how can i ever apologize, i meant you no such harm;

[wingborne]

1.

Let’s forget Christmas trees wreathed in flame. Let’s forget the family picture writhing into black ash. Let’s forget the twisted fire lapping with slavish adoration at plastic gifts and wooden flesh, the twisted murderer against the window, the loved house falling into ruins because Rome burnt in a day.

Let’s remember the tea at two, a quiet afternoon in a stiff office. The man clicks his pen almost absently, filling the silence between the bones.

“This is good tea,” Barnaby says. He raises the cup to his lips, sips his tea, and peels away his second skin.

2.

Because it’s easy to forget. Nothing to remember. The room is silent at night, the hibiscus blooming behind him in eternal patience. Revenge, he thinks. He is six, and he thinks, he must kill the one who killed. He breathes the wreathed snake with every pounding breath as he curls under his suffocating blankets.

An image is burnt in the back of his eyeballs. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the flames lick at the walls, brighter than any sun. The hot touch of the door, the fallen bodies of his parents who promised him the best Christmas gift. A flicker of his murderer, and suddenly, he stood amidst the ashes and that man is taking his hand, saying it’s time to go. It’s time to go. It’s time to go.

He wakes up covered in sweat and nightmares, his six-year-old breath harsh against his chest. Sleep is for the ignorant, for the children who are loved. He tears away his bedsheets and clicks deeper and deeper, small blue files painfully building into towers. Beside him, his blue robot toy stares mindlessly into the night. The answer lurks elusively into the night, beyond his grasp.

Today, he stands in the streets. The rain pours down on his shaky chest, and he clutches the papers in his hands. He withstands the downpour and the grossly saccharine glances of knowing adults. Little orphan boy, who stands on the streets, asking about a badly-drawn tattoo. His knees ache and his head hurts, and he winds up with a bad cough that lingers in his lungs for months. But he thinks about his parents, and with gnawing despair, realizes the memories of their smiles have been replaced with memories of their bodies. The rain is cold in the morning, his tears are hot at night.

He buries himself under the blankets, and clutches at the little toy robot that no longer brought happy memories. If he closes his eyes, tight enough, the pain will go away. If he breathes heavily through his hot mouth, the tears might not drown him another night. If he finds the murderer of his parents, he might remember their happy smiles. Barnaby, six-year-olds, thinks fire into his nightmares

That morning, he has a question. He asks Mr. Maverick. He blinks. He has returned to his room, with a basket of food. Memories slip through the cracks of his fingers, but he has a little blue robot and a picture frame on his desk, so it’s all right.

He doesn’t need the rest.

3.

Things to Remember:
(A) The tattoo of the murderer
(B) A picture of his family, happy.
(C) A little blue robot. A gift.

4.

The files have grown modestly in the years. He has memorized the words to the back of his eyelids, to the flickers of his fingers, to the movement of his tongue against his teeth. He scratches away at the hull, but nobody has answered. Ouroboros lingers in the darkness, the memories heavy on his sick throat.

He walks home slowly, anger building in his stomach. By this year of his life, he knew the streets. He knew the newspaper stalls, the coffee shops, the time of day when businessmen would flood the streets. Unquestioningly and unwaveringly, he appeared on those tiles, again and again. The tattoo no longer remained a scrawl of a snake divided by a cross.

The crazed man had given a name to his enemy. Ouroboros. He would never forget the name, nor ever stop hearing the slurred word slide from the prisoner’s mouth. For so long, the clock has never moved. Despite his own sour tongue, hope pushes against his ribs. The tattoo exists in the world, not only in his mind.

When he returns home, he draws up any files he can find of Ouroboros. He is twelve, and dreams about snakes intertwined with crosses. When he calls Samantha to thank her for the cake, even as he hunches over the mass of files waiting to be culled, he faintly hears her ask if he has made any friends.

