Outlier: Reign Of Madness

by Daryl Banner

  “No,” Wick answers himself. “No, there isn’t. I might’ve killed you, Lionis. If Athan hadn’t stopped me, I might have beaten your face in until you didn’t have one anymore. I was insane with anger. My mind had no room for logic, not when all I could see was red.”

  “So … that’s your explanation?” Lionis crosses to the counter, propping an elbow upon it as he leans. “Impis is just … angry? All the days and nights long, he’s just an angry man who doesn’t care whose proverbial face he beats in?—who he kills?”

  “I’m not saying I excuse Impis’s actions. I don’t. I still think he needs to die. Or at the very least be put away forever. But …” Wick nods with determination. “What really got to me was what Arcana truly felt inside her … the things she didn’t say, but felt. On the surface, she was asking me to join Impis Lockfyre and help manage his madness. But deep down …” He grows silent.

  Athan comes up to his boy’s side and puts a hand on his back, giving him an encouraging rub. Wick doesn’t seem comforted by it, but Athan gently rubs his back just the same.

  Wick nods. “Deep down, she wants me to … end the madness.”

  Lionis, Prat, and Arrow seem to have turned into statues, the three of them staring at Wick with such silent, focused intensity that none of them even seem to breathe. The only sound in the room is that of Athan’s hand rubbing Wick’s back—and even that sound dies when Athan himself freezes, lost in Wick’s words.

  “So,” says Arrow, breaking the silence, “you mean to say … that that woman … she’s actually on our side?”

  “I felt it,” confirms Wick with a nod. “And I don’t think she’s alone. I couldn’t grasp at all of it—only what she was subconsciously hanging on to—but I felt like there were other people up there, or maybe just one other person, who is desperate for Impis’s reign to end.” Wick turns his head to Athan. “I’m saying that we may have allies in the sky already. I saw it in her mind.”

  “It’s a free ticket to the sky.” The quiet, distant comment comes from Prat, whose eyes are so large, the whites glow even in the dim room. When he looks up from his stupor, he realizes all the attention is on him. “Sorry. It’s just …”

  “Speak, Prat,” encourages Wick.

  Prat peers from face to face, lingering on Ivy’s a moment longer than the others, then says, “W-We could end the madness. When she said she wanted us to manage it … what she meant was to end it. A controlled chaos isn’t chaos at all. A managed madness is … sanity.”

  “But is there an actual plan?” interjects Lionis haughtily. “Or are we expected to simply strut into Cloud Keep and chop off Impis Lockfyre’s laughing head?”

  “Preferably before he laughs,” mumbles Prat, moving his eyes back to Ivy. “He needs to pay for what he’s done.” To that, Ivy bows her head, her eyes sad. At their side, Arrow watches the interaction between them, then looks away, an annoyed scowl on his face. Athan can’t figure out what’s going on between those three.

  “How can you be certain the mind reader isn’t deceiving us?” asks Lionis, his mouth wearing that permanent smirk of his. “Her Legacy and expertise is of the mind. How do you know that after she realized you could read her mind, she didn’t merely feed you false thoughts? She can be a liar who believes her own lies.”

  “No,” murmurs Wick. “I am sure of it. I was in her head before she knew the truth of what I was doing.”

  “She came here guarded,” Lionis insists. “She might’ve been—”

  “Not everyone is as paranoid or defensive as you, Lionis.” Wick tenses his shoulders, which Athan feels beneath the hand still on his boy’s back. “I know what I saw in her mind. I had a firm grip on her Legacy. I was thorough.”

  “Just because you think you know better ways to heat up a bowl of water with my Legacy,” argues Lionis, “doesn’t mean that you can use everyone’s Legacies better than them. That’s just plain arrogance. She’s been reading minds her whole life. You just read minds for all of five minutes.”

  “Yeah, and I read that she has a twin sister named Axel who can mold minds like wet clay, and she is not fond of that sister because she’s a cocky, insufferable sibling to deal with on the daily.” Wick’s voice is biting. “I suppose I could relate to her.”

  Lionis rolls his eyes and brushes off the insult like a fly from his arm. “Don’t let your ego push you into the sky, Anwick. I’m just telling you to be cautious and think this through.”

