Behind A Vacant Image : The Second Prologue

[Silver Eagle]

"You deserve so much more than this mere life, Little Wing. You deserve so much more than you already have. I do not understand why you would settle for second best, nor the reasons for your ever giving forgiveness to the Kaiser girl. Haven't you noticed a pattern over this dark year? Her lies, her scheming? How did you feel on your birthday, sat alone in darkest England, when she left you mere days after claiming that she loved you, to openly make love to another woman. A witch. A bitch. A harlot beyond all harlots. Were you alone? You were, in many ways. Although you did have a small cupcake for your birthday. I do so hope you enjoyed it, my skills in the kitchen are not the most masterful, but I believe it was suitable for your vegan needs.

The reason I took this path, was to to take the revenge I knew in your heart you wouldn't take. You are too pure, too special, too much of a treasure to give the righteous justice that the guilty whore of Babylon truly deserved. And so I became executioner, and thusly she was taken from your life.

I do wish that in your most angelic moment, you did not fall to the Kaiser Madness once more. You could have been free from that realm of pain and suffering. Even now, with rings on fingers and promises in hearts, minds can be changed. Minds should be changed. How long before her old ways resurface? Not long, I would hazard a guess.

But I will tell you this, if she does... What I did to the harlot will be nothing in comparison to what I do to her.

Think on it well, sweet child o'mine. There is a much brighter path to follow."

==

June 5th, 2016

We were lost. We felt divided. We felt as if every action and reaction we had on the world meant nothing at all. We left to learn. We left to be better. To be faster. To be stronger. But without a figure to aspire to, with a figure to adore, to follow, to lead… we were nothing. Even in the falsehood of following the pseudo mother, we felt as if the world was at our feet. We felt loved, we felt cherished, we felt complete. We conquered giants, we conquered monsters, we beat the best of the best and legions more. Fiona Riley fell out our hands, the woman marked as the past, the present, the future, the champion. Adored by the masses, revered by the critics, beloved the world over. Fell. We met Christian Kane and we saw Henrik Kanensson, the man behind the mask. The lover, the fighter, the mouth, the lustful. He faced us with such cock shy confidence and yet, the same. He fell. We faced Ruby Tyler, the huntress, the woman who crawled the Earth seeking to vanquish monsters for pleasure, for safety, for redemption. One by one they fell at her hands. And still, when she came for ours. Fell.

But Mother was not Mother. She was no Mother at all. A fraud. A fake. A liar. Nothing. Nothing at all. And now she sits where we sat. A cell, padded and worn and torn and more. A fitting end.

We reached out for more, we begged on hand and knee and found ourselves at the feet of champions, of leaders, revolutionaries. The finest of the finest with a wealth of knowledge, with wealth of experience, eager, willing, ready to teach. And with each passing day we learn, we learn more and more and more and yet—it is never enough. These leaders, hallowed as they are, teach us to be independent, to strive for the best, to grow in ourselves and become something more.

And yet we are the same. Yet we cannot change. Skills. Learned. Stamina. Improved. Focus. Increased. But we do not lead. We knee. They say do not knee but we wish for nothing more. Lead us. Order us. Control us. We want nothing more. And yet the Morning Star will not submit to our pleas. He pulls us apart. He screams. He curses. We cry. We work. We try. We die. We have tried to follow others; we followed the Bastard once upon a time. We aided him, we worshipped him, we brought him to our bed and we had him. And yet, in our pleasure and our triumph, he left. We were lost. We were alone. Orphan black and orphan blue and orphan me and orphan you. Tales of lust and tales of dust and tales of loss and tales of dross. We had nothing. We were nothing. Lost.

We continued our training, hoping, dreaming that we would find the answer. When training was done, we wandered. Far and wide, length and width, mile upon mile. Further and further and further we went to search, find, discover the truth, the future, the end. We found ourselves further and further away, looking upon the towns in which the dead were buried, searching for long hidden answers the rest of the world might have missed in the blink of an eye. The windows were black and barren, nothing to be seen within, orange lights illuminating the way. We found a church, once the place of worship and wisdom, and now boarded and shut to the world. Across was the centre of this lowly English town, littered with dirt and grime and treason. As we turned the corner, past closed banks and stores in the dead of night in a town as dead as night, we found illumination.

