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CHAPTER SEVEN
RESPITE
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“The third demon of the Redcoats goes by the name ‘Patriot,’ which is ironic considering it’s another traitor. Staff Sergeant Mason Holloway had been a Marine deployed in Syria during Ray Day, and since then, it’s somehow made it back to the city it’d been raised in. Frankly, it’s impossible to mistake for anybody else. Patriot’s huge. ‘Bald, Black, and Built like a Brick Wall,’ according to the few surviving troops who’d served in its unit. Even then, it was apparently a monster. Now it has inviolable skin that can withstand all forms of physical damage. The demon is also exceptionally strong for its kind and seems to gain strength from absorbing force, but if exposed to gaseous neurotoxins for a prolonged period of time, can be worn down. Fortunately, Patriot rarely shows itself compared to its allies, so you’re least likely to encounter it on patrol. If you do, contact HQ for reinforcements, engage with delaying tactics only, and constantly remain moving. Otherwise, it’ll run you down and crush your tempered armor like a bull in a china shop. Supposedly, praying out loud might help pacify it too. Yes. Seriously. I mean… it is a demon.”
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As soon as I’m inside and the door slams behind me, the first thing I try to do is stab Treatise in his chest. Why? Why not? He even opened up his arms for it!
Not that it matters. Eagle’s knife stops just short, and not because of Treatise’s power. My entire body is briefly encased in a shell of dark pink light, as well as the tempered blade, although the weapon remains sealed and effectively dulled after my shell melts, allowing my arms to fall back to my sides. My limbs feel heavy, as if my muscles had all grown tired from bearing the shell’s weight.
Treatise drops his arms and clicks his tongue disappointedly. “It seems you’ve already uncovered Speakeasy’s first and most important rule: ‘No Violence.’ Every patron of this fine establishment is forbidden from harming others within the premises. Repeated attempts to violate this rule can, and by that I mean will, result in the offending person being ejected rather unceremoniously. Where? I don’t know exactly, but I doubt you’ll end up somewhere favorable to your circumstances.” Then he points to a sign hanging on the wall that says much of the same, albeit more complex and borderline clinical in language.
In wonder, I ask: “Speakeasy?”
“The child I mentioned,” Treatise sighs. “This is her Miracle. You can think of it as an isolated metaphysical domain created and controlled solely by her. Also a safe place to hide from the Martians and meet other Reborn. Technically it’s run by the one who brought us together in the first place, but he’s rarely ever here. Once he knows you exist, however, he’ll insist on meeting you. Oh! And this place is only open when the sun is up, for obvious reasons, so you’ll need to find your own shelter for the night.”
I gaze around the prettily decorated hideaway and blink in disbelief. The room is tall and wider than it's long; its walls, ceiling, floor, and doors all made of the same polished ebony wood. A lone red velvet carpet splits the bar in two, pointing me at the long glass counter across the room and the silk gray-white curtain hanging over a portal behind it. On both sides, a half dozen short marble tables flanked by sleek leather couches and matching sofa chairs are laid out with colorful silk cushioned booths lining the perimeter and nestled in the room’s corners. Unlit brass chandeliers dangle above each table, yet everything is equally bathed in a pleasant dim pink light, leaving not one shadow in any of the visible nooks and crannies. It feels like I've stepped into a dream.
“Before you get your hopes up,” Treatise begins saying, “you probably won’t ever get to meet her. Moonshine is very protective of the girl, and she’s not especially trusting herself. I’m fairly certain she doesn’t even trust me, and that’s saying a lot.” As if he’s some obviously trustworthy person.
The man I presume to be Moonshine grunts as he steps into the bar from the white-gray curtain. “Indeed. And there’s a reason for that, Treatise. I don’t trust you. As far as I know, none of us do. The Big Man vouches for you, sure, but after what—three months?—we still know next to nothing about you. We only tolerate you because you follow the rules and help keep the peace. Mostly,” he finishes, giving me a cursory glare.
Treatise staggers back and clutches his chest, as if the Reborn bartender had done what I couldn’t and stabbed him. “Moon Man! Don’t say that! You wound me! We’re friends!”
