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“Feuilly,” said a voice from the shadows. “I should have known I would see you here.”
The wind blew, the bushes stirred. It was unusually cold for a summer night—mostly overcast, though a few dim stars were visible through the gaps in the clouds. The daytime strollers—the joggers with small dogs; the mothers with screaming children; the casual citygoers with ears tamped shut, indie rock blasting through both earbuds; the lovers with hands intertwined and promises written on their lips—had all disappeared into wherever it was they were so busily going. Streetlights hung overhead, casting an uncomfortable glow on rows of wooden park benches. The voice came from behind one such light, in a dark little tangle of trees and shrubbery. The wrought-iron fence sent eerie shadows sprawling on the pavement.
“It’s been a while,” the faceless voice continued. Feuilly advanced toward the source of the voice, tentatively, squinting into the blackness and shading his view with one hand. The harshness of the light overhead blinded him temporarily, but upon adjusting, the silhouette of a thin, shrouded figure seemed to appear before him. Feuilly stopped, watched intently. The figure stopped, too, then turned slowly, stepping out into the light. A pale cheek rose first from out of the darkness, slowly, like a waxing moon, or the wings of a swan unfolding. They were followed shortly by two pouting red lips and a set of masked black eyes that glistened.
Feuilly froze. “Montparnasse,” he said, his tongue rolling the syllables out awkwardly as if in an attempt to speak a language too long unused. “Is that you?”
Montparnasse clenched his jaw in annoyance. “What, don’t you recognize me? Of course it’s me.”
“Yes,” Feuilly replied emptily, “of course.” He nodded, trying to cover up the awkwardness of the unexpected encounter. “I should have known you’d still be prowling around these parts at odd hours of the night.”
Montparnasse laughed, crossing his arms. He ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to pull the right words out of his mouth. “I have things to do, you know,” he said finally. "Just...Things."
“I see.”'
“Do you?” challenged Montparnasse, tilting his head back slightly.
It had been several years, at least, since they met face-to-face, though they had come close a few times, purely by happenstance. Feuilly had occasionally read about a certain boyish, sharply dressed delinquent in the papers he sometimes delivered in the mornings for an extra buck or two. The press had nicknamed him Shadowscaler, for his curious ability to meld with the shadows, control them at his will so that they came to be alive, tangible things, an extension of his own small form—sentient, even. "A menacing enemy to the state," one paper even said.
“That watch looks new,” Feuilly observed.
“Might be.”
“They’re looking for you, you know.”
Montparnasse shrugged. “So let them.”
Feuilly remembered police sirens from earlier in the evening. Murder. Robbery. An inexplicable disappearance. He sighed deeply. “Montparnasse, go home. It’s late. You’ve caused enough trouble for the day.”
Montparnasse smiled bitterly. “Go home,” he mocked. “Is that really what you just said to me?” A raspy, hollow chuckle erupted from his throat. “You of all people should recognize the exquisite irony of that statement,” he snarled.
“I don’t have the patience to deal with you. Not tonight.” Feuilly said. He hesitated. “I have things to do, too.”
“You haven’t policed these parts in a while,” accused Montparnasse.
Feuilly was annoyed. “I never policed anything. You know I would never be on the side of the law.”
“Fair.”
Feuilly ran his hand through his matted mass of hair. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Then leave,” Montparnasse dared. “We’ll both go on our way. I have things to see, people to meet. The city really comes alive at night.” He removed a cigarette from his pocket, lit it expertly, allowed a trail of wispy smoke escape from between his scarlet lips, barely even old enough to enjoy the taste of it. “But you knew that,” he added with a grin.
