by Daryl Banner
Only twenty minutes later, Sedge has become a sludgy mess of flesh that slithers up the staggering height of Cloud Tower. When a door requires access, he creates only his hand from the blob that is Sedge’s shapeshifted form and allows himself through. He’s been given top clearance by Impis, all the way to the throne room itself. But when he gets there, he finds it empty. The glass ceiling is so high that it’s gone, and when he turns back into a boy, he looks up at it and sees two figures at the top. Oh, but of course.
He has no idea how Impis manages to get to the very top of Cloud Tower, but he knows how he will: by shifting into a sticky blob and pulling himself up the tall, tall, tall glass walls of the throne room. The effort makes him feel like he’s scaling the height of Cloud Tower all over again.
Sedge squeezes himself through a vent of sorts and, before he’s expecting to, his shape pops out onto the glass roof of Cloud Tower, gathered up against the vent so that he cannot be seen.
He only forms his eyes, and those eyes are not disappointed.
Impis Lockfyre stands at the brink of the tower, and his vibrant silks blow in the wind, swaying behind him in shades of emerald, of ruby, of passion blue, of rippling violet, of star shine and yellow. His face is powdered white, and his wild locks of hair—his ponytails and braids and spikes and tufts and twists and curls of lush, chaotic hair— dance in the breeze. He’s dyed his hair as white as his face, but for the tips which look dipped in blood, the same color of which dresses his lips crimson and lines his eyes as he squints into the distance.
He is a beautiful, beautiful mad god.
The world is mad beauty …
Then there is the young man at his side named Chaos, a skinny, short man who is naked except for a gadget he wears over his head that has a lens coming down over his left eye. The man’s hair, short and black, has red at the tips, like Impis’s.
The sight of the young man annoys Sedge.
“THERE!” cries out Impis suddenly, pointing with vigor. “Yes, yes, yes. THERE!”
The young man Chaos looks in the direction Impis points. He leans forward, which causes Sedge’s imaginary heart to race, as there are no railings up here at the highest point in all of Atlas—one wrong misstep can send a person falling hundreds of feet to their death. Chaos throws his hands into the air as if meaning to reach for something on a high shelf. Sedge nearly mistakes it for a stretch.
Then the clouds above them fill with red light and the air starts to race laps around the tower, becoming a great funnel of fire.
Impis cackles suddenly, throwing his own hands into the air as if to imitate Chaos, delighted and full of glee.
“DO IT!” he screams, overjoyed. “Do it, do it, do it, do it, DO IT!”
And then the young man throws his hands down so fast, Sedge doesn’t see it, and at once, the world explodes. A crack like lightning, but more fiery and boiling, breaks through the air as the Finger Of Madness is cast down into the dark slums somewhere. The crackling sound of pure, blazing energy begins to turn into a scream as the bolt intensifies. Chaos keeps his posture perfectly rigid, his hands balled into fists and his head lurched forward, directing his full attention to the Finger’s path.
At once, the red light is gone, and the young man steps away from the brink of the tower, reeling for a moment. The bolt is tiring, Sedge observes, watching him.
Impis, even standing right at the edge of the roof, jumps up and down without a care, giddy as a four-year-old on the morning of his birthday. He jumps and jumps and jumps, then claps feverishly and shrieks out with delight. “YES!! Yes, yes, yes!” He giggles and spins around in circles. “Power, Goddess-given. Yes, yes, yes! YES!”
Chaos has seated himself, breathing heavily as he recovers, his little red-tipped spikes bouncing with his every intake of breath.
Sedge feels a pang of pity for him, for his mind is not completely his own. Much like the fabled Weapon of Sanctum that got away, the young man’s mind has been touched by Axel, the mind controller, twin sister to Arcana. An idea was planted into his brain by Axel that he is unbearably warm at every hour of the day—humid, sweaty, hot—and the one and only way that he can cool off is to stand atop this tower with Impis Lockfyre at his side and purge himself of all his pent-up heat in the form of his fiery, bolt-casting Legacy. Poor Chaos can’t bear to even put on underwear, thinking himself to be so warm all the time that he can’t stand a scrap of clothing. Even minutes after casting his Red Light, it is already apparent on his agonized face that he’s insufferably hot again and desperately needs to release another Finger Of Madness. His body is covered in a sheen of dripping sweat that makes his every muscle glow, wet and shiny.
