SCS Side Story - Elegy Marie - Part Two - Everything Will Be Okay! - /

Part Two - Everything Will Be Okay! - /

After returning home, I did a little dance. A bit of a jig. First, because I wasn’t shot up, which is nice. And second, because I made bank!

Five hundred credits! That’s huge!

Well, no, by all reasonable measures it’s kind of chump change. Less than a week’s pay at a fast food place, way less than what a factory worker would make in that same time. But for a single day? That’s really not bad.

But it also comes with work, and more work means more money, and it could be an opportunity.

That’s the big thing that has me excited. There are all these sayings about getting paid in exposure, and they’re mostly true, but there’s some value in exposure. If I make good, eye-catching art, then that art will live in people’s minds, and it might mean more work down the line.

That’s how it usually works in the art community. I try to carve a niche out for myself. Maybe if it was fifty years ago, I’d try to draw some kink stuff, but that’s an entire market that’s mostly dead now.

Anyway, I get home, do my dance, and immediately spend most of the credits I’ve made.

Every purchase stings like a whip across my back, but I need to. I have a few painting supplies in my apartment, of course, but nothing for a bigger mural-like project. It’s stuff for little things. I might have enough paint to cover a door or something, but a full wall?

Nah, I need spray cans of primer, some liquid paints for my trusty old battery-powered airbrush, some new brushes for detail work... I could cheap out. It wouldn’t be hard, and I’d probably save a couple of hundred credits, but this is a statement piece. It’s supposed to catch the eye, and I won’t be doing that without vibrant colours.

I buy quality... as much as I can for four hundred and fifty credits. That last fifty gets me a six-pack of my favourite soda from the nearest corner store, still cold from the fridge.

I sleep well, surprisingly, and wake up about two hours sooner than I need to.

I roll through my morning media feed, but I’m quick to jump out of bed. I pay a few credits to take a warm shower and even use up some soap and shampoo. Then I’m in my best clothes, picking up the stuff I bought online from the nearest distribution point by the elevators, and rushing up to floor thirty. I arrive in the atrium and find it... pretty busy. There are a few Happy Gang guys around, just standing there and chatting, but I have the impression they’re not here for me.

They’re giving the side-eye to some other dudes hanging out by one of those automated coffee shops, two men wearing pretty normal clothes, except for a pair of all-white jackets and M99 surgical masks.

The Sons of the Scalpel that Miss Laughter mentioned? Could be, but they don’t seem to be up to any trouble at the moment, so... yeah, I leave them to it.

A few guys come down another corridor a few minutes later. Chuckles in the lead.

This is it, my chance! Time to not fuck it up!

I greet Chuckles with a nod and a smile which he returns. I’m not sure if he’s actually happy to see me or if he’s just acting the part of a member of the Happy Gang out in public. In any case, he introduces me to two of the guys following him. “This is Peppy Penny and that’s Joyboy,” he says. “They’ll be your escorts for the day, as per the contract you signed. They’re both experienced in escort work and bodyguard work, and they know floor thirty like the back of their hands.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic,” I say. I almost forgot that this whole thing isn’t about good art, it’s about spying on the new gang on the floor, those Sons of the Scalpel. My job really is just to make art, though. “I was thinking last night about where to start. I hope you guys don’t mind if we start pretty close to the atrium?”

I look over my two ‘guards.’ In reality, I’ll probably be taking orders from one or the other. Though to keep up the charade, maybe I should ask them to do small things? Plus, maybe I can get them to buy me lunch later for free? As a side-benefit? I’ll have to give it a try.

Joyboy is a tall, thin young guy. Reedy is the word, I think, though I’ve never actually seen a reed before. He’s smiling, of course. He has what look like cyberware lower legs incorporated into his flesh legs, and is wearing shorts to show it off. Very colourful shorts. The Happy Gang seems to have something for that mid-90s neon colour scheme of turquoise and blues and pinks.

Next to Joyboy is Peppy Penny. She’s half a head shorter than me, and on the thicker side. Not in a chubby way, though. Peppy Penny pushes iron and does her squats. She’s dressed in turquoise gym gear with a loose tracksuit coat, and she has an SMG dangling at the small of her back from a strap. Peppy Penny catches my eye and winks, then looks away while fiddling with the end of her all-pink hair.

I contain a bit of a blush at being caught checking the two out. “Right! Let’s get started. There’s a nice empty wall just to the side of the atrium. Do either of you have cones or something? We don’t want pedestrians just bumping into my work.”

“I’ve got a few things,” Joyboy says. “Don’t worry, miss artist, we’ve got you. You said you wanted to start just over here?”

