by Natalie Reid
Suddenly the music stopped, and Nel’s arms shuddered in surprise as she noticed her unexpected audience.
“I’m sorry,” Jessie said. She walked over to stand a few feet from the piano. “I didn’t want to stop you.”
“That’s okay,” Nel said quietly, shrinking down into her shoulders as she said the words, almost embarrassed for having been caught playing.
“I’m Jessie,” she introduced herself, giving the young girl a smile.
She knew that Nel was, including Potentian years, fourteen years old already, but there was something in her mannerisms that made her seem much younger; some static cling to childhood that would not yet let her go. A fourteen year old girl should show the beginning signs of adult-hood, and there were many fourteen-year-olds out in Aero City that already considered themselves adults. But Nel seemed to be the complete opposite, as if she planned to grow backwards in order to relive her childhood again.
“The people here have been calling you Chance,” Nel told her, swinging her legs underneath the piano in wide arcs.
“That’s my nickname,” she explained gently. “But, between you and me, I like Jessie much better.”
“Why?” she asked, tilting her head to look up at her. Her clouded eyes met hers as clear as day.
“Because it’s the name my mom gave me.”
Nel’s head dropped, and two wavy strands of thick hair fell around her face.
“Is something wrong?” Jessie asked.
She shook her head, staring down at the piano keys. “No.” She was silent. “It’s just, playing the piano makes me sad.”
“It’s good to be sad sometimes. It can make us stronger.”
Nel scooted over on the seat, and Jessie took it as an invitation to sit down.
“Jason told me that you were taken from up top, in Aero City,” Jessie said, hoping that she wasn’t going to make things worse by bringing it up. “Is that what makes you sad?”
She didn’t answer.
“Do you miss living up there?”
“I miss the sun,” she offered. “And…” she stopped herself and jiggled her head to get rid of the thought that had come to her.
“I miss the sun too.”
Nel’s eyes lit up. “Back up top, I used to live on the top floor of my building. And we lived so close to those tall skyscrapers that every morning the sun would come through the front windows, and their shadows would make pictures on the wall. Me and…” She trailed off suddenly, saddened by something.
“Did you leave anyone behind?” Jessie inquired politely.
Nel’s hand came up and idly tapped on a key. She lifted her other hand and began to play the start of a slow, sad song. “No,” she finally answered in a cold voice that did not belong inside a girl so young. “Everyone I love is down here.”
“Even your mom?”
Jessie didn’t like herself for prying into this little girl’s life, but she kept telling herself she would stop if it looked like it was too much for Nel.
Her fingers did not waver from the song she was playing as she answered, “The woman who was my Protector did not love me.”
“And your dad?” she asked in little more than a whisper.
At that, Nel’s hands pounded down on the keys sharply and stopped playing. “I hate him,” she said in a sad whimper. “He lied to me. He…” she took in a deep breath. “…he is a terrible man.”
Jessie’s heart fell at her reply. The people of the Resistance must have told her what Ritter did for a living, how he was responsible for killing many members of the Resistance. And she couldn’t blame Nel for hating him. She hated Ritter too. He ruined her life and had the little boy she loved killed. Why should she try to convince Nel of anything different? Her father was a cunning source of destruction and pain.
He was also the only hope she had of ever seeing her mother again.
Nel started to play once more, and Jessie sat in silence, listening to the music and wondering if her mom could somehow know what she was doing right now; that she was inside of a cave, listening to a little girl play the piano. And that somehow, this would eventually lead them back home, back to each other.
* * *
The November sun had been down for hours, and the dark howl of the wind pried through the open window, but Ritter did not close it. The cold turned the apartment a pale blue color, and the sharp pain of the arctic air felt justified across his skin. It kept his head clear and awake—awake to face the hours of the night, staring at the empty apartment and the great, big, lonely grand piano that sat in the center of it all.
Ritter went over to the counter by the wall and poured himself a drink, something silver like Mercury and strong like metal. He lifted the glass to his lips, but when he placed it back down, his eyes were inevitably drawn to the piano. A couch sat next to it. It was where he had placed Nel’s mother on countless occasions, arms flopped over the side, passed out from drinking.
He had lost track of how many times he had come back from a long shift at work to find that Feya had been drinking. He had wanted to hit her, this woman that he was stuck sheltering, but she was attached to his daughter, so he couldn’t do anything. Sometimes he resorted to breaking things, going around the apartment and cracking the most fragile things he could find. Feya would only drink more.
When she was asleep and lying on the couch, he would sit his daughter down on the piano bench next to him and teach her to play. He hadn’t been able to do this often. Task Force agents and anyone working for the government weren’t supposed to have children. Sneaking back to a daughter he wasn’t supposed to have was always a tricky business. He didn’t get to see her nearly as much as he found he wanted to.
Walking up to the piano, he pushed a key down with a solid thud. The lonely instrument creaked to life, and the small glass jars that were placed on top shook at the sudden movement. He reached over and took one of the glass bottles from the piano. He stared inside at the stems of tiny blue flowers submerged in clear liquid.
