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Aster

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"Penthouse." Atticus spoke as the elevator doors closed. "Approved." an automated voice sounded from a small speaker embedded in the control panel for the elevator, which had no button for the suite to which it now carried its passenger. He felt the elevator gradually pick up speed as he ascended to his residence; the glass box provided a grand view of Aster as it rose among the buildings of the central district. The elevator began to slow its descent shortly after reaching the mid-point of the skyscraper's stature, and with this deceleration the views became more surreal.

These experiences, for Atticus, never aged; they never died. In that small glass cube, rising above the chaos-ridden streets below, he could see so much of a living city. The brake lights of cars along the streets pulsed with each stop, as if a fresh throb of blood were being forced through tightened veins. People packed the sides of the streets and struggled past each other, lining these arteries with darkened motion and conflict. Other buildings seemed to be spire-like bio-luminescent organisms piercing the sky, their metal and concrete exoskeletons housing static innards--fed by those chaotic causeways below.

And as always, Atticus' elevator ride came to a slow and gradual, yet unexpected, stop. The box would slow its speed to ease its arrival onto the designated floor, just like it was made to do--just like it was told, but Atticus always found himself somewhat surprised, if only for a fraction of a second, that he still could not see the horizon. This building that he was in had nearly 100 floors, but even near the top, where the penthouse was located, Atticus found himself staring at people in buildings across the streets; they would be dimming their lights for bed, fixing their food, yelling at each other, loving each other, helping and hurting one another, and there would always be those who were alone. Quantitatively, there were always fewer alone than there were together, but Atticus also felt that, qualitatively, they were all alone. It seemed that no matter how high one soared, Aster always made sure that you were in plain view of something which seemed bigger and better, just out of reach--something less-alone than you.

"Penthouse reached. Welcome home." the robotic female voice spoke with well-programmed emotion. When the doors opened, Atticus stepped into the largest and highest residence in the building. The penthouse featured an open floor plan, with only an outer area for entertaining, and an inner area with a full kitchen, bedrooms, bathrooms, and two extra rooms. The outer area surrounded the inner, naturally, and it was encompassed by floor-to-ceiling glass windows, save for one wall which housed the stairwell out of the penthouse and the elevator entrance. It contained couches, visual displays and other luxuries for entertaining numerous guests. The inner area's bedrooms were lavish, the master being the largest but the guest rooms still doubling the size of the average bedroom in the floors below. Each room featured a private bathroom, with an extra bathroom being placed just near the kitchen, dining, and entertaining areas. The kitchen was fully equipped with only the highest quality appliances, although Atticus had barely used them all even once, save for the micro-incinerator, which he now tossed his black gloves into to be consumed by the extreme heat within. Micro-incinerators, like the one Atticus owned, provided a more usable alternative to removing trash from the numerous floors in the skyscrapers across the city, as they needed little upkeep. They were convenient, but they still managed to take up the space of a large conventional oven.

Apart from these accommodating living areas were the two extra rooms, which were special--separate despite being tied to the rest. Atticus had emptied them both the day he purchased the penthouse. These spaces, which he instructed the penthouse janitor never to enter, remained locked at all times; only Atticus knew the codes and voice commands to enter without force. One of these rooms had only been used once by him; the other, larger one was the most frequently used room in his home. In this room Atticus lived and conducted his trade. Within it there was the bed upon which he slept and a small bathroom and kitchen.

In addition, Atticus' inner cloister had a small closet with a few boxes of ammunition, countless pairs of black plastic gloves, and a few outfits--mostly suits, all of which were bought over time. But, the most peculiar objects within this room were a painter's easel and a small desk with a mirror, both placed in the space's center. Upon, around, and within this desk were numerous airbrushes, paintbrushes, paints, and canvases, piled in stacks small and large, spilling their contents about in a solid sea of color and chaos.

It was in this room which Atticus now stood. It was in this room which he now undressed himself as he moved to the closet. First, his black tie was loosened, removed, and hung in its place. Then, his suit coat and formal shirt followed, revealing his well-toned but slender musculature. He knelt and removed his black business shoes, placing them next to several other pairs of footwear, and he removed his socks, letting his paw-pads kiss the cool hardwood floor. He unfastened his belt and hung it by its stainless steel buckle. His pants were lost with ease, being hung carefully among many other pairs of pants in the small closet, and his underwear were removed as well--placed into a bin for laundry.

