Firefight

by Brandon Sanderson

  The glowing fruit here had been harvested recently, probably for the party several rooftops over. That left the place dark, only a few phantom pieces of immature fruit giving light. It smelled of humidity—of that strange scent of plants and earth that was so different from the pristine steel of Newcago.

  A rustling sound in the distance indicated the direction that Newton had gone. I climbed in through the broken doorway and followed cautiously. This had been a bedroom, judging by the bed overgrown with vines spilling onto the floor. I glanced out the door and found a narrow hallway. No—not a bedroom … a hotel room.

  The confines were cramped—these rooms hadn’t been large in the first place, and a hallway lined with trees didn’t help. How did these plants live in here? I snuck forward, crawling over piled-up roots, when a dangling half-grown fruit tapped the side of my head.

  Then it started blinking.

  I stopped immediately, turning my head and staring at the strange fruit. Looked like a pear, and it was blinking off and on like a neon sign from one of the old movies. What …?

  “They were at the party,” a female voice said.

  Sparks! It came from a room just ahead of me. I’d almost crept right past, oblivious of the open doorway. I ignored the fruit, sneaking up and listening. “Three of them. Steelslayer left early. I followed, but lost him.”

  Was that Newton talking?

  “You lost him?” That deep voice was familiar. Obliteration. “I thought you didn’t do that.”

  “I don’t.” Frustration in her tone. “It’s like he vanished.”

  Sparks. I felt a chill run up my arms and wash across my body. Newton had been following me?

  Quite aware that I was exhibiting a special brand of crazy, I peeked into the room. The foliage had been cleared away inside, the plants chopped down, opening up the small hotel room, making its bed and desk usable. One of the windows even still had intact glass, though the other was open to the air.

  It was dark inside, but some spraypaint around the window gave just enough light for me to see Obliteration. He stood in his long black trench coat with hands clasped behind his back, looking out the window toward a city full of neon paint and partying people. Newton lounged beside the wall, spinning a katana in one hand.

  What was it with people in this city and swords?

  “You should not have allowed that one to slip away from you,” Obliteration said.

  “Because you did such a good job of killing him?” Newton snapped. “Against orders, I might add.”

  “I follow the orders of no man, mortal or Epic,” Obliteration said softly. “I am the cleansing fire.”

  “Yeah. Whatever, creepshow.”

  Obliteration raised an arm to the side in an almost absent motion, holding a long-barreled handgun. Of course he’d have a .357. I plugged my ears right as he pulled the trigger.

  The bullet deflected. I could actually see it happen, which I hadn’t expected. A little flash of light from Newton, and a drawer in the desk near Obliteration exploded, wood chips scattering. The punk woman stood up straight, looking annoyed as Obliteration fired five more shots at her. Each one bounced off harmlessly.

  I watched with fascination, my rational fear evaporating. What an incredible power. Hawkham in Boston had used force redirection, but bullets that bounced off him had usually ripped apart in midair. Here, the bullets actually changed direction, shooting backward away from her. How did they not collapse in the sudden change of trajectory?

  They didn’t fly well, as far as I could tell from what I was seeing. Bullets weren’t meant to fly backward.

  Obliteration lowered the gun.

  “What is wrong with you?” Newton demanded.

  “To whom shall I speak, and give warning, that they may hear?” Obliteration said, passionless. “Behold, their ear is uncircumcised, and they cannot hearken.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “And you are very good with a sword,” Obliteration said softly. “I admire your skill.”

  I frowned. What? Newton seemed to consider the remark odd as well, as she hesitated, lowering the katana and staring at him.

  “Are you done shooting at me?” Newton finally said, sounding disturbed. Glad to hear I wasn’t the only one who found Obliteration supremely unnerving. “Because I want to get back. I’m hungry, and the food at that party was pathetic. Nothing but homegrown fruit.”

  Obliteration didn’t glance at her. He whispered something, and I struggled to hear. I leaned forward.

