The Manga Man
San Francisco, 2062
"How's my favorite American manga writer?" Amanda Jones sounded bright and cheerful as her ecto-pod hovered above Jake Hill's unlisted morphline. "I was just passing through and I couldn't resist stopping by to see how you are! It's been ages!"
There was no response from the scrawny figure that lay strapped to the REM-workstation dais in the state-of-the-art anime studio on Russian Hill where Jake Hill lived and worked. Not so much as a welcoming twitch on his face.
Jake was all wired up with neuro-'trodes, Amanda could see that. He was either in a coma or dead or lost somewhere in Mangaspace. In any case, Amanda was determined to get him back on deadline with his "Tao" Smith adventure serial. Then, there was that other tricky piece of business on which the entire future of her agency depended. She scowled. If she played her cards right.
Amanda hurried forward, dragging her psi-cord behind her. She had only affected partial entry into the studio. The rest of her was still squeegeed inside the antique Burmese funerary urn that served as Jake's ecto-portal at the far end of the room. Obviously, she needed to update her collection of skeleton codes to her writers' hidden lairs.
"Jake?" she prodded him. "Are you in the vicinity of conversation? We need to talk."
Slowly, Jake's consciousness returned to the physical plane. In the back of his mind, he could vaguely hear Amanda's cats mewing all the way from the East End of London where she lived. He could even smell their cat-box. How had Amanda gained entry into his dojo?
Hadn't he changed addresses enough times? He barely knew where he was himself at the moment.
Vector 26 on Alpha Centauri? An eighteenth-century French chateau he'd once rented on the back of a Coke can? A sand dune in Far Tortuga? Drawer No. 28 in a Hong Kong herbalist's shop? Where the fuck was he?
Jake's guts tightened around some vacuous tightrope as he sought an anxious toehold in some dubious vector. Everything was going to pitch over any second. He didn't like this feeling at all. Trouble was, it didn't get any better than this. Even on so-called 'solid' ground when he got his gravity slippers out and attempted to do some physical exercise to reacclimatize himself. Reality always seemed to delight in regurgitating him these days.
God, he was going to barf all over himself again. How embarrassing. And in present company.
He'd have to discreetly change from his work-thong into something less salacious. He didn't want to give Amanda the wrong impression. He felt like an old goat with a hard-on. Damn it, there it was, giving him away!
"Perhaps this isn't a good time . . ." Amanda warbled apologetically as she scrutinized Jake's pasty white body on the REM platform. The man was practically naked. And was that--could it be--an erection? Jesus! Did all her artists work like that? She averted her eyes discreetly.
That gilt Thai Buddha on the mahogany table by the ovaloid brown sofa would do. Om mani padme something . . . .
"Huh? What!" When Jake heard the last scratch of Amanda's raspy voice, he jerked out of his fetal workstation like a free-fall exposition into Realtime. His mind raced through sixty different time zones, fourteen aliases, a dozen entry permits, waivers, a barrage of unpaid parking tickets in six parallel universes, and finally a drop through the time-honored Dickens Firewall back to Earth.com.
All tax-deductible expenses if you worked as a hack in Mangaspace like Jake did, doling out the REM-'toons to the white-knuckled dreaming masses who subscribed to the sleep-soaps.
But Jake Hill didn't pay any taxes. And hadn't in-God knows how long it had been-since he fired Mort Fuller, his last accountant because the guy wouldn't let him deduct those wet dreams he'd shared with Belinda Moon.
Belinda of the lovely eyelashes, sweet jujube lips, Renoiry hourglass figure, molasses-colored skin, and amorous tics in all the right places. Mainly, around her navel and that breath-taking crevasse between her ample bosoms.
Mort's argument had been at the time, "Jake, you can't have tax-deductible sex with one of your own creations. It's like, well, necro-nepotism! The RIRS will never go for it."
Mort could have easily added "anima incest" to the list of taboo deductions the REM Internal Revenue Service wouldn't allow. Because Belinda was a love-interest that Jake Hill had created specially for his character "Tao" Smith.
Lucky "Tao," the handsome, swashbuckling hero of Jake's once popular "Tao" Smith adventure serial. Now in sporadic re-runs because of certain "creative" problems that Jake was experiencing with his spluttering series.
Creative problems . . . As in, what the fuck was going on in his working dream-life? Where was "Tao"? That ungrateful bastard! Not only had he flown the coop. But he'd shaved his head, hijacked Jake's REM-strip, and was using it to do those bad, bad things . . . .
