#chap. 2

It’s just a piece, just a part but it has a charge. A charge I didn’t give it. I know why as I continue on. Because ectoplasm drips down the walls here, there’s a pool of it on the floor. Radioactive green with hints of a strange unnatural purple. It’s still sentient at least, though I’m unsure if that’s what’s best for it or not. There’s a collar floating in it, with absolute certainty that is a piece of it that needs to be saved. Touching the ectoplasm I can sense that it knows me and I know it. I can not help but cry, though I must make no sound. Through everything, he was a good boy and I’m certain that through this he was good till the bitter end. But I came to late, again too late, always too late. Why were you here! How were you here! You shouldn’t be here! I refuse to speak, who knows who or what could hear. I can’t get caught, get destroyed because I grieved with sound. He wouldn’t want that and they can’t afford that. I will take what I can, every part and set him to sail to the happiness he deserves. Somehow this hits harder than every human I’ve failed, dead humans become ghosts; they come back. But ghosts? They don’t. It’s sad, humans are the ones who seek finality but ghosts are the ones who have to face it.

As I walk along further I realize the metal ghost’s here, he’s never been friendly. That part, the one that worked, was his for sure. I can’t say I’m glad to see him but my displeasure turns to concern, he used to look ok and happy. He doesn’t now. He’s angry, unstable, corrupted somehow. He moves in jerks, green and purple ectoplasm drips from the holes and cracks in his suits. He would never let his suit get into this state, and he would never pass up an opportunity to show me a new weapon. And yet he just did, I think I know what happened to my dog. Ghosts I can deal with, ghosts are easy. This wasn’t a ghost, not anymore, this was a hollow shell of a ghost. Words are written all over his suit, but I have no chance to read them.

He fires and burns me, it’s been too long. I forget this game and dance but some things never die. Swerving, sweeping and spinning in the air, we go at each other like a wild dance. One rehearsed so many times but never grew old, for either of us. I manage to fend him off but this corruption, whatever’s eating him, is killing him. The more I fight him the more I can tell, the more I fight him the more he dies. I just can’t. I can’t do that. I exist so others may survive, regardless of who. So you better live damn it, I let him fling me with the whip of a taser out across tree lines; back the way I came.

I regain consciousness to shouts and jeers, they’re above me. I know they are. Who or what I don’t really know, I can’t take the time to find out. Move. Now.

I shoot straight through the roof, flying up. I don’t look down. Thankfully I had long since gotten used to keeping everything I couldn't leave behind, physically tied to my body somehow. Most of the ropes have been there so long they’ve dug deep enough into my skin that skin has formed over top. I’ll have to cut it out when this is all over, if it’s ever over. Which I’m sure it will be, in time. All things in time. They throw things at me as I go, which means I know who they are. Humans, likely my parents have gathered some others up to hunt me, to hurt me, to make me pay. I’d be fine with paying their payments if it didn’t mean my death. That’s the only payment they’ll accept.

I fly through hallways sweeping and turning, I try to avoid using my intangibility as much as possible, might mess up my trinkets. Can’t have that, one might actually work now or in the future; I don’t know. As I whip by I spot some human, clearly barely 20. I don’t hesitate, I just keep moving. Moving is better, for both of us. I don’t know if the humans would kill another human just for being friendly to the “enemy”, they might. I can feel his eyes watching me go, they don’t feel hateful. That’s the first time in years I have felt a regular humans stare being non-hateful. It’s jarring actually, you get really used to the way people treat you, look at you, speak to you; over time. Whether it’s filled with hate or love; for the longest time it’s been nothing but hate. That’s ok though, I’m sure it’s ok, completely ok. The jarring sensation has the negative side effect of causing me to smack my head into a wall. But I have to ignore the minor pain, I’ve had far worse. This is just a blimp on the pain rollercoaster of life. The person watching laughs or snickers, whether that’s at my pain or out of genuine humour; I do not know. It’s probably best if I give it no thought anyways.

If they start liking me again, if they start asking for my help again; I won’t say no. I won’t turn away, if anything will be the death of me it’s that. So I don’t think about even one possibly beginning to like me. No, never. I’d go back.

I’m going back.

Why did the boy have to look at me? Why did one, just one, have to be nice? I was right before, human morals fall to the wayside in times like this. They saw me of course, they had traps of course, and I didn’t fight back of course. But I don’t just sit and take it, no, if there’s anything I’ve become an expert at it’s coming out ok when I’m completely and utterly screwed and beaten in every single imaginable way. I sigh bitterly as I busy myself with my work, needle in a steady hand slowly doing the delicate work of reattaching my leg. I lost it for a bit. Just a little bit, no big deal. Though I didn’t find my toes, but things grow back. I don’t have time to look for them, I have other things to look for. I haven’t found the mans left hand yet.

