Outlier: Reign Of Madness

by Daryl Banner

  “No,” Impis finally states.

  The one word slams Wick in the chest. “No?” he breathes.

  “No. You are wrong, Anwick Lesser. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing is important to me … except one thing.” Impis turns his head toward the armored man at his side. “Entertain me, my loyal, loving one! I’m bored!”

  Now it is Wick’s turn to whisper the word. “N-No.”

  Metal Hand takes a single step forward. The world seems to quake from that one heavy footfall. Wick feels the tile shake beneath his knees.

  “No, no, no!” begs Athan, desperately struggling to move, but he is trapped in place with the dagger at his throat no matter what he says or does. “NO!”

  Wick feels the unwelcome tranquility fill his mind again. Axel. The fear is still vibrantly alive in his eyes and his heart, but his body has been put at ease. He feels no need to rise from the floor. He feels no need to move his arms. He feels no need to look away.

  But his mind is a prison full of screams and protests and terror.

  Metal Hand plants himself heavily before Anwick Lesser, a tall mountain of dark armor, doom in physical form.

  There is so much I wanted to do with my life. There is so much I still haven’t done. This can’t be it.

  The large, shadowy beast slips off his gauntlet slowly, revealing the infamous hand Wick never dreamed to see in the flesh.

  So much yet that I wanted to do …

  Athan screams. Athan begs. Athan shouts his lover’s name over and over. Wick can only stare at Metal Hand standing before him.

  I was going to wake the world … I was going to dream bigger …

  Metal Hand lifts the fateful finger.

  There is so much still … so much I wanted to do …

  “Nothing …” whispers Anwick.

  And the finger touches his forehead.

  ACT 4

  0208 Athan

  Anwick Lesser’s sleeveless red hoodie floats to the ground in a pile of jeans and shoes.

  There is a moment of denial. Athan stares at the clothing on the floor, the clothing that once held his boyfriend. He can’t allow his mind past the wall of denial he’s just built. Wick is using one of the Legacies right now, Athan tells himself. Wick is invisible. Wick phased away. Wick is hiding in that pile of clothes. Wick …

  Wick …

  And then the scream of anguish rips from Athan so deeply, he forgets the dagger at his throat.

  His arm is released from its obligation.

  The dagger drops at long last. He doesn’t hear it.

  And still he screams.

  Athan staggers to the floor, his knees kissing the tile, and then he grabs Wick’s hoodie and muffles his screams of agony, thrusting the red hoodie into his face. Every breath is Anwick Lesser. He cries, then breathes deeply—Wick, Wick, Wick—then cries again, breathes again, cries again.

  He brings the hoodie to his chest and lifts his eyes to Metal Hand, who is slowly putting the gauntlet back onto his hand. “No,” Athan whimpers. “Take me too. Touch me too. Please. Please.”

  Metal Hand, as if hearing nothing through that big dark helmet, turns away and marches back to his place by the throne, each footfall thundering into the tile as he goes.

  “T-T-Take me too!” Athan clutches the hoodie to his chest, like Wick is still holding him, like Wick is still here. “P-P-Please.”

  Impis rises from his throne, a flick of annoyance in his stride as he descends the three steps. His curled toe kicks into Wick’s jeans, flinging them aside the way one would kick away a scrap of trash on the streets. “To the Keeping, I say,” Impis announces to no one in particular, his voice light yet irritated. “I’m quite done for the day. CHAOS! COME! I WANT TO PLAY! Hurray, hurray, hurray. That is what I say. Away, away, away …”

  The voice and shape of Impis Lockfyre disappears down the hall of the throne room as he goes away humming a tune, soon followed by the sweaty young man who is Chaos, whose miserable expression is only matched by his equally miserable, broken posture as he sags exhaustedly, stumbling down the long hall.

  Axel is in front of Athan suddenly. She crouches down, takes the dagger from the floor, and smiles invitingly. “This dagger,” she says, her voice gentle and sweet, making Athan doubt that she had anything to do at all with the horrors he just witnessed. How could she when she’s so kind and always knows what to do in times of uncertainty? “You ought to keep it. It should remind you of the price and the reward of loyalty.”

  “P-Price and re … reward,” murmurs Athan drowsily.

