…opened his eyes, leaning forward on the park bench and allowing the simulated sun to warm his face. His hive-mind’s reconstruction was going well, its inhabitants quickly rebuilding the city they were familiar with. Already, skyscrapers rose up all around his little park, and a few birds flitted through the air over his head, tweeting happily. The illusion broke every now and again when a squirrel suddenly jerked back and forth like a CD caught in a loop, or a raccoon freaked out and phased right through a tree while shivering violently, and the dark skies surrounding the false sun still hadn’t been recolored to their usual blue, but he still felt a certain sense of pride at how quickly his people had recovered. He was just starting to consider looking for a sidewalk cart for something cheap and greasy when Sergeant Malone walked up to him and saluted.

“Cops…soldiers…” Michael sighed, shaking his head in exasperation. “What is with you guys and salutes? I swear, it’s like an OCD ritual!”

“Force a’ habit,” the cop shrugged. “He’s been calling for ya, you know. Says he wants to talk.”

“I know,” Michael grimaced. “I’ve just been trying to think of something I wanna say to him.”

The cop grinned knowingly, a little row of white appearing just under his bushy mustache. “Nothin’ more American than puttin’ off something nasty ‘til ya absolutely hafta do it, sir.”

Michael grinned back, face still turned upwards. “You all know me way too well.”

“With all due respect, sir, we ARE you,” Malone motioned to the greatest of the skyscrapers around the park: the Empire State Building, its characteristic spire punching up into the pitch black skies over their heads, looming their like a titan in some ancient myth, made of steel and glass instead of flesh and bone. “After you, sir.”

With a drawn-out, melodramatic sigh, Michael pushed himself to his feet, ambling as slowly as he could to the tower’s double-doors, pushing past them into a vacant lobby. His sneakers squeaked on the well-polished tile as he walked past the vacant receptionist’s desk and towards the elevator banks. After that, it was a quick trip to the underground bunker serving as his son’s prison, the cell behind a layer of concrete bricks, and sealed off by a massive steel door with a tiny slot in its middle. The door in turn was flanked by a couple of automatons in full military gear, armed with enough weaponry to put a small nation’s army to shame and supervised by a couple of humans, being handled for now by that survivalist teen from Florida and that one grumpy college student from Michigan (of course he knew their names, but for some reason, he preferred to remember people by their characteristic traits).

The teen’s eyes never strayed from the door, a glare usually reserved for the darkest of creatures in all of reality on his face as he sharpened the Colima machete in his hands. The kid had barely moved since learning what had nearly happened to the little cartoon land of magical talking ponies at the fallen demigod’s hands, and frankly, Michael couldn’t blame him. Next to him, the student calmly tapped away at a laptop balanced in his crossed legs, shifting every now and again to reveal the tell-tale shape of a switchblade clipped to his leg. The demigod winced at the scraping sounds of the machete running through the sharpener as he approached the student. “Jeez, doesn’t that bother you?” He asked.

“I find its repetition and consistency soothing, not too unlike the rain on a rooftop or the ocean waves crashing across a beach,” the student replied without looking up from his screen.

Swarm smiled and shook his head as he walked past the pair, waltzing right up between the automatons and sliding the little slot in the door’s middle open. Immediately, the sounds of the machete sharpening stopped. Swarm could feel all eyes in the room focus on his back. New sounds rushed to replace the sharpening: a hand tightening around the machete’s plastic handle, the ruffle of denim as the student shifted to move his switchblade closer to his hands, the snap of the holster on Malone’s belt coming undone, and finally, Mars’ voice from the darkness within the cell: “Daddy dearest!”

Michael, along with everyone else in the room, grimaced, the corner of his lip twitching downwards ever-so-slightly. “Hello, Mars.”

“Ooh, Daddy, what’s wrong now? Aren’t I your little Marsy?” The voice cackled.

“Not anymore,” Michael hissed. “Not after what you did.”

“Don’t lie, Daddy,” Mars’s face suddenly appeared in the slat, grinning back at them all. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“You should know this is only temporary until we can work something out for you on the surface,” Michael replied, completely unshaken. “We’ll get you an apartment once you prove you can behave yourself as one of my guests.”