Gnnnnnng . . . Suddenly, without any warning, Jake's head began to delta-strobe with those extraordinary flashes again. He'd been having a lot of them lately. Ever since his accident in Mangaspace a few months earlier when he tripped over some weird leyline and fallen into that unlisted vector called the 'Z-Zone.' He should have reported the incident to the M-space Sysop like he was supposed to. Worst case scenario, he would have been vetted and quarantined for a while until he got better. Then he wouldn't be having these godawful nightmares.
Zaruuuuump! Before he knew it, he was catapulted back to that crazed stage in M-space where he performed his last bio-anime. Been forced to perform the piece, rather. It wasn't about "Tao" Smith, but about the monster that "Tao" Smith had become . . . .
The images swept over him like a tide of razor blades. Had he really written this stuff? What could it possibly mean?
The orchestra was silent in the aftermath of the kill. The body of Baron Kimura lay in the middle of the dance-floor, blood oozing from his billowing red gown. Naked, the Butoh assassin danced his victim's last breath away. His chalk-white body was a canvas of death. "Well," the Butoh turned to Jake who watched the scene horrified and helpless. "I think we're finished here. Time to move on. You coming or not?"
Jake cringed. What was this horrible creature implying? That there was a bond between them? That they shared some sort of diabolical intimacy?
"See, Jake," the Butoh's snake-tongue voice slithered in his ear. "We really are the death of the party. You and me. Blood brothers again. Just like in the old days . . . .
"Enough! Arrrgh!" Pinned to the easel of his REM-workstation, the neuro-'trodes blistering his scorched scalp, Jake Hill groaned loudly and tossed his left arm into the air in a parabolic spasm. His short crop of platinum-bleached hair was sopping wet from sweat and gel. There were things in your dream life that you definitely didn't want to relive.
Amanda Jones bit her lip but remained silent. Wise owl that she was, she could recognize a case of the anime bends when she saw one. Having represented a string of high-strung but otherwise productive REM-animators, she learned not to interfere with her clients unless it was absolutely necessary.
Unless she hadn't heard from them in ages, like Jake Hill. Was Jake really a burnout now? Amanda wondered as she peeked at his skeletal frame. Those little turquoise tufts of hair that clung to his pencil-thin ribcage then ran down like brittle strips of velcro into those ridiculous shorts he was wearing. Look at him, the mask of refried death on his face! Frothing at the mouth . . . .
Other artists, like Owen Biltmore, creator of 13,000-plus episodes of "Cranky Franky and His Feral Balloon," kept churning the stuff out as if there were no tomorrow. In fact, Biltmore had been dead for six years now and was still shifting gears in his cryogenic Maserati. For which his Estate, not to mention Amanda, was eternally grateful.
Amanda studied the blank expression on Jake's face. Hard to believe this bugger was one of the last of her living writers. She couldn't afford to lose him right now, not with her accounts piling up. Not with that deal she had in the works.
"Jake?" She ventured bravely. "Are you all right? Should I call in an excavator?"
Excavators were literary agents' assistants. Para-paralegals. They dealt with the annoying mental red tape associated with animationists who were experiencing difficulty signing out of Mangaspace. Excavators were qualified to perform the Heimlich maneuver on your pineal gland if you got stuck in the Void and couldn't pop out into Realtime like a rubber duck onto the wet rim of an unfurled umbrella
"Is that you, Amanda?" Jake asked in a weak voice as he raised himself up on his elbows. How he had escaped that nightmare visitation was beyond him. He was grateful just to be back on the physical plane.
"Yes, it's me, dear. In the plasm." Amanda Jones replied as she heaved a sigh of relief. She wouldn't need to call in an excavator after all. Besides, her ace excav Ronny Giles had tripled his fees for emergency roadside towing and rescue after the recent spate of bio-anime crashes in Mangaspace.
"You think it's bloody easy to drag their asses out of M-space, Mandy?" Ronny Giles remarked acidly after Amanda summoned him to her office for a private consultation. "These bastards are one foot in the grave, the other foot in the loony-bin. One mistake and I get sucked into their entrails forever. It's dangerous work."
The veteran excav gave Amanda a hard look. "My insurance rates have skyrocketed. Mojo Park's not the only bloke who's blobbed out, you know. They're falling like dominoes. Look what happened to Petey Callaghan and his 'Mute Newt' kiddy serial. He didn't last a single episode. He was your friend Glenda Flowers' boy, I believe."
