Nobility

by Mason Dakota

  I lunged forward, swiped away the bloody shard of glass he waved at me, and grabbed the man’s throat. I pressed the barrel of the gun under his jaw and whispered, “I won’t ask again.”

  Baldy stared into my mask for a moment and then said, “Our boss sent us to capture the Outcast, and told us to kill him quietly if he resisted.”

  Ziavir wants me captured?

  I saw truth in his eyes. He confirmed what I already suspected. I wasn’t safe with Ziavir out there.

  I had no time for any more questions. I heard the other assassins coming our way, shouting for their partner.

  “Tell Ziavir he had best get out of my city. Otherwise…I’m going to kill him.” I whacked Baldy across the skull with his own gun. Just as he blacked out, I fled unseen.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For the most part Chicago remained unscathed from the nuclear and biological blasts of the Abandoned War. That element added with its proximity to the Northern Territories made Chicago a popular trade city in times of peace and a war front in times of war. Since Adam Rythe took the throne, Chicago saw more fighting with the War chiefs of the Northern Territories than any time prior in history.

  However, since the Northern Territories did not share in our government’s belief on segregation of Nobles and Outcasts, the Mayor felt it important that the city showed a strong Imperial image—one nearly comparable to the Capitol—on the importance of segregation between the species for our neighbors. Therefore all Outcasts were required to live in the Outcast District, suffering rigorous segregation laws with poor living environments.

  But even the Outcast District has its own slum. People call it the Stinks. It bordered the Wasteland on the farthest side of Chicago, along the city walls. The dangerous toxins from the Wasteland send off a very strong, but hopefully nonlethal odor that fills the streets like a heavy blanket—hence its name. Staying outside for several hours in the Stinks caused dizziness, headaches, and quick flashes of flu like symptoms.

  The Mayor refused to direct electricity into the Stinks, saying he didn’t want to waste precious energy on a place he deemed uninhabitable for Nobles, despite the high number of homeless Outcasts in the Stinks. Because of that, there were lots of abandoned buildings where only those with the worst luck resided.

  Many of the buildings lay in rubble from decay and neglect. A few stood against the test of time, mere skeletons of framework to their former glory, stretching prior to the Abandoned War. You’d assume such structures held priceless artifacts to a world and culture long forgotten, but whatever secrets and treasures they held were taken by scavengers long ago and sold at a high price to wealthy individuals, like Mayor Kraine and his ancient vinyl record player.

  But, the are didn’t lie entirely empty or safe in comparison to what it used to be. The high number of thieves, crooks, and down right nasty individuals in the Stinks made the Stinks a land for the desperate and needy. Every crook and cranny hides a pair of eyes looking to stab you in the back just to get your coat. The mob used the Stinks as a body dump, throwing their victims openly into various warehouses simply because the NPFC decided the Stinks wasn’t worth cleaning up. Morals and rules didn’t exist in the Stinks, only the need to survive.

  Within the Stinks, A certain building missing a rather large portion of its roof and the vast majority of its top two floors laid bare. The building’s internal walls were a moldy gray with splotches of white sheetrock. Over time, the paint had peeled off and termites had feasted upon wooden studs. Every window lay shattered with glass covering the interior flooring. The front double doors were busted, and the left door was barred shut by pieces of rubble that braced it. The right door barely hung by a single hinge and dangled awkwardly when wind blew it.

  The upper floors had collapsed in on the first floor. A tempting staircase led to rubble in the back of the gutted building. The old building warned away visitors with creaks and obvious structural weaknesses. Most avoided it. Light poured in from the gaping hole in the roof, spotlighting curtains of dust particles that floated through the odorous air. A musty, water-stained blue carpet covered the floor. Desks piled into one corner and old business papers littered the rooms.