It was nice, a warm feeling, that boy standing up for me. Guess he saw what others didn’t. Maybe I should be clumsy in front of people more often. I didn’t get to savour the warm feeling this time, though. The minute he stood up for me, didn’t blame me, didn’t hurt me; he became an "other" to them. Like wolves, they turned and fumed. Churning him up in their refusal of him. It took me too long to get out of the bear traps to stop them. So I’ll save his parts and I’ll both thank and curse him for his small kindness. I like to think I don’t need reminders why I am theirs, why my very existence will always be theirs. But I do. It’s not to remember that truth but rather to feel contentment with that truth. Whether I hate it or love it I am theirs, I’d rather be content about it. Though I miss when I loved every second of it.

With this in mind, I head back to the subway. Filled with nothing but mental begging and pleading that I am met by an attack and not silence. Don’t let it be silence.

It’s silence.

I find his suit, smears of ectoplasm everywhere and not a movement to be found. I remove the head, radioactive green tainted purple drips out and I know. I don’t want to know, but I know. So I reattach the head and sit, allow the grief. If only for now. Eventually, I lift my head, I have to examine his suit and the writing. It may be important and no one can afford me to miss anything, ever. I’ve missed too many things already, I don’t know how I could be forgiven for everything I’ve missed. But I swear I won’t miss this. And I don’t. It takes time and I have to wipe away all the ectoplasmic mess, which pains me to do. But I can read it, all of it; and it’s not pretty.

Dear Hero, We know you will find this, hunters do what hunters do. He will find you, eventually. The fall is destroying the earth, and us along with it. There is nothing we can do but stave off pollution in solitude. We can not help you. But you are different, you, a halfa, are immune. Like humans. You will survive. Survive and fix this, fix us. This suit is loaded with everything any of us could think of, use it. Be the hero.

The suit is signed by nearly every name I know, and I have a sinking feeling that those who didn’t sign. Didn’t sign, not because they didn’t want to but because the could not. They did not lie though, the suit is packed with so much. I find myself unsure of where to begin but I don’t have time.

There’s so much more now, I knew, I always knew, that I was fighting and continuing on for everyone else. For humans and ghosts. But having that confirmed so explicitly and to know that there are casualties I didn’t even know could be casualties to this. Is horrid, to say the least, and the ghosts I can’t save any part of them. I can’t go there, if I do, I won’t get back. I know that I’ll either be destroyed by polluted ghosts or I won’t be able to make myself stop trying to help them there. The only way I can help them is to stay away, just like with humans; just stay away. I’ll just have to be satiated with the plan of going there when this is all over, save whatever and whoever I can then. Not now, but then. Looking down at the metal corpse I carry, I can’t bring myself to feel hope through the loss.

Once I’ve gotten where I’m going. I realize that in my thoughts, weighted mind with grief and gravity, I went somewhere with little underground cover. Not the smartest idea but what’s done is done. I make sure to fly low and slow, doing my best to not let a single thing hit, dent or mark the metal suit. I settle on the floor of the second story of a building. Quickly getting to my work, I’m sure that something they gave me must be able to make this ball thing able to work in some way. I still don’t know what this will even do, I still don’t care. Just do something, anything. And in my tinkering, I can't help but reread "Be the hero". I will, I promise I will, I always do, I don’t know anything else.

The first thing I make is a shoulder piece, it doesn’t serve much purpose but having those words so close to my face. Means that if my memory ever goes I won’t forget that one thing. I’ll read it every day and I’ll continue to work. Always.

Sound catches my ear. One of the humans deserted the group, which is how I found out they’re still tracking me. Lead, of course, by mother dearest. Sighing, they must have a ghost tracker of some kind. That’s fine though, if they follow me around then I can shove them out of the way of danger more easily. I’ll take the hit, no worries. Whatever it is. Staring down at the human deserter, I’m honestly not quite sure what they’re doing. Only one floor down you’d think it would be obvious but no. It doesn’t take them long to spot me, honestly though it took longer than I would have liked. You need to pay more attention to your surroundings girl! I don’t bother saying it though. Would be a wasted breath, always is.

She considers me for a moment, I get it, she’s like the boy. Young, easier to adapt, more used to the fall than the time before. Maybe 25 at most I suppose. She offers me what’s she’s holding, thinking a little I understand it’s an apple. A fresh apple. How? This knowledge alone means my hope must be true. Somewhere someone has grown food. Somewhere someone has chosen to thrive, this fallen world be damned. Though that understanding brings with it a realization, one I don’t welcome, the girl was eating. And I hadn’t known what that was.

She pulls me from my thoughts by standing and offering it more closely. Without question I take it. I must know where this came from, how it was grown, who grew it, why they grew it? This silly apple is hope in the palm of my hands, her hands. She looks confused now and is simply pointing at the apple then my mouth. So I eat it, immediately I regret my lack of food. It’s like an explosion to a mouth that hasn’t had anything for years. But I only smile, wherever this girl’s from I hope she goes back. It’s worth being there, for her, not me. I’ve still got work to do. Always more work, till there’s no more work to be done. Till there’s no one left to save. Then I’ll allow someone to save me. Only then.