Dead Things

My name is Alister Siderius, although I am usually called by something else. Not all of these others names given to me are nice names, but such is the plight of someone with a life-mission such as mine. I have yet to discover if renaming something truly changes it, but at any rate most of my friends call me Lory.

If you are looking for a hero, as so many seem to be, then you should be made aware that you will not find one here. Not in the truest sense of the word—and despite all other flaws, I do believe in finding the truth of things, no matter how many broken bones it takes to get there.

No. If you are looking for a hero, go find Sachever, or Magdalena, or even Jack Dandy, for it may be that there is something of that nature deep inside of him, too. Do not look to me. I offer nothing but a story, or perhaps a guide to how we failed. I am nothing but a vessel. I have always been little else. And because of this, I fear that I will disappoint, for when a person thirsts they do not want an empty cup. They will drink straight from the rushing stream, if they must, but a water jug with nothing in it is of no use.

I suppose, however, that if you desire no moral or happy endings, and want only something with which to pass the hours, our story from my view is as good as any. For that reason, I shall start with my own beginning.

I was born to two Homo Sapiens Minor parents, in the old way. However, I, the same as Jack, am not legal. That is to say, my parents did not get the necessary permit to reproduce. Therefore, in the eyes of the children of Homo Sapiens Major, the Devas, I do not often exist. When I do it is mostly because I have been causing trouble.

Because of this—my lack of legal existence—I was sent at a tender age to a home, a place where they send Animals such as myself when the birth parents are deemed unfit to give suitable care. And all parents who do not receive a permit are.

Devas have no real need for their own parents, after they are out of infancy—in fact they have no true need for other human contact at all—and for this reason, separating Animals from our own parents in order to live in a home does not seem at all cruel to them.

Which is one more reason that their time on earth should end, and shall. They do not understand, any longer.

It's not that the homes themselves are bad, so much that few really want to be there. We always had enough to eat in the home, our schooling was almost as good as that which legal Animals receive, and living conditions were never really bad.

But even if we did have it better than some legals, we were always below them. We were pariahs. People saw the labels that the home put on our clothing—glaring at the world like some bright postage stamp, marking the wearer as a dead end, a no one—and pushed us away, into the street. Not even other Animals wanted to be associated with such filth. And Devas would see us and smile that sweet, pitying smile that they all seem to have—almost the same way they look at other Animals, but worse, with an edge of smug knowingness: "I know what you are." As if they had come down from their Shekinah-high just long enough to be disdainful.

I digress. I was discovered, with my little sister, at the age of nine. That shows, unquestionably, the fallacy in taking us to the home. If I had survived happily for nine years, and Beatriz five, then clearly our legality was of no consequence—we were well-provided for. Regardless, they took us away, and within a week we found ourselves in the brick house that sat on the edge of town.

Beatriz and I, for a long time, saw each other only secretly, in stolen moments—most time was strictly scheduled. And every time we met during that first year, she cried—my poor, beautiful sister—and clung to me as if it were not my fault that we'd been sent there in the first place.

And oh, it was. Had it not been for my own carelessness, we could have continued living with our own parents perhaps forever.

Sometimes the simplest actions have the most long-reaching consequences, and my story is thus. Our family, one day, walked up to the hill behind our house and ate a picnic lunch. Beatriz and I played there all afternoon, long after our parents had gone back inside. Later that evening it began to look as though it would rain, and so we went back to the house. And, just as the rain began, I realized that I had left the picnic blanket back on the hill.

"Go back and get it," my mother had said. "Hurry so that you don't get wet—but it's a good blanket, and I won't have it laying in the rain all night." So I, ever the obedient child, hurried back out into the rain and up the hill.

Anyone will realize immediately the folly in this.

I don't know exactly how it is that I remember it so clearly. I had picked up the blanket, and held it in my hand, and was turning back toward the house, when suddenly there was an odd brightness somewhere near me. In an instant, before I could even think to move, or even think, it surrounded me. White light, pure as daylight and infinitely more alive, crackled around me. There was pain, a tremendous pain that cut straight to the marrow of my bones without any regard to skin, muscle, or sinew. But it was clean pain, healing pain, like massaging a sore muscle, only a thousand times more powerful. It was the greatest thing that I have ever experienced. I felt in that moment the spark of life, the power of eternity, and all the pain experienced by humanity throughout all the ages of our existence.

I must have passed out, then. I woke in the hospital. And that was where, checking records, the Devas discovered that my parents did not have any legal children. After two days the Devas released me from the hospital. I had few injuries—minor burns, all things considered. The one lasting thing was that all of my hair fell out. All of it—eyelashes, eyebrows, everything. All of my fine hair, dark as father's.

And it grew back in white. Whiter than the hair of any ancient sage. White with the intensity of a burning star. White like lightning.

It's funny, but the home is where I first met Jack Dandy, although he was only Jack O'Hara, then. It was he who gave me my nickname. It seemed ironic, a little bit funny, when I met him again later. But now… now it seems only like it was destiny.

I did not know him well, but he seemed to be friends with the two boys I shared my room with. Even then he attracted a gang of loyal subjects. I have never understood why—he's not especially charismatic. He's not any kind of genius. He wouldn't stand out in a crowd. In fact, he's perfectly, undeniably human.

But maybe that's exactly it.

He came bursting into our room one day, clearly excited about something, but he stopped dead when he saw me. I can imagine why. Even without being utterly bald, I must have looked odd. They had given me a brightly orange shirt, and a tattered pair of blue jeans that had been patched with green felt. It was garish. Jack took one look at me and started laughing.

