Tea Time 4

It's cold. I do not like the cold, but it is there and there is nothing I can do about that. I could have worn another layer, says the hindsight in the back of my mind. The coat should have been enough, says another part. It is a good coat and any reasonable amount of cold should bow to it and realize that it is nothing compared to the thick black leather. This is not a reasonable amount of cold, though. This is advanced cold. Gone to the night classes, slept with the teacher, stole the answer key, whole nine yards. I pull the collar up a bit more. The wind has fangs now.

I kick a loose piece of rebar down the spacious hole in the floor. The echo comes back a second later, vacant and hollow. I can see the summer night from the holes in the wall, the heat refusing to crawl through the threshold. It was murder coming over this way in the full get up. A few bums gave me an odd look. Only someone really gone would wear something this heavy this late in the summer. And I am gone. Tripped over to the other side with two left feet. I am on the hunt for something on the same side as me and that's something to be afraid of. Both of us over to the veil, the realm of suggestion and goosebumps and cold spots in the corner of the room. A little nip of the frigid wind seeps under the lather and I hiss out a puff of frosted breath.

So many years in the pitted concrete and rusted metal. So many years in the empty windows and scuffed floors. A captain of the industry now laid down in shallow grave by the same force that gave rise to it. An ever-driving pursuit of efficiency and progress killed one of the dinosaurs because it could not keep up. It will do so to the next thing that comes along and claims a space for itself. And then again, and again, and again, until the little nerve endings that said it is a good thing to do it this way realize that there is a dead end we are all careening towards. But then, they will decide that the last millisecond of infinite efficiency, something from nothing, a miniscule drop of blood from the planet sized stone, would be worth it. We all hit the brick wall at breakneck speeds and that broken neck is the least of our worries. I kick another bit of rusted rebar and it echoes in more or less the same way.

I eye the graffiti of the more adventurous punks. Not really their space to claim in the legal sense, but in the ethereal sense, I think it's a stronger claim. Its why people put signs out, or fences. If the thing is marked and colored in a chosen way, then it belongs to whoever marks it that way. Then someone else comes along and marks it a different and the ownership shifts. Really, a contract or a deed or anything like that is just a way of marking something that is representative of a building. It is all so simple when it comes down to it. Nothing so fancy. Just ink and paint and notches to be ignored or respected at the level of individuals. I can't read any of it, so I guess it might as well be mine right now.

Contrary to the echo's implication, I am not alone. I haven't been alone since I walked in off the street. I just can't see my host. I can feel them. They are the cold, the shifting paint of markings and signs, the echo itself. I am not alone because I am expected. I am always expected. The result of the long coat is my cart, the calm even steps my trumpet announcing my presence to the ball room. I sigh and watch the breath fade back into obscurity in the air. Cold, too damn cold. Just once, I would like to do this entire thing and have it be warm. Take down the jacket and do this whole thing in a tank top or something. It would be novel, if nothing else.

The music starts as I come up to the next set of stairs, a haunting voice for a haunted building. There are no words. There are no melodies. It is a just a meandering hum that has no purpose. I can feel it snake through the air. It sends shivers down my spine that the cold cannot hope to compete with. I whistle back and get another breeze slithering through my protection for my trouble. Lesson learned. The noise has its stage and I have mine. They shall meet soon enough.

The next floor has more graffiti. Less holes, too. This actually shows signs of some sort of habitation at some point. A couch, everything soft rotted away to nothing at all. A table, broken in half and carved to hell. Piles of shattered bottles, hills of cigarette butts, everything rebellion needs to show and conquer the world of the suit and tie and homework and bedtimes. The glass crunches under my heel. The noise changes tune and keeps slipping through the chill.

It's whistling. Something is whistling from up above. It's on the roof. That's what the people said they saw. Someone on the roof, under the light of the full moon, standing on the precipice of disaster. Then she jumps. Then back up on the roof. And she jumps again. Such a nasty little cycle to be caught in. The rumors spread and the people moved in, made it loud and terrible and noisy and then they moved out. Now it is whistling accompanied with the figure caught in the forever freefall of their own design.

