VIIIb. Strength Borne of Clarity

Hundreds of cheering people fill the spherical chamber, crowded on benches and steps that terrace up to the equator. Above rises a colossal brass dome ribbed with steel, festooned with banners and bunting in crimson and sky blue. The centerpiece of the hall is a large table with a map engraved in the bronze surface, detailing a coastal region with a wheel-like city at the center marked Fortuna. A simple podium stands nearby.

Waiting for me at the table are two men and a woman. The consuls, I suppose. The woman is short, stocky and spectacled, her brown suit practical and a bit worn. One of the men is sharp and lithe in a long black tailcoat and bowtie with shocking blue eyes . But  I can’t help but shiver at the second man. Older, stern, conservative. A pale gray suit matches his eyes and hair, but his skin is tanned and leathery from the sun, and his applause is measured and slow. Is he judging me?

Valeria kicks my leg. “Move.”

I move, and people reach from the aisles to shake my hand. Most of them are dressed in the best that they can afford, which apparently isn’t that great for many. I see threadbare coats, faded shirts, ill-fitting jeans. But all of them boast the angel pin somewhere on their outfits.

As I approach the table, the short woman draws me into a tight hug. “I’m so proud, Alex! This is a great day for all of us.”

The younger man embraces me as well. “Knock ‘em dead, Lexy,” he whispers, lips brushing my ear. He passes me a speech.

The old man is silent and stony.

I take to the podium, speech in hand. Oh, good, it’s short.

I look to the consuls, and Valeria mouths to me.

Hard sell. Here we go.

 

“It seems like just yesterday we lived in a different world. In many ways, yesterday is aeons past, and tomorrow will never arrive. How many days did we feel that the present was eternal, that change could never come in our lifetimes, that the city and the nation that we dreamed of was merely a dream?

“Yet it was the distant past and the unattainable future that saw us to this day. When our steps flagged and our strength waned, we remembered the pain of our parents and grandparents, and we longed for our children and grandchildren. The past and the future were our constant companions, and they must continue to be. We honor the memory of Our Fallen Star and all the sacrifices we made to save ourselves from poverty, slavery, suffering and despair. We hold our wishes for prosperity, liberty, joy and hope as the light that guides us into the dark days yet to come.

“And like a flash of lightning from on high, we have changed our world. With clear eyes and the highest standards we walk arm in arm into the desert, ready to make it bloom.”

“As Prime Innovator, Consul Calla Peck will show us how prosperity is the entitlement of all those who strive for it.

“As Prime Defender, Consul Charles Sterling will ensure our liberty against foes within and without.”

“As Prime Coordinator, Consul Virgus Ricimer will guarantee that the tools of industry build a joyful tomorrow that honors our past.”

“And as Proconsul, Valeria Baculum will reach out to all the voices of our nation and bring their hopes into reality.

“You have honored and humbled me by choosing me as Electus, and I can only hope that I live up to the promise I make today: It’s a new day under a new sun, and I will rush out to greet it. May angels guide you, and may angels guide Free Fortune!”

The crowd erupts into cheers and applause, calls of love and adoration.

What a bunch of rubes.

 

The five of us sit down at the table and Valeria runs us through the items in the dossier. I tune out much of the discussion, nodding in approval when they look to me for confirmation on a unanimous decision. While the Consuls go back and forth on grain storage and wealth redistribution and defensive readiness, I frame my chin with one hand and scan the room.

The map on the table shows Free Fortune with open plains and forests to the east, desert to the south and mountains to the north, and ocean to the west. Inscriptions mark them respectively: Pecunia, Baculum, Gladio, Calix. Surrounded on all sides. The audience, so enamored with the speech seems as uninterested as me in the actual policy-making. They wander, whisper, file out of the room. Some are taking notes, but the majority can’t be bothered to be involved.

Someone’s watching me. The old man, Ricimer. That gray stare cuts my concentration, pulls me back to the table.

“…some time before the Houses can make a move,” Heffer says. “They’re probably still reeling from our victory.”

“We shouldn’t let our guard down,” Valeria replies. “A lot of resources went into keeping Arius stable and in power during the Turn. They won’t cut their losses and forfeit so easily. Consul Sterling, still nothing from the prisoners?”

“Not yet, but they’ll crack. They’re soft and pampered, I doubt they’ll stay resilient for long.” It’s a lie, but not one that’s meant to convince anyone at the table. Curious.

“What’s the state of our defenses, Consul Sterling?”

He blinks at me. “Uh, fine, Electus.” He wasn’t expecting me to be formal. Oops. “We have troops on the walls and scouting the suburban perimeter every thirty minutes.”