Amanda didn't reply. Served the bitch right. She had opened a bottle of bubbly when she heard the news.
"What do the black-boxes say?" Amanda changed the subject.
"Black-boxes?" Ronny scoffed at her darkly. "Those little cortex suppositories, you mean? When I said 'meltdowns,' I meant 'meltdowns.' No REM survivors. Not a single sodding fractal left to tell the tale. Total brain-mush. Which isn't a pretty sight, I can assure you."
"That's ghastly," Amanda felt a sense of foreboding. She wanted her lambs to be safe. The ones that still remained in her flock, and she was down to three or four of them at last count.
"Ghastly. Ghostly. What's the difference? The lights are going out across the kingdom, Mandy. And I'm taking a bloody risk just pulling their peckers out of whatever they've been shagging, those bright dreamers of yours. All except for Wiwona, of course. I'd save her for free any time, if you'd let me."
Amanda smirked when she heard this bit of gallantry. Wiwona Alabaster. One of her best authors, barely thirteen years old, on life-support in a Lancaster hospice, writing Mesozoic-era romances that would make the dinosaurs blush. She had legions of young readers. The crown jewel of her agency.
"Not likely, Ronny," Amanda laughed. "You're a bit too old for her. I'd have to obtain parental consent."
"Too old for her? Now, don't get the wrong idea. I'm a fan!"
"I suggest you stick to the matter at hand."
"Who is it this time?" Ronnie asked sourly.
"Jake Hill."
"He's the one who writes 'The Adventures of 'Tao' Smith,' isn't he?"
"That's right."
"So what's the problem? He's not stuck inside any black hole. Not that I've heard."
"I want you to keep an eye on him. I think he may be moonlighting for someone else on the side."
Ronny Giles showed his yellow teeth. "Wouldn't be the first time that happened," he chuckled. "You want me to follow him? See what he's up to?"
Amanda nodded. "Something like that."
"Can you be more specific?"
Amanda handed Ronny Giles the neuro-gel cell that Archie had uncovered in the agency slush pile. "See this character? He goes by the name of 'The Hanging Butoh.'"
"Freaky looking bastard," Ronny observed wryly. "Could use a new suit. Look at him, he's as naked as a jaybird. Is he a perv?"
"I don't care if he is or not," Amanda huffed. "I want to know if Jake Hill is his mommy and his daddy. His creator, in other words. And if he is--"
"You want me to catch him in the act of psi-'casting this geezer, then report back to you?"
Amanda nodded. " I want you to establish if there's a definite connection between them."
Ronnie gave Amanda a bemused look. "And then what?"
"Then I want you to locate and destroy the original template. So there is no more 'Hanging Butoh' left. Anywhere. Got that?"
Ronnie whistled his surprise. "I've never known you to want to whack a bio-anime before, Amanda. This is something new. If there's any money to be made from this 'Hanging Butoh' character, can't you find some clause in Hill's contract and have the rights revert back to your agency? You'd be better off in the long run."
"I'm not asking for your advice, Ronnie," Amanda gave him a dark look.
Ronnie Giles swallowed. "It's going to cost you. A lot. I'm warning you." He reflected bitterly. "I swore I'd never go back inside again."
He was one of the best scalp-savers in the business. But not everyone had given him a second chance like Amanda had after he'd served his time in Wormwood Scrubs for his last unfortunate caper. The charges: Impersonating a winning roulette ball at the 50 St. James Casino in Londonspace. After bobbling into various slots on the wheel, he finally settled on the prize: Red 7. A neat hundred-and-twenty five thousand quid. And five years in the pokey.
Ronnie reminded Amanda. "It's against all the rules of the Bio-Anime Convention. Synth death is still death as far as the courts are concerned. You sure you want me to go through with this?"
Amanda replied coolly. "Just take care of it for me and I'll make it worth your while."
Bleary-eyed, Jake Hill grasped his knees, leaned back on his REM-platform, and grinned at Amanda Jones. His mind was going, but at least he was back on solid ground. How else could he handle the stress of being a pacifist serial killer from another world?
"I wasn't expecting you," he said to her. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
Amanda cleared her throat of the nozzle-sprites. Traveling ecto on the morphline wasn't her favorite mode of communication although she'd learned to adapt to the rigors of the frequently unreliable channels.
