Futuristic ᴇɢᴏ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

[hery]

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• II

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  Cyrus Winslow

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  S T A T U S :

  
  

  Conscious. Alive.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  H E A L T H :

  
  

  100%

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  L O C A T I O N :

  
  

  compound - a grassy spot

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  T A S K :

  
  

  prepare tomorrow's event

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Cyrus gave the guitar one last absent strum,

  letting the final note hum in the crisp air. Shortly after, Kurt, his wife, and son had arrived with the kids. Cyrus sent them a welcoming wave as thanks, beaming like a politician at a rally.
  
  But more than the sound of string instruments and youthful chatter filled the space. True to character, Angelo made a loud, swaggering approach, bottle cap in hand. Cyrus sighed, shaking his head with a lopsided smile as the cap clinked harmlessly against the stage.
  
  "Well, ''ey' to you, too, Angelo," Cyrus said, rising smoothly to his feet. "You must have mistaken me for a jukebox. Usually, those take quarters." The gathered children giggled at the quip, though the reference was beyond even most adults in the group.
  
  Cyrus had hosted countless gatherings since his group made it to the compound—book clubs and history lessons, explorations of art, music, and the finer things of a world that now only existed in discarded media. Angelo's appearances at the recitals had initially caught Cyrus off guard. But then he recalled the countless times low-fidelity audio from a CD player had been blasted over the radio channels, and it sort of started to make sense.
  
  He adjusted the strap of his guitar, tilting his head as he surveyed Angelo. "Tell you what," he said, giving the strings a slow, delicate strum, "If you think you’ve got the chops to impress this crowd, be my guest." He gestured toward the rowdy band of kids, then pointed with his eyes at the various instruments scattered around the stage area.
  
  Cyrus turned his attention back to the audience, his fingers settling instinctively over the strings as he struck a jaunty chord to raise the energy. He stepped back theatrically, holding the guitar out as if to offer it to Angelo. The children gasped and giggled in unison, their eyes darting between the men, already entertained by the prospect of inciting a showdown.
  
  Cyrus let his smile linger. "Well?" he prompted, holding the guitar out a little further. He glanced past Angelo to the edge of the gathering, where Fraley and Romar stood, offering a nod as one of the children bolted in their direction.
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡

  
  
  
  
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  Ivan Manca

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  S T A T U S :

  
  

  Conscious. Alive.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  H E A L T H :

  
  

  100%

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  L O C A T I O N :

  
  

  compound - a grassy spot

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  T A S K :

  
  

  stay put! be good!

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Ivan shuffled near the front of the stage,

  his jeans already caked in dried mud from the day before. He crouched low, examining the rough wooden planks with curiosity. Around him, the other kids milled about, their chatter blending into a faint hum beside the strums of Cyrus’s guitar. Ivan’s attention wasn’t entirely on the music, though—it rarely was.
  
  "Hey, Laurie," he whispered with a sly grin, leaning toward the younger girl. Laurie had her hands cupped, clearly cradling something small and wiggling. "Whaddya got this time? Another frog?"
  
  "It’s a cricket," she replied, tilting her hands so Ivan could peek inside.
  
  Ivan made a face. "That’s boring. You couldn’t even find something with teeth?"
  
  Laurie frowned and clutched her hands tighter around her prize. "Crickets are lucky, Pee-wee. Bet you didn’t know that."
  
  The nickname hit Ivan like a bucket of cold water. He narrowed his eyes. "That's a dumb name. And crickets are poisonous."
  
  "But everyone calls you that," Laurie said innocently, cradling the bug in her hands.
  
  "Yeah, Pee-wee," piped up another boy from behind them. A small chorus of giggles rippled through the group, and Ivan felt his face flush.
  
  Before Ivan could retort, movement caught his eye in the distance. There, leaning against the side of a building, was his mom, Fraley, chatting with Romar. He perked up instantly, the teasing forgotten.
  
  "Laurie's playing with bugs again!" Ivan announced to the kids and adults, standing abruptly. Without waiting for Kurt to say something, he took off at a sprint, his sneakers kicking up small puffs of dirt. In his rush, he bumped squarely into Do-yun, who had been wandering by himself, twirling his machete in one hand like it was a baton.
  
  Do-yun steadied himself with one of his ginormous laughs, lowering the machete to his side. “Where’s the fire, Pee-wee?” he joked, eyebrows raised.
  
