67.

Most people, they get stabbed in the shoulder, they say something like "ow" or "holymotherfuckingow." Athens just says: "You're getting sloppy."

"Doesn't matter," spits Manchester. "I've found something better... grenades."

Athens rolls her eyes and extracts the blade. "Look, it's not that you're not dangerous. You just lack precision. And it's not. all. about. blood."

"Murderer."

"Sticks and stones..."

"Rapist."

"Getting warmer..."

"Faker."

Athens winces, satisfied. "Attaboy."

71.

He removes his blue dress shirt, so she removes her blue jeans.

“He’s a child!”

“He’s old enough to commit arson, he’s old enough to have his heart broken.”

(Secretly, Cairo sanctions this logic.) “You could lose your job.”

“You’re thinking of alcohol.”

He removes black jeans. “Uno.”

She sheds a black stocking, so he puts his shirt back on. “I miss Go Fish,” she pouts.

“No, darling, you miss winning.”

74.

Cairo, who traded his capacity to shock for a speeding train incident, resurfaces, bleeding. “Miss me?”

“Not actively.”

Athens and Cairo aren’t so much in love as they are perfect for each other.

“Whore.”

“You want me to pine for you? You have the life expectancy of yogurt.”

“Boston’s been losing sleep.”

“Boston’s in love with you.”

“Whore!”

“Slut. You already used whore.”

“…Which is what whores are for.”

Athens smirks. “I missed you.”

77.

He appraises the sunset, incredulous. "You don't notice? Still?"

"Um, no? Go fish." He claims a card from the centre-table mess, frowns, removes his shirt. She proceeds. "Got any… fours?"

"I'm telling you, they're getting shorter. And no."

"You have to say 'go fish.'"

"…I miss poker."

"You miss metaphor."

He half-smirks concession. "Vá pescar."

Athens fishes unsuccessfully, loses a belt. "You miss your guns?"

"Metaphors, love. Got any… aces?"

Athens smiles, reaches up her sleeve.

"Smartass."

78.

The thing that saves Hell is the music. It also triples business for Athens, bronze mandolinist legendaire. One night (like all nights), no one's checking I.D.s...

"How old are you?" she asks, sweat-wet from stage lights, angel's voice alcohol-damp.

"Old enough," he says.

"To vote?"

"To drive."

"Hm," she says.

(The problem with having a Christ complex isn't the whole search-and-rescue bit. This instinct is good. The problem is, nine times out of ten, the savior's not Christ.)

81.

"Name?"

"Orpheus."

"Occupation?"

Cairo grins. "Rescuing people from Hell."

The desk attendant glares up, slow, practically sweating ennui. "Occupation?"

"…Singer."

"Perhaps you'd like Athens then?" she recommends, already knowing too much.

"Athens," Cairo levels acicularly, "fucked over my tyro."

Rome offers a receptionist smile. "Well – with due respect, that is her job."

"'Fucked over.'"

"Semantics."

"Tell your suitemate: 1)I'd like to see her, 2)it's for revenge, and 3)'revenge' is not a euphemism."

The lack of alcohol on his breath terrifies her.

93.

“You feel the days getting shorter?”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Athens traces a serpentine blueprint along her customer’s spine, proposes something vis-à-vis the equinox. “Ah-ha-ha! What’s this one from?”

“You know what it’s from. You know all my scars.”

Cairo rolls onto his back. She closes her eyes, easy like salvation.

“Weren’t you pissed? The back! Passé.”

“I love you,” he says, prickly.

“Did you know,” she informs, “that you can get stabbed in the heart through the back?”

“Duh.”

Something thuds next door, and Cairo wonders if Rome is looking for an escape.

95.

The Little Boy tromps through the ring of ashes he’s made; smiles, satisfied, tries to think what this reminds him of. He only meant to burn his room, but that’s not how fires work, he now understands. His backpack is heavy, but he’ll manage; slough all but
the especially unusual rocks he’s collected, if he eventually must.

“How old are you?” she’ll ask someday, sweat-wet from stage lights, hair in eyes, angel’s voice alcohol-damp.

“Old enough,” he’ll say.

“To vote?”

“…To drive.”

“Hm,” she’ll say.

Tonight he’s innocent, and needs only to find a train.

100.

Athens and Rome are close. There’s a history of warfare.

Rat-a-tat-tat ticks the wall dividing their respective cells. They talk frequently. Security is lax in Hell.

“I’m in love with him,” taps Athens.

Athens is a girl’s name.

Rome, the deceptively unplain girl next door, is shopping for an escape route. Athens – who believes in love but not salvation – sleeps, in uniform, fence-net stockings and neon blue. There are no clocks.

It is unclear whether they are slaves or employees.

“It doesn’t matter,” says Rome. “You’re in Hell.”

“Do you mind?”

Rome does not mind. Rome doesn’t believe in anything.