“Make it twenty. Can’t be too careful.”

“Uh, yes, sir.” There’s a bit of a question in it, but the look says “later.”

Valeria coughs. “We should move onto the matter of CASH distribution.” I see several audience members perk up. “In accordance with our guarantee to provide safe access to CASH for all citizens who want and need it, the Consulate recommends decentralized and unregulated CASH production, as well as Chariot-run and funded CASH clinics to monitor use, prevent abuse, and treat any withdrawals or overdoses that will unfortunately and inevitably arise.” She looks at me.

“I disagree.” The other three stare at me, and the audience murmurs. “At least for the short-term, we should keep CASH production in-house and under control.”

“Folks on the street need easy access to CASH, especially after the Broken Bank Incident,” Sterling protests. “I’m not saying it should be running in red rivers through the gutters, but it needs to get out there one way or another.”

“I agree with the clinic idea, but we don’t have enough experts to make the stuff.” Ricimer’s syllables are clipped and military. “All the folks with alchemical expertise are locked up for war crimes.”

“We have the formulae from Arius’ records to synthesize the chemicals,” Heffer cuts in. “Besides, we have expertise already. Plenty of people have already been making home-brew batches for years.

“That amateur cut CASH on the streets does more harm than good. You let this stuff run around, people will get hurt.”

“You’re one to talk, about hurting people, Ricimer,” Charlie shoots back.

“Consuls.” Valeria puts a hand on the table. The air is warm and thick between us. “WE have no consensus at the moment, so I motion that we deliberate further.” In private, she doesn’t say.

A long pause while we look at each other, my Motley crew.

“Quite the first day,” I say. “Anyone bring sandwiches?”

And that does it. The group laughs nervously, but the tension is broken. The rest of the meeting goes without incident, and I bang my rod against the table to adjourn for the day. Not bad for a new government that I know next to nothing about.

The crowd starts filing out, and the Consuls and I start to head out as well.

“You did very well, Alex.” Valeria’s hand on my shoulder, warm and reassuring. “We fought hard for this day. Make sure we keep it.”

We head for the stairs with the rest of the audience, and some of them are clamoring to reach me.

“Electus, I love you!”

“Sign my poster!”

“PIcture with your biggest fan!”

A camera bulb pops.

FLASH.

“And then this fool starts wailing on him,” says Charlie, gesturing with his drink, “whipping him like he’s the driver and not the cog. And he’s going ‘I! AM! NOT! A! NUMBER!’ I didn’t know if I should stop him or cheer him on. Lexi, you were beautiful, a vision from heaven.”

---

For commentary on this section, click here.

Commentary: Hooray for Exposition

Exposition in a story can be tedious. On one hand, the reader needs to know important facts about the world that the story takes place in, especially important in a science-fiction story like Angelfools. But on the other hand, huge paragraphs of background description — info dumps — are often the most boring segments of a story. How does one circumvent this?

Different writers take different approaches. Kim Stanley Robinson, author of Red Mars among many other excellent sci-fi works, unashamedly drops info dumps into his novels, and to hell with readers’ criticism. Frank Herbert of Dune renown has a glossary of terms in the beginning of the book that the reader can reference if something is mentioned in text (the Butlerian Jihad, for example), that all the characters know about but the reader doesn’t. Many authors take the “show-don’t-tell” approach, letting the world come into focus as the characters interact with their environment.

Others supplement their descriptions with “found text,” a strategy that appeals to me for a few reasons. First, it provides the writer practice in writing different voices, always good exercise for a storyteller. Second, it can offer a contrasting perspective on the world, which creates ambiguity about the truth of the situation. Third, found texts can weave additional stories into the larger story that can supplement and elaborate on the theme. Take the landmark video game BioShock, helmed by Ken Levine: though the audio logs scattered throughout the game are completely unnecessary to move the main plot forward, they provide a lot of meat to the story, as well as horror and in-world philosophy. The story of Diane McClintock parallels the player’s, but this character is never actually seen or encountered. Instead, her experiences are a counterpoint to the player’s own.

I always knew that I wanted Angelfools to have found texts as a component. At this point in the writing process, however, I’m not ready to compose them. I want to focus on the core story before getting into side plots too much, and I need to see how my characters evolve as I write them. So for now, a key tool in providing the reader exposition is being left in the toolbox. However, I can’t leave the reader — or Alex, for that matter — completely in the dark, as I’ve done for three installments so far.

So I give you an info dump, in the form of a literal info dump offered to the main character. I’m also lampshading this device by having Alex get bored with it before he can digest the material. This also presents a new and important character trait: Alex’s impatience. He is the newly appointed leader of a complex and conflicted city-state, with an uneasy populace and testy neighbors. But though the task is important, he doesn’t give it the necessary attention. This will — and must — come back around.

