by Daryl Banner
Then two more dots appear on the screen.
Arrow snaps his fingers with excitement. “Got you, fuckers.”
Edrick frowns. “Who?”
“Gandra and Yellow. They’re …” Arrow squints. “They’re on the other side of the city. Core, possibly. Maybe the first or the second.”
“Ooh. If that’s where they are, the Slum King’s got them.”
Arrow frowns at that, then taps a few more keys, bringing up a list of names onto the screen of every person he’s put a charm into. Juston, blinking right at the Noodle Shop. Gandra and Yellow, off-center, near the first and second. Pratganth, back in the ninth.
And Victra, off-center, near the sixth.
Arrow’s face hardens to stone as he stares at that one dot, eyes unblinking.
“Victra,” Edrick reads off the screen, squinting. “That’s—”
“Yes.” Arrow stares at that tiny dot. His stomach spins, daring to release the lunch he had before they left the neighborhoods on this quest of his. Is she still lying in the streets after all this time, rotting away? Did someone give her the dignity of a burial? Did someone burn her body, and the chip is sitting among the ashes? The fact that he doesn’t know kills him.
Then Arrow notices it. He squints at the screen, confused.
“Wick, out of bounds,” Edrick reads. “Out of bounds? What does that mean?”
“It means a glitch,” Arrow says automatically. After a second of indecision, he types some code, making an adjustment. The big map zooms out. The computer groans even worse as it works.
“It’s almost out of juice,” Edrick notes. “That microbiot you stole out of that streetlamp is almost—”
“Dead, I know, shush.”
Arrow types hurriedly, racing against an unseen clock. His map grows smaller as it zooms out some more, the circle shrinking.
The computer beeps. ‘Wick, out of bounds’ it still reads.
Arrow zooms out some more.
‘Wick, out of bounds’
With a shrug, he types in the max possible integer for each of the coordinate variables in his system. The circle shrinks near to nothing, the map expanded as far as it will go.
The computer groans and buzzes.
And then Arrow spots it. Far, far, far off the map of Atlas. He sees the little thing blinking in front of his face, defying all sense of reason, defying all of Arrow’s carefully gathered logic.
A dot.
Wick.
Arrow stares and stares and stares at that tiny dot—the dot that is supposed to be the chip he injected into Wick’s ass cheek one night when he was sleeping. The dot, which is telling him the chip is over thirteen wards’ lengths outside of the Last City of Atlas.
“That …” Arrow can’t close his mouth. “That … isn’t possible.”
“Maybe it’s a glitch, like you said,” Edrick reasons. “Lifted Tech. Slum Tech. It all can have glitches, right? Errors? It’s probably just—”
“It’s no error. It’s … It’s getting its information from a charm. My charm.” Arrow can’t blink. “My charms never, ever err.”
“So … what does this mean, then?”
The boys stare at that tiny blinking dot, blink, blink, blink.
And then the computer sighs its last breath, leaving Arrow and Edrick staring at a blank screen, their reflections staring back at them, silent and dumbfounded.
0282 Wick
“He’s getting better,” Puras tells him from his chair, “on account of that delirium extract I was able to procure.”
The early morning breeze pushes past Wick’s face as he lifts an eyebrow toward Puras. The pair of them are in wooden chairs on the porch of the cabin holding the Chaos boy. They’re seated just outside the door in case he calls out needing something.
“Delirium …?”
“From the Dream Tears your little friend brought to our humble dwelling.” Puras leans in, lowering his voice. “Is your friend single?”
Wick smirks. “First Chaos, now Rone. You’re hungry for them.”
“I hope you don’t feel slighted.” Puras shrugs. “I mean, you’re a cute one and all, but you’re taken, and your whole story just breaks my heart too much.” He bites his lip and sinks back into his chair. “I wonder what Korah is making of all this.”
“She is holding a meeting after breakfast.” Wick takes a breath. “I hope she’s sorted her thoughts overnight. Chaos might have the power to destroy the Wall when he recovers, but—”
“Not a power to help us across the sands. I know.” Puras lifts a cup toward Wick. “Tea?”
