples. Two young women stifled by this horrible place, and another pair who don't want to raise their children like this. Johnny buys them drinks and tells them the price. The man has to comfort his woman as she cries despondently, but the lesbian couple hands over the money without a word. Johnny doesn't ask where they got it, just promises to have the papers for them quickly.
Having cash for police chief Winthorpe always brightens his mood.
At 7:45, without being asked, Enrique brings him water and aspirin (Do you know what could be in that capsule? Do you even know?) Johnny swallows it with an estrogen and tries not to sweat or fidget as more and more people enter.
Hedva comes down not long after to survey the crowd and Louis is there. He talks with a lieutenant as he approaches. When the lieutenant has gone, Hedva accompanies him to the table. She compliments Johnny and then dryly offers to buy Louis a drink. A thank-you for something Johnny doesn't want to know about. He slips the money to Louis and points out the two women. Louis counts each bill mechanically. He seems distracted.
"You look nice," Louis notes, eyes following the line of Johnny's throat, down to his sharp collarbones and the diamonds lying across them. "One I gave you?"
"As if I have an abundance of diamond necklaces," Johnny replies, sourly.
Louis' smile is dark. "There's something you'd like then." It's hardly a question and Johnny grimaces but sidles closer. Louis tilts his chin up and looks him in the eyes, Louis' blue to Johnny's green. He's teasing and Johnny knew he would. Damn him and his games.
"Enrique needs a loan so he can bring in his family," Johnny proposes bluntly.
Louis rears back a little. He glances incredulously from bar to Johnny, who does look very good tonight, but he is not an entirely shallow man. Though... there is something terribly fascinating in knowing just what's hidden under that dress.
"And why should I do this for dear Enrique?" he inquires. He pats his leg, welcoming Johnny's reluctant frame into his lap. His warm hand slides up Johnny's stocking-sleek thigh, slipping beneath the hem of the dress with the tips of his fingers.
"Because I'm asking," Johnny flirts. His tone changes, he's quite good at this. Louis has always been impressed by his aptitude.
Louis continues to smile. "Enrique could not come to me himself?" He barely notices the tremendous amount of effort it takes for Johnny not to sneer.
"Enrique thought I would have better luck convincing you, since Enrique is not the one you fuck."
Louis raises an eyebrow. "Filthy girl, aren't you?" He reaches an arm around Johnny for his shot glass. He drinks from it with slow relish, making Johnny wait before pursuing. "Why not ask Hedva?"
"Louis," Johnny whines.
"Is his wife quite attractive?"
"Christ, I've never seen her. How should I know?" Johnny retorts sulkily. The police chief laughs and presses his lips to Johnny's throat. Each exhale is warm amusement.
"You smell lovely," Louis breaths, eyes closed contently. "And you've made quite an effort at seduction." Johnny bristles, but he continues unperturbed, "I'll do this for you, and we can discuss your payment later. For now, let me up and I will tell Enrique the good news."
Johnny sinks back into the booth and watches as terror and then sobbing joy ruin Enrique's face. Johnny sighs and has to will himself not to slouch, not to sweat, not to fidget, not to give any sign of stress. Composure is all part of the game. He takes a drink from Louis' glass and relaxes.
A few more people trickle in. It's nearly curfew, nearly the end of the night. Hedva, watching from a camera or a hidey-hole or whatever she watches from, comes to take names. Someone asks for the-Johnny-who-sells-the-visas and she points him out, he's hard to miss, she says.
A large and deeply African man sits down across from him and when Johnny raises his eyes, cat-green to the man's almond brown, he takes a hissing breath.
"Adam."
Johnny and Adam met ten years ago in Paris, a few months before the plague really got rolling. It was still just a small outbreak in China, at the time.
Now, a lady never talks about her age, but Johnny was sixteen and Adam twenty-five. Johnny was in Paris because America didn't want him anymore. Adam was living on the Rue Gabrielle with his wife.
It wasn't the sort of relationship one asked questions about. It was the sort for queer bars and bathroom stalls. Adam always wore his wedding band, but whenever the issue of "are you going home tonight?" came up, he would talk as if he would rather march through Hell. Maybe that was why Johnny let himself get involved. The wife must have deserved it, couldn't have deserved Adam. He didn't let himself think about her much. It was alright with Johnny, whose 'home' was across an ocean and not exactly his favorite place in the world either.
"Johnny," Adam smiles, a dark contemplative thing that makes Johnny feel ill. "Johnny..." he repeats. "Barely recognized you, boy. Prettiest thing in the room, as always."