In contrast, say hello to Valeria, who put the unappreciated info dump together. She knows more of what’s going on with Alex, and unlike Abel, she’s willing to share her knowledge. More on her next chapter.

VIIIa. Strength Borne of Clarity

I’m naked except for the towel.

She smiles at me and buttons up her shirt, cream and crisp contrasting with her dark skin. Her flair-legged pants are a burnt orange, and a matching blazer hangs on a chair nearby. Leaning on the chair is a slender cane of dark wood, topped with a carved lioness head.

The bedroom is between lives, in transition between uses. The adjoining wall has been knocked out and the next room has plastic sheeting on the floor. Paint cans of umber and sepia and sky blue are unopened, but the wallpaper has been torn down. This room is stocked with boxes, full of documents and clothes and curios. Some are spread around the makeshift folding-table desk below a boarded window. One file folder has been stuffed with papers and weighed down with a shiny pocket watch.

“Are you alright, Alex?” One brow is raised. “We’re going to be late to the meeting.”

“Meeting?”

“Yes, the meeting. Your meeting? You didn’t forget, did you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where’s Abel?”

“Who?”

Pause. It’s just the two of us.

“Where am I?”

“Your apartment?” Now she looks concerned.

“And who are you, exactly?”

“Alex, did you just reorient?”

“Huh?”

“Oh shit, you did. It would be today. Typical, really.”

She runs a hand through thick, curly hair. “Alright. Let’s try again. You’re Alex.”

“Yes, mysterious woman.”

“Valeria. Your proconsul.”

“Is that like a secretary?”

She gives a quick snort, stifling a laugh. “You should be so lucky. We’re about to go to the consul meeting. Your consul meeting. Of your senior advisors.” She sighs. “You’re the Electus. Of Free Fortune. None of this is ringing a bell?”

“Not a thing.”

“Shit. We fight a whole war for you and you don’t even know it happened, do you?”

I think my face has the answer.

My face. She doesn’t seem bothered by my face. I put a hand to my cheek; besides scruff, it’s smooth and unscarred. The rest of my body is fine as well, if a bit on the lean side.

“We don’t have time to play 20 Questions,” Valeria says. “I’ll try my best to answer your questions soon, but we both have to get ready. I’m gonna go put my face on, you should read the brief and… get dressed.”

Dressed. Right. Valeria walks past me, puts a hand on my shoulder. I try not to flinch. “I’ll help you get through this. Trust me.” She walks past and closes the door behind her.

A set of men’s clothing lies in wait on the bed. Violet shirt, crimson pants with a matching vest, icy blue tie. A long-tailed jacket with the same violet and crimson in lozenges. The same harlequin jacket I was wearing moments ago. The lapel holds a pin in the shape of an angel with upraised wings. Comfortable black shoes, not too shiny, not too scuffed. The belt and holster, with the metal rod waiting on the beside table.

Everything is tailored, and slipping on this costume feels natural. The pants and jacket have stretch more than normal clothing, flexible and freeing, designed for movement and action. In the left pocket is a roll of coins. The other holds a small glass bottle of carnelian pills.

Okay, now that I’m not naked, time for some answers.

The dossier begins with a cover page.

“Alexander Motley, Electus of Free Fortune. For Your Eyes Only.”

Whatever that means. Keep reading. 

“Item One: Reconstruction. Damages, casualties, supplies, untapped resources, infrastructure.

“Item Two: Readiness. Troops, munitions, proposed training regimens, recruitment strategies.

“Item Three: Relations. Fortune residents, conglomerate holdings, foreign states, trade options.

What follows are lists of names, spreadsheets, analytical graphs, pie charts. Maps of the same region with different overlays, some with roads and pipelines, some with troop deployments, some with geopolitical borders. Letters from dignitaries stamped with crests. Drafts of legal and diplomatic agreements, sections highlighted or excised. Numbers and names spin in my head as I try to fit it together.

One piece stands out. The title proclaims “CASH.” I skim. “Catalytic Agent for Supplementing Humanity.” Ominous. “CASH research, development and production has until now been concentrated in Prosper Tower. With Regency defunct and food in limited supply for the short-term, general access to CASH-based nutrition supplements is critical. The consuls recommend decentralized and unregulated—uncontrolled—CASH production. The consuls also recommend preparing CASH clinics to monitor use, prevent abuse, and treat any withdrawals or overdoses that will unfortunately and inevitably arise.”

My eye is drawn to a handwritten comment in the margins. “Can’t lose control — keep central. Only leverage we have. — Val.”

