The Gift

by Paradoqz

He can feel the city. Any city on the planet. Or off. He can hear the city. Every breath taken, every car engine turned on, every shot fired. He can feel them blend together in a song like no other, into a pulse unmistakable and unforgettable. Every city has its own Song, every one of them feels differently from another. And he can hear them all.

It's around 7pm in DC now, one of those beautiful March evenings when it's a crime to stay indoors and the streets are filled with people who are just happy to enjoy a spring day.

It's 4 in LA and the beaches are probably full. The music is blaring in the clubs and cars as the working day finally ends and the nightlife just barely starting to come to fore.

In Paris it's 12am and the city is alive with vibrancy and laughter, where the fun has been in full swing for hours and will remain so for many more to come.

It's 5:57pm here and he's freezing in the cold rain. The wind is a fury of the Gods personified. It's grabbing at his coat and pushing him of the road. He's given up on his hat; it was snatched from his head an hour ago. It would be a matter of seconds for him to open a Door and step out in some place where the sun is shining and azure waves softly collide with the velvety sands. He can. He even knows the perfect place. He knows all of them. That is his gift. That is his curse.

The wind dies for a moment, only to come back with even more force and throw about a gallon of water in his face. Windy City, indeed. It is if the city herself is crying, bawling her eyes out, lashing out in impotent anger

They were so alike. Both poor. Both from the South Central. Both went to the same school. Lived a block away from each other. They watched the same movies, read the same books.

Jamal and Moishe.

One was a son of a black steelworker, the other of the Polish Jews. That made all the difference.

So alike. Jamal's brother, John, joined the "Black Tigers" at 14. Helena, Moishe's sister started dating Jacob Rabinovich, the leader of the "Slashers", on her 16th birthday.

At 18, John was shot to death in the turf war. A week later Jacob was knifed and Helena's jaw broken.

So different. They hated each other on sight. The fought in school and in the yard. Finally the teachers stopped breaking them up. Neither joined the gang. Neither brought a weapon into those fights, but they were brutal nonetheless.

So alike. One joined the police, sentencing himself to hate from the most of his former friends. Other became a fire fighter. As fate would have it they were sent to the same district. The 6th.

He pulls the coat tighter about himself, ignoring the fact that it's soaked clear through. He can feel the City. That is his curse. He can feel her pain. He can feel her anger. The City weeps tonight, and he can feel it. That is his gift.

So alike. It was their day off. No-one knows how they both ended up there. Nobody knows how the fire got started in the first place. Rumor is that the wiring in the building was too old. Or maybe kids were playing with matches. No-one knows.

So different. They both called for backup and then disappeared inside the building. Seven kids. The oldest was 12. No-one is harmed more then a scrape or a bruise.

No-one knows who heard the soft crying first. No-one knows which of them guessed that there was another kid. No-one knows who was first under the bulkhead and no-one knows how they managed to raise it. Just that they did. And held it. Held it long enough. No-one knows how.

He can hear the City. He can see her soul. And better than anyone he knows that the soul of the City is not her streets or buildings or monuments. It's her people.

Finally his walk is at the end. He stops, as do hundreds of other people. Many of them in uniforms. Every officer, fire-jockey and paramedic who could make it, is here today. He stands, seemingly just another face among many that are weathering the wind and rain behind umbrellas, hats and glasses, following the slow, somber movements of the coffin-bearers.

They were not there. It was just another fire, after all. Not Authority's business.

Jamal and Moishe were there, by accident or by Destiny's design. They were there. To serve and protect. To die if need be

He can hear the City. That is his gift. That is his curse. The City weeps today. And Jack Hawksmoor weeps with her.

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