Oh, now you’re crying! Now you wanna run? Nah, son. You came to the wrong town. I curb stomp it with the full might of Queens and something inside the beast breaks and bleeds iridescence all over creation. This is a shock, for it has not been truly hurt in centuries. It lashes back in a fury, faster than I can block, and from a place that most of the city cannot see, a skyscraper-long tentacle curls out of nowhere to smash into New York Harbor. I scream and fall, I can hear my ribs crack, and—no!—a major earthquake shakes Brooklyn for the first time in decades. The Williamsburg Bridge twists and snaps apart like kindling; the Manhattan groans and splinters, though thankfully it does not give way. I feel every death as if it is my own.
Fucking kill you for that, bitch, I’m not-thinking. The fury and grief have driven me into a vengeful fugue. The pain is nothing; this ain’t my first rodeo. Through the groan of my ribs I drag myself upright and brace my legs in a pissing-off-the-platform stance. Then I shower the Enemy with a one-two punch of Long Island radiation and Gowanus toxic waste, which burn it like acid. It screams again in pain and disgust, but Fuck you, you don’t belong here, this city is mine, get out! To drive this lesson home, I cut the bitch with LIRR traffic, long vicious honking lines; and to stretch out its pain, I salt these wounds with the memory of a bus ride to LaGuardia and back.
And just to add insult to injury? I backhand its ass with Hoboken, raining the drunk rage of ten thousand dudebros down on it like the hammer of God. Port Authority makes it honorary New York, motherfucker; you just got Jerseyed.
The Enemy is as quintessential to nature as any city. We cannot be stopped from becoming, and the Enemy cannot be made to end. I hurt only a small part of it—but I know damn well I sent that part back broken. Good. Time ever comes for that final confrontation, it’ll think twice about taking me on again.
Me. Us. Yes.
When I relax my hands and open my eyes to see Paulo striding along the bridge toward me with another goddamned cigarette between his lips, I fleetingly see him for what he is again: the sprawling thing from my dream, all sparkling spires and reeking slums and stolen rhythms made over with genteel cruelty. I know that he glimpses what I am, too, all the bright light and bluster of me. Maybe he’s always seen it, but there is admiration in his gaze now, and I like it. He comes to help support me with his shoulder, and he says, “Congratulations,” and I grin.
I live the city. It thrives and it is mine. I am its worthy avatar, and together? We will
never be
afr—
oh shit
something’s wrong.
INTERRUPTION
The avatar collapses, sagging onto the thick old hardwood of the bridge despite São Paulo’s efforts to catch him. And amid its triumph, the newborn city of New York shudders.
Paulo, crouched beside the unconscious boy who embodies and speaks for and fights for New York, frowns up at the sky as it flickers. First it is the hazy midday blue of northeastern skies in June, then something dimmer, redder, evocative of sunset. As he watches, eyes narrowed, the trees of Central Park flicker as well—as does the water, and the very air. Bright, then shadowed, then bright again; rippling, then nearly still, sudden new rippling; humid with a light breeze, still but with a hint of acrid smoke, back to humid. A moment later, the avatar vanishes from Paulo’s hands. This is a variation on something he’s seen happen before, and for a moment he grows still with fear—but no, the city has not died, thank God. Paulo can feel the presence and aliveness of the entity around him… but that presence is much, much weaker than it should be. Not a stillbirth, but not a sign of health and ease, either. There have been postpartum complications.
Paulo pulls out his phone and makes an international call. After one ring, the person he’s calling picks up, sighing into the phone. “Exactly what I was afraid of.”
“Like London, then,” says Paulo.
“Hard to be sure. But yes, so far, like London.”
“How many, do you think? The greater metropolitan area crosses three states—”
“Don’t make assumptions. Just ‘more,’ as far as you’re concerned. Find one. They’ll track down their own.” A pause. “The city is still vulnerable, you realize. That’s why it took him away, for safekeeping.”
“I know.” Paulo gets to his feet because a jogging couple is about to pass. A biker follows them, even though the path is supposed to be pedestrians-only. Three cars pass on the road nearby, even though that particular section of Central Park is supposed to be pedestrians-and-bikes-only. The city continues to spite itself, despite itself. Paulo finds himself watching for signs of danger in the people around him: warping flesh, those standing too still or watching too intently. Nothing so far.
“The Enemy was routed,” he says into the phone absently. “The battle was… decisive.”
“Watch your back anyway.” The voice pauses for a rough smog-cough. “The city is alive, so it isn’t helpless. It certainly won’t help you, but it knows its own. Make them work fast. Never good to have a city stuck halfway like this.”
“I’ll be careful,” Paulo says, still scanning his surroundings. “I suppose it’s good to know you care.” The reply is a cynical snort, which nevertheless makes Paulo smile. “Any suggestions for where to begin?”
“Manhattan would seem a good start.”
Paulo pinches the bridge of his nose. “That covers a lot of territory.”
“Then you had best get started, hadn’t you?” The connection clicks silent. With an annoyed sigh, Paulo turns to begin his task anew.
CHAPTER ONE
Starting with Manhattan, and the Battle of FDR Drive
He forgets his own name somewhere in the tunnel to Penn Station.
He doesn’t notice, at first. Too busy with all the stuff people usually do when they’re about to reach their train stop: cleaning up the pretzel bags and plastic bottles of breakfast, stuffing his loose laptop power cord into a pocket of his messenger bag, making sure he’s gotten his suitcase down from the rack, then having a momentary panic attack before remembering that he’s only got one suitcase. The other was shipped ahead and will be waiting for him at his apartment up in Inwood, where his roommate already is, having arrived a few weeks before. They’re both going to be grad students at—
—at, uh—
—huh. He’s forgotten his school’s name. Anyway, orientation is on Thursday, which gives him five days to get settled into his new life in New York.
He’s really going to need those days, too, sounds like. As the train slows to a halt, people are murmuring and whispering, peering intently at their phones and tablets with worried looks on their faces. Something about a bridge accident, terrorism, just like 9/11? He’ll be living and working uptown, so it shouldn’t impact him too much—but still, it’s maybe not the best time to move here.
But when is it ever a good time to make a new life in New York City? He’ll cope.
He’ll more than cope. The train stops and he’s first through the door. He’s excited but trying to play it cool. In the city he will be completely on his own, free to sink or swim. He has colleagues and family members who think of this as exile, abandonment—