Some life still clung on in this cold and lonely town, a faint linger and the hum of Celtic music rose up from the ashes of what could have been. Drinks flowed and laughter spilled, vast smoke of grey floated from the doorways and lights of red and gold shone through. We approached the warmth, ducking the barber’s sign from across the road to seek shelter and warmth, love both honest and dishonest. Until we froze.

We had come to this place to seek the past of one, and yet we found the present of another. This town, small and cruel and dirty and rancid, was the birth of one who was and will be king, the blood of the River Blakewater flowed through their veins and so we tirelessly came to learn what it took, to see what they saw and dream what they dreamed. Yet now, fractured and torn, tearful and scorned, we did not find what we were looking for. But something else entirely. She was blonde and beautiful, harrowed and distraught, cruel yet kind. Ruby lips sipped from a glass of intoxication as they peered from the window, wondering, wanting, urging for something that we could not quite fathom. We knew her. We knew of her. We knew of her dealings and misdealing’s and misgivings and all parts and forms and urges. Some loved her, truly loved her. Others despised her, wishing death and disfigurement. We knew her brother, closely, fiercely, though she did not carry his name nor did she carry their legacy. She drew upon parchment, though it was unclear what it was. What she wanted? What she had? What she wished to discard? We did not dare move near, a million thoughts in our head asking why this would be so. Coincidence? Maybe? But yet more was answered when another walked from those halls, noise bellowing behind them.

Her thick brown hair blew in the wind, her clothes tattered and torn in the name of fashion. As the lights flickered she smiled mischievously, like she had the world at her feet without a care. She floated above the pavement, a spring, a skip, a dance in her step. We felt an urge, a calling to follow, to ignore the blonde, to ignore those eyes that would not give answers and follow the other. There was something about her, this brunette that danced upon the stone, and we felt compelled to follow. And follow we did, down the street, past light and shop and light again, As she stood before the Bank of Scotland, she fluttered with her cards, a sly smile growing more and more on her face.

“Zoey…”

The voice carried itself on the cool wind, echoing over and over again, bouncing off every hall and building. The woman raised her head, confused yet silent. All that was heard was the wind, rustling leaves and trash and debris.

“Zoey…”

From up the street, illumination. The Museum came to life with light, dancing and prancing in the dark warmth of a late spring eve. She turned, uncertain to the distraction, uncertain to her name being called. Why was she here? Why would she be here? Why would anyone be here? We didn’t understand and we felt we never, ever would. We had seen words, tweets, rants, threats and more and less and yet pairs were made and cards were dealt and here they were. A woman who should never have been here near a woman who promised never to be. And a voice. A voice in the darkness that we found ever so familiar. She stalked towards, as did we, but at a distance so we would not be noticed. As we walked the cobbled road in the darker side of Blackburn, Lancashire we saw fury and frustration, we saw opinion and imagination, we saw intrigue and inquisitiveness.

She walked through the doorway, anger upon her face, amusement on her face, fists balled and fury in her voice. “Jackie? Jackie, are you being fucking serious?” she laughed as we crept into the museum, ducking low beneath the reception desk so we would not be seen. But we had to see. We needed to see. Did fate bring us here? To be witnesses to what could and should and might not be? She screamed some more, her eyes always searching for the source of the voice. Vulgarity oozing from her voice, insults and jibes that would encourage the worst in any and all that would listen. “I told you what would happen, Jackie. You seriously want to go here? You’re pathetic,” she screamed, making it loud and clear with venom in her voice. A grin was upon her face, maliciousness in her voice and hands balled into fists. “Is this what it comes to, you controlling cunt? What ever happened to free will? She has a mind of her own, you know?”

And then darkness. A sudden abrupt darkness. There was a slam, and as we turned we saw the door to the museum was locked shut. We cowered beneath the reception desk, grunts and groans resounding in the old Victorian building. She called out the Bastard’s name once more, twice more, three times more. But all she heard was song. “Well, she's walking through the clouds, with a circus mind that's running wild.” Through the darkness we saw the whites of her eyes, prancing left and right as she called out for the Bastard once more. “Butterflies and Zebras, and Moonbeams and fairy tales. That's all she ever thinks about is riding with the wind.” The voice was robotic, with a hint of sadness, like it came from a synthesizer as opposed to a human being. “When I'm sad, she comes to me, with a thousand smiles she gives to me free. It's alright, she says it's alright she says… take anything you want from me. Anything.”

