Eyes Of Sun And Moon, II



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Scene Title Eyes of Sun and Moon, II
Synopsis It's happening again.
Date December 16, 2011

A single spot of red stands sharp against a field of eggshell white. Slowly, it deforms, taking on an egg-like ovoid shape, and then drools a thin line down from its bottom curve.

All that you touch

It is one droplet of blood, a single droplet on a refrigerator bare of any magnets or menus, neither drawings nor decorations cover its surface. The line of blood rolls down the smooth door, disappears in the gap between freezer and refrigerator. Down on the floor, a body lays on cold tile. A flannel shirt is stained black with blood, denim pants are torn, and she's missing a shoe. Brown hair is matted to her head, skull bashed in and pink meat like spilled hamburger across the floor.

All that you see

The green formica table is flipped over on its side, metal legs bent. Broken ceramic litters the floor, shards of plates scattered everywhere with silverware making a constellation of violence. He is slouched up against the countertop nearby, broken cups laying at either of his side, every knife in the house perforating his body at different angles like a rendition of the Wound Man from Johannes de Ketham's Fasciculus Medicinae. He sits in a several foot wide circle of dark blood that contrasts the black and white tile floor.

All that you taste

In the doorway they are broken and twisted, their dark suits ripped where bone protrudes from cloth. One is twisted around at the torso so as to be able to look at his own backside. Their faces are crushed down to the back-side of their skulls, the carpet in the living room is black with their life. Some still twitch, the last vestiges of a dying nervous system. Their guns were useless, bullet holes around the door frame and some in their own bodies where the blood is darkest.

All you feel

He is impaled on a broken banister railing, two pieces of wood sticking out of his chest. His dark suit is, too, stained red with blood that is more visible at the crisp white of his dress shirt. Someone is screaming in his ear piece, a tinny howl of a voice crying up from the depths to a mind that has been emptied of thought. He stares vacantly at the ceiling, one final look of horror spread across his face. The tranquilizer gun at his side lays in a pool of his blood.

All that you love

Behind the overturned couch, he lays in the doorway of the basement stairs. Smoke still rises off of his body, tiny embers lifting up with flakes of ash carried on hot air rising from blackened flesh. Golden firelight crackles inside an empty ribcage, and there is no way to tell you who he was. They will need to do that by his teeth, later, after the confusion has died down and it is time for questions. His gun is a few steps down the stairs, drooping and molten.

All that you hate

She is a heap of gore at the bottom of the stairs, most of her insides sprayed out her back when she was cracked open like a lobster. The wall behind her is painted with her blood, and blonde hair rests in a curly tangle down the side of what is left of her face. Her gun is a few feet away, and there are shell casings lining the floor around her. Not a single bullet hole in any wall, though.

All you distrust

The shelves were thrown over, metal frames knocked into each other making a slanted "A" shape. Their contents are spilled onto the floor; crushed boxes of macaroni, cans of beef raviollis — her favorite — and spare snacks in roll-topped bags with hair-clips holding them shut. A dollhouse, plastic and cheap, is broken here too. Someone stepped on the dream car, crushed it, and the wheels came off. Blood fills part of the dollhouse, and three severed fingers lay in front of it with their stumps cauterized. They will struggle to identify him, the fingers are all that's left of his body.

All you save

The door to the laundry room lays on its side, screws and hinges lay scattered on the concrete. A hemispherical dent in the metal door makes it bow, it will never fit in the frame again. Inside, the washer and dryer have been pushed aside, facing away from one-another like arguing parents. The dryer's door is open, children's clothes spill out onto the floor. A t-shirt with Wolverine on it, a gray dress, a pair of socks with holes in them, forest green overalls, a puffy teal and purple windbreaker. He is crouched between the washer and dryer, fingers knit into his dark hair, crying.

All that you give

She stands in the doorway, chin up, bare feed covered in blood. It runs down one side of her face too, ashes in her hair, bullet-holes in her Sunday dress. Gold eyes surveil the boy, hot like iron out of the fire, like embers burning in a pit. "Don't cry," she says with two voices harmoniously layered atop one-another, one a child's and the other an adult's. "Our parents weren't to be trusted. They were simple, scared animals." She approaches, bare feet leaving red evidence of her path.

All that you deal

The boy continues to cry, curled into a tiny ball with his head down between his knees. He's older than her by five or so years, but he seems so much younger now. All he can do is sob, quaking terrified sounds. She steps closer, taking a knee by his side, lifting one pale hand up to rest against the top of his head. Gold eyes flicker, and she exhales a breathy, "See." His eyes wrench shut, briefly turning a bright blue.

All that you buy

She is standing in the kitchen, phone pinned between neck and shoulder, curly cord going to the base on the wall. A mixing bowl is cradled against her chest, flour dappling her flannel shirt. She shifts her weight, looking to the little blonde girl sitting at the green formica table, disinterestedly stirring her cereal with a spoon. "No. Ella está aquí conmigo." She looks back to the girl, continuing to mix flour and eggs in the bowl. Her tone is conversational.

beg, borrow or steal

"Ha…" She eyes the girl, then looks back to the mixer. "Ha sucedido de nuevo. No… No podemos mantenerlos juntos." Her tone remains conversational, but she's sweating at her hairline. The door to the kitchen opens, and a man in khakis and a button down shirt walks in with a young boy, tanned with curly, dark hair. The girl at the table looks at the young boy, and she smiles. When the adults look at each other, they exchange wary glances.

