Chapter 12

wants//needs

Buildings are packed like sardines along narrow streets, people flowing between what little space there is like water in the can. This city smells about the same, as well. I weave through everyone and slide through the revolving doors of a tall, white, etched glass building. Air conditioning and filters provide a fresh breath inside, as opposed to the thick air outside, weighed down by the sun’s heat.
I enter an elevator where the upper half of the floors are shown to be unavailable. I hold the button for the uppermost floor and the lights behind the panel flicker on and the doors close. The ride up is quick and filled with the music of soft chimes. “Welcome, Liv,” a feminine robotic voice greets me as the doors open.
“Welcome, Liv,” a masculine, godly voice greets me as I step inside the well-lit room. There are no lights, but every wall is that same white glass that allows for sunlight to filter through softly and unintrusively. It looks like a fresco; images of history and classic art etched inside the glass. 120 floors of the most expensive architectural advancements in the world, the New Delhi Trade Center towers over the city, glittering inside and out. Some say it could be mistaken for the sun.
My eyes fall on the man that just greeted me, stunning as always in his colorful silk scarf and dark sherwani, “Morning, Jay,” I return his greeting casually. He’s worth more than human currency can express and yet there’s not a soul in the world that thinks they can’t afford him.
He's seated in a large, winged chair, studying something on a tablet on the desk in front of him. Finally, he finds it in himself to look up at me. Not a single wrinkle on his youthful face and yet still I can feel the multitude of years exuding from his eyes. Perfect white teeth peak through his lips when they open for him to speak, “Looks like you've had a productive week.”
"What can I say? People love buying things.”
"They sure do!” Jayesh smiles. “Are you feeling good? Do you or the others need anything from me?"
I shake my head.
"That's great! That's good to hear.” He pauses, hands clasped on his desk as if waiting for me to add something, and then continues when I don't, “Well then, I'd like to ask a favor of you, if you don't mind?”
I shrug and don't say anything, inviting him to continue.
"The girl, Tragedy.” He once again leaves space for me to speak.
"What about her?”
"Unless you've heard differently, she's still gone, and I'd like you to find her.”
I knew that's where this was going, but I was hoping I'd be wrong. "Why me?”
"You appear to be around her age, I thought maybe she could relate to you and be more open to formulating a relationship with the rest of us."
“I'm busy and frankly, don't want to. Isn't there anyone else?"
“Oh c'mon, you've met her before, you'll be a familiar face."
The sigh escapes me before I can refuse.
“We're just playing the waiting game now anyway, surely it can't be that bad.”
"I beg to differ. Where do I start looking, then?”
"Well for starters, her home.”
"Right, but that was months ago, you really think she's still in Bratsk?”
“It's a place to start." Jayesh stands and paces over to the far wall, where it's hard to say if he's looking at the etching in the white, frosted glass, or past it to the city beyond. "Come, join me, Liv."
I obey.
“Tell me, what do you see?"
“I’m not as well versed in the old religions as you may think, but it looks like the 18 day war of Kurukshetra.” I scan the images of the battle until I find what I’m looking for, several feet to our left, “I assume this is Krishna and Prince Arjuna having their fateful conversation.”
Jayesh smiles, “You’re right, but the art isn’t what I was talking about.” So he is looking past the frosted glass, even though the city outside is nothing but a shadow of a silhouette behind the illustrated Bhagavad Gita.
“I see a city thirsty for a new trend.”
Jayesh chuckles.
“Are you going to tell me what you see?”
His face is still forward, but I can see the curl of a smile on the edge of his lips, “I see a million Prince Arjunas asking a million Krishnas to justify fighting for their lives.” He pulls his eyes away and meets mine, “But I also think they’re in need of a new trend, so I’ll let you go now. Go enjoy the city while you’re here, no need to rush away to fulfill my favor.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, Jay.” I turn on my heels and make my exit, “I’m sure we’ll be in touch. Later.”