I come up to the next landing again and spy a door. It doesn't belong here. There is a frame and a gap for it, but dark wood next to concrete just doesn't gel. The carving's too intricate, leaves and vines and trees, a relief of a table with a full tea set right in the center. Cold, so cold, so very cold in front of the door. I pull my coat a bit tighter and knock three times. My other hand goes to the shadows of my coat and puts a hand on the hilt of my sword. Such a light thing. I almost forgot it was there.

The whistling stops for a moment and then another. I knock again. I may be a bit impatient, even rude, but I am a humble traveler out in the cold. That deserves some level of sympathy.

"Lady Ann Jeon," says the door, "How wonderful for you to come to my humble abode. I had expected you to come by sooner or later. Please, please come in."

The whistling comes back and it finally has a full tune. Dark, harmonious, filtering with the cold and the frosted breath. Another moment for the song to reach a peak and the door creaks open on frosted hinges, cracking ice and rime down in a snow shower.

I push the door open the rest of the way and step out onto soft grass, still beaded with morning dew. The sun is trying to pick a fight, it seems. Piercing my eyes like that. At least I am finally warm, pleasantly so. It is now spring, just in time for the sun to finish chasing away the chill of the night. A mirror smooth pond sits a fair way away, reeds swaying as dragonflies dance between the cattails. I could go for a swim. It would be refreshing. But that would probably be unladylike.

Considering my company, I should refrain from being unladylike. I reach down into the depths of my soul to find something to make me ladylike. Not much is there. Just a confident stride and a cocky grin.

Close to the water is a large cherry tree, every branch weighed down with pink petals, the breeze sending down a steady stream. The only place clear of them is a small circle around a table, full tea set already placed with perfect care.

"Please, Lady Ann," says the voice through the whistling blossoms, "Seat yourself. I am so sorry that I am unable to greet you. I will be with you shortly, so shortly."

The blossoms part around me as I walk. It smells heavenly. Calm, I am being sucked down into the serenity of the tree and the pond and the steaming kettle just waiting to be poured. I think it would be rude for me to do the pouring. I am not sure. I'm not going to anyway.

The chairs are wrought iron and they are not comfortable. They force a too straight back and legs held too close and too stiff. I look so prim and proper. It's terrible.

And the question of who pours answers itself. The tea does the job for me. It's floral and fruity and perfumy and I am not looking forward to it. I do not want it. But it is there, in the cup. A spoon floats by and I hold up two fingers. It gives me two cubes. From my knowledge of the ceremony, there should also be finger sandwiches or marmalade or scones. But no, just tea, giving off a little whisp of steam. I stir it, pinky out, watching the sugar dissolve into nothing at all. Kind of relaxing. A fish jumps and I watch the ripples carry out to the edge of the water and back.

It's a shame, the reason I am here, what I will do. I like this one, as a novelty. Don't think I would make a habit of it, especially since the tea smells like flower oil sliding down my throat with a sickly sweet after taste that will stay on my gums forever and a day, but this is nice. Just a sit by the water under a never-ending curtain of petals. I take a deep breath and it leaves me calm and collected.

My host approaches from my back, and I can't help but put a hand to the hilt of my blade. Nothing tells me to turn and cut. I am just on the edge of action and reaction. I hope that this is one of the easier ones.

It's a puppet. I am being hosted by a puppet with mother of pearl skin, every muscle outline with a pencil's lead thin black line. It smiles at me, moving with perfect grace in a deep proper curtsy. I nod back. I am being judged and examined and I would hate to disappoint. Especially given the attire. I have come under dressed, it seems. Frills and lace and ballooning layers that riffle and bounce with the slightest suggestion. Bows and ribbons and knots tied together with intricate patterns and nimble fingers. I am wearing blacker than night leather and everything military and utilitarian.

"How do you do, Lady Anne," says the delicate voice of glass crystal through the filter of centuries old radio waves.

"The weather certainly agrees with me here," I say, "Much too hot on the outside. And I do apologize, I am unaware of your name."

The two big eyes of onyx and the too thin lips of ruby pout at me. I have offended, it seems. But it is only there for a moment, just a moment. The thin lines break apart and come to an easy smile. My host joins me at the table, the cup and kettle and spoon and sugar and cream do their dance until everything is balanced across the table.

