Negative Film

by Leonard Petracci

  “An updated version,” she had said when handing him the first—a new statue of her just recently carved. “A third to add to your collection. And second…” She accepted a bundle from a passing assistant and opened it slowly, treating the insides as if they were about to crumble. She removed three spears, their tips charred and black streaks running up their shafts, handing them to Zeke. “These three are from the first battle that announced our presence to the world. Yes, that one, where we left a mighty scar upon the jungle. I fought in it back then, and we’ve kept these preserved to remember those that led the fight against us. Now I would say they no longer indicate the appropriate threat level. Take them and care for them—oil them once a week, or that blackness will start to spread, and the wood will crumble as death consumes them.”

  Now Zeke carefully kept the gifts in a locked compartment under the boat, and when we reached the city, refused to let any of us help him carry them. We spent the night with him and Leonidas, who was thrilled at the gifts, then departed early the next morning in a taxi paid for by them to the edge of the cliffs where we had arrived. One by one, Arial lifted us upwards after the taxi departed, settling us on the rock island where the portal waited while she fetched our bags, her breath coming heavy by the time she was finished.

  “Alright, everyone ready?” I asked as we stood at the doorway. “We’ve got the story straight, right?”

  “Right,” they chimed in together, nodding.

  “And Darian and Lola are where?”

  “Parents found them and picked them right up; we saw them go. Big reunion, tears shed like sprinklers, the whole shebang,” said Slugger. “And as usual, Lucio is to cover the gaps.”

  “Hey now, I already did the major one,” Lucio said. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t get too suspicious.”

  “It fit well with her internal narrative,” I answered. “She wanted to keep us hidden—and, you gave us a great hiding spot. Remember, Arial’s father drove us back, which is why she’s here.”

  “Ugh, don’t mention my father,” she said, putting a hand up to her face. “He’s going to be irate. I’ll be locked away for months.”

  “We’ll lend Lucio out,” I said. “Just remember, as soon as you see him, remind him that he told you that you could come. Lucio will do the rest.”

  “We’ll see how that works,” she answered. “Logic doesn’t always apply with him.”

  “Yeah, and I’m not just some sort of rental service,” added Lucio.

  “It’ll at least cool the flame. Now, remember—go quietly on the return. Don’t make any noise until we’re all there, and I’ll lift you through the gate one by one. Each of you be ready with souvenirs.”

  Closing my eyes, I modulated the gravity between both sides of the gate, like a water lock raising a boat. It was easier than I remembered, and though my stomach turned, induced far less nausea than before. Maybe I was getting used to it—or maybe, with all the activity over such a short term, I’d come more fully into my power.

  The air inside the subway was like stepping into a wet sock—thick and cold, coupled with distant mold and heavier than that of the cliffs. I grimaced as I took my first breath, catching the smell of the city above us, the smog and sewers intertwined as they sank to our level.

  Creeping around the outer edge, we snuck out of the tunnels to the surface then reentered, being sure to keep our conversations loud and voices cheerful. In moments, we rounded the corner, my mother waiting, her face dumbstruck as Lucio ran forwards to greet her.

  “Oh the food, the food was awful! They only gave us three meals a day at camp!” he shouted, wrapping her up. “We need breakfast for days!”

  “Only three?” she chastised then pinched the area above Lucio’s cheek. “But it does look like you’ve lost some weight. And the rest of you, how was it? Did you all learn something?”

  “Boring,” said Slugger. “Aye, I spent all that time there, and what do I get? This.” He tossed an object towards her, and she caught it in her hand, flipping it over to see Happy Camper painted on the back.

  “I’ll be savin’ you the trouble—it’s a pet rock. Mine won for bein’ the prettiest. Looks right like me too.”

  My mother squinted down at the mess of paint and gravel, with some of Slugger’s own hair plastered on top, then laughed before wrapping us in a hug.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it, then!” she said as I hid my face, afraid it might break the lie. “A few weeks in the wilderness looks to have done you some good. I knew it was a good idea to send you away from all this.”

  Chapter 116

  “Shhh, quiet. Quiet!” Lucio hissed. “You two, shut up or you’re going to miss it.”

  “Oh, whatever will we do?” Arial laughed, swatting my hand away from where I was tickling her. “It’s not like you haven’t made ten copies and guarded them the past week!”

  “You shut it, or I’ll pull that memory I gave your father right back out of his head,” Lucio snapped, but his drumming legs betrayed his excitement.

  We were seated on a long lawn, the grass stretching away from a white screen that had just finished playing and entered an intermission. Stars twinkled far above us, only the brightest making their way through the light pollution of the city, the speakers hissing from the corners as they waited for electrical input. Then the screen flickered, and a figure walked up to the podium, taking the microphone in his hands.

  “It’s Director Ficher,” Lucio said, barely containing his voice. “The Director Ficher!”

  “Lucio, he’s announced every movie before this one; he’s going to announce yours too,” Arial said, laughing.

  “Ahhhh, he’s going to watch it from the best spot!” Lucio continued. “It’s been weeks of editing after filming, all the best scenes, the action!”