“No, thanks.” He rises from his chair. “I need to talk to Rone.”
“I can cook, I can clean, and I have an extensive knowledge of chemistry and human anatomy.” Puras gives a meek, straight-lipped smile. “I’m perfect husband material. Put in a good word!”
Wick chuckles, gives him a nod, then descends the porch and heads down the lane and across the campsite to his own cabin. The air today is particularly warm and arid, as if the weather is pushing in more from the sands and less from the woods. It’s a welcome change, but perhaps unfortunate timing, considering all the oddness centered around the arrival of their first newcomer to Gaea via Metal Hand’s teleportive touch since Wick himself. The strange, dry air makes Wick uneasy, as if something awful lurks over the horizon.
When he gets to his door, he finds Rone staring out the window with a pensive, faraway look on his face. Wick stands there for a solid minute wondering if he’ll be noticed before Rone turns away from his view and lifts his brow in surprise. “Ah, my bro, hi there.”
“My bro.” Wick shakes his head. “What were you staring at?”
“Oh. I was just …” Rone wags a finger at the window, then gives up. “I’m still a bit in shock that I’m here. I think I’m not yet totally convinced I’m alive. Like, as if the fall killed me, and all of this since then has been an elaborate sort of … death dream.”
“I’ve had many thoughts like that of my own, if it weren’t for that daunting Wall staring back at us from across the sands.” Wick comes into the cabin and plants his feet next to Rone by the window. “I heard your mind-altering fruit saved our new arrival.”
“That it did. It saved me a bit, too, last night.” Rone grimaces as he leans into Wick, pushing against his shoulder. “I … might have … partook a bit.”
Wick gives Rone a sidelong glance. “Partook …?”
“Don’t judge. I’ve had a hard past several months. You didn’t … well, you implied that you didn’t want to have fun. So I went and had fun on my own.” Rone smirks and peers over his shoulder. “Dran wanted to have some fun as well, turns out.”
“Dran?” This is news to Wick. “You both drank some chemical last night?”
“You were sleeping, dead to the world. Dran and I were talking a lot. I know, we didn’t quite rub arms when we first met, on account of the extra arrival of Eerie, I’d presume, but we made a really nice chat.” Rone blinks. “Well, what I can remember of it.”
“You and your chemical …”
“Really, it’d been a long time since I’d had so much. And this chemical? It’s … I-It was very strong.” Rone snorts and brings a hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter. “I wouldn’t be surprised if a trace bit of it was still in my system. I haven’t been hit that strong by the citrusy stuff since … well, since ever. I can hardly remember what we even did last night.” He gives Wick a questioning look. “Is there, um, a tree with a bunch of paintings all over it or something?”
Wick quirks an eyebrow. “Well, there’s a triplet of trees where I make a mark for every day I’ve been out here.”
“Dran and I might’ve peed on it.” Rone snorts again when Wick gapes at him. “Sorry, we were … we were really high.”
“And you’d only a day or two ago boasted on how long you’d been sober!”
“Well, like I said, hard times.” Rone shrugs, then slaps a hand to Wick’s back and pulls him in f
or half a hug. “I’m going to get you to join me one of these nights. You’ll feel freer than you’ve ever felt.”
“Last time we did chemical together, I gave you a suck-job.”
“Did you? Ah, yes, I remember.” Rone shrugs again, then leans into his friend. “We can repeat that experience if you want. It’s been ages since I’ve gotten one, and ages since you’ve given one, and the both of us are so very bored out here, and—”
“I’ll pass on that,” Wick says, cutting him off. “If it’s a suck-job from a willing boy you want, I’d go visit Puras over at the medic’s cabin. He’s got a stiffy for you.”
Rone puts his head on Wick’s shoulder, patting him on the back as they stare out the window. Then, after a moment’s passed, Rone then says, “I … heard about your brother.”
Wick remains silent for some time. Then: “I figured it best to not overload you with every bit of pain and loss I suffered.”