Feuilly eyed his former friend, who was standing in the light of the streetlamp. The harsh shadows on the ground beneath him shifted fluidly, placidly. It was true he was well-dressed, all in black like an upscale gentleman—silk hat and cravat and cape and all—but with the cosmopolitan charm of a fashion magazine model, not the cheesy getup of an old-timey Hollywood cocktail partygoer. His appearance was groomed and neat; it would be hard to tell from mere looking that he was an orphan living on the streets. He was still the most beautiful boy Feuilly had ever seen, he thought, and his delicate beauty seemed only to have refined with maturity. Still, it was obvious that something had changed within Montparnasse—something that had its roots in ugliness. He had grown...sharp. Sleek and refined, yes, but deadly. His fine threads, soft to the touch but bought with blood, reeked of corruption; the jet black of his eyes, which once held dignity and warmth, had grown cold and hard. Innocence replaced with ruthlessness, perhaps.
“Montparnasse, what’s happened to you?” said Feuilly. He gestured toward him and grimaced a bit. “This petty thievery—it doesn’t suit you.”
Montparnasse raised one finely-shaped eyebrow. “And this moral superiority suits you?” He expelled another cloud of smoke. The tip of his cigarette glowed. “I know what you plan to do,” he said, almost in singsong. “You’re planning to overthrow the government. Tomorrow. That’s why you’re out here so late, checking things out. Making sure nothing’s gone amiss.”
Feuilly suddenly grew grave. “How did you know about that?”
“You know what they say about the streets, my friend,” he said matter-of-factly. “They have ears.” He grinned as Feuilly opened his mouth, dumbfounded. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to go alert the police. After all, I am even less on the side of the law.”
Feuilly started to step forward in protest, stopped, stepped back, resolved to remain calm. “A small demonstration,” he said, gauging the other party’s knowledge of the situation. “If all goes well, we won’t have to use violence.”
“You know, I thought you’d be grateful and all,” said Montparnasse. “About what I do, I mean. After all, I’m not so different from you. I clean the streets up, in a way.” Montparnasse waved his hand. “Calm down, I know what you do. It’s all over the newspapers. You patrol the streets playing Superman when you see innocent people getting bullied. I get it. Breaking the law, et cetera, but you use your powers for good. You're a cult hero, even. The common folk worship you.” He paused to throw his cigarette on the ground and stomp it out with the heel of his designer boot. “But you also have a dark side, no? You protest. You’ve tussled with the cops. You’ve broken into government buildings, hacked company profiles, extracted corporate secrets. Vigilante. Whistleblower. Insurgent." He smirked. "Not such a clean record yourself.”
He gave an opportunity for response. Feuilly remained silent. Montparnasse went on, maintaining his distance but beginning to circle around a bit. The shadows followed, continuing their liquid dance. Feuilly joined him uneasily, shifting sideways bit by bit.
“Now these filthy bourgeois, the corporate execs, the piece of shit politicians, the millionaire celebrities and their fucking designer dogs, they think they own these streets." His voice began to crecendo. "They parade up and down the boulevards thinking they own the whole goddamn place. Trampling on the poor, spitting at the bums in the corner, turning a fat nose up to the cries of the underclass— It’s only fair that I put them in their place! Right?” Montparnasse was on a roll. A glint of beastly wildness shone in his eyes; his nostrils flared with excitement. He caught himself, stopped, breathed. “And, of course, perhaps earn a trinket or two on the way,” he said, straightening the silk hat on his flawlessly coiffed black curls and becoming composed once more.
Feuilly shook his head with determination. “I am nothing like you,” he said lowly.
“And why is that? You’re angry. I am, too. Granted, you've always been the more serious one, but we're not so different, you and me.”
“I am motivated by justice,” he hissed, almost in a whisper. “Social, economic, political justice. Not greed and envy and vanity.”
“Justice. Is that what they’re teaching you to say?” Montparnasse scoffed. The shadows at his feet stopped abruptly, fanning out in a sharp, spindly formation. “I’m disappointed. You sound just like those snobby university students with nothing better to do than play savior to the poor.”
Feuilly tensed up, struggling to contain his temper. “They use their powers for good. They want to help.”
“Help? I can help myself. I don’t need these privileged clowns to help me,” he snapped, his voice dripping with fury. “Now do me a favor and stop parroting every goddamn word they’re putting in your mouth.” The shadows sprawled out sharply and ominously as his steps grew more forceful.