“Yeah. There’s a nice spot to start with. And then for the next one, we can move to somewhere else. This one should take all day, but tomorrow’s can be... wherever you want, and might take a little longer.”

“That seems fine,” Chuckles says. “I’ll let people know what’s going on, and these two have nothing better to do, right?”

“Yup!” Penny says.

I smile and nod, and soon Chuckles is off. Joyboy actually scoops up some of my stuff, which is nice of him. I notice a handgun hidden within his jacket, but that’s not too surprising for this city and this megabuilding.

We head over to the wall. It’s just off to one side of the atrium with the main north-side elevator banks on this floor. There’s a coffee shop just around the corner, and then a small bar deeper in, but the wall I’ve picked out is next to an office supply place that shut down six months back and that never had anything reopen in the space. The shop itself has its windows covered by cardboard, but this side wall? Almost entirely blank.

“Alright, I’m gonna get started. You might want to stand back, I’m going to use spray-primer, and it’s meant to stick. If it gets on your pretty clothes you’ll never be able to get it off.”

“Aw, thanks!” Peppy says before stepping way back. Joyboy takes a shorter step away from me and starts setting up cones across half the passageway.

I’m a little worried that my painting will stink the place up, but... well, this is a megabuilding. It stinks by default, and I’ve always been fond of the smell of fresh paint. It’s my best perfume.

I spray the wall, and the quick-drying primer leaves a large spot for me to paint. Ten minutes later, as the paint is drying, I’m done with the base layer and ready to start in earnest.

I get to work.

I spent the night thinking of what to paint, and the idea I’ve come up with isn’t anything too complex to paint. It’ll look decent, though, very atmospheric.

I start with a field of wheat. Brown paint, yellow highlights, quick brushstrokes to hint at distant stalks. Then deep blue skies above with thick bands of orange that I cover in grey and darker blues. I bring some of those colours down as well, using them as low-lights on the bottom half of the mural, to better harmonize the whole piece.

It’s not bad.

I continue, painting a cabin with more details. It’s one of those old wooden ones, like they had way back in the day. I paint a storm’s worth of rain coming down...

And then it’s time for a small coffee break as Penny returns with a paper cup that she hands over to me. “Thanks!” I say.

A glance at my augs and... yikes, three hours have slipped by. No wonder I’m so hungry.

“It’s looking good so far,” Penny says before sipping from her own drink. It’s one of those pink ones. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“Thanks!” I say. “I’ve always wanted to be an artist, and... well, I guess I am, but I have a long ways to go.”

“Yeah,” Penny says with a grin. “I dig it. Where do you find all of your inspiration?”

Oh, gross, that question again. But I’ve heard it before, and it’s not malicious. I smile back. “Here and there? Sometimes I see other’s art, sometimes I feel something, and sometimes I meet someone and I just think that they’re gorgeous, and they deserve to be painted.” I wink back at Penny, revenge for earlier. “Maybe I’ll make a portrait of you, next?”

Penny laughs, which I’ll count as a point in my favour.

I get back to work. The detail work on the cabin is going to be annoying, but it’s doable. I paint a large window on its side, then a family huddles within. Warmer colours that contrast against the dark blues and deeper browns, it draws the eye.

It’s not perfect, but it’s not terrible either. Very acceptable work. I’m happy I didn’t cheap out on the paint, because runny paint would ruin some of the details I’m going for.

I glance up maybe an hour later, then scoop my now-cold coffee from the ground and take a step back to take in the full picture. The mural is about two metres wide, by one tall, but a lot of that is cheated details with sweeping storm clouds that only take a moment to paint.

I’m still taking in my own work. It’s at that annoying 80% mark where there’s still a lot to do to make it good, but each step won’t look that impactful on its own.

“I don’t know,” I overhear Joyboy say. He’s talking to Penny off to one side, both of them with their heads bowed a little. They’re smiling still, but it looks a little strained.

I tilt to the side a little, and make out that they’re both looking at the same phone. Did they get some news or something? Why over a smartphone instead of over their augs?

I look the other way and start to notice that they’re not the only ones who look worried. There’s a shift in people’s demeanor in the atrium. People are walking a little faster. I notice one of the automated shops closing up, even as there’s a line of clients out front.

Weird.

Has there been some gang violence somewhere?

“Hey, art girl,” Penny says. “We need to run.”

“You do?” I ask.

“Yeah, sorry, something’s come up,” Penny says. Her smile turns a little more reassuring. “But, uh... hey, maybe she can come with? We don’t want to leave her here, right?”

“I guess,” Joyboy says.

“Yeah. If you want, you can come with, artgirl,” Penny says.

