The City of the Last Angels

Marcus Plant was the last person to ever exit the Triple B alive. It really was a very simple affair. Just two minutes earlier it had been open as usual, attracting all sorts of unsavory characters for its very specific business behind its very normal façade. The bar had been moderately full, nine on the surface. Not bad for a Thursday night, 2 A.M. Not bad at all. Of course, as all the patrons, and Plant, knew, it was much fuller than it appeared. Below its cover, it was something much more unique. And much less legal. It was this façade that drew Marcus over to the bar in the first place. It seemed like a nice place to get a drink. Then he would have his fun.

The clock inside struck 1:57 when Marcus rounded the corner to the establishment. He knew exactly where he was going. Had known four blocks ago. He ran through the likely scenario flashing through his mind and smiled under his hood. The coat was heavy, but surely necessary. Yes, quite surely. He wanted it all to be a surprise. A drink beforehand sounded nice. And the best part was that he wasn't going to have to clean up the mess. The others had that job. Speaking of them, he thought he heard a pair of them behind him. They knew their job. They would only get in his way.

The heavy coat resting on Plant's shoulders only felt heavier with the added weight of the downpour above it. The rain gave dull splashes as it struck the leather, but none of this was heard by Plant. He was in his own little world, the disturbing smile still plastered on his face. He knew there were two ways to get the job done. The easy and hard ways, just like always. The easy way, though, was just too boring, he had decided long ago. Just too boring for his taste. No, the hard way was always entertaining. Always keeping him on his toes. Always the best.

Plant had always had things hard, by choice or not, but that wasn't on his mind either. What really brought the smile on were the faces he would see. The faces that would smile, nod, drink, and laugh. He would get to see these people's happy masks as they enjoyed themselves to the sound of old jukebox and the smell of puke and gin. On the rocks, of course. Plant wondered to himself if it would be shaken or stirred. He chuckled to himself. This was why he loved his job. His imagination got to work in such great ways. Who says that work couldn't provide a good creative outlet?

The smile faded off Plant's face when he saw the neon buzz contrast with the cool black of the empty building. On it, in bold letters, blazed in neon, was BROKEN BEER BAR. Fun for the whole family, Plant thought. The loss of his smile was greeted with a primitive mourning in his heart. But this, too, was part of his job. And he was good at his job. Yes he was. And he knew it. He needed to don his own mask, and have a grand old party with these men. A drink or two. A kinder smile. Then a bang. And another.

The door of the Triple B was resting on rusted hinges that Marcus could tell would squeak. That would be perfect. He wanted all the men to see him, just a traveler, seemingly a friend. His hood would be down, his coat resting wetly on his shoulders, and these men would see he was no threat. No one ever suspected Marcus a threat. Who would expect a nineteen-year-old to be dangerous? The answer had always been simple: no one. And Plant suspected that no one ever would.

Marcus grabbed the door handle and brought it down, delivering its welcoming bell. The squeak almost brought about Plant's smile. His real smile. Almost. But it never had yet, and Marcus never intended to show it until it was just perfect. That moment before a person could react, even before Marcus made a move, that they knew they were going to die. An unsuspecting person was never fun. Never hard. And hard was the only way to go. The only way for him to go. The only way for them to go.

The inside did indeed smell, but it wasn't immediately what Plant expected. It was the faint smell of incense, seemingly vanilla, or something like it. Marcus remembered the time he saw some vanilla incense called Sexplosion. The stupidity of people never ceased. But still, Marcus found himself surprised. Why would a place like this welcome its guests so warmly? A smell it needed to hide? Plant did indeed smell something off, but he wasn't sure quite what it was. It was just beyond him.

At first he wondered if he had entered the right place, but there was no doubt by the evidence. The bartenders quick flick of his hand below the counter, reaching for who knew what. A gun? An alarm? Does it even matter? There was also the obvious bulge of a gun visible with two patrons. One in one's jacket pocket, the other tucked inside the other man's pants. A third gave a fidget towards something Marcus couldn't see, but once again, it didn't matter. None of these signs were as strong as all the men's eyes save one, who didn't react at all. Was he not a member? Too bad. All the men's eyes had a hint of fear brought on by someone trying to hide something. And what else would all of these men need to hide?

