It’s probably going to be another scorcher of a day; Gerry can sense it, even though the sun isn’t up yet. Lucky thing he doesn’t really feel it anymore.
Well…that’s not exactly true. He does feel the heat. It just doesn’t affect him as badly as it affects everyone around him. He’s taken to avoiding people…for a lot of reasons, actually…but one of the biggest is that he’s trying not to draw attention to himself, and he knows people are staring at him.
He’s lucky, actually, and he knows it. Not just to be alive, although that’s a pretty damn big thing, but to be able to wear the kind of clothing he prefers. He arrived in Washington, DC six weeks ago with no money, no identification, and no real clue what he was going to tell people. The only reason he hadn’t turned up in the borrowed—okay, stolen—scrubs from the hospital was because the man who’d first offered him a ride, a long-haul trucker called Jeff, had insisted on buying him real clothes at the first truck stop they’d come to. Which of course meant he turned up in a pair of navy blue work pants and a t-shirt with some macho bullshit about being a truck driver, but at least they weren’t tissue-thin bits of cotton meant more for keeping clean than protecting from the elements.
It took him two days, four different cars, and one close call with a police officer wherein he only managed to avoid an arrest for hitchhiking on the grounds that he was British and didn’t know it was illegal in the state—which was true—to get here, and he was exhausted, strung out, and aching. He can only imagine what he looked—and smelled—like, and it’s only that he was too weary to be embarrassed that he was able to walk into the British Embassy and ask for help. It might have done him a few favors, actually, since he’s pretty sure they wouldn’t have been so keen to help him otherwise.
Actually, everyone at the Embassy has been uniformly helpful and kind to him, and he appreciates it. One of the staff members even helped him find a job—a temporary one, one that pays under the table in cash and therefore doesn’t have to worry about whether their employees are in the country legally or not, but it’s something that lets him afford food and a roof over his head…in theory. In practice, Gerry is somewhat disquieted to find that he needs neither. Food does nothing for his hunger; he doesn’t sleep, and when he does, he doesn’t get any rest from it. It’s a constant struggle to focus, to remember what year it actually is and where he actually is and what he’s actually doing, and sometimes it seems like every moment he’s ever experienced is playing all at once, like he’s standing in a room full of tape recorders all playing different tapes at the same time. He can pick out a word here and there, sometimes focus on a single tape, but for the most part it’s just…noise.
It’s all makeshift, a way of marking time, and really his life—such as it is—revolves around his daily visit to 3100 Massachusetts Avenue Northwest.
They’re…doing their best. He knows that. He gave them very little to work with, in the grand scheme of things, and the mills of bureaucracy grind slow but fine. It’s also not their only job, and this is apparently an election year (Gerry’s been hearing the chatter, mingled parts anxiety and vitriol, from the other guys in the kitchen; their dialect of Spanish is a little strange to him, but he can follow along okay, and he’s learned a bunch of new curse words), so they’re very busy. He can’t expect miracles, not after he already got one.
Honestly, going every single day is probably overkill, and under any other circumstances Gerry wouldn’t bother. But the ambassador has taken a shine to him for some reason and insists he come by for breakfast before he goes on shift or dinner after he gets off, depending on when the restaurant manager needs him. Today either is an option, since the restaurant is closed…which is technically Gerry’s fault…but he thinks he’ll probably go to breakfast anyway.
He doesn’t want to be alone too long right now.
Gerry lights up the cigarette—a Dunhill menthol, not his preferred brand, but Woodbines are apparently hard to come by in the United States and he can’t buy any without ID anyway, so he has to go with whatever he bums off his coworkers—and leans back against the stone curving around the base of the statue, a half-dressed man with his arms outstretched. It’s a memorial, which isn’t exactly a shocker; you can’t swing a dead cat around here without hitting at least three memorials or monuments to the past or the dead. He’s seen a fair few of them since being here, since most of them are free to visit, so it gives him something to do. The war memorials, of which there are plenty, make him a bit uneasy, but he hasn’t encountered anything particularly troubling, not even traipsing around Arlington National Cemetery. This particular monument is to the Titanic, more specifically to the men who stood aside and let the women and children go ahead. There’s something comforting about it, but Gerry’s pretty sure it’s nothing to do with his connection to Terminus and everything to do with him empathizing with people willing to sacrifice themselves so that their loved ones will survive. After all, they had to know they were likely to die if they remained.