The day has reached its peak, as well as the heat, but that doesn’t stop the stream of life through the streets. I feel inspired by my meeting with Jayesh and join the flow, pausing at shop windows to peruse the latest fashion statements. Lightweight clothing with Western and Eastern influence hangs loosely off of mannequins –and the people around me. Beiges and off-whites are common these days, but that is not my fault, I would never dress in all beige like that, talk about boring.
It was Giorgianno who proposed that the church delegate a basic uniform to “ensure that eyes are cast to Heaven.” I hate it, but it sure does make it easy to identify someone’s beliefs. Regardless, I don’t care what the others want, I have my own needs to satisfy, so I duck into the most colorful shop I can find.
I find myself in a reasonably large boutique, the first floor is split between men's and women's flowing trousers and blouses. The room is crowded with racks of clothing as well as customers, making it difficult to move around. The space is being maximalized, as even the walls are covered in art and tapestries. It's refreshing, compared to the simple, sterile shops lining the rest of the city streets.
Most of the fabrics are solid colors with bright trims, but nothing quite what I'm looking for. I find a staircase pressed along one wall and head upstairs, where my search ends. It’s much more open up here and there are fewer people to bump into, as only accessories are being displayed. Gaudy jewelry covers the entirety of one wall while tables and racks on the floor hold handbags, hats, belts, and, what gets my attention; silk scarves, not too far off from what Jayesh wears.
There are several dozen options for colors and patterns, ranging from solid colors to rainbows to Paisley to floral. After sifting through them and trying on several, my eye is caught by a maroon scarf with gold leaves in an art deco style.
Nobody seems to care as I tear the tag off and wrap the scarf over my hair, tying it tightly underneath so that my loose hair continues to flow down my back. I pull a couple strands of hair out in front of my face, tidy my bangs, and make sure I'm happy with my appearance in a nearby mirror. Once satisfied, I stroll over to another twenty-some year old girl in the room and tap her on the shoulder.
“Oh uh, hi. Can I help you?" She's light-skinned and light-haired and has a recognizable Manchester accent –a tourist, which is even better.
"Can you tell me if this looks good?” I run my hand across the scarf on my head and then frame my face with the hand as if posing for a picture.
"Oh my God, yes! It looks absolutely lovely, actually! Did you find that here?” Her eyes find the scarf rack before I even have to point it out and she quickly forgets I'm in the room as she goes to pick out a colorful silk scarf for herself.
A small, elderly woman finishes ascending the stairs and enters the room next. I glide to her and repeat a similar process, getting her attention and advertising how beautiful the scarf is. Next is a young man, and then a pair of parents with a toddler, and then a group of college girls, and so on.
As each person or party leaves wearing a new scarf in unique ways, they go out into the streets and spread the trend like an infection. After an hour I don't even have to engage, as the boutique grows busier and busier. Most of the new customers are already wearing more color than those who follow church regulations, but the occasional beige-draped Catholic finds their way in and just simply cannot pass up a splash of color in their lives.
I leave the shop, completely unnoticed, and rejoin the commotion in the streets. There's no chance of me standing out now, with hundreds of people already wrapped in colored silk from any store that offers it. I can't help but to smile and allow a bounce in my step as I stroll the sidewalks of New Delhi.