He responds noncommittally, with an inward sneer at the thought. Friends would only hinder him. But he has a lead, now, a single name with heavy meanings attached to a potent symbol. He doesn’t need friends. He visits Mr. Maverick in his office, and leaves with baskets of food. He only needs to remember the death of his family, and the single word that poisons his heart.

5.

Things to Remember:
(A) Ouroboros. Our-o-bor-os. Uroboros. ôr-rŏb'-ôr-rŭs.
(B) A picture of his family, happy.
(C) A little blue robot. A gift.

6.

Hero Academy goes smoothly. He is top of his class. An outstanding star. Girls watch him through weighted eyelids, and murmur with breathy desires behind their hands. The teachers adore him, the boys clamor to be his friend.

It doesn’t matter.

These things can be discarded. The faces of his teachers, the prizes that adorn his record, the girls who smile at him down the hallway. He smiles back, he runs and jumps, he dedicates himself to being a Hero. The connections to Ouroboros have run dry, and in his frustration, he lifts the weights and runs the tracks, because he will one day use his body to kill the murderer of his parents.

His laptop harbors the information, but he knows all the words by heart. Newspaper clippings desperately seeking out for a single word, wild goose chases connected tentatively to be discarded into the trash. His fingers ache at night, as the eternal hibiscus blossoms behind him, and time has frozen still. He will be on HeroTV, and he will win the points. He will smile and kiss babies, and he will return to his empty house at night as a good Hero. He will win the points, and kill the man who murdered his parents.

They invite him out at graduation, a small party with an abundance of alcohol. He receives invitation after invitation, but he only smiles and demurely objects. The shining idol of Hero Academy, he delivers a speech that moves the audience to tears and walks off with bouquets of flowers. When he enters his room, he dumps the flowers into the garbage. As night falls, he hunches over his laptop and goes over the same words again. Again and again. Again and again and again.

Clocks halt. Breath is frozen. Time has stopped.

Nothing can ever be changed.

7.

An old man in a foolish-looking blue suit smiles from the card.

This will be his new partner, they say, Kotetsu T. Kaburagi. An idiotic move. This tawdry fool should have retired from the Hero business ages ago. He tosses the card into the trash can with the rest of the unremembered things.

8.

“My name is not Bunny,” he says, “And next time, let me take the lead before you gallivant into the crime scene.”

“I’m not going to wait and look good for the cameras when people need to be saved! Being a Hero isn’t all about points, Bu-uhn-huh-hah-ny.”

Obnoxious. It was obnoxious. This old man got on his last nerve. Points were everything, and this man self-destructed at every touch. Crusher of Justice? The Hero known as Wild Tiger was a useless ancient man who should have hung up his cowl when he had the chance. No, but like the legions of the older generation who didn’t know when to stop, he had to cling onto the remnants of glory with outdated ideals.

Partner this, partner that. He hated his partner, but he smiled for the audience and saved the babies and returned to his empty house to his empty files, and he thought himself a good Hero.

9.

A stupid pink rabbit thing. He would throw it out even before he left the building, or so he thought. It was an ugly figure, like the Mad Bears that were increasing in popularity. He had no interest in those, and he had no interest in this. But it was hilarious, in thought, that the old man would consider this an appropriate gift.

“See? Look, it moves its ears. Little Bunny hopping down the forest… eh, that’s not how the song goes…” The old man wiggled the obnoxiously pink ears before frowning. “Little Bunny… hops… eh…”

“Your pitch is terrible,” Barnaby says, and he places the bunny on a nearby bench. He has no interest in stuffed animals, nor silly nicknames that ruin his image. But the old man is stupid, and insistent, picking it up again with his off-pitch song.

“Little Bunny Fuu… Fuu… Was that her name? A-ah, hey, Bunny, don’t go already!”

Things he could discard: (A) an obnoxiously old man and (B) an obnoxiously stupid-looking stuffed animal.

He would never find anything good about the old fool.

10.