  “Corrupt,” Obliteration whispered. “All men are corrupt. The seed of the Epic is inside each one. And so, all must die. Mortal and immortal. All are—”

  I slipped.

  Though I caught myself quickly, my booted foot scraped across some bark. Obliteration spun, and Newton stood up straight, raising the katana in a firm grip.

  Obliteration looked right at me.

  But he didn’t seem to see me.

  He frowned, looking past where I crouched, then shook his head. He strode over to Newton and took her by one arm. Then both teleported, a crash of light leaving behind glowing figures that crumbled away into nothing.

  I righted myself, sweat streaming down the sides of my face, heart thumping.

  I’d somehow managed to shake Newton without even realizing I was being followed. I didn’t accept that my quick duck out of the way had been enough, not if she’d been actively tailing me. Now this.

  “All right, Megan,” I said. “I know you’re there.”

  Silence.

  “I have your gun,” I said, taking out the handgun. “Really nice weapon. P226, custom rubber grip, finger grooves, worn down a little on the sides. Looks like you took a lot of time fitting this to your hand.”

  Silence.

  I walked to the window and held the gun out of it. “Probably sinks really well too. It would be a shame if—”

  “If you drop that, you idiot,” Megan’s voice said from the hallway outside, “I’ll rip your face off.”

  22

  MEGAN! Sparks, it was good to hear her voice. The last time I’d heard it, she’d pulled a gun on me.

  Megan stepped from the shadows of the hallway. She looked wonderful.

  The first time I’d seen her—way back when I’d been trying to join the Reckoners—she’d been wearing a sleek red dress, her golden hair tumbling down around her shoulders. Her narrow features had been accented by blush and eye shadow, tied with a bow of bright red lipstick on her lips. Now she wore a sturdy army-style jacket and jeans, her hair pulled back in a utilitarian ponytail. And she was way more beautiful. This was the real Megan, with one holster under her arm and another on her hip.

  Seeing her brought back memories. Of a chase through Newcago, of gunfire and exploding copters. Of a desperate flight, carrying her wounded in my arms, followed by an impossible rescue.

  She’d died anyway. But not, I’d discovered, for good. I couldn’t help grinning at the sight of her. Megan, in turn, raised a nine-millimeter square at my chest.

  Well, that was familiar, at least.

  “You spotted that I was interfering,” Megan said. “Which means I’ve grown predictable. Either that or you know too much. You’ve always known too much.”

  I looked down at the gun. You never get used to having one pointed at you. In fact, the more you know about guns, the more disconcerting it is to face one down. You know exactly what they can do to people—and you know that a professional like Megan does not point a weapon at someone without being prepared to shoot.

  “Um … it’s good to see you too?” I said, pulling my arm—with Megan’s gun in it—carefully out of the window, then dropped the gun to the floor in a nonthreatening way and kicked it gently in her direction. “I’m unarmed. You can lower the gun, Megan. I just want to talk.”

  “I should shoot you,” Megan said. Keeping her gun trained on me, she stooped to retrieve the other one from the floor with her left hand, then slipped it into a pocket.

  �
��What sense would that make?” I asked. “After you saved me from drowning the other day, and then saved me again tonight when Newton was tailing me? Thanks for both, by the way.”

  “Newton and Obliteration think you’re dangerous,” Megan said.

  “And … you disagree?”

  “Oh, you’re dangerous. Just not in the way that they—or you—think. You’re dangerous because you make people believe you, David. You make them listen to your crazy ideas. Unfortunately, the world can’t be what you want it to be. You’re not going to overthrow the Epics.”

  “We overthrew Steelheart.”

  “With the help of two Epics,” Megan snapped. “How long would you and the team have survived in Newcago without Prof’s shields and healing abilities? Sparks! You’ve only been here in Babilar a couple of days and you’d be dead already without my help. You can’t fight them, David.”