“Anything familiar?”

Valeria has returned, with deeper eyes and firmer lips.

“Not really. Thanks anyways.”

“We’ll talk on the way to the Tower.” She takes my hands in hers. “I know you’re confused. Uncertain. Unmoored. I’m asking you to trust me for now, follow my lead.” She takes up the cane. “Now let’s go. Your fans are waiting.”

We descend to a bluster of construction, workers carrying shelves out and furniture in, tearing down old wallpaper and painting a new coat. Same building with Abel a few minutes ago, but the space is bare at the moment. No manic symbols, no looming clocks.

The square is even busier, people rushing through on their way to more important things. Until they see us. The crowd stops. Turns. As one, they salute, taking three fingers and touching closed eyes and forehead.

“Alex.” Valeria whispers and nudges me with her elbow. “Move. Try to look… elect.”

Breathe. Broaden. Stride like you mean it. And wave, they love that. 

“Uh, I’m just on my way to work. Don’t let me get in the way of your business.” I give a gentle wave.

A couple people laugh, and the hubbub starts up again. Valeria walks a couple paces ahead of me, and we set off towards the Tower shining over the rooftops, bright and aspirant. The streets get wider as we get closer, following a more direct route than Abel led me on. We get looks and whispers the whole way.

“Who am I to these people?”

“Hero, savior, visionary. You fought a war for them and you won. You’ve given them a new chance at a better life. You offered them a brighter future. They took your offer, and we get to build that future now.”

“What future did I promise, exactly?” Smile and wave.

“The standard material. Prosperity, dignity, freedom. Nice and vague, good for slogans.”

“You make me sound like a salesman.”

“Every great leader is. Faults aside, even Arius knew how to make a hard sell.”

Sure.

We arrive at Prosper Plaza, where the abandon I saw is now merely chaos. All the overturned carts and kiosks are upright and stocked. Vendors cry and bark and sing their wares as they dash this way and that between stands making trades and deals and buying and selling and bartering and pleading and it’s all just a little much. Lustrous fruit and pungent vegetables and gaudy clothing and probably counterfeit jewelry. And the sky is clear, blue and beautiful.

I check my pocket watch. Five minutes to eight.

The bustle continues inside the vaulted, open air lobby of Prosper Tower. Men and women in t-shirts and frayed jeans hammer, hang and harry, shouting commands to each other, darting to offices and staircases with file folders, flags, cardboard boxes and couches and tables. Those with free hands salute us — me — as we pass to the single, caged elevator across the lobby.

Valeria closes the doors and pulls the lever. We start grinding upwards.

“Listen Alex. You’re about to walk into a room full of strangers, but they all know you as a friend. Fake it ‘til you make it.”

“That’s terrible advice.”

“Hasn’t let you down before.”

We emerge to applause.

Commentary: Traits of the Medium

Writing violent action is difficult. Part of that is just a characteristic of writing: the dramatic and exciting action sequences that we love to see on the big screen don’t translate well to the written page. Fight scenes, driving scenes, and the like are visual and auditory in nature, and therefore don’t come across well to a reader as they would to a viewer.

So what am I to do? The story as I’m writing it has a fair amount of action in it. How can I write action in a way that can be exciting to the reader? Well, I can take cues from people that already do. How do my favorite writers compose their action scenes?

In many cases, they don’t write the action per se. Describing the blow by blow can get tedious, the opposite of what you want in an action scene. Instead, it seems that my favorite authors focus on what the medium is good at: details, internal reactions, and talking about something that goes beyond the concrete events. Take a look at a graphic novel and see how much writing goes into the average fight scene. Characters may have extended conversations while trading punches, or give mental monologues on the larger context. It’s rare that I come across drawn panels that are “silent;” Watchmen by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons is a good counterexample.

Or take one of my favorite television writers, Bryan Fuller. His show Hannibal (one of my all-time favorites) features quite a lot of violence, much of it rather brutal. But unlike other shows about similar subjects, Fuller takes his time with the scenes. Unlike, say, The Walking Dead or Grimm, where battles may take up to two minutes of punch after punch, Hannibal fight scenes over in seconds, much like how a fight would go in real life. The difference is that Fuller lingers over the fight, focusing on characters’ faces as they grapple in both physical and mental realms. In this way, the battle becomes an effective opportunity for character development, and maybe even larger themes of violence and trauma. Characters have to struggle with the consequences of violence, just as real people do.

I’m no Bryan Fuller (yet), but I will take this lesson, that violence and action in a story should be deliberate, purposeful, and a character can’t get away with being violent and expect to be unaffected, even if they are physically unharmed.