"Jake," Amanda said after she composed herself. "I've tried calling you countless times, but you keep unlisting your portal. You know I'm always a hundred percent behind my authors, but there's something we need to discuss."
Jake gave her a shy smile, one of his endearing ones. Innocent yet characteristically ironic. "I think I know why you're here," he said in a soft voice. "You're wondering what's happened to 'Tao' Smith, aren't you? Why I haven't been producing him lately. The publishers are complaining, Where is the product?"
"Quite right, Jake," Amanda nodded. "I'm sorry to have to break this to you, but you're in trouble. You're about to lose your Mangaspace contract. Do you realize what that means? Monies back, your reputation ruined forever. What have you got to say for yourself?"
"'Tao' Smith," Jake replied finally. "Is currently indisposed."
"What!" Amanda's eyebrows shot up. So the truth was coming out at last. "Indisposed?" she pressed him. "Is that supposed to be a euphemism? Have you killed him off?" Her face hardened. "Or are you working on another series for someone else and not telling me? Is that it?"
"Killed him off?" Jake's voice sounded dreamy. There was something moving outside in the garden. He was focusing his orbs, trying to get a bead on it. Maybe it was just a stray vector. He needed to change the prescription on his optix implant. Frankly, he was getting tired of distinguishing between his Mangaspace hallucinations and the supposedly stable landscape of his garden. One or the other, please. Timing was everything when it came to illusion.
"I'm going to ask you one last time, Jake," Amanda insisted. "Did you kill off 'Tao' Smith or not?"
Barely moving, Jake faced his agent. "That's silly, Amanda," he replied in a stage whisper. "It's the other way around actually. 'Tao'--that ungrateful bastard, I'm going to sic a vivisectionist on him the next time I see him--it's 'Tao' who's killed me off."
Amanda tried to decipher Jake's expression. He might be telling her the truth. Or he might be lying. It wouldn't be the first time that an artist shredded his creation. It was a schizoid thing. The underlying dichotomy of the psyche destroying the warm and fuzzy oneness between the anima and its animator.
But what about that neuro-gel cell with the Hanging Butoh's face on it? Mustn't forget about that. The Bald One was now worth more to Amanda than a thousand "Tao" Smith episodes. Funny how things turn out. You have to adapt to the times. Or become toast.
"So that's it?" Amanda said dubiously. "You're done with 'Tao'? Or, as you put it, he's done with you? End of story?"
"Right!" Jake beamed at her. "You can send flowers to the funeral! His, or mine it doesn't matter! It amounts to the same thing."
Suddenly self-conscious about appearing almost naked in front of Amanda, Jake slipped on a Tutsi kimono woven from African reeds. He reached for a gravity reefer in his Yanomami-inlaid cigarette box. He kept his djarums inside the skull of a shrunken head. He lit one and blew out a fragrant cloud. His eyes closed in rapture. Ah, clove peace light . . . .
He addressed Amanda with curiosity. "Are you all right? You look like you've been thinking about death. Have you?"
"Death?" Amanda was shocked. "What do you mean?"
"Lots of bio-anime artists turning into kamikazes these days. Bad things happening to them in M-space. Total brain-mush. Not a pretty sight. How I've heard it described."
Amanda tensed inside. That was almost exactly how Ronnie Giles put it to her. "Not a single sodding fractal left to tell the tale. Total brain-mush. Which isn't a pretty sight."
"Interesting expression, Jake," Amanda said quietly. "Where did you happen to hear it?"
"Oh," Jake gave her a quizzical look. "Don't mind me. I've been hearing lots of strange things lately. Mostly in my head. Occupational hazard, you know."
She gave him an ingratiating smile. "You creatives are tuned-in to channels we don't even have bandwidths for."
"Depends on your service plan, Mandy. Like everything else."
"And what sort of plan do you have?" The pisser must be leading some sort of seriously deranged double or triple life, Amanda reflected. Make a mental note to warn Ronnie Giles about it.
"Well--" Jake's face looked pale in the San Francisco foglight that slivered through the paper shoji-screens that covered the latticework windows of his studio. "For instance, you're just about to receive a call. From Tokio, I believe."
Chirrrp . . . Chirrrp . . . Chirrrp . . . Horror stricken, Amanda looked down at the omni-cameo broach that was pinned to the breast of her chiffon-plasm gown. Someone was trying to reach her on her secondary private office line.
It could only be one person. How dare he violate everything that she stood for? Client confidentiality. Room to maneuver. Calling her before she had the chance to raise the delicate subject with Jake Hill. That fucking idiot! What was the matter with him!
