After 'The End'
Cara had been walking for a long time.
Nothing was what it was supposed to be.
Something in Cara had always reached for death. Perhaps it was an echo of her life, rebounding upon her; as many as she had herself killed, perhaps her own life felt a need to put those deaths aside.
Now, after her own death, Cara realized it was not that at all. It was simply a need for release and freedom, the final shedding of the burden of her life.
But death had not given her that escape.
Her last memory as a living woman had been the horror of the Machine, where they'd met the Watcher in the endless hall of wired bodies and pipes. Even as prepared as they'd been, it had been little good.
She remembered the exultation in herself, facing the Watcher, the opponent that she knew she could not defeat. It had dodged her bullets, it had thrown her aside like a man would toss a pillow, and in the end, she had found herself snared, lifted to stare at inhuman hatred in human eyes.
And past the Watcher, she had seen Michael, and it had been the most intimate moment she'd ever had with another human being. Even at that distance, she could see the resolution in his sharp eyes, and she had understood. Her heart reached out, gave permission, and when his gun fired, her last thought had been that there could have been no better way for her to die.
The Watcher would not take her alive, and her friends were safe. Because of her.
It should have been enough.
But consciousness came back, and she found herself in an empty city street, with crumbled and stained clusters of buildings leaning impossibly high to either side. The sky was muddy and red, clotted heavily with clouds, or smog.
The streets were endless. Time had been lost to her; the sky never changed. There was never anyone around, though she constantly felt as if people were walking past her, or through her. She could hear snatches of conversation, but she could never find the speakers. She would smell a living city, but there was no sign of them.
A simple act of picking up a decrepit newspaper had long since proven to her that she was no longer flesh and bone. It had been impossible; the paper slid through her fingers. Later, she'd discovered that she could push through walls, but the experience was like being suffocated, and so she avoided it.
Too much walking, but she never got tired. Too much thinking, however; emptiness wore on her like a lead robe. Cara had always been someone who needed friends, even though she had tried so hard to keep her life private, safe, locked away.
Cara had gotten into the habit of talking to herself, about anything at all; the solitude had liberated her subconscious, and she felt perfectly fine rambling about whatever she cared to. Anything at all to feel like she was not alone. Questions about what was, observations on where and how, wondering about who and why, and the constant recounting of memories.
The answer, one moment in a thousand, surprised her.
"You are not alone," whispered a voice like iron filings.
Cara turned swiftly, to see a narrow figure in a broken doorway. She'd heard a voice like that before; words that snipped at the heart, tugged at the pores. Before, it had been a thing imitating a woman, carving a man's sins out of his body.
"I do not know her," sighed the figure. It was wavery, and indistinct, like looking at an image through water. "But I know where you are."
"What is this?" Cara asked it, a strange relief washing over her at having something, anything to talk to. "What has happened to me?"
"Death," it replied. "Free of flesh and blood, and the pain that comes with it."
"Then... why aren't I dead? Why..."
"Dead isn't what you think it is."
"Nothing-"
"is what you think it is, except the burdens you bear."
Cara stepped away. She was done talking with this thing, because
"You think I sound like the other," it breathed. "We are not liars... Absolution must be turned in the lock of death in order for you to transcend. You are still imprisoned in your pain."
"I saw what the other one meant by 'freeing'," she retorted. "I'm not interested."
"You are still here," it replied, unhurried. "Atonement is what you need, not what you want. You will never escape your solitude without it."
"I don't believe you."
"You have no way to prove me wrong."
Cara was wary, but the figure hadn't moved from the gloom of the doorway. It was tall, with square shoulders, and had a sleek look. That much she could tell.
"How did you find me?"
"You called me," it replied without hesitation. "I am here to answer you. Come with me. It is your time, now. This is what you wished for."
"I didn't call you," she warned. "Thanks, but I'll be finding my own way now."
"No," it sighed. "You won't. You'll wander these streets forever, because forever is all that is here. You sought death all your life, and now you turn away from the peace it offers you. I can see through you, see who you have been, who you are. Death has come from your hands, and you have been the knife that tears people free, and sends them falling to transcendence. Now, this is your time."
The complete assurance in the thing's words rocked Cara. But she was still wary. There were
"You had things left undone? You cannot do them now. Flesh and blood are stripped from you, let those things fall away and be absolved of their weight, and you will leap into the fires of epiphany."
"I am not finished!" Cara found herself screaming at the thing. "I am not done! This isn't how it's supposed to be! I spent all that time trying to make up for what I did, and it didn't matter! I have to go back, I have to finish what I started!"
The thing extended a hand, long and pale. "I am the way."
"The way to what?! I don't know who or what you are! Leave me alone! I can find my own way. I WILL find my own way."
"I only do what you wish," it replied, unruffled.
Cara backed away, and then ran a good distance before finally resuming her normal pace.
This city has to end somewhere, she thought. This has to end somewhere.
The next time she glanced back, she saw the figure following, patient. It offered a pale hand, again, but she turned away again, and kept walking.
She knew, deep in her soul, that it would be waiting for her, forever after, with cold hand outstretched. Her life had caught up to her.
