Cross Builder

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Introduction to Foxing Part 1: Cross Builders

>Your name is Benjamin; most people call you Ben, or Benny

>You’re a Gray Tail, an elite Order of Foxers who go on special missions

 

>And shit like this isn’t supposed to happen to Gray Tails!

“Here girlie! C’mere Lucy!” You call, hopeful voice crackling with dehydration and exhaustion

>Your chapped lips purse together to seal a frustrated shout in your lungs

>It’s not fair, bros…

>Life… just isn’t fair sometimes

>You yelled yourself raw earlier in a bid to summon Lucy;

>You screamed your primal hymn to the deaf crowd like some idiot raving about his animal god

>Repurposed hemp rope bites into your pale flesh like little fibrous teeth bound to yours wrists

>The lashes around your wrists bind you to a crude, rot-wood crucifix; one waiting to be set upwards high on a hill, somewhere in Purgatory, against the rising of the sun,

>You, its chief occupant

>Your eyes split open as you petition the dark sky once more

“LUCY! Where are ya, girl?”

>A halo of crows circles overhead, a noisy chorus of wings and feathers that await their next meal

>You thrash around against the bindings, trying to find the weakness in the cross builder’s torture materials — some knot they failed to secure; some structural fault in their rope

>You come up empty and sweating, and strained

>A shrill, almost mocking screech pierces your ears

>The sound someone — something — makes when they’ve got no grasp of language, but need to convey excitement

>You lift your tired head

>Standing around you, chittering in a language only the deaf and blind can hear:

>Festering, sweaty, violent as a heretic

>Cross builders

>They await their comrade’s return

>You know how cross builders work:

>First they swarm you, overwhelm you

>Bludgeon you, beat you, bite you, strange you

>If they don’t kill you at first, they make use out of you

>It’ll be two nails, one each palm

>And a larger one driven into your feet

>Shattering bone, ripping through muscle

>Pinning you to the wood like a trapped insect

>Left over for the sport of the crows

>You’re a Foxer for the Church — that means the whole goddamn of humanity

>The people of God’s Promise

>And God keeps His promises, right?

>Your eyes scan the pale, naked sea of legs and hungry torsos, searching in vain for your service fox, Lucy

>In order for hope to survive — a caged bird within your chest — you NEED her to appear in the crowd

>NOW

>It’s a borderline spiritual matter!

>You try another dry whistle but no air comes out of you

>Frustrated, you let a scream claw its way out of your raw throat

“LUCY!”

>Lucky for you, cross builders are blind and deaf, so really, you’re almost yelling to yourself

>You’ve come to hate the those hairless bastards for more than just what they are — tribal savages, bent on crucifying man and bird

>You hate their lack of reaction to your pain

>To your struggling

>They could care less until the hammers and nails get here, it feels like

>Makes you feel…

>Alone…

>…almost…

>Hard to feel that way with so many of them around you

>Surrounded by people with no eyes, and yet you feel so intimately watched and studied

>No eyes!

>No ears!

>Not even a nose!

>They’re like a blank slate of a person; a lump of clay unmolded by God

>Pale, violent in their ruined half-state, it’s said they hunt using vibrations

>You almost pity them

>If they weren’t so FUCKING EVIL

>They are nearly deprived of all the tools with which you use to navigate Purgatory (including foxes)

>Though

>They… have mouths…

>God…

>Wide, grinning mouths, stuffed full of yellow, broken teeth, as jagged as wolf’s teeth

>CONSTANTLY chattering…

>…sometimes screaming in animal tongues with no discernible vowels or consonants that you can string together

>Truthfully there is no content to their speech; just hedonistic growling and gurgles that echo for city blocks,

>Simple actions guided by shamanistic fervor as their cult-like leader, mask and all, will occasionally materialize

>Centuries of study has yet to lead humanity any closer understanding their godless language

>It’s thought that they have no language

>They have only an instinct to crucify and inflict pain, and to react with joy when inflicting said pain

“Lucy! C’mere girl!” you scream again

>Well, you fucking refuse to give up

>You are SO much better than a padfoot, fresh out of Academy

>You’re a FUCKING Gray Tail, damnit, an elite Foxer

>…Who is supposed to be out on a special mission…

>And- And

>You didn’t even deserve to get caught!