"Aren't you going to answer?" Jake stubbed out his djarum in an ashtray made from a blowfish.
"Er, yes. Hello? I mean, 'moshi-moshi'?"
"Is this the Miss Amanda Jones Bio-Anime Literary Agency?" The voice on the other end sounded vaguely Oriental and filled with hope.
"Yes, this is us," Amanda replied cautiously.
"Ah, excellent! This is Rocky Ikkyu speaking. The Nipponese bio-manga agent. Remember me?"
Christ, of course she remembered him. They had met at the Frankfurt REM Fair in '58, the last year that the Nipponese delegation attended the World Bio-Anime Convention. Hadn't they spoken just a few days ago? He had called right out of the blue, just like that, to make his business proposition.
"This may not be the best time to talk," Amanda hesitated. "I'm in a meeting with a client."
"Ha ha," Rocky Ikkyu replied. "Of course, you are! You are in the manga dojo of Mr. Jake Hill in San Francisco. Famous artist! Have you given him the good news yet? Has he accepted our offer?"
Shit. Amanda frowned. What was Rocky trying to do? Manipulate her? Is this how they did business in New Nippon? Put the screws to your temple? Bind your gonads? The son of a bitch! She already regretted getting involved with him--or them--or whoever it was Rocky claimed to represent. If it weren't for the money . . . .
"Oh, really?" Amanda adlibbed her side of the conversation. "That's unbelievable news. What an honor! Yes, he's fantastically talented. Most deserving. I'm overwhelmed. Let me get back to you after I talk to him."
"One last thing before you disconnect--" Rocky Ikkyu's voice had a hard edge to it. "Do not fail us. That would be most unfortunate. I hope you understand."
"Thank you! Goodbye!" Amanda switched off her omni-broach and turned towards the gaunt figure that stood by the window. Wearing that kimono made of twigs, Jake Hill looked like the Wicker Man in remission.
"You'll never believe who just called!" Amanda exclaimed brightly. "And with good news, too!"
"What does Rocky Ikkyu want from me?" Jake gave her a sardonic smile. "He called all the way from Tokio Metro, eh? Mighty decent of him considering the latest slaughter of Chinese civilians by the Imperial New Nippon forces in Henan. Changing babies' nappies with bayonets. Phosphorous Ebola garnish in their noodles. What's he want from a washed-up Jake Hill?"
"Yes, I know it's horrible," Amanda made a face. "Such savagery defies logic. It can't go on forever. Fortunately, fascism has a short shelf life. They'll return to their senses eventually. At least, I hope so."
"So what did he want?"
Amanda Jones took a deep breath. This was it. Fuck it up, and she'd be back to peddling King James Version of the Bible suppositories again. Or doing housework for her drone Archie Winkles. Maybe she'd be working part-time for Glenda Flowers. More than likely, she'd be dead. Rocky Ikkyu and his employers would insist that she commit seppuku of the brain.
On the other hand, Amanda brightened up at the prospect, if everything went according to the divine plan, she'd be fabulously rich. Rich enough to retire to any luxury constellation in the galaxy. And have room service rocketed up to her.
"Amanda," Jake reminded her. "You mentioned some good news?"
She blurted out the first thing that came to her mind. "Rocky Ikkyu represents a wealthy bio-anime collector in Tokio who wants to buy all of your work. Even the unfinished, unedited stuff that you may have lying about."
She glanced at the neuro-gel cells that were scattered under his REM-workstation. He followed her eyes as they took in the pile of discards.
"Anything else?" He prodded her.
"Oh, I forgot the best part!" Amanda laughed. "The very best part!" She felt slightly hysterical now. Best to get it over with.
"What's that?"
"Brace yourself. The Meta-Manga Association has decided to award you the Best Anime Artist of the Year prize. Isn't that wonderful!"
"You must be kidding!" Jake scoffed. "No foreign artist has ever received a Meta-Manga prize before. It's strictly a Nipponese thing."
"That's right, Jake. Now you get the picture!" She added nervously. "They'll want you to bring everything you've got to the awards ceremony in Tokio next month. Top neuroyen for the lot. You can even afford to . . . ah, finally retire, if you like."
"Hmm," Jake said. "How am I supposed to collect the award? New Nippon's been expelled from the International Planetary Union. All diplomatic relations were severed years ago. Foreigners can't even travel to that country."
