DEVIATION PERSPECTIVE 1.5: Sacrificial Ballad
YIIK Zine 2022
The well of blood is running empty.
The Maiden cries at the delta of its unborn waters, and the Prince holds back the tears of her father. There is no picture on the wall of the Temple of the Crows, no guideline of when the Chalice should be filled. There is only blood, the constant overpour of the Unbeating Heart, pumping itself through the Mind.
And now it is not.
The Jesters laugh as stocks fall and fervors rise, the denizens of an accursed plane begging their rulers for salvation. They are met with polite refusals, and scattered prayer.
A million minds away, a young man receives a notification in his Kale Mail inbox.
***
Kisage X is not the type to speak to the police. They ask him the same questions, always requesting order where there is only truth, organization of the incomprehensible. He resents them. They distract him from his work.
He leaves officers on the doorstep, letting them squabble amongst themselves over who is responsible for what. The din rises outside, but Kisage is calm, if not tranquil. He cares about the difference, but understands that few others do.
His daughter offers him a cup of tea. “Father, you are agitated,” she says, and he nods.
“Do not ask why.”
She closes her mouth, which was not open, and bows, placing the tea on the table. Kisage drinks a sip, swishes it around in his mouth, and closes his eyes. In his mind, he sees the letter on his desk. The seal, closed with a kiss and a warning. The invitation to dinner with royalty.
He decides not to attend. Besides, he has already sent his true response.
***
The boy refreshes his inbox, swears, turns the computer off, and back on again. It doesn’t help. The message is still frozen across the screen, strange Japanese characters he doesn’t understand.
Frustrated, he takes a photograph of the screen, to send to its manufacturer.
He knows they’re going to ask him questions he won’t like. What happened when, in what order. He loathes the approach. Everything exists at once.
The boy goes to his basement to develop the photo, and notices that the letters have changed to English. His Daemon is piqued.
When she arrives, the message reads, you will protect her.
***
Kisage offers the police chief a cup of tea, and apologizes.
“This has never happened to our actors before, sir,” he promises, and the chief nods.
“I know you know nothing, Mr. X. But procedure is procedure.”
“I understand.”
“Do all that is expected of you.”
“Of course.”
The police chief leaves, and Kisage goes to bed.
As he falls asleep, the chief’s head splits open. The seam travels down his body, ripping his flesh into two. The halves coil around each other, a sickening parody of a natural combination. The caduceus of a man falls to the ground, his disentangled body quivering, as the sidewalk around him changes color from gray to a deep, painful red.
His last thoughts before his death are that his watch reads the wrong time. It’s been reset to the eastern United States.
***
Cape Juno, New Japan is a dark place at night. Kisage watches Business Entities run fleeing to their towers, afraid of the journey of the stars. In the sky, a being he thinks of as God looks down, constellation and flesh at once, crucified forever in the sky. It promises a story that Kisage has never managed to put on film.
He makes his way to the usual meeting place unscathed, although he sees bloodstains on the sidewalk. The shadows on the buildings have eyes, staring at him, changing from blue to red as he passes. He ignores them, tea still dripping from his fingers and mingling with the blood at his feet. They are the same color.
The restaurant has changed since last he visited, Kisage notices. The decor has gone back a few decades, the facade morphing into a fusion of American and Japanese homes that he has never lived in. He knocks on the door, and hears it open behind him.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes,” say the King and Queen, seated at a booth in the back of the restaurant. It is in disrepair, the upholstery peeling, the tablecloth too many colors to be acceptable. Kisage sits across from his monarchs, drumming his fingers on the table.
“And why would that be?”
“You know not to ask questions,” says the Queen, her voice sharp. Kisage feels his bones dripping into molten metal, and apologizes. The King laughs.
“Listen.” He raises a hand, and a familiar-looking man appears at his side, holding a platter with a single cup of tea. The King takes it, and swirls it in his hand. “The well of blood is nearly empty.”
“That is not my concern. I have art to make.” Kisage leans forward, his hands spreading over the dusty cloth. “I believe my prior actions should speak to my never wanting to see you again.”
The Queen scowls, but the King only laughs harder. “Arcangelo was a failure, Kisage, and you know it. You will always be ours, understand? Always and forever. This dance doesn’t end until we say it does.”