Marcus entered the bar and took off his hood. When the men saw his face, they all relaxed. The fidgeter returned his hand to a resting position, the gunners' fingers untensed, the bartender's hand was once again visible above the bar, and all their eyes returned to a man's normal, neutral state. Nothing to see here folks, just normal eyes. Just normal eyes on happy men. Marcus beamed on the inside.

All the patrons returned to what they were doing. The bartender didn't even give Marcus the chance to sit down before announcing, as if to the whole bar, "This ain't a place for minors, boy. So just hustle out."

Marcus pulled a chair up next to the reading man, the man who didn't bother to look when he entered. The man who didn't show fear. The man who was outside the loop. Plant found himself pitying the man. It doesn't hurt to try and save the damned. Only then did Marcus return his attention to the barkeep, and reply, "That's good advice," before sitting down.

The bartender only laughed. Plant knew the man wouldn't do anything. No one bothered anymore. Hadn't since he was young and kind. Marcus didn't want to wander down that road, and focused back on the man, only barely glancing up from the book to grant Marcus the privilege of his attention. "May I help you?"

Marcus let his head descend closer to the table. He noticed the man in the next closest table barely leaning back. They were curious. They recognized two strangers, strangely drawn to each other, and were justified in their curiosity. Plant leaned closer to the man and, no bullshit, answered, "Leave."

Plant would give him no other chance. The man looked back to his book, leaned back again, and replied, "No."

Marcus liked the man. He was subtle but stern. That "no" wasn't just no. It was a message. Somehow the man knew what was happening here. He was here for the very same reason Marcus was, and he wanted Plant to know it. Plant nodded. It seemed the men at the next table over gave up on hearing the conversation, and returned to whatever they were doing, blocked from Plant's sight by the closest's back. Plant took one last look over at the bartender, who shined a quirky smile at him. He had practice. But not enough. The smile was fake. Most people might be fooled, but Marcus knew. It was then he let his smile show. The man noticed immediately, and Marcus was ready. Already in his hand he held the pin. Already through the air was the grenade. And already the reading man was kicking the table on its side to protect them.

The last thing Marcus saw before seeking cover was the man reaching down for whatever was behind the bar. Plant laughed inside if it was just an alarm. The only alarm needed would be the melodic boom about to mark its debut. He reached inside his coat and grabbed a pistol. A niner. He aimed it at the man right across from him, and fired. The sound of the shot was drowned out by the blast on the other side of his table. Marcus watched as a patron was downed by a block of wood sent flying into his face. He wasn't going to get up. It was just mayhem, and the ringing in Plant's ears was intense. He loved the hard way. The smile was bigger than ever.

Marcus spun around at the sound of what seemed like a distant bang. It was actually a gunshot fired off by Reading Man. In between the two of them was a long splinter of wood, about two feet long, that had been sent from the bar only to clear penetrate the table. It had narrowly missed both of them. Marcus let out a whistle, and laughed. The laugh was louder then he intended, and bullet shattered even more of the table. Now he was only smiling. He quickly judged the shape of the bullet hole, put his gun against the table, and fired. A scream was the only confirmation he needed.

Including the bartender, there where nine targets in the room and one expected source of help. Now he knew at least five were done, maybe more. All he needed was a quick peak. Plant turned and glanced through a bullet hole, and could see a hand sticking out through the rubble. That was another. Before he could keep looking, the Reading Man whispered to him, "There's only one left, behind that corner.

Marcus was ready. He knew they didn't have much time before the others came. The problem was, he didn't know where they would come from. He wanted to be able to completely focus on them. That was his justification as he sprinted out from cover and fired a single bullet, which kindly collided with the man's temple. There was a mosaic of red behind him a moment later. Plant then turned and shot a man who was clenching his side with a piece of wood protruding from it. The man wasn't clenching anymore.

It was barely a moment later that the wall near the bathrooms slid aside. There. But the problem lay in the hands of the man who exited. He was packing heavy shit. And Marcus was empty. He dropped the gun and reached for another of his, but knew he wouldn't get it in time. He didn't have time. Neither did the man, who met his end by a well placed bullet. The Reading Man was good. As Plant reached his new gun, he decided it was safer to grab another. He liked his niners. But he had others on him. He was just waiting for a good chance.