“What’s going on, exactly? Is this... those Scalpel people?”

“Nah,” Penny says. “It’s worse. There’s... they’re saying there’s an incursion going on.”

“Oh,” I say. I feel like someone’s emptied a bucket of cold water onto my head. “Oh.”

The incursion alarm is... a problem. If the Antithesis show up here, then I’m basically dead, aren’t I? I never had the money for a subscription to a decent shelter, and I know that the free ones are all gutted and emptied out of any supplies. They’re just big metal coffins.

And also, this isn’t the first alarm. In fact, I recall at least three instances of them going off in this building with nothing coming from it. Once it was a false alarm, once a trick by a gang, and once there really was an incursion, but it was on the outskirts of the city.

More people had died in all three of those from being crushed in the stampede than from any aliens.

“Hey, artsy, you coming?” Penny asks.

“No,” I say after a moment. “I’ll finish up here. Then I’ll take care of myself. Don’t worry.”

A few people might loot a bit while the shops close down, but I figure that I’m safe. Why would anyone bother someone just painting away?

“Alright,” Penny says uncertainly. She glances at Joyboy, then gives me a little smile that’s a bit more reassuring before she grabs onto her SMG properly and runs off after him.

I turn back towards my canvas, towards the wall. It’s... not bad. I can safely say that I’m nearly done. A few more details here and there, and it’ll all come together as something I can be proud of.

But I can also do better.

I look at my equipment, then back to the wall. Somehow, this isn’t as good as the last thing I painted.

Opening up the photos folder on my augs, I look at the piece I last drew, on a rusty wall, with a flaking surface and paint that didn’t stick well and covered nothing.

It was better than this.

It’s kind of insane that I made better art with such awful materials, and yet here, with time on my hands, with much better equipment and materials and without the worry that I’ll be shot dead, I’ve only just managed to make something...

Okay.

It’s galling, really. Insulting. I can do better, because I have done better before.

Screw it. Nothing ventured, nothing lost. I pick up a can off the ground and the cup for the coffee that Penny got me, then I get to work.

Instantly, I regret it. The spray isn’t perfect, there’s a splatting of paint across the mural that doesn’t go where I want.

It’s fine though. I grab a piece of crumpled paper from the floor, roll it into a tighter ball, then slash it up and across the painting. It creates these thin, sharp lines. Like a freeze-frame of rain.

And it gives me an idea.

The lines at the very back... I reach into my pocket and pull out that switchblade I found. Using the edge, I scrape the paint across. Soon, there’s a shadowy form of a familiar building.

I step back, then focus elsewhere. The wheat in the field, I can do better. More detail, painted on with ripped cardboard and whatever brush I have on hand.

Then it’s back to the building in the back. It’s my home. Mega Building 501, but naked and alone, without the rest of the city around it. Far enough away that it’s more of a suggestion, and somehow it’s lonely back there.

I lick my lips and refocus. The storm clouds get more detailed, darkened and refocused, their shape changed to suggest that they’re circling the tower. Some fog, because which city doesn’t have smog in it.

The edges of my painting are far from perfect, but that’s fine. I let the paint fade out on the edges, grab some rolled-up tissue, and spread it outwards. The mural grows, and the fuzzy edge pulls the eye in towards the lonely little cottage in the middle.

I come in with a few brighter colours, mixing them on the pallet as I approach. The interior of the cottage is lit up a little. I move still-wet paint around to hint at a completed interior, at a soft, warm orange light that must come from a natural fire.

That reminds me... I add a little chimney, and a trail of smoke that’s being picked up and whipped around by the wind and rain of the storm.

I step back again and just... stare.

It’s... it’s good. Very good. The angle, the edges being so close to the floor... when I look at the cottage, it looks just real enough. The edges are blurred out when I focus there, the same way that my vision blurs, and it almost feels like I can step into the image.

I lick my lips, then do a quick search on my augs. A few poems are opened up, and I stitch them in my sight like a fractal collage. Some Audre Lorde. Some Juan Felipe Herrera. Maybe a few of Merwin’s better, less cheesy pieces.

I never liked the way poets broke their lines. It was always wrong to me. But this painting is wrong too, isn’t it?

I have stolen from others, as all good artists do, but this is mine. So will this poem be.

A hand rises, dipped in white paint. I might mess this up, but then, I might have messed all the other steps leading up to this as well.

My finger touches the cold wall, white paint over still-to-dry art.

Before you move on, a reminder
Life has two faces and a skull beneath

Glare at the storm
Weep at its passing

What comes after will smile.