“Those words are mine!”
“That doesn’t sound like the Feuilly I know,” said Montparnasse. “You said we’d get revenge on every goddamn bourgeois bastard together. You said—”
“I was foolish then.”
“You’re foolish now. Your vision is clouded by idealism. You've grown soft.”
“You should have joined us,” Feuilly shouted in anger. “You had so much potential to use what you have for the better. Now you waste all of that robbing and murdering for your own selfish fucking benefit—“
“I’m the selfish one?” Montparnasse gasped incredulously. He was shrouded in darkness, now directly across from the streetlamp where he started and completely out of reach of its light. Feuilly could only just make him out from the pale countours of his face. “I am? You know, the two of us used to be dandy. We looked out for each other. Things were fine until you sold out to your rich-boy friends. You know they wouldn’t give a shit about you if you didn’t have your gift, Feuilly! They’re just using you to further their fucking political agenda and ease their fucking—“
A furious creak sounded as Feuilly sprang forward, pushing Montparnasse backwards through the air and slamming him into the cold bars of the wrought-iron fence.
“Don’t you ever disrespect my friends again, “ said Feuilly, wrapping his strong fingers around Montparnasse's thin neck. “Do you understand?”
The back of Montparnasse’s head throbbed. “I see you’ve gotten even stronger,” he said, choking out the words. “Of course, that was always your talent. Feuilly. Or what are they calling you nowadays? Ah—Atlas. Like the myth. Strong enough to carry the burdens of the entire world on his shoulders. Yes, you’ve always been the smart one but I know a bit, too.” Montparnasse laughed maliciously. “There’s some savior complex bullshit in their somewhere; I wonder where that came from.”
Feuilly squeezed Montparnasse’s throat. “Don’t you dare.”
“Or else, what?” Montparnasse spat, with considerable effort. “You’ll break my neck? I’ve got news for you, slum-rat. We grew up together. Those guys? They don’t know what you been through. But me? I get you. You see? I am the one who understands you. I am your friend,” said Montparnasse.
He stopped abruptly, letting the words sink in. Feuilly trembled, enveloped in the blackness of the night. The rusty iron rattled a bit in the wind. The two said nothing for a moment, barely able to make each other out in the dark, until Montparnasse began to laugh with a demonic huskiness unsuited to his delicate frame. His pale face seemed suddenly to dissolve into nothingness, as sugar in a hot cup of coffee. “And for the record, maybe you aren’t so smart, after all," he taunted, before melting away completely into the shade.
“Shit!” Feuilly snarled, realizing he had played into a trap. He attempted to move, but without success, finding that the criss-crossing lace of blackness which extended from the base of the iron fence had been bound tightly around his limbs. Panicked, he whipped his head around, searching for a way to re-enter the light.
“It’s a shame,” the voice of Montparnasse lamented somewhere in the dark. “I’ve always found your face quite handsome.” Then, reappearing behind him, Montparnasse freed Feuilly’s limbs from his grasp, just long enough to allow him to turn, blindly, dazed and wide-eyed and helpless. He looked his friend in the eye with the menacing glare of unquenched fury, unsheathed his dagger, and with lightning speed and unforgiving precision, cut a deep gash in Feuilly’s right cheek.
Feuilly flinched, stifling a scream. Montparnasse shuffled to his right, but Feuilly was faster, grabbing him by his collar and whipping him toward the streetlamp. Montparnasse choked a bit, struggling to regain his footing. Feuilly saw his opportunity. He leaped forward. Feuilly, the much stronger and faster of the two, plowed at the slender Montparnasse, away from the darkness which was his domain. Montparnasse attempted to fight back, but Feuilly gripped his hand around his dagger-wielding wrist, rendering it useless. Shadowy appendages shot at him at random, but he dodged each one. Almost there, Feuilly thought. He tore at the pavement to create makeshift shields to block Montparnasse's attacks. The two wrestled in a heap. There. With much effort, Feuilly managed to push Montparnasse back into the light, gaining once again the advantage in surroundings. Got you. He pinned him down. They breathed heavily.