Both Marcus and the Reading Man approached the door, guns ready. They took down another man who was foolish enough to exit. When they got to the wall, they pressed themselves against it.

"So, you LGH, or a merc?"

Plant smiled. "LGH. You?"

The Reading Man smiled too. "Merc."

Without another word, the two entered the room, which in truth was only a narrow hallway, ending in stairs. There was only enough room for them to travel in rows. A perfect chokepoint. The only problem rested in the odds that there was more then one entrance, which meant more then one way out. He had to move in fast, and finish faster.

It was in these situations where Marcus shined, and everyone knew it. He was down the hall in a blast, and a much stronger version of the smell lingering around his nose hit him at the top of the stairs. A much purer smell. Harlequin. Take crack and sulfur, mix it all together, and you might just get a hint of how bad this shit smells. Raw, at least. Refined, and it's like gas: odorless. It was also just as deadly, but in a different way.

The decent towards the lower reaches of the factory was accompanied with a few well aimed bullets, all of them hitting their mark, which was neither Marcus nor Reading Man. The path was littered with dead dealers, but both treated the bodies as nothing, stepping on them just as much as over. The bottom of the stairs opened to the floor of a large factory, filled with workers, most retreating. All the others were armed. Marcus smiled. Gotta love the hard way.

It was easy to recognize the leader among them. He was the only one armed who was running, using his guards as cover. Nice boss, guys. But the men seemed to help him anyway. That was the first time Plant wondered if something bigger was happening. It wasn't the last. Marcus brought his gun up and looked at the coward. Time seemed to slow and the man just seemed to zoom up closer. It now seemed to Marcus that the man was only a few feet away, though he must be at least a hundred and a half. Marcus didn't hear the gunshot as the man fell to the floor. It was fun to see the liquid seep out from his matted black hair. It was fun to see it stain the ground. Marcus smiled wider.

A few men looked back at what happened, and they were the first to fall. Marcus counted twenty men at least, and he had no cover. Neither did they. They were seriously in trouble. It was later claimed by Plant that he took down most of them on his own. Truthfully, he took out half. Right about half. Still, they all went down, and only one of the guards fired a single shot. The guard missed. Badly.

The smell of Harlequin was burning Plant's nostrils, and he couldn't wait to leave. Thinking it was over, he dropped his guns, both empty. He had plenty. He didn't need these two. What he did need was a nice bath. And a raise. And a woman. He knew he was only going to get one of those. Water was plentiful.

That was when he saw Reading Man raise his gun. A man rounded the corner donned fully in protective gear. The newest. The best. A nine couldn't pierce that. A shotgun might be able to, but not from this far. No way anything he had could. Except…

But before Marcus was able to draw his weapon, Reading Man fired a bullet at the man's head, encased in the armor, polychromide plating. It would absorb anything, especially the bullet. As Marcus knew it would, it was stopped clean by the helmet. The man whipped out an assault rifle, a Holstock 12. He had a dead lock on the merc, and unloaded three shots. All were dodged by Reading Man, who quickly rolled to the side. That was when Marcus realized what the Reading Man was. He was a Nano. Reading Man, obviously without any equipment to break through the man's armor, rushed him. If the man had been a second slower, he would have been dead. Before Marcus could grab the gun put down into the deepest corner of his coat, rain of bullets descended upon Reading Man, striking him multiple times.

Plant had his gun in his hand by then, and aimed it. It appeared to be just an exaggerated version of a pistol, with the barrel almost two feet long. There was no trigger. Marcus just gripped it, and the gun, along with Plant's left hand, began to steam. The glove over Marcus' left hand literally burnt away, and suddenly a bullet fired from the steaming machine. It collided with the man's armor and jumped right through. Plant wasn't surprised to see it burst out the other side and collide with a wall, creating an indentation. The Holstock flew from the man's hands as he toppled to the ground. Marcus dropped the gun and looked at his left hand. Completely fine.

He walked over to Reading Man, and looked at him. Miraculously, he was not seriously injured, the bullets hitting his shoulder and arm. As he propped Reading Man up, Marcus' smile faded from one of devilish intent to one of happiness. Normal happiness. Nothing to see here folks. It was over.