  I climbed the steps and slipped through the opening behind the swaying right door, careful not to touch it. I feared a loud screeching noise would alert anyone inside to my presence. I quietly moved to the office in the back filled with broken furniture and lifted a hidden panel of carpet and floor behind the desk to reveal a set of stairs. Using a flashlight to light my way, I headed down, making sure to cover the hatch behind me. The stairs ended at a large reinforced steel door.

  Thankfully, the stench from above didn’t reach that far down. I figured the heat forced it to rise instead of sink below.

  Approaching the steel door, I knocked twice, paused for two full seconds, and then knocked once more. The window slit on the door opened to reveal a set of blue eyes. I smiled, waved and watched the slit close. I heard locks click open on the other side before Chamberlain opened the door. He wore jeans and a blue flannel shirt over a gray long-sleeve T-shirt. A blue baseball cap sat atop his head.

  “So, you survived the piranhas? Bummer. You must not have enough meat on you to please their appetites,” joked Chamberlain as he blocked the doorway. The smile on his face hinted at the warmth that seemed to radiate from him, and even though he joked I knew there was a real concern behind his words.

  I smirked and said, “Nah, just a few nibbles before they got bored. They like fatter men like you. What’s it been, two pant sizes since I last saw you? I told you to lay off those second servings Alison keeps giving you.”

  He patted his gut and laughed. His pat sounded less like that of a man with an actual fat gut and more like a man with a rock solid six-pack.

  Total jerk.

  He chuckled, “And you, My Friend, need to learn to put more on your plate. Otherwise Alison might start to take offense.”

  “I think its my civic responsibility to leave enough for your empty stomach. Besides, the less I eat the better that makes you look. That’s called being a good wingman,” I said with a wink.

  Chamberlain stepped aside and waved me in laughing at my teasing. I stepped behind him into the den where all the others stood waiting in candle and kerosene lamp light. The den’s thick concrete walls always made me wonder if the den happened to be a bomb shelter prior to the Abandoned War. When we found this place there were two skeletons, various supplies, and some canned food—none of which had expired, surprisingly. Still, none of us was brave enough to eat any of it.

  The den was one large concrete box filled with a bed, stacks of papers and the assortment of fiction novels, some counter space, piles of dirty laundry, plenty of overflowing weapon racks and even more boxes of pizza ranging from empty to fresh. My stomach growled when I spotted an open box of fresh pizza lying on the table. Though none of us lived here nearly everyone had something here, thus making it our corporate community home.

  A great sigh of delight left me upon entering.

  Home sweet home.

  The whole team was there. Sitting at the table on his laptop like usual was Michael. He wore a black shirt that read in red ink, “I See Dumb People.” Over that he wore an oversized dark blue hoodie. He had khaki pants and black sneakers. He wore a Velcro digital calculator watch and dark rimmed glasses.

  His attempt today to style his hair with loads of gel produced what resembled a Wasteland tornado…or the aftereffects of one. His clean shaven face was thin but not in the strong athletic way that I saw myself. His skin was ghostly pale and so sunken in to his bony skeleton that you would think he was one of the walking dead or some sort of vampire.

  One of Michael’s genius qualities meant he had an eidetic memory, one of the few I believe in the world that could remember every single detail of his life. His childish quirks left you questioning that fact, though. His boyish demeanor and hobbies, such as designing new board games and computer games with themes and
elements that simply did not make sense to anyone except him, left many questioning even his adulthood.

  Michael worked as a computer repairman, which is where we first met him. He joined our crew early, when it consisted only of Chamberlain and me and I was still pickpocketing money and stealing food to survive while Chamberlain was still trying to make me into a better man.

  A fruitless crusade on his part but an appreciated effort.

  Michael’s computer skills upgraded us to a completely different level (as he would put it) to perform bigger heists. His finest quality? His loyalty, the reason why I trusted him as one of my closest friends.

  “Slaying another dragon, Michael?” I asked after hearing the roar of something from his holographic computer screen. From the other side of the holographic screen I could barely make out a tiny figure running through what I imagined was considered a dungeon.