  Ivan groaned audibly and, with a serious face, he answered, “No fire!” before skirting around him and taking off again.
  
  By the time he reached his mom and Romar, he was slightly out of breath but grinning widely. “Mom!” he called out, sliding to a halt in front of them. “Romar! What are you guys talking about?”
  
  Ivan kept an eye on the flask in Romar's hand, its dulled shine like a magnet to the boy's attention. “What's that?” he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. He tried to stand a little taller, overcome by the inexplicable desire to impress his mom's friend.
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡

  
  
  
  

 

[unditto]

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  ANGELO CAPELLI

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  S T A T U S :

  
  

  Conscious. Alive.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  H E A L T H :

  
  

  100%

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  L O C A T I O N :

  
  

  the community

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  T A S K :

  
  

  show them how it's done

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  “You want me to show you up at your own show, for real?”

  Angelo asked with a hearty chuckle. The liquor within him was the perfect amount to have him completely fearless and prime to embarrass himself, which Cyrus could certainly pick up on. He leaned against the piano, looking down through his eyebrows at Cyrus.
  
  Cyrus did a quick, showy move with the guitar, which got an excited rise from the audience. Then, what Angelo had been waiting for happened: he offered him the guitar.
  
  “Well?” the man asked.
  
  Angelo grinned over at Cyrus. “You think I can’t do it? I thought you knew my old man.”
  
  (If indeed Angelo was right about Cyrus knowing his old man, that knowledge would not bolster any confidence in Angelo’s playing abilities, since the only publicly seen incident of Angelo’s father interacting with a string instrument was him breaking it over his knee in anger after drunkenly failing to play some obscure folk tune.)
  
  Angelo grabbed the guitar with an exaggerated confidence that made the young audience before him giggle. He muttered softly to himself, fingering randomly at the fretboard to get a feel for the worn guitar in his hand. “Hell, I…let’s see…” His words were indiscernible to anyone but himself. “C Major, A minor? Or A minor, C major? F over 7…” He gave the instrument a strum, then, frowning, gave the lowest knob a twist and strummed again.
  
  And then, he finally began to play, and, unexpectedly, though the notes the man sang were always just slightly out of tune and the guitar had a glaringly wrong note on each strum, the haunting words of the old folk song The Unquiet Grave were clear and resonate:
  
  

  The wind doth blow today, my love,
  And a few small drops of rain;
  I never had but one true-love,
  In cold grave she was lain.​

  
  He took a few moments of creative liberty to howl, which made the kids, who had been sitting confused, burst out in a short fit of laughter.
  
  

  I’ll do as much for my true-love
  As any young man may;
  I’ll sit and mourn all at her grave
  For a twelvemonth and a day.​

  
  The subject matter was in stark contrast to Angelo’s demeanor, but, strangely, the children in the audience seemed to pick up on their need to be quiet. Seemingly enchanted, they grew still and near silent as they watched Angelo strum and sway.
  
  

  The twelvemonth and a day being up,
  The dead began to speak:
  “Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
  And will not let me sleep?”​

  
  A cough, then stillness again from the audience.
  
  

  ’T is I, my love, sits on your grave,
  And will not let you sleep;
  For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
  And that is all I seek.
  
  You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
  But my breath smells earthy strong;
  If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
  Your time will not be long.
  
  ’T is down in yonder garden green,
  Love, where we used to walk,
  The finest flower that e’re was seen
  Is withered to a stalk.
  
  The stalk is withered dry, my love,
  So will our hearts decay;
  So make yourself content, my love,
  Till God calls you away…​

  
  There was a single moment of silence.
  
  Then, naturally, one of the children demanded, “Why do you sing like that?”
  
  Angelo, cocky, handed the guitar back to Cyrus. “‘Cuz I trained for it, kid.”
  
  “Sounded really bad,” the kid said to the child beside him, but Angelo clearly didn’t hear that.
  
  He looked over at Cyrus. “Bet you don’t even know the name of that one,” he said proudly.
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡

  
  
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  FRALEY MANCA

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  S T A T U S :

  
  

  Conscious. Alive.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  H E A L T H :

  
  

  100%

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  L O C A T I O N :

  
  

  the community

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  T A S K :

  
  

  one moment of peace and quiet...