"Who's this?" he asked.

"Alister," one of my roommates replied. "Liss. He's new."

"Liss?" Jack asked. "Lory, more like—he looks like one. That's the kind of bird my ma used to have, and that's what he looks like—when it was molting! Hey, Lory? What happened to you? I've never seen anyone so bald."

I told him. He didn't really believe me. No one did, until it grew back white, which of course no one expected—least of all me.

I didn't really see much of Jack, then. He's two years older, and we were never in the same classes or meal-times. Nevertheless the name stuck—because, even then, everyone listened to Jack. I didn't mind. It was close enough to what my parents and sister had called me before. And anyway 'Liss' was, for all intents and purposes, dead. I knew that I wouldn't see my parents again.

I haven't. They wouldn't recognize me any more, most likely.

I stayed in the home for nine painful years, until I was eighteen, and then went out into the wide world, leaving Beatriz unfortunately alone in the home. Although she had plenty of friends it still felt a bit as though I was abandoning her. I regret that to this day.

I got a job—one that I don't dislike nearly as much as one might think. I drive an ice-cream truck, all across town. Both on the Animal side, and the Deva side. It's a strange job, indeed, but it is a job. It's also, indirectly, how I met Jack again, and why I am where I am now.

It was a sticky August day and I was in the Animal side of town, parked across the street from the park, with a line of kids about twenty long. Suddenly, these two boys came pushing through. Devas, you could tell by their clothes and looks, but they weren't paying any attention to the Shekinah—they had none of that air of peace, of tranquility. They were rude—thought that they could just push ahead in line because of their status.

And the worst part? They could. There was really nothing that I could do but scowl at them, and ask, "What are you two doing on this side of town?"

"We wanted ice cream, Animal," one replied with a smart-ass tone.

"So do they," I replied, indicating the line that they had pushed aside.

They looked a little nervous. Good.

"But they aren't Devas. We're hungry," the same boy protested.

"Here," I told them, reaching into the nearest cooler and grabbing the first things that my fingers came into contact with.

"But—"

"Now get out," I said, not even bothering with taking any money. Devas, their condescending ways, make me so angry that sometimes I forget small things like that.

They ran away, clearly unused to such treatment.

"Next," I said to the silent sea of children before me. After a little hesitation the next person stepped up. However, it wasn't long before a Seraphim—one of the Deva law enforcement officials who still regularly patrol the Animal side of town—stepped up to my truck, pushing aside as many people as the rude boys had.

"I hear there's some bad service, here," he said, all cool, like I was going to bow to his will like some slave.

"It would depend on who you ask," I replied. He was wrong. I would not fold. "Would you like to order something, or would you like to step out of line?"

He grabbed a fistful of my shirt and dragged me forward, halfway out of my truck and over the counter, knocking jars of napkins and spoons everywhere.

"Are you resisting arrest?" he asked, a threat in his voice.

"Are you arresting me?" I asked in return, trying to pull his hands off of me. I didn't want him touching me. Deva.

He got really mad, then, and pulled me sharply the rest of the way out of the truck. I landed roughly on the ground, and found his foot on my chest.

"Your behavior is out of line," he said to me.

"Like hell, asshole," I muttered.

"What was that?" he asked smugly, leaning down over me. He spit to the left of my head.

With a feral snarl I struck out, twisting away from his foot and leaping for his throat almost in one motion. And for a second I had him—my hands locked around his throat, I could feel his pulse twitching wildly, see the slightly panicked look in his eyes, and it was a glorious feeling.

…Until I felt the barrel of his gun against my ribs.

"Freeze," he said. "Drop your hands."

I complied grudgingly, and not long after found myself locked in a cell in the city jail. It wasn't actually the first time. But it was different this time. This is where the story truly starts.

"Lory?" came a questioning, unfamiliar voice from the cell across from mine, some time after the guards had left.

"Yes, that's me. Who are you? What do you want?" I asked, all at once. Adrenaline from before was still rushing in my arteries.

A face appeared out of the darkness of the cell, between the bars. Older and rougher, but recognizably Jack nonetheless.

"Remember me?" he asked, and then grinned. "Jack Dandy?"

"Yes," I replied. If he expected more, he was in for some disappointment.

"What'd you do?" he asked.

"Assaulted a Seraphim. Denied a couple of Devas of their rightful place at the front of a line. Not in that order."

He nodded appreciatively. "Me, I'm in here for awhile. Armed robbery." His eyes narrowed with a sharp, crafty gleam. "Man, was it worth it, though." He motioned me closer. I stood, and moved to the bars.

"I didn't get anything, but Mink did. They never even suspected him. We're thinking, maybe, we can get back in later. Get some more stuff."

"Who's 'we?' And where?" I asked, a bit curious.

"I can trust you, can't I?" he asked, the gleam still in his eyes. It was all a ruse, even then. Jack nearly always knows, somehow, who he can and cannot trust—it seems to be a gift. He knew that he had me from the second, probably, that he heard my crime—no, from the first time he ever saw me. He knew. He saw the bitterness, and the hate, because he feels it, too. Just the same. All the time.

And so he did tell me who 'we' is—his loyal followers, his Hungry Ghosts. Haters of Devas. True humans. And he told me where to find them, if I wanted to be a part of them, when I got out.

And I did.

And never looked back.