“Oh yes, one of your ever-so-obedient ‘guests’,” those cold, blue eyes regarded the trio of humans standing behind his father with all the respect of a housewife finding an anthill under her kitchen’s sink. “I’m sure you’ve already got plans to turn me into another one of your little pets.”

The teen’s knuckles turned white around the machete’s handle, but the grin only grew wider. “You might want to tell your little dog there to calm down,” Mars said. “It probably won’t do any good: too much of the Balkans in that one. Still, it would be the polite thing to do.”

The teen’s eyes blazed, partially from surprise at Mars having such an intimate knowledge of his heritage, mostly from plain old rage.

“Jesus Christ, you’re racist too?” The student snapped suddenly, his eyes finally leaving the laptop screen. “Do you have any redeeming qualities at all!?”

A tense silence filled the air, during which the student reached for his switchblade. “Fucker, did you hear me? I said…”

“Of course I heard you! I just have nothing to say to your kind, mutt.” Mars turned away from the slat, slinking into the shadows of his cell and muttering to himself, “…Slavic father…Aryan whore of a mother…I swear, in my world they’d all be put out of their misery…”

The student’s eyes ignited as his fingers wrapped around the knife’s handle, but he was a heartbeat slower than the teen, who stood and whipped a kunai throwing dagger at the slat with a little flick of the wrist, so fast one could hardly see it. Unfortunately, Mars’s hand rushed back into the light to snatch the blade from mid-air and whip it back out. The teen didn’t have time to react, to even consider the possibility that such a thing could happen, when Michael’s hand darted up and grabbed the blade from mid-air, halting it just before it could whistle past his ear. Glaring at the slat with a look that could curdle milk, the teen reached out and accepted the weapon from the man in the leather jacket, pulling it right out from between the demigod’s fingers. “Thanks,” he muttered, speaking for the first time that day.

“No problem,” Michael replied as the fallen demigod’s laughter filled the air, flowing from the slat in the wall and flooding the room.

“Please don’t tell me you’re that easily entertained,” the student jabbed, returning the switchblade to its place hidden on his leg. “What, do you really get your kicks off of acting like a big bully to the poor, weak, widdle hoo-mans?”

“No, no, not at all,” Mars gasped as his cackles bounced off the walls and rolled around all their heads. “Pathetic as they were, your actions just reminded me of a joke my dear ol’ dad told me once.”

“What joke?” Michael asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Dontcha remember? It was right after that American Lieutenant got himself blown to smithereens with that ever-so-heroic move to save his men: the one in the Humvee?” Mars managed to control his laughter enough to talk evenly, his eyes never breaking contact with Michael’s as he mimicked his father’s voice perfectly: “ ‘Not one more soul, Mars, you hear me? Not one more,’ those were your exact words, weren’t they?”

All trace of emotion fled Swarm’s face. “Yes. Yes they were.”

“Such a very funny joke,” the laughter rose to near hysteric levels. “I mean, how many more of your men died not even an hour after you said that? Ten? Twenty? A hundred?”

The laughter rose to a fever pitch as Swarm threw the slat shut and locked it with a metallic clang that reverberated through the air. Breathing heavily, he turned back to the trio of humans, all keeping their eyes on him, looks of concern on their faces. “Just say da word, sir,” Malone said with a wide grin beneath his mustache, smacking a fist into the palm of one hand. “I’ll hold ‘im, and you punch.”

Swarm just stood there, glaring at nothing for a few minutes, breathing heavily, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath. Finally, he sighed, straightening his hair and adjusting his jacket. “Naw, too easy. Might be counterproductive for what I wanna do here.”

“Mr. Swarm, sir?” The college student asked with his hand raised, like a little boy in Elementary school. “What is it that you wanna do here? With that…thing, I mean.”

Michael took another few breaths, but this time his shoulders rose as if they were fighting the greatest weight in the world, his eyes glazing over with a look that just appeared so tired, like he’d aged a few centuries in the past few days. “I dunno,” he mumbled, walking back towards the elevator. “I dunno. Malone?”

“Yeah, I just came down here t’see if these boys wanted t’get some air,” the cop shrugged, turning to the pair as he quickly redid the clasp on his holster.