>Your chest heaves with exhaustion

>Then, without warning, the cross-builders go quiet

>Like glass shattering at a dinner party, the ‘conversation’ stops

>A silence so abrupt settles on the Wealthy Street that it’s almost like…

>Eyeless heads turn in your direction

>…they heard you yelling

>One of those lanky, pale cross builders emerges from the crowd

>In his right hand is a blunted knife, clearly fashioned out of scrap from around the area

>The cross builder squats down next to you, his empty, pale face obscuring the moonlight

>He studies you for a second

>His jaw works with primitive adrenaline, a thin, gossamer thread of drool threading down onto your naked chest

>Your eyes flicker over to the blunt knife, white-knuckled in his grip

>His hand is trembling

>Now or never Lucy, he’s gonna slit your neck

>You open your mouth to call again-

>The cross builder SLAMS the knife into your side, a clear attempt to pierce your skin

>The knife glances off your rib bone, but not quite breaking the skin — too blunted

>The bruising pain sends white hot flashes of light into your vision

>You bite your lower lip, killing a scream in your throat

>You refuse to let them hear you scream like this

>They don’t deserve it; they can’t hear anyway

>The cross builder tries to break skin again

>Suddenly it’s no longer a crisp, early autumn night

>It’s not the September you remember; cloudless and cold

>There is only a searing flash of white that explodes in your vision, blanketing all sound and sense in the resonate feeling of pain

>At first, your eyes go wide in shock, as if you can see unconsciousness — death even — approaching from the periphery

>And then, the pain the cross becomes a distant feeling, a question brought to a non-answer in your mind through several layers of abstraction and compression

>Like a memory you once had but lost, and now you’re only left with fragments of the sounds: the whooping and hollering, the frightened gonking and cawing

>In desperation your mind hurtles towards a prayer — anything to speak to God one last time, if this is to be that fated last time

>And then

>All at once

>It stops

>Satisfied with inflicting pain on you, the cross builder simply drops his ‘knife’ and stands tall

>He walks back towards the assemblage crowd of the faceless others

>They begin hollering at each other in some kind of reverie

>Your eyes open, one at a time

>You turn your head left, and look down at the knife that bastard dropped

>Your eyes hunger, blunt as it may be

>So close, and yet so far

>Your senses fill

>Air finds its way back to your lungs through shallow breaths

>Your eyes unclench at last and swell with cold moonlight

>Crows circle above, like a black halo around the moon

>A symphony of crickets meets your ears; the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard

>A gentle wind kisses your sweat-slicked skin

>A squawky voice that breaks with touches of humanity, bordering on mimicry, draws your attention to your right

>”Demon- demon is alive?”

>Ah, you almost forgot, you’re not alone in this torture

>The cross builders captured the two of you

>Those bastards got the jump on you both in the ruins while you were in a proverbial game of cat and mouse

>Sure, you wanted to kill him back then, but now, given the situation…

>You pity him

“Demon is ‘alive’,” you parrot back, voice quiet and cracking from the pain

>You roll your head to the right

>There’s a second crucifix resting on a shattered slab of concrete, just like yours

>A body lashed to the timbers

>But not just any body

>A heretic, is what your people call him

>Corvid, Corvidae, raven, heretic…

>Victim…

>Like you

>A gnarled length of rope binds the raven to the rotted timbers by his rather thin, feathered wrists, almost identical to how you’re bound

>Still, at nearly six-foot-eight, and corded with muscle, you find it curious that this raven hasn’t just ripped himself off the cross and escaped on his own

>The berzerker-like strength of ravens is like Foxing 101

“Looks like they needed a bigger cross for you, aye ‘friend’?” You crack a dopey smile at the raven

>Not friendly, but you’re not sure he understands that

>Your eyes travel down from the raven’s quivering, black beak

>Blood seethes from fresh slits in his side where a cross builder’s knife-work was a little more precise

>Perhaps that’s why he hasn’t run

>The heretic’s black feathers peel from his body, one-after-another, catching the midnight breeze

>You’re reminded a little of leaves in the fall

>The way you and Mary would go apple picking in Farthing’s Orchards, near Vigil

>Right around this time of the year, actually

>And the spiced evening winds carried cinnamon and apple blossom

>And you kissed by the bonfire

>A better memory, under happier circumstances

>The heretic’s yellow eyes meet yours

>There’s no fury in his face — not any longer

>None of the anger that drove you towards one another with rifle or bayonet just hours ago

>Nothing even resembling a final purpose

>What you see reminds you…

>…of years away from home…

>….of the piles of messages and love letters that you’ll never read…

>…of the children you’ll never have, encircling you, laughing, pulling on your leg, asking for another story ‘from beyond the walls’…

>…of a life un-lived, a careful home once built now, undone…

>…of yourself

>The heretic’s eyelids are heavy, ringed with exhaustion and stained with dried tears of regret

>Tears that sodden the black feathers covering his half-dressed body

>You swear, the longer you look…

>…the more ‘human’ the heretic seems to you

>What’s that old saying?