Then Reading Man drew his gun. Marcus faced the armored man, somehow still alive, and watched as a pistol was aimed at his chest. Unarmed, he was defenseless, and he knew Reading Man's gun couldn't stop the man now. Still, the devilish smile had returned, and the man screamed, "Stop smiling, you demon! Die!"

A single bullet was fired. It collided with Marcus' left palm, and stopped. There was a silence for a moment. Plant brought his left hand towards himself and looked at it. The bullet rested in it, and a dent in the back of his hand was the only evidence anything had occurred. The man took a step back. "You're a Nano freak too!"

Marcus smiled and closed his hand again. His hand began to heat up immensely, and he could feel the skin begin to peel away. He could see small flames lick up from his hand. It didn't hurt at all. He liked the heat. It was soothing. Then he cocked his hand back, and years of baseball assisted his pitch of the bullet, now just a melting metal ball. It rocketed through the air and collided with the helmet. All that remained afterwards was a searing whole through both the polychromide plate and the man's skull. He wouldn't get up again.

Plant looked down at his hand and saw the skin begin to reform itself, covering up the visible muscle. He walked over to Reading Man, and offered him a hand up. Reading Man took it, and the two gave a brief friendly smile at each other. They did it. They were done. Marcus may love the task, but he also admitted the fact that making it through these missions was definitely an added perk. Still, it was a shame it was done so soon. The Reading Man looked at Marcus.

"That was some impressive shit, kid."

"Sure."

The Reading Man looked back at the carnage.

"I guess you just get good in our line of work."

The Reading Man looked at Marcus' hand, and noticed that all the skin was back. All he could say about it was, "That's a new Nano. I've never seen it before."

Plant shook his head. "It's a prototype. They decided not to mass produce it. It's too dangerous. It's only a weapon. But, you're a Nano too. That should only be available to the LGH, not mercs."

"We aren't your run of the day mercs."

Marcus hungered for truth. He needed to know. "Who are you guys?"

Reading Man's smile vanished. "Leave it alone kid. I'm not allowed to say."

Marcus, fully serious, answered, "Tell me or I'll force it out of you."

Reading Man was serious too. His hand went to his gun, and drew it. Marcus jumped back, and reached for one of his own. Reading Man looked at him, and Marcus knew what was about to happen. Reading Man was adamant about his commitment to his group. When his own bullet ripped through his head, Marcus was aware that this was no ordinary group of mercs. But there was no point in questioning it now.

Marcus, unfazed by what he just witnessed, grabbed a bag of the raw Harlequin and his exaggerated pistol, and then struck a match. He threw the match into the pile of the rest, and the whole stack exploded into fire. Harlequin, addicting and flammable. Smoke at your own risk.

Marcus, in no rush, just slowly made his way up the stairs, thinking about what he should do after this. He didn't feel like heading back to the station. He looked at the pistol resting in his left hand. He didn't dare hold it in his right. The flames were closing in on him, but he wasn't worried. He reached the end of the hallway, and the floor began to crumble behind him. The exit out the main door was accompanied with a rush of heat hitting his fellow LGHs in the face. Plant stopped over by the patrol car, put down the drugs and his gun, and took his coat off. He nonchalantly threw it onto the hood of the car, creating a clang, and looked at the gun. The Odyssey was a success. He grabbed the bag of Hq and the Odyssey, and began his walk down the street. It was only as he turned the corner that he noticed that the rain stopped.

Blood. The lingering smell was of blood. It filled the room. It filled the nostrils. And it ached for more. The warmth oozed out from the hole, and bubbled. It gurgled. And it splashed. The red spread across the white floor, and built up in the corner. And it piled. It began to grow. The blood began to take shape. A tall figure. The formation of toes. Of feet. Legs. A body. Arms. Hands. A Neck. A head. But no face. No, no face.

Mark opened his eyes and saw the smoothness of his ceiling, painted black by night. It was only moments later he smelled the sharp tang of the Harlequin. His eyes began to water. He hated the smell. Always had. But he didn't have anywhere else to put it. The chief was going to be mad, but Plant wasn't in the mood to care. His drum beat in his head, and he brought his hand up to it. As if holding it would help. Still, it felt like it might. And that would be better.

