Some 60 years ago, back in a relatively simple world that was only starting to be touched with the stratification of modern technology, there was a little house in a little town called Magnolia where a little girl named Mary lived with her little family.
Strictly speaking, the house wasn’t in Magnolia. It was nestled in the dusty roadside corner of a patch of farmland about three miles northwest. An hour and a half east of the city by motor carriage, there was little here to mar the gentle peace that defined each day.
Too isolated even to have anyone her age to call friends, Mary never really thought of “the unincorporated community of Magnolia” as her home. Holden was the nearest town of any respectable size, and she only went with her mama and papa for church, or a couple other times a year for farming supplies. To her, the world was an endless stretch of dirt road, and her house was a castle. Home was towering rows of sweetcorn in the humid summer, else the gently bobbing heads of winter wheat.
This was the Cornwell residence. Homely in the American sense, it was modest and had been quite affordable: at that time it was new, built from a catalog lumber kit shipped straight to the property from some business called Sears. The one bedroom and living room area were cozy during the winter, and a screened back patio saw liberal use in the summer, getting as much out of the breeze as they could.
Her papa worked hard, by all reckoning a good and honest man, and Mary loved him very much. Her mama didn’t work, but Mary loved her just as much. Practically every moment not at the schoolhouse was at home, spending time with her dear ma. They would talk about the world and read a few tattered books together, basking in the fading glow of the setting sun on the porch as life buzzed and crawled and slithered and hummed around them. Whippoorwills and jaybirds and cicadas and crickets all serenaded them as dusk deepened. When her papa came in, all dirty and sweaty from working their own fields and the fields of their neighbors, he and her mama would tuck Mary in for bed, kissing her forehead, crooning “I love you”s as they went to their own room.
This was much of her first five or six years. Naturally, her papa got angry sometimes, but almost never in a scary way. One summer she overheard him cussing at the backhoe because it was having trouble breaking through some roots in the fallow dirt. It scared her mightily so that she hid on the other side of the patio from him, but her papa saw and came up to her. His eyes full of sadness, he said sorry to her, ‘fore it’s bad to curse in front of the Lord like that. God doesn’t take kindly to people who spit and cuss and holler and all the other obscenities people can get up to.
She vaguely knew this already. Each Sunday they woke up early to go the long way by buggy to the Presbyterian church in Holden. It was one of her favorite times every week, seeing the sharply angled tile roof and the tall steeple with its lovely iron bell (she imagined it was iron, though she couldn’t know because the belfry it was housed in was totally enclosed). It was easily the biggest building she knew of, looming magnificent and sanctified above the viridian oak and maple trees strung all along the town roads.
She always prayed earnestly to God with the rest of the congregation, lifting her big curious eyes up to the arched ceiling and wondering if He was watching them at that very moment. His goodliness made her smile, her spirit was buoyed on hymns, carried on the voices of a hundred folk who all sought His grace. She believed wholeheartedly what the minister extolled to them on all manner of subjects, both sinful and righteous.
So she knew cussing was bad, and she knew her papa shouldn’t have gotten mad, but she also knew God forgave those who occasionally strayed from Him, so surely she could forgive her papa too.
Her mama never cursed, but with anyone ‘cept her husband and daughter she was a frightful woman. Even when Mary was young, her mama had always hated to be separated from either of them. There were little gestures every now and then: an occasional flicker of the eyes, standing up and sitting down repeatedly when she was excited, checking outside through the window drapes, biting her nails. These nervous habits stood out to Mary, but knowing so few people as she did, she had little to compare with.
What did stand out was mama bursting into tears one day as her father was out working. There was no reason for it, but it was different, and it was scary. By the time papa came home, her mom had calmed down, but a doctor was called just in case. There was only one who lived near enough for house calls: a bald, bespectacled runt of a man with a bushy beard as big as his head. After a couple hours of questions and examinations with fancy steel instruments that Mary had never seen before, the man proclaimed that her mama had “acute paranoid hysteria.”
Mary did not know what these words meant. She only knew her mother was nervous and scared, and that made her sad, and a little scared too. Those habits she already knew seemed to grow in intensity, with bags under her mama’s eyes and the occasional spot of blood where she chewed her fingernails a little too hard, the shaking in her arms when she gripped the drapes.
