Crepuscular Angles

By Prae Obscura

"When a piece of art forces you to have opinions about it this way, I have no choice but to say that it's won. [...] A deeply interesting exploration of how the systems we build exploit the most vulnerable of us. Also, hot queer human/lizard sex."
- Verse Atoui, author of May the Moon Shine Upon Camlann

An illiterate scholar — The Keys — and a former priest — The Lantern — climb to the roof of a dying world to reclaim their names. The megastructure that was once their home, and their prison, lies in a state of ruin that is overshadowed only by its enormity. The task before them is vague, concocted in a smoke-drunken haze, but the fruit that it will bear tempts them with all the sweetness of vengeance, marrow, and lust.

"Do you see? I am the orchard. We are the orchard. You, too, are the orchard, in a different way from I. It is from all of us that fruits are grown, taken, ground to pulp and left to turn to ash before the never-ending new."

• Both narrating characters are happily, casually psychotic. One has to learn how to get there.
• Nonhuman, human, and the overlapping area focus.
• Old bisexual ex-priest meets old ex-organ harvesting subject.
• Homoerotic limb eating and committing terrorism against a dystopian, authoritarian corporate-state.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prae Obscura
• Release date: May 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988278122

Prae Obscura

Prae Obscura is an artist, schizoaffective, and a transvestite. He rotates through mediums in the same frenetic pace with which he eats drywall and paint. The vessel in which he resides is temporary, full of holes, and shared with several others.

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Crepuscular Angles, by Prae Obscura.

Crepuscular Angles

Copyright © 2023 by Prae Obscura

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the written permission of the copyright owner.

You have express written permission for the following:

Sharing or gifting the book (physical or digital) with/to a friend/enemy/stranger; you may scan the book for personal sharing or archival; do nothing corporate.  Enjoying and/or hating the following narrative, the way in which it is written, or the themes it frames.  Using brief quotations in a book review.  Eating the paper.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s mind or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to tangible persons, living or dead, or consensus events is pure coincidence.

First Edition 2023

​     ISBN 979-8-9882781-0-8 (Paperback)

​     ISBN 979-8-9882781-1-5 (Hardcover)

​     ISBN 979-8-9882781-2-2 (Ebook)

Writing, editing, cover painting, and design

by Prae Obscura.

praeobscura.com

DEDICATION

Aziz-anam.

More to come, here and home;

until the end, and ever afterward.

INDEX

TRACK ONE

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Twenty-Nine

TRACK TWO

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Five

Chapter Eight

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Thirty-Three

TRACK THREE

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Forty

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

TRACK FOUR

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

TRACK FIVE

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter One

TRACK SIX

Chapter Two

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Contents

INDEX

Chapter One

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Chapter THIRTEEN

Chapter FOURTEEN

Chapter FIFTEEN

Chapter SIXTEEN

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Chapter NINETEEN

Chapter TWENTY

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

Chapter TWENTY-THREE

Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

Chapter TWENTY-SIX

Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

Chapter TWENTY-NINE

Chapter THIRTY

Chapter THIRTY-ONE

Chapter THIRTY-TWO

Chapter THIRTY-THREE

Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

Chapter THIRTY-FIVE

Chapter THIRTY-SIX

Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN

Chapter THIRTY-EIGHT

Chapter THIRTY-NINE

Chapter FORTY

Chapter FORTY-ONE

Chapter FORTY-TWO

Chapter FORTY-THREE

Chapter FORTY-FOUR

Chapter FORTY-FIVE

Chapter FORTY-SIX

Chapter FORTY-SEVEN

Chapter FORTY-EIGHT

Chapter FORTY-NINE

Chapter FIFTY

Chapter FIFTY-ONE

Chapter FIFTY-TWO

Chapter FIFTY-THREE

Chapter FIFTY-FOUR

Chapter FIFTY-FIVE

Chapter FIFTY-SIX

Chapter FIFTY-SEVEN

Chapter FIFTY-EIGHT

Chapter FIFTY-NINE

Chapter SIXTY

Chapter SIXTY-ONE

Chapter SIXTY-TWO

Chapter SIXTY-THREE

Chapter SIXTY-FOUR

Chapter SIXTY-FIVE

Chapter SIXTY-SIX

Chapter SIXTY-SEVEN

Chapter SIXTY-EIGHT

Chapter SIXTY-NINE

Chapter SEVENTY

Chapter SEVENTY-ONE

Chapter SEVENTY-TWO

Chapter SEVENTY-THREE

Chapter SEVENTY-FOUR

Chapter SEVENTY-FIVE

Chapter SEVENTY-SIX

Chapter SEVENTY-SEVEN

Chapter SEVENTY-EIGHT

Chapter SEVENTY-NINE

Chapter EIGHTY

PART ONE

THE FOUNDATION OF AN ENDING OF A WORLD

Chapter One

The Lantern, Track Five

We walked across the remains of a living world, smoke hanging in heavy curls around us. The scent of salt water joined it, as did the tang of metal long rusted under the boiling rain. My rifle was slung low against my back, while The Keys kept their sword tucked underneath their arm like a lover’s parcel.