"I am surprised," the puppet says with clacking ivory teeth, "That you would be sent to kill me without full knowledge of my being."

"I think I know enough. You have decided to move in and claim a space. And we can't have that. So here I am. Thank you for the tea, by the way. Not really my preference, but I appreciate the gesture."

"Let me guess. Coffee, then? Please don't tell me that you drink those disgusting energy drinks? Those are terrible for your skin."

"You know about those? Thought those came after your time."

"How rude. I am not nearly as old as you think I am."

"Can you blame me? Most of the incidents I deal with have at least three digits. One even had a comma. And the tea is kind of out of style at the moment. So now I'm guessing you're just a poser in love with the good old days. Like the aesthetic, the frilly outfits, the longing for a better time when things were prim and proper. Kind of a backwards slide, in my opinion. I like wearing pants and boots."

She sighs and it is a chandelier of icicles shattering. I brush a petal from my shoulders. It lands in my cup and the tea dissolves it with a whisp of acrid smoke. The wind stills and for a moment, the perfume stops. I smell decaying wood and forgotten cloth eaten by moths in the dead of winter.

"I am not hurting anyone," the dolls says, "I have no intention of expansion. Leave me to my afternoon teatime."

"I have heard that before. And every time, it's been a lie. Sure, for now you're good. But you're going to want to go bigger. Have a morning tea and a noon tea and an evening tea. Maybe a midnight one too. And then maybe a nice ball with lots of gowns and punch and suitors and debuts. You want that, right?"

The doll stiffens and the joints clickety clack in deep succession. The whir of gears and cogs and springs wound tight vibrate the pieces together. She takes a sip of her tea and the head knocks and rattles a moment before going still. She is smiling at me.

"I never did catch your name, by the way," I say, "And, honestly, that seems kind of rude to me. Sure, sure, did not do my homework and all, but at some point, we have to move on from just assigning blame. We have to move forward. So, here we go. I am Anne Jeon. And you are..."

"Someone whose patience is starting to grow thin. You come into my abode uninvited, mock me, refuse my hospitalities and now insinuate that I am being an ungracious host."

"So it's only starting now? Cause I would have thrown me out like fifteen minutes ago. If you want, I can make that decision a bit easier."

I lean back and swivel until my feet land on the table, rattling the fine China and slipping the tea out onto the delicate tablecloth. It starts to eat through the fabric and drip through the iron table. I feel bad for whatever humble little insect lives in the dirt beneath us all. It is not in for a good time. I kick aside the tea kettle and the hands pick it up before it can fall and shatter into a million little pieces.

"One chance," the doll hisses with a voice like spinnerets weaving thread, "You walk out of here now and this does not turn ugly."

"I'm afraid we're already there. That dress with those shoes? And that hair? I didn't want to bring in your complexion, but since we're down this route, moisturize, moisturize, moisturize."

She flips the table and I understand completely. It is what I would do. What I actually end up doing is a smooth roll onto my feet, scattering petals with the wind and drawing the blade. The instincts, the little tug at the edge of my mind, it all comes to the forefront and snaps the world into place. The doll is fuming at me, furious to the end of the world. The lines part and clatter. There are gears and cogs and springs in there. She is a mouth hidden by porcelain lips, teeth iron and rusted and gnashing. I spin the blade and let a single petal fall on the edge, cut neatly in half. The tea is finally spilled and it's burning a hole in the ground, turning the pink to black.

Something darts past me, grazing my cheek. Attention, I need to pay attention. This is one of the fast ones with many, many, many moving parts. It's a spring, still wound tight and honed down to a needle point. The limbs shift and the alabaster shell cracks into a suggestion of a covering. There are gears and cogs and springs, forming out to needles and drills and so many things that want to tear and grind. I just have my little sword of black steel, forged of the void, given by the void, drawn by the void. Another needle slips by me, but the blade knocks it away. I'm proud of that. One of my favorite tricks.