XV.b. The Devil I Don’t Know

Spin, slap, toss, kick. 

No thought, no pause, no fear. 

The gun is still midair as I sidekick his stomach. He crumples, hissing at me. My assailant is lithe and lanky, and he almost coils on the ground. Between the green tatters of what used to be a military uniform and the scaly, warty scabs on his exposed skin, he looks reptilian. The hissing doesn’t help.

I’m about to go for the gun when he snaps out a switchblade and leaps up to attack again.

Lunge bob slash weave stab sidestep. My mind doesn’t know how to do this, but my muscles remember. And he seems predictable, as if I can see where the knife will be and I move to be somewhere else.

There. He goes wide with a slash, I go in and punch him right in his gut. He squeals and falls again, and this time he stays down, whimpering.

Stones clattering.

It was almost invisible with all the waves of heat radiating off the pavement, but with a misplaced step, I know where to look. A humanoid shape, outlined in bent sunlight, creeping closer to me. And a second, third, fourth.

Shit. Where was that gun again?

Oh right, I have one.

I fumble a bit pulling the gun out of my belt, and that’s all they need. One of them cuts my arm, and drop the gun with a yelp.

Focus on staying alive. Don’t let them touch you. 

We dance, these copper-scaled madmen and I. When I stop thinking, stop planning, everything seems to flow. I thread between their knives, dodging and striking. The air crackles with static, and I feel an energy course through my limbs, sourceless and diffused. It clears the fuzz in my mind, the clogged lactic acid from my stiff joints, and then I am spinning, wheeling, laughing.

I punch with a snapping spark, and a scaly man shoots backwards like a rubber band. The others pause, staring at the electricity arcing between my fingers.

That’s new.

They seem to think so too. They turn tail and run, fading into the air with a shimmer. The two that I dropped just groan in pain.

I breathe toasted air. My adrenaline fades, and the lightning fades as well. I’m about to go when I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls of Prosper Tower. The burns have started to heal. The shiny, bloody blisters have started fading, turning pink.

Abel has a lot of explaining to do.

 

“Lightning, huh?”

“Don’t forget the invisible snake people.”

“Oh, the Copperfangs aren’t anything new. Just crazier than they used to be.”

Good to know.

“Abel, are you going to tell me what’s going on or not? I’d like to know about any monster people that want to stab me, if that’s not too much to ask.”

“Let’s get somewhere safer, and then I’ll try to answer your questions.”

“Fine. I could use the exercise.”

We set off through the streets, guns in hand. If the sun is moving, it’s difficult to tell. Haze diffuses light almost uniformly, and shade is hard to come by. Abel brought me a scarf to cover my face and head, so instead of sunburns I just have my own choking sweat to worry about. We creep through a vacated city, past storefronts with windows smashed and wares looted, wheelless rickshaws and overturned street vendor kiosks. At first, I think I can hear animal cries: barking dogs and screeching birds, but the longer I listen, the more they sound like people. Their notes sound imitative, like an actor offstage creating sound effects. Every time we hear them, Abel leads me in the opposite direction.

Our path traces alleys and backstreets, intersecting wheel spokes and widow webs. Buildings constructed of sandstone and limestone, painted and plastered with advertisements. “Heavenly Styles at Earthly Prices!” next to theatrical costumes with lozengy patterns. “LIVE with PURPOSE: CASH by Chariot” above a crowing white rooster. “BOGO: Seizing Destiny + Guiding Destiny” under a pair of eponymous books that look like memoirs. Interspersed with these are bits that sound more like propaganda. “The Eyes of the Future are Upon Us” accompany a huge pair of blue eyes, one deep and the other light. “Defender of the People” proclaims a poster of a winged man with a comedy mask cracking a whip at mythical beasts with mixed animal parts. “Who Counsels the Consul?” seems to suggest the insincerity of a sneering woman gripping the comedy mask in absurdly clawed hands. Many of these posters have been stuck over each other, silent debates raging on the walls.

Our stumbling path takes us eventually to an open square, which an arched sign above the entrance declares “Martyr’s Quad.” Gazing over the square, almost untouched by whatever happened before I woke up, is a shining bronze statue of a woman in robes and a spiky crown. “Our Fallen Star,” says the plaque at the base. She holds a pitcher tipped towards her bare feet, but if water once flowed here, it’s stopped now. The face is angular, fierce, determined. Did her sacrifice achieve the victory she hoped for?

Abel heads to a large, sturdy door in the center of one of the apartment blocks framing the square. Unlike the other flats, the door is still on its hinges. He fiddles with a keyring and opens a series of locks, hauls it opens and we slip inside.