“I should’ve been there for you.” Rone sighs, which Wick feels through the whole side of his body upon which Rone leans. “I feel—”
“Don’t regret a thing, Rone. We both have had our losses.”
Rone takes a second to let that process, then gently nods. The boys spend another while chatting about nothing of consequence before deciding to spend some time with Eerie. The Wildercat isn’t in her glade, so Rone assumes she’s out foraging for a meal on her own, as she oftentimes does, and the two decide they’ll return to check on her after breakfast and the meeting.
After eating a modest meal of roots and greens around a table that’s more often occupied by some of the older folk of Gaea, but that today they were able to snatch first, Rone and Wick head to Korah Cagemont’s cabin for the meeting.
They find they’re short a person.
“Where’s Dran?” asks Korah with due impatience. “I’ve waited long enough. Wick?”
Wick shrugs. “I … didn’t see him at breakfast. I assumed he was out foraging.” He glances toward the others. “Rychis? Kraag?”
Kraag returns a shrug and Rychis returns a slow, tired shake of his head. Puras, in the corner of the room where Dran usually stands, gives a mumbled, “I don’t know,” followed by a scratch of his chin.
The Chief goes on. “He will have to be filled in later, then. We have the important matter to discuss of what to do with our sweaty new addition. Puras, give your report.”
Puras comes to life and faces the room. “He’s expected to make a full recovery. His fever is a strange one, but treatable. I gave him an extract from the Dream Tears provided by …” His eyes turn soft as he shoots Rone a glance. “… by our lovely other newcomer, Rone.” He clears his throat. “I am glad to say the chemical had the intended effect of pulling the boy’s mind from its state, relaxing his nervous system, releasing his body’s natural ability to heal, and breaking his fever. If it returns, I’ll give him another dose. I suspect it will be … a matter of days, most likely, before he is up and about.”
“Thank you, Puras.” Korah eyes Rone. “Thank you, Rone.”
Rone, ever surprised to be acknowledged by the short-yet-fierce woman, perks up with a twinkle in his sapphire eyes.
“And now we know for sure,” Korah goes on, “thanks to Rone’s identification and others who’ve paid witness since the birth of the Madness, what this Chaos boy’s Legacy is. He is surely a Weapon, no doubt, a Weapon of the Madness. It’s the first time we have had anyone with this … caliber of an offensive ability join our ranks.”
“I don’t trust it,” says Nance from a pair of chairs near the map table, a woman with small eyes and bags under them that, when she blinks, make her eyes disappear.
“Me neither,” says her best friend here in the Oblivion, a long stick of a woman called Ferra with a bun of brown hair atop her head that lets hang a few long strands over her ears and a few down her face. She tucks some behind an ear, then adds, “He is responsible for many deaths … many, many deaths.”
“He was a Weapon,” chimes in Kraag from the back of the room near where Rychis always sits and glowers. “He was being controlled by the Mad King. He should be judged separately from the Madness.”
“Still don’t trust him one bit,” mumbles Nance, to which Ferra gives a swift shake of her head in agreeance.
Korah listens to them go back and forth awhile, her arms folded and her sharp grey eyes focused. After she’s heard enough, she gives two beats of a fist against the map table to gather their attention. “I don’t for one second presume we’ll just slip him right in. He’s no one to vouch directly for his character, unlike we had for Rone here. So the Chaos boy must prove himself, and he must be round-the-clock guarded and watched.”
“I’ll volunteer for guard duty,” says Kraag with a lift of his hand. “Barley would, too, were he here.”
“We’ll assign four to him, rotating on a schedule, until we deem his character straight enough to parlay our trust for something far, far more useful than just … another set of hands.”
“Or a giant scary cat,” murmurs Puras, his gaze cast down to the table in fear. He lifts his gaze suddenly to Rone. “Sorry. I am not a fan of your cat.”
Before Rone can respond with some witty thing, a red-faced and out-of-breath woman bursts into the cabin. “He’s absconded!”
Korah comes around the table. “Who?”
