stood. Lightning. Thunder. As her wings pulled in tight to her body, they seemed to vanish from sight. The moon cast just enough light that she could make out the collar of the robe, high enough to hide the winged figure’s mouth.
“Twenty-seven,” the angel said. The convict grabbed her arm, her fingers touching the carved numbers in her forearm. She had thought about her new identity and how the branding was like a signature to her new life. She had thought about calling herself by the number, but she had yet to say the words out loud.
“How did you…”
“We need to be away from here,” the angel said. Before Twenty-Seven could ask why, the angel responded, “There are more of them on their way. You’re not safe.”
“Where do we go?”
The angel held out her hand. It was the first kind gesture Twenty-Seven had seen since entering the Danger Zone. “I have friends nearby that can provide asylum.”
“What about them?” she said, pointing to the corpses on the ground.
“Their thoughts are far from pure.”
“But…”
“Trust me,” the angel said. Twenty-Seven took her by the hand. She had no idea why, but she trusted the figure in front of her. Trusting her meant survival. She squeezed the angel’s hand. She would survive the Danger Zone.
***
He stood in the park across from the gallery, his last chance to turn around and avoid the scene unfolding in front of him. Across the street, the crowd gathered just outside Gretchen’s art gallery. His shoulders tensed at the circus. He had expected a modest turnout—Gretchen had a knack for getting a crowd—but the scene before him was more a spectacle.
The crowd that collected outside of the building was frightening, screaming back and forth over several policemen. Some held picket signs while others pumped their fists in the air. One of the signs read ‘Kill the Freaks,’ hoisted high above the protestor’s head. An angry man shouted into another man’s face, his spit visible from several feet away.
Conthan took several steps closer. He could see there were police wedged between the two opposing sides. The other side was just as vocal, holding their own signs, ‘God Loves All,’ and chanting their own ridiculousness at the opposition. The police had donned their riot uniforms, helmets and tactical vests. Each of the officers held a shield, which they used to push the crowds apart.
He started to walk forward again when he saw two of the policemen wearing glasses instead of helmets. He could tell by their demeanor that they weren’t there for riot patrol, they were there with a mission. He didn’t need to see their badges to know they were part of the Corps. Beneath the exterior of normal human flesh was a labyrinth of wires and surgical implants, enhancing their abilities and making them borderline superhuman. Their eyes were enhanced, able to see in the dark and receive readouts fed to them by some unseen computer. He had watched a news feed last night that was acquired through the live feed of a Corps member’s eyes. The man who was projecting the image had punched through a metal safety door.
“Gretchen, what have you gotten me into?”
He pushed his hands into his pockets and moved forward. He reached the crowd, astonished by how loud the bullhorns were. A flesh and blood officer helped him along, pushing people back as Conthan reached the building. The door was opened and he was shoved inside while the policeman went back to his job.
There were easily another two hundred people in the gallery. It wasn’t exactly crammed, but it would take a while to navigate through the crowd to reach the back of the room.
“Name please?”
He turned to see the receptionist in the lobby. He looked at the young girl, her blue hair sticking straight up in spikes. Her body was covered in tattoos, a lion eating a dragon wrapped around the torso of a naked man and so many others.
“Your name, please?”
“Uh,” he stammered,
“Twenty-seven,” the angel said. The convict grabbed her arm, her fingers touching the carved numbers in her forearm. She had thought about her new identity and how the branding was like a signature to her new life. She had thought about calling herself by the number, but she had yet to say the words out loud.
“How did you…”
“We need to be away from here,” the angel said. Before Twenty-Seven could ask why, the angel responded, “There are more of them on their way. You’re not safe.”
“Where do we go?”
The angel held out her hand. It was the first kind gesture Twenty-Seven had seen since entering the Danger Zone. “I have friends nearby that can provide asylum.”
“What about them?” she said, pointing to the corpses on the ground.
“Their thoughts are far from pure.”
“But…”
“Trust me,” the angel said. Twenty-Seven took her by the hand. She had no idea why, but she trusted the figure in front of her. Trusting her meant survival. She squeezed the angel’s hand. She would survive the Danger Zone.
***
He stood in the park across from the gallery, his last chance to turn around and avoid the scene unfolding in front of him. Across the street, the crowd gathered just outside Gretchen’s art gallery. His shoulders tensed at the circus. He had expected a modest turnout—Gretchen had a knack for getting a crowd—but the scene before him was more a spectacle.
The crowd that collected outside of the building was frightening, screaming back and forth over several policemen. Some held picket signs while others pumped their fists in the air. One of the signs read ‘Kill the Freaks,’ hoisted high above the protestor’s head. An angry man shouted into another man’s face, his spit visible from several feet away.
Conthan took several steps closer. He could see there were police wedged between the two opposing sides. The other side was just as vocal, holding their own signs, ‘God Loves All,’ and chanting their own ridiculousness at the opposition. The police had donned their riot uniforms, helmets and tactical vests. Each of the officers held a shield, which they used to push the crowds apart.
He started to walk forward again when he saw two of the policemen wearing glasses instead of helmets. He could tell by their demeanor that they weren’t there for riot patrol, they were there with a mission. He didn’t need to see their badges to know they were part of the Corps. Beneath the exterior of normal human flesh was a labyrinth of wires and surgical implants, enhancing their abilities and making them borderline superhuman. Their eyes were enhanced, able to see in the dark and receive readouts fed to them by some unseen computer. He had watched a news feed last night that was acquired through the live feed of a Corps member’s eyes. The man who was projecting the image had punched through a metal safety door.
“Gretchen, what have you gotten me into?”
He pushed his hands into his pockets and moved forward. He reached the crowd, astonished by how loud the bullhorns were. A flesh and blood officer helped him along, pushing people back as Conthan reached the building. The door was opened and he was shoved inside while the policeman went back to his job.
There were easily another two hundred people in the gallery. It wasn’t exactly crammed, but it would take a while to navigate through the crowd to reach the back of the room.
“Name please?”
He turned to see the receptionist in the lobby. He looked at the young girl, her blue hair sticking straight up in spikes. Her body was covered in tattoos, a lion eating a dragon wrapped around the torso of a naked man and so many others.
“Your name, please?”
“Uh,” he stammered,
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