He lets out a slow whistle. The flat — if that would be an appropriate name — is lavish. Gold-leaf symbols accent the wallpaper, from which hang paintings of fractals. The floor is tiled in different colors of marble, and the furniture is embroidered with tessellating animal shapes that flow from one into another, a raven’s beak in the nook of a tiger’s arm, an angel cradling a pair of koi. And clocks, everywhere. Grandfather clocks loom along the walls like suits of armor, orreries hang from the ceiling, even the table in the entryway seems to be a clock, concentric rings marking out increments of time out to months.

And it all has stopped. No ticking or grinding, no mechanisms turning. No light, either, besides what pours in from the doorway. It’s enough to see the wealth, the obsession, and the loneliness.

“No accounting for taste, huh Alex?”

“I think the accounting was pretty good, if you ask me.”

Another chuckle. I’m getting good at this. “But this is—” He stops. “Never mind. We should find the backup sphere.”

Is it even worth asking at this point?

We move through the flat, living room, kitchen, den, library; each room as ostentatious as the first, each chaotic with symbols and timepieces. One of the bookcases swings out on oiled hinges, behind which is a spherical device made of glass and intersecting rings made of precious metals.

“Want to do the honors?”

“What?”

“Turn it on.”

“With what switch?”

“Just give it a little zap.”

“Excuse me?”

“Like you did with the Copperfangs. It needs a jolt.”

“And how exactly do I do a ‘little zap?’”

“Hell if I know.”

Okay, improv. I place a hand on the sphere, and unbidden, I feel a pulse. It starts at the base of my spine, courses up and out, vibrates my skin. I feel warm, then hot, then wired. The sensation fills my brain, my vision glows, and electricity branches from my fingers to the sphere. Flanges on the inside of the rings start spinning, and we have our lightning in a bottle.

The lights come on, incandescent and warm, casting the gold-leaf into brilliance.

“Nice.”

“I summon lightning and the best you can say is ‘nice?’”

“Let’s make sure the rooms upstairs are clear.”

We head up to the residential part of the suite, with an office, some kind of laboratory, and a locked bedroom.

“What is this place,” I ask as Abel opens the door.

FLASH. The lights blind me for a moment. And then, a woman’s voice.

“Alex, a little privacy please.”

---

For commentary on this chapter, click here.

Commentary: The Stranger that the Author Hasn’t Met

If you’re reading this, then we’ve both met someone new today.

I’ve been thinking about this story for the better part of four years, and in that time I’ve come up with a wide cast of characters, both main and supporting. But as I was doing one last look over my notes on greater story structure, I realized that I was missing a character. Namely, the character of Abel Carter. No spoilers in giving away his last name; it’s just a placeholder anyways, as is normal for early drafts.

Specifically, Abel has existed in the story for some time, but not in the form or place that I’m now using him. The original version of this portion of Angelfools had Alex waking up alone in the rubble, and spending much of the what follows alone with his own thoughts. While that may be easier to write, it isn’t very interesting. What’s more: I wasn’t doing that with other parts of the story that you’ll read soon. In my first layout of the story arc, Alex doesn’t have contact with other people for a bit, and yet he manages by himself. But I think that in this early stage, with both the reader and the protagonist largely ignorant as to what is happening, it’s important to have someone act as an anchor.

Abel is that anchor — for the moment. He knows more about the catastrophic situation than Alex does, and he knows Alex as well. But because Alex doesn’t know Abel yet, they can develop a relationship that is both independent and dependent on previous interactions, which Alex and the reader get to discover as time goes on.

From a different perspective, Abel and I the author get to discover a new relationship as well. Abel is a bit of an experiment. Of all my characters, the fact that he is the youngest of my brainchildren means that he is the least developed in my mind. I know less about his speech patterns and habits. And while I know the broad strokes of his motivations, I have yet to learn about the nuances.

So this journey that we take together, you the reader and Ben the writer, is at least partly a journey into the unknown. Although I can guide you through much of Fortune’s Coast and the story of Angelfools, there are some parts that will grow organically as I write. This is one of them. I’m excited to get to know Abel Carter, and I hope you are as well.

XV. The Devil I Don’t Know

Dry.

Everything is dry. My mouth, my eyes, the air. The sky is dry, baked and hollow. I can see it through a hole in the rubble, noon haze glaring at me.

Can’t move. Limbs numb.

Footsteps. Someone else survived.

“Help.” Cracked and thin. Have to do better than that.

“Help!”

Third time’s a charm.

“HELP ME!”

“Don’t move!” No risk of that. “I’m getting you out of there!”

A silhouette appears, haloed by the parched sky. The rubble shifts, and he levers a slab of wall off me. Needles of pain pierce my legs as blood flow returns, and I can’t keep the scream in.

