Chapter Text
Pickman was enjoying a kill in the silent night. The air was crisp with winter cold, and the ferric scent of the raider’s blood as it rose past Pickman’s face was warm and inviting, like fresh baked cookies. He rested in a crouch upon the leathered body, not wanting to sully the virgin layer of snow that had just fallen, and began his work in earnest, cracking open the man’s rib cage.
Ah, the first snow of the season: a blank canvas provided by nature. It was such a rare sight, ephemeral and inspiring. Pickman loved the changing of the seasons. Winter was such a thrilling time; the cold temperatures ensured a lengthier preservation of his works, and as a consequence he felt the challenge to bring his best foot forward when creating, more so than in other seasons.
He had managed to land on the raider from such an angle as to eliminate the raider’s footsteps, and the raider, most accommodatingly, had landed with his arms outstretched. He worked the ribs back into a butterfly effect, cutting between each one with strong, purposeful strokes. The blood that issued from his movements onto the snow had to be confident, dripping into thick stripes rather than chaotic droplets. He didn’t want spatter. He finished one side, lines radiating from a center point, and crawled to face the other way, completing the circle. When he was done, he took a deep breath and assessed his progress.
Yes, beautiful. The thick lines, feathered at the edges like electricity, shot out over the snow, alternating red and white like a peppermint candy. The eyes of the dead man were frozen in surprise, his mouth ready to call out. He smelled of mentholated cigarettes. Tobacco was such a nasty habit. Still, Pickman could appreciate the mintiness within the larger context. The symbolism pleased him. The Christmas season would soon begin; this was a fitting overture for his winter series.
He looked down and, carefully, jimmied the heart free, resettling it gently in place but offset from the man’s insides so as to be raised above and seen from the sides, nestled on his reversed sternum like a glistening jewel in a Tiffany setting. Finally, he flared the body’s leather coat open, curving the corners slightly to complement the streaks of red.
Pickman made a calculated leap, landing effortlessly on a car hood and rolling off the other side to land on his feet.
The aftermath of his creative energies laid in the snow, highlighted by the warm glow of the halogen lamp above it. The untouched road fell away into the still night behind his creation, his “Snow Angel.” At the end of the next block stood the apartment building that this raider’s tribe had taken control of (for the moment); Pickman was certain his work would be admired by the others come morning..
Pulling out his notebook, he pressed the still-wet tip of his stealth blade to paper; pressing his index finger against the dollop of congealing blood, he curved an artful heart onto the page, then laid it on the car’s hood to dry. He used the snow at his feet to clean his finger and the blade before wiping both off. He sheathed the blade and brought out his pen, shaking it vigorously to warm the ink inside, ready to sign his work.
A humming nearby sound grabbed his attention, and he froze, turning his ear towards it. The hum echoed off the brick walls of a narrow alleyway that emptied very close to his current position, joined gradually by light footsteps on hard cement.
Pickman grabbed his notebook, throwing his pen inside, and stuffed it in his inside pocket. He jumped up the pile of debris behind the car in two steps and leaped over a broken foundation. He skulked quickly up the exposed staircase to the covered piece of wall above him and pressed himself against it, listening.
“Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…” sang a woman’s voice.
The clomp of the footfalls turned into the crunch of snow, and the humming stranger headed in his direction. He closed his eyes to focus his alertness on the sounds.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. The footfalls stopped. He heard the sharp intake of a her breath. Crunch, crunch. Heard the sound of her coat as she shifted.
“Huh,” she sounded. Then she giggled. Pickman opened his eyes. “Heh-heh. Heheheh hahahahaha ha!”
He peeked from behind the wall, hidden behind the hole-riddled, decayed drywall panel. The woman was bent over, clutching her knees and laughing heartily. He wasn’t sure what response he expected to his art, but it wasn’t this. He felt self-conscious.
She fell backwards onto the ground, the blow softened by her knit hat and well-padded, oversized battlecoat. She stretched her arms overhead, torso shaking with mirth. She let out a long, audible sigh as her laughter stuttered to a stop. She stared, motionless, up at the full moon. Then, she began to scissor her arms and legs, sliding into the snow underneath her.
“SNOW ANGEL!” she shouted with relish.
Pickman’s self-consciousness, which had morphed into indignation, hurt, and then anger, transmuted instantly into nervous excitement, the kind of feeling he had when he had to jump from one rooftop to another across an alley. He was… happy?
He was happy. Surprised. This woman had understood his art! His intention, beyond his own ironic amusement, had been primarily to shock the other raiders in this group to take themselves less seriously. Yet, here this woman had experienced something novel, unanticipated. She had experienced joy. She had understood his humor. He was touched.
Pickman exhaled shakily.
The woman jumped up in a heartbeat, rising in a handspring from her back to her feet. In lighting speed, she wielded an unassuming pistol and scanned the road. He held his breath, willing himself to not be discovered.
After a moment, the woman reholstered her weapon. She looked back at the corpse, and then backed up into her own footprints, preserving the scene: a snow angel body, a snow angel shadow.
She turned and marched away, humming merrily. Pickman watched her until she was out of sight.
Two emotions hit him at once. First, fascination. Who was this curious spirit? Second, annoyance. He had not finished his signature note, and as a consequence, she could not give him credit for his work and the effect he’d had on her. He had been anonymous! As big a crime to a professional artist as calling a work "Untitled."