“I’m good,” the teen said, returning to the position he’d started in: glaring at the door, sharpening his machete, legs crossed.

“I have a laptop with MS Word and a wi-fi connection,” the student shrugged, also returning to his original position. “What more do I need?”

The cop just rolled his eyes and shook his head as he turned to join Swarm in the elevator. “Kids these days…” he grumbled as the doors slid shut and the car began its journey back up in silence.

Stepping off into the lobby, the human turned in confusion when he realized Swarm wasn’t beside him. “Sir?”

“Go on ahead Malone, I wanna visit our other new guest; see how he’s settling in.”

“Ah,” the cop nodded solemnly and proceeded out the skyscraper’s doors. “Good luck wit dat.”

Sighing as the doors slid shut; Swarm reached out his pinkie and applied an exact and precise amount of pressure to the button he desired, signaling he was alone to the mechanisms within the shaft. With no humans in the car, there was no reason for it to maintain its usual speed. Now, the elevator rocketed upwards, slamming into Mach 2 before stopping abruptly at the penthouse level. The doors slid open, and Michael stepped through a front hallway into a lavish living room, complete with a pair of Lay-Z-Boy chairs and a massive home theatre.

“Hello?” He asked as he stepped carefully over the carpeted floor. “Anyone in?”

A shift in the room’s temperature emanated from the potted plant by the window behind him. There was a sudden increase in air pressure levels from the same area consistent with a human’s rising pulse and respiration, coupled with a surge in electrical activity in the shape of a human’s natural electromagnetic field during rising brain activity. Smiling knowingly, he waited until the last second before whipping around, his hand immediately knocking into his assailant’s wrist and sending the kitchen knife clenched in it flying across the room while his other hand immediately wrapped around his throat.

“Goddammit! Thought I had ya!” The assailant screamed.

Swarm just smiled warmly and released the man. “And a good hello to you too, Mr. Ramirez.”

The SEAL just smiled and shook his head, stooping to pick up the knife and walk back to the kitchen with it. He seemed almost out of place in a t-shirt and jeans instead of his uniform, but the crew cut still present on his head and the way he carried his massive frame still reeked of the military life. “Nice to see you again, sir,” he called from the kitchen.

“Yeah, meant to visit earlier, but I got hung up on all sorts of shit upstairs,” Michael replied, quickly lighting up a cigarette.

The SEAL cringed at the sound of the lighter igniting. “Could you not?”

Michael deadpanned. “You’re really concerned about smoke in here?”

“Right, right, different rules,” the SEAL laughed. “Sorry, I keep forgetting that the old rules don’t really apply in this…hive…mind…thing.”

“You’ll get used to it, don’t worry. Just wanted to check up on ya, make sure you were settlin’ in alright.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Ramirez shrugged. “I’ll be better once they get the sky back up and the trees stop fazing in and outta existence.”

“They’re working on it, but there’s always gonna be bugs in the first version. Really, just wanted to see how you were adjusting to…” Swarm held on to that last ‘ooh’ sound, letting it drag through the air in a very bad attempt at a distraction.

“…to not having a body?” Ramirez asked, finally putting the ‘to’ out of its misery.

“Yeah, thanks,” Swarm sighed with relief. “Well, not a physical body, I mean.”

“S’alright. Once you get used to the ideas and basic rules around here, it’s kinda nice. No pain if you don’t want it. No hunger. No thirst. And it’s a lot more private than I thought it’d be,” he smiled. “Plus, I still get to serve my country. How many dead soldiers can say that?”

Swarm winced. “Technically, you’re not dead, you know.”

“I saw my body, Swarm. I’m dead.” Ramirez replied, his voice strangely devoid of emotion as he pulled an ice-cold beer and a tub of guacamole from the fridge. “You just interrupted my soul on the way out, is all.”

“Soul. Maybe…” Swarm mused, scratching his chin in thought. Then he slapped himself, trying to remain focused. “Look, Ramirez, there’s something else I can offer you. Something else most dead men don’t get.”

Ramirez paused and sighed, popping the cap off his beer and grabbing a bag of chips from off the top of his microwave. “I figured as much. Had a lotta time to think in here while everyone else was setting up.”