Atticus now stood in this windowless room, stark and fully-revealed, to no one but himself. He gazed at his reflection in a full-body mirror mounted on the inside of the closet's door, and he stunned himself every time he did this. His nightly ritual would always begin with his stripping down to nothing and looking in that mirror, where he would be surprised not by his well-kept form, his clean fur, or his nakedness but rather by his existence. It was always pleasant for him to be somewhat stunned that this thing which looked back at him from that reflective surface could think and act and learn to improve or devolve at will. It could be, and it could not be. It could become strong and mighty, or it could become frail and weak. It could grow, and it could wither and die. It could remain the same or it could undertake a new life, full of new direction. And though he knew all of these possibilities, none of these thoughts were what shocked Atticus whenever he looked into that mirror. What brought him surprise in this moment--a moment that he had encountered thousands of times before--was that he was this thing. And, the more he was aware of his being this thing, the more he was aware of his not being any _thing_in particular. He was simply this form--this shape which moved about with temporary purpose, jumping from day to day with nothing more unique than an extra-normal calculation in even the smallest of tasks which allowed him to be very, very good at his job. A job with the singular goal of killing. Taking life. Turning other living people so full of purpose and energy into silent husks, empty and void. Perhaps, every now and then, Atticus felt as if he had been emptied too, but then he would soon finish another contract and be reinvigorated with a newly met goal, followed by an anticipation for his next task, a task which would be delivered via a simple letter when the penthouse janitor delivered the mail. The letter would list a single name on a nearly blank page, and it would be simply marked "The Bureau."

Despite his many years in contact with this agency, Atticus knew little about the group. The Bureau could have been an ominous company, a single individual, or a loose amalgamation of people desperately seeking a way to get rid of other people; any of these things were a potential reality--none confirmed. The last possibility seemed to nicely encapsulate one of Atticus' primary observations on "life." That is, people wanted to_invade_ each other, and at times they wanted to evade_each other. In no other place on the planet were common desires such as these more apparent than in the city of Aster, and occasionally, the only way to accomplish one of these goals was to remove certain_others from the equation, which is where people like Atticus would step in. And when Atticus stepped in, he thrived. Years of practice with only a handful of well-noted mistakes had left him with a deep knowledge of the inner workings of people. He could understand what made others "tick;" he could look at a person as they walked by him and know exactly how they should die. He was good at what he did, and he knew this. And more importantly, other people new this, which is why Atticus received some of the more difficult but higher-paying contracts.

This is why he was happy: Atticus was good at his job, and his job gave him happiness. It was one of only a few hobbies which the white tiger had. Atticus would spend his days watching people, studying them, understanding them, and then killing them. The cycle never ended, but the variations in each contract kept him from falling into a dangerous routine during his job.

Outside of work, he found painting and visual artistry to be the primary focus of his downtime, a way to spend the cash which came to him with each new letter--each new contract. When he had first started with The Bureau, he was astonished by the sheer amount of free-time he had. So, he thought of the one thing he had always wanted to do, and he arrived at the conclusion that he desired to paint. To be able to communicate emotion through color and shape on a canvas was one of his greatest desires, and like his work, he became very good at painting with practice.

The tiger broke his gaze from the mirror and closed his closet's door. The soft slaps of his paw-pads against the floor reverberated throughout the room as he strode over to the blank canvas, already mounted on a wooden backing--surrounded by the tools and supplies of an artist's trade. It was situated atop his easel which stood as a monolith might after hundreds of years wear and overgrowth. As plants and vines might cover such a structure, so too did the stray splatters of paint and spent supplies cling to the easel--as mother nature would cover a statue so did Atticus' artistic nature cover this object. He used a small wooden cutting board to mix paints, and he gazed at the white sheet before him for a few moments before grabbing a wide brush to begin painting a background. After a dark, charcoal color had been applied to the entire canvas, Atticus began forming objects with the mixture of paint colors he had on the board before him. First, a cheap metal lamp with a weak yellowish bulb hung from the top of the painting. Its faint light would reach out and touch all other objects in this work, but for now it existed alone. Then, Atticus began to mix shades of brown, forming a simple wooden table below the lamp. Two small glasses on the table, one full and one empty were added to the picture. Next, a wooden chair was added to the painting; it was on its side, toppled from its usual position at the table. Atticus added color to the bottom of the picture; a carpet now stretched out below the table and the chair. Finally, the tiger painted the form of a black cat, lying prostrate on the floor--a gun in the cat's paw, the feline's blood winding its way through the carpet's fibers.

Atticus added the strokes of light from the lamp; a soft yellow embraced the objects in the room but did not fill the dark voids separating all of the room's entities from one another. He took mental pictures of the canvas, and he smiled at the result of his labor. It was a dark, cheap scene with a great deal of grit. It was like a shifty-eyed suspect in a dark room, picking at his fingers--tapping his foot as he sat before a strong-willed cop with nothing to lose. Or, perhaps, it was like a cigarette left burning in a muted apartment, curtain's flapping in the wind--flashing light's in the street below. It was that kind of scene. Dark. Tense. Noir. Quiet, oh-so quiet, and the more the tiger looked at his work, the more he saw how black and white it really was, despite the presence of color.