Mark pushed himself up to the sound of a car alarm outside. He barely noticed. His hand went to the curtain near his bed and he drew it aside. He could see a man reaching through the glass of a car across the street. Good for him. Plant saw the nearest door open, and the obvious happened. There was a gun, a bang, Mark winced, and the would-be-carjacker's body was dragged across the sidewalk. Typical fare.

Mark closed the curtains, leaving only the soft light that shone through to illuminate his room. His internal clock's alarm was ringing. It had to be around five. He rubbed his eyes. He hated having two jobs. But he had to. It was part of the deal. Haze still was clouding his mind, and he shook his head. That only increased the drums in his head. He felt warmth drip onto his right hand, resting below his face. He looked down to see blood. A bloody nose. Just great.

Mark shoved his covers aside and put his feet to the floor. Once his weight was relying only on him again, he felt dizzy. It was the Harlequin. It was messing with him. He regained his balance and made his way across the room to the open door. He flicked on the light. Everything was clear instantly. His eyes adjusted immediately. There were definite advantages to being him.

The sink was covered with all sorts of bottles. He grabbed a towel that was hanging off his shower. Still moist. He brought the towel to his nose. He wasn't bleeding much, but it was enough. His mind flashed.

Blood. Watch the blood Marky. Watch the blood. So much blood! Drink it all up!

Plant felt his knees buckle under him and he lost his balance, hanging loosely onto the sink counter. The towel, a red splotch now stained into it, was face up. It was watching him. The blood was watching him. And it had no eyes. No face.

Mark shook his head and closed his eyes. He felt the dripping of blood flowing freer from his nose. He shook. Plant's right hand went up to the leaking faucet and grabbed at the red water. The blood was warm on his fingertips. He brought the fingers up to eye level and looked at it. It was only blood. Only blood.

Mark pushed himself back up, supporting himself on the sink. He looked into the mirror and saw his brown eyes, barren. He never saw anything in his eyes anymore. His brown hair was fine. Flat. No need to waste any time on that. Only a few drops were falling from his nose now, which was painted red. Mark turned and picked up the moist towel again. He turned the faucet and light brown water came from the nozzle. Mountain spring water, just bottled. Yeah right. He put the bloody rag under it and got it even more wet. Once the rag connected with his face, his headache seemed to lessen. To distance itself. The soothing feeling of the cold brownish water put Mark at ease.

When Mark finally removed the towel from his nose, the bleeding had stopped. Good news. He threw the towel into the sink and grabbed the side of the mirror. He pulled it open to reveal his medicine cabinet. His hand glided across a few bottles until he grasped one. Nanamine. The boy then twisted off the top, poured out four pills, and downed them dry. The bottle was put back in the cabinet, and the mirror again faced forward.

Mark grabbed the shaving lotion from his sink counter and lathered himself up. With razor in hand, he began his quick, precise strokes. But his eyes weren't paying attention. They were glancing back at themselves. There was no emotion there anymore. He hated that more than anything. He felt like he was someone. Felt real. But his eyes showed him other wise. His eyes were empty. Holes. Deep holes. And he knew he was one day going to fall in entirely. He looked away.

His face clean, Mark dropped the razor and looked at his toothbrush. No way was he grabbing that. His teeth were better without it. Instead he went straight for floss, still fresh from the disease in the air. The parasites of rot. All he needed was a quick run through. He shut the bathroom door behind him less than a minute later. It didn't creak. He hated those kinds of creaks. The empty kind.

The living room was no more than a chair, a TV, and a door out. The kitchen was only slightly less bare. The two were connected in the middle by a pathetic example of a dining room. It was a table and two chairs. In case he had a guest. The second chair had never been used. All together, the small apartment managed to combine all three into mostly one room. He never would have known the difference if not for the tile to carpet contrast. Well, what was left of the carpet. The last tenant seemed adamant about taking as much as he could with him.

Purring came from around the kitchen counter, and a ball of well-kept fur meandered around the corner, stretching. The cat stopped, looked up at its owner, and licked its paw. Once. Then it made its way over to its food dish and smacked it. Mark rolled his empty eyes.

"Give me a minute, Zio. I know."

