Diorama

(Author warning: minor body horror, sexual lingo)

"I'm sorry, you have to take her."

The disbelief alone on Mark's face would have shattered glass. Jenna, a mother in her 30’s with frizzy hair and calloused hands held their infant son close, his sleepy coos calm and ignorant to the fact that she wanted him far away from this comfort. Mark shook his head, removing the baseball cap she'd bought him two years ago, holding his forehead as a dizziness took hold.

"Just for the week, I swear. I promise that-"

In his attempt to steady himself, he took a step. Jenna immediately pivoted, afraid that he was stepping out of the apartment. "I promise!-That I will take her tomorrow, but today is not a good day. I have to work, I have to-"

"I-" He was almost out of breath. The only thing keeping his anger in check was the fact that the baby in her arms was asleep. "You can't be serious. No, I refuse to believe you're serious right now." The hissing fury of his tone burned the air.

"You have to take Sammy, just for today, I swear, I swear on everything, please, I can't-" Jenna felt the little bundle shift in her arms, and she started rocking him. "Just for today. I promise."

"You said that last time." Her ex-husband stared with judgment reserved for true transgressions, "And the time before that-no-you know what? I should have expected this! I think the real reason I brought him over was so that you could remember that he exists!"

He held an open palm to the baby in her arms. "There he is! Your son, your one year old son! Did you remember that you have one? You must have, because this little spiel of yours about timing is so practiced now!"

"Mark-" As his tone became harsher, Sammy's little face scrunched up, an omen of bad dreams and disquieted sleep.

"-Don't you "Mark" me!" He cut her off, almost gnashing his teeth. "Don't you pretend like you actually have obligations right now, you haven't left this goddamn apartment for months! If it wasn't for the checks and the art I'd assume that you were walling yourself off from the rest of society to hide from this! Are you that scared of this!?"

She raised herself up. "I'm not scared! I'm busy! Look, I have to work, I have to meet my landlord today-"

"Oh. My. God. Again? Are you blaming leaky pipes for not seeing your own flesh and blood again?!" He couldn't contain the anger anymore, and it didn't matter that he did, because Sam was awake and starting to cry. Jenna shushed him, held him close while Mark finished up an array of hurtful, true things. She weathered it by staring at Sam's face, which even while crying was that of an angel, pure. She wondered what he would grow up to be, who Sam would become as he walked the road of life.

There was movement downstairs, footsteps in the lower apartment. Jenna froze, then snapped like an icicle. "Mark. It's a bad time for me. Okay?! I need you to understand that I am trying, but it's not stable, my life is not stable! I am fighting tooth and nail to get the stability that Sam needs, that you-Mark-currently have!"

He threw his arms up, balding head red with anger. “Oh you’re so full of shit Jen!”

“Tomorrow. Crack of dawn if you want, but not today! I have things I have to do, things that mean I can take him longer, that I can free up time to be with us again!” She sprinkled so much belief on it, as much as humanly possible. Anything to get him out of the apartment.

“I don’t want us. I just want what you promised for the last three months. God-” He held his face in his hands and paced, but didn’t stop her as she walked over, pushing the crying boy back into his arms.

“Tomorrow. Please.” She begged.

It took him three full minutes, but he relented. “Tomorrow.” As he turned around, Sam looked back, puffy eyes waving goodbye. “Or I start to make calls.” He added bitterly.

“Fair.” She felt her eyes burning his back, begging him to walk faster out of the clutter and mess of the third floor apartment. The wallpaper peeled slightly around the door as he shut it with force, the bookshelves covered in unfinished knick-knacks of every art from ceramic to painting. They shook, tinkling with laughter.

Downstairs, two men sat around a lumpy couch, the coffee table covered in crumbs. The fight upstairs had not bothered them enough to comment. “Where the fuck is he?” The older of the two men tapped a finger on his arm, obviously uncomfortable with the degree of squalor that surrounded them.

The other, who was scarred, tattooed, and equally impatient chewed his cheek. “Bout to rip his ass out of the shower if he doesn’t hurry up…”

As he said that, the water turned off in the bathroom, steam rising away as a dark-haired man with a couple tattoos of his own emerged, a towel loosely wrapped around his waist. “Gentlemen!” He spoke loudly, masking any distaste behind a wet smile. “I heard you come in, thank god, otherwise this would be a very different meeting!”

“Different how?” The younger, rougher man asked. He was answered as Vince reached into a cabinet, pulled open a drawer, and set the desert eagle he had somehow been hiding under the towel on top as he rifled through clothes, smelling for some that weren’t completely unwearable. The two men averted their gaze as he let the towel drop, shuffling on a black metal t-shirt and shorts.

“God, Vince, keep that shit private!” The older, more authoritative member cringed.

“Trust me Nathan, what’s here is strictly for me and your wife.” He paused, then turned and laughed.

The two did not share his mood, but Nathan smiled regardless. “Good one. Mind telling me how you can laugh like that with the moves being made against us?”