  “Well,” I said, stepping forward despite that gun—which was still pointed right at me. “I should think that your examples only prove that we can fight the Epics. So long as we have the help of other Epics.”

  Her expression shifted, lips tightening, eyes hardening. “You realize Phaedrus will turn on you. You’ve hired the lion to protect you from the wolves, but either will be happy to eat you once the food runs out.”

  “I—”

  “You don’t know what it’s like, inside! You shouldn’t trust us. Any of us. Even the little bit I did just now, protecting you from those two, threatens to destroy me.” She hesitated. “You’ll receive no further help from me.” She turned to walk back into the corridor.

  “Megan!” I said, feeling a sudden panic. I’d come all this way to find her. I couldn’t let her go now! I scrambled out into the hallway after her.

  She strode away from me, a dark silhouette barely visible by the light of a few dangling pieces of fruit.

  “I’ve missed you,” I said.

  She didn’t stop.

  This wasn’t how I’d imagined our meeting. It wasn’t supposed to have been about Prof, or the Epics; it was supposed to have been about her. And about me.

  I needed to say something. Something romantic! Something to sweep her off her feet.

  “You’re like a potato!” I shouted after her. “In a minefield.”

  She froze in place. Then she spun on me, her face lit by a half-grown fruit. “A potato,” she said flatly. “That’s the best you can do? Seriously?”

  “It makes sense,” I said. “Listen. You’re strolling through a minefield, worried about getting blown up. And then you step on something, and you think, ‘I’m dead.’ But it’s just a potato. And you’re so relieved to find something so wonderful when you expected something so awful. That’s what you are. To me.”

  “A potato.”

  “Sure. French fries? Mashed potatoes? Who doesn’t like potatoes?”

  “Plenty of people. Why can’t I be something sweet, like a cake?”

  “Because cake wouldn’t grow in a minefield. Obviously.”

  She stared down the hallway at me for a few moments, then sat on an overgrown set of roots.

  Sparks. She seemed to be crying. Idiot! I thought at myself, scrambling through the foliage. Romantic. You were supposed to be romantic, you slontze! Potatoes weren’t romantic. I should have gone with a carrot.

  I reached Megan in the dim hallway and hesitated, uncertain if I dared touch her. She looked up at me, and though there were tears in the corners of her eyes, she wasn’t weeping.

  She was laughing.

  “You,” she said, “are an utter fool, David Charleston. I wish you weren’t also so adorable.”

  “Uh … thanks?” I said.

  She sighed and repositioned herself on the large set of roots, pulling her feet up and sitting with her back in the crook of the tree trunk. That seemed an invitation, so I sat down in front of her, my knees before me and my back to the wall of the corridor. I could see well enough, though this entire place was creepy, with its shadowed vines and strange plants.

  “You don’t know what this is like, David,” she whispered.

  “So tell me.”

  She focused on me. Then she turned her gaze upward. “It’s like being a child again. Can you remember how it felt, when you were really young, and everything was about you? Nothing else matters but your needs, your wants. Thinking about others is impossible—they just don’t enter into your mind. Other people are an annoyance, a frustration. They just get in your way.”

  “You resisted it before.”

  “No, I didn’t. In the Reckoners, I was forced to avoid using my powers. I didn’t resist the changes. I never felt them.”

  “So do it that way again.”

  She shook her head. “I barely managed it before. By the time I was killed, I was practically going crazy from the need to use my abilities. I’d started to find excuses, and that was changing me.”

  “You seem okay now.”

  She toyed with her gun, flicking the weapon’s safety on and off, her eyes still upward. “It’s easier around you. I don’t know why.”

  Well, that was something. It made me think. “Maybe it has to do with your weakness.”

  She looked at me sharply.

  “Just consider it,” I said carefully, not wanting to ruin things at the moment. “It might be relevant.”