Twin moons, encircling the unending collapses that we call home, illuminated the twilight. The stars that humanity had once watched with ease struggled to keep their prominence through the clouded, humid air. Not that much air lingered near The Pillars, now. Whether the unease in my chest came from the damaged atmosphere, or from the sight of the imposing network of tight-knit, discarded industrial scaffolding that took up the sky before us, I could not tell.

Claustrophobic. Built for nothing other than its purpose. It was one specific collapse that we had once called home.

The tangle in the sky connected to the land at junctions across the planet’s surface. I knew of several. The Keys knew of several more. Our lives, both shared and apart, had made them inescapable. Before our Descent, and even now, long after.

The tower before us, pinned in the high beams of the farm truck we had come to call ours, was not the point of contact where we had first Descended. That tower was far out to sea, lost to the rising tides.

Tides that might have risen higher, had The Pillars not Fallen.

This Pillar was close to that shore.

Dry brush cracked under my prosthetic peg leg, then under the boot on the foot that still remained. The Keys had not once worn shoes during our commiseration; their clawed feet instead stirred the grasses with soft rustling. They were a serpent in motion: discreet, ethereal, yet impish from our shared high.

Their approach stopped short of mine. They had seen the doors to The Pillar. That they were still intact. That it was not necessary for both of us to tamper with what remained. I watched their silhouette return to the truck, slip through the open window of the driver’s side, and disengage the handbrake with its familiar groan. The wheels crept forward, carrying both truck and Keys on a slow procession towards me.

It was a dramatic preamble, or a lighthearted threat, implying that they would keep going whether or not I had the doors open for their arrival.

I pressed my fingertips against the plated, angled panel at the side of the entrance. It was hot to the touch as old processes were failed by older coolant systems. The acrid smell of burning silicon joined the mix that clung

to my throat. I tapped the flat surface, inputting the numbers that we had kept close at hand, enshrined inside the dash on crumpled wrapper paper.

The Keys’ voice passed through my ears, carrying a tune about crushing me, which broadened the smile at my lips.

The threat was empty, loving, and not at all sober.

A chain of clicks, locks turning, saved me from the fate my companion pretended to promise. The plate retracted as the sheer doors drew apart, their hydraulic under-workings voicing each complaint with the hiss of release.

I stepped to the side, turned, grabbed the frame of the truck door as it passed, and lifted myself into the passenger side seat. The tires carved deep ruts into the dirt as The Keys pressed their foot down, before catching traction and propelling us like a bullet into the archway.

We cheered, and raised the long smoking glass to our success, as we left the true night for a false one.

The interior of The Pillars did not adhere to what had been, in the world’s youth, the collective agreement of gravity. There was vertical flow, an anchoring force, but to those above or below, our straight-ahead would have been their upward ascent.

The truck did not mind the change, which came to it courtesy of a curved slope. We relaxed into quiet, still anticipation.

The Keys wedged the gas pedal down with a brick, their makeshift cruise control, and kicked their feet up. I watched the reflection of fluorescent lights glint across their black eyes, on the other side of the smoke between their teeth and mine, and worshiped the steady rhythm.

We had not always been The Keys and The Lantern.

We had once had names. Names forged out of desire and the promise of better, rather than words to denote exploitation and harm harvested with our bodies. Names that had been taken from me, and denied to The Keys since their creation. We knew where the traces of those names lingered, only because we had clung to the promises we made of their continued existence.

They slept under the hood of the truck, scraped into the metal by the bump of the harsh terrain.

They slept against the bases of trees, when our half-won freedom was young and uncertain lights danced in our minds.

They rested in a thousand small places, gasped and etched and secreted away into undeniable proofs of ourselves, of each other, of what we were owed.

They were what we would claim, each for the other as much as for ourselves.

They were what we climbed to the roof of this receding word to steal.

Chapter TWO

The Lantern, Track Six

The truck crested the peak of our ascent. We were borne back to vertical gravity and deposited into the compact, stale air of the City Above.

Polished floors surrounded us. Countless broad tiles overlaid with protective film that absorbed the brunt of the truck’s dirt trail. A crisp voice echoed from the speakers concealed within the vaulted ceiling; the recording was battered by age and disuse, but beneath the static rang the words we both knew:

Administration welcomes you.

The Keys tensed as they guided the truck through the empty arrival with smooth-palmed turns.

