Geist, p.2
Geist, page 2
Victor looked away. “I’m coming to terms with this.”
“More than before,” the Impresario said. “Although perhaps not as much as you’d like to believe.” He shuffled a deck of tarot cards. Not even the Music of the Spheres played on the stage. “All journeys have their roads. You have passed but a few thresholds.”
“Denying my own potential won’t help anything.” Victor stared at the masks along the wall and sighed. “What do the arcana say this time? More portents of doom?”
The cinema’s projector flickered to life, casting the image of Victor’s soul on the screen—his geist. All rabbit-eared and carnival masked, Dante’s coattails fluttered. Lowering its halberd, it gazed back at its “other-self,” solemn yet ready for battle.
“However did you guess?” the Impresario chuckled, drawing a card with a wave of a gloved hand. “While you have chosen the long road, you may find it worthwhile.”
Victor’s eyes fell upon one of the Major Arcana. “The Lovers,” he commented. “How fitting.”
“Indeed,” the Impresario said. “Your bond with the woman is an anchor of sanity in these desperate times. The two of you are intertwined, and intimately so, might I add.”
“Are you allergic to being straightforward?” Victor scoffed. “Still, that’s a little comforting. What is her role in all this? I mean, what is she exactly?”
“Your beloved’s nature is distorted by the Music of the Spheres and her industrial origins. However, I suspect she is nonetheless a key piece in the cosmic scheme of things.”
“About the response I expected,” Victor muttered.
“Beware, though,” the Impresario said. “I sense a great threat brewing, drawing ever nearer, as the coming storm.” A church bell echoed in the distance, and Victor felt himself waking, drifting back to Holy Gothica. “Till we meet again….”
#
A month had passed since the dreadful battle against Ingrid. The Serfdoms were still recovering, and security was tighter than ever—except in Yoshiwara. The red-light district was only damper than usual. Black rain fell in torrents from the pipeworks overhead as Victor leaned against a metal umbrella, snacking on a bowl of spicy yakisoba.
He was a stranger in Holy Gothica, though he was growing accustomed to it.
Victor’s tattered coattails drooped over his back, boots worn from his many misadventures. His face was pale, and his mind was always elsewhere, listening to the solemn peddler on the corner, playing his erhu with care. A passerby tossed a copper into his clay bowl. Crimson paper lanterns swayed in a haze of opium smoke and perpetual twilight, and rivulets of sewage ran through rusty grates as the homeless gathered around dying fires.
Meanwhile, loudspeakers spouted the daily propaganda.
“By order of our Holy Pontiff and Empress,” an automated voice said, “the Imperial Senate has passed the Banquet Act. Effectively immediately, the Imperial Ministry of Agriculture will begin the collectivization of all farmland in the Protectorate of Seidenberg. Ration cards will also be reinstated in the Holy Land of Golgotha, including the Imperial City. These measures are to shield the populace from the heretic and terrorist.”
Better than another murder being reported….
Victor rolled his eyes. Here, in bittersweet destitution, he’d found his “home.” Or at least, the closest thing he had to one. Indeed, Victor was more than attached to this particular slum, where the street food was savory and cheap. Meanwhile, Charles and Beatrice ordered takeout from the yatai carts, making do with the misery they all shared.
Friends from the Waking World….
“Yeah, large bowl,” Charles said, pulling his silver hair back into a ponytail as a spliff fell from his pocket. “Out of noodles? Just the salmon then—hang on.” He sniffed, squinting through his tea shades. “What comes with the munchie meal?”
As Victor watched the streetlights pulse, Beatrice sat beside him. Her hair was gelled and cut short, that blue streak all but faded. Dressed in a biker jacket and combat boots, she held a sushi burrito wrapped in tin foil, trying to smile. “You seem to be doing a little better.”
“Yeah,” Victor replied. “Just in my head.”
Charles shambled over, slurping the sashimi like a starving college student. “So,” he said, “what’s our game plan? We’ve been dicking around for a good month.”
“Drawing a blank.” Victor shrugged.