There is something coming from her mouth that might be words. I think. I think they might be. But I am not sure. It's all clickety clackety and harsh and grating and trying to find something coherent to funnel into rage. I get the meaning. She wants to kill me. I do not want to be killed. So, we must begin the dance.

My coat flows behind me like a river in a storm. Needles and springs and razor thin gears try to bury themselves into something soft and bleeding. They only find cherry blossom trees and empty space, kicking the petals up into a spire of swirling color. They still fall in a never ending stream, landing on my shoulders, the folds of my coat, pockets and hair. I will be shaking them out for the next week, it seems.

I cut and I slice and I hack through the curtain of petals, turning them all to fine mist. I see pink and black rolling on the other side of the veil and I smile. I smile because it is what I do. My body moves with the will of the petal wind, left right, dancing through the stabbing needles. More of my host falls away, exposing myriad machinations to turn and click the body into gracefulness.

The ground betrays me and I trip. The grace, the serenity, the poise of black leather steeled nerves cannot help with the moment my foot hits the divot from whatever the tea actually was. In a way though, it helps. It takes me down under a volley of needles and razor wires trying to flay me alive.

It does not take me away from a large needle, rusty and sharp, piercing my though. I do not scream. I smother that particularly annoying impulse in its crib.

My leg still lets me stand and I take a moment. I deserve that at least. My host is now fully unmasked. Small bits of the cracked porcelain still cling to the bits of metal in small, shattered specks. But there is no skin anymore. Whirring gears and rusted over metal, clambering over me, piercing me, trying to make every inside slowly bleed out through atom wide holes.

I scramble in the soft bed of fallen petals. They don't feel as soft anymore. They have edges and roughness to them, catching callouses and snagging rust. They break my skin and turn slick with my blood. I do not stop. I keep going, looking for the divots and the holes as the machinery keeps pouring viscous oil and harsh noise.

I look into the eye, what might be eyes as it says words that carry meaning but not structure. Hate, it hates with very toothed gear and spinning axle. I only smile. I only offer cock sure arrogance to the thing that wants to tear me into bloody shreds.

My hands close around the tea kettle. With one final bit of style I can summon, I twirl it around my outstretched finger before slamming it down, right into something glowing and moving.

It screams with no words. Even if it could make them, there wouldn't be words. It is a beast in pain, much like myself. But I have it in me to roll my spine and jump up to my feet. I have my sword and that is worth so much more than anything rusty and jagged.

"Hard stuff," I say, "Kind of early to be drinking that, if you ask me."

I spin the blade one more time before ramming it down what I think is a throat.

The force almost pulls the blade from my hand. So many moving things clash and clatter and gnash at the metal. My will holds strong against the onslaught, breaking everything down into molten pieces. The doll howls again as it chokes on its end. I put more and more of my weight into, letting herself grind down to dust on my blade. The doll spits heated glowing jaggs of rust back at me. I keep pressing down. I keep the weight in the motion, plunging my hand deeper and deeper and deeper with the blade down the thing's maw. It hurts and I do not mind. I have the coat and I have the blade and I have the will to see the whirring beast stop forevermore.

The parts go still after a long moment and a shuddering cry. The world goes still and gray. The petals no longer fall, no longer cover the ground in a soft pink rug. It all boils away.

And I am back in the abandoned factory, covered in shattered glass, crushed cans, cigarette butts, and faded graffiti. The only thing I can make out in the stark moonlight is a name swirling and looping and running together.

Alice. I huff a laugh through my nose. Of course, it's Alice. I just hope it's a nickname or something. Kind of on the nose otherwise.

---

I am wobbly. I do not like being wobbly, stumbling through the night with teetering steps, a trail of my blood marking my path. So many little nicks and cuts and deep needle punctures through my body and I do not count the wounds. There are too many. So many little marks on my skin. My coat is fine. My coat is in perfect shape. But the body beneath it is not. I had adrenaline in me and it is gone.

I see the figures move and look at me, size me up in the corners of the world. I do not blame them. Opportunistic, sure, but they have every right to be. I just hope they realize that this won't exactly be as clean as they think. Or they have a moral core strong enough to leave something bleeding to its natural end before descending on it. I hope they take care of the coat. It was a gift.