TOM’S FLAT
SAME DAY
When Tom had first learned the creatures had feelings, he had spent most of his time experiencing the lesser world and living in communion with its people. He wanted to know how it felt to be an Underling, living in a cruel world that served a higher purpose. He would only emerge Up Above to meet his body’s physiological demands, and he would immediately return to the underworld—to suffer with the creatures and to help them where he could.
The only sources of bliss he had allowed himself were his art and Nate. Sibyl had designed a flat Down Below and an adjacent art studio within a converted warehouse, and it was there he had met his love. For Nate, he had added a touch of comfort to his dwelling—a piano, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with literary treasures, as well as the paintings and sculptures he had created. Art featured everywhere—all over the walls and standing in the corners of each room.
Nate had visited twice a week, and he needed little to be content—a piece of paper, a pencil, a piano, and Tom. The poet had honored Tom’s request, staying away from platform-related topics and allowing Tom to hide in a private bubble of normalcy while the underworld outside burned. They spent hours together, enjoying each other’s minds and bodies. Nate played the piano and read poetry out loud while Tom would lose himself unleashing brushstrokes on a canvas.
Tom’s favorite moments involved reading in silence, his head resting on Nate’s thigh, while the poet brushed his fingers through Tom’s hair. Instinctively, Nate always understood what he needed, even before Tom had realized it for himself. The poet had the most sensitive and sentient heart, and Tom had to work hard to match Nate’s selfless generosity.
In a different world, Tom would have married that man and started a family. That was his personal heaven—a selfish dream. But above all else, he wanted to live up to Nate’s expectations of him, and to achieve that, he couldn’t afford to get lost in bliss, not for more than a handful of hours per week. These brief moments of relief kept Nate safe and happy and gave Tom the strength to pursue a solution to the crisis.
Tom shook off his memories as he materialized in his bedroom after meeting Harry. He found Nate asleep in his bed. He pulled down the sleeves of his sweater to cover his wrists and then rushed to greet him. He sat on the bed and embraced his Nate, who turned to face him.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you today. I missed you so much,” Tom said, unwilling to let go of Nate’s body and craving his touch. “How was the institute’s pitch event?”
Nate stayed silent; he pulled back slightly, his eyes fixated on Tom, the poet’s brows furrowing in concerned confusion. “I felt something,” he mumbled, still ruminating, “a gut feeling.”
Tom leaned in to kiss him, but Nate moved back and got up, failing to return his affection. “You okay?” Tom asked, his body stiffening. He couldn't read Nate, and what was most worrying was that he couldn't feel him—whatever that meant.
The silence endured for a long minute. “Where is he?” Nate asked firmly.
“Who?”
“Tom. Where’s Tom?”
“I’m here, my love,” Tom reassured as his mind caught up with what was happening. “It’s me.” He jumped out of bed, wrapping his arms around Nate and pressing their bodies together.
Nate’s nostrils flared, and his complexion turned the reddish tones of his hair. He shoved both of his palms on Tom’s chest and pushed him away, making Tom take a step back to catch his balance.
“Tell me where Tom is. I need to speak to him,” Stormy asked, fear growing in his eyes.
“The—there’s no one else. Nothing has changed.” Tom lowered his eyes, giving away the lie just spoken. He moved closer. “It’s all right,” he said, knowing fully well Nate’s sharpness would cut right through his smoke and mirrors.
Stormy grabbed Tom’s collar with his left hand. “Is Henryk behind this? Where’s Tom?” Nate’s breath was heavy, and his veins pushed against the skin of his neck.
Tom simply shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor, surrendering to what was happening. He, too, felt an invisible part of their bond had been broken. Something was missing: something important.
Nate shook him and asked, “Where is he?”
Tom looked up into Stormy’s eyes, and the poet stood there paralyzed as his mind engaged in some ferocious struggle. Then Nate released him with a rough shove, and this time, Tom let himself fall, taken by the significance of that moment.
“Nate, I love you.” He spoke the truth—what needed to be said, as he predicted the loss he was about to endure. “Trust me.”
“I need to find him.” Stormy ignored Tom, dismissing his words and distress. “Somethin’ happened… I—I felt it.” He placed his hands on his head. “That humanoid did something.”
