by Daryl Banner
Tide takes the blade. It feels very heavy in his hand. He stares at it for too long, then shakes his head and trains his eyes on Wick, who annoyingly shows no fear. I’ll give you something to fear.
Tide lifts the weapon. The point hovers at Wick’s throat, which tightens before him. Tide bares his teeth, holding the sword in place and preparing himself to cut off his friend’s head.
No, his enemy’s head. Tide blinks, annoyed with his brain. Why is his heart still racing? Maybe he knows what happened to me. Maybe he knows why I’m glowing. He has the answers I need. Yet …
“Tide …”
“Shut up.” He lifts the sword higher, the point at Wick’s lips. “Shut up or I’ll cut off your lips before I take your whole damn head. You would look fucking funny without lips and I will happily laugh before I end you.”
Tide glares at Wick with his weapon pointed. He sees the boy in the schoolyard. He sees the laughter between Wick and his brother Link. Tide feels a pang of wishing he’d had that in his life. He thinks about all the times he watched them from across the yard and didn’t harass them. His heart grows as heavy as the serrated short sword in his grip. Do it, he tells himself. Do it now.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts his chin and growls out some more words. “You’re gonna regret coming at me in the schoolyard.”
Wick’s face wrinkles up. “Tide … your memories. He … He took your memories. We left the ninth together. We worked together …”
Scorp sighs yet again. “Just take his fucking head, Tide.”
He took my memories? Who took my memories? After Tide had escaped the Weapon Show, running alongside Wick, he remembers only opening his eyes in his apartment and watching through a haze as an old man left the room. An old man with a cane …
“You could be working with us to end the madness, Tide,” Wick goes on. “But you’re not ending it. You’re becoming it.”
“Shut up.”
“We were friends …”
I can’t kill him, Tide realizes with horror and deep humiliation. Trembling, the weapon in his grip grows heavier with every passing second. I … I don’t want to kill him.
0151 Wick
“Do you remember the boy who could turn you cold?” Wick pleads, his heart racing in his chest. Reach, Wick. Reach for that punk-head’s Legacy, whatever it is. Reach for Tide’s. You’ve used it before. “Do you remember the cold boy, Kendil?”
“SHUT UP!” shouts Tide, gritting his teeth nastily.
Wick is getting to him, but not in the way he had hoped. Tide is like a bomb, and Wick feels little success or confidence in his talent of diffusing him. Yellow has obviously taken everything from the idiot’s mind and now he’s reverted back to his old self, as if none of their adventures together in Rain happened. Yellow, you fucking idiot. If I survive this, I swear, I swear …
“The cold boy suppressed your glows,” Wick pushes on. He feels the hairs on his arm stir. Was that a light breeze? Am I taking hold of Tide’s Legacy the right way? Is it the sharp or the handle of his power that I have a grip on? “The cold boy Kendil. Come on …”
In one quick instant, the punk-head crony snatches the weapon out of Tide’s hand. He lifts it to Juston’s throat, who gasps and emits a loud shriek of noise that might or might not have come from his Legacy at all.
“I’ll go first, then,” the punk announces, drawing the weapon back in a sideways arc, prepared to swing at Juston’s exposed neck.
Wick pulls against his binds, reaching desperately. Bumps form on his hands. He feels his own neck bulge. And then, by a stroke of devious luck, a deep and potent wind pushes through the room as Wick drinks thirstily from Tide’s Legacy. He directs all the wind at the weapon, determined to knock it from the assailant’s hand.
He only succeeds in changing its angle. Instead of cutting into the neck, Juston’s own serrated short sword slices itself deeply into his arm.
And then he screams, exploding with the full strength of his noisy Legacy. With Wick’s hands bound, he can’t cover his ears, but both Tide and punk-head do, backing away from Juston as he screeches both from his mouth and from his power, becoming a type of banshee in his own right. The weapon remains jutting out from the side of his arm, likely buried to the bone.
The wind keeps pushing through the room. With the power of Juston’s noise and the storm-like pull of air, the walls begin to shake and items turn airborne from off the shelves, flying through the air and finding new homes in the walls. Tide stares at Wick, astonished, terrified, having no idea where the wind is coming from, since it is clearly not of his own doing.