  Wick takes a moment to digest that, for which Athan is very thankful. Lionis has a point, Athan might say, but he knows better than to express that to Wick.

  Suddenly, Wick turns to Athan. A soft smile is on his face. “You know I always pick up on your Legacy of self-preservation.”

  Athan clears his throat. “We’re not sure that’s even my Legacy.”

  “And if this was a dangerous move, I would feel the mind-and-body-crippling anxiety that you feel when you’re in danger, right?” Wick puts a hand to Athan’s cheek, rubbing it with his thumb. “I feel as calm as a winter night by the fireplace.”

  Lionis sighs. “We haven’t had a working fireplace since we were kids, Anwick.”

  “In fact,” Wick goes on, ignoring his brother, “I feel like your Legacy is encouraging me to go. I feel inspired to go with Arcana.”

  “Please don’t,” begs Athan quietly.

  “Maybe going is what I need to do to survive.”

  Athan feels his heart sinking. “I thought we were going to live here forever. I thought you said that wasn’t our war in the sky.”

  Wick levels his face with Athan’s, taking him by his shoulders. “All I’ve dreamt since we’ve been here is a hundred different ways to end the madness. A sword in Imp’s belly, remember? You asked me not long ago who would be the one to do it.” Wick smiles. “I want to be the one, Athan. Then, with the madness gone, we could return here and live that life we want. And maybe it’ll even last longer too. Why spend just one happy week here before the whole city’s obliterated … when we could fight for our freedom to live the rest of our long lives in happiness?”

  Athan studies his boy’s face. There is a certainty in his tone that he finds comforting, despite his misgivings about the woman or the craziness in the sky. I’ve seen the Marshal of Legacy on the broadcast most of my life. I even attended Crystal Court gatherings where he was present. The man was always odd—colorful, of course—but I never saw him as a cold-blooded villain. Perhaps there is a method to his madness.

  Deep down, Athan wants to trust Wick’s instinct. It has, after all, gotten them out of so many predicaments. If he doesn’t stand by his side, he stands against him. And if I come along, he is guaranteed to be safe—even if I’m not convinced of my own Legacy myself.

  “Then I’m coming with you,” decides Athan.

  Wick’s eyes flash with surprise.

  And then: “I’m coming, too,” announces Lionis. “You need me. I’m levelheaded and I will see through a scheme if I smell it.”

  Wick scoffs teasingly at his brother. “I thought I was the one with the Legacy of smelling.”

  Lionis, for once, smirks with appreciation at the humor.

  Prat, however, does not jump on their Sanctum-bound caravan. “N-No,” he says at once, drawing their attention. “I must stay.”

  “No one’s telling you to come,” says Wick.

  “I can’t leave Ivy here,” Prat adds, glancing at her. Ivy returns the look with a softened, grateful one of her own.

  Arrow steps away from them, visibly annoyed for some reason. “I will come, too.”

  To that, Wick shakes his head. “No.”

  Arrow frowns, genuinely taken aback by the word. “Why not?”

  Wick slips away from Athan and crosses the small den, coming up to Arrow. “I need you to make several charms, and quickly. As many as Lionis, Athan, and I can pocket. We’ll take half to the Lifted City with us, and you’ll keep the sisters here in the ninth.”

  Comprehension dawns on Ar
row’s face. “You’ll plant ears in the sky,” he says, nodding. “Yes, yes. Okay, I see. But I cannot make my two-way earpieces. I … I need way more time for that. Hours.”

  “Then we will have no earpieces,” Wick decides. “Just charms.”

  “I still have my ring,” announces Athan with a lift of his hand, nearly having forgotten.

  “Good,” says Arrow. “Prat? Wick? Either of you got yours?”

  “No, left mine in the sixth,” says Wick, to which Prat gives a shrug of apology. “At least we’ll have one on us with Athan’s. Better to learn from our recent mistakes than to repeat them. You three will stay here,” Wick states, his eyes moving from Arrow to Prat to Ivy, “while me, my brother, and Athan go to the sky with this … Arcana.”