The next time Mary went to church, she asked God what she could do to help her mama. She waited patiently for an answer, not so naïve as to think that she would get one immediately. She turned her head towards the stained glass window that bore the face of her Savior in profile, His own hands raised in prayer of their own as a wheel of rich, beautiful colors encircled Him.
As much as she enjoyed it, church confused her often. Jesus Christ was called many things: He was both part of God and the Beloved Son of God. He was the King of Kings. He was the Light of the World, and the Redeemer… a lot of things for one person to be, she thought idly. A lot of lofty-sounding titles.
There was one she had heard only once in passing which stuck out. A reference to Him as the Lamb and the Lion.
She mulled over that name as she looked up at Him in supplication, thinking of her poor mama who, even in the safety of this holy place, Mary could tell was fearful. Fearful of what , she could not understand, but her mama was fearful nonetheless.
Her neighbors had cows and chickens and goats and sheep aplenty, among other things. She had once watched her papa help a friend deliver a newborn lamb, so still and calm after plopping onto the dry grass that she thought it must be stillborn… but after some seconds it flicked its ears still moist in its mother’s water, and it raised a tired head up to look around.
She remembered the distant thought even now: here is a creature, gentle of God.
And her mama had read to her of lions, living in a place so far away she couldn’t even conceive of the distance. Fearsome and proud, masters of their domain, the only word that could come to mind was “strong.”
Gentle, but strong. She washed herself in the light of her Lord, both of them seeking answers from someone greater than themselves.
God never did answer her directly, but that was fine. Her conviction grew after church ended and they headed home, their buggy trundling bumpily on the dirt road back.
Thereafter she took a more active role in helping her mama out, distracting her when she grew nervous or upset, getting her attention and keeping her in the moment. A silly face or noises, a reminder that they had chores to do, little tricks here and there. For a while it even worked, and whenever she saw her mama lift her face and burst with laughter and a smile to dispel the nervousness, their love grew.
Then came one evening in the fall of her tenth year. A blustery and cloudy day, her papa prepared to go to town to get his stock of seeds for the coming season.
She liked these days least of all. They would be separated all day, even more if he was caught up in town and had to spend the night with a friend. Her mama’s usual lamentations reached a fever pitch, turned into the gibbering and shaking that betrayed one of her more intense episodes.
Mama didn’t want him to go. She spoke of accidents, the horse gone mad and throwing him, breaking his leg so as to cause him to die in the roadside ditch all alone. She cried and talked of unwanted guests, intruders who might seek to harm his poor defenseless wife and daughter.
It couldn’t be helped, he said. Their welfare depended on their crops, and they could not afford delays. He consoled her longer than he should have, the sun climbing higher and becoming obscured by the autumn clouds.
Finally, after some silent consideration, he went into their room and retrieved his double-barreled shotgun.
Immaculately oiled and cared for, he told her to keep this at her side, but only to use it if she was sure she needed it. She clutched it to her chest like her own child, promised she would be okay until he came back. Mary watched her father depart with a forlorn wave. It was well past noon now; he would not be coming home that night.
Her mama cried and cried and cried, more than she had ever cried before. Tears stained her face, her blouse, the furniture she draped herself over as she heaved up and down with the force of her wails. Mary watched in increasing consternation, her usual methods for providing distraction or reprieve failing utterly. Her mood began to darken with the sky outside, despair gnarling its way into her heart. They just had to last until the morning she kept telling her mama, and herself.
It began to rain, unnaturally cold and hard for the ides of September. A fell wind started up, clattering the door and sending her mama into a fit of howling. The noise crashed in Mary’s ears and for the first time she felt something awful deep in her chest. Not simple fear nor sadness or despair, for the first time she felt the sickness of scorn.
Why was her mama so upset? Why couldn’t she be calm and wait for papa to come back? The storm was loud and frightening but it wasn’t that bad, they had weathered plenty before this one. She grappled with the deepening of her newfound loathing when
suddenly
there was a bang at the door.