“Are you so sure?”
“His Meme has been bound to a human Soul, Kisage.” Kisage drops a fork he was not holding, and the King chuckles at his shock. “We have more power than we reveal to you.”
“Yet you still need my help.”
“That is true,” says the Queen. “But we do not need your attitude.”
The King leans to match Kisage, who slides back into his seat.
In his hand, the teacup flickers and shakes, an ornate Chalice occupying the same space at the same time. Kisage hears the swirling of blood within it, smells the beating of a stillborn heart in between the gemstones, and he is afraid. He knows they can feel his fear, but he cannot help himself. The Chalice chills him to his bones.
He looks to his right, but his Camera is no longer with him.
He’s alone, his creations sacrificed to the gods that mock him from their twisted thrones across the table. "I have nothing else to sacrifice."
"We both know that's not true." The King swirls the chalice, and Kisage can hear the hiss of drying blood. "We can take whatever we want from you."
"Fine." Kisage clasps his hands. "What do you need?"
“We need a new Meme, Kisage. The Girl’s run dry.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Don’t you worry about that. It’s not important right now. But if he stops doing what we need him for...”
Kisage swallows. “I understand.” He wants to wake up, to escape from the nightmare of dancing with the devils that laugh at him from unopened windows. “You need something to power the Heart.”
“Right.” The Queen is curt, almost angry, like a disappointed mother. Kisage pays her little heed, focusing still on the Chalice.
Kisage sighs. “I suppose I don’t have a choice.” He pulls up a section of tablecloth, and blueprints begin to form, his mind’s eye opening like the ones outside, colors changing into the dark red of the photograph developed in his own dungeons.
He imagines a Meme strong enough to move a man to the Soul Space. A Meme of possession, of viral ability. But he does not give it all-encompassing power. No, Kisage ties his new Meme to the wills of thousands. Perhaps one of them will be strong enough to resist it.
“He will repeat his memes and call him friend.”
The King looks at the plans, and takes a sip of his tea. “And the sacrifice?”
Kisage folds the plans up, and glares at the King. “You have taken my best actress, and my favorite coworker. What more can you want from me?”
“Taken?” The King is taller than he should be, coiled around his partner as if in unholy coitus. “They’re perfectly safe with us. Miss Furutani is already adapting to her new role well. But a Heart needs blood.”
“I have no one.”
“You have one.”
Kisage’s own blood runs cold. “No. Take me instead.”
“We need you, Meme Maker. Or our plan falls apart. But this Meme will require strength to power.”
Kisage throws the plans on the table. “Fine. You will have your Onism Man. But the sacrifice will not be my daughter.”
“Who else?”
Kisage thinks. “A friend of his. The sorrowful boy will make a prime host for this one.”
The Queen scowls, and the King explains. “He is already a host.
You will need to do what is necessary. The Krow will feast upon the remains.”
Kisage wakes up in a cold sweat, his daughter’s name martyred on his lips.
***
Kisage X wanders down to his workshop, possessed by the urge to continue his work. He waves his daughter away, unable to look her in the eye until he is complete.
The Analogue Soul Vessel resides next to its digitized kin, a wooden maiden remaining the last barrier against the onslaught of iron. It is simple, yet remarkable in its construction. Kisage taps the side, and puts his ear to it, listening for the cry of the accursed. It does not come.
He considers his experiments, and what he must do.
Arcangelo was notable, a hero among heroes, easily able to be sought and captured. But this new creation is far different.
Kisage opens the Analogue Soul Vessel to reveal no one of any consequence.
She is the farthest thing from his mind, the largest deviation possible before the whole scheme falls apart. A side story to a side story, an opposite of an opposite.
If his Onism Man is to be a friend, then this creation will be his Antichrist.
The girl leaves the vessel fully formed, a distorted autochthony defying logic while remaining unimportant. She meets Kisage’s eyes, and he looks back at his unbound Soul, his new daughter.
“What is my name?” she asks, her voice in perfect harmony with the Soul that is to be her keeper until she is ready.
Kisage does not answer.
She is to be a familiar face, an unknown destructor. The crack in the sky that dislodges the Memes that cover reality.
But until then, she will remain Nameless.
Anarcho#0394