But only Impis decides when he casts it, and where. “Beautiful,” murmurs Impis when he finally calms down from his mad laughter, grinning ear to ear. He stares ahead into the unknown, as if trying to peer over the Wall that stands so far, far away. At this height, they very well may be higher up than the Wall, but it is so distant that nothing can be seen. I’ve always wondered what Oblivion looks like, Sedge muses. I imagine it looks much like the inside of Impis’s mind.
The world changes again and again, and now it is Oblivion.
Out of nowhere, Arcana appears, which startles Sedge even in his shapeless, hidden form. The woman’s long straight ponytail is tossed by the breeze up here as she walks up to Impis, her heels tapping along the glass surface. “King,” she murmurs.
“Reader!” he exclaims giddily. “I summoned you for a most, most, most important task! It is a task of hunting, yes! Yes, yes, yes.”
Arcana gives a curt nod. “We still have Chaots in both the Lifted and Lower Cities searching for Ruena Nether—”
“No, no, no.” Impis shakes his head irritably, then says, “A new hunting task. My list of Nine. You know it? My Legacy list, yes?”
Arcana gives another curt nod. “I do. Your list of Nine from the recent Legacy Tour.”
“I want each and every name on that list gathered. I was not able to finish gathering the chosen Nine from my most recent Legacy Tour, see, because dear sweet Ruena interrupted me.” He hisses at the air, as if seeing a hallucination of Ruena before him. “I must finish collecting those boys and girls. They must be brought here safely so that I may do what I wish with them. Your sister can help convince them of … of …” He swallows, stares at the sky for a moment as if the words might drop down onto his forehead. “Of how FUN I am!” he decides, nearly screaming the word “fun”.
Arcana doesn’t smile at all, but her eyes seem to as they squint with understanding. “I will collect your list and finish the gathering that our Fell Queen interrupted.” With that, she turns away and strolls back to where she came from.
But on the way, her eyes drift to the area where Sedge hides. And just before she vanishes through the portal that must be there—a portal that someone else among Impis’s Chaots created—she gives Sedge a knowing smirk and lift of an eyebrow, as if to tell him how very not invisible he’ll ever be to her. Just that one look chills him to his amorphous, nonexistent bones.
And then she’s gone in the next instant.
“Today is a good day,” Impis announces to Chaos, who breathes deeply, sweaty, mouth open, his blank eyes exhausted from thinking of any way he can possibly cool himself off more.
Suddenly Impis flinches, his eyes half-closed as if to shield himself from something bright. He takes two steps forward—so close to the edge that just a tiny push could send him to his death.
“Nothing,” he whispers to no one. “There’s … There’s nothing in my pocket at all. N-Nothing … N-Nothing is important to me. No … No, no, no. Nothing at all. Except for one thing …” And then a smile breaks his face, which slowly grows into the biggest, widest grin Sedge has ever seen. “YES!” screams Impis, cackling into the sky, and for a moment, Sedge imagines him as the new Banshee whose screams used to blanket the world below, filling the people with fear and obedience.
And it’s somewhere in that cloud of
screaming and laughter that Sedge realizes he will never see his friend again. She’s never coming back, he tells himself with a start. Ruena Netheris, my friend, my everything, my girl of silks, my jewels, my fellow weirdo …
She can still be alive. Sedge knows this. No one saw her die, not truly. She might be biding her time. She might decide one day to let the dying end and do the noble, sacrificial thing.
Or will she?
Why would she come back? Sedge asks himself. Why would she put herself in such a position to be slaughtered by the Mad King and his madder Posse? Sedge is the reason that that sad, poor hovering woman splattered on the pavement of the slums below earlier today, as well as the dozens before her who hovered similarly over the edge of the Lifted City—dozens of innocent lives, skyborn and slumborn, ended. Sedge is the reason that the last Banshee, Greymyn, was assassinated and replaced with a new, laughing one. Sedge is the reason Ruena, his best and only friend, ran away. And who truly knows if she survived? Maybe her death is his fault too.