“Sounds like time for a round or—”
“A round.” Beatrice sighed. “Easy on the crossfading. I’m not covering your hippy ass like that two nights in a row. Never thought I’d have to babysit you two.”
“Anyway,” Charles said. “What about the Dollmaker?”
The mood grew dour—Victor’s eyes fell upon the cobblestone road, fiddling with his chopsticks. A burst of diesel fumes tossed his unwashed hair.
“What?” Charles turned to his friends. “I’m just sayin’, we might wanna get on that. No one’s died since Ingrid, but that doesn’t mean it’s over.”
“True,” Beatrice said. “Thaddeus’s credit card can’t last us forever either. Wouldn’t surprise me if the Inquisition caught onto us. ‘Gratuitous spending,’ or some shit.”
With that Victor stood, cracking his spine. “Should we head back and discuss this further? Deductions and all that? Might be useful.”
“Sure,” Charles added. “Bring Beatrice a little more up to speed.”
#
In the safety of the Sunset Pagoda, Victor came to the billiard room, staring at the coin-op machines along the wall; eight-bit graphics cabled with ducts and pipes. Meanwhile, Charles and Beatrice talked together, passing the pitcher back and forth. As they tried to explain recent happenings, Victor saw and skimmed an underground article on the corner table.
LEPROSY RATE DROPS DRAMATICALLY
For the first time since the outbreak four years ago, the Plague of Johanna is beginning to subside, as seen with the recovery of many lepers. Alchemilla-manufactured treatments, previously regarded as useless, have significantly aided in the death rate’s decline. Moreover, the Imperial Ministry of Research and Development is requiring all citizens to undergo vaccination. In light of the devastating riots in Aprilis, the quarantine zones of Serfdom Four are being “cleared out,” according to an official statement by the Stormtrooper Corps. Regardless, the epidemic may be coming to an end.
Victor was familiar with such terminology and tried not to dwell on what “clearing out” entailed. Regardless, the Director of Pestilence was loosening its grip on the minds of the masses. He remembered the great struggle that had ensued and his triumph against “leprosy” itself. And yet, he knew the Director still lurked in everyone’s minds. Like the Imperium it ravaged. Atrophy and decay were not evils that could be defeated so easily.
“So,” Charles said, “about the killer.”
“He throws people into the TVs,” Beatrice said. “On the other side, there’s some kind of underworld of Jungian bullshit, made of repressed emotions, where ‘shadows’ gather. But for the poor bastards who get trapped, their own daemons take center stage.”
Charles raised his glass. “And it gets scary. Fast.”
“You’re telling me,” Beatrice said. “What was yours like?”
“Think John Lennon meets Pennywise, but twice the teeth.” Charles shuddered. “I mean, I get the symbolism, but the way it looked was just wrong.”
“And you’ve seen mine….”
Charles grinned. “Weirder than an afterparty on pride month.”
“Shut up.” Beatrice stifled a chuckle. “What was yours like, Victor? My bet’s still on a really angry pianist, nineteenth-century style, like that one muppet….” She turned to the stoner. “Hey, you’re old. What’s his name again?”
“Don Music,” Charles snorted. “Yeah, that’d be pretty accurate.”
“Huh?” Victor didn’t catch on at first. “Oh, I didn’t have one. Sorry?”
“Wait, really?” Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never had that happen?”
“Nah,” Charles interjected. “Like it or not, kid got his powers scot-free. No self-inflicted hell or trauma made manifest.” He shot Victor a faux-glare. “Lucky son of a bitch.”
Victor stifled a laugh and pulled up a chair. A breeze wafted from an open window, almost snuffing out the candlelight. Tonight’s bouncer leaned against the wall, checking his pocket watch. It was a slow shift, but there was a lingering sense of dread.
“For real, though.” Beatrice looked away. “Who could be the killer?”
“I have no clue,” Charles said. “But isn’t that why we’re talking?”
Victor nodded. “We don’t have any leads or help. The only reason we were able to save people was the Inquisition. Still, you remember what happened with Ingrid when she got possessed by the Director. Maybe there are more of them. Daemons like that, I mean.”