  Michael didn’t look up as he said, “Attempting to capture the soul of Uanozor, lord of the black skies. Very challenging, but I have discovered a small glitch in the game’s coding that lets me redirect his killing spells toward his own minions if timed correctly. It’s rather fun to watch. They squeal when they die.” And with that I heard a small scream mixed with an explosion. Michael giggled and took another slice of pizza.

  “You know those video games will rot your brain.”

  “And cause you to act violently. Maybe even to fall into a life of crime wearing silly masks,” added Chamberlain with a wink and a smirk.

  “Show me the research to prove that and I will show you the research that counters it,” said Michael without looking up.

  “I don’t know Michael, I played many video games growing up. Chamberlain might be on to something there.”

  “You were corrupted from the beginning, Griffon,” mumbled Michael through a mouth full of pizza.

  “You need to get out more, Michael,” I laughed.

  “Or maybe you just need to stay in more. I read a study that said over exposure to sunlight can cause skin cancer, eye damage, and even premature wrinkling. The human race was not meant to live outdoors.”

  I smiled and looked around the room to spot Alison near the ice box eating out of a bag of chips.

  Alison was slightly above average height for a woman, slender, and very beautiful for an Outcast. She carried herself gracefully. She wore jeans and a cream-colored shirt beneath a brown jacket that stopped short of her waistline. Her hair was light brown, almost auburn in the right lighting, and just past shoulder length with bangs that fell sideways over her left eye. She really was stunning. At first glance, most would mistake her for a Noble.

  Alison was quieter than the rest of us. She wasn’t entertained by movies or games, though she willingly participated in them amongst company. Instead, she preferred solitude, and liked to curl up on a couch with a mug of hot chocolate and a good book. Seldom heard in a room, her presence was easily missed when absent.

  Her touch was delicate and soft. She was a caretaker at heart, doing everything with a ferocious drive for excellence. She chose her comments and words carefully, even the humorous ones. In my opinion she often served as a sort of den mother to us guys, always making sure we stayed in line and got along with one another.

  She worked most days as a waitress, but her true talents and passions rested in caring for others. Chamberlain and I met her working as a volunteer in her off time at a shelter providing first aid care. Chamberlain and I had tried to stop a mugging, and Chamberlain got cut by a blade. He needed stitches, and with the hospital being out of the question because of his status as an Illegal, we hoped for help at the homeless shelter. We were right. There we met Alison and that was where Chamberlain claims he first fell in love.

  Since then Alison became crucial to our team. Her constant volunteer work in the homeless shelters of Chicago granted her a network full of reliable information. The homeless were the city’s watchful eyes and ears. They saw and heard just about everything. That network often proved incredibly valuable to us in finding targets and those responsible for crimes against Outcasts that we could help. Her network was a very close-knit group, but they trusted Alison, and basically made her into something of an information broker for lower society.

  “Hey there beautiful, how’s it going?” I asked her. I only teased with such flattery and she knew that. She and Chamberlain had been in love since they met, Chamberlain at sight and Alison some time later after working through complicated feelings toward Chamberlain being an Illegal. It was punishable by death for an Outcast to hide an Illegal. It was something else entirely to fall in love with one, but their connection was undeniable. Thankfully they kept the mushy-gushy stuff to a minimum around the rest of us…though sometimes they acted like that on purpose just to make us uncomfortable. I guess they thought it was funny.

  “I’m doing just fine, Charming. How are you?” she replied.

  “Nothing I can complain about today,” I said. She smirked and I think I heard Chamberlain suppress a chuckle behind me.

  I may have a history of complaining.

  I saw Gabriel leaning against the center table beside Michael, reading through some papers; he was always busy doing something. Gabriel stood shorter than I, but with his charisma, he made giants like Chamberlain feel small.

  His hair was short and salt and pepper in coloring. He wore a black coat with a dark red sweater underneath and a bright white undershirt beneath that.