Mark grabbed a bowl out from the nearest cabinet. And a random box of cereal resting on his counter. Whatever. Mark never paid attention to food anymore. He just ate. He looked down at the bowl, shrugged, left the bowl on the counter, and just poured some cereal into his mouth. No point in wasting a nearly-fresh bowl. Nearly. His dishwasher broke two months ago. He hadn't bothered to call anyone. As if anyone would answer. He had the only working phone he knew of. No one bothered calling anyone else. If you ran into someone on the street, you did one of two things. You walked by, or mugged them. More people had been picking the latter lately. It didn't affect him. Why care?

Mark, done with his food, opened the cabinet under the kitchen sink and grabbed the cat food. He also opened the fridge and grabbed the filter, filled with fresh water. He wasn't going to give Zio faucet water. He actually wanted his cat to live. He walked around the counter and began to pour the food. The cat didn't even wait for Mark to stop before it began eating; a few pieces bounced off his head and rolled across the tile. The water was next. With both containers back in there respective spots, Mark grabbed a bottled water and shut the refrigerator door. It slammed.

Mark went back into his bedroom and grabbed the bag of Hq. It reeked, Mark began to wonder if he would get another nosebleed. Raw, this stuff was a bitch. He should have just stopped by the station earlier this morning. Too late now. Marcus grabbed his watch, an old baseball hat, and his wallet and headed out. Before he locked the door, he took one glance back at Zio. He was a good cat.

Mark walked down the flight of stairs and turned the corner, pushing the gate open. He found himself in a back alley. He took a few steps to his right and grabbed the handle to his garage. He pulled it up. It didn't matter if he locked it. No one was going to steal his car. He was sure of that. That's not to say no one tried. He liked his car. That's all that needed to be said. No one was going to steal his car.

The car was red. That's all that Mark noticed when he had stolen it seven years ago. And it still purred like a dying kitten. He was twelve. He didn't know the difference between cars. But his favorite color had been red. So he broke in and drove it away. No one came. Looking back, he got lucky. Real lucky. Even with the darkness of night, he saw his way through the garage and unplugged the car. Electricity. God's fuel. Plant opened the door to his car, put his hand under his seat, felt the pistol, and turned on the car. Never hurts to be careful.

His 43' Ixion roared to life, and he put it into reverse. It backed out of the garage and he turned the wheel sharply. He pressed the button under his wheel, and the garage door shut behind him. Then he drove off. He flicked his radio on, and cycled through frequencies. No one even knew what was going to be on when, so people never set favorites. It's just what you settled on that day. He found a nice rock station. Oldies. The good stuff. Back when people made music.

The rock was pumping through his speakers, the Hq headache was as strong as ever, and he didn't give a damn. His eyes were on the road, and he noticed neither. When he was on the road, he could do that. Just focus on something. On nothing. And he needed that. Especially now. It had been eight years from today.

Drink the blood. Drink it all. It's good for you, Marky. It'll make you good and strong. Don't worry; you'll be just like your daddy if you drink his blood.

The road. Focus on the nothingness of the road. It wasn't working. It had always worked before. Why now? Mark didn't notice the revival of the blood leaking from his nose. He was focusing on driving. He was focusing on nothing. Clear the mind.

Drink, Marky.

He heard nothing. No. He tried to hear nothing. Why wouldn't it work? The hum of the engine wasn't enough. The nothingness of the road. The voice. He heard the voice. It burned. It burned like Harlequin. It burned of Harlequin. And he hated Harlequin. He hated the burn. The voice. The blood.

Mark, just like with his nose, hadn't noticed that he had blazed through three red lights at around ninety miles per hour. Not bad for a psycho. He was gone. What brought him back was the siren. Cops. What jokes. They weren't cops anymore. Mark wasn't even sure what cops really were, ever. He was too young. The siren was aggravating his headache. It cut through the music. He didn't want to deal with this. He reached under his seat, grabbed the pistol, and turned his shoulder.

Marcus rolled down his window. The morning wind felt nice against his face. But that wasn't what was on his mind. He pulled the gun out the window, glanced backwards again, and fired. The bullet collided with the car's front left tire, and the car spun out of control into a wall, front first. He's fine. Marcus smiled.