The face of the man in the restaurant’s toilet swims before him. Something turns in his stomach, and it’s not because of the nicotine.
An overdose, the paramedics said, one of the local junkies who’d finally pushed things too far, bought something too potent, hit the wrong vein. Probably quick, he was likely dead before they ever arrived. They seemed detached over the whole thing, although Gerry guesses they have to be to stay in that job; if you started breaking down every time you lost someone, you wouldn’t last long. The restaurant owner doesn’t really have any such excuse, so his reaction—to curse the dead man up and down for picking his bathroom to shoot up in, forcing him to lose a day’s business—seemed callous and disproportionate. The other undocumented workers in the restaurant made themselves scarce, understandably when the cops showed up, but at least when Gerry went back into the kitchen to tell them the coast was clear he found them in a circle praying for the man’s soul. They invited Gerry to join them, and he did, even though he didn’t understand the words…or believe there was anyone on the other end listening.
He can’t even pretend it was an accident. Not really. The glowing black ichor running through the man’s veins tempted him, sang a siren’s song to the hungering ache inside him, and Gerry knew he had to find an excuse, any excuse, to touch his arm, so he made a pretext of helping the obviously staggering man get to the bathroom and it flooded into him, filled him with the sensation he was growing accustomed to in a way he really shouldn’t.
The man was his fourth, not counting the coroner at Christiana Hospital. Gerry tried to convince himself that it’s a kindness, that it’s not like he’s really doing anything. He’s come to realize that what he’s seeing, the black masses or ribbons or striations, are the mark of Terminus, a sign of how the person is going to die, and he tells himself that he’s just giving that death a purpose, that if they’re going to die anyway it’s better to serve a higher purpose than just be dead, right?
He can almost feel Martin frowning in concern over his shoulder.
He knows better, of course. It’s the kid that told him otherwise. The kid he didn’t touch despite seeing the black band wrapped around her torso, partly because he’s not going to go around grabbing random kids and partly because he refused to feed off a child. He made himself watch, though, made himself see her die because she deserved that, and sure enough she chased a ball into the street and he knew the car was going to hit her—but it stopped just in time, the girl was safe.
And then came the pain…
So he knows now. He doesn’t have to touch them, and if he doesn’t, they don’t actually die. But if they don’t, if he doesn’t touch them when he sees the mark, then he gets punished for letting them live.
Which is fine, because that was a goddamned kid. Gerry almost bites the cigarette in half and has to force himself to relax. She wasn’t any older than Melanie was when he met her—she deserves a chance to grow up, not to just be fodder for something like him. But it meant he was weaker than usual, frail and hungry and shaking, and his boss accused him of being drunk and he swore he wasn’t, which was true. It meant it was harder for him to resist taking the next time he saw a mark to take. Thank God it wasn’t another kid.
Not for the first time, Gerry tells himself that he has to get back to England, and soon. He needs to get back to Melanie and Martin. Not just because he needs to know they’re okay and for them to know he’s okay, not just because he needs to apologize for not sending for them, not just because he could really use a hug right now, but because he needs them to give him both some perspective and some help. The three of them worked out how to burn Leitners and figured out the sea shanties as a protective spell, they can come up with a solution to Gerry’s problem. He’s not altogether confident he can come up with the answer on his own.
He’s afraid.
It’s not fair, he thinks angrily as he takes another drag on the cigarette. Every other avatar—not that he’s met terribly many, but he’s heard of plenty—gets to have their feelings burned out of them. They enjoy what they do. But no, not Gerry. He’s not fooling himself, he definitely qualifies as an avatar, willingly or unwillingly. And he still has to feel—guilt, loss, yearning, all of it. He just hopes he still gets to feel positive emotions, too, but he won’t know until he sees Martin and Melanie in front of him.