“Sorry, friend. No getting around it. Come on, up you go.”

An arm under my legs, another under my back. I shut my eyes, but the glare is still orange through the lids. He sets me on unsteady feet, and I lean on him.

“Let’s get you out of the sun.”

We hobble this way or that way, I don’t bother complaining. I’m sure he gets the idea from my groans of pain. Legs quaking from circulation, skin blistered and burnt, head ringing.

Then shade. Blessed shade. And blessed water. Warm, but wet. HE only lets me drink for a few seconds.

“Not too fast, friend, you’ll get sick.”

“Thank you,” I gasp. Not so cracked, still thin. “More, please.”

Another quick sip.

I breathe for a while. It’s not so orange anymore. I blink, rub my eyes. Mistake. The eyelids are burnt, inflamed.

“Easy there,” my rescuer says, voice muffled. “You must have been caught in the blast like me. You look terrible.”

“How bad is it?”

“You won’t win any elections, but I’ve seen worse.”

“Well, it’s an honor just to be nominated.”

He chuckles. I blink again, and now I’m starting to see contrasts, dark against light. Buildings blocking out the diffused sun. A man crouched in front of me, swathed in linen wraps. His face is covered with a scarf, hood up. A pair of gloves lie in the dust next to him, by the canteen. His hands are covered in shiny pink blisters, and he’s holding some kind of spear.

“Where are we?”

“Templeton, just on the edge of Prosper Plaza. That’s Prosper Tower behind me. Well, what’s left of it.”

I lean and squint, then wince away. The tower is a jagged pillar of light, glass and steel. It’s mostly shattered and twisted, but it’s reflecting the sun all the same.

“What happened? You said there was a blast.”

He squats, hands on his knees. “You don’t remember? It was kinda hard to miss.”

“I remember the blast, but nothing else. Everything’s shuffled.”

“You probably hit your head.”

“I think I hit a lot more than my head.”

“At least you didn’t forget a sense of humor.”

“Small favors.” I give him a once over. “You’re burned all over?”

“My own mother wouldn’t recognize me. I’ll try and find you some sturdier clothes; you won’t get far in those.”

He points at my rags. Whatever pattern may have marked them is burned and blasted away, and the skin isn’t much better. The pain has subsided to a low simmer, so there’s that.

“Listen friend,” he says. “We can’t stay here very long. I’m going to go find us some supplies, and then we have to get out of the open.”

“Why?”

“We aren’t the only survivors, but most of the others aren’t as friendly or as well spoken as I am.”

“Lay off the charm, I’m not voting for you.”

He presses a gun into my hand. “Just in case.”

“I didn’t get your name.”

He extends a hand. “Abel.”

“Alex.” Before I can shake, he jerks it away. I can’t see his face, or his eyes, but I think he’s looking at the gun he just gave me. After a long moment, he takes my hand.

“I’ll be back soon. Don’t do anything foolish.”

***

Foolish. And I heard a voice calling me “Fool” before I blacked out. Might be a coincidence, might not.

I clearly mean something to him, and not in a good way. Do I have a reputation? He didn’t recognize me, but that may be thanks to the burns. Exactly how bad do I look?

Mirror. The tower has reflective stuff all over it.

What could it hurt?

Now that I’ve rested for a few minutes, I don’t feel as bad as I thought. Legs starting to feel again, eyes adjusting to the day. I survey my surroundings.

The plaza — Prosper Plaza? — is a vast hexagon surrounding the tower. Debris litters the space: smashed kiosks and wares, torn clothing and trampled food, sandstone rubble and spent coins. I pick one up, careful not to cut myself on the filed edge. One side bears a six-winged figure, the other a geometric pattern of crossing and parallel lines.

No weapons, and no bodies. Could be more than one reason for that.

And it’s quiet. No wind, no birds, no insects. Just my footsteps, cautious and tender.

Oh, I’m wearing boots. I hadn’t noticed before. Probably why my feet aren’t burning off. Gotta be grateful for the little things.

And then I see my reflection in the mirrored tower walls. I almost retch.

My face — what used to be my face — is one massive sore. Angry and bloody, inflamed with burns. If I had hair, it’s gone now. Eyebrows too. I crane closer. Yup, took the eyelashes for good measure. But my eyes, remarkably, look pretty okay. No burnt retina or red sclera, and I can open and close them without problem. Brown irises, so that’s normal. Again, little things.

Nearby, I think I see the place where Abel dug me out. A slab of concrete and rebar has been overturned. There’s a jacket lying underneath, tattered and torn. But I recognize the pattern, the crimson and sky-blue diamonds.