Her mama screamed, a whistling screech that cut high above the wind and the rain. Before Mary could reassure her that it was just the door rattling in the gale, the banging came again, more than one, rapid and hurried. For a few seconds her mama was paralyzed, staring at the door from which this invasive noise came.
A glaze came over her eyes then, and with her hands which suddenly were deathly still she picked up the shotgun. In one swift motion she ticked the safety off, aimed… Mary felt a
BANG
In her chest as her mama fired so much shot through the door.
The country house was for an instant filled with light and smoke and sulfurous fumes. Mary saw her mama’s face lined in staccato shadows, wild and crazed, madness etched in her eyes and cheeks and the grimace of her lips. The flash of light was caught in little beadlets of sweat that dotted her forehead and rolled down her cheeks, in the spittle that sprayed from between her bared teeth.
Far too late Mary clapped her hands over her ears, suddenly lanced by a pained ringing. She groped for her mother, flashblinded by the solitary discharge. They found each other, and as the wind and rain pitched up another notch they cried together in fear of what could be at the door.
Haltering, slowly, they stood up, still clinging to one another as they stumbled towards the door now bedecked with holes. Far-off lightning flashed through them, giving split-second glimpses of the pouring rain outside. Cold began to seep in.
Mary reached for the handle first, fumbling it as she realized she was shaking now too. She could barely keep a hold of the door handle she was quaking so hard, it reminded her of when she had almost died of fever. She couldn’t help shivering against the touch of the chill air which forced its way in and fondled their skin, making their flesh prickle up in goosebumps. It could only have been a few seconds but the time it took for her to turn the handle seemed to stretch as long as the road outside.
But eventually the road and the moment both end anyway, and as the door squealed on its unoiled hinges, another burst of forking lightning illuminated the porch steps so that she saw her papa on his back, his blood pouring out of his chest and mixing with the rain.
He must have raced from town to get back early, he knew how frightful mama could get. He was so still and quiet laying there. She looked at him a while, and though she was spared further glimpses of his broken form, the one was all she really needed.
Hearing a dull click behind her, she turned dreamlike just in time to watch the second shell in the barrel explode upward, taking away her beloved mama too.
A dull thud shook Mary and the house. Thunder from that far-off lightning caught up to them, gently rattling the windows and her bones.
She couldn’t really fathom what was happening in front of her. It all had to be a nightmare, surely? It was too much, her heart failed even to race as she tried fruitlessly to reckon with the night. The perforated door clattered against the side of the house, swinging wild in the pitching wind, she did not even register that a puddle was growing on the hardwood floor. She sat there for God knows how long as numbness flowed through her, seeped from her head into her chest and limbs. There was guilt there too, sitting tight in her chest for feeling any sort of anger towards her poor mama.
Lightning flashed again, silhouetting for a brief instant the form of a cat in the doorway.
Or, it seemed like a cat to her. There were a few that roamed their property and she played with them sometimes, watched them hunt for mice and rats.
This one looked different, though, a little bigger. Had an odd shape.
Its eyes lingered even after the rest of it fell away back into darkness.
They were huge and red. Red like her father splayed out on the steps.
Miss Cornwell.
This intrusion into her mind, as small as it was, shocked her out of her stupor. She looked around dumbly, not quite sure if she had really heard it, but shortly returned to those two sanguinous orbs staring at her.
I see that a great tragedy has befallen you.
Yes… tragedy. It was a tragedy. Her mother and father were dead and it was a tragedy, that’s what it was called. Lightning flashed again, offering her another look at the not-cat. Its fur was pure white, though it faded back into the gloom before she could spy more. Not a cat… what was it, then?
“What are you?” Mary gave voice to her thoughts, though at first the words didn’t come out; she realized her entire body was taut, her throat closed so tight she could barely breathe. She struggled a moment and gasped, cold night air rushing into her lungs and forcing back a pounding that had started at the corners of her eyes. She worked her lungs for a bit, the fey creature letting her proceed in relative peace. The sound of the wind and rain beyond the portal of her ruined door consciously filled her ears again, and she raised her voice as she asked more clearly: “What are you?”
I am here to help you and ask for a favor.
“But what are you?” she repeated, utterly confounded. Its response churned in her brain, neither satisfying or particularly informative. It was peculiar enough that she did not quite think of the still-cooling corpses of her father and mother, ahead and behind her.