“STOP THE NOISE!” screams Tide through the assault of ear-splitting sound.
Something hard and metal crashes into Wick’s backside, drawn to him by the wind, and he finds his hands—still bound to the arms of the chair—separated from the base. Wick flops to the floor, bracing himself as objects fly haphazardly over him. A blunt blue something flings through the air and knocks Juston violently over the head, killing the noise instantly—and then that blunt blue thing is red from Juston’s blood.
Wick can’t seem to stop the cyclone. His fear and anxiety pull it so potently, he begins to feel the very shape of the air, the strength of it like the muscles of an invisible third bicep—and he cannot unflex it. He feels the building swell. He feels the weakness in the walls. It’s all going to come crashing down on us, he realizes with sick horror. He tries to hug himself protectively despite his legs still being bound to the bottom half of his toppled, broken chair, willing himself to calm down and to let go of Tide’s Legacy.
The wind does not relent. He looks up just in time to see Tide racing away toward a hole that had been ripped in the wall.
“UNBIND US!” Wick screams at his retreating ex-friend, if the ever-cowardly block of muscle could be dignified with such a term of sweet nothingness. “TIDE! … REMEMBER!”
But Tide is gone, and so is his friend. Juston’s limp head hangs, blood pouring down the side of his face and painting the collar of his shirt red, red, red. Then his chair falls over the wrong way, and Juston lands on the side that still carries the buried blade.
The farther Tide goes, the less Wick feels the Legacy. It’s letting go, he thinks and hopes, desperate for the wind to die away so that he can safely unbind himself, if such a feat is possible. He tries to get a good look at his toppled partner, but the wind and the dust pushes against his eyes, and all he sees is a bloodied face amidst splinters of flying, wingless wood.
And then he hears the unmistakable groan of a wall giving in. His legs still bound, his hands wrestling with the arms of a broken chair, Anwick Lesser looks up just in time to watch as the broken wall collapses on top of him.
0152 Halvesand
The window is dark with night and his room, darker.
The bed creaks as he, yet again, defies all orders to remain in it. The past few days especially, he’s felt stronger. Maybe it was the way Ennebal moved her hand within his pants. Maybe it’s the promise of more of her. That’s all my cock seems to care about, he muses darkly. The presence of a woman’s hand, regardless of where that hand’s been prior.
Much like losing his voice, losing his potential promotion to the Lifted City, losing his father to the Keep, losing his youngest brother Link to the streets, losing Anwick to the madness upstairs, losing the strength in his arms and legs … Halves has gotten quite used to having nothing at all anymore. Ennebal? Maybe she was never really his. Maybe she’s better seen as a pleasure girl, a passing passion, a woman who enjoys the company of any man who looks her way.
He doesn’t like cheapening her like that, but he knows no other way to cope. Her hand feels good. Her love doesn’t. So I’ll take the hand.
And maybe her lips too, when he’s sure that his own don’t taste of blood and acid.
He manages, with one very careful step at a time, to get out of his room. The hallways are dimmed overnight to conserve power, so it’s in the semidarkness that he slowly
edges his way down the hall. The room is so boring and he needs a different perspective. There is only one nurse at the desk, and he doesn’t look much interested in Halves, or perhaps didn’t notice him at all. The ones during the day are much stricter and crueler, confining him to his room and not allowing even the decency of a stroll around his floor. Too dangerous, they insist. You lack the proper physical therapy. Give it another week.
They’ve told him to “give it another week” for the past month. His eyes are still wrecked, everything appearing as if veiled in white, amorphous goo. He’s convinced the only medicine the hospital has left for him are sweet-tasting lies of comfort. They tasted sweet the first month.
When he happens on an unmanned nursing station, his eyes fall upon a phone that rests on the counter. Yes, of course, he realizes, his heart giving a jump when the idea enters his head. He shuffles across the expanse of the hall, half-collapsing into the counter as he clings to it for balance.
He lifts the phone to his ear, then squints as he studies the blurs of numbers. Who to call first? He considers Uncle Redge, but can’t remember the last three digits of his number, mixing them up in his head. I suppose I could guess all three. Aunt Cilla might have heard from his mom by now; he could also call her.