  “Aye, and it’s a good thing that Lola isn’t here to see it; her head would pop if she knew you’d be showing footage of her tribe,” Slugger added. “Maybe I’ll be getting word back to her.”

  “You wouldn’t. And that’s why I listed you as CGI director!” Lucio exclaimed. “You really think they’d believe footage like that? No, it’s much easier for them to think it’s fake.”

  “And now,” said Director Ficher from the podium, gesturing towards the screen, and peering at a cue card as the thumping of Lucio’s legs reached a crescendo. “We have Escape to Danger Island.”

  He was a small man for his larger-than-life movies, with a sharply shaved goatee, a combover to cover his bald spot, and chestnut dye to hide the grey in his hair. He squinted as the movie came to life, the film reflecting off his pupils—and instead of watching his own movie, Lucio’s gaze fell more on him. As we watched as our adventure came to life, the scenes took on a completely different meaning.

  It began with the boating up the river—but Lucio’s editing had made it appear to be an ocean through clever use of angles. Together, Darian and Lola travelled through the sea, as royalty exiled for their love for one another by their rivaling families. There, they landed on Danger Island, and through the valiant efforts of Darian, won the hearts of the locals. And at the final battle, which was not at all acted but included several voice overs, they became new royalty on the island, and led it from that point forwards.

  Ficher nodded as the short film came to a conclusion, and the audience clapped as the credits rolled. And I smiled to see not only Slugger was listed under CGI team, but nearly our whole group. Then the last two films played, and Ficher took the stage, holding three medals in his hands—a bronze, silver, and gold.

  “There were many worthy contestants tonight,” he began as they clinked together, and Lucio leaned forwards. “And many that remind me of my own youth.”

  He held an envelope and pulled the first name from it.

  “Starting with third place—for a solid but straightforward story, dialogue that may need a little editing, but overall strong take—is Escape to Danger Island!”

  Lucio froze in his seat as the audience applauded
, and Slugger kicked him to get him moving up the aisle. He stumbled forwards, then walked pale-faced to the podium. Halfway up, he froze again, then threw his head back and entered into a strut, extending his hand with full confidence to Ficher.

  “Ah, there’s the Lucio we know.” I laughed. “The showman has returned.”

  “Truly good work for your age, young man,” said Ficher, draping the bronze around him. “And I must say, you’d likely have the gold if you didn’t rely so much on CGI. I perform all the stunts in my movies, and there’s something very different when it’s real. Adds another element of depth, you understand. Some of the parts of that battle—well, they just weren’t believable. Maybe tone it down a bit.”

  Flashing a smile at him, and beaming out to the crowd, Lucio answered, “Oh, I understand, sir. Next time, you’ll see it!”

  Chapter 117

  “Lucio,” I said after we had returned to the subway. “There’s something I want you to show me. Do you still have the original edits to your movie?”

  “Course,” said Lucio, who still hadn’t lost his strut, and whose voice was hoarse from the excitement. Since receiving the medal, hardly a minute had passed without his excited jabbering, coupled with complaints that first and second place hadn’t truly deserved their prize.

  “I saw you had some footage of the fight with Lacit, the one where Ennia stepped in. I know it’s pretty far back, but can we review it?”

  Lucio picked up the computer that he had copied the film onto and started playing it. In his frenzy of editing, little was labelled, so it took a few minutes to reach the battle, then a few minutes more to find what I wanted to see. He monitored a sound bar at the bottom and stopped when we reached the point where Lacit had whipped up a tornado of splintered trunks.

  “Keep on going,” I said, but he held up a hand.

  “Well, there’s something else funky here.” he said, his eyes on the sound bar. “See that? There’s a spike in sound, but I don’t hear anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Maybe it’s too high-pitched?” Arial said, coming up behind us. She’d walked with us back and was preparing to leave, but this had stolen her eye first.

  I stared, watching as the sound bar grew larger. It coincided near perfectly with Lacit’s tornado, reaching a crescendo just as the laughing face formed in the debris, then halting suddenly as soon as it failed. And not just the sound bar—but bits of the recorded footage flared and fuzzed with Lacit’s movements, spontaneously, in a faded pattern that I’d seen before somewhere else.

  “Adjusting,” Lucio said, playing with one of the screen sliders. “And here we go.”

  The high-pitched scream that came out of the monitors was far louder than we expected, nearly knocking us back. I clasped a hand over my ears as Lucio jumped to the volume knob, quickly fixing it, and listened closely as I recovered.

  “Those,” said Arial slowly, her eyebrows coming together. “Those are words.”

  And indeed, they were—at first, they were hard to distinguish, but as Lucio continued to adjust the sliders, I started to understand them. And I shivered, realizing what they were saying, repeating over and over in the same phrase.

  Help me, the broken.

  They shrieked before cutting out entirely as Lacit stopped his power. Arial covered a hand over her mouth, speaking quickly as her face lit up in recognition.

  “Creepy,” I said, shivering.

  “Oh, oh no. I know what this is. It makes too much sense.” Her eyes widened, and she blinked, her face showing horror.

  “And?” Lucio asked. “Are you going to leave us waiting?”