"Rocky is sure he can arrange a travel permit through the Trance-Pacifists Institute in New York. It'll be viewed as sort of a good will, peace-feeling gesture coming from the New Nippon government. You want to help bring about world peace, don't you, Jake?" Amanda pleaded.
"World peace?" Jake sniffed. "What sort of dialectic is that? I smell a rat."
"You won't do it then?" Amanda's lip quivered with disappointment.
"Who said I wouldn't, Amanda?" There was a demented expression on Jake's face that Amanda had never seen before. Flecks of foam edged the corners of his mouth. "You said they love my work, didn't you?" he went on. "I'll show them my work. Why not? It would be my pleasure."
Amanda gave him an anxious look. "You do promise to behave when you get to Tokio? Not let the firm down? Do that for me and I'll straighten things out for you with Miles Milford over at the Mangaspace Syndicate. You can take a long and well-deserved vacation. Then dust off the old 'Tao' Smith serial, and it'll be upwards and onwards again. Better than it ever was. No more worries, eh, Jake?"
No more worries. Yeah, right, Jake Hill thought to himself after Amanda left his studio the way she'd let herself in through the morphline portal that he kept inside the Burmese funerary urn.
"Tao" Smith's a fuck-up and they're closing in on me on account of those killings that evil bastard's been up to. Or making me do for him. What's the difference?
Invited to Tokio, am I? To receive the Meta-Manga prize? It's HIM, they want. Not me. Who are they kidding?
Jake slid open one of the paper-shoji covered windows and looked out at the garden. The sky was a gray tarpaulin stretched like a panel of stained glass that had been bled of all its colors. He felt the ozone buzz through the reinforced glass, and heard the tinkling of the seismic wind chimes that hung from a stunted pine-tree.
Time to dance. Jake shrugged the kimono off his shoulders and he was naked again in his work-thong. That weird leopard-spotted sock of a thing that the Butoh master Akaji Maro had worn a century ago.
He moved in little spasms like a cripple whose feet were surrounded by tongues of fire shooting out of the floor. Feeling free again. As free as death.
Master Maro had explained how Butoh movement originated: "Imagine a snake emerging and appearing before a Nipponese farmer. The step with which the farmer may have crushed the snake, that may have been the beginning of a Butoh step."
The thong had cost Jake a fortune, but it was well worth it. Every thread spoke to him in the language of primeval movement. As his body contorted and jerked, his ribcage swiveled him around to confront his inner darkness.
Master Maro also observed: "We need to stop the accelerated activity of development in the world. We need to block the velocity. Butoh is therefore a dangerous force. The way of Butoh is dangerous."
More spastic movements, fingers curved like claws, neck distended, and his eyeballs turned outwards like the soles of his feet. Moving deeper into the darkness.
'Bu-to.' The Dance of Darkness. Created by the Great Hijikata in the wake of the atomic bomb that fell on Hiroshima in 1945. Why a 'dance' of darkness? Fuck did he know. Jake was still a novice. And he was certainly no dancer.
Not yet anyway. Although he had one of the finest teachers, even if she didn't really exist in this world. He called her Necro, the Angel of the Z-Zone.
Where was Necro? Jake wondered as his skeleton came to a halt inside his body. Necroangel was visiting him more and more often these days. Coming from all that way--from the Z--Zone itself--to put a smile on his sorrowful face.
Inga Roberts didn't quite understand Jake's fascination with Necro. But then Inga was Jake's girlfriend on the physical plane, and Necro was a phantom. How could it hurt?
Jake spun on his heels and stared out the window. There she was! Necro! In the garden! Naked, petite, Asiatic. Her body was painted chalk-white. Her head was shaved. She crouched on the ground like a broken vase on its knees. She held her hands up like frozen mist, as she prayed to the taxidermist's shrine that he had mounted in the branches of the oak tree just for her.
The shrine consisted of a tableau of mummified crows, their long black feathers gleaming as they perched on the branch. Silently cawing through their damaged beaks.
Jake desperately wanted Necro to feel at home in his world. As much as she made him feel at home in hers. In the Z-Zone.
Necroangel! Jake waved at her through the window. She threw him an understanding sweet smile, then went back to her worship of the unnatural.
It was only by mastering the crooked steps of Butoh that Jake was able to communicate with Necro. Could see her, feel her, touch her, even love her. For that reason alone--and that was enough for him--Jake Hill was determined to dance his way into the graveyard of her heart where they could lie still together forever.