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Fraley’s eyes were focused on the strange interaction in front of her,

  and she wore a small smile.
  
  That was her first mistake, it seemed: enjoying herself by herself. She should have known that this would alert her precious little hellion.
  
  “Mom!” said her breathless little one, and she internally rolled her eyes (or, at least, she hoped it was just internal). “Romar! What are you guys talking about?”
  
  “Hi, sweetie,” Fraley said, smiling sweetly. “They’re trying other have a show, so why don’t you—“
  
“What’s that?” Ivan asked, and Fraley followed his eyes to Romar’s flask, which the man guiltily tucked into his suit pocket.
  
  Fraley frowned slightly, looking upward and trying to think quickly. “It’s, ah…” She smiled again, kneeling down to get at Ivan’s level. “It’s medicine.” She shook her head. “Mommy is feeling really, ah…well, she was feeling headachey and Romar keeps medicine because he’s a good friend.” She smiled up at Romar. “Isn’t that right, Mar?”
  
  Romar smiled unsurely. “Uh-hn,” he said, which was the first peep she’d heard from him all day.
  
  She looked back at her son, and her face immediately grew troubled. “God, son, have you been in the mud already?” she fussed. She ruffled his hair, and then, with a grimace, realized how much dirt had come off on her hand. With a sigh, she began to pick at his hair. “Jesus, I thought Kurt was watching you? This was one of the only pairs of jeans you had that was still—oh my God…” In frustration, she swiped mud off of every place she immediately saw it, though her swiping did little to help it.
  
  “On Tuesdays,” Romar explained, in subtle defense of the boy, “they go on the trail around the compound.”

  
  “Well, this Tuesday is a concert, Romar,” she said with a huff as she continued to dust her wriggling son.
  
  “I’m sure they took a shorter walk, then…the kids seem awful calm if that isn’t the case,” Romar said.
  
  Fraley tsked her tongue. “A trail would explain some dirt on your feet,” she said, talking to her son now, “but do you care to explain how you got the dirt on your everywhere else?”
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡

  
  

 

[hery]

• I
• II

• 
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  click!

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Cyrus Winslow

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  S T A T U S :

  
  

  Conscious. Alive.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  H E A L T H :

  
  

  100%

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  L O C A T I O N :

  
  

  compound - a grassy spot

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  T A S K :

  
  

  prepare tomorrow's event

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  The wind was picking up,

  and with it the auburn leaves shed by their mother trees. Shiny grains of glass, shreds of splintered wood, all varieties of litter dusted the ground in a manner most would say was all they knew. Such was the way of October's breath, often too delicate to sweep the streets from flecks of ruin.
  
  Fabric was tied between the stakes scattered around the compound, old mailboxes and traffic posts repurposed into trail markers. Described affectionately by most survivors as exterior decor, these low-hanging ropes lined almost every path, including the less-traveled trail to Cyrus' stage. Otherwise, strangers to feng shui attributed the posts correctly as a means of shepherding children and newcomers across the settlement. Engineers, designers, and architects were scarce. The need for navigation was not.
  
  Deron had established governance, Eloise before him, building a sense of authority greater than community. These were the ways of the future. Not a neon, space-aged future, but one where law and order is afforded by the mercy of fortune. And so, to stay sane, survivors had to forge their own luxuries.
  
  But luxury, Cyrus would argue, could be found high and low. Exploring flooded libraries, dilapidated schools, and crumbling museums, he found his own purpose long before being absorbed by such a large group. There was an innate legitimacy to nostalgia, as well as the universe-multiplying freedom of discovery. As a young person, Cyrus knew this more than he knew isolation and loneliness. More than hunger, the cold, or anything fleeting in this hurting, healing world.
  
  The self-proclaimed historian stepped aside from the stage, watching Angelo's performance rapt with arms tucked behind his back. His one-man show, though inebriated and somewhat comical, meant everything. It was the reason Cyrus put on these events, the seminars, the book clubs, the dumpster dives behind abandoned department stores. Singing before him was the proof that humans, by nature, craved art and expression.
  
  When Angelo was done, Cyrus raised two hands, pounding them together with a resounding thunder. There were firecrackers alight, glittering in the eyes of the children and electrifying the atmosphere around the sparse audience.
  
  "That was impressive," said Cyrus, dusting off one of the fabric posts before taking the guitar back. "You should take a bow."
  