Moonshine shakes his head, then looks me in the eyes and gestures me over to the bar. At first glance, he seems like an average, middle-aged white man—an inch or two shy of six feet tall with a straight back, short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, an itty bitty pot belly, and thin wiry limbs—though he’s dressed like a proper, pre-Apocalypse doctor, which to me seems a bit unusual considering he’s supposedly the bartender. His lower face is covered with a gray-white surgical mask, patterned like the surface of our once moon—R.I.P. Luna—that also happens to match his sunken gray eyes. Although they don’t look even remotely alike, I can’t help but think of my father. Maybe it’s the way Moonshine squints at me, almost worriedly, and shrinks down to equalize our heights.
“You must be the new girl,” he says, momentarily breaking eye contact to glance over my tattered, blood-soaked military coat. “I’m… sorry. You’re so young. Too young for any of this. You have my sincerest condolences.”
“I—” I start, unable to find the proper words. “Thank you,” I eventually mumble after wiping my eyes.
“As Treatise was starting to inform you,” he continues, “you’re welcome to stay here and use our facilities so long as you don’t break our most important rule. Otherwise, I only ask that you keep profanity to a minimum, in case my daughter is listening. She knows not to eavesdrop unless I call for her, but I’m sure you know how curious, and rebellious, young children can be. In fact, I think she’s doing so this very second…”
I nod my head dazedly, but the only word on my mind is ‘daughter.’ I’m so distracted by the idea that I barely notice the room begin to tremble, causing the glass containers under the counter to softly tinkle like wind chimes.
“I… have some clothes you can borrow. I’ll need to find and unpack them first, but should it please you, Steph can prepare a bath or a shower for you to wash off all that blood in the meantime. Just let her know your preference.”
I never stopped nodding. “Steph?”
Moonshine smiles. “I’m Morris, by the way. Or Dr. Jameson if you think it suits me better. I’m not a fan of the entire concept of ‘Epithets,’ personally. Reborn or not, I’m still my mother’s son. She always knew best.”
That last bit hits me like an ice-cold splash of water. It hadn’t been so long ago that I thought and felt the same about my mother.
I push my rage and regret down, burying it deep inside with my envy. “Doctor?”
“That’s right. For over a decade before Ray Day. At risk of stepping too far, I truly do recommend cleaning yourself up. Our kind doesn’t usually get sick, due to our remade physiologies, but I firmly believe there are more benefits to clean water on skin than just looking or smelling fresh.” He even pinches his nose as he delivers the last point, then switches to tapping one of his temples.
Message received.
“Honestly, a shower sounds amazing right now. Please. And thank you!”
I’m not forcing enthusiasm just to be polite, either. I need this. So badly.
Dr. Jameson points me to a door far across the room on my left with a bathroom sign. “That will take you to a private restroom. Enjoy, Ms…?”
“Rosenthal. Or Bethany. But my friends also call me Rosie.”
Dr. Jameson smiles widely, almost like he finds something funny, then politely waves for me to move along and for someone else to step up behind me.
I’d completely forgotten about Treatise. Why did he have to be the one to find me?
As I walk parallel with the bar to avoid the scattered furniture, I hear a sliver of their conversation. “So what can I get you, Treatise?”
“Just a glass of water, thanks. It’s too early in the morning to get ’shined. Ain’t that right, Patriot!?”
In the booth at the left corner of the glass counter—slumped across a large, square table of red mahogany—a veritable giant of a man grunts and grumbles in his sleep with a quarter empty crystal decanter in one of his bear-sized hands. The liquid inside the decanter glows with ruddy, maroon light that’s not far off from the color of his old fashioned military coat. I don’t know how I failed to notice him on my own. Did I mention he’s giant?
Eventually, Treatise sighs. “Nah. He’s probably right. Mix me something bright and fruity, thank you. Wouldn’t mind a bite either. Still got burgers?”
I can’t help but freeze just as I reach the bathroom door. Did he just say burgers? I haven’t eaten a proper burger in years!
“It so happens that Willow and I met up last night for a trade. I even have some more exotic ingredients, like mushrooms and jalapeños, if you’re interested—”
“Mushrooms!?” Treatise exclaims. “Say less!”
After a moment, Dr. Jameson clears his throat. “And what about you, Ms. Rosie?”
So he’d caught me lingering. Treatise looks too, wearing a smug grin as he leans on the counter.
“Uhm. A burger would be incredible. Do you have… Spinach? Pickles? Cheese?”
Both of them nod in unison. “Yes on all counts,” the doctor says. “Anything else?”
I want to ask them how, but I feel awkward with my palm already on the bathroom door and just nod. “All that and jalapeños. As many as you can spare. Please.”