Johnny cuts him off with a voice too acidic for even his own tastes, "Where's your wife?"
Adam's expression (A beard now? Trying to look more distinguished, Johnny just bets) takes on a look of harrowing sorrow, "Lost her to the plague."
"While on the run?" Johnny swallows hard.
"You know about that?" There's shock on Adam's face, passing strange, he's usually much better at hiding it.
"More of a lucky guess."
Adam is chagrinned. "Plenty of people lose wives to the plague. You don't believe just because it's me talking?"
"Where is she?"
"Now, what does that matter?" Adam picks casually at his damn cuticles.
Johnny feels heat (anger and - anger) building in his abdomen. "What the hell do you want with me?"
"Papers," Adam's eyes shine, casual, indeed.
"Johnny," Adam said, sounding strange, almost sad, "who were you before? What did you do, what did you think?"
He was looking out the hotel room window over gray early-morning Paris. The room itself was cramped and poorly decorated, but reeked of them and of sex.
Johnny stared at the dingy white ceiling a while before flatly answering, "A boy."
"Who is this?" Louis asks curiously, settling next to Johnny.
Adam grins a big panther smile of affected warmth, a specialty of his. He takes out a cigarette (how filthy, all that smoke; how filthy). He has never looked particularly like Humphrey Bogart, but smokes as much as anyone in a 1940's flick.
"Louie Winthorpe," Johnny grumbles. "This is Adam, an... old acquaintance of mine." He's no longer sure if he ever knew Adam's surname.
Louis motions jauntily for drinks. "What brings you to Cirocco, sir?" He is pretending to be ecstatic about their reunion, but he's mocking them both. Adam's eyes narrow; he knows it too. "New Titan not to your liking?"
Adam's mouth twitches. "I've not come from New Titan. And I happen to be traveling."
"My apologies, we get most of our traffic from New Titan, I assumed." Louis reaches out and slings a proprietary arm around Johnny's shoulders. Adam looks amused, there is no shame in being beaten by a master and they are on Louis' home turf. "As chief of police I welcome you, cordially. Where are you staying?"
"We're temporarily in standard issue."
"We?"
Adam does not grimace, though Johnny knows that was a slip. "My wife and I. She's not with me."
"Traveling for two is expensive," Louis notes smugly.
"Yes..." Adam agrees in a guarded tone. "It is."
"Well, as you're new to town it is only fair to tell you everyone must be in by 9:00 PM." The cop motions to the clock above the bar. "The hour draws near, if you will excuse us. It wouldn't do for the chief of police to be caught out after hours."
He pulls Johnny up roughly and the two of them leave without a backwards glance, though Johnny can feel Adam's dark (dark and familiar) eyes on him the entire way.
"Louis," he voices once they're on the street. "I'm going home."
Strong fingers grip his arm, perhaps not so soft after all. "Intercity services will be here for him tomorrow," Louis' voice is gentle, pleasant. "Do try to stay out of trouble."
Johnny swallows, nearly choking. "Yes."
Adam was smoking again, stretched out on the bed while Johnny watched the news.
People were just starting to sit up and take notice of the plague. It was sweeping across Russia, had already destroyed China. Safe, sealed cities were in the process of being built. Getting a place inside one would be costly. Scientists and doctors were scrabbling after a cure, but there was no breakthrough, because the researchers kept dying (even inside their safe, sealed labs).
Johnny's mouth was dry. "They think this will spread to Paris in a week. Even though they aren't really sure how it's spreading."
Adam smoked in slow deep puffs. "Nobody can afford those bubbles. Who do they think they're saving?" he mused, appreciative laughter in his throat. "What a perfect racket..."
Sixteen-year-old Johnny looked scared beneath his wig and makeup. Adam grinned nastily and pulled the boy to him in a kiss. "Don't worry, kid, I'll look out for you."
Johnny is halfway through stripping off the little black dress in a rage when there's a knock on his door. Short, but powerful and he answers, half-undressed, wigless. Adam is in the hall, hands stuffed nonchalantly into his pockets.
"I'd almost forgotten you're a natural blond," he deadpans. He always had a nasty sense of humor, black as his damn skin, teeth always a little too predatory in his smile. He'd drawn Johnny in that way, the way that dangerous men do.
"ICS is coming for you in the morning," Johnny blurts out. It's a foolish thing to do, pointless moreover.
Adam pushes his way inside. "Yeah, I know. By the way, your voice sounds different, have you been working on it?" He surveys the room without much interest.
Johnny shuts the door, loudly. "What do you want?"
