Part Two: Fade To Black

The Sarge was closer than Keats thought. He reached him, panting, out of breath, but still dead silent. It took him a moment to be able to speak; turns out he didn’t have to. Sergeant Wexler already knew what was going on, and he’d told men even more important than him. They were coming, and fast. And, for now, their small group would be enough.

“Let’s go get him, men,” he said, leading the other forward.

Keats stared at the Sarge as he struggled to run at the back of the line. He’d already known what was going on; the plans had already changed. Whatever Keats had done, whatever he’d told the Alliance—it didn’t matter.

Except that if Pat was dead, then it would.

As they drew closer, they heard a few last bursts of gunfire, followed by a large, wordless whoop. Closing the distance, Keats could make out a triumphant figure standing out in the open, silhouetted against the smoke and sunset and letting out an unearthly noise.

“Well, son of a bitch,” he said, grinning wildly. He looked over the tattered group of men, lingering for a moment on Keats’s face. “Looks like I didn’t need you after all.”

Something inside Keats snapped, a tension he didn’t know he was holding. It broke across his face in a wide smile. Everything was okay.

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That night, they routed out the Alliance forces, and the next few days were filled with blessed quiet. There was time to eat, time to sleep, time to rest and recuperate. The statue of St. Jude stayed secreted away in Keats’s pocket, unused and forgotten.

The third night, they managed to scrape together enough provisions to have a bit of a party. There was nothing too fancy—a few beers, some roasted meat, a couple local girls dancing and having a good ‘ol time in general. Keats sat next to the fire, slowly working on a piece of well-cooked beef that tasted better than any high-priced cut he’d ever had before.

“So, Keats, what do they call you back home?” Patrick asked, taking a seat next to Keats and offering him a glass of a foul-smelling liquid. “I suppose that, strange as you are, you’ve gotta have some kind of a nickname.”

“Nope. Just call me by my first name.” He took a sip of the liquid; it burned on the way down, and it took Keats a massive amount of willpower not to spit it out. “Je shr shuh muh lan dong shi? You tryin’ to kill me?”

“Hell, no,” Pat said. “Got it from one of the locals. Don’t know what in the hell it is, but it gets the job done. So,” he said, continuing to press, “what would that first name be?”

“Gabriel.”

“Ha!” he said, as though he’d proven some kind of point. “Like those angels you’re so eager to join. Listen, Gabey-boy, I appreciate what you did out there.”

“All’s I did is what you told me,” Keats looked down at his hands. “Not like you needed me to get anyone, what with the beating them and all.”

“Exactly. You did what I told you to do. None of those damn heroics I expect from a nian qing sha gua like you. S’what I want.”

Keats gave a harsh laugh. “I guess that’s supposed to be a compliment, huh?”

“Yeah.” Patrick’s flushed face turned serious, concerned. “What’s been eatin’ you lately? Half the time, you’re walkin’ around lookin’ like your head’s somewhere else. You doin’ all right?”

“I’m fine, sir. Just sometimes it gets to be a bit much.” Keats forced his voice to sound introspective, tired. He took another gulp of the burning liquid, willing it to wash away the growing lump of shame in his throat.

“You got the right idea, Keats.” Patrick gave a hearty laugh. “Drink enough of that, and you’ll forget all ‘bout this gorram war. You know--”

The rest of Patrick’s sentence was cut off by a loud shout from the other side of their camp. Over the general din, Keats could make out various words, mostly profanity shouted in either English or Chinese. After a moment looking at each other, both men stood up and headed over to the rest of the men. One of them was crying—full on crying, head in his hand, shaking uncontrollably. Most of the others had tears in their eyes. A few looked angry.

“What’s going on?” Patrick’s voice was now crisp, clear, free of the slight warmth and intoxication of a few minutes earlier.

The Sarge looked at both of them, then quietly took Patrick aside. A moment, passed, then a loud, booming voice rose above the crying, filled with anger.

“Shen zu zhou ta men dui wang que! Ruttin’—all of it! God damn them!” The rest of Patrick’s shouting became incoherent, consumed by sobs and curses.

Keats looked to one of the men who seemed the least upset. “What happened?”

“The Alliance hit Shadow. The entire--” He took a deep breath, then continued. “They burned it all.”

The world in front of Keats collapsed down to a very narrow point of light right in front of him; he swayed, almost fell where he stood, then steadied himself on the other man’s arm. He couldn’t speak; the words were stuck in his chest, stuck so tightly that he felt he could hardly breathe. He could hear the sounds of the men around him, could feel the emotions that their voices were filled with. He let those emotions consume him, until he fell into a heap onto the ground, clutching his drink.

He rose the drink to his lips, gulped it in one smooth motion. Looked for a refill. Wished for oblivion.


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Some hours and multiple glasses later, he found himself alone, crouched on the ground outside of camp, looking up at the witching-hour sky. Keats could still feel the alcohol coursing through his veins, could feel the residual disorientation that the drink left in his head. In the cold, clear night, he felt more awake, more aware of himself and his surroundings.

His relatively-clear head realized that his message had nothing to do with Shadow’s fate. If he knew anything about his father’s world, he know that that kind of decision would’ve been made more than three days ago.

At least, that’s what was most likely. He couldn’t think about the alternative. Not now.

He pulled the statue out from his pocket. For a moment, he simply bowed his head, prayed silently to it.

Let me go home. Let this all be a dream. Let me go back to Persephone, and I’ll do it right. I’m not my father; I never will be, and I’m glad. But, Father, please, let me go back. Let me undo this.

With a sudden, jerky motion, he pulled the statue away from himself. He was praying, but his prayers would only help him. If he believed that it wasn’t his message, then all that would change was that he wouldn’t feel guilty anymore. And that, Keats thought, was a very selfish prayer.

Keats dashed the statue to the ground, watched the dirt settle into its off-white crevasses. Then, after only a moment of hesitation, he raised his foot and brought his right heel crashing down on it. He raised and lowered it again and again, until he felt the solid crunch beneath his boot as the statue splintered, revealing the electronics within.

He was struck by a sudden impulse. He took the electronic insides of the statue and extracted the electronics from the remains of the exterior; these electronic bits, he dipped into his cup, allowing them to skim the alcoholic surface of his drink. Finally, he pulled a small lighter from his pocket, and brought it to each of the pieces. At first, they burnt a brilliant blue and orange against the night; then, as the alcohol burned away, the pieces simply melted, warping until they were no longer usable.

When the parts were virtually unrecognizable, Gabriel placed them back onto the ground, then ground them under his boot again, forcing them into the dirt. Once they were covered by a good, solid layer of earth, he looked up to the still-black sky, then started to make his way back to camp.

Though his mind was clear, his steps were light and staggering; he could barely see in the dark, couldn’t make out the fire where the others were. One stray step brought him crashing to the ground, and he made no motion to get up. He laid there and let the night overtake him, trading his resolve and anger for the momentary respite of sleep. He laid there, just outside the camp, until the Sergeant found him in the morning, and they moved to another world.