>The enemy of my enemy is my friend?

“How are you holding up?” you ask in a low voice, weak voice

>The raven looks over at you and blinks, heavy eyelids falling like they weighed ten pounds each

>”Skaa katha,” the raven says, eyes flickering down to the fresh rivulets of blood gathering into a sizable puddle beneath him. “Demon katha.”

>Katha

>Blood?

>Hurt?

>Death?

>Dying?

>Whatever that means, the prognosis is probably not good

“Listen, I’m going to get out of here,” you say, trying to believe in your own words. “God will redeem me. And- and if I can just get Lucy to come gnaw these ropes, I’m home-free. I’ve got a horse on Chestnut Lane, three blocks over. I- I can get out of this if I just had Lucy.”

>The heretic nods along with a heavy, leaden head

>He seems to understand you, mostly

>”You call to ‘Lucy, yes, yes,’” he wheezes

“Ssssomething like that,” you hiss

>Goddamnit he doesn’t understand

>What’s the use anyway? Now’s not the time to learn English

>“Visha make help find,” the bird says with a weak, affirmative nod

>Visha’s beak starts working with a sound familiar to you, because the voice isn’t TECHNICALLY his

>It’s yours

>“Here girlie! C’mere Lucy!” The raven bellows, his — your — voice echoing off the buildings lining Wealthy Street

>Chills run up through your body

>It’s the first time you’ve ever… ever heard your own voice parroted back at you with such disturbing accuracy

>And you’ve dealt with heretics plenty

>It’s always incredibly unsettling hearing them do that little trick of the voice

>All Corvidae can mimic what they hear

>Sentences, sounds

>Voices

>And that was…

>…louder than you could do it, by a lot

>Maybe Lucy heard that?

>Seconds later you hear your own whistle booming in the throat of the heretic

>”Visha help find,” the raven squawks

>A weak, confused smile graces your lips

>By God… this heretic is actually trying to help you

>Out of curiosity, you try lifting your head up to search for Lucy, just to see if it worked

>The cross builders mill around you, chittering and waiting for the nails and hammers to arrive, unaware of yours or the bird’s efforts to summon Lucy

>You sigh and lower your head back onto the cross

>No fox

>”Lucy is comrade?” Visha wheezes, just a few feet to your right

>A small puff of laughter escapes you

“No she’s not- well, yes, actually. She is my comrade. She’s my service fox — a damned good one, too. But she ran off when the cross builders showed up, and I haven’t seen her since.”

>”Ah,” the heretic says with a click of recognition. “Vulca. ‘Fox.’ I know you Vulcada but Visha not see vulca when Toctha come to take us away.”

>With significant effort, the heretic raises his head off the cross so that he can tilt his head to face you

>You roll your head to the right to face the heretic

>”Lucy…. she listen to Vulcada voice,” he offers with a weak smile. “Visha is good singer.”

“I appreciate you trying that,” you say, almost letting a full on smile form on your lips

>Almost

>You WERE trying to stab or shoot one another a few hours before this, after all.

>Still, you get the sense that this raven isn’t just trying to mock you or berate you in your time of need

>No

>His actions are the actions of a man trying to prevent something truly disgusting and terrible from happening — and maybe save his own skin in the process

>You study the bird closely for that’s about all you can do right now

>A raven — a heretic

>Stands on two, taloned feet, toned body in a second-skin of black feathers

>Broad shoulders, brawny forearms

>Dense bones

>No wings — anywhere

>Thin wrists terminating in talons with five fingers each

>The heretic’s heavy eyelids flutter open and meet your eyes

>His eyes….