On behalf of our backers and associates, we hope that your day is progressing wonderfully. To all vehicle owners: please register and confirm your parking lease with the nearest free attendant.

The truck plowed through the sleek barriers with a chorus of splintering plastic.  I tightened my grip on my rifle as we moved into the channel for foot traffic, but there was no one to prepare

for. The last time I had passed through a terminal, it was a flood of travelers and staff vehicles, churning with irate motion. Now, the truck had the vaulted hangar to itself.

Please declare all personal items at one of several marked baggage points. All cargo vehicles must remember to present their manifests.

The pleasant-toned suggestion was punctuated by the splintering of a waiting couch, then another. We were on a swerved, short detour that I nodded my agreement to.

In these days of uncertainty, we all must work together to keep The Pillars standing. Your job is simple. See something, hear something, say something. Leave the rest in the hands of our capable officers.

The recordings receded back to static, where they were replaced by a soulless, professionally polished beat that dripped from the speakers with grating monotony. I pulled the dash compartment open and rooted my hand through the contents, while The Keys took us from the entry hall to the larger part of the terminal. Sticks of gum, cartridges, batteries, insect husks. My fingers found the case in its usual spot, buried close to the back. Further probing rewarded me with the cassette I had in mind. I held it up for Keys’ inspection. Their black eyes glinted.

Be my guest.

The slot over the radio took it in with a satisfying click, and I turned the dial as far as was necessary to drown out the drone with a melody of our own. One with little flaws, scuffs, and proof of life. I pulled another hit of smoke; savored how it calmed my nerves and mind; traced where the pipe smoldered in the cupholder whose plastic lining had warped from old heat. 

We passed stores nestled in the walls, all trickling past until we were surrounded on both sides. Restaurants of similar flavors, given the guise of difference by advertiser appeal. Baths of bright colors, flat aesthetics, and aggressive cues that had once been applauded for their sharpness, their predation, their double-edged conveniences. We stopped the truck near one contender, more visually subdued than the others, whose meals would have been too costly for both of our prior lives combined. Their ingredients, we suspected, would still be sealed away, refrigerated by the reserve power.

Free for us to use in our own cooking.

We were in no hurry, and needed no convenience. There was no physical opposition. Would not be physical opposition. Only memories, and those would contend as they willed.

A pair of bolt cutters saw us through the lock on the chain link portcullis, which slid to the side with the clinking groan of disuse. The Keys left my side in favor of hopping behind the bar counter, where they vanished from sight. I wandered through the forest of tables, their chairs stacked high from the final closing night, and passed into the corridor that ran against the back wall. The staff door made a feeble attempt to ping my fingertips. It permitted me despite my lack of employment; impossible, in another time.

The kitchens had the initial appearance of immaculate sterility. The proof otherwise came in the form of toppled canisters, ajar drawers, tooth marks against the cabinet frames. No rodent eyes peered out at me, none that I could see, but their presence was clear. The little proofs of ongoing life. Cause to smile, and breathe easy in the company, if not too deeply.

I found and disengaged the lock that pressurized the freezer, releasing a refreshing exchange between the frigid air inside and the hotter air that now rushed to fill the vacuum. I found a pan and drove it under the open door, wedging it into place, then ventured among the shelves of freeze-dried meats and packaged vegetables, a plastic bin tucked under my arm.

A checklist came to mind, whose contents I marked off as I moved down the rows. Large containers of broth, which I knew could be used in a nice, slow-cooked stew. Blocks of soft cheese. Fruits, yogurt, honey, cream. Heavy jars of spices, barely dipped into, were collected in their entirety for the truck. All went into the bin, and were brought out to one of the counters.

Our nearing success deserved a feast, and our intoxicated hunger demanded it.

I set to work testing the stoves, checking to ensure no rats were trapped, and disinfecting the surfaces of my cooking station. I felt comfortable using the tools I prepared; more-so than I had before our Descent. I had been given unavoidable motivation to cook with my own hands, and, more importantly, all the time in the world to learn how.

Clean knives, two cutting boards, a pot, three searing pans, a variety of heats. Over the course of each task, I was serenaded by crashes from the floor of the restaurant. They were never followed by screams, or shouts, beyond the vocalizations I had grown to expect from The Keys when they allowed themself compensation for the youth they had not had. Investigation and concern were safely low priorities.

When I did venture from the kitchen, wheeling out our pilfered fare, I found the results of The Keys’ delights. Three tables had been cleared away and pushed end to end for us to dine at. Several more had been knocked over, with their assorted chairs repurposed through duct tape into elaborate art pieces. Many of these were scattered out into the terminal. The Keys now jumped from booth table, to overturned table, to our table, back again, striking their heels with purpose on every landing so as to produce a reverberating thunk against the polished fake wood.