An uneasy silence passed until Charles spoke up. “Something about being ‘our pestilence incarnate.’ I don’t quite get it, but we can’t ignore it.”
“A god born of man,” Beatrice said. “Makes sense, given what the Inferno is.”
Victor looked away. “And we didn’t exactly kill it.”
“Well,” Charles yawned, “staying up past two won’t get us anywhere. Let’s call it a night for now. Regroup in the morning and all that. We’ll figure it out.”
Though his friends dragged their heels up the stairs, Victor lingered.
I doubt this is remotely over.
#
Victor couldn’t sleep that night. He sat in the bordello’s library, a tin mug of beer in his lap, running his fingers through his matted hair. Against the table rested his sword and staff, once belonging to Thaddeus. A wave of sorrow washed over him.
“You’re up late,” a feminine voice called.
Victor turned, seeing Yuko step down the stairs. She was a woman of rivets and stitches, dressed in a peacoat and thigh-high boots. With flowing red hair and ivory skin, she was a patchwork temptress, eyes glimmering with fluorescent intelligence.
“H…hey,” Victor stuttered. “How’s it going?”
Yuko sat down. “Fine. You doing okay?”
Victor raised the mug to his lips. “Just thinking about how to solve this.” His eyes wandered to the tattoo on her shoulder: a silk moth emerging from its cocoon. “Have you heard anything else? About the Dollmaker? I mean, you’re better acquainted with this neighborhood than I am.” He managed a smile. “Also, I like the new tattoo.”
“I’ve always had this one.” Yuko paused as if trying to retrace her train of thought. “Anyway, if I knew, the bastard would’ve been arrested months ago. In the meantime, I’ve been meaning to ask you something, so please, be honest with me.”
“I don’t like where this is going,” Victor admitted.
“Well, have you…?” Yuko glanced away and bit her lip. “Have you ever dated a girl like me before? You know my profession and what that entails.”
“Sure,” Victor managed. “I’ve, you know, dabbled.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he lied, inching closer. “I…I’ve thought about it. The prospect of an open relationship. Kind of romantic, in a freedom-based respect, and—”
“Victor,” Yuko interrupted. “This isn’t something to fuck around with. I like you, but I want you to know before we continue that I am a prostitute. I do sleep with other people. A lot of men aren’t okay with that. I’d still be with you, but my body is my own.”
Victor’s reason was numbed by anxiety.
Yuko, her allure, her kindness; she’d dragged him out of that suicidal quagmire a month ago. His mind was ripped apart by sheer dissonance. He knew this would be a disaster, that he was young and stupid. He knew it would end in heartbreak, passing out drunk outside the Sunset Pagoda, Charles carrying him back to the room, sobbing—
“Take your time.” Yuko lay a hand on his knee.
Victor shuddered, eyes falling on loose threads along her fingertips. Yuko was the Magdalene of the slums. The only one to truly understand him. Such infatuation was enough to overcome worry and fear of the emotional unknown.
“I can c…cope.” Victor stuttered, looking her in the eye. After all, eyes were windows into the soul. Although he preferred to keep his soul to himself—this time—Victor would compromise every ounce of his introversion. “Then it’s settled?”
“Yeah.” Yuko’s smile returned, planting a deep kiss on his chapped lips. “Let’s go upstairs,” she whispered in his ear. “I got some new kinks I want to try on you.”
Victor’s face turned beet red—it was going to be a good night.
#
Dawn light pierced the Iron Sky, its rays distorted by toxic air and fumes, veiling the city in a sickly yellow glow. The soba shacks were still closed; not even the beggars were awake yet, as only machines operated this early. Recharged, Yuko went for a daily stroll, wandering down the usual alleys, though her thoughts drifted to unexpected places.
What am I doing with this kid?
Victor was a sweetheart, sure, but she’d seen his type. Sheltered yet talented boys thrust into the depths of the real world, left to sink or swim based on their improv skills. Charming, sure. But every time the next-generation bourgeois saw a way out, they took it, leaving her behind. Such wounds could be hidden but never healed.