Mark shook his head. No! What was he doing!? He threw the gun back under his seat. He just killed someone for no reason. Why!? That's when Mark consciously noticed how fast he was going. He slowed. Fast. He knew he was losing himself. And the blood dripped again onto his white shirt. He didn't notice the shirt until he parked in the lot of the Musk Rat.

"Shit!"

He spit onto a napkin he grabbed from his glove compartment, and rubbed it on his shirt. It wasn't coming off. There wasn't anything he could do about it. Instead he kept the napkin to his nose and left the car, locking it behind him. He opened the front door with his key, and discovered himself to be the first one in. He walked into the back and grabbed his outfit. Then he made his way to the restaurant and began to putting down chairs. By the time there was only two chair left, the door opened. A man walked in and noticed Mark working. "Got here early, hey Marky-boy?"

Drink, Marky.

Mark hesitated. Ignore the voice. It goes away. It always goes away. "Uh, I'm fine John."

John looked at Mark curiously.

"Whatever, man."

John disappeared into the back. Mark pulled down the last chair, tucked it under the table, and called it a day. He walked back behind the bar, found a box of tissues, and put one in each nostril. Stop, you stupid nose.

John showed back up in his work clothes, and laughed at Mark.

"Bloody nose, huh? You look stupid, kid. And I say that as a friend."

Mark pulled out the tissues, and figured the blood must have stopped by now. He kicked open the trash and dropped them in. He left the trash open just in case. Mark thought about what John said. A friend. Were they really friends? Mark wasn't sure. He liked John, sure. But he didn't really trust him. Big surprise there. Mark realized he hadn't trusted much of anyone in years. He trusted Zio. But that didn't really count. The cat wasn't going to do anything.

"I'll make sure to avoid putting tissues in my nose from now on, then. Thanks for the advice."

Mark liked John, sure. Easy come, easy go. No reason not to, right? Right. Well, almost right. It was what John liked to call him. Marky.

Drink the blood Marky.

It reminded him of the voice. Hq. Blood. But John didn't know. And the voice wasn't real. Not anymore. Not for eight years. But it was still around. Still watching. Speaking. Prying.

I'm always here Marky. Drink the blood Marky. Wash your face in the blood Marky. Live in the blood Marky. Blood's in the water. Blood's in the sky.

Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up! Why wouldn't it leave? It had to be the Harlequin. Why didn't Marcus… why didn't he just take it back to the station? He hated the burn. He hated the Harlequin. And the burn was following him. It was a love-hate relationship. It couldn't stay away. It was drawn to him. It always had been. Just like the blood. The faceless blood. The faceless screaming blood. It always…

"I said are you okay?"

Mark regained his mind. He had lost himself again. "I'm okay John. I'm just thinking."

"Well think later, kid. We have work to do. Hustle to it, Marky!"

Nothing. The voice was gone. Thank god. Mark looked up at John and nodded. As he slipped past John, there was a small whisper, not consciously heard by Mark. But he heard it, sure enough. He couldn't escape it.

Happy birthday, Marky.

The light bulb flickered and died. Shit. Mark looked around and only noticed a few people left in the restaurant at the time. It was near closing time, but he wasn't going to deal with the bulb tomorrow. It's not as if he was doing anything else. Mark grabbed the nearest chair and dragged it underneath the bulb. He stood up on the chair and touched it with his right hand. He recoiled his hand in surprise. It burned. Who cares? He used his left and unscrewed it. It wasn't even hot in his left hand. He barely noticed. He looked across the room and saw a trashcan on the other side of two tables. He goes for the three-pointer. He shoots. The bulb smashed against the inside of the can and shattered inside. He scores.

"That would have been a real mess if you had missed, Mark."

John was behind the bar. He had been watching the whole thing. Mark was pushing the chair back in when he replied, "I didn't, though. Never do."

Mark sat down on a barstool and his eyes glanced across the liquor. None of it looked good right now. Never usually did. John followed Mark's eyes. "You want something, kid?"

Mark glanced down at the bar and slowly rapped his knuckles against the wood.

"Nah. Not in the mood."

"Come on, kid. It's your birthday, ain't it?"

Drink.

"Yeah. I'm nineteen today."