  “After the battle, Lola explained a bit of what happened to Darian to me—the fractonis essentia. Like she said, it’s when the power breaks within a person, splitting their aura, peeling back from their soul because it’s been overextended—and it’s often shown through a sort of distortion. For Darian, that was a form of light, and some buzzing. But Lacit, he admitted that his power had broken him before—that must have been why he was so strong, at the cost of his sanity. He must have had fractonis essentia as well, but never recovered—this is his distortion, though now it’s just a fragment of what it used to be.”

  “And since he was broken,” I said, remembering his scar and the story behind it, “then it would have been all too easy for Siri to place him back together in the way she wanted, to make him the ultimate soldier.”

  “Exactly,” whispered Arial as the sound bit played again, and she flinched back. “But by the sounds of it, even Lacit knew it was wrong. He knew that he was broken, deep down. But he never would have admitted it; he probably couldn’t have admitted it, so he covered it up.”

  I swallowed, looking back at the image. In defending the Worldwalkers, had we aided in killing an innocent man, someone who could not control his own actions? Images of Larissa flashed through my head, and I tried to put them away before feeling a hand on my arm and meeting Arial’s eyes.

  “It had to be done, SC,” she said. “It had to. The consequences were too great otherwise, and there’s no reason to feel guilty about it. He was too far gone—too twisted. There was no bringing him back. And we know he would have done the same to you, if not worse.”

  I nodded then turned my eyes back to the images. I motioned Lucio to roll forwards, and I saw what I had been originally seeking.

  “And pause!” I commanded as a figure came into focus. It was the man who had punched Lacit in the jaw, saving us from the tornado in the fight. The man who had stopped Lacit’s power in its tracks.

  “Yeah, who was that?” Lucio asked, peering closer at the screen. “I’ve never seen a power like that—he shut Lacit right down. Is he some sort of Absorber?”

  “No,” I answered. “With those, you should see some sort of effect—Lacit should have lost his strength, not just his power. And there would be flashes of light, or heat, or other excesses—the transfer of power isn’t perfect, and according to the Directory, it offgasses. I’ve been trying to figure this out, I’ve never heard of a power like this either, nor do I know who he fights for. And it’s been bothering me.”

  Frame by frame, he inched the movie forwards, but the figure never turned his face. There was only his skin, covered by paint, that danced as he hit Lacit.

  Or rather, now that I had a chance to look at it closer, ink. Tattoo ink, in a design that we had seen in our travels.

  “The Litious,” I breathed. “He’s one of them.”

  “But that’s impossible,” said Arial. “Zeke said that they don’t use powers. If he grew up among them, they would have killed him off long ago.”

  “Maybe,” I said, and in my mind, I recalled the last words of Freja, the woman who had died at the fountain, as she spoke to Zeke, her final words etched in my mind.

  Zeke, we learned to dance... Finally translated the old records, it was worth the years, the hope. And it was true… Find my son, Zeke. We owe you our thanks— for you showed us the way.

  “Or maybe,” I continued as the tattoos on screen came into view once more, and I saw him stop Lacit’s power again, as if it were effortless. “Maybe Zeke has more secrets to tell us. Whoever that person was, he didn’t come to fight for the Worldwalkers. I didn’t see him in the battle at all afterwards. No, it looked like he came for one thing—to fight Lacit.”

  “So you’re saying maybe he’s wrapped up in all this too?” asked Arial.

  “Maybe.” I answered. “Maybe we’re not the only ones out there fighting them. I think it’s time we give Zeke a call. If we have allies, we should know about it.”

  Then the hairs on my neck stood on end as I remembered the other words Freja had shared with Zeke, the ones that had escaped my notice the first time around.

  You unlocked the cage.

  END OF BOOK 2.

  Keep turning the pages for the first few chapters of book 3, Titan Song!

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  Titan Song, Book 3 of Star Child Places of Power, by Leonard Petracci

  Chapter 1

  The man walked with a limp —not from an injury, but from his left shoe, whose sole clung to life like a man hanging from the edge of a cliff. Stains streaked across his shirt, the likely culprits ketchup and mustard in the front, sweat in the pits, and a thick dusting of dirt over the remainder. His pants legs disintegrated about the ankles rather than a hemmed line, the left significantly shorter than the right, the fabric still vaguely reminiscent of denim.

  The bus had dropped him only a six minutes’ walk from his destination —but those six minutes seemed the longest of his entire trip. Those six minutes were all that separated him from a bed after weeks of walking, hitchhiking, and boating north. Not just a bed, but his own bed.

  He could still remember the way he made it—or rather, kept it unmade, but specifically unmade. There were the pillows that had long conformed to the shape of his head, the mattress that folded upwards to resemble a taco, the sheets that bore his own smell. But it wasn’t just his own smell that he longed for, the smell before the trek, before the body odor became nearly overpowering. It was the smell of the cotton trapped inside the comforter, mixed with the traces of oil from the processing machinery, and the invasive grass that had found their way into the mix. There was the smell of rust that coated the mattress springs, that doubled in intensity whenever he shifted and flakes sprayed off. And most important was the lack of any detergent—he hated the residue left over, of lavender and chemicals, that tried to suppress the others.