A moment’s thought struck her. “Are you an angel?”
The angel (she was suddenly sure that’s what it was) ignored this, answering instead: I offer you a wish, Miss Cornwell.
This was somehow the most baffling thing she had been faced with tonight. Of the stories her mama
(her bones her blood her brains on the ceiling)
had told her, few of them had mentioned wishes. They were never brought up in church either; the Lord did not grant wishes, He fulfilled the spirit of His followers in other ways.
… Didn’t he?
“I don’t understand,” she said, abruptly feeling small and very tired. The storm outside seemed to pitch greater, though no more lightning flashed. The angel’s eyes were the only thing that filled her vision now, perfect ruby spheres that captured her in their gaze. She drifted in them, let them fill her and drown her in their holy light.
Was she dreaming after all? “What may I wish for?”
That depends on you, the angel said. Before tonight I would have said your potential was completely negligible, but I did not foresee this event passing. You are preventing yourself from feeling much at this moment, but I have not sensed an emotional strength like yours in this region for a rather long time.
Mary felt overwhelmed to dizziness, swaying slightly so that she fell hard on her knees. “Emotional strength?” The minister occasionally preached on the virtue of weathering struggles in life, but this was not how he had spoken in his sermons. “I don’t know what to do,” she finished lamely, every muscle in her body and face sore as she felt tears prickling in her eyes. She could barely hear herself over the howling wind as the storm lashed against the wooden house.
Despite the draft racing across the doorway and making a dreadful whistle, the angel was not ruffled in the slightest, not a hair on it was displaced. Mary felt that scorn bloom in her chest once more, towards herself now.
How could she show such dreadful weakness to an emissary of God Himself? She must have faith in Him and His helpers. It’s what her parents would expect from her.
But what to wish for, then? She pondered again, missing her seat on the pew under the stained glass window. She knew God would not tell her outright, but if she thought enough…
… ah. Of course.
“I wish,” she began, but a hard lump stuck painfully in her throat and she struggled to breathe again. She was all alone, despite the efforts of her parents to keep her safe and make sure she led a good life. Their future together was running out of them and into the ground, between the floorboards. It pooled around her feet and stained her clothes.
Still, she had to make sure. Clarity of purpose entered her and she dared to look into those rosy orbs which were now her entire world: “Can mama and papa go to heaven?”
The angel’s ear flicked, the first sign of motion it had offered her so far. A strange wish, though hardly unprecedented. Many have tried before you to offer their loved ones to the Law of Cycles, though to my knowledge few have succeeded.
A brief pause.
Extraordinary , I do believe that you fulfill the requisite conditions.
Mary wiped the tears forming in her eyes away. “So that means…?”
Yes, the angel confirmed, your parents, Abraham and Laura Cornwell, shall have their souls conveyed to what you may call the afterlife. In order to accomplish this, I require that you make a contract with me–-
“Anything! Anything!” Mary sobbed excitedly, tears flowing from her unabated, mixing with the cold rain and blood that splashed at her knees. There was no possible way she could express the relief she felt knowing they would live on forever in His benevolence. “I’ll do anything you ask, thank you thank you, thank you, I can’t believe they’re safe…” The tension of the day and night vanished from her body, leaving her a limp mass of bones and flesh on the floor. Both she and the hardwood now sopped wet from the rain that flew in from the squall.
That is a satisfactory answer, the angel replied, and then the night vanished as Mary’s eyes were filled with heavenly light.
Overland Park watched absently as Momo strode forward-–floated almost, it was as if her feet barely touched the ground under that flowing gown.
There was a distinct sense of disconnection, like her muscles had been severed.
Well, that couldn’t be it, she thought lazily. She was still breathing, still standing. Her glazed eyes twitched, watching the beneficent newcomer as she glided across the station rooftop. Words she had never had occasion to think of before entered her head, adjectives like beatific and angelic.
It was strange, but that feeling of wrongness was crumpled up and thrown into a dustbin somewhere in the back of her brain. She, Kaycee with her bleeding stump, and a third girl not six feet away from her who had appeared out of nowhere all watched the woman with loose fascination.