Suddenly, Adam is very serious, quiet and harsh in such a peculiar way. "Papers, for Marian and for me." He is holding out money, more money than the documents are even worth. It doesn't matter.
"No." It's the only answer Johnny can give, but Adam doesn't understand that, perhaps he can't.
"Look, I'm not asking forgiveness for--"
"Leaving me to die," Johnny observes dispassionately.
"Yes," Adam's smile is nostalgic. "Yes, I didn't really expect to be seeing you again and I'm not apologizing. I'm asking you to set that aside and help me."
"No."
"Johnny--"
"No, I... I can't get papers for you. Cannot." Johnny motions around at the fine clothes and jewelry. "Whatever you've done, the goddamn ICS is after you. Winthorpe is chief of police, he can't look bad in front of Intercity and I get the papers from Winthorpe. He doesn't want you leaving. No."
Adam puts things together quickly and his face falls. How unlike him...
A week after the plague found America, Paris was hit and they robbed the diamond exchange. With half of the city ravaged and the last living defenders of the cache gunned down by Adam, it was too easy.
Johnny was in shock as he helped Adam load the truck. He'd never touched a gun before. Maybe it was high time.
"We'll pay with these, straight up. Jesus Christ, even America is wasting away and they're charging people," Adam was muttering to himself feverishly. When they could carry no more, he turned, "Go get your things, Johnny. We'll meet you at the train station in half an hour. Marian's bought tickets."
So Johnny took off at a run, terrified but so glad Adam was going to help him even though he was just an affair and a tranny boy at that. He packed haphazardly, whatever was in arms reach and then sprinted for the station.
The platform was thronging with panic and the high scent of animals. He climbed up onto a stone column to watch and wait for Adam; tall and dark. His heart was thundering in his throat, his green eyes were darting rapidly across every face.
The train blew its whistle and still Adam wasn't there.
The train left the station and he waited for hours. Eventually he headed for Adam's flat. He'd known the address for a long time now, but he had never been there before. The door was locked but Johnny could read the note pinned to it just fine.
"Is there anything you can do, Johnny?" Adam asks quietly. He scratches at his beard, a habit he didn't have ten years ago.
Johnny approaches him out of curiosity and in his mind there is a momentary flash of possibilities and of cruelties. Gradually, they fall together like old times and Johnny thinks he must have been the one to instigate this, but there was a moment (that momentary flash) where they were both tipping forward precariously. The beard is strange, bristle and wire and Adam's tongue is gentler than he remembers. After all this time he still tastes of smoke and ash.
"Can you do anything, Johnny?" he whispers.
"I... yes," Johnny admits wearily, sagging, he lets Adam's arms support him. "And I'll be able to get them early."
"How early?" Adam prompts breathlessly.
Johnny grits his teeth, trying to regret this. "7:00. Stay out of trouble for one hour tomorrow morning and you can get out."
Adam kisses him again and touches the short blond hair he hides beneath a brunette Ingrid Bergman wig.
"There's something I need you to hold for me."
"No." Johnny shoves him back, but Adam has already pulled it from his pocket. It's a clear vial. Johnny's mouth is bone dry. "What is that?"
"The cure to the damn plague, obviously," Adam snaps impatiently. He sees the incredulous rebuke on Johnny's lips and cuts him off, "You think anything short of the savior of mankind would motivate an asshole like me? You said it, Johnny, I left you to die, but this is the cure."
Johnny believes him. Johnny always knew there was a cure. Maybe that's the romantic in him, but it always seemed like there just had to be. "How did you get it?"
Adam laughs, like he hasn't planned this answer, like it's irrelevant. Maybe it is. "You don't know why I was arrested. Hah, well, that's what happens to people who resist authority."
"You would," Johnny mouths, but knows the sarcasm isn't worth anything. Not while that vial is glinting between them, like a diamond in Adam's dark fingers.
"Yeah, I would. In prison I met up with another guy, a lot like me, except he was in a group, a resistance, if you will, and guess what they'd stolen? Guess what he was hiding in prison with him?" The pieces fall into place as he speaks and Johnny's heart is beating in his throat. "So when I broke out, I took it with."
"They've had it the whole time," Johnny croaks. Maybe everyone on Earth knew it, but the anger and betrayal and desperation isn't any less for the knowledge.
"They?" Adam laughs, a painful barking thing. "We don't know who they are yet, but we can't start looking until we stop dying just from breathing." He presses the vial into Johnny's hand, which trembles softly.
"But where is it going?" Johnny's words are almost a reverent whisper.