  “For some reason, though, I don’t think you’re capable at all of stabbing anyone with it. Whenever this sharp, sharp, sharp dagger comes near anyone’s flesh, you just can’t give it the extra push to draw blood. Don’t you think that sounds right?”

  “I can’t stab anyone with it,” Athan agrees through a thick veil of tears.

  She slaps the dagger into Athan’s opened palm, since his other hand still clutches the hoodie to his chest. “Let’s find you a nice, cozy room in the King’s Keeping. Don’t worry, we’ll put you far from where Ruena was. She has a way of haunting places.”

  “I liked her,” says Athan to the dagger. “My brother was going to marry her and become the Marshal of Peace.”

  “Come, Athan. Up, up, up.”

  “They loved each other.” Athan rises to his feet, hugging both dagger and hoodie to his chest. “I loved Wick. He was my life. He—”

  “Okay. Come. Enough chatter.”

  “Enough chatter,” Athan agrees, feeling so at peace when Axel is walking alongside him. She’s so nice to care for him after his gut-ripping loss.

  I’ll never be the same again. I’ve lost everyone.

  When he steps into the small space behind the glass bars, he stares up at the tiny bit of window at the top of his cell, which spills in a modest spray of pale moonlight. Three walls of his very tall cell are made of the chrome brick of Cloud Tower. The front of his cell is a spread of tall glass bars, the middle of which is interrupted by a set of crisscrossed rods that swing open, serving as the door, and Athan hears that door shut behind him with a soft whirring sound, locking him inside, and it’s only then that he feels the influence of Axel let go of his mind.

  Athan drops to the floor with Wick’s dagger and Wick’s hoodie in his grasp. He holds the items to his chest, numb, and thinks about Wick’s face back in the ninth ward where he woke up so many mornings next to him. He thinks about Wick’s sweet brown eyes and the touch of his lips against his.

  Athan turns his head slightly, glancing through the glass bars. He sees someone in the cell across the wide aisle from him. It’s a girl with long tangles of dark hair, and on her face is a set of crooked glasses. She has one hand bare and the other wrapped in bandages.

  “Athan Broadmore,” she recites.

  He flinches at the sound of his own name. The odd girl looks familiar, but he can’t begin to imagine where he knows her from.

  “I’m Erana Sparrow,” she says softly. “We met at the Windstone Academy. I am friends with Rone and I knew Wick briefly when he stayed there, even though he kept slipping out every middle-day and middle-night to see you. He never admitted it to me, but I knew. Well, I came to know, rather. I didn’t realize you were lovers until Rone told me. I miss Rone. He and I were lovers. Recently. But not anymore. Ruena too. All three of us, but we’re separated now. Were you all members of Rain? I’ve wondered it ever since, but never could bring myself to ask Rone. Why are you here? Did the Chaots catch you on the street? Where were you hiding?”

  Athan stares at her blankly and lets all her questions and words swim around in the air, unanswered. He wants to cry a hundred thousand more tears. He wants to scream until his belly aches thrice as bad as it does now. There is anger and there is despair within him, and the forces are at war in his chest. They’re both winning.

  “Oh.” Erana doesn’t move a muscle when she speaks. “Some … Something happened. Something … bad.”
/>
  Athan closes his eyes and tilts his body, collapsing to the floor. He holds his boy’s red jacket against his face and, for a brief moment, convinces himself that he’s lying next to him and holding him close. Erana says another word or two, but Athan doesn’t hear them. He’s lost in a dream world where he hasn’t lost his family, he hasn’t lost Anwick Lesser, he hasn’t lost his happiness, and everything is as golden as a Lifted City sunrise.

  Somewhere in his dream, Athan Broadmore changes.

  He has no more tears left to cry. There is no pain in his chest. Instead, a cold resolve has filled him. A determination. A strength. It will be me, he realizes at once, the dagger still in his hand, the dagger which he cannot let puncture anyone’s flesh. It will be me who puts a sword in the Imp’s belly. It can only be me. It will be Athan Broadmore who ends the madness. Me. Only me.

  0209 Sedge

  Sedge is standing in the foyer of the Mirand-Thrin Palace when Arcana bursts through the large, pearl doors.

  Sedge is alert at once. “W-What’s wrong?”