“You think this is scaring me, Jackie? So what if your friend is upset, it’s not like they were official. And Sophie came to me, not the other way around. Like I care what people think. Now if you wanna fight, let’s fight. Enough of the games, Jackie.”

“I’m not Jackie…”


There was a thud, a slam, a gasp from the darkness. All we saw was shapes. A shape of this woman throwing hands in defence and the shape of a shadow in the midst of attack. There was coughing and spluttering, and a vicious crack. “Every action has a reaction, Zoey,” came the voice again, an alien tone baring no emotion. The woman fell near us, her head cracking the desk and we cowered behind it, ensuring we were not seen nor heard. We dared not breathe as this wraith manifested itself, a hand gripping the broken woman’s throat and throttling her. “It is not necessarily what you did with her that has justified my wrath; it takes two to tango after all.” She was thrown across the room like a rag doll, light emitting from the suddenly alive television screens that littered the room with white noise, the light bringing life to the flock of taxidermy birds that peered out from glass cages. “It is because you openly flaunted it. You tried to justify your theft with a sympathy card with the face of innocence, claiming no wrong doing, and you threw it in their face like I will throw you now.”

We saw the shadow, moving, turning, twirling, dancing. We could not make out size or shape, we could not tell whether it was man or woman or beast. It wrapped it’s arms around the sacrificial lamb and fell back, hurling through the glass casing with a thunderous crash. Feathers flew and coated her as if she was covered in tar, scratches and cuts appearing on her bewildered features and moisture developing in her eyes. “But most of all, you were proud. Proud of your gluttony. Proud of your lust. You were envious of what someone else had, so you decided to take it for yourself, even though hours before you held another in your tainted arms… and your wrathful bragging broke the heart of one I care for deeply. Your greed will be paid for, and your slothful ignorance has led you here. Seven deadly sins. All must be accounted for.” We felt her fear. We felt her grief. We felt her helplessness and we shared it too. “But most of all, you broke a little girl’s heart, just when it seemed she had finally found a semblance of happiness. Finding you in this town with her by your side has only justified my judgement. The jury has spoken, and I’m here to carry out your sentence.” The shadow was gone again, mixing in with the darkness like a chameleon. The woman lay there, quaking and shaking and hurting with pain, so much pain.

“W-who are you? Show yourself!” she defiantly screamed, as if it was her final words, one last request at the gates of Hades himself.

“I’m the fucking tooth fairy.” A hand, coated in thick, black leather reached from the plane of darkness and gripped her front teeth, plucking them from her gums with ease. She coughed blood and fell face down to the floor as eyes of crimson and fire stared upon her, the robotic voice, stiff and emotionless tearing a hole through her. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while. Those pictures you post with that goofy look on your face always irritated me.” The shadow’s face, or what should be a face, or what could be a face peered out at her, shrouded with a mask as dark as midnight but those eyes… those eyes brought fear and terror and reckoning. It tossed the teeth back to her, letting them rest on her chest. “The girl is of my blood, and her eyes are of great importance. I cannot allow them to be tearful. This, I want you to understand.”

The shadow lunged out with a boot and we saw the woman’s face fly backwards towards the last remaining glass cabinet, stuffed birds of white and black and silver casting glances at her. “I could kill you now, though it would not bring any pleasure. I am aware of another who would take joy from such an action, so I will leave it to them. But remember this…Whatever action you take from this day forth, if any of them cause harm to the Songbird, whether physically, verbally or mentally… We will meet again. And I will bring you peace.” The shadow gripped the cabinet, pulling it down upon her with a ferocious shattering of glass. “Fly on little wing,” it sang.

As light returned to the world, the door was opened. We raised our heads to see the aftermath, the barely breathing woman now unconscious upon the floor, laying in a bed of feathers and broken glass, of dead birds and bruises, of blood and tears. There was no shadow, there was no one, nothing. We looked down at her with admiration, with pity, with shame, with lust. Such an experience. Such violence. Such justice. Such a crime. “We see you,” we said in unison, and we reached for our phones and dialled for aid for poor, broken Zoey Adler.