“It should be ready whenever you are. Feel free to take all the time you want or need. Steph will keep it optimally warm if you’re late.”
I nod, pull the door open, and quickly close it behind me.
As soon as I do, I fall onto my ass, pull up my knees and lean back, then start bawling into my hands.
This place is like heaven. Paradise. It’s hard to believe somewhere like this exists. It’s everything I’ve dreamed of since our world fell into ruin, like a perfectly preserved piece of the once wondrous human civilization. And, as far as I can tell, it’s not the least bit demonic.
Finally, the full weight of that crashes into me. The MSA really has been lying. My life and my identity, my hopes and my dreams… everything that makes me me… really has been founded on lies…
I cry, and cry, and cry until I can’t stand crying, then stand up and stumble across the floor like a girl who can’t find her glasses. The room shifts as I move, leading me up to the suddenly running shower. The water is so warm and so clean, so I peel off this pathetic excuse for a jacket and cry, and cry, and cry until I’m numb and empty. Until all of the blood, sweat, and tears on my skin have long circled down the drain. I may have been in here crying for minutes, hours, or days and wouldn’t tell the difference; my perception of time is blurry. After a while, I feel like every fiber of my body and each synapse in my brain has been squeezed out and spent on the sole act of crying. I don’t stop then either. If anything, it only makes me cry harder.
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I need to let it out. Need to process what I’ve been through. Not just tonight, but the last two years. I need to feel the pain and grief now so I can keep a cool head for whatever the hell I decide to do next. No matter how long it takes.
Dr. Jameson is right. By the end of my mental breakdown, I feel lighter. Freer. Like a heavy weight has been eased a bit off of my shoulders and my spirit has been partially cleansed.
As if knowing I’m done, the shower abruptly stops working and I get blasted with a furiously hot whirlwind. It startles me enough to yelp, which seems to dispel it—
Nope. Just done. My body and my hair are now as dry as hay.
Honestly, I’m straight-up dumbfounded. A child is doing this? I thought of my power as incredible, but this is next level. Magical, even.
Life changing.
For the first time, I really look around the bathroom. It’s… opulent. Like ‘5 Star Hotel Penthouse Suite’ or ‘Ancient British Royalty Estate’ opulent. I’m talking ‘everywhere you look there’s marble, silver, gold, and sparkling gemstones’ opulent. I think garish is the proper word, closer to a child’s imagination of a fancy bathroom than a real one. At least the clothes laid on top of the random solid gold throne look relatively normal.
A pair of thick black sweatpants with stretchy cuffs to warm the ankles; a dark pink, long-sleeved shirt; a black pullover hoodie with a small zipper under the neck to open a bit of space; fuzzy socks the color of grass; and a pair of black high-top work boots. Nondescript and practical with a hidden splash of color. Conveniently, it’s my style.
I dress quickly, then look myself over in the mirror. At first, I had assumed the clothes belonged to the doctor, but they’re definitely tailored for a woman. It hides my curves with ease and is exceptionally comfortable.
It also doesn’t have any pockets. The bane of pre-apocalypse women’s clothing.
I find Eagle’s knife on the floor by the door—its shell gone but covered in blood—and wash it in a big ivory sink with a colorful mosaic of jewels embedded in the basin. I’m sure that Speakeasy could have confiscated it or kept it dull if she wanted, but it seems that either she or her father decided to extend me a bit of trust. Not wanting to break it, I tuck the tempered steel blade at the small of my back, between the sweatpants elastic waistband, and conceal it beneath the hoodie.
The time for violence is over. At least for a short while. For now, I can finally relax.
I open the door and walk through a rosy portal, back into the metaphysical bar. I smell my burger before I see it, and my tongue starts aching for a taste of real beef. Even the lowest possible quality would severely outshine my post-apocalypse diet of artificially preserved vegetables, old MREs, and lab-grown ‘sham.’ Even with a swift glance from across the room, I can tell this particular specimen is perfect. Its fluffy gold buns and juicy brown patties almost make me start crying again—
As does the realization of where it’s currently sitting.
“Took your time,” Treatise says, rising from the same table that Patriot is passed out on and waving me toward them. “Again. Keeping me waiting is starting to become a thing. I don’t like it.”
His own burger lays unbitten on a plate next to mine, and the neon pink drink beside it is still filled to the brim.
I approach cautiously, eyes flickering between the Redcoats’ faces. “I didn’t ask you to wait for me. That’s your own damn fault. And can we sit elsewhere?”
