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"Judgement of the Moon and Stars"
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Artist: EmiliEmail: silvergrotto@hotmail.com Website: http://dbzcrazy.topcities.com/ Character's Story: Her real name is Morgan. Or it was, before. She remembers that much. The first can remember her full name, but as the memories are transferred, more and more is lost about who they are. Who they were before the Decision. So she calls herself Morgan, Mourning. But to the city she’s known as Judgement of the Moon and Stars. The Decision comes once every 100 years on the turn of the century. The previous Judgement vanishes, and somewhere in the city, the Moon and Stars appear. That’s how you know for sure, by the birthmark. Except, it’s not really a birthmark, though some say you’re Decided on then. When it’s time, they burn on your face, and then the wings break through, and your eyes go red-brown and your hair the color of drying blood. You find the cloak. The staff. And the memories flood your mind like a sieve of liquid knowledge. Not that I could know, really. Judgement is a woman. Always a woman. Sometimes she’s an old woman. A child. A mother. A widow. But from the moment it’s Decided, they never age. Not a day, till the next Decision. One hundred years of the greatest power given to humans. There’s always been a Judgement here, as long as anyone can remember. She wanders the streets, cloak billowing in the breezeless summer heat. They say she can know your future, just by watching you. Know your past. Know who you are and what you are. You don’t even know she’s watching you until that sudden flash, your life before your eyes in a split second of– I was 12 when she Chose my father. I remember him reminding me to fasten my seatbelt. I remember his hanging loose. I remember screaming when the car didn’t stop. I remember the ambulance, the IC, the sudden flat-line of his heart and that cruel, piercing whine . . . And I remember her, standing in the corner, watching it all. When she turned to go I leapt, ran, grabbed her cloak with my bloodstained hands. Everyone froze. No one touches her. No one gets near her, speaks to her. Only prays to her for safety, curses her once she’s left and Chosen. She stopped. Turned. Looked me in the eye. I’ll never forget what her eyes looked like then, that first time. Red-rimmed and puffy, accented by insomniac bruises, as though she cried herself to sleep, then forgot how. Deep and rustic, tired and oh, so sad . . . They didn’t piece my soul so much as beg it, but my question’s answer was on her lips without my speaking it. " . . . how can I Choose?" Her voice was hoarse, quiet, barely more than a choked whisper. "It was either him . . . or you." And she fled. She didn’t stalk out, walk calmly by, vanish in a brush of mist . . . She fled, leathered boots slapping piteously against the smooth hospital marble. I followed her. Every spare moment, I watched her as she watched the city, both learning as we sought the truth behind hearts. It was foolish, I know. To follow Death is to court it, either seeking or taunting it. And neither is safe, by any mortal standards. But . . . I had to know. One glance was like a breath of air, an illegal drug that kept drawing me back. I was a child addicted to magic, a scholar addicted to knowledge. And I learned. She doesn’t always Choose who dies, but also who lives. Each day there is a list, a number, of all those who will face death that day. And of those, she Chooses the outcome. She cried herself to sleep every night for the first year, she told me once, but then the tears wouldn’t come, though the pain still remained. And every day she prayed that her name may be on that list. Mine’s been on it more than once since that day three years ago. I said it was foolish to follow Judgement. At first I didn’t notice, but now I know . . . she’s saved my life many times. The fights I’ve watched, the crashes I’ve seen, the diseases I’ve encountered . . . I could have been victims to any one of them. I felt selfish and protected, at first, that she saved me in place of others, but I couldn’t leave her, even after I realized that. And if she felt me important enough to save . . . I couldn’t leave her alone in another fashion. So I followed. And now . . . here I am. In a backalley facing the fists and chains and knives of two gangs. Facing death. Facing Jugement. Glancing up, I see her, standing calmly on the clothesline stretching from one window to another, stories above me. Watching. Waiting. Doing nothing. As the gangs close in, I press my self against the rough stone of the alley wall, brick biting into my hands. ‘I had it coming,’ I remind myself, ‘playing with Death . . . She shouldn’t have to keep saving me. This is no time to be afraid.’ And yet I’m frightened, despite myself. Fighting would be useless, I realize, and only cause more hurt. My actions have killed before, and even if I could escape, I would merely mean the death of another. Resigning to my fate, I glance once more to the billowing cloak above me. "Take care of yourself, Morgan," I call. "Thank you." I close my eyes, hear the whir of the swinging chains, the subtle step of advancement, the wish of air at the combined attack-- --and she Chooses. I hear a rustle of fabric before me, a sharp intake of breath at sudden pain, a gasp of astonishment and horror, a scrambling of feet as the gang realizes what they’ve done. I open my eyes. She stands before me, shuddering beneath the folds of fabric, fresh red blood soaking through the centuries of stain. Something like a laugh, distant, but with a certain joy inscribed, escapes her lips as she crumples to the cobblestoned ground. "M-morgan . . ." I stare in horror and awe, kneeling beside her torn form. "W-why . . . What were you . . ." "My name . . ." she whispers, eyes bright and clear, lips parted in an honest, beautiful smile. "My name was on the list . . ." "Morgan--" "Thank you . . . for following me . . ." Her voice grows softer with each passing second. "I have . . . I have valued your companionship. Something has changed. I think . . . it will be different this time. I will always be with you . . ." Ending I As the last breath slips from her lips, I realize with a rush what she meant. My face burns with unnatural fire, an etching borne into it. I cry out in sudden, flashing pain at the ripping of my back, the wings that tear from my skin and shirt, wet and bloody in the alley shadow. And the memories . . . They permeate my mind, seeping in from all corners. And there she is, brushing against my mind in greeting. I stand, reaching to pluck the cloak from a now deserted street. Always a woman. A woman. Never a boy. The staff lays at my feet. I retrieve it, tap it once against the ground, feeling its smooth carvings against my palm. Once a century. One hundred years. Too early. The cloak ripples against my skin in the nonexistent breeze as I move to face the street. And yet . . . and yet . . . I was Decided. This time, I tell myself, it will be different. Ending II Her hand slips from mine, head rolling to one side in the limp guesture of death I’ve come to know. A smile remains on her lips, satisfied and finally happy. ‘She wanted this,’ I tell myself. ‘This is her release.’ But I can’t quite bring myself to believe it. She once told me she wondered what happened to the soul of a Judgement. "I have killed so many. How can such a soul find heaven?" "You save lives, as well as take them," I reminded her, comforted her. "And if you took none, wouldn’t they all die? You find sorrow in your lot, and regret in your decisions. After a life like this, I think you’d deserve peace." As I sit, waiting for the mark to fade from her face, I realize that she remains, even in death. There was no Decision, only a Choosing . . . There will be no new Judgement. Something has changed. Our fates no longer reside with her whim. And as I stare in sudden amazement, I can almost see her lift from her body, wings growing, glowing, reaching for heaven. Finally at peace. After all . . . this is the City of Angels.
Comments: Yes, the story is insanely weird and has a gazillion plot holes. I'm not even sure if this quite fits the category of "super hero", but I was in the mood for something drastically different. The story, though it has been concocting in my mind for the past several Health classes, was rushed and typed on a program with a dying spellchecker, so please pardon my mistakes. I spent ages on the image, though, and I'm actually fairly pleased with how it turned out. Good old Ulead, letting me bend the rules of what it'll let me do.
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