A bit morbid, and a little hard to understand, but my handwriting... finger writing, is legible, and the words don’t cover the centre of the mural.

I did good.

And then something strikes me from the side, hard enough that I stumble to the ground. I almost catch myself on the wall, but no, my hand is covered in paint and the wall isn’t dry!

I hit the ground amidst my tools and paints with a pained grunt, then look at what struck me.

A bird. An all-black bird, with meat for a face and eyes that seem a little too human.

An Antithesis. And it isn’t alone.

It isn’t alone. I see people further in, a young boy being pecked, an old woman fighting off two more birds with a handbag.

I shouldn’t panic.

That’s what all of the manuals and little skits on TV say. I remember the little Adam’s Corp jingles too, Don’t Panic!

I panic anyway.

A scream tears its way out of me and I roll onto my back, scrambling away from the monster ahead of me.

It looms large, meaty, fleshy wings spread wide. Its eyes, too human, look at me with piercing green irises, and I have the deep and foreboding impression that it’s letting me know that I’m food to it.

And then I swing a leg out in a wild kick towards the monster’s beaked face.

It hops to the side clumsily, and I snap back to reality.

It’s a Model One. It almost comes up to my knee. It’s big, sure, but I’ve seen dogs that were bigger, and I’m pretty sure that a stray cat could take this thing out.

It hops towards me, and my fledgling bravery shrivels up in me. Still... I’m not going to let that mural be my final art piece, and the last thing it was missing was not my trice-pecked corpse at its base.

Scrambling into my pocket while fending the bird alien away with a few kicks that hit nothing, I find my trusty-ish switchblade and flick it open. There’s paint on the blade, and it was never too sharp to begin with.

That doesn’t matter.

I consider kipping up to my feet, then decide to be more careful about it.

I have a knife, there’s an evil alien birb before me.

Problem is, I’ve never stabbed anything with violent intent in my entire life. The Model One hops closer, and I step back. I almost stumble on one of the cones I’ve got around my painting space. But then I put my foot behind it and kick it out towards the bird. It smacks it in the chest, and that seems to do it.

It’s properly pissed now.

I almost close my eyes as the Model One takes flight with a few quick flaps and starts heading towards me.

I don’t know how to use a knife... but how much harder can it be to use a knife than a brush? It’s the same shape in my hand, almost. I switch my grip, then slash outwards.

I paint green blood along the side of the bird with a flick of my wrist.

It tumbles through the air, spins around in a tight turn, and flies back at me, bleeding all the while. I hop to the side, and then with a careful movement of my arm, add a final flourish to my design, like painting a wave on an unfinished ocean.

The Model One crashes to the ground, dead.

I stare at it for a moment, panting even though I’ve done little.

There’s another scream up ahead and I look up and across the atrium. A pair of men are barricading the door next to the elevators that lead downstairs. There’s that boy I saw earlier, he’s on the floor, covering his head while another Model One pecks at him, leaving small, bloody punctures behind. That old lady has backed up to a corner and is spitting mad, her purse swinging around with one of the clasps broken while two aliens stalk her.

I lick my lips, suddenly feeling them dry.

I should run. There’s a shelter somewhere. I can hide, wait the storm out.

But no one else is helping.

“Fudge,” I mutter before I take off running.

The first bird, the one pecking at the boy, doesn’t hear me coming. I reach out, feeling an insane amount of ick as I wrap a hand around its thick neck. There are little bone nubs at the back, and its skin feels like... people skin, but cold.

I draw a line across its neck, then fling it aside as hard as I can.

The boy mutters something, but I can’t stop to help him just yet. So I run on, old shoes clacking on the linoleum of the atrium as I rush towards the old lady.

I’ll have to be delicate here. I don’t want them going after me.

But a delicate hand is something I need for my job, isn’t it?

I swing my arm out in an arc, holding my knife like a brush, and I paint the air green with alien blood as I slash through both birds.

It’s not a perfect cut. Not that deep, and I’ve hardly hit anything vital, I don’t think, but it throws them off the old lady.

One falls to the ground, the other tries to fly.

I stab at the one flying away, and the tip of my switchblade digs into its backside.

The other... the old lady is taking care of it, stomping down repeatedly with little grunts of exertion and the snap-snap of bird bones breaking.

“Holy crap,” I say.

And then, from nowhere, text appears before me, and a soft, feminine voice fills my ears.

System Initialized

Congratulations. Elegy Marie, you have proven yourself to be a perfect candidate to become an artist of death and a destroyer of the common foe. I am Mylpomene. I will assist you in uplifting humanity and avoiding the tragedy of the Antithesis threat.

Rise, Vanguard, and become a protector of the weak!