Harebells.
He tilted the bottle, watching as the small amount of air trapped at the top was swallowed up by the liquid and formed bubbles that danced around the flower petals. Nel had done this every time he had brought her a Harebell jar from an Expedition Depot. Her blue eyes would light up, and she would watch in silent delight as the bubbles cascaded down and then floated back up to the surface. Ritter had never known that something as simple as bubbles and a few stalks of artificially preserved flowers could make a little girl so happy.
He had promised her on a number of occasions that, once she evolved and was no longer strapped to her mother, he would take her out on an expedition. They would take a plane, just the two of them, and fly over the part of the earth with no metal cities, no destruction, and he would find her a field of Harebells, alive and blowing in the breeze.
Swear to the skies, Daddy, she would make him promise. And he would point a finger up to the sky and bring it back down to his heart, saying, They’ll hold me to it sweetheart.
He placed the Harebells back on the piano and quickly walked away. He came to the open window and looked out. The curtains were blowing on either sides of him, and the wind was cutting through the thin fabric of his shirt. The song that his daughter loved to play looped over and over again in his head. It wouldn’t stop; it wouldn’t let him rest. Sad note after sad note and his daughter’s pale eyes. The dead flowers in their grave of water and the field that didn’t exist… these were the images that would not leave him alone.
He had suspected once before that he might be going mad. That was alright with him. Giving into the Bandit, however, was something he wouldn’t allow. He was going to get his daughter back. As long as he was still human enough to feel pain, he wasn’t going to stop.
Leaving the window, he walked over to the bedroom that Feya and his daughter used to share. When Nel had been stolen from him, he had kicked Feya out to find her own way. A few months back, he had found her body. He had been
too busy for grief. He didn’t even know if that’s what he should feel. He never loved her; he only loved the one good thing she had given him.
Taking a key from his pocket, he went over to the closet and opened it up. It was empty except for two expedition suits, one small and one large. The helmets were resting on the shelf at the top of the closet. He took the smaller suit out and laid it on the bed. Then he took one of the helmets and placed it on the pillow just above the suit.
He walked back over to the piano, grabbed one of the bottles of Harebells, and placed them on the bedside stand, close to Nel’s helmet. The flowers reflected back in the surface of the glass.
“You’re coming back,” he said. He pointed a hand up and placed it back to his heart. “I swear to the skies, sweetheart. I’ve sent someone down to get you. You’ll be coming home soon. Then we can leave this place and find that field like I always promised.”
He stared at his daughter’s helmet, and the reflection of the flowers was replaced by his distorted face, a reminder that it was only him in there—not his daughter, only his imagination’s futile attempt to stuff something inside that helmet and call it home.
Chapter 9
Spitting Image
The Jardo, while still impressively ominous during the day, did not pose nearly as much of a threat as it did in the night. All the same, Griffin made sure to stay a safe distance away as he watched the restaurant from across the courtyard. An hour later, he still did not move to get any closer. The sun began to go down, and the restaurant grew more crowded. That was when he spotted him, the man that had spoken to him inside of the bathroom, the one that had said he looked like his father.
Griffin wanted to go in and follow him inside, maybe even wait in the restroom and hold up there until the man had to go. But getting inside meant getting past the lady in the white dress, and he didn’t think he could risk his luck a second time. He had waited outside that restaurant for over an hour, yet when he saw the man he was waiting for, it took him less than a few seconds to decide that his plan had been foolish, and that he should go.
When he turned around, he found two men standing in his way. One of the men was clean shaven and had a tightly manicured black mustache and beard. He had obviously taken pills to keep himself in the prime age of life. The other man looked slightly older, though only just. He had curly brown hair, thick skin, and made Griffin gulp in terror at the sight of him.
“What’s your name?” the man with the black mustache asked.
“You’ve been standing outside here for over an hour,” the other one said. “Are you waiting for someone?”
Griffin’s mouth stopped working. He didn’t know if it was a defense mechanism, or if he was just a plain coward that couldn’t manage to speak to two strange men in fancy suits.
“Hold on,” mustache said, pointing a hand up to Griffin’s face. “Doesn’t he look familiar to you?”
The man with curly hair narrowed his eyes at him, but shook his head after a moment.
“There…” Griffin sputtered out. “There was a man in there that said I looked like my dad.”
“What was his name?” mustache asked.
“I didn’t get his name. I just met him in the bathroom.”
The man shook his head, chuckling. “Not his name; your dad’s.”
“Daniel,” he offered them quickly, hoping that these men would give him the answers he wanted. It didn’t matter if he was scared out of his mind when he got them.
The man with the mustache smiled broadly, and a look of realization came over the man with curly hair.
“You’re Danny’s son,” mustache exclaimed. “I knew you looked familiar. You look just like him. The spitting image.”
The man with curly hair nodded, and then hawked up some saliva and spat it out by Griffin’s shoes.
“I don’t think that’s what that means,” Griffin said, backing up from the spit and glancing at it in apprehension.