Enjoying yourself?  I asked as I placed the pot, the side dishes, and the plates around them.

They grinned wickedly, their sharp teeth gleaming beneath narrowed eyes.

I am doing what I have desired.

I nodded, eyebrows raised, amused. They were enraptured in their swelling high. 

I am free, Lantern.  They pivoted in place.  And very soon, the rest of my skin will join me.

Chapter THREE

The Keys, Track Two

I pressed my hands flat against my neck. Not so tight as to inflict harm, but firm. Not enough to feel my dull pulse, but enough to exchange my limited heat. It was a different type of heat from the kind against my back, which rose through the blanket I had brought and used to cover the paneling. It was more subtle, less satisfying, yet it was a reminder of my existence.

Footsteps echoed from the halls below, and from the room above. They were less frequent than they had been the hour before.  Establishments would be closing soon, then would come curfew, and then my hours within the halls would begin. I had little I could do until that time came. My body was exhausted from passing the day through sleep, and refused to listen to any further persuasion that it was a better alternative than boredom.

Moving early held its own risks. Empty debates on the consequences – if I was heard, if I would be mistaken or identified, if I would be captured – tricked my mind past impatience and stole the time. The whir of security seals pressurizing reverberated through the metal, signaling my time to move. I pushed myself down, removed the loose grate that I had entered through, and pulled the blanket out after me. I stood and wrapped it tight around my shoulders. It was my second longest companion; my warmth, my shield, my survival.

The lights clicked off, one by one, as the sensors clicked on. Other access zones, the Higher levels of the City, employed visual cameras. Closed-circuit. The Lower floors used heat signature detection. Too may other beings, lesser in the minds of humanity, scurried the halls for their reliance to rest on motion tracking. All that they were intended for was the surveillance of those unable to afford expensive nightly confines.

The corridor that I walked was closer to Higher levels, but still within the place where my low internal temperature protected me. I uncapped a marker, trailed my claws against the wall, and decorated my winding path with long, crooked designs. Uneven flowers, stars, symbols to poems that I had memorized the shapes of but could not read.

My planned wanderings took me past a pharmacy, through a station, and into the labyrinthine rail-tunnels of the shuttle system. I felt serenity as I followed the line, alone in darkness beyond the lights of the little signs. In a world obsessed with light, far beyond its merits, the dark was a comfort and a refuge. This was one of many personal pilgrimages through it.

The calm did not last, by design. It never would. Tension returned to its place between my shoulders as I stepped onto the next loading platform, back to the pooling light. The steps I ascended brought me closer to the man-made sky. The section I approached was a wing alone, perched in the open air. A peninsula. As confined as it could be, while maintaining its connections. A curiosity.

The panel in the wall did not respond to my own skin. None ever would. I made no attempt. In my stead, I supplied the hand extracted from my wraps, its gore contained inside a thin plastic bag.

The panels did not discern the living from the dead.

I stepped into the Observatory, and wound a wide path around the central platform. The cold air that protected the instruments muddled my mind sooner than I would have liked. It was not a location I could afford carelessness in; thermals were not this place’s surveillance of choice.

Which worked for my goals more than it hindered me.

Chapter FOUR

The Keys, Track Two

I pried the tape free of its camera shell, swapped it for the tooth-cut square of plastic that would hold its space, then set to removing the screws from a lower wall plate. The projector that Bea had secreted within was not easy to extract – its placement must have been done with haste – but it was soon wrenched free of its confines.

I wheeled it to the outer platform, where I angled it towards a stretch of empty wall. The device whirred, sparking to life through the cable, then dispensed the tape’s contents for my witness. I thumbed the faded buttons on the remote, searching for the sound.

Several individuals stood where I did now. Others operated the room in the background, peering into ports where external cameras showed them the stars beyond, but their work only provided a hum against the conversation in focus.

I watched the session through until their departure. Rewound the tape. Listened through a second time. Then a third. Paced through the fourth, rolling the information through the teeth in my mind.

Clipped, stout footsteps at the door interrupted the beginning of the fifth.

Chapter FIVE

████, Track Two

I swept the stone floor with short strokes, clearing leaves away from the entrance as the lay members passed to either side of my act. Because it was, truthfully, a chore of demonstration more than one of tidiness.

The Temple stood in a Higher dome, flanked by escalator entrances that ferried the populace from the Lower floors. The buildings themselves were cut from the appearance of singular stones, as if they were carved from a mountain by angular sculptors. Smooth walls pierced the sky, rectangles upon rectangles, articulately structured and austere in all of their brutalistic majesty.

Which was, in itself, also a demonstration.

The sky was projected by the curve of the dome; the Temple’s walls were wiremesh, textured over