  “You think it’s what’s making me act like myself,” she snapped. “You think that somehow being around you triggers my weakness, and that’s making me normal. Things don’t work like that, David. If being around you negated my powers, I wouldn’t have been able to save you—or hide among the Reckoners. Sparks! If that were the case, every time a weakness triggered, the Epic would be like, ‘What the hell? Why am I being evil? Let’s totally get along, guys, and go bowling together or something.’ ”

  “Well, there’s no need to get snarky about it.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose with her off hand. “I shouldn’t even be here with you. What am I doing?”

  “You’re talking to a friend,” I said. “That’s something you probably need these days.”

  She looked at me, then glanced away.

  “We don’t have to talk about this in particular,” I said. “Or about Newcago, or the Reckoners, or anything like that. Just talk to me, Megan. Is that a 24/7?”

  She raised the handgun. “Yeah.”

  “Generation three?”

  “Generation two compact, nine-millimeter,” she grumbled. “I like the feel of the G2 better than the G3, but the sparking things are hard to find parts for. I have to use something small—can’t let the others know I need a gun. They see it as a weakness around here.”

  “What, really?”

  Megan nodded. “Real Epics kill with their powers in some kind of flashy way. We like to show off. I’ve had to get really good with the gun so I can fake my powers killing people, sometimes.”

  “Wow,” I said. “So when we were fighting Fortuity, way back when, and you shot him out of the air …”

  “Yeah. No cheating involved. I don’t have hyper-reflexes or anything like that. I’m kind of a pitiful excuse for an Epic.”

  “Uh … you came back from the dead. That’s rather less than pitiful, if you weren’t aware.”

  She smiled. “Do you have any idea how much it sucks to have your High Epic status granted by reincarnation? Dying hurts. And it wipes a lot of my memories from right before the event. All I remember is dying, and pain, and a black, icy nothingness. I wake up the next morning with the agony and terror dominating my thoughts.” She shivered. “I’d rather have forcefields or something to protect me.”

  “Yeah, but if your forcefields go all Vincin on you, you’re dead for good. Reincarnating is more reliable.”

  “Vincin?” she said. “Like the gun brand?”

  “Yeah, they’re—”

  “Always jamming,” Megan finished, nodding. “And about as accurate as a blind man pissing during an earthquake.”

  “Wow …,” I bre
athed.

  She frowned at me.

  “That was a great metaphor,” I said.

  “Oh please.”

  “I need to write that down,” I said, ignoring her complaints, fishing for my new mobile to type it out. I looked up at her as I finished, and she was smiling.

  “What?” I asked.

  “We’re not doing a very good job of not talking about Epics,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I guess it was a lot to expect. I mean, it’s kind of who you are. Besides awesome. As awesome as a—”

  “Potato?”

  “—a blind man pissing during an earthquake,” I said, reading from my mobile’s screen. “Hum. Doesn’t exactly work in this situation, does it?”

  “No. Not quite.”

  “I’ll have to find another place to use it then,” I said with a grin, tucking away the mobile. I stood up, holding my hand out to her.

  Megan hesitated, then took something from her pocket and put it in my hand. A small black object, like a mobile battery.

  I frowned. “The hand was to help you to your feet.”

  “I know,” Megan said, standing up. “I don’t like being helped.”

  “What’s this?” I asked, holding up the little flat square.

  “Ask Phaedrus,” she said.

  Standing had placed her right in front of me, very close. She was tall, almost exactly my height.

  “I’ve never met anyone like you,” I said softly, lowering my hand.

  “Is that what you told that bouncing bundle of breasts and booty you were dancing with at the party?”

  I winced. “You, uh, saw that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Stalker.”

  “The Reckoners came to my town,” Megan said. “It is in an Epic’s interests to keep tabs on them.”

  “Then you know that I wasn’t exactly enjoying myself while at the party.”

  “I’ll admit,” Megan said, stepping forward, “that I had trouble telling if you were trying to smash an angry swarm of bugs at your feet, or if you were just really bad at dancing.”

  That step put her close to me. Really close. She met my eyes.

  Now or never.