He slapped the cabinet. “Straight into business, I like that!” Vince rubbed his hands together and took a load off on the chair across from them, hairy legs crossed. He gestured, and the two obeyed, the younger pulling out a cigarette which he lit for Vince.

He sunk back into the chair, puffing contentedly. “Nice, what blend is this Hall?”

The rougher grinned, “Humidor wouldn’t say, probably some Chinese shit.”

He nodded. “Usually is.” Taking another drag, he continued, speaking through clouds of tobacco fume, “They’re the future after all, and us? We’re just living in the past. Bet they left a message like that, didn’t they?”

The older one snorted. “Yeah. They hit Mathis Row badly. People are spooked. The word ‘Triad’ carries a lot more weight than it should now.” Nathan lit his own cigarette, nudging away a soda can into the overfilled trash bin. It spilled toxic purple onto the pile of takeout containers.

Vince sighed. “Movies and t.v…Call a gang by another language and all of a sudden it's an ‘other’. A scary outside thing come to prey on us at night...How’s the girls?”

Hall grimaced. “Bad. They don’t want to take clientele until we can make assurances.”

His boss nodded in turn. “We’re going to give them some.”

That raised their eyebrows. Nathan was the first to ask. “How? You want to hit them? You know they have an iron grip on the wharf.”

“Everyone has a weakness.” Vince finished the cigarette, tapping it into the ash mountain of the tray.

“Even you?” Hall smirked.

“We don’t have time for machismo bullshit right now Hall, shut the fuck up.” Vince shot him a look, and the smirk dropped. But only just barely.

Things were bad. The Triads were strengthening their hold on the underworld in the city, and everyone on the lower rungs felt it. It was in the air, in the streets you walked, the people lazing on the sidewalks, the doors that opened for clients. Vince and his boys were enforcers for the established mafia, and they were losing out. On profit, on respect.

“There wouldn’t be machismo bullshit if you stopped this hideout shit and hit the streets with us again.” Nathan pushed it, and he almost never pushed it. He was spooked too. Vince snorted, turning over what to do in his head.

“Can’t. I leave this safe house and we lose the cops. Our deal. Remember how hard we worked for that?”

The two looked like they wanted to push it. Instead, he gave them something else. “Nah. I know what we got to do.”

“What’s that?” They perked up, lazy eyes following him as he sat ready to lead.

“A false flag kind of deal. Triad’s are moving up? We need to set those cartel freaks on them. Get them to start competing over each other.” He let it sit, scratching behind his ear and fumbling for his own cigarettes.

“Could work.” Hall settled a bit, and Vince nodded, sweating as the AC struggled in the heat and smoke.

Vince lit up again, “It’ll take a lot of ground work. We’ll need to put in some serious brainpower, get the details right so they don’t get tipped off it was us. I’ll make some calls, you get some boys together, solid ones.” He pointed at Hall with the light.

“Are you sure?” Nathan asked.

He scrunched up. “Fuck you mean “Am I sure?”? Of course I’m fucking sure, these foreign merc's may be scary, but they’re stupid. Dogs, hungry for blood, waiting for an opportunity to show how brutal they can be.” He layered the words with sarcasm. “Anyone can do that shit if they’re stupid or high enough. We’re gonna hit them so they run off and do just that to each other. Then we swoop back in, mop up, and back to business as usual.”

They worked out the details a little while longer, then Hall left to go start the ‘ground work’ as it was. Nathan cracked a beer out of the fridge, and sipped it while Vince rubbed his temples. “Pass that here.” He held out a hand and took a sip.

“This isn’t part of the plan.” His second in command leaned down a bit.

Vince coughed. “Of course it is, got to clean up this-”

“No.” He started, looking over his shoulder to the door, “This isn’t our plan. How much longer do I have to wait while you piss about in this sty?” He gestured to the trash tornado of the apartment.

In response, Vince got up and went over, sitting atop Nathan’s lap on the couch. He kissed him, then moved to the neck, talking as he let him close. “The funds are almost siphoned. Soon enough we’ll be out of this shit hole…and somewhere they’ll never find us.”

His lover hugged onto him, shifting to let him sit easier. “You say that every time. How long can we keep this up?”

He pulled back and held his smooth-shaven chin, smoke on both their breath. “As long as we need. You think I only meant foreigners when I said that shit? They’ll squabble, and then we run. I promise.” Nathan reached down, towards his leg, feeling along the inner thigh. “Not now.” He stopped him, holding his wrist.

“C’mon, you just showered…” He felt the other hand run up his chest below the metal shirt, his taught skin, the heart there steady.

“Later…” He insisted and he stopped. “I have to make some calls, remember?”

After some petting and kissing, Nathan grit his teeth; the enforcer coming back as Vince sent him off, a final, secret kiss on his lips as he slipped out the door of the building.