>They’re gold

>Like coins

“I don’t know how much of what I’m saying you can understand, ” you say with a weak voice, “but I promise, my God will not forsake me to die on this cross. He does not forsake those He has promised eternal life to. My Lord keeps His Promise.”

>Around you cross builders chitter loudly in excitement, their only prerogative being hammer, nails, and flying your decaying corpses like flags on the highest hill in they can safely find

>Your watery eyes stare back at the bird, waiting for an answer

>The heretic’s maw opens to suck in the cold air of an October night

>He draws a labored breath

>He starts to speak in a broken, half-pieced together form of English

>”You… you god h-help?” the bird stammers, his words halting; deteriorated from the blood loss and lack of practice

>A thin, worn smile curls on your lips at last

>”He will help us,” you say, nodding. “My God is powerful. And he won’t abandon me here. This I know.”

>Your eyes dart around for any sign of Lucy real fast

>Now would be great timing for your service fox to show up and try and start chewing on some ropes

>Ya know, some kind of divine intervention?

>You steel yourself; summoning your last drops of courage from the small well within you

”God will deliver us,” you say, trying your best to sound firm. “He will deliver myself, and you as well.”

>The heretic pauses, parsing your words

>Some time passes, but he does respond in weak, raspy voice

>”Your god help,” he offers with a tired, unsure nod

“Yes,” you say, now beaming with a smile. “My God help.”

>At that the utterance of that sentence, the noise of the cross builders grinds to an abrupt halt

>The crowd goes go still, their collective, schizophrenic screams brought to an unnatural silence

>All that remains is the sweet harmony of late summer crickets

>You and the raven both raise your heads in unison

>The sea of faceless, naked men parts, like an ocean split into two sides

>Two cross builders approach down the middle of the split

>One of them has an arm full of dirty used nails, which clatter onto the concrete behind him like a trail

>The other carries with him some mismatched hammers and mallets, fit for pounding said nails into restrained flesh

>Your heart beat explodes in your rib cage

>Oh God

>The raven next to you caws in a panic, struggling with what might be his last gasps in an attempt to break free of the ropes

>The mantra is thick on your lips

>Pounded into your very soul by the hammer of repetition, years at Academy, and years as a good, faithful servant of God outside — and inside — the walls

”God will deliver us. God will deliver us,” you repeat, trying to keep yourself from hyperventilating

>You’d kick your legs in panic if you could move them

>To your right the heretic makes a plea to his own god, gods, or ancestors — whichever has driven them from the love of… suppose its ‘your god?’

>The cross builder drops the armload of nails at your side

>You’re to be first

“God will deliver us!” You yell to the sky, trying not to look into the face — or lack thereof — of the people about to crucify you

>The other cross builder distributes hammers and mallets without logic or order

>This will be no clean crucifixion

>No precision hammer strokes

>But it will be a group activity

>Everyone will get a turn to drive the nails in

>And right when the first one with a mallet arrives at your side, laughing and screeching with excitement?

>As they position the nails above your clenched palms?

>As the cross builder raises the mallet against the moonlight, against the halo of crows squawking demands for meat from above

>That’s when the trembling starts

>The ground shakes beneath you like the end of a dream

>Something you’re oh-so familiar with

>THUMP

>The two cross builders at your side turn their focus away from your palms and onto the pile of nails

>THUMP

>The nails jitter and shake, clattering against one another in a rusted-bronze pile

>As if jolted to life from below

>THUMP

>”GOD WILL DELIVER US!” the raven screams, an echo of your voice

>Fuck, you sure hope so

>The ground stutters with a tremendous THUMP in the distance

>In unison the cross builders let loose with frightened chirps and howls

>In a mad scramble, they break from the street and run for the shelter of nearby buildings, some half-destroyed, others in pristine condition

>You watch, laughing, as they scatter like swarms of pale roaches brought up to the light, bug-like in their movements

>THUMP

>THUMP

>THUMP

>Then you squint, staring down the length Wealthy Street

>You see something

>There’s a gray shape, traveling low to the ground, coming in at a distance

>Right down the center of Wealthy Street

>…heading right at you…

>…a sleek, predatory shape…

>…ears like knives…

>You squint harder, heart pounding in your chest

>Is it really?

>Is it-

>In the moonlight, as if summoned by God Himself:

>Lucy the fox

>God really does deliver!

>…

>…

>So why did the cross builders all scatter?

>THUMP

>THUMP

>THUMP