  “Pack. Get important things. Food. Clothing. Quickly, Sedge!”

  The woman disappears into the house, a bewildered Sedge staring after her. He glances back at the front doors, which she left wide open. Feeling a chill, he rushes forward to close them.

  “It’s all wrong!” Arcana shouts from the other room. “It’s all gone wrong! Everything!”

  Sedge hurries to the doorway of the kitchen where Arcana is filling a big satchel of food. “Wrong?” echoes Sedge, scared.

  “My sister fucking ruined everything. My sister traded places with me in Cloud Tower. She put me away and made me tell her everything.” Arcana doesn’t face him while the words fly out of her mouth. “They will come for you next. They killed him, Sedge.”

  Sedge clutches the jeweled talisman at his neck. “W-Who?”

  “Our only hope, that’s who.” Arcana slings the bag over her shoulder. “I’m going to kill my sister. I’m going to end her life, but not today. I’m through with the Madness. Sedge, you have to come with me. We need to escape before it’s too late. I still have the key.”

  “B-But we can’t! They’ll find us! Impis’s Chaots, they … they …”

  “We have no chance up here, Sedge,” she states, her voice terse and her words sharp as razors. “I don’t have my sister’s power. I only hear thoughts. My sister, she controls them. If she gets to me, she will own me. She’ll own you. She’d make us kill each other. She’s twisted like the King. Between them, this city’s a playground. We must go.”

  We’ll be hiding our whole lives. We’ll be … “But R-Ruena …”

  “IS GONE,” Arcana finishes in half a holler, her eyes wide with insanity. “She has escaped, Sedge. And the King is mad. The King is mad … as in angry and insane—both. We have to go.”

  A surge of wild hope fires through Sedge’s body. She’s free. She got free. There is hope after all. Ruena is free.

  With bags full, they slip out of the palace and race down the road toward the Trust, a Sanctum bank at the cusp of the Eastly and Westly where a certain lift will take them halfway down Pylon #208.

  It’s at the door to the lift that Baigan stands, the big red idiot with the ugly face. “The hell you think you two are going?”

  Arcana crosses her arms. “To the slums to hunt for Ruena,” she lies. “King Impis’s direct orders.”

  Baigan’s eyes drift down to Sedge. “With the traitor?”

  Arcana tilts her head. “Traitor?”

  “Once a traitor, always a traitor.” The red idiot crosses his arms, his ugly, veiny muscles flexing and bulging grotesquely. “In fact, I got direct orders myself, I do. I’m not to let anyone down the lift.” He sneers with distaste. “Especially the likes of either of you.”

  She purses her lips smartly. “Traitor. That’s a curious term of endearment you’ve chosen, considering the thoughts you’ve had about Impis Lockfyre and his Chaos boy lately.”

  Baigan’s eyes go wide and his face, impossibly, flushes redder. “Get out of my head!”

  “Get out of my way or I can’t get out of your head. By the way, is it that you’re jealous?” asks Arcana innocently. “You think Impis and the Chaos boy are a thing? I never took Impis to be a man of either men or women. His life’s love is power. Always has been.”

  Baigan slams a fist into the wall, furious. “I’M POWERFUL!”

  “You’re ugly.” She gives a flick of her chin. “Move aside.”

  Baigan charges at Arcana, who quickly learns she is defenseless. She puts a bag before her in defense, then shrieks as he topples her.

  Without thinking, Sedge becomes shapeless and slithers out of his clothes. He slips onto Baigan’s feet, then slides up the man’s pants, tracing up his swollen calves, his massive thighs, further still up his grossly inflated abdominal muscles and puffy chest.

  “The fuck??” shrieks Baigan from above, confused.

  Sedge feels his world shift, imagining that Baigan has gotten off of Arcana. That works to Sedge’s benefit as he continues to slide up the red idiot’s squirming body. And when Baigan shouts another word of protest, it’s into his mouth that Sedge slithers next.

  Then Baigan can’t utter a word at all. He only gags.

  Sedge can’t see anything. He feels himself restricted and pressed on all sides by flesh, but it causes him no discomfort. Nope. All the discomfort, I’m saving for poor, regrettable Baigan.