Two floors up, A knock on the door sounded. A key jingled, and Heather entered. “Hey uncle Grant! I’m here!” She called out into the apartment, the walls lined with aeronautical photos, airplanes, balloons, blimps. Large gatherings of people stood in each, throwing signs and salutes. There was no answer. She entered, looking around at the old memories. “Uncle?!” She called back again.

There were bangs and jitters as one of the men from the photos emerged from the study, wearing moon-eyed spectacles and with a bushy beard. A model airplane clutched in his hands. “There’s my girl! How you been, grand-niece!?

Heather had always loved her Great Uncle. He’d been an aeronautical engineer his whole life, and had so many stories about prototypes, tests, and storms that a visit was always a delight. Heather didn’t really like much of her family, extended or otherwise, but Uncle Grant? He was like the brother she’d never had.

-“Whole thing went up in smoke!” He flourished with his hands, making a raspberry as she laughed. She loved that balloon story.

“I can only hope that things aren’t so dramatic when I get my pilot’s license!” They both laughed, but Grant knew what was coming and cringed inwardly. “Speaking of…I’ve been acing the flight sims lately. Do you think it’s time to…”

“Oh, Heather, you know-” He coughed, taking a sip of tea off the end table, a decorative mechanical propeller spinning in the center. “Life…you can’t rush these things!”

“But I’m not! I want to go on the World Tour! You and me uncle, like you said!” Heather had dreamed of it since she was a child, a round-the-world trip, visiting all the places that her uncle spoke about, flying across continents and touching down all over the globe. “It’s time. I’m ready! We could go down to the flight office right now, this minute if-”

Uncle Grant almost choked on his tea, and flew into a coughing fit. It was a bad one, and she helped rub his back as he came out of it, glasses askew. “I’m sorry.” She mournfully whispered.

He never shared why, but uncle Grant had become a shut-in in these last few years. He hadn’t flown, hadn’t left his apartment once. She visited often, but…it wasn’t a life she thought he wanted, with how he stared out the window; at the open skies.

He smiled, the knowing there on his face. “Wouldn’t you rather take a special someone on that trip? Rather than some old fogey who…well, who put the dream in you?” He rubbed the glasses, grinning.

“We promised to go together.” She held his hand, the wrinkles there deeper every day. He looked at the floor. Then nodded.

“Soon. I promise.” He met her eyes. The trust there was unshakeable.

“Okay.” She smiled back, hugging him tight.

The sun began to set and Heather left, waving goodbye and leaving behind some tea-cakes for Grant to enjoy. He smiled.

As she closed the door, the smile fell. Grant removed his heavy glasses, and shucked off his aviator jacket. He walked back to the bookshelf in his study. He pushed it aside, the roll of hidden wheels opening to a cramped ladder, leading down into darkness.

He descended. Dust from ages past fell on his comb-over, and he sneezed twice as he entered the chamber.

It was lit by a generator, endlessly spinning with a ca-chunk* as it powered the lights. It was barren, save for two objects. There was a desk space, an architect’s board with a building blueprint above on the bare brick, covered with tacked up photos of every building resident per their apartment. Grant on the third, Jenna on the second, Vince on the first.

What dominated the room though was far stranger. Set into the far wall was a combination of a tube, and a futuristic table, clear glass and robotic arms out of place in the gloom of the hidden chamber. It was large enough to hold a person, and the bright metal and plastic felt alien to the dark. It sat menacingly as Grant moved to the desk, writing in the books there. His face neutral as he scratched the letters.

Then, he walked up to the device. On the side was a hand print scanner, which he pressed into. It turned over, offering different numbers on the back. He hit the ‘1’ and it registered with a sound. A hum filled the room, the old beams and boards barely vibrating as hidden machinery spun up into action. He stepped inside.

The machine spun and unfurled like a spider crossed with a human hand, his body going limp as syringes and extruders worked over him. They bit deep, a 3-d printer in reverse as they unwound flesh and vein and blood at frantic speeds, pulling away material like ants ate an apple; until only the brain remained. The pink mass waited one full second there in the sealed tube, then the machine started again, filling back out what it had taken. Lymph nodes were rebuilt, bones restructured, skin rewoven. The eyes were printed out like a glass filling with water, the fingernails glued back together, the hair replanted; until finally Grant was completely gone.

In his place, Vince blinked the fresh set of eyes. His clothes were printed back, the whirring, hissing limbs placing back the cloth, finishing the hangnail that had been on his left finger.

A minute passed, then the tube hissed open with a pop of steam. Vince walked out, took out a cigarette, and made for the ladder, climbing back up towards the alcove hidden in his bathroom. He felt tired. His memories weighed heavy, there was a void in him he couldn’t fill, not with Sam, or Nathan, or even Heather.

There, back on the desk, the lights endlessly flickering, sat the journal, open to a page detailing everything that had happened with each resident today. It ended with the same sign off since the first page, filled with fear and questions unanswerable.

“Who was I originally?”