And that was when Tom lost his life. The sharp pain of rejection proved he was dead. The magic, the entanglement, the echo before the sound…all gone. He didn’t have time to dwell on what it meant for him or his worlds, because he was terrified at the impact it would have on Nate’s fragile mind. He needed to keep Nate safe, and he had to act quickly and face his sharpest opponent.
Tom got up and gathered all the strength and courage he could muster. He was going to lie, and he was going to do it convincingly, without missing a beat. He adjusted his interface with Sibyl to access the tools he didn’t have, an attempt to freeze his heart and to engage in an elaborate deception. Two capabilities he didn’t have.
“Where’s Tom?”
“Shadow. I’m Shadow. Tom doesn’t want to see you,” Shadow channeled Sibyl’s steely expressions as he spoke. “He has too much to do, and billions of people to worry about. He believes I can replace him in this…chore.” Shadow almost choked as his body rebelled against each toxic word coming out of his mouth. “I can be just like him. I will love you…even if he doesn’t.” He’d make Nate hate him to save his life. “I’m that good. He didn’t expect you to see the difference.”
In a heartbeat, Nate flinched, his expression shifting from anger to pain. “Where is he?” he murmured with a broken voice, doubt creeping into his thundering heart. Shadow knew he would believe the lie because it supported a doubt that always festered in the back of Nate’s mind—that he wasn’t worth loving. The poet shook his head, probably holding on to his memories, to his firm understanding of who Tom was as a human being. “Tom is neither cold nor ruthless. He’d tell me the truth… Something happened. Where is he?”
“Would he? Tell you the truth? Can a suicidal addict handle the truth? God rules over two worlds, and you’re nothing but a distraction.” Shadow wanted to push his hand into the glass window. Sibyl, help me do this.
Sure, Tom.
Shadow. I’m Shadow.
“You’re lyin’.” Salty tears emerged in Nate’s eyes, and Shadow felt their burn in his lungs, drowning him, killing him again, and again, and again.
Shadow closed his eyes, took a breath of ice-cold cruelty, and kept dispensing his medicine.
“Am I? Why do you think he chose to meet you here after you spent time together Up Above? You had one job, to look at his work with a critical eye, and you failed. He sought the sharpness of your judgment, and you gave him nothing.”
Shadow’s gut twisted as he watched the love of his life fall apart in front of him. With Sibyl’s help, his mind designed a plan just one step ahead of his words, and he spoke them almost before he understood their intent and logic. Stormy needed to hate him, and the poet had to find a cause, a purpose worth living.
“He planned this from the beginning? That’s not who he is. Something happened today…”
“Yes, he decided you weren’t worth his time.”
Nate’s body shuddered. “He needs me. He—he loves me.”
“No, he does not.” Sibyl pushed the words out of Shadow’s mouth—the right words—the cruelest of all words. “Have you ever ruled over billions? Power changes you. Makes you prioritize what’s important. There’s no place for emotion or poetry in the worlds he designs. It’s a numbers game.” Hate me. Fight me. Rise against me. Live, if only to destroy me. “Let me put it in terms you understand. The boys chanted for their captain after they stabbed him in the back. One by one, their bright minds dismissed the foolishness of their hearts and chose reason, wealth, and compliance. Emotion is an inconvenience, and humans are…trash.”
And those words, spoken by a God, sealed the deal. Nathan Storm was an activist, and he would fight against the concentration of power in the hands of the heartless and the amoral—a crusade that would hopefully keep him alive. Nate moved closer and lifted his hand toward his throat. Shadow stood motionless as Nate grabbed his medal and wrenched it until the silver chain broke. He threw the heirloom to the floor without looking at it.
Shadow waited powerlessly, while his Stormy collapsed on the floor to his knees. Nate’s face and hands touched the cold, black slate tiles as his body convulsed in grief and anger. For the first time in his life, Shadow welcomed Nate’s rage, a sign of life, an indication he was preparing for battle.
Nate disappeared in the blink of an eye, and Shadow kneeled to pick up the digital jewel. He squeezed it firmly in his hand, fixing the chain with his mind. Then he stood there numb, processing what had just happened and accepting the truth of the moment. Thomas Quincy Astley-Byron was dead, and he couldn’t trust the thing he had become, because it wasn’t him—his love had told him so. He had become invisible to the sharp, insightful eyes that had once worshiped his humanity, now gone. Shadow. I’m Shadow.