Victor might be different, though.
Yuko cringed and pulled herself back. He was only honest because his problem was far worse. Homesick students always had a mommy to pick them up, but Victor was trapped in a nightmare with no way out. However, if he found a way home, Victor would take it. She’d be back to square one—a used whore, left to rot in the shadow of his success.
Yuko almost accepted that.
Just then, the wires above sizzled and sparked. Her eyes darted upward. Smoke wafted from a nearby telephone pole until it burst into noxious flames, blinding her for a moment.
W-what the—?
When vision returned, Yuko gawked in horror. Tangled in cables was a corpse impaled on the pole. A porcelain mask was stitched to her face, body covered in puncture wounds, like all the others. Yuko recognized her all too well.
“S…Sally?” she choked. “Oh, God!”
Yuko was fixated on the broken remains. Scraps of a can-can skirt fluttered in the exhaust. She quivered with shock, unable to turn away. In the end, what could she do?
The Inquisition couldn’t care less about us.
Regardless, Yuko tried to stay calm, watching the flames die. She would mourn Sally in her own way, as would the rest of the sisterhood. The smog thickened—Yuko walked back to the Pagoda’s doorstep, further conditioned to accept her lot in life and what came with it.
The Dollmaker…he’s still out there.
CHAPTER THREE
Victor stared at the liquor-stained counter, listening to the rainfall, safe from its acrid stench. His friends had picked a poor time to get some air. The Sunset Pagoda was quiet in the morning as off-duty bouncers lounged in the library. Victor scribbled his music on spare napkins, listening to the piano man play his melodies as he always did—poorly and offkey.
“That bad, huh?” the bartender asked.
He’d served Victor countless times. A bald figure with a handlebar mustache, his biceps rippled beneath his buttoned shirt as he polished one of fifty-two “membership mugs.”
Victor glanced at his empty glass. “I’ll take one more.”
“Got you,” the bartender nodded. “On the house.”
“Really? I have money.”
“Please,” the bartender scoffed. “You’ve been coming to my dive for how long?”
“Good question. Honestly, I can’t remember,” Victor said.
The bartender refilled his pint. “Face it, you’re a regular at this rate.”
Victor wasn’t sure how to react. “Thanks?”
“You’re welcome.” The bartender leaned on the counter. “What you’re doing, though? You come in here every night. Writing up a goddamn storm. Brushing off the girls, even.”
“I…I’m a composer. Or, I was.” Victor stared at the failed nocturne. “I haven’t written anything worthwhile since I descended here.”
“Artist’s block?”
“Something like that.”
“Well,” the bartender said, polishing another mug, “my little brother’s something of a guitarist, and he told me, ‘art ain’t shit without humanity.’ Yeah, you can write good lyrics or whatever, but if there’s nothing human about it, no one’s gonna give a rat’s ass.
Victor bit his lip; he’d heard this before.
“You’ve got friends,” the bartender continued. “I’ve seen ‘em. Maybe get out a little more. A change of scenery wouldn’t kill you. Who knows, you might accidentally have fun. Edgar’s launching a new attraction on the fringe of Yoshiwara. We’re running a show on its second night. Might be more your speed. He’s calling it ‘Xanadu.’”
“I see,” Victor said. “What else do you know?”
“Yuko’s the female lead.” The bartender winked. “Taking a day off from practice, though. Wouldn’t say why. I guess even machines need rest. Maintenance? I didn’t ask.”
“Is she all right?” Victor asked.
“She’s fine. Yuko’s stronger than anyone on the security staff. Hell, she broke Ned’s arm.” The bartender chuckled as if reliving that memory. “Anyway, he doesn’t work here anymore. The arcade, though? Casinos and cotton candy, plus expos of weird tech. Don’t know how Edgar got ahold of that. Some of Murdoch’s prototypes, according to the hookah crew.”
Victor’s eyes widened. “As in Doctor Murdoch?”
“If you buy into that slander, sure.”
