ash

"I think, therefore I am." Damien's voice is quiet against the pounding rain outside the bus stop. He beats his wings fitfully to shake off the droplets of water clinging to them.

Rain comes in the Hypogeum like inky black droplets of icy tears, the sky crying in a clichéd mangle of searing emotions. Water running in fast-flowing rivulets with their very own tributaries, the constant spichk-spichk of feet hurrying through large puddles. Thunder overhead and lightning dangerously near.

Jun is soaked through and so is Damien, but Jun more so. "Descartes." He shakes his sodden bangs from his eyes.

The rain continues on around them, and absently Damien begins to notice that it smells strangely of ash.

…

Dominic watches the black Chinese ink sitting in the bowl. No breeze ripples its surface- all the windows in the room are closed- only the dim light of the room reflects off it.

Slowly, he reaches out with a quivering hand and dips his fingers into the ink; absently watching as the black substance slowly swallows them. Lifts his fingers out again and observes the disturbance in the liquid, and the settling.

The ink on his fingers is not cool as water would have been, neither is it warm. It is just black ink, trickling down his fingers and staining the skin black. Covering the scars that form when his hands turn into hideous claws.

It is strange how this obsession with perfection has formed.

…

Merox runs his index finger along the edge of one of the crisp white pages in the file; not wincing as the paper cuts his skin. He turns to fix his red eyes on Gabbro.

"Who is this flight?"

Gabbro is still smoking on a cigarette, and his ash-coloured eyes are clouded in thought. He exhales. "The flight's name is Jun. He was severed ten years ago. He is a Kindred doctor."

"No last name?"

"Flights don't have last names. He can't do much for the Kindred as a doctor, but those in his neighbourhood go to him when they have wounds too big for quick regeneration, or severed limbs. He has drugs that can speed that up."

"Who stays with him?"

"He's in contact with many of the subhuman community, mostly Kindred, and the other flights either pity him or despise him, so they stay away, except for one. Flight named Damien. Winged messenger; a nice convenient job for someone like him."

"Someone like him?"

"His wings are white."

Merox flips the pages of the file, before stopping at the page with an affixed photograph of an ebony-haired woman. "Who is Angelica Wilkinson?"

Gabbro shrugs. "Kindred woman. Visits Jun daily. Unemployed- Kindred at the Hypogeum don't need employment. Rumoured lovers but that's just crap. Kindred can't love."

Merox doesn't say anything.

"She's younger than you. Eight decades. Died at age twenty-four."

Merox closes the file and sets it on the coffee table. "How did you get this information?"

Gabbro gets up from the cream-coloured armchair he is sitting in and strolls over to the window, back facing Merox. "A flight told me," he says softly. "A renegade flight that needed the money."

Flights traditionally do not do business with humans. Merox doesn't let his face register his shock.

Gabbro doesn't look at Merox. "It's changing, Eric."