  Sedge steels himself for one blissful second, then pushes a shape.

  A gurgled scream becomes his world.

  Bones snap. Flesh pops and crackles and splits.

  When Sedge has eyes again, he’s emerged from a hole that’s burst somewhere in Baigan’s massive chest. Sedge kicks away as his body slowly forms back into a boy. He wriggles his soiled form in and out of shape, wringing himself of blood and fluid and mess. He gets to his feet when he’s at last a person again, still kicking away, and slams his back into the doors of the lift, naked and feeling his skin covered with things he’d rather not identify.

  There is silence. Then, Arcana rises off the ground and stares at the grotesque shape of Baigan, who now wears the latest Lifted City fashion trend: an enormous boy-sized hole in his chest.

  Arcana turns her stare of disbelief toward the round shape of unassuming, dainty Sedge, who pulls something slimy and gross off of his shoulder, flings it aside, then asks, “Do they have baths in the slums? I will be needing one.”

  Just as Sedge fixes the silk back to his body and moves toward the lift, Arcana blurts, “Wait.”

  He stops, alarmed. “What?” he whispers. “Is there a bit of lung or ribcage in my hair?”

  Arcana glances back at the entrance to the Trust, a mixed look of doubt and pain crossing her eyes. The look worries Sedge, who prefers the cocky, quick-thinking Arcana to this second-guessing one who hesitates when they’re at the edge of the city, a second away from safety.

  Sedge huffs impatiently. “What is it, Arcana?? Speak before I run down this lift without you.”

  “We need to go back,” she murmurs grimly.

  “What in the world for??”

  Arcana gives a resolute nod, her confidence returning. “We are leaving them a Sanctum treasure if we go now. We must take the treasure with us. It’s equally our ticket to freedom as much as it is our leverage.”

  Despite the danger they’re in, she’s utterly piqued his curiosity. “Treasure?” he sings. “What … treasure?”

  Arcana reaches out a hand to him. “Come, Sedge. You will be needed, most of all.”

  A feeling of importance surges through him. He nearly puffs up his chest—literally—in response. “Is the treasure gold?”

  Arcana quirks an eyebrow. “If you count his hair.”

  0210 Kid

  Suddenly they have four mouths to feed again, except the fourth lives within Fae’s belly.

  Kid and Link get into a rhythm of things. Fae remains at the house while Kid and Link, invisibl
e, scavenge for food. Maybe we are the reason all shops in the ninth and tenth are known for being thieved and robbed so frequently; it was just an invisible girl and boy all along, desperate to survive unseen.

  Fae eats a lot and Link watches, taking care of her and holding her in the nights when Fae cries. Kid’s noticed that Fae cries so much lately. Now that she has seemed to let down all her guards, she says she doesn’t truly know where she’s from, but that she misses her sisters so much, it hurts.

  Kid knows that feeling, but she says nothing, opting to just stare at Fae wonderingly. She isn’t really a Goddess, Kid keeps telling herself, despite wanting to believe it anyway. It would be a rather remarkable thing, to learn that the Goddesses are nothing more than three actual girls, powerful beyond all means of measure, kept locked away in some secret place by Sanctum. Aryl will be locked away in some secret place too, many years from now.

  She wonders how many things Sanctum has kept locked away.

  Nearly a hundred sunrises go by before Kid decides she’s never seeing her parents again. She doesn’t tell this discovery to Link or Fae, who are too caught up in Fae’s growing belly, which is now a notable bump, as Link describes it. Also, she’s started to grow hair on her head, strangely. She has soft, light brown hair, a couple inches in length evenly across her whole scalp.

  “What should we name our son or daughter?” asks Fae.

  “Bad luck to name them before they’re born,” Link insists.

  Fae finds that funny, giggling as she holds what little belly she has. “I never thought I would become a mother. I never thought I would have any sort of life outside of my sisters or …” But then her mind returns to the dark place from which she desperately keeps trying to escape, and so the rest of the sentence is left unsaid.

  And Kid leaves her own discovery just as unsaid, holding on to whatever little memory still remains of her father’s voice—“Hide!”—or her mother’s—“I’ll be right back!”—and the masked men who keep breaking into her house over and over in her memory, over and over killing her father in front of her, over and over coming after her.