It was a beautiful painting.

Atticus relished his ability to paint such an intense display of light and shadow. His skill as an artist had truly grown. With a final sigh of contentment, he removed the canvas from the wooden frame and rolled it into a tight ball. Standing from his chair, he exited his room, heading to the kitchen of the penthouse. With as little fanfare as possible, the white tiger dropped the crumpled canvas into the micro-incinerator; it landed atop his black gloves. Without a second glance, he began the incinerator's burn cycle.

It had been his best work.

But, his work was not through, as no artist's work ever was. Because while he had enjoyed painting on canvas, it was not a skill which he had needed to improve, and after all, what was life if not an opportunity to better oneself? He returned to his desk and gazed into the mirror mounted there; he studied himself, mentally recording the details of his face and skull structure. Reaching for an airbrush, he found that the device already had a solid black color mounted to it. Atticus checked the nozzle of the airbrush for any debris and ensured that the tank of compressed air to the side of his desk was open. He brought out a small clipping of canvas and tested the airbrush with a few jagged strokes across the fabric. Then, he carefully lifted the brush to his face, releasing some of the atomized particles across his fur.

The brush was loaded with a blend of temporary "dye" or paint used during carnivals and gatherings in the city--really any place fur-painters could have a reason to sell their services. Usually, cubs would beg their parents to get patterns applied to their faces or tails, so that they could show their friends how different they were, but for Atticus, these dyes had a much more practical application: killing people and getting away with it. In the paws of a fur-painter at a birthday party, an airbrush with the fur dye could create whimsical patterns across any species' fur or scales. However, Atticus was not so juvenile in his artistry--nor his intent. He found himself fashioning dark stripes, jagged and natural, across his once completely-white face and head. He carefully concentrated on each stroke, using short, abrupt movements to make slow but sure progress on each stripe, because even though he was a superb artist, painting sharp edges with an airbrush was incredibly difficult. His ability to paint on canvas was stellar, but he found himself in physical pain as his hand cramped from holding the airbrush. Despite this, he continued to work.

Hours later, as the early-morning sun began to penetrate the city with its light, Atticus finished what began. Examining himself in the mirror, he frowned. He was supposed to look like a white tiger with black stripes, and while the resemblance to such a creature was strong, it was not good enough. Here or there, stray follicles of fur splayed outward from an otherwise well-painted stripe, and Atticus sighed as he saw these mistakes. At a distance, he looked just like he wanted to; natural black stripes flowed across the fur on his skull and neck, but in a conversational space, a person with even just normal vision could see that something was amiss. The good news for Atticus was that the dye seemed to appear quite authentic, as if it were the natural color of his fur. He stood from his desk, taking small steps to his bed, his back and wrist sore from sitting and painting for so long. Though his attempt to paint a perfectly realistic fur pattern on his face had failed, he knew that this session had only been practice for later.

He reached an envelope on his bed, a contract from the Bureau. Handling the mail carefully, he withdrew the paper from within; on it, there was a name, a location, and a time. The name was printed in type in the middle of the mostly blank page, but Atticus had written a time and a place on the paper as a note to himself. He only had a few more days before this job would need to be executed, and he would be spending most of that time practicing his painting. After sitting on his bed for a moment, imagining every detail of the contract tied to the paper which he held, he replaced the missive in the envelope and headed for the shower.

His artistic failure washed from his fur just as the dye had been designed to--worrisome birthday-party parents could cleanse their cubs of creativity with a quick bath. Atticus allowed himself more time to reflect on Frank while washing himself. He wondered if Frank had really been a friend to him. Had that cat done anything for him to warrant friendship? The white tiger considered, for a moment, what friendship really was, if not two people willing to help each other. The two had only ever met a few times--as many times as their jobs would allow. They had indeed developed a dynamic with one another, but did this make them friends? Atticus lathered himself in fur conditioner. They had only really provided each other company on a few occasions. He supposed that he had not done much for Frank either, besides help him avoid capital punishment or a lifetime in prison after being paraded in front of the city's media. And with this thought, it struck Atticus that perhaps they had not been friends then, but now they were. Now despite Frank's death, they were friends because he had helped Frank. Before they were just acquaintances, but now--now was different. Atticus smiled in his realization of this, closing his eyes as warm water from the shower drenched his fur and ran down his body.

It is so nice, he thought,to finally have a friend.

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©"JazzTiger" 2015