“Oof. Excuse me for being polite. And what’s wrong with this table?”
He can’t be serious.
He blinks like he is.
“So do you want the inside or the outside?” he asks, pointing at the half of the booth not occupied by a pillar of muscle.
“Neither,” I say, reaching around him for my burger.
He steps aside and sighs. “That wasn’t one of the options…”
Then he commands: “Patriot. Scoot over.”
With a grumble, the unconscious giant slides a bit closer to the wall.
“All the way.”
Patriot grunts as his body is shoved into the wall. Still, he doesn’t awaken.
“Thank you,” Treatise says, plopping down and making himself comfortable on the remaining edge of the booth. Then he looks me in the eye and asks: “Is this better?”
“Not really,” I scoff. “I never said I wanted to join your little terrorist group. I only came in here with you for answers, starting with what happened to my brother.”
“First off, we’re not terrorists. Like you, we’re just victims of an extremely corrupt system that happened to band together in hopes of fighting back. Second, I promised to answer everything I can, but that comes with an obvious catch. Not everything is mine to share, and you need another Redcoat to verify my side of the story anyway.”
I think about that for a moment, but my hands are grabbing my plate already.
While I do, Treatise keeps running his mouth. “Honestly, I took a big risk bringing you here. At first, I thought that Moonshine might eject us both, the way he glared at me and said all those terrible, untruthful things. But it seems he took a liking to you quickly. Either him or his daughter.”
At her mention, I finally sit down and stare at Treatise over my mouth-watering meal. “What can you tell me about her?”
Treatise hems and haws, even as he’s obviously holding back a smile, and glances around the bar. Moonshine had apparently returned to whatever room lies behind the silky gray-white curtain. Eventually, Treatise meets my eyes and leans over the table.
“Well, her name is Stephanie, which you’ll find out why is funny later. She’s also not Moonshines’ flesh and blood daughter. They’re from Atlantic City. Met a few weeks after Ray Day and have been practically inseparable ever since. Like most of us, they were eventually found by that Reborn I mentioned. He’s… eccentric, might be the best word for it… but he’s also responsible for helping us understand what we actually are. Also for most of the terminology, like Epiphanies and Epithets. Even gave Moonshine and Speakeasy theirs when founding this quaint little hideaway. He’s got a few, but we usually call him Benefactor. Or Big Man, when he’s not around. He’s… a character… but like all of us, he despises the MSA. For the most part, he’s too busy to give direct orders, but he always comes bearing gifts and actionable intel. Because of him, there’s a chance our kind may someday be organized enough to overthrow the Commandant. Oh! And Stephanie is ten or eleven years old. I forget exactly.”
I’m not even mad that Treatise ended up rambling halfway through my question. This Benefactor sounds important.
Also probably insane or delusional, if he thinks he can topple the Pentagon. I’d spent a year of my life staring at that thrice-tempered monstrosity of a fortress, dreaming of being one of the thousands of Martians roaming the walls and guarding the perimeter. I’m not even sure a nuclear bomb could destroy it. Especially after witnessing several powerful demons try, only to be killed on the spot or captured—
No. Not demons. Reborn like me.
“And that’s about the limit of what I’m comfortable with or authorized to say. You’ll have to learn more from them directly. Assuming you decide to stick around and help out.”
Not sure what to say, I look down at my burger. “Can we eat first? In silence? No eye contact?” I don’t want to verbalize it, but I want time to really think about this.
Treatise nods eagerly and glances at his meal, far out of his reach. “Patriot. Hand me my plate, right there in front of you—”
Patriot’s hand lashes out and casts the plate straight onto Treatise’s lap, painting him in bright condiments and grease oil. To his credit, he doesn’t even flinch. “I probably deserved that.”
Napkins fall down from the ceiling around him like snowflakes, and he catches them from the air to wipe himself clean. “Thanks for looking out, Pipsqueak.”
At that, a stream of water sprays him in the face, as if from an invisible hose. “I’m sorry!” he chokes out, shielding his face with two fistfuls of napkins. “I meant to say, Ms. Stephanie! I swear!”
The water vanishes instantly. Miraculously, none of it splatters on me. I couldn’t help but cradle my plate like a baby anyway.
While Treatise cleans himself off and reconfigures the soggy remains of his burger, I start digging into mine ravenously.
It’s so… fucking… delicious!