The rest of the girls that had been on the rooftop seemed similarly pacified. The lesbos in green and pink were closest to the angel woman, and as she approached she stooped down to speak with them directly. Her words carried on the air with the same grace of her movement: “Oh, dearest, you hurt so,” she smiled apologetically at the one in the bright pink dress. “Let me make it better, be still now,” she cooed needlessly.
The scythe came forward, its silvery arc draped down slowly towards the girl’s body. It descended towards the tiny ruby ring on her left hand, halted as the point tapped ever so gently on the surface. It hovered there, suspended in time and space.
A second later, pinky vanished into thin air.
The sense of wrongness climbed out of the dust bin and started wailing, screaming at her to move. Get up, kill this freaky hag, run, do SOMETHING. ANYTHING.
But she was listening to herself through a dozen layers of cotton. All Overland Park got in the front of her mind was a whisper, a mere suggestion of alarm. Despite the rain still pounding on her (none of which seemed to touch the stranger, weirdly), all she could feel was a deep and pleasant warmth. Made her kinda sleepy to be honest. She smacked her lips lightly, watched as the old lady flowed from one injured girl to the next. Here and then there, murmuring kind and comforting words in their ears one second and disappearing them the next.
Why just the ones that were hurt? Was this some kind of mercy killing bullshit?
Don’t worry dearest, the woman interrupted her thoughts. I tend to the most needy first. I will save you in due time.
Oh, fuck. This bitch was crazy, it all made sense now. This was some cult shit and she was about to get Raptured.
The alarm bells intensified but still weren’t quite getting through. Overland Park sent a desperate signal to her hands and her legs, looking for even the faintest twitch of a muscle. She got nothing for her efforts, and though there was a trickle of frustration somewhere in there it was muted by the overwhelming serenity. These girls were probably being forcibly given to the Cycles, but that’s chill, y’know?
It was not chill, that raw piece of awareness continued to yell itself hoarse. It was not chill at all you retard, you dumb hoe. Do something!
Nothin’ doin’, sorry. The John Wayne-wannabe in the duster went next, now you see her now you don’t. Raytown was between the two of them and the Witch, and just like the others she went without any fanfare. Overland Park did feel a pang that time, quick and sharp. Just as quick it was dulled down again, forced away by whatever magic this fucking Witch possessed.
The feeling of disconnection between herself and her body grew, like the pressure in a cinched hose. Still too small, too distant for her to act on. To make matters worse, she and Kaycee were the last people on the roof with any injuries to speak of.
The angelic face turned towards them and floated forth.
Kaycee was laying flat out on the stone with her head on one side, unable or unwilling to keep pressure on her leg. Her face had grown even more pale watching all this unfold. Rather than fear it was probably the blood loss: like everyone else on the slanted rooftop, she seemed remarkably unbothered. Just sleepily watching as her friends were slammed straight into the afterlife by some voodoo granny in a shitty robe.
That pressure was building, but far too slowly. Overland Park kind of wanted to sit down and take a nap, let God sort it out soon enough.
Unbelievably, Kaycee twitched her head and after a couple seconds managed to turn it on its other side, to look at Overland Park, who couldn’t bring herself to return the favor. The Missouri girl’s lips sagged and her lids were drooping like she was half asleep already, turning over in her drowsiness to get more comfy in bed.
Look at me .
Overland Park’s eyes twitched over. Kaycee’s face was ashen gray. She was already a corpse, cold as the grave, and there was ice in the glint of her gaze. A little bit of drool cascaded down her slacken jaw. Was that gum in her mouth?
This is your fault.
Yeah, she guessed so. Didn’t feel too bad about it… though she guessed she should. This boring fuzziness didn’t suit her.
Momo was upon them now. Whatever radiance it was that kept her untouched by the elements did not extend to either of them; the rain got in her eyes, blurring Overland Park’s vision as she stared at this woman she had tried so hard to kill a few minutes ago. The angel bent down to stroke KCMO’s cheek. “Hush now. I will see you to the Lord, and all will be well.”
If you make it out of this, I want you to do something for us.
Uh. What the fuck? Sure, whatever.