In a way, that’s what scares him the most—the fear that he’s lost the good feelings. That there’s nothing left of him but death and despair. That he’ll see his brother and sister again and feel nothing, just an empty hole where his joy should be.
The sun crests the horizon, staining the statue and the pavement around Gerry the color of blood, which is probably a bad sign. With a sigh, he gets to his feet and turns to put the river at his left shoulder. Time to start heading towards the Embassy. It’s going to take him at least an hour, and he’s got to get there before the ambassador finishes breakfast or he’ll have to wait all day to talk to him again.
The city wakes up around him, as much as it ever sleeps, as he makes his way along the river, finishing his cigarette. He flicks the butt into an ashtray set on the corner where he parts ways with the Potomac, sloping past the Swedish and Icelandic embassies before heading into a more residential neighborhood. People are beginning to start their days, and one or two wave to him. Gerry waves back politely, but luckily none of them are so friendly they want to talk. The only exception is a small child who’s apparently quite excited about getting to go to his very first baseball game and wants to share that with the world; Gerry is trapped for several minutes while he rambles and only minds a little. He eventually gets away and continues his walk. He picks up speed a little. It won’t do to be too late.
In all, it takes just shy of two hours for Gerry to walk the five miles from where he started to where he’s going. He can hear the bells at one of the cathedrals in town tolling the hour as he makes his way past the statue of Winston Churchill and up to the ambassador’s residence. Eight o’clock on the nose. He’s timed it exactly right.
The housekeeper greets him with a warm smile and a hug before ushering him into the opulent hall and up the stairs to the morning room, where the ambassador and his wife are just sitting down. They look up with smiles of their own as they come in.
“Mr. Delano is here, sir,” the housekeeper announces, rather unnecessarily.
“Gerard, my boy, come in, come in,” the ambassador says jovially, rising and indicating the seat next to him. “Hoped you’d be joining us early.”
Gerry smiles wanly and takes a seat with polite greetings to both of them. He’s about the same age as their children, maybe a bit younger, which he thinks is part of the reason they’ve been so keen to help him; this is definitely above and beyond what the Embassy staff usually does for expatriate Brits lurking about the States. The ambassador’s wife studies him. “You look much better today. I was worried you were coming down with something.”
“No, ma’am, I’m fine, thank you,” Gerry assures her.
Breakfast is a relaxing affair; Gerry can’t really taste the food, but eats it mechanically and joins the conversation as appropriate. The ambassador has a few things to say about both the election currently going on in the United States and the turmoil apparently going on back in the UK, as well as a few other incidents he’s trying to craft his response to. When they’re about halfway done their meals, however, his wife turns to Gerry and says, “Gerard, how are things at the restaurant? What’s your schedule like today?”
“Oh…we’re closed today, actually,” Gerry says, a bit nervously. “Some bl—a man overdosed in the bathroom last night, just before closing time. The restaurant has to be closed today while they investigate and get things cleaned properly.”
“Ah.” The ambassador’s wife glances meaningfully at her husband. “So they aren’t expecting you to come in tonight?”
“No. And tomorrow’s my day off.” Unless Paolo can’t make it in again, in which case Gerry will likely be called in, assuming the owner can figure out how to get hold of him. Not having a mobile phone does help in that regard.
“Well, in that case…” The ambassador wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I have good news and bad news for you.”
Gerry’s stomach flips with nerves. He pushes his plate away. “Tell me the bad news first.”
The ambassador nods, as if he was expecting that. “The bad news is that we can’t expedite a passport for you. The office is just so backed up, what with…everything…that even under ordinary circumstances—which I think we can all agree these are not—you wouldn’t be able to get a passport inside of eight to ten weeks. And without being able to send copies of your documents to the office, it’s going to be harder. Especially without anyone to verify your identity.”