“Look,” mustache said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You may be a cool guy, but we come here to relax. And having an image of Danny the Wizard loitering around outside our restaurant is kind of ruining that.”
“Danny the Wizard?” Griffin asked, confused.
“That was your dad’s name, kid,” curly hair explained.
“L-look,” Griffin said, standing his ground. “I was wondering if you could tell me how he died. Just tell me that, and I-I’ll never come back here.”
“Get lost, kid,” curly hair said, shoving Griffin in the arm and causing him to stumble back.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me,” he said. He was shaking as much as he had been the day he had come home to find his mother lying stiffly on the couch, a kitchen spoon still clasped in her hands from when she had started dinner.
Suddenly curly lunged forward. Griffin tried to run away, but curly managed to grab him around his waist. He could feel his arms crushing against his ribs. A few people walking by glanced over at them, but made sure to turn away upon seeing what was happening.
“What are you doing?” mustache said, as if talking to a small child. “Just let the kid go. What’s he going to do?”
“I dunno, he might be trouble,” curly reasoned, tightening his grip.
Griffin choked out for air, trying to pry the man’s thick arms from his middle.
“We’re only going to have trouble if you keep squeezing him like that,” mustache said. “Now let him go.”
Griffin felt the grip on him loosen, and suddenly his body doubled over on the floor. He glanced up at the man with the mustache, but he was turning to his friend and urging him across the street towards The Jardo. Gasping for breath, he spun himself on his back. He could still feel the phantom weight of the man’s arms pressing at his chest and crushing his ribs.
He should have gone back home then and there. He knew it would be safer to leave well enough alone. He even knew that, if he found out how his dad really died, he would probably wish he hadn’t. But, when he got up from the sidewalk, he did not leave for home. Instead he backed up to his hiding spot in the shadows once more.
If he had Harper to come home to, he figured he might have gone back right then. When he walked through the door, she would have put on a kettle of tea for him, whipped up that cheesy rice dish that she always made when he was feeling down, and tried to get him to laugh as she battled with the stringy bits of cheese that would hang down from her fork. Then they would have tinkered with an invention together, and she would make him forget all about the men at The Jardo and the mystery of his father’s death.
Yet, as it was, he had driven his best friend away. If he went back now, his mind would only tormenting itself over which to feel worse over, what those men at The Jardo could possibly know about his father, or what had happened to Harper.
It wasn’t until ten o’clock at night that he saw one of the two men finally leave the restaurant. Luckily it was the nicer man with the black hair and mustache. Griffin waited for him to get in a car and start driving away before he started up his bike to follow him.
* * *
Jessie looked out the window of her room in Bunker City, her palms gripping tightly to the frame. She wasn’t exactly sure what time of night it was, but her instincts told her it was far too late. She needed to get up top to that bird. She was supposed to have reported back to Ritter by now. Her stomach churned as she realized that he could be on his way right now, about to capture Tom and whisk him out of her life for good.
Earlier that day, she had tried to convince Red that they should go up top to Old City and search for scrap metal to use on his bunker, but he hadn’t relented. Jason had given his orders, and though the leader of the Resistance might have been a good man, Red was too afraid of him to disobey.
Getting up from the bed, she grabbed a bottle of water, stuffed it in her jacket, and then slipped out her window. The night before, she had noticed that a man had taken the metal lift up to the top of bunker city, telling a friend th
at he had to go because he was on duty. Once again, she found the same man headed for the lift on his way to work. She stayed far enough behind him so he wouldn’t notice her, and waited in the shadows of a building as he stepped into the metal lift.
When the metal cage started to ascend, Jessie sprinted out from her hiding place and ran to catch it. Thanks in part to Tag’s injection, she reached it in time so she could jump up and grab onto the cage at the bottom. She kept her body hidden under the control panel so that the man above couldn’t see her. As they rode up, the man kept his eyes straight ahead, and only bothered to look down once when he bent down to scratch an itch on his leg.
Luckily, when they reached the top, there was a big enough gap from the cage to the ground floor that Jessie would be able to squeeze through. She waited for the man to leave and disappear through the cement doors that led to the tunnel system, before she maneuvered herself to the front of the cage and lifted herself up through the crack.
Taking the same route out of the tunnels, she soon found herself in the abandoned Expedition Depot at the corner of Knot and Axel. From there she ran through the streets as fast as she could, trying to reach the bird at the north end. A few times she had to stop because she spotted a Task Force squad. Her fingers itched in apprehension as she waited in the shadows. Time was of the essence. Reaching that bird was even more important than not getting caught.
It felt like ages before she made it to that statue at the side of the Expedition Depot on the north end. Hastily she reached her hand inside the bird’s beak and took out the rolled up slip of paper. She was about to start writing a message, when she realized that one had already been written. She turned the paper so that the light of a nearby street lamp hit it. The note read: I said two days!
Blood thundered in her ears. She was too late. He was already on his way to Tom. Her instincts told her to start running now, to get to him before Ritter could, but she forced herself to stay put and think things through. Unlike Ritter, she had no idea where Tom was. Her best shot would be to look for the Task Force agent himself.
