Zion - Reunion
by:

The alleyway was empty. Even the rats had scattered from as he approached, the plastic lids of the trashcans flopping up and down in their absence, calling out like the beats of a human heart. Cicero pulled up his leather collar and stalked confidently into the alley. He knew that Zion had gone down this way, now it was just time to find him. He effortlessly opened his senses, like someone walking out the door and taking in a breath of the city, the hotel perfumes fading and the grime and the cool new air taking its place. His senses told him that he was right, but Zion was not in the alley. He was above it. He walked into it, standing below where he knew Zion stood three stories away. Lighting a match, he set it to a cigarette and puffed a full noxious line of smoke into the air.
“I thought you were quitting,” Zion commented. His giant shadow paced over Cicero, outlined by the moonlight.
“It’s not like it’ll ruin my lungs,” Cicero retorted, the tar stick still firmly placed between his lips, “I thought you were quitting, too.”
“Life is a little harder to quit that smoking,” Zion quipped smoothly. His shadow sat down and Cicero looked up.
“Come on Zion. It’s not all that bad,” he cracked a broad mirthless smile, “look at me! I quit living years ago.”
Zion laughed too, “not of your own volition, I can assure you.”
Cicero grunted and turned a slow half circle, “How do you know?”
They both remained silent. There was no electricity, no animosity between them. There was just pure stubbornness and their shared mannerisms. Strange, that they would be so alike that they were forced to be at odds?
“Cicero, I’m not going back,” Zion stated.
Cicero shook his head and flicked his cigarette, “No, Cecilia says you’re coming back.”
“Well then, I suppose you’ll have to explain it to her,” Zion issued, blithely.
Cicero leaned against the brick wall and place the cigarette back in his mouth, “How about you explain it to her yourself! Then, the two of you can have a nice lovely chat and we’ll see how she decides.”
“Nice try, Cicero,” Zion said levelly, “but it won’t work this time. I’m committed to this, and I think we both know it.”
“I liked it better when you tried to kill yourself,” Cicero commented.
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“If I weren’t forced to be polite to you, I would have thrown something at you just then,” Zion began again coolly.
“You were young and you were stupid. How would you have know it wouldn’t work,” Cicero blew a cloud of smoke into the air and dropped the cigarette on the ground, “Much better. Clears the head you know… Ah, there you are.”
“Can we talk?” said the dim dark figure on the edge of the building.
Cicero nodded, “I don’t see what good it’ll do. You know I’m only waiting around to drag you back.”
Zion dropped and landed on the plastic trash dumpster lid. It dented, but it didn’t break. He hopped off and stood, unsupported, with his hands folded in front of him. He was dressed in a ribbed turtleneck sweater and a pair of dark pants. His hair was neat, unruffled by the nights events. The umbrella was not with him.
“I think you may have killed some of them,” he said gesturing behind him, “That was very rude.”
Zion shrugged, “I didn’t plan it. I do apologize. If they hadn’t been trying to kill me, things might have turned out differently.”
“Touché,” Cicero conceded, “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“I left you a gift in my room,” Zion replied, “I think it will help you remember.”
Cicero eyed him suspiciously, “remember what?”
Zion remained silent for a moment, his face shadowed by the swept row of bangs. Finally, he looked up so that Cicero could see into his painfully normal brown eyes. He smiled darkly and replied, “Everything.”
Cicero crossed his arms, puzzling over what Zion was saying. The statement rose a series of different questions in his mind, the thousands of questions that had plagued him since he first remember, the questions that had plagued him again before he had visited that old house again, the questions that brought him here now, he realized. Zion said that it could tell him everything. Suddenly, a response sorted its way out of his muddled mind. He looked at him directly in the eye and replied:
“Where is it?”
“Can you make a promise?” Zion asked.
“Depending…”
Zion nodded, “Prudent of you.”
Zion was silent for a moment, eyeing him. Cicero was beginning to feel uncomfortable with Zion’s measured way of dealing. His stolen blood, flushed in his face as he shouted, “What is it?!”
Zion let the echoes of Cicero’s voice die before he spoke again, “I want you to read it before you pursue me again.”
Cicero seemed obviously uncomfortable with this suggestion. Cecilia would not be pleased and that was enough before thinking about what Henry would think, “Agreed… but if it’s not what you promised!”
“Everything,” Zion replied, “a detailed account of your life before you came to them. You will find it on the top shelf of the bookshelf in my room. It is in plain site, you can’t miss it.”
Cicero continued to look doubtful, “How will I know what it is?”
Zion grinned, “Because it will be in your handwriting.”