  Arrow gives a curt nod, then passes by Prat and Ivy, pointedly not looking in their direction as he climbs up the narrow steps. His footfalls upstairs are heavy, causing the house to creak as he fetches his metals from which to fashion as many charms as he can. Prat and Ivy look at one another, Prat with relief and Ivy with gratitude.

  It’s within the last five minutes of their granted hour that Athan, Wick, and Lionis arrive at the train station. Arcana awaits them with a knowing glint in her eye.

  0203 Rone

  I will find you.

  Rone runs down the street, fleeing the shouts of two of Impis’s madmen—a tall and withered man with long white hair who carries two swords, and a blond guy who Rone nearly mistook for Athan. He rounds a corner and, instead of colliding into the tree that meets his face, Rone phases straight through it with one wild jump and a grunt, then solidifies in time to land on the pavement and continue his running uninterrupted.

  I won’t stop running until I find you.

  Rone slaps himself against the nearest wall between two stores that have their chrome sides so polished, he can see his reflection on the wall across the alleyway from him. In looking at himself, he lifts his chin and straightens his posture with dignity. No need to look like you’re running for your life, Rone jests to himself, even if you are.

  He hears shuffling, and then the long white-haired man appears at the corner. Rone pushes away from the wall, prepared to run or fight. The man lifts one of his swords like a javelin, then throws it with perfect aim.

  With a mocking gasp, Rone phases away all of his body except for his feet, the sword going straight through him and landing on the pavement behind him with a loud clatter.

  Rone turns solid again, then rubs his belly and grins. “That tickled,” he taunts. “And now you’re down a sword.”

  The man, unfazed, bends his elbow and produces another: by letting one literally slip out of his arm like a long, slender bone.

  Rone gapes, genuinely surprised. “Wow! You grow swords out of your elbows!” He meets the man’s eyes. “If you accidentally lop off your cock, can you grow another one of those, too?”

  The man roars and throws another sword at Rone, which Rone allows to pass harmlessly through him as well, then takes off running with only his feet solidified so that he doesn’t drop through the ground. Never phase downward, he chants to himself, feeling a wiggle of fear just at the thought of it. Never, ever downward.

  Deciding he’s finally had enough fun with the fools at his back, Rone charges through a wall and solidifies inside a candy parlor. To Rone’s sad discovery, there is no candy in the display cases, nor is there even a speck of sweets in the jars on the shelves, and yet the whole room smells saccharine sweet and inviting.

  Two faces emerge at the window—the gaunt man and the pretty blond one. Rone waves cheerily at them, then races right at them, phasing out as he charges straight through the two men. They jump back with alarm and fall upon their backs even though Rone phased harmlessly through their bodies. He charges into the building across the street, then hurries on and on, plummeting through wall after wall after wall until he’s back out on the street somewhere else entirely and, no doubt, far away from the elbow-sword fool and his blond Athan-lookalike.

  After another street or two of running and searching fruitlessly for some nameless sanctuary of Guardian detainees that Janlord’s set aside—and having no idea what it even looks like—Rone takes a short break against the wall behind a tree to catch his breath. Really, this place would be twenty times more inviting with maps posted about the streets to direct me.

  He should have waited. He should have planned this better and taken Ruena and Erana with him. But they didn’t want to come. They were so keen on staying in that house until we got rescued. Then who would rescue his sister Cintha?

  And alone, he is quicker. But alone, I am also more vulnerable.

  In the near distance, he sees the sharp, broken summit of the Crystal Court through the glass dome that covers the plaza he’s in. He realizes with a start that he’s so close to Cloud Keep. Twice now, I have stood in the vicinity of a King of Atlas. Rone had truly hoped that Ruena would someday be up there. Maybe in some twisted alternate world, he and Ruena are in that Tower together, side-by-side. Queen Ruena and King Rone. There were some past Kings and Queens in history that did have devoted husbands or wives who sat a secondary throne beside them. The histories never speak of the wives or the husbands, giving full glory to the one sitting the actual throne. I wouldn’t mind that, Rone decides. I could be the invisible King that no one remembers, as long as Ruena sat that throne and made good of this desperate city. Rone nods, sure of it. He would be so proud of Ruena Netheris, watching from the sidelines as her devoted husband King while she kept the city’s citizenry happy.