Sedge put King Impis upon that throne. Sedge brought King Impis to the summit of this very tower. Sedge started all of this. It was all Sedge. He is the reason. He is the force. He is the power.
I am the Madness …
0139 Wick
The Warden of the sixth had a wife named Tess, and with her Legacy, she could summon the rain. It was on a cold grey afternoon five years ago that a botched Guardian raid of a local market ended with her death. Whenever it rains, he thinks of her.
Five years ago, five days ago, five minutes ago, it hurts the same.
Those thoughts follow Wick as he, at last, discovers Athan in the armory, but only after spending an hour checking every room on the ninth floor of the Warden’s tower where the rest of Rain stay. The armory is on the sixth floor where they don’t belong.
“Athan?”
The Lifted boy lifts his gaze slowly from a steel-plated gauntlet he holds. His soft eyes find Wick’s from across the shiny armor-filled room. Athan is wearing Wick’s red sleeveless hoodie, which fits quite tightly on his muscular frame—almost comically so—and jeans that hang loose on his hips. His golden hair is flipped up lazily in the front, messy everywhere else. The trace of a smile touches his full, plush lips. “Hey, Wicky-poo.”
Wick scoffs. “Don’t you start that, now.”
Athan grins, then returns his attention to the gauntlet. “Doesn’t this look like the color of the Sky Guard?”
Wick brings himself to Athan’s side, inhaling deeply when his nose touches Athan’s neck. Even months later, I can smell the clean freshness of the Lifted life on your skin. He slips his arms around the boy’s thick waist, pulling him back against his body. “Mmm, yes, like a blue-grey. Color of your eyes.”
“More like … a polished cyan. A silvery cyan …”
Call it whatever color you want, Lifted boy. “I’ve been looking around for you all morning.”
Athan leans his head back slightly, resting it on Wick’s chest. “Can’t sleep?”
Not with the nightmares. “Everyone’s being loud upstairs,” Wick says instead. “Victra’s kicking back at the meeting table with Juston, cracking joke after joke. I think the two of them are getting sweet on each other.”
“No, no. That’s Victra and Arrow, I heard.”
“Arrow? No way. I’d sooner believe that she was getting it on with my damn brother than Arrow. He’s too in love with his gadgets and charms to pay mind to a girl, let alone one as wild as Victra.” Wick shrugs away the banter. “You smell great. I’ve missed you.”
“Do you think it’s possible some Sky Guard fled here after the Fall of Sanctum?” he asks, lifting the gauntlet to his eyes to examine it up-close.
“Maybe.” Wick runs a hand lazily down Athan’s arm, his fingers bumping along the shape of his biceps. “You’re warm.”
Athan compares the gauntlet to his own hand, then slips it on. It fits perfectly. He gives the fingers a wiggle, then turns around, facing Wick excitedly. “It’s as lightweight as cloth.”
“Sanctum tech,” Wick guesses with a lighthearted shrug.
Suddenly, Athan slips out of Wick’s arms and heads over to a breastplate his bright, curious eyes have caught. Pulling it off the rack upon which it hangs, he slips it quickly over his neck, then looks down at his chest, observing it. He faces Wick, running his hands—one bare and one gauntleted—across the shiny surface of his polished breastplate. “I feel like a Sky Guard.”
Wick leans against the rack, observing Athan. I’ll never get used to his beauty. He admires the fullness of Athan’s chest and big arms, accented by the bold, proud armor. Wick’s pants are already growing tight with the evidence of something else’s approval between his legs. “And if you had wings, you’d be an angel. A warrior angel, sent from the Sisters to work their vengeance upon the world.”
Athan’s chest puffs up at that comment, the muscles in his arms flexed deliciously in the effort. Wick notices. “Is that so?”
“You’re really fucking sexy, armored up like that.”
The bluntness is what, at last, seems to catch Athan’s attention. He looks up, his grey-blue eyes startled, and then he smiles slyly. He twists his torso a bit, feigning wanting to admire himself in the gear, but succeeds more in showing off his shapely butt and tapering of his thick, muscled torso to his slender waist and dimpled hips.