“No good, huh?” His partner, wearing the stupidly thin paper mask, stared up at him dismally from the stretcher.

It wasn’t the point. They were all missing the point. Barnaby, for the first time, had a lead on Ouroboros. He had wanted to punch Lunatic with all his might, but he failed. Time and time again, he failed. His life, a successive amount of failures, over and over again. Near-misses, close brushes, but never the answers that would lead him to the murderer of his parents. He could almost taste the answers on his lips, but they floated away until they burned like stars on the backdrop of the tainted city.

He picked up the tatters remains that had once shouted Let’s Believe Heroes, now burnt to a few scorched letters. It was a stupid thing. He might give it back to his aged partner, a memory of why it was foolish to meddle in his business. See, he had gotten hurt. Barnaby had never asked for this. He never wanted the help of that idiot.

Nobody else could ever understand his quest for revenge. He could trust—no one. He believed in—nobody. He would never change his mind.

11.

Things to Remember:
(A) Ouroboros. ôr-rŏb'-ôr-rŭs. The organization who murdered his parents.
(B) A picture of his family, happy.
(C) A little blue robot. A gift.
(D) A scorched piece of propaganda, an unwanted sacrifice from his partner.

12.

“Are you eating right?”

Like the old man was one to talk. He suspected the Crusher of Justice would succumb to badly-made fried rice and beer again for dinner. His partner could eat what he wanted, but that wasn’t enough. No, the old man ate badly and insisted on pestering him about his own eating habits. To answer his question, no, he had skipped dinner again to follow on a false lead on Ouroboros. Then, breakfast, for a brief interview for an up and coming magazine.

But it was none of his business.

“Here, you can have half.”

“No thanks. The food already smells bad.” He rose from his seat, only to be tugged back down by his sleeve.

“You haven’t even smelled it! I made it myself! Here, have some—”

“No, thanks—”

Instead, he took a pitifully boxed container of fried rice to his house.

13.

What a broken-down hero. Barnaby finished the last of his paperwork, briefly glancing over to where the wooden abacus struggled to keep up with sleek metal technology. The damage fines had been particularly heavy, but the heavy miasma erupted from the news smeared across the channels earlier that day.

“That Lunatic…” Right on cue, the simple-minded partner growled and tapped his abacus beads downwards impatiently. “It’s not right, killing people like that. We have to protect them. We save lives.”

“I’ve heard this all before, old man,” he said, shuffling the papers together.

“Ah? Ah, yeah…” The old man sheepishly rattled away at his ancient calculator. “But you’ll listen to me now, right?”

14.

Barnaby had no reason to listen to that old man. That ancient man, who needed to retire, who was bleeding and watching him with those eyes. The smog rolled against the cameras, and the sodden buildings covered in man-made waste were silent testaments to the ruins of humanity. He could kill him, right then. The simpering man who killed his parents, that night, so many nights ago.

That old man hadn’t trusted him. He shouldn’t listen to him at all. With a single clench of his fist, this murderer would never breathe again.

But Kotetsu watched, with immortal eyes, and the wisdom and kindness that Barnaby had seen somewhere, a long time ago. That he still sometimes saw, in the glimmers of the faded photograph on his desk. Bleeding broken bruised, Kotetsu stared at him without moving a single muscle.

Hate after hate built upon his heart. He could kill him, and the world be damned. The hot tears that spilled unwanted at night, the cold afternoons of shoving a bad sketch into the faces of people who could care less. The smiles of his kind parents, a little blue robot that had been a last gift. Hatred seethed from his lungs, clung damply to his joints, tattooed itself on his skin. This was the man you made me, he would have said to Jake. The man who would kill you, trained every muscle to kill you, lived to die.

But—

15.

Things to Remember:
(A) A picture of his family, happy.
(B) A little blue robot. A gift.
(C) A scorched piece of propaganda, an unwanted sacrifice from his partner.
(D) Kotetsu T. Kaburagi, his partner.