*****

Bratsk is more devoid of color than the cultists, even when bathed in the oranges and pinks of a setting sun. I shift the brand new, red car into park and step outside. It’s like arriving in a landfill –nothing that can be bought or sold. Where commodities flow, so can I, but unfortunately the car was necessary for this trip. Nothing but inconvenience.
I climb over a jagged block of cement obstructing the road and stroll through the city streets on foot. Not one sign of life remains, unless you count the shadows residing, etched in stone, in place of Bratsk’s prior inhabitants. They give me the creeps and I try not to step on any. Only the light of a nuclear sun could leave permanent shadows like this. I pause with my shoe hovering over the silhouette of what I make out to likely be a parent embracing a child. It feels wrong to touch it, but I’m a god, not like I can get any more cursed. I smash my foot down and twist, smearing the toe of my shoe through the dust like I’m rubbing a genie’s lamp and wishing that Dimitri will just appear so I can leave.
Maybe it takes a minute…?
I break the silence with a sigh of defeat and keep walking, no longer caring about where I tread. I kick an empty, crushed box of cigarettes. Tragedy was definitely here recently, but no more tears are being shed over this trash heap. The sun just barely sits halfway above the horizon, and I’d rather not be wasting my time out here in the dark, so I turn around and head back to the car.
The last light of the day is reflecting off the hood of the car when I come around the final corner and my hand is halfway up to my eyes when a slim, dark-haired woman steps over to block the blinding light for me. “Dimitri!? Thank the gods…” I trail off once my eyes adjust and I can recognize her, “Oh, it’s you.”
“Not a reaction I’m unfamiliar with.” It’s clear now that this woman’s skin is a couple of shades darker and her hair more sleek and straight than the Russian girl. Her voice holds a wisdom and softness that only thousands of years can attain. She lifts a hand to motion to our surroundings, “Heartbreaking, isn’t it?”
“Depressing, sure.” I approach without hesitance and dig the car key from my pocket, pressing the button that starts it the moment I’m within distance.
The woman, Death, doesn’t move when the car behind her softly hums to life. “Just because you value life for a different reason doesn’t mean it’s any less valuable.”
“Is that what you’re here to tell me? Because surely you’re not here to help me find Dimitri.”
“Unfortunately, I could sense you disrespecting the dead through a wildfire in Brazil. So actually, you could say that I did come here to say that.”
“Well, you wasted your time.”
“I may be busy, but nothing is a waste of my time. Besides, I don’t think we’ve ever formally met, so now’s as good a time as any.”
“I’m Consumption, most people call me Liv. You’re Death, as far as I know, nobody calls you anything else. There, we’ve met, and my time is already being wasted so I’d better get going.”
She smiles and shrugs, “If you say so.”
I’ve made it to the car door and pause with it open, “Great, that was easy.”
“Think about what I’ve said though, would you?”
“Um, sure.” I slide into the driver’s seat and slam the door, promptly backing away from Death and turning the car to drive away from her and the now-set sun just beyond.
I speed west through the night, away from the buried remains of eastern Russia, and definitely not thinking about the value of a human life and whether the plan that I’m wrapped up in even benefits me at all. So, in every town and city, I tune into the local radio station. In hopes of a better song or, as the sun makes its way around to the western horizon and Russians are waking up, I listen for helpful news.
It’s been half an hour since I left the last town and the pop station is fizzling out so I press the ‘seek’ button on the radio for the next station in range. Every station it falls on is just as unclear until exit signs for the city of Omsk begin to appear. I smash several radio buttons again and finally get a clear signal just in time as a song ends and a Russian woman’s voice takes over, “Dobroye utro, Good morning, Omsk. I hope everyone got a good night’s sleep and is ready for the day. I’m going to start our mornings off with something light and then something a little more fitting for the information I’ll have afterward, so tune in!”
Sure enough, the first song is some dreamy, new pop track from Korea, followed by a darker rock track from the 20s. The woman’s voice returns once the song ends, “Welcome back, listeners. That last song was an old track from the band, Geese, and as I mentioned before, I’ve got some news to share befitting the song. The front man of the band asked ‘Will you stop running away from what is real and what is fake?’ and a popular journalist from the United States seems to be asking the same question. He claims to have had family in Bratsk when the bombs fell and is on the search for a Russian ballerina from there, who performed at the Berlin treaty signing. He seems to think that if something hasn’t happened to her already, that she’s on the run from something, so he’s asking for any information that anyone may have. If we’re being honest, I can’t say I even remember who he’s talking about! I mean, who really watched that ballet performance? We were a bit preoccupied at the time, so can you blame us for not being so attentive to such a prestigious performance? Regardless, he has paid for advertisement space on our station, so if anyone listening knows anything about Miss Dimitri Tsovetsky, please contact Mr. Idris Rafiq. His information will be on our site for the week. Anyways, here’s some more upbeat music to lift your spirits as I’m sure many of you drive to work.”
Several trending songs play in succession as I officially enter Omsk –and the amount of vehicles sharing the freeway with me multiplies exponentially. At the next exit sign, I peel out of traffic and into the first convenience store that I see. Parking poorly, I stay in the car and pull out a smart phone to search the internet for this journalist. The very first result is his website and blog –with millions of subscribers. The name had been lost on me when it was mentioned on the radio, but I’m remembering this journalist now, as I look at his slim face and heavy brows in the profile picture; he was on my list of media influencers who would be the most unhelpful when Virtue asked me to guide the media in a more culty direction for our plans.
I scan his most recently posted article, from yesterday:

Nov. 7, 2092
Idris Rafiq
The Missing Ballerina and Conspiracy Behind Closed Cathedral Doors
It has been four months since the international ballet troupe performed and sparked the signing of the Faith Treaty in Berlin. That's four months with no sign of the ballerina who was the spotlight of that performance and four months of fear mongering done by the church to force conversion. I landed in Italy two days ago and have been closely investigating both facts. Why Italy? I wanted to come to the heart of the Catholic world for answers regarding the Treaty and because this is where my investigation in Berlin led me.
Readers,if you remember well, last week I managed to dig up several clues regarding the whereabouts of Dimitri Tsovetsky, but I'll break those down again now that I'm more organized and sitting in a beautiful library in Florence:
I'm lucky enough to have fans around the world and in incredibly helpful places. The name Dimitri Tsovetsky doesn't seem to ring many bells, but not long after my initial article on the matter a couple of weeks ago, a reader from Berlin sent me a message, informing me that they work for a car rental facility and had a car, rented under a Russian man’s name, never get returned following the performance. I jumped the ocean the very next day to investigate myself.
With the help of this reader, we were able to track the vehicle's ID number to another car rental several hours away. A quick phone call would have me learn that they retrieved the car, abandoned on a service road deep within Germany’s Black Forest. That was a dead end though, literally and figuratively. So I decided to use the name that the car was rented under to search local hotels and home rentals.
Once again, I wouldn't be getting anywhere if it weren't for you readers. After several days of more dead ends, I got another message from an employee for a house-cleaning service used widely across Berlin. Several days after the performance, after the renters were supposed to be checked out, this house-cleaner was sent to a rental home in a quiet part of the city, where they proceeded to take out several trash cans worth of iridescent raven feathers. Unfortunately, the garbage was long taken care of by the time I arrived, but I was shown photos, which I have been given permission to attach, of what was probably gallons of the unattached feathers. The amount, you will likely agree, was ominous and unnatural.
Along with the feathers, I was informed that nearly all of the belongings were abandoned in the house, which included several days’ worth of clothing for three people, a ballet leotard, and a pair ballet pointe shoes with faded initials on the inside of the silk, signed “DT."
Everything abandoned –a performance, a house, a car, and assumedly a career in ballet. My conclusion? Nothing. Dimitri Tsovetsky may as well have never existed, especially with her home city and family buried in rubble.
I hunted down a few of the German ballerinas and ballerinos while I was in the city to ask them about our missing Russian Sleeping Beauty. They've requested anonymity, but the three young dancers I spoke with had little to say about Dimitri. In fact,they hardly seemed to remember her and it took several minutes of prodding for one young woman to recall, "[We] thought she must be a demon infiltrating the Treaty because she came from that infected city after having disappeared for several months already." Another dancer added, as though a fog lifted from their memories, “That's right, but others were saying she must be an angel sent by God to represent her nation's tragedy. That's why she was allowed to perform despite the fears of others. They [those in charge of the performance] said she was a sign of hope and faith, as she claimed that it was faith that saved her from the Ice Flu.”
The dancers didn't seem to believe that, however, and when I inquired about those in charge, I could not get any names from the dancers, let alone contact information. Obviously, to those of you who have been following me for any amount of time, I don't believe in any of that religious bullshit. There is sure to be a logical explanation for all of this, which is why my search has brought me to Italy. If I can't find Miss Tsovetsky using the clues that she left behind, my next step is to investigate the Papacy behind the Faith Treaty itself. I may not believe that God is behind any of this, but I definitely don't think that this is just a coincidence.
When this treaty was first proposed, I was one of the first journalists to voice my concerns regarding a theocracy. Religion and politics should not coincide and I aim to prove that this is less about “unifying the world" and more about oligarchs maintaining control over an easily influenced population.
What I see is an idol that was created, used, and then tossed aside once her value was depleted...

He continues on for a few more sentences, but I get the gist. Somehow this Idris Rafiq manages to say all the most problematic things while still being completely off the mark in regards to Dimitri. With a following as large as his, he's bound to cause hiccups in our plans, convincing people to question authority. I've always hated punks like him, going against the trends and being damn loud about it.
I leave the car unlocked and keys on the hood as I swiftly head inside the convenience store, ducking down a quiet aisle. I pick up some celebrity drama magazine with the fewest copies left, flip through cheesy articles about movie star affairs and what kind of wine the recent trending pop star prefers (the answer, conveniently, is communion wine exclusively on Sunday mornings). When I close the magazine, a chubby Italian woman waddles down the aisle and politely excuses herself as she reaches across me to grab her own copy.