Also so unbearably spicy that not even a quarter through, I’m desperately reaching for a glass and guiding it to my lips—
“Don’t!” Treatise yells just before I can take a sip. “That’s mine. It won’t be good for you.” He knocks on the table while I sweat and cry. “Can she get some water, please?”
A glass of ice-cold water manifests in front of me, which Treatise quickly switches his glowing pink drink with. “Release!”
I gulp the water down so fast that I trigger a drowning reflex and start gasping, “Milk would…be better!” Before I realize it, I catch a whiff of dairy and start chugging. The burning sensation recedes and I fall back in my seat, wiping a streak of milk off my lips. “How the heck is any of this possible?”
To my surprise, it’s Dr. Jameson who answers. I hadn’t seen him appear at the corner of his glass counter. “My daughter doesn’t create matter. That would be too convenient. Everything in here was brought in from the outside. Things we’ve found, traded for, or been provided by our Benefactor. A lot of it is floating outside these walls in empty space, but Steph can move anything in an instant just by picturing it. She likes to call this realm her Dream Playhouse. This is one of two rooms that’s got a fixed layout.”
“The other being the Big Man’s office,” Treatise points out unprompted. “The rest is rearranged as needed.”
I don’t know what to say other than, “I see…”
Both allow me to finish my burger in peace with the instructions to knock when I need more milk. By the time I’m done, Moonshine is gone again, as well as Treatise’s plate. He’s got a very unsatisfied look on his face. I’m not sure if he even ate and his drink is still full.
“What is that?” I ask, pointing at the glowing pink concoction.
“It’s alcohol, innit? Just… shinier.”
I glare at him until his grin retreats.
“Moonshine’s Miracle,” he explains. “He can imbue liquids with his power to do… well, a lot of different things. Very complicated process, from what I understand, and it requires various unusual resources. Blood is the only real constant. This drink used mine to make it compatible. For anyone but Moonshine and I, it’d end up making you sick in ways you could never dream to fathom—”
CRASH!
Everyone but Patriot jumps when the front door slams itself open, revealing a huge—I don’t know what to call it, factory?—with a random assortment of furniture scattered around rows and piles of machinery. Eerily, there’s no one on the other side. It takes me a few seconds to notice a trail of smoldering blood on the ground, starting from a foot away and leading toward the heart of the building. It takes a few more to realize it’s literally melting through the cement.
Not just any blood then. I recognize who it belongs to from my patrol briefings. Scarlet.
Muffled explosions sound off, seemingly coming from above. The rooftop? That must be Musket.
This can’t be good.
As if reading my thoughts, Treatise echoes: “This can’t be good. I’d thought Scar and Musk were just running late, but…” He trails off, looking at the slumbering giant. “Ey Pat! Wake up! Our base appears to be under attack!” By the end of it, he starts shaking the man like a tree. “Mason! Do you hear me? Your team needs you!”
Still, Patriot doesn’t so much as stir.
Treatise finally collects himself and rises, picks up and chugs his entire drink, then walks a few steps away, spins around, and inhales a deep breath. “Mason ‘The Brick Wall’ Holloway—Wake up this instant!”
As his power leaves him, Treatise staggers on his feet. For his part, Patriot grunts and seizes in his seat.
Eventually, Patriot’s convulsions stop. The giant still doesn’t rouse or rise, though he does begin snoring.
“Well that sucks,” Treatise sighs. “Just my problem. Fun,” he huffs, he turns on his heel, and starts walking for the door.
“What problem?” Moonshine asks while hurrying to meet him at the entrance.
Before I know it, I’m standing and following them along. Treatise looks both of us in the eyes and halts us with a grin.
“Whatever it is, I’ll handle it. Just… wait and watch the door, yeah?”
I nod as I reach for the knife at the small of my back. Treatise draws his pistol shortly after. Even Moonshine clenches a glowing vial.
“I’ll be back soon,” Treatise says, stepping through the portal and striding alongside the trail of molten blood. “Real funny prank, Fanie!” he yells out. Nothing but his voice echoes back as he wanders deeper, gazing at his surroundings. Near the center, he looks around a large machine and halts, rigidly lifting his pistol. “Come out from wherever you’re hiding!” he shouts, then wheels around to face us. Though he doesn’t meet either of our eyes, I can see his begin to bulge as he starts to take aim and—
CRASH!
The door slams itself shut, and judging from the doctor’s loud gasp, not because of his daughter. Because someone on the other side had closed it.
What the hell is going on now?