Momo stood slowly back up. Through the sound of rain was a pronounced pop in her knees, an unexpectedly awkward sound, though her face didn’t give away any sign of discomfort. Wordlessly and with the grace of God, the scythe came down once again.
Make them pay.
Despite everything, Overland Park blinked in surprise.
The silver blade clinked as it touched Kaycee’s soul.
Kailey’ll fill you in. Good luck.
Then she was gone, leaving a slight imprint on the stone where she had caught the rain. The outline disappeared too, the world forgetting she had ever been there.
Momo offered a quick and silent prayer, one hand held up to her chest. Though festooned with wrinkles, her face did not seem to sag. Her pleasant expression of peacefulness had not moved one fucking iota since appearing in their midst.
After a couple seconds of contemplation, she opened her angel eyes and turned to face the next baptismal candidate. “God tells me you have committed grave sins here, child. I have prayed for you, and now I shall deliver you to Him. Do not be afraid; He is merciful, after all, and I am sure he loves you still.” She said every word with the same unchanging smile, so exquisitely lovely and caring.
It fucking terrified her. Every millisecond spent locked on Momo's visage deepened the creases of her wrinkles, highlighted every liver spot on the bags under her eyes, emphasized the small tugs and twists in her alabaster locks. She found herself looking into the elderly woman's eyes: there was the beginning of a rheuminess to them, the first clouds of heavily advanced age. Behind that developing fog, though, there was still clarity of purpose. Within this Witch, a white fire burned clean and true.
Above the surf of calm a repulsion grew in Overland Park, buoyed by a desire to get away from this holy woman. The fact that she could not do so irritated her, it sent the small part of her that was still working into a frenzy.
She felt a ray of light struggling to burst through the clouds.
“There is immense strength in you,” Momo whispered. “It is a goodly thing to be strong, but all strength falls away in the face of God. Rejoice in your weakness and you will be free.”
The scythe dipped down again, towards her navel. Her red soul glittered as water poured over it and onto the ground.
Her insides on fire, she dragged her eyes away from that gnarled face towards the silver gem that rested on a chain at the top of her chest.
The ray of light burst through the haze. A narrow beam shot out of her left eye, the greatest limit of what she could muster, piercing the gem in its exact center face.
Momo collapsed, a puppet with its strings cut. Everyone left on the rooftop followed her down, down into the swirling dark.
The last thing her unfocusing vision settled on before she lost consciousness was that little white cat.
After a few minutes or hours, she couldn’t be bothered to tell which, Overland Park sat up. Her muscles ached like she was with fever, and the chill of the rain cascading onto them filled her limbs with lead. Blinking water out of her eyes was a conscious effort. She hadn’t been this tired in a very long time.
The rooftop of Union Station had before held eight, including her. Now there were three. One of them was still collapsed on the roof, her face up towards the sky–-farm girl. The other one was arguing with Kyubey.
“... idiot. Everything is FUCKED.”
Plainly.
“Oh, look! She’s awake. Good job you fucking maniacal prick,” the girl that smelled of cigarette smoke yelled at her. Her head was pounding already, a timpani drum steadily crescendoing with every word out of this haughty slut’s mouth. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you in your sleep, you frothing dipshit.”
“Ugggghhhhhhhh,” Overland Park let herself lie back down on the rooftop, a small splash issuing from the thin sheaf of water tumbling down. “Just stop talking.”
“OH, am I being TOO LOUD?” Physically screaming now, on God. “ I’M SORRY, I DIDN’T REALIZE HOW RUDE I’M BEING AFTER YOU KILLED ALL MY FRIENDS YOU SELFISH WHORE! ”
Miss Walsh, I don’t believe that’s entirely to your benefit.
Rubbing her temples, Overland Park sat up once more and looked over at the steaming bitch yelling herself hoarse. “You best listen to the rat. You Kailey?”
The angry girl crossed her arms, hiding her clenched fists. “If you use that name again I’ll kill you. It’s Grandview to you.”
“Only reason I ain’t left yet is cuz I heard mention of gettin’ back at someone, and that’s something I understand just fine.”
Several someones, Kyubey corrected her. I would have brought this information to you sooner, but you made that effectively impossible.