He dials her number, invigorated and hopeful, then waits as the line rings in his ear.
“Hello?” answers his aunt.
And it’s only then that he remembers he has no voice. With a haze of colors before his eyes, he stares dumbly with his lips hanging open, struck with his utter incompetence.
“Hello? Say something,” Aunt Cilla mutters, annoyed.
If she heard my voice, she would collapse into tears. Aunt Cilla always adored me. She gave me a dark blue, hand-woven sweater on my eighteenth birthday that I still wear to this day. Remembering the sweater, however, also reminds him of how they were forced out of their dormitories due to the riots set on by three untimely Fingers Of Madness that ripped open a sore wound in the eleventh ward slums. No amount of Guardian could have controlled the chaos that ensued; the Eleven Wings was their best fortress, complete with power, thick Sanctum-grade walls, and medicine that could help them endure the reign of madness.
“Is that you, dear Lionis?” she asks quietly, her voice softening to a near whisper. “My dear? Are you in trouble?”
Halves dares to push out air, but it results in a gargle of noise that sounds nothing human. He swallows, feeling the burn of his attempt at speaking as it chases its way down to his raw stomach.
“Lionis, my sweetheart. Are you hurt? Has your mother done something to you? Has she run away?”
Halves feels the sting of tears in his eyes. Don’t let the tears fall, he warns himself with mounting aggravation. They will burn a path down your cheeks, you fool.
“My house is always open to you, sweetheart. We even have power drawn from a Sanctum-connected metalshop no one knows about. You’d be safe here, my brainy nephew. Oh, I have a new recipe we can try. You can cook with me. It’s a brand new recipe. Did I mention my husband was—? Oh, no, no. We won’t talk of such things. He’s gone now, sweetheart. Just come at your first—Oh, I understand if you can’t speak right now. She might be listening. Yes, yes, of course.”
Halves listens, his eyes narrowing. What has happened to his Aunt Cilla? His heart races and he grips the phone tightly. Is his heart racing from her words, or from the energy he’s expending on keeping himself upright?
“Just come to my house in the ninth the very next moment she’s off to her muds,” Cilla goes on carelessly. “The … The Greens are still operational, aren’t they? Oh, of course, you can’t answer me. Yes, yes. You live far out enough, my brainy boy, I doubt you’re feeling a bit of the anarchy at all. Lucky, sweet thing. Perhaps it is I who ought to come to you. Ever since your mother left here, oh … it just hasn’t—” Suddenly, she cuts herself off. Halves listens closely. Her breathing changes. And then: “This … This isn’t Lionis, is it?” Her voice deepens. “This is a … This is just a dead line, isn’t it? I’m … I’m talking to myself. I’m talking to a ghost. Oh, oh … Oh …”
Halves swallows hard, then struggles to utter a single word, but it doesn’t form into voice and he only succeeds in gagging himself. The taste of iron and acid fills his throat.
“Just a ghost,” his aunt says wistfully, and then the line goes dead. Silence rings in Halves’ ear.
He sets the phone down on the counter, pursing his lips and considering her words. Lionis. He smiles lightly, thinking of the last time he saw his little brother when he was seen off at the ninth ward trains. That day was the last time he saw his whole family together. I might’ve hung onto it a bit more and insisted on staying an extra day or two, had Guardian permitted.
Or perhaps he might not have joined Guardian at all. Why did he enroll? Just because Aleks did? Just to show Aleks that he could do it too? Just to make his family proud? Or was it truly some sense of justice within him, some hunger to make the slums safer, to serve the safety of those less powerful, those less authoritative, those less fortunate?
Now it is he who’s less powerful, less authoritative. My blood isn’t thick after all. It’s thin and watery, running out of me the moment fear crawls up my neck. Or the sharp of a poisoned knife …
“Lesser.”
He turns. The face that greets his sends his stomach through the floor. The crooked figure of his Lead Officer, Obert Ranfog, stands before him. Obert has always had a sort of plain, unremarkable look about him, leaving no impression on a passing person, except for the stern, cold look of his eyes which can discern truth from lie thanks to his Legacy.