But Cara kept walking.
Nothing was what it was supposed to be.
Something in Cara had always reached for death. Perhaps it was an echo of her life, rebounding upon her; as many as she had herself killed, perhaps her own life felt a need to put those deaths aside.
Now, after her own death, Cara realized it was not that at all. It was simply a need for release and freedom, the final shedding of the burden of her life.
But death had not given her that escape.
Her last memory as a living woman had been the horror of the Machine, where they'd met the Watcher in the endless hall of wired bodies and pipes. Even as prepared as they'd been, it had been little good.
She remembered the exultation in herself, facing the Watcher, the opponent that she knew she could not defeat. It had dodged her bullets, it had thrown her aside like a man would toss a pillow, and in the end, she had found herself snared, lifted to stare at inhuman hatred in human eyes.
And past the Watcher, she had seen Michael, and it had been the most intimate moment she'd ever had with another human being. Even at that distance, she could see the resolution in his sharp eyes, and she had understood. Her heart reached out, gave permission, and when his gun fired, her last thought had been that there could have been no better way for her to die.
The Watcher would not take her alive, and her friends were safe. Because of her.
It should have been enough.
But consciousness came back, and she found herself in an empty city street, with crumbled and stained clusters of buildings leaning impossibly high to either side. The sky was muddy and red, clotted heavily with clouds, or smog.
The streets were endless. Time had been lost to her; the sky never changed. There was never anyone around, though she constantly felt as if people were walking past her, or through her. She could hear snatches of conversation, but she could never find the speakers. She would smell a living city, but there was no sign of them.
A simple act of picking up a decrepit newspaper had long since proven to her that she was no longer flesh and bone. It had been impossible; the paper slid through her fingers. Later, she'd discovered that she could push through walls, but the experience was like being suffocated, and so she avoided it.
Too much walking, but she never got tired. Too much thinking, however; emptiness wore on her like a lead robe. Cara had always been someone who needed friends, even though she had tried so hard to keep her life private, safe, locked away.
Cara had gotten into the habit of talking to herself, about anything at all; the solitude had liberated her subconscious, and she felt perfectly fine rambling about whatever she cared to. Anything at all to feel like she was not alone. Questions about what was, observations on where and how, wondering about who and why, and the constant recounting of memories.
The answer, one moment in a thousand, surprised her.
"You are not alone," whispered a voice like iron filings.
Cara turned swiftly, to see a narrow figure in a broken doorway. She'd heard a voice like that before; words that snipped at the heart, tugged at the pores. Before, it had been a thing imitating a woman, carving a man's sins out of his body.
"I do not know her," sighed the figure. It was wavery, and indistinct, like looking at an image through water. "But I know where you are."
"What is this?" Cara asked it, a strange relief washing over her at having something, anything to talk to. "What has happened to me?"
"Death," it replied. "Free of flesh and blood, and the pain that comes with it."
"Then... why aren't I dead? Why..."
"Dead isn't what you think it is."
"Nothing-"
"is what you think it is, except the burdens you bear."
Cara stepped away. She was done talking with this thing, because
"You think I sound like the other," it breathed. "We are not liars... Absolution must be turned in the lock of death in order for you to transcend. You are still imprisoned in your pain."
"I saw what the other one meant by 'freeing'," she retorted. "I'm not interested."
"You are still here," it replied, unhurried. "Atonement is what you need, not what you want. You will never escape your solitude without it."
"I don't believe you."
"You have no way to prove me wrong."
Cara was wary, but the figure hadn't moved from the gloom of the doorway. It was tall, with square shoulders, and had a sleek look. That much she could tell.
"How did you find me?"
"You called me," it replied without hesitation. "I am here to answer you. Come with me. It is your time, now. This is what you wished for."
"I didn't call you," she warned. "Thanks, but I'll be finding my own way now."
"No," it sighed. "You won't. You'll wander these streets forever, because forever is all that is here. You sought death all your life, and now you turn away from the peace it offers you. I can see through you, see who you have been, who you are. Death has come from your hands, and you have been the knife that tears people free, and sends them falling to transcendence. Now, this is your time."
The complete assurance in the thing's words rocked Cara. But she was still wary. There were
"You had things left undone? You cannot do them now. Flesh and blood are stripped from you, let those things fall away and be absolved of their weight, and you will leap into the fires of epiphany."
"I am not finished!" Cara found herself screaming at the thing. "I am not done! This isn't how it's supposed to be! I spent all that time trying to make up for what I did, and it didn't matter! I have to go back, I have to finish what I started!"
The thing extended a hand, long and pale. "I am the way."
"The way to what?! I don't know who or what you are! Leave me alone! I can find my own way. I WILL find my own way."
"I only do what you wish," it replied, unruffled.
Cara backed away, and then ran a good distance before finally resuming her normal pace.
This city has to end somewhere, she thought. This has to end somewhere.
The next time she glanced back, she saw the figure following, patient. It offered a pale hand, again, but she turned away again, and kept walking.
She knew, deep in her soul, that it would be waiting for her, forever after, with cold hand outstretched. Her life had caught up to her.
But Cara kept walking.