  Gabriel was left-handed, so he wore his watch on his right hand—one of those old fashion mechanical watches instead of the holographic wristbands Michael bragged about. His calloused hands and knuckles and weathered face showed a lifetime of fighting.

  He moved and sat with a false sense of ease as though there lay hidden inside him great tension—like a tightly turned spring ready to jump at a moment’s notice. When he entered a room he always scanned for exits and pivotal places to stand to observe everything.

  Old habits die hard I guess.

  He wore no wedding ring, but I suspected he had been married long ago without ever having kids. He never said what happened to his bride, and I never asked. Some questions you never ask certain people—for their sakes and your own. He wore reading glasses and held the morning’s paper at arm’s length with eyes squinting to see.

  From what little I knew of Gabriel, he was ex-military. Though he never shared what he did, he was highly trained. I remembered him as a child, a friend to my parents and a frequent visitor when I was young. He stopped coming around about two years before my parents’ death, though I always assumed that was because of how we moved nearly every month in the two years before they died. After that I didn’t hear from or see Gabriel for almost two decades, until one day he suddenly appeared at my apartment door.

  That was a special day for me; I felt as though part of my family had been brought back from the dead. Gabriel became a role model and mentor to me. In fact, we often referred to him as The Mentor, which is a nickname he gave himself one late, laughter-filled night. I admit that I looked up to him very much, but never told him.

  Telling people nice things tends to go to their heads.

  Gabriel took time to train each of us individually, but also to plan many of our heists. He would give us a job or a score to make and then we would go do it. That’s how things worked for years. It was an easy system, and Chamberlain made sure at least three quarters of our rewards went to the local food clinic or other charities to help those in need, since we took from those who enjoyed taking from the weak in the first place.

  Much of who I am is credited to Gabriel, after all, he gave me the title of Shaman. After my parents’ deaths there was a vigilante rumored to be traveling the empire known as Shaman. I grew fascinated with the stories and idolized the man. We all felt that way, especially Alison who as a small girl was taken by slavers. It was Shaman who rescued her and returned her to her family.

  When Gabriel revealed to us after some time that he had been that Shaman, I felt honor
ed that, after a lifetime of fighting, he’d decided to retire and pass the title of Shaman to me just a few weeks before the bank robbery, train debacle, and my glorious new status as Chicago’s hero.

  Upon seeing me Gabriel checked his watch. “You’re almost twelve hours late,” he said with grave disappointment in his voice.

  I smiled and bowed my head. “I’m never late; everyone else is just early, Gabriel. I could have sworn we agreed to meet at this precise moment. Really, you must get yourself checked out, Old Man, you’re starting to lose that memory of yours.”

  Gabriel raised an eyebrow, and gave the most subtle of smiles, a smile that meant he found my remark either amusing or foolish. I was never sure which.

  “No wonder you can’t keep an honest job. You’re so full of yourself,” said Alison.

  I lifted my arms and said, “Haven’t you heard? I’m being hailed as a hero throughout the city. According to the Mayor, that means we’ll be swimming in money, people will be begging to get my autograph, and life from here on is going to be spectacular. This is the best con I’ve ever seen. Surely our honest and always trustworthy Mayor wouldn’t lie about that.”

  Chamberlain laughed and sung, “Oh, Lord it’s hard to be humble….”

  “When you’re perfect in every way,” I sang.

  Gabriel suppressed a smile and shook his head. “The most frustrating team I have ever worked with. Why do I continue to put up with you all?”

  “Probably for our spectacular looks,” I replied.

  “And our charming personalities,” gargled Michael through more pizza.

  “Well we surely aren’t paying him that’s for sure,” said Alison.

  “Would anyone really be up for paying this old geezer anyway?” I asked, throwing my thumb back over my shoulder at Gabriel.

  “Couldn’t possibly be for our consistency and reliance,” added Chamberlain.