  But Rone wouldn’t be happy unless his sister Cintha stood at his side too. He can see her with a kind, gentle boy who’d never so much as lift his voice when he’s upset. Rone wants that for her so badly, after all they’ve been through, and after all they’ve lost. Dad. Then mom. Then us …

  I should never have let her join Rain.

  Two figures rush through the flowers ahead of him, then emerge. Yes, it’s his two best buddies yet again, having caught up to him: sword-elbow and totally-not-Athan.

  The man lifts a sword up high, then launches it like a spear at Rone, determined that one of his hundreds of throws actually sticks.

  Rone phases and listens to the sword bang against the wall at his back with a loud clangor. He swipes it off the ground when it lands at his feet. “Thanks! But my birthday isn’t for another five months,” Rone shouts at them. “How’s your return policy on gifts?”

  And then Rone chucks the sword across the plaza at the blond guy, who lifts his forearms suddenly. In an instant, his arms form a human shield, fanning out like the feathers of a great bird, except they’re made of something bone-like and strong, easily deflecting the sword as if it’s nothing but a pencil thrown across the classroom.

  The boy retracts his “shield” into his forearms with the ease of a school kid stowing a book into his backpack. “My name is Aegis,” he announces grandly. “If you want to live, come with us to the King before we execute you in his honor.”

  “Oh? You’d take me straight to him?” asks Rone. “Like, you’d actually truly take me right up to Impis so I can reach into his chest and pull out his beating heart? I can do that. I mean, I’ve never tried it because, well—gross—but there’s always a first time for everything. And that’s usually only something I say in the bedroom, but still—”

  The long white-haired man bends his elbows, drawing out his weapons, and then he bends his knees in a defensive stance, at the ready with his long blades aimed and his eyes narrowed.

  “Really nice,” admires Rone, observing him. “Great form.”

  “We can chase you all day,” warns Aegis. “There’s no way out of the Lifted City, and only so many places you can hide.”

  “I’d reconsider that, now that you know my talent. I mean, I can literally hide within walls.” Rone lazily sticks his right hand through the wall at his side, then sticks his left through the tree at his other. “Like, I’m super multitalented over here.”r />
  The gaunt one throws down his swords suddenly, straightening his posture. He’s much taller than he seemed a second ago. “Listen,” he says, his voice even and deep. “You are clearly very skilled. We could use you. Why be on that side of the road, susceptible to Chaos’s Bolts and the madness of the slums … when you can be on our side? There is safety among us. And you will have power. We are a team. We are changing the face of Atlas as we know it. Join the Chaots and be a part of that change.”

  Chaots? Did I hear that right? And what the fuck is Chaos’s Bolt?

  “I don’t trust him,” mutters Aegis.

  “It is not up to us to trust him,” says the man smartly. “He will be brought before Impis Lockfyre … and the twins. The three of them will decide whether to trust this wall-jumper.” He smirks knowingly. “I suspect they will.”

  Wall-jumper isn’t the most accurate term I’ve heard, but I’ll take it. “Captain Elbow Swords, if you don’t own and operate a weapon shop, I count that as a missed opportunity.”

  “Do you want to meet with the King or not?” blurts Aegis, tired of all the banter.

  “You know,” says Rone, leaning against the tree, “if you get in the habit of inviting everyone you meet to come see the King, some poor fool is bound to kill him. I mean, it’s just bad practice. Aren’t you two supposed to be protecting the King, or …?”

  “We have our ways of neutralizing Legacies in Cloud Tower,” boasts Aegis with a lift of his chin, making him look very much not like Athan, but rather like a self-important two-year-old in a young man’s body. “Our King is safe in the presence of the twins and his Chaots, no matter what poor fool we bring before him.”

  Chaots. That dumb word again. “Thank you for the invite to dinner, but I’ll pass on account of a sensitive, slumborn belly. I have other more important matters to attend to.”

  “That tongue is going to get you killed,” warns Aegis, annoyed at once by Rone’s flippant attitude.

  “That’s quite odd. The only thing my tongue’s gotten lately are compliments. Particularly from the ladies.”