She ignored the barb. “There more freaky bitches like that one?” They looked at the corpse not six feet away, a coriaceous old woman draped over one of the glass skylights.
“That’s Momo,” Grandview explained. “That’s who we were having a meeting about before you swooped in like a brainless asshole.”
“Who the hell is Momo.”
That is, in fact, not the person you are referring to. Both girls turned to look at him again. Miss Cornwell was a rather effective agent of mine for some time. To be brief, she was part of the group I sent to the Capitol last year.
Grandview twisted her mouth and stared at the cadaver, serene even now. Water collected in the folds of the flowing white dress, whatever sterling force that kept it untouched by the elements was gone now. “Who are we looking at then?”
A homunculus with Miss Cornwell’s abilities, and some of her memories.
“... What.”
He flicked his ear, though the squeak was inaudible over the rainfall. It’s of decent make, honestly. For a species as primitive as yours, I must admit that I am impressed. The speed with which your President has maneuvered and positioned his administration for the future exceeded my predictions.
He approached, pawing over the body like common dirt. The United States government was very quick to start studying anything magical they could get their hands on. After some investigative efforts in the city of Chicago, they found a research facility previously owned by the Empire.
Flick. Considerable effort was put forth in a project dedicated to artificial human beings like this one. I doubt, however, Miss Luce and her consilium tried very hard to conceal their work; they weren’t planning to fail in their campaign towards Washington . It is only logical that the military, at the urging of the President, has been trying to accumulate and catalog as many magical abilities as possible, and it appears they have been trying to weaponize such abilities through the use of human simulacra.
“You’re saying this is some kind of clone?”
Close enough. This was, to my knowledge, one of a handful of field tests they’ve been conducting over the last several months. I believe it was intended to stop at the city of St. Louis, to help clear out the remnants of the miasma there.
“So what’s it doing here.”
I can only guess, but memory is difficult to tamper with, even for me. I doubt your military scientists have mastered it. I sent Miss Cornwell to the city often, it is not outside the realm of possibility that the homunculus felt some desire to do the same.
Overland Park had grown mysteriously quiet, lumpen in her repose under the rain. “I guess Raytown was right. Damn.”
“Oh, GEE,” Grandview turned back to her, anger flashing back to prominence. “You THINK?”
“You don’t even know what I’m talkin’ about.”
“I can fuckin’ GUESS, dipshit!”
“Keep it to yourself,” Overland Park wearily cleared the water out of her eyes, a motion she was getting tired of. “At this point, all you need to tell me is where to go.”
Unfortunately, your strength alone will not be sufficient.
“Cat’s right,” Grandview said. Was that a hint of smugness? “This is a contingency I discussed with Kaycee and the others. Unlike you, we fucking think before we act, and we were scoping out shit for a while. There’s a military fort just up north you might have heard about, Leavenworth ring any bells?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Well, that’s where you wanna go. But if you try to muscle in, you’re going to get fucked six ways to Sunday. Even before last year, it was one of the government’s most important army bases. Now? They keep it hush hush, but if anyone on base even smells a threat, the whole place gets put on lockdown. Getting in is basically impossible unless you can literally turn invisible.”
“Isn’t that… your power?”
“Yeah, well…” Grandview crossed her arms, water pouring off of her in little angry rivulets. “You ain’t gettin’ in there without me, so maybe learn a little humility. An apology would be nice to start.”
“Nah.”
The last Kansas City girl’s mouth popped open, gawping.
“I ain’t gonna say sorry. What’s done is done.”
“OH,” Grandview threw her arms up, “ MY GOD. You know I don't ACTUALLY need you for this, right? I am an ASSASSIN,” her shrill shriek bounced off the rooftop, tumbling down into the parking lot.
“‘Scuse me,” the farm girl interrupted before Overland Park could erase the upstart from existence. Hollow jade eyes stared at them, sunken in their sockets. “You takin’ her into the fort, you said?”
“I GUESS. ”
“I thought Leavenworth was a prison.”
It is principally a military base, which also holds the Department of Defense’s only maximum security prison. The United States Magic Force is subsidiary to the Department’s command, and their current largest garrison is located in Leavenworth.