Mine. 

And next to it, also mine? A metal rod, engraved with a spiral design along its length like a coiled spring. There’s a holster on my belt that looks like they were meant to be to together.

Rod, jacket, and a face to my name. Not bad. And I didn’t get myself hurt on the way.

CLICK.

Damn.

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Prologue: 0. I am Fortune’s Fool

Cards.

Falling cards.

Or maybe they’re dancing, marionettes on strings.

It’s like watching cream bloom in coffee. The first memory buds out of the darkness, then the whole blossom unfurls. For all of our accomplishments in science, we can’t explain the pattern of cream in coffee. It follows its own geometry, its own physics.

Focus on the cards. 

They turn their faces to me, then their backs; they know I’m watching. These aren’t playing cards, with simple pips marking number and suit. More like tarot cards, for telling fortunes. A face here, a scene there. Objects, people, buildings, none of them familiar to me. They arrange themselves into tableaus, overlaid and reversed. Then with a breath, scattered like sand.

Well this is a shitty memory palace. Who designed this thing?

And am I in this somewhere? Which face belongs on mine? Am I the tuxedoed young magician, debonair and suave? Or the sharply dressed heiress in white and gold, smoldering and savvy? Perhaps I am the masked man, horns and spear forming an uneven crown. And as I question the deck, a consistency emerges. I see the character who recurs in more places than he should if he wasn’t important. But he looks so…silly. Do I really think that blue and red lozenges are the best fashion choice? What possessed me to wear a jacket that looks like a circus outfit? Perhaps it’s symbolic, and I play the clown in this story. Here I am dancing on a chimney, there holding someone with a blurred face in my arms, here at the head of a righteous army, there hanging from a tree by my feet, bound up by ribbons. And there I am falling from a tower, surrounded by shards of sparkling stained glass.

Or is that happening right now? 

Here I am falling from a tower, dressed in red and blue motley like an idiot, ground rushing up to say hello. It’s raining, for what that’s worth. Why does that seem unusual?

But am I the one falling, or am I standing at the crown of the tower looking down, as another man plunges to his doom? Here the rain is still, drops suspended as we tumble together. There they slice through thin and thirsty air, and I look down on their descent.

Or am I already fallen, lying on my back with the rain in my face? Who is the other in the dust beside me? Who tugs at my arms, calling a name?

Alex. My name is Alex. I can work with that.

***

I turn to the tower as I fall, and it rushes by sideways like a train behind schedule. I am not falling through time, but suspended beside it, watching it pass while I hover in the aether, holding an hourglass by the neck.

The other man twists as he falls, a clock face with arms spinning dozens of hours per second. Indigo skies above, carnelian sands below. And the rain, teal and metallic.

And then I am the victim, falling with both sky and sands on my coat of office. But so slowly! Have I passed the event horizon, or not yet reached it?

And then I am the victor, watching my rival take the express route down. Something is in my hand, something hard and sharp. A weapon? A trophy? A crown, perhaps? And a chorus from the pit below me, thousands chanting a name as they welcome me onto the throne.

Motley. Really? I guess that explains the costume.

***

Something about this feels unnatural. Not the plummet through space to my imminent death, that part seems normal. Should I be more disturbed about this? I feel tranquil; nothing holding me back, or down, or up for that matter. My knuckles are bruised, and my muscles are tense. Had I been fighting someone? Did I lose?

Too many questions. Focus on what you know to be true. 

My name is Alex Motley, apparently. I am wearing some kind of costume or uniform. I am falling through the air very quickly. It is raining in the desert. I am surrounded by memories that I do not remember.

The landscape widens, and I can see the city spinning below me, six great radial avenues spoking a municipal wheel with the tower at the center, grinding the coastline between desert and ocean, smoke coiling up like springs from patches of electric orange light before being shredded by the rain.

So the city is burning. Good to know, since I seem to be heading in that direction real fast.

At terminal velocity, the drops of rain seem as solid as the particles of glass. I turn my face to the trembling sky, clouds beating like an anxious heart.

The flash.

What was dark and steel is bright and blinding, a cascading eruption of electricity spreading across the heavens. It starts at the tower’s crown, bursting out in a web of fractal light. Bolts lance down through the air, spearing the city. The glossy black tower is filled with white fire, ripping it apart from the inside faster than I am falling. It shatters the windows, and I am pierced with lightning.

I see three skies filled with elemental wrath. In the dust looking up, on the tower looking down, and falling looking sideways. As above, so below. And in between I suppose.

The lightning passes through me. I am a conduit for power. The air goes white, and I go black. One word before I fade.

Fool.

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