Swarm nodded. “You can say goodbye. It’d be easy. I can assume your form, and you just follow me up into the conscious levels and tell me what to say. Everyone’s gathered together and sayin’ their goodbyes right now anyway, so I’d just need a couple minutes to…”

“Stop right there,” the SEAL held up a hand. “Like I said, I thought about it.”

Michael arched an eyebrow and leaned against the wall, eyeing Ramirez with interest. “And?”

“No.”

“Mind tellin’ me why?”

“Don’t front: you already know.”

“I wanna hear it in your own words.”

Ramirez looked the demigod over and took a nice, long sip off his beer, letting his breath out slowly as he lowered the bottle, trying to organize his thoughts into something coherent. “I think…that…it wouldn’t be good for them. Any of them. Might give them hope they might see me again.”

“They actually might, though.” Michael said, his other eyebrow joining its twin up by his hairline.

“Prolly not though, right? Naw. Staying dead is better, rather than have all those people hopin’ and pinin’ after me.” He took another sip from his beer.

“You’re not dead, though.”

“I’m close enough where poppin’ up in front of everyone will just open up some wounds that should be left alone to heal.” Ramirez shook his head and plopped down on one of the Lay-Z-Boys, reaching for the remote to his projection TV.

Swarm stared at the back of the human’s head for a while, just watching him as a recording of a football game (not from his version of Earth, but close enough to be enjoyable) played out. Right as the Peking Tigers gained a few yards on the Tokyo Hellhounds, Swarm sighed. “You’re a good man, Ramirez.”

“Yeah! Never thought I’d see the day where I’d enjoy watchin’…I’m sorry, what?” The SEAL asked.

“I said you’re a good man,” Swarm clarified, making himself heard over the roar of the crowd on the TV.

“Oh,” Ramirez promptly turned back to the screen, seemingly uninterested in continuing the conversation. “Thanks.”

“I mean it, you’re a good man. Better than I deserve,” Michael tapped a few ashes out on his cigarette as he spoke.

The SEAL looked away from the screen, pressing the mute button as he turned to the demigod. “There…uh…something you wanna talk about, sir?”

“Naw,” suddenly, that self-assured smile reappeared on Michael’s face. “Just payin’ you a compliment is all! Take it in stride!”

“Yeah,” one look told Ramirez that Michael’s words were far more than a compliment, but the demigod’s sudden distance meant it probably wouldn’t be wise to poke at it. “Okay, well, see ya then.”

“Take care.” Michael mumbled as he walked back into the elevator. The smile disappeared the moment the SEAL’s attention was back on the television, the demigod watching as Ramirez let out another cheer in time with the crowd on his screen.

“And…I’m sorry…” he mumbled just as the doors glided shut and the elevator began its final journey upwards, this time aimed at the light of consciousness glowing at the heart of this little, non-existent world. He took a few more drags off his cigarette, trying to relax, only to grimace and punch the emergency stop button. Immediately, the car halted right in the sky, high above his world, where he would just be a barely-noticeable speck in the blackness. Taking a few more drags, he breathed heavily, trying to relax. It still wasn’t working. His hand clenched into a fist as he leaned against the wall, trembling. Tears brimmed in his eyes as his breathing grew heavier and faster, turning into hyperventilating.

I mean, how many more of your men died not even an hour after you said that? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? His son’s voice cackled in his head.

“Wah-wah-wahn…” Michael blubbered, his cheeks wet with tears, the cigarette falling from his fingers. “Wah-one-hundred and fuf-fifty-suh-seven…”

That was it. The walls came crashing down. Michael fell to his knees, his hands clenching at the linoleum as he bawled, his throat constricting so hard all he could manage was a barely audible squeak as his body heaved with sobs. Finally, his throat opened enough to allow him to scream: “I’M SORRY!”

He curled up into a fetal position in the corner of the car, sobbing the words over and over again, as if they were a magical incantation that could reverse the past few days and bring the dead back to life. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Oh my God, please, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m…oh my God…oh my God…why!? Oh my…”

Author's Notes:

Just BTW, I've got a commission for drawing the characters in this story out on my DA profile!