There were cogs turning ponderously in the Homesteader’s head. She was half dead already, talking and moving with a corpse's gait. Once the ailing gray matter finished its work, she turned limply to Grandview. “Take me with,” was all she said. Vacant words from a vacant mind.
“Why the fuck do YOU want to go?”
“Someone I gotta get outta there. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Their designated driver threw her hands up again. “Sure, why not? OP here can have the suicide bombing and I’ll escort you on the fucking NOTHING promise of a rescue mission. The more the merrier. Unless you got a fuckin’ problem with that, psycho bitch?”
“Fine with me,” Overland Park sneered. “Why did you even bring this up if you don’t wanna go in the first place?”
“If Kaycee hadn’t asked and I didn’t have you to throw at it, I wouldn’t be going anywhere near the fort.”
“She's dead. Why bother?”
“Figures you wouldn't get it, you fuckin’ reject.” She was intentionally pushing buttons now, Overland Park could feel her skin flushing hot. It was a welcome reprieve from the chill that saturated her, returning some of her sapped vitality. “She kept this place running and I owed her a lot. We all did. This was the last thing she asked me for, and that means I'm gonna get it done if it kills me. Which it probably will, considering I have to cart your stupid ass in too.”
Overland Park again considered this girl’s instant death.
“Any more questions from the class? No? Great, let’s get the fuck out of here.” Without waiting to make sure they followed, Grandview whipped northeast towards the street outside of Union Station, the downpour obscuring all other buildings around them.
Kyubey was not used to being forgotten so easily, but by his assessments this group had never been all that attentive. He twitched his head to the side before leaving himself, quite unbothered.
Easterly thunder rumbled, echoing on the gabled roof and from the Liberty Memorial nearby. Its false fire persisted in the rain, a beacon to honor the heroic dead. Sacrifice did not halt her eternal vigil over the city, even for the tears running down her face.
Chapter End Notes
"There's a lot of ugly things in this world, son. I wish I could keep 'em all away from you. That's never possible."
The first section of this chapter is the first thing I ever wrote for this story. Aside from removing some extraneous details, it has remained fairly unchanged throughout the process of finishing and editing.
Momo is similarly the first character I came up with, and I originally envisioned her as a still present and active threat who just stalks the corridor of Kansas City to Columbia, between highways 70 and 50. She was always Momo and never had a conventional magical girl name. I figured she was too enigmatic and culturally isolated for that, but if she did it would be a coin toss between Magnolia and Holden. Aside from their names I actually have no clue what Bavitz's idea behind Terminatrixes is in terms of worldbuilding, like how that tradition started or when. Hopefully this doesn't trample all over the concept.
"Momo" is directly taken from the cryptid of the same name, which stands for "Missouri Monster." Despite having an identical nature, appearance, and disposition to Sasquatch, the Missouri Monster is supposedly a different entity. I guess it's like a regional species thing. In-story it would have been a deal where the original name people knew her by was "Mother" or "Mama" and it got changed around as the years went by. That idea felt kind of stupid and went away pretty quickly, it doesn't really need an explanation anyway.
"Laura" is a reference to Ingalls Wilder out of respect. "Abraham" is a reference to Lincoln because I thought it was kind of funny.
The Presbyterian church in Holden was the last church I attended regularly, for a brief time. In the stained glass window I mentioned, there are faint scratch marks from goers throughout the church's history. Some of them are years and the earliest I could find is, I believe, 1882. I have been in the belfry, but never climbed to the top because Midwestern churches have this penchant for having absurdly unsafe ladders and catwalks to get to the bell. It's all rickety wooden shit that's been rotting for 50 years in the humidity that you have to climb up fucking diagonally across a chasm sometimes. No thank you. The bell sounds nice though, I've pulled the rope from the vestibule to ring it a few times.
The conversation between the four characters at the end is something I also reworked a lot, although mostly for minor details. I came up with the general idea for this discussion early on but the motivations of the characters changed a lot so I had to make sure all the details lined up. It was only on the latest edit that I felt like I got the motivations squared away better to be honest.
I read To Kill a Mockingbird a couple years ago while spending a few days in a psych ward. It was a singularly gratifying experience that I highly recommend against. Read it in your own home instead.