“Dran. It must’ve been Dran.” The panicked woman takes a fast breath. “He stole from our food stores, stole two weapons, cleared his corner of the barrack cabin, and left. He’s left. H-He’s absconded.”
Silence falls over the cabin as one scandalized, bewildered face turns to another. A murmur breaks out between Ferra and Nance. Even Rychis Bard himself looks stunned by the news, not knowing what to say to a wide-eyed Kraag.
“Are you absolutely sure it was him?” asks Korah after allowing for some time to process.
“He was in a strange mood last night, as reported by Andall and Morie, who share his barrack space. He wasn’t himself. Something was quite wrong and strange with him. Everyone else is here and accounted for. It has to have been him who made the steal. Dran has absconded.” The woman looks about to cry.
Korah leans back against the table, her gaze drifting downward. For the first time Wick’s ever known, she looks absolutely at a loss as for what to do with this news.
Murmurs break out among the others, and theories and ideas and questions are thrown about the room as Korah remains in her storm cloud of worried thoughts.
Wick turns to Rone in the noise, his eyes wide. “What the fuck did you two talk about last night?” he asks him, exasperated.
Rone swallows hard, his eyes detached, uneasiness filling them.
“Rain,” Wick answers for him. “You spilled our secret. You made him realize it was us at the Weapon Show. You fucking told him.”
To that, Rone only stares at the floor, lost, silent.
0283 Mercy
I am blood and bone and poison in the shape of …
“W-Why did you out me?” whimpers Scot in a shaky whisper from the corner of the den.
His arms are crossed over his bare chest as he stands in the corner. He’s been stripped by the women to just his pair of tight grey underwear that come halfway down his thighs, his little muscled form exposed. Liggie and the women especially appreciate stealing every bit of dignity from the weak Lifted man that they can; perhaps it’s the only way they can stand having a Lifted in their presence.
Mercy, keeping her voice low as well, since the other women are only two rooms away in the kitchen, brings herself right up to his face. “You poor, silly man.” She shakes her head and smacks her green lips at him. “You’re the one who outed yourself.”
“I never wanted to join these women,” Scot goes on, trembling. “I said it was a terrible idea. And you knew the cost. You knew that I’d be in danger, yet still—”
“Yet still.” Mercy glances down his body, smirking. His abs are tight and chiseled impressively for a Lifted young man wh
o’s not been in a gym since the Fall of Sanctum. “Yet still.”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what? A piece of meat?” Mercy brings her deadly eyes to his. “That’s exactly what you are now, Scot. A piece of meat. The question is, do you want to live?”
His eyes flash. “What?”
“Do you want to live? Simple. Yes, or no?”
“Y-Yes,” Scot stammers, his face wrinkling up. “O-Obviously.”
“Good answer. Tighten those abs of yours.”
“What?” Scot blinks. “W-Why?”
Mercy balls up her fist, rears back, then slams it head-on into Scot’s abdomen.
All the air escapes from him as he doubles over with half a cry and half a grunt. He drops to the floor, gasping and groaning for air as he curls up.
Not a moment later, the bull woman that is Liggie appears at the archway into the den. Her eyes drop to the wheezing young man on the floor. “What’s happened with our little Lifted fucker?”
Mercy regards him like a whiny street dog at her feet. “He’s too sick to join us for dinner, apparently.”
Liggie comes over to his body, peers down at him with disgust, then gives him a light kick in the ribs, which makes him recoil more, groaning in pain. “Hah.” The woman spits at him. It misses. “So the green-lipped bitch’s bitch will have to sit this one out, then, as it’s piping hot and ready, the soup, too.”
“What a pity,” murmurs Mercy. “And he was just saying how so very hungry he was.” She crouches down. “You can eat the rubber on my shoes when you’re feeling better, Lifted scum.”
Liggie laughs at that appreciatively. “Smart-mouthed green-lipped bitch,” she chortles, her new favorite term of endearment for Mercy, then heads for the dining room.
As Mercy leaves, Scot’s whimpering voice comes from the floor of the den. “W-Why …?” he moans, still curled up like a baby.