Montparnasse scowled, unable to move. Surrounded in the flood of light, he was helpless. Feuilly smiled a hollow smile of victory, then coughed.
“You’re wrong,” said Feuilly finally through gritted teeth. Blood dripped neatly down his face. He wiped it away. “You and I are nothing alike. Not anymore.”
A cold wind chilled the two young men. A passing cloud eclipsed the moon. Montparnasse, trapped under Feuilly’s relatively small but sinewy frame in the steady yellow glare of the streetlight, had nowhere to which he could escape. He glowered. His breaths came in heaving gasps, but he made no effort to break free. His face was small and bony and pale, his black hair ruffled, his forehead gathering beads of perspiration, his hat missing. Feuilly studied him.
From his new vantage point, he realized suddenly that this fearsome criminal, this sophisticated, worldly young man of eighteen or nineteen, this professional thief and murderer, again seemed to him very much like a child. He recalled his childhood, the years he and Montparnasse had held hands and slept under the bridge every night, pickpocketing unsuspecting tourists and pilfering from the bakery together to survive their hunger for the day—was this child that he saw now in front of him, then, always capable of cruelty? Had Montparnasse always been terrible, even in urchinhood, taking shameless pleasure in these necessary crimes, hatred in his heart, only concealing his viciousness with his trademark charm and angelic handsomeness? Or had the once-innocent gamin-child simply been hardened by the vicissitudes of life, the sins of desire and wrath, a world which has no place for a misfit like him?
Come to think of it, Feuilly reflected, he wasn't so sure.
A drop of red rolled down Feuilly's cheek and dripped onto Montparnasse’s young face, and in that moment it seemed to Feuilly that that small bead of crimson blood seemed not so out of place there, on Montparnasse's cold, marble cheek. He grew sad—but at what? Having lost a friend, or having realized that he never had one to begin with?
Montparnasse cut in.
“Don’t worry about our interfering with your plans,” he assured sourly. “It might be a fun spectacle to watch. For a while, at least.”
“Are you worried about me?”
He thought for a moment. “No,” he decided, though not thoroughly convinced.
“Good.” Feuilly stood up, carefully, pulling Montparnasse up with him and wiping up more blood from his cheek. He stood back at a slight distance. The pair watched each other, though guardedly. A police siren went off somewhere in the distance.
“It’s never too late to come back, you know,” Montparnasse offered, shuffling slightly. He straightened his jacket, dusted off his cravat, recovered his hat, neatened his slacks. “We would make a pretty good team. Just like old times.”
“You know how I feel about you and your gang of criminals,” was all Feuilly could say.
“Fine,” he mumbled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. His shadow shifted beneath him, small and powerless. A wind blew again, stronger this time. His cape fluttered a bit, like the wings of a bat. “Well then. It’s getting late. All is said and done.”
The police siren sounded louder, in that high-pitched scream that signifies its approaching.
"The cops are coming."
Feuilly nodded. “I guess this is goodbye, then.”
“Until we meet again,” said Montparnasse solemnly.
“That is, if we do meet again.”
Montparnasse swallowed. “I see.” He tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it. “Good night, then.”
Another siren.
Feuilly extended his hand. Montparnasse grasped it, shook.
“Look, Montparnasse,” said Feuilly. “If you change your mind, you could come with us, tomorrow—”
Flashing lights in the corner of their eyes.
“I said, good night,” Montparnasse declared, his voice stern, though somehow not as intimidating as before. Then, softening, he added in almost a sigh, “my friend.”
He slipped his hand away from Feuilly’s grasp. “Wait!” Feuilly said, reaching for his hand. But before he could take a hold of him, Montparnasse leaped backward and away. He gave a final, sad smile, as if in apology. Then he tipped his hat and, with one swift motion, he threw his cape on to the streetlight, sank back into the shadows, and disappeared.
The cars passed, and silence fell.