16.

“What’s with that face?” Beneath his breathing mask, Kotetsu chuckled in raspy gasps. Fun and games inside him, ribs cracking like wishbones and organs shifting like puzzle pieces. His face and knuckles gone white in pain, laying half-curled in blankets and tubes. The green of his heart monitor bathed the room in the same glow of his powered suit.

This is the reward for heroes. Barnaby stares down at his half-drugged partner, lying alone in a dim hospital room, the stream of flower bouquets having stopped a long time ago.

He could have killed Jake Martinez.

But he thinks, in the fearful shadows of his mind, he has learned something about heroes, about the value of life, about trust. In front of him, he sees the forgotten grave of heroes, another name to the pile of good people who die forgotten and alone, rows of unmarked tombstones without flowers. In front of him, he sees an old man who smiles at him and asks if he’s eating well.

17.

What a useless old man.

“Daddy will be there, yes… Ah, no, Daddy really means it this time! See, here… Bunny! Bunny, tell me when it’s Monday, okay? Kaede? Kaede, I’m back… Someone else remembers it, too…”

18.

Things to Remember:
(A) A picture of his family, happy.
(B) A little blue robot. A gift.
(C) A scorched piece of propaganda, an unwanted sacrifice from his partner.
(D) Kotetsu T. Kaburagi, his partner.
(E) The date of his partner’s daughter’s recital.

19.

“It’s John’s birthday! Eh? Sky High’s dog… I think. He’s having a party. You should go, Bunny, let Mr. Lloyds handle the paperwork… We can buy the gift together! Dogs like bones, right?”

20.

Things to Remember:
(A) A picture of his family, happy.
(B) A little blue robot. A gift.
(C) A scorched piece of propaganda, an unwanted sacrifice from his partner.
(D) Kotetsu T. Kaburagi, his partner.
(E) The date of his partner’s daughter’s recital.
(F) A picture of an overexcited dog tackling his partner.

21.

“Bunny! Bunny, where’re you going? I thought Agnes had another cat-sitting job for you… err, well, us, but… Of course we’re using your house!”

22.

Things to Remember:
(A) A picture of his family, happy.
(B) A little blue robot. A gift.
(C) A scorched piece of propaganda, an unwanted sacrifice from his partner.
(D) Kotetsu T. Kaburagi, his partner.
(E) The date of his partner’s daughter’s recital.
(F) A picture of an overexcited dog tackling his partner.
(G) Remove cat clawing on his walls.
(H) His partner’s simpering tone when he’s done something wrong.
(I) His partner’s incessant stories about his daughter.
(J) His partner’s silence about his wife.
(K) Remove dog fur from his furniture.
(L) Balloons from the zoo.
(M) Never taking his partner out again to a fancy restaurant.

23.

Things to Remember:
(Z) A small golden Christmas pin, to make memories.

24.

Let’s forget the burnt Christmas night. Let’s forget the woman in the photograph, unaware of her own death. Let’s forget the man whose hands are bathed in red.

Let’s forget the heat from burning buildings, the soft laughter from the training room, the way old men read newspapers in the morning. Let’s forget the brisk afternoons when annoying pesters tagged along, then linger despondently by the card sales. Let’s forget the way his eyes light up when his daughter calls, let’s forget his firm hand, let’s forget his obstinate back. Let’s forget the way he stands in the night, slumps in the afternoons, sleeps in the morning. Let’s forget the way he smiles and the way he stretches his face in despondency at another interview. Let’s forget the way he mispronounces the English words in the magazines, the way he draws bunny ears on the portrait of the building, the way he waves in the morning.

“This is good tea,” Barnaby says. He raises the cup to his lips, sips his tea, and peels away his second skin.

25.

Things to Remember:
(A) Kotetsu T. Kaburagi, murderer.
(B) A picture of his family, happy.
(C) A little blue robot. A gift.

26.

Because it’s easy to forget.