“You’re out of your bed.”
Halves, his chapped lips sealed shut, rights his posture as best as he can and salutes his Lead Officer, but is surprised at how limp his arm feels. The simple act causes his knees to buckle and he finds himself clinging to the counter for a moment to save himself from falling over. He grunts, but the sound only comes out in one tiny squeak that reminds him for the tenth time this week that he can’t use his voice to moan, grunt, or emit a simple sigh. Everything hurts.
“Don’t waste your breath on an old man like me,” says Obert, looking Halves over from foot to face. “You’re a damaged piece of shit, aren’t you, Lesser.”
It isn’t meant rudely. Halves is all too familiar with Obert’s crass and insensitive way of speaking. He nods at his Lead Officer and attempts a crooked sort of smile.
“Makes two of us.” Obert purses his thin lips, then gives Halves a hearty slap on the back, to which Halves struggles not to express pain. “Come with me.”
With Obert’s less-than-gentle aid, Halves is guided to a sitting room in the corner of the hospital that spans two floors, a balcony of the floor above them looking down. The two outer walls are made of glass, showing the dark, lightless buildings across the street and beyond that all seem to stare back at them with hollow eyes for windows. Halves lowers himself onto a couch, grateful for getting off his wobbly, stiff legs. Obert claims a chair opposite him. They are the only ones in the whole room. Not even a soul is visible on the balcony above, nor in the nursing stations or hallway below. Halves feels eerily alone, even sitting here with his Lead Officer, if he can even still call him that.
“I see your spirit.”
Halves lowers his eyes, his brow furrowed pensively.
“I do.” Obert stretches his legs, plopping his hands carelessly in his lap. “The shit I’ve seen, Lesser. Heh, I just realized. You can’t tell a secret. You can’t tell anyone a damn thing. Locked up with all the words that have fallen on your ears.” Halves finds Obert staring at him hard when he looks up to meet his eyes. “I’m counting on that.”
Does this mean my suspicion all along was true, that Obert cannot tell a lie from a truth without hearing the words behind them? Can I lie with my eyes and he never be the wiser?
“Of course, you could still write down what I say. You still got your hands, don’t you.” Obert squ
ints. “But I suspect you’ll be smart enough not to repeat anything I tell you, lest you want me takin’ those hands from you.”
Halves gives a short nod of understanding to his Lead Officer.
Obert takes no time for drama. “I’m dying, Lesser. The only one who knew was … broken into pieces by a slummer. You’ve heard of the Marshal’s death. Well, not the Peacemaker. Taylon. Fuck me, I keep forgetting we’ve lost two Marshals. And the fucking third one dicks the Banshee and steals the throne right out from under our damned eyes …”
His Lead Officer keeps muttering on about lost Marshals and stolen thrones and all Halves can do is stare at his lips in bafflement. Dying? Obert is dying? How?
“Must be wondering why I’m telling you this. Truth be told, I always knew there was a … a thing about you, Lesser. I think I see myself in you. The way I was when I first joined Guardian. I shit my pants every damn day. I shit my pants when my Lead Officer raised her voice. Oh, she had arms of steel and a fuckin’ voice. Killer tits, too.” Obert grunts and crosses his legs tightly, his eyes wandering—likely picturing the woman in full, unadulterated detail. “I fucking miss those days. She made me strong. I owe everything to her … to her. Lesser, you’ll owe everything to someone someday. No strength comes from thin air, boy. It comes from others, others to whom we are indebted the rest of our lives. Enslaved, even. I wish it could have been me that gave you strength … but it won’t be. I’ll be dead by the time you’re back to jogging without doubling over the instant you begin. I’m dying. I’m dying right now, slowly, ever slowly, but …”
Obert pinches his nose suddenly, cramming his eyes shut.
Halves stares at him, alarmed. Tentatively, he reaches and puts a hand on Obert’s thigh. It’s a complete and uncharacteristic impulse, but Halves follows it nonetheless. Obert doesn’t move or protest; he simply remains with the bridge of his nose caught in a pincer between two very tensed fingers. Is my Lead Officer crying?