All you create

"Arthur, no podemos.' She says into the phone, feining a smile to her feigned husband. "Ellos necesitan estar separados." The girl at the table lowers her head, brows furrowed. The boy looks at her, and makes his way from his ostensible father, hurrying over to the table side to climb up into a chair beside her. He rests a hand at her shoulder, furtively looking back at his father. There is concern.

All you destroy

He understands what's being said, moves to the table to take the boy by the arm. "We have to go," he says firmly, but the boy struggles. "I— forgot something at the store. It'll be a quick trip. Why don't you be a good big brother and come help me pick out something for dinner?" His smile is weary, resigned. The boy starts crying, they realize he's heard too much. Understood too much.

All that you do

"No!" The boy struggles. "I wanna' stay with her!" The boy's feet kick even as he is lifted up by the bicep. "Dejame quedarme con ella!" He doesn't care, hauls the boy away by his arm, thumb pressing hard against musle and bone. The girl looks up, her eyes are gold now. She sees it, lets out a breath in the back of her throat and starts to say something into the phone. She never gets to finish it.

All that you say

Her face is struck by an unseen force so powerful it caves her entire head in. She collapses to her knees, leaving a single fleck of blood on the refrigerator. The bowl falls, shatters on the floor, phone swinging side to side by its cord. Everyone is screaming now. The boy screams, he screams, even the girl is screaming. The boy wrests himself free, starts to run through the door into the living room. He tries to run for the phone, but a steak knife whips thorugh the air into his neck. He staggers, blood gushing out of the wound, turns to the girl. Drawers open, knives suspended in the air. "Clearcut," he manages to say, before they all perforate his body.

All that you eat

The table flips away from the girl by unseen hands, crashes down on its side. As she steps through the doorway, people are bursting into the house from a car parked out front. One of them draws a tranquilizer gun, she jerks her head to the side and he is lifted off of his feet to crash through a banister, impaled on two stakes of wood pushing up through his ribcage. Another through the door hops over the sofa, is caught in midair by unseen hands and wrung up like a towel filled with uncooked eggs. Anothe tries the same thing, his bullet is stopped in mid-air, and he too is twisted into a shape no longer resembling a person.

And everyone you meet

The boy is running for the basement door, running from the fear. One of the men in suits chases the boy, gun out. Her gold eyes shimmer, and he combusts into flames. His screams come with begging and pleading as he burns from the inside out. Smoke and fire escapes what is left of his eyes and mouth. He collapses backwards, flames lapping up through cracks in his skin.

All that you slight

There is a crash downstairs, a roar and a scream, and then silence. The girl moves around the burned body. Comes down the stairs past his warped gun, and sees the shelves tipped over. The boy's mind reels, they've caught back up to the here and now, and his expression of terror has not changed. The girl looks at him, brows knit together and lips downturned. "They were going to kill you both," the girl explains in two voices. "I dreamt your demise. The loss it represents. This world needs people like you and her, was made for people like you and her."

And everyone you fight

The girl holds out a hand, smiling faintly. "It will be ok now." She says, and the boy looks distrusting, frightened, and confused. He starts to reach out, starts to take her hand, and her gold eyes flicker and go out entirely with a hushed whisper of "No," strangled in discordant voices. The boy recoils his hand, looks guilty, thinks he did something. But the girl stumbles, drops to her knees, and reveals a dark silhouette standing behind her in the doorway. He is sleek and black in silhouette, head shaved and wordless.

All that is now

The boy screams, scrambling backward as this phantom of a man carefully kneels down to check on the fallen girl. Then, he creeps forward toward the boy, and with a brush of his hand over the child's head, the boy collapses into unconsciousness. "Well, that didn't go as planned," comes from inside the doorway. The man who steps inside wears sleek suit pants and a leather jacket, hair swept to one side. He looks down at the two children, then the mute young man standing at his side.

All that is gone

The man in the leather jacket reaches into a breast pocket and removes a boxy, gray cellphone and pulls the antenna up with his teeth. He dials, pacing in a circle as it rings on the other end. "Yeah, it's Thompson. Ah, we had an incident down here… I'm counting six, maybe seven dead agents. We're gonna need a sweeper team, and…" he squints, looking around, "a lot of mops."

All that's to come

Mr. Thompson rolls his eyes to something said on the other end of the phone. "Oh, and… we're gonna need two separate cover families. This was a disaster."

and everything under

As Thompson walks out of the room, the mute Haitian boy looks down at the two children, and his irises turn gold. He smiles, faintly.

the sun is in tune

"This world is sick," he whispers to them. "And we are the cure." His eyes return to their normal color, and he looks momentarily confused.

but the sun

Barbara Zimmerman wakes up face down in the grass outside of Pollepel Island. Her chin hurts, the heels of her palms ache. As she pushes herself up onto her knees, she spits dirt and grass out of her mouth. She's never experienced a blackout like that, not with her ability, not ever in her life. But in the back of her mind she fears what it means, what it implies about her ability.

is eclipsed by the moon.

Worse, the implications of what it is she bore witness to.

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