Gerry nods. He’s been expecting that, honestly. Especially since he gave his name as Delano and not Keay—he doesn’t want to be associated with his mother, thank you very much—but of course they can’t find his birth certificate, or a copy of his old passport. He supposes he could come clean, maybe by pretending he’s had some sort of amnesia, but there’s still the matter of verifying his identity. Legally, Martin and Melanie aren’t actually related to him by birth or marriage, so they qualify, but Melanie probably doesn’t count as working in a “recognized profession”. And then there’s the fact that they both think he’s dead, which would mean they would think an email asking them to verify his identity was a hoax or a scam. No, he’s right to keep them out of this.
On the other hand…eight weeks? He doesn’t want to be here that much longer. Martin’s birthday is in less than a month, and Gerry desperately wants to be home for that.
He says none of that, however. All he says is, “And the good news?”
The ambassador beams, reaches into his pocket, and withdraws an envelope. “The good news,” he says, “is that the rules regarding emergency travel documents are a bit easier to work with.”
He hands the envelope to Gerry.
With suddenly shaking hands, Gerry opens it. Inside is a small blue booklet folded over; when he opens it, he sees his own pale, washed-out face staring hollowly from the page. Listed alongside his name, age, and citizenship is a very precise travel itinerary…one that has him arriving in London just before noon tomorrow.
He looks up at the ambassador in surprise. “What…but I don’t have a ticket.”
“That’s in the envelope too,” the ambassador says, gesturing at the envelope again. Gerry looks and finds a folded piece of paper with instructions for checking into a flight.
“It’s the least we could do for you,” the ambassador’s wife adds. She smiles and pats his hand. “I thought you looked familiar, and I finally made the connection—you’re Eric Delano’s boy, aren’t you?”
“You knew my dad?” Gerry asks, surprised. He honestly didn’t think either of them were old enough, but…
“He was my uncle’s roommate in university. I didn’t know him well, but what I knew I liked.” The ambassador’s wife smiles again. “I think I would have married him when I got older if he’d asked.”
“Hey, now,” the ambassador protests, but he’s laughing. “Gerard, we want you to get home as soon as you can. And we know the restaurant doesn’t pay much. So, yes. You now have your travel document, and your ticket. You’ll need to apply for a passport when you get home, but this will at least get you there.”
A sense of relief washes over Gerry’s mind as he realizes that one, at least, of his earlier fears is unfounded. He hasn’t lost the ability to have positive emotions at all. He’s delighted—and grateful—and relieved. Tears well up in his eyes as the emotions threaten to overwhelm him.
“Thank you,” he says, a bit huskily. “I’ll never forget this. You have my word.”
“You’ll have to come see us the next time you come to the States for a visit,” the ambassador tells him. “Meanwhile, you have six hours, I’d say, before you need to get to Dulles and start checking in. I need to get over to the Embassy, but if you’d like to use the phone to call someone and let them know you’re coming…”
“They’ll be at work right now,” Gerry says, glancing at the clock.
“Well, before you leave for the airport, then.”
“I’ll call from the airport,” Gerry lies. He’s not going to call anyone. They think he’s dead; he can’t spring that on them over the phone. He needs to tell them in person, show them his tattoos and scars, let them feel him and know he’s real. Maybe let Martin See him properly. But for now…it can be a surprise.
“If you’re sure,” the ambassador’s wife says uncertainly.
“I’m sure.” Gerry smiles at her as warmly as he can. “Thank you again. Both of you. I don’t know what I can do to repay you.”
The ambassador stands and pats him on the shoulder. His expression, as he looks down at Gerry, is more serious than he’s been in the last six weeks. “Be safe. Be well. And use the opportunity to do good in the world.”
“I will,” Gerry promises. He doesn’t know how, but he will. There’s got to be something bigger than burning Leitners that he can do to help push back against the Fourteen.
That’s a problem for the future, though. For now, he’s got to check himself out of the temporary lodgings he’s been staying in, gather his few things, and figure out how he’s getting to Dulles—and where Dulles is, for that matter. He has a plane to catch.
He’s finally going home.