  He then found his place on the stage, listening to it creak under the shared weight of the piano and two men. "You're supposed to clap, even if you think it's bad," he addressed the children, hips lips meeting in a firm, dignified grin. "Can you believe that voice? Very well-done." At that, he locked eyes with Do-yun, sensing a chill in the wind carrying the scent of Angelo's late father: whiskey.
  
  Cyrus tapped the body of the guitar lightly, a thoughtful rhythm as he spoke. "You know, Angelo, you really ought to share more of those old songs with us sometime."
  
  He adjusted the strap of the guitar and leaned forward, addressing Angelo directly with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Though I have to say, I’m not sure I believe your ‘training,’ as you put it. Sounds more like you inherited your old man’s flair for improvisation. That was an inspired interpretation, no doubt."
  
  Cyrus faced the audience once more. "You see, what Angelo just gave us was a history lesson. That song, The Unquiet Grave, is hundreds of years old. Sung by people who lived and died long before any of us were even a thought. Imagine that—a melody that survived war, famine, and now, this. It’s still here because people like Angelo kept it alive. And that’s worth something."
  
  Cyrus let the guitar rest gently against the edge of the piano as he settled onto the bench, shooting an inviting glance at Angelo. He flexed his fingers dramatically, drawing a few chuckles from the children who were still squirming in their makeshift seats of overturned crates and scavenged lawn chairs.
  
  His fingers brushed the keys, testing their tuning with a few soft, cascading notes. The piano groaned under his touch, but the sound it produced was colorful and rich. "This one," he said, pressing the keys slowly, "is called Let Me Call You Sweetheart. My grandmother used to hum it, very long ago. Said it reminded her of the days when her world felt whole."
  
  Cyrus began to sing, his baritone voice steadily gaining in power and volume:
  
  Let me call you sweetheart
  I'm in love with you
  Let me hear you whisper
  That you love me too
  
  His voice carried into the area, weaving through the fabric posts like the autumn wind. Some of the children leaned forward, entranced, while others swayed in time to the music. Others yawned, tugging at the Marks' shirts to head home for breakfast.
  
  Keep the love light glowing
  In your eyes so true
  Let me call you sweetheart
  I'm in love with you
  
  Do-yun, from the outskirts of the gathering, watched the stage with something wistful and nostalgic, though his eyes remained fixed on Angelo.
  
  Keep the love light glowing
  In your eyes so true
  Let me call you sweetheart
  I'm in love with you
  
  Cyrus allowed the final chord to linger. For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves and the distant creak of a swaying signpost. He stood up and faced the crowd again, his lips curling into a gentle smile. "And so, even in a world as broken as ours, love songs survive. Isn't that nice?"
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡

  
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  click!

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Ivan Manca

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  S T A T U S :

  
  

  Conscious. Alive.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  H E A L T H :

  
  

  100%

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  L O C A T I O N :

  
  

  compound - a grassy spot

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  T A S K :

  
  

  stay put! be good!

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Ivan wriggled under his mom’s hands,

  attempting to dodge her swipes while craning his neck to glance back at the stage. “I was helping, okay?” he protested, trying to sound more mature than his years. "Teyah found a rabbit, and it was gonna escape if I didn’t grab it!"
  
  "And Kurt said the trail wasn’t muddy anymore!" Ivan added, his voice growing louder to compete with the music. "How was I supposed to know there was still mud? It’s not my fault!"
  
  He squatted down, swiping a finger through the dried mud on his jeans and holding it up like he’d made some profound discovery. Then, he turned to the man beside Fraley, clearly fishing for an ally. "Romar gets muddy all the time, don't you, Mar?"
  
  Standing again, he stuck his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. "And anyway," he added with a cheeky little shrug, "Teyah needed my help. That bunny was real fast, and she’s not as quick as me." Ivan glanced at the stage, then at the people around it, his voice taking on a conspiratorial whisper. "You think anyone else here could catch a rabbit? Bet you Suit Guy couldn't."
  
  Emboldened by the moment, he pointed a finger at Romar's pocket. "I think that medicine is vaw-ka. The clear stuff Rupert has."
  
  Ivan smirked deviously, readying himself to make a lunge for it. "He said it's only for him, 'cause he's secretly sick and 'cause Deron says so."
  
  Narrowing his eyes, he asked, "Did you steal, Mom?"
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