"Hyperion," Adam says firmly, like an adult to a child. Johnny doesn't get the chance to be indignant, "to a 'Doctor Ran', he can make more. So... so, no chances," his voice has taken on a strange and sad quality Johnny remembers from a memory that smells of smoke. "Take it."
Johnny does, curling his fingers one by one, then tucking it between padded breasts, close to his heart.
Adam smiles, a haunted expression.
"Still the prettiest girl in the room," he says and they kiss one last time as if it is an inevitable action, strings jerking, well scripted.
"I really loved you, back then," Johnny confesses as way of goodbye. Adam says he's so very sorry, but Johnny doesn't believe him.
The plan is to go to Louis' early with breakfast, act as if everything is normal and say he is going to deliver the lesbian couple's papers. It isn't unreasonable, he's met clients for breakfast before, seen them off by noon. Especially if they've paid cash.
Johnny sleeps poorly that night, dreaming of Paris, of Adam and the plague. His friends had all died. He doesn't know how or why he didn't, he just knows they did. Adam was gone too and he was alone. The present doesn't feel so very much different and he's so tired --
He wakes up bathed in sweat, shivering in the early-morning cold. The city heaters haven't even been on an hour yet. He showers.
Adam was looking at him, watching as he dressed, smoking absentmindedly.
"Johnny-boy, why do you dress like a girl? Frock or no, you'd still be the prettiest thing in the room."
Johnny looked up through plastic eyelashes, petal pink lips pursed.
"Because I like to look pretty. Why do you cheat on your wife?"
Adam smiled, as if Johnny had said something terribly naive. "Cheating is the only way to maintain a marriage."
He doesn't dress up before heading to Louis', slipping into just a skirt and blouse. The vial is quickly sewn into his bra.
He buys coffeecakes at the store on the way, and takes the long route to steel his nerves. He walks all the way to the edge of the dome and stares out the fish tank to the distorted world outside. There isn't much there. Huge tracts of land were cleared, decimated, to make room for the bubbles. Nature's having a hard time coming back. The sight makes Johnny feel calm, though, and a little brave and when he makes it to the top of Louis' stairs he knocks fearlessly on the door. Winthorpe answers grumpily.
"What is it so early?"
Johnny does his best to sound businesslike. "Those women who paid cash yesterday, I'm going to meet them for breakfast, take them the papers."
"Yes," Louis reflects, seeming nonplussed. "I filled them in last night, they just need names." He looks closely at Johnny. "It's good to see you weren't arrested along with your friend. I thought you might be, you know. You can be rather sentimental."
Johnny curls his lip, falling into pattern for a game Louis doesn't know they're playing. "Friend? No. He used me to cheat on his wife and then abandoned me when the plague struck. He can be arrested - in fact, he could die for all I care."
Louis makes a cagey grin and takes a piece of the coffeecake. "Ah, so there was a young naïve Johnny after all. How astonishingly human."
Johnny pulls a face and heads for the door huffily.
"Ah!" Louis calls after him and when he stops, the cop motions to the dresser and an envelope. "Take Enrique his money, yes?"
Johnny simpers and returns for a kiss. "See you tonight," he says before leaving to run his errands.
The ICS uses the local Cirocco jail as their headquarters for the interrogation of Adam Saab and his wife, Marian. The ICS are under contract from a private individual. Call them Pinkerton Men if you want, but there's a fat profit to be made there.
Adam was jailed in the city of New Titan three years previous for vague reasons (rubbing the New Titan chief of police the wrong way). After three years without her husband, Marian Saab made plans to break him out of jail and flee. Adam used her plans to smuggle out a highly sought after vial of antidote; the antidote. They made for the city of Cirocco, nearly unimpeded.
Marian is a beautiful woman, fair skin, golden hair, and blue eyes. Her reasons for staying with scum like Saab are her own. She probably deserved better. The ICS men are ruthless in interrogating her. Their violence towards his woman affects Adam very little. So they search him, do not find the vial, and then put him through the same trial of abuse.
"Where is it?"
They shoot Marian when he does not answer. She gasps wetly on the floor until she dies.
"Where is it?"
Adam will not answer and Louis Winthorpe, Cirocco chief of police, intervenes, sweat beading on his brow.
"Where is Johnny?"
Saab smiles. He never intended to meet up with pretty little Johnny. He had passed the torch when he said take it. It seems Johnny understood. Maybe he learned the lesson after all.
"Where is Johnny?" Louis asks, but he knows the answer and he shoots Adam Saab in the head when he laughs.
There's a boy on the streets of Hyperion.
the end