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i
when you emerge from lake michigan, the first thing you hear is static.
a crack, a sizzle, and then: my child.
you should probably jump, but having telepathic siblings quickly desensitize you to foreign voices in your head.
(chicago is cold, and damp, and despite the millions of people that should be here, far too empty. there is an absence to be felt here, in the very bones of it, even the static hums with a wailing keening cry. if you didn’t know better, you’d almost say it sounds like mourning.)
the city heaves a deep breath, incarnate, we need to ask a favour.
ii.
(renhka is the first you lose; gets tangled in the immateria you’re trying to navigate and disappears beneath the waves. it should be easier for the three of you, with all the seeking you've been doing the past few years, but the redaction has severed your connection and everything is far too quiet. you're all disoriented enough that mistakes happen, and this one costs you.
ankie and you make it to tokyo, hand in trembling hand, missing your third limb. it's the shore you've been journeying for, a respite.
she doesn't make it out with you when you fall.)
iii.
you're directed to a giant brick building, derelict and overrun. it's been years since these walls have seen a living soul, still stained with ash and dust, the bronze statues lining the exterior coated with char.
you are the first person to enter in decades, maybe.
(it’s hard to tell how long you’ve been gone, all of you. but this world has shifted, seismically, and for the first time in your life, you are fully alone. just the thought of it could make you cry.)
you pick up a broom and start to sweep. there’s work to do.
iv.
cobwebs line the corners, scorch marks stain the floors. these walls are haunted, by memories, reverence, hard decisions– by people, too. on that, at least, you can relate.
(missing your sisters is like missing your soul. it’s an aching, heady feeling, but the pain of it keeps you grounded.
ankie used the smoke to find vestiges of the future, renhka saw remnants of the past in the char and ash. you saw the present in flickering flames. it’s not much help now.)
“what is this place?”
it used to be a home, the city sings, you’ll make it one again.
v.
the basement alone takes you days. you spend half a day in the workshop you found, working by the light that streams through the stained glass window in the corner.
(josé haley, patron saint of chicago's lost souls. you only know who he is because he helped the steaks win their one ring. another man lost to the deification of self-sacrifice, he is not alone here. neither are you, it turns out.)
there's a man in the garage when you finally emerge, cast in shadows and nostalgic yearning.
“sorry to intrude,” he says, decidedly not apologetic. “would you like a hand?”
vi.
you take a long hard look through the dying sunlight–you've had no time to wonder where that came from–to scrutinize the man.
at first glance, he's no more than mid-twenties. at a second one, though, you see the weariness in his stance that only comes from those that predate the opening of the book.
an original, then. for the firefighters, given that he's here.
like he can read your mind, he stretches out a hand. “edric tosser. dale, now.”
“here originally?”
he nods.”jazz hands in between.”
your name catches on your tongue; there's a decision to make here.
“frankie incarnate.”
vii.
it isn’t until you’re upstairs the next day that you decide to broach the subject.
“did the city direct you here too?”
he laughs, not unkindly. “no. we haven’t been on speaking terms in decades, her and i. we barely were to begin with, really.”
“so…” why are you here?
he finishes wiping down the window he’s at–a bespectacled figure oozing self-assurity–and lays a stone down on the ledge. the action of it fills your mind with the smell of sandalwood– love for the dead.
“i’m the only one who remembers,” he shrugs. “it’s gotta count for something, right?"
viii.
the two of you fight that night, hoarse angry yells after a mug breaks in the kitchen, meaning lost in the shards that you can’t read.
(this hasn’t been his home for quite some time, but it was, once. your home has only ever been your sisters.)
you spend that night on the roof, trying to read the stars, and then the fire you start in a scorched-up trash can.
sometime past two, he joins you, coffee in hand. nods at the can: “that used to be mine.”
for a second, you’re the only two people in the world.
ix.
“why’d you really come?”
“i mean, i didn’t lie before.”
“not an answer.”
a sigh, fabric squeaking against glass. (it’s goobie ballson; even you know that.) “it's not as if there's anyone in Miami to show me around. randy will, when she has time. but i had things to check on here.”
“like?”
“a family, or what's left of them.”
“and?”
“have you actually looked outside, frankie–”
“–don't call me that.” breathe; in, out. “incarnate is fine.”
“well, incarnate,” a hint of annoyance, “if you haven't noticed, no one's out there.”
you hadn't. how hadn't you?
“yeah, so…”
x.
you’re on the roof again, with another fire to see if you can find anything about your sisters. you don’t have much hope for the black hole, admittedly, but rehnka… desperate times call for desperate measures.
just when you’re about to give up, edric appears on the fire escape, smoke in hand. if he looks annoyed to see you, he doesn’t show it.
“i looked you up, you know.”
“yeah? what’d you find?”
he nods at the fire, ignoring you. “what are you trying to find?”
“my sisters.”
“cool.” a beat. “mine are dead, turns out.”
“edric–”
he’s already gone.
xi.
he leaves the next day, bright and early. if you hadn’t been up already, stumbling down from where you fell asleep on the roof, you probably would have missed the departure entirely. as it is, you catch him red-handed.
“you’re off?”
“i have to get back.” he nods, quiet. “i probably shouldn’t have come here in the first place, to be honest.”
“okay. i–” you want to stop him, but the city says don’t. “just… which room was yours?”
he points to a door on the third floor, number 815, and gives you a knowing look. “look after it.”
xii.
so? the city hums, when the last of the ash is scrubbed clean. what do you think?
“it’s..” you want answers, not small talk. “edric, he was angry. why was he so angry?”
a pause, contemplating. i hurt him, years ago, with decisions i made. hurt those he cared about, too. and then lost them to the hole. another, this one more heavy. i am not perfect, incarnate. i make mistakes. but i have sheltered many like you; lost folks with stolen souls. will you let me care for you too?
soon, more will be here. you won’t be alone.
“yes.”