John turned around and grabbed a shot glass. He grabbed a bottle, Mark didn't see which one. Like it mattered. It never mattered.

"So celebrate! It's a happy day!"

Mark wasn't hearing the voice anymore. He was blocking it out. But he remembered it. It was his birthday. Why did everyone seem to know?

"I don't really celebrate on my birthday. It isn't a happy day."

John shrugged, but poured the drink into the glass anyway.

"Well then, how about for a day well done."

Mark looked at the glass. The yellowish liquid was still rocking in it, freshly poured. It looked like someone had taken a piss in it. And Mark tried to keep himself from drinking piss. He always thought that was a pretty smart move. Just his opinion. Still, why not? He grabbed the glass.

"There ya go, kid."

The liquor burned going down his throat. It felt good. He slammed the glass onto the bar. Mark closed his eyes and listened all around him. He heard a mumbled conversation. The word "towel" showed up a few times. Real great conversation, there. Prime example of a romantic night. As if people even knew how to be romantic.

"Thanks for that, John. It helped."

"Always does."

John reached for the glass and put it away. He turned around and seemed to smell something in the air. He kept seeming to sniff as he asked, "You been doin Harlequin, Mark? I keep smelling it when you're around."

Mark knew the smell was still following him. It had lingered. It was waiting. And he really wasn't looking forward to returning to his Ixion. It was going to reek of the shit. He made himself a mental note to roll down the window once he got in. As if he would forget.

"No. It's a long story."

John put his hand on Mark's shoulder and the two locked eyes. John was the only person who never shuddered when he looked in Mark's eyes. Everyone could see there was nothing there.

"It's none of my business, I know, but you shouldn't do it, kid. The stuff'll kill ya. Well, so will the air and water, but there's nothing we can do 'bout that. Let us sell it across the world. Get us some money. But stay the hell away from the stuff."

Mark turned away. He knew all that. Harlequin was, at least for now, a necessary evil. There was no way around it. But he hated it. He wished it would all just disappear. That always made his job harder.

"Still, you smell of it. Want a cig? It'll get rid of the smell."

Mark looked up.

"I don't smoke."

John shrugged. The towel couple showed up near the register. Mark turned around and slipped behind it. They paid up and hustled out. They could smell it. He could smell it. The bar was gonna stink of it soon. John walked around and opened the door for the customers. They walked out without a thank-you or even a confirmation of his existence. Nice folks.

"Real nice folks, there. People could show us respect. At least show us something. People lost all respect. They used to be nicer. Kinder."

Mark knew that John was old enough to know about before. He had to be around fifty. Mark heard enough stories from John about how the people in the world used to show respect. Gave each other the time-of-day. Mark wished he knew what that was really like. He never had.

That was when the beeper went off. It was early today. Mark looked down at it. The same number as always.

"You gotta go again, kid?"

Mark didn't answer. Not with words, anyways. But he did begin to throw off the outfit when he made his way into the back room. Everyone had gotten used to his sudden exits. They all knew of his infamous beeper. But he was a good worker. And they weren't going to find someone else. So they let him be. Needless to say, he rarely ever was at the restaurant until it closed.

Mark left the back room with his outfit off. He was back in his street clothes, dried blood on his shirt. He didn't care right now. He was no-nonsense. He knew what he had to do. And no one was going to stop him. They knew better.

"You sure you don't want a smoke?"

"I don't smoke!"

The door was shutting by the time he was done with the sentence. The air was brown in the daylight. If you could even call it that. At city level, you never saw the sun. It was only just beyond reach. He had only seen the sun twice in his entire life. He rounded the Ixion, a rusty color in the "sunlight." Still, the more he looked at it, it didn't look so rusty. It began to seem to look

Blood, Marky. Blood.

Blood red.

Mark opened the door

and Marcus sat down in the seat. He reached into the glove compartment and grabbed a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and lit it up. He loved the feeling. It put him at ease. Marcus turned the car on, feeling its hum. He revved it a few times. He craved the power behind it. It may be old, but it purred. Like a dying kitten. And he loved it. He ignored the burn of the Harlequin. He kept the window up. And he put the car in reverse.

Drink the blood, Marky. It does a body good. Real good.

"Shut up. He can't hear you."

It did.