Wick can’t help himself, hard as a rock at the sight. He slowly closes the distance between them, hunger in his eyes and drumming in his chest. “Breastplate … gauntlet … my jacket on underneath …” He comes to a stop in front of Athan, then combs his fingers gently through his Lifted boy’s short, messy hair. “What are you arming up for? The end of the world?”
“The way you’re looking at me …” murmurs Athan warningly.
Wick puts a kiss on Athan’s cute left ear. Then he draws a few more across his jawline, kissing along the way, then puts a firmer kiss on Athan’s neck, right at that place he knows drives him insane. “Is it taunting you?” Wick asks under his breath.
Instead of answering, Athan turns, grabs Wick by the ears, and pulls him in for a mouth-crushing kiss. The boys are out of breath faster than their lips and twisting tongues can keep up. Wick pushes his boy’s chest, the fever taking him as he shoves Athan against the rack, inspiring a whole chorus of metallic protests and tinny clangs. Wick’s hands fly to the buttons of Athan’s jeans, releasing him in a matter of seconds. Athan moans against Wick’s face when a hand slips inside his pants and grabs hold of his cock.
“Hard as the steel armor you wear,” observes Wick, lifting his mouth to Athan’s ear and giving it a gentle bite.
“You’re … making me … insane,” Athan manages to get out.
“I want to put it in my mouth.”
“Wick …”
“It’s been too fucking long.” The fingers of Wick’s free hand dig deep into the meaty muscles of Athan’s back, which inspires his cock to flex in Wick’s grip. “I want to take care of you, baby.”
Athan’s voice comes out in long, wispy breaths. “Fuck, Wick … Wick …”
Wick can’t wait a moment longer. Pinning him to the wall, he begins to kiss down Athan’s face, taking a second to bury his nose in his tender neck. Then he continues kissing down the armor, planting three along Athan’s stomach and abs as he goes. Crouching down now, Wick leaves one hand pressed to his boy’s breastplate—which Athan clutches—and drinks in the sight of Athan’s throbbing, fully attentive cock. It is so hard, it nearly points upward with expectant yearning, begging for the attention Wick is about to give it.
“Please … please …”
Wick chuckles. Begging? With excruciating slowness, Wick lets his lips wrap around just the head of Athan’s cock, letting him inside slowly. The second Wick’s tongue greets it, Athan responds with a shudder and a groan of anguished pleasure. I’ll go slow, Wick decides cruelly, because it drives him the craziest.
And slowly he goes. He keeps his full attention on
just the tip, working him up so gradually that he feels every muscle in Athan’s legs tensing up. He’s extra sensitive because he hasn’t had any relief in quite a while. This is going to be especially tormenting for him. Wick lets in just another inch of Athan into his mouth, driving him crazy. Athan moans accordingly, reaching a hand down to tangle it in his slum boy’s hair.
Truth be told, beneath the furious fever of the moment, there is another story unfolding in Wick’s cluttered brain: the one about a Lifted boy who is still processing the loss of his entire family. Athan insists he’s fine far too many times, but is caught staring at walls or busying himself with chores he isn’t asked to do—even chores that have already been done. Once after a meal Lionis cooked for the whole group, Athan cleaned the scullery from ceiling to drain, from sink to window, from steamer to doorframe. Four hours later, he was found still cleaning, his fingers red from the effort.
Right now is all about Athan, and I’m going to take care of him—mind, body, and heart. Something isn’t right in that head of his, and I won’t leave him be until I help him through his.
But is there any helping through such a tragedy? Wick’s family may be pulled apart at every seam possible, but Athan’s family is dead. Gone, forever. How can Wick ever fathom that level of loss? Is he foolish to think he’ll ever fill that void in Athan’s heart?
“Don’t stop …” begs Athan from above. “Oh … oh …”
Wick didn’t realize he’d gotten lost in his own head. He plays it off as an intended act of torturing his boy, slowly working Athan’s cock with his twisting lips, letting him in only a tiny bit at a time.
He glances up to find Athan staring down at him with a look of drunken bliss in his half-lidded blue eyes. He almost looks in pain, for all the sensitive pleasure he must be feeling.
