by Marc Mulero
Milos ripped the sleeve of his damp shirt to wrap his bloody hand.
It was either this or drown, I guess… and Lesh always said that drowning wasn’t a good option.
"Thank you." Milos slowly got to his knees.
She smiled while backing up to give him some space. “What’s your name?”
"Milos," he said shortly, noticing that the endless debris flowing on to shore was starting to grab the attention of nearby workers.
"I'm Oosnie," she responded, excited to make a friend.
Before she could even finish, Milos had already yanked her with his better hand and stumbled to make way toward the clay buildings.
"Time to go, Oosnie."
Her feet struggled to find footing as she was dragged forward by the force of his tug, his shaggy, soaked hair spraying drops on her all the way.
“I feel like I should be pulling you!"
Milos halted and crouched down to hide beside some cracked wall, stealthily peeking around the corner to be sure the coast was clear, and finally, when he was certain it was safe, he let himself breathe. Whooh an audible exhale escaped him, and once his heart allowed him to feel again, it fluttered. A tingling sensation tickled him when he realized her soft skin was still touching his. Hand on hand. He stammered in his mind, froze, and then quickly let go of the pretty girl with a gulp.
Oosnie flushed scarlet from the clear awkwardness and tried to steer away from it with her next question.
"How did you get here? My grandpa says that the people who like blue live far away."
Milos squinted his eyes and looked at his arm. "Is this what you mean?" He pointed to his Cryos tattoo.
She made a face, as if to say, “Duh.”
“I don’t even like the color blue!”
"Well that's stupid. Why would you get your arm colored then?"
Milos let his hands fall to his sides in mock defeat, causing the rusted metal clamps to slide down his wrists. "I don't know what your grandpa told you, but it's not our choice to get this mark."
"He said, 'Everyone makes their choices, and the bad people usually color themselves blue.'"
"Well your grandpa is an idiot," Milos blurted, annoyed with the ignorance.
He immediately realized his mistake when Oosnie’s eyes welled with tears, but before he could backtrack, a brisk slap crossed his face. Now his cheek was pulsing with heat and an instinctive snatch of her arm prevented anything further.
"Hey! What was that for?"
She wriggled to break free from Milos' grasp and stumbled backward. "He wasn't stupid. He's the reason I'm still alive."
More awkwardness, silence, then tears trickling down her cheeks, washing away specs of dirt on their way.
It was here he realized that Lesh’s conditioning had molded him into some sort of cold, impatient, monster who just wanted to shut Oosnie’s face and tell her to toughen up. But his heart hadn’t yet been entirely encased in black tar. There were still flecks of Cherris’ goodness, memories of his mother to maintain some sort of balance.
A Hiezer guard had Milos by the wrist, who twisted and turned his arm to the point where his skin burned from stretching it.
"Cut it, boy! Stop fidgeting. Black market schools are forbidden… no excuses. Now I have to see what my commander wants to do with you.” The guard looked straight ahead, ignoring the kid’s frustration as if he were dragging an unwilling stray dog on a leash. Milos lifted his legs off the ground every few steps. Toes scraping. Dead weight. Nothing changed the situation.
That was until Milos’ mother appeared from nowhere, bumping the guard’s chest, shoulder to chest – to distract him while she ripped her son away.
"Stay behind me," she said, her voice quietly trembling.
Her weathered face was a mess of stress, but her eyes were bright and round, determined, looking as though they were sucking the life from her skin. It would have to be enough to convince the guard she was not going to move, regardless of how non-threatening she may have appeared. It was the eyes… she had to keep his eyes on hers in order for this to work.
"That boy was in the black market. He's coming with me," the guard demanded.
"Look the other way, he's just a kid. I'll be sure to slap the senseless curiosity out of him," his mom promised.
She stood tall and stared unflinching at the guard towering over them, and when Milos tried to get a glimpse, his mother jerked him back, signaling to stay put.
But the guard responded to none of it, and only reached again for the boy.
She stomped the ground, widened her eyes further, pulled that ever-looming grenade and held it behind her back… what would she do? She was a split-second away from making a scene.
The guard pinched meaty fingers over a starved shoulder, making her squirm like a trapped rat. She was about to scream to the heavens, release Milos and valiantly blow them both so he could live, but, at the last possible moment, the guard’s radio went off.
The orders caused him to grunt and loosen his grip. "Let this be a warning to the both of you. The next time, there will be no tolerance," he said before he went on his way, irritated with the persistent woman.
Milos' mom turned to kneel and hugged her son as tightly as she could. "We'll find a new school for you. I'm just glad you're safe."
His eyes focused on Oosnie when returning from his memory. "I lost family, too. I know the feeling… and I deserved the slap. I'm sorry." Feeling shame, he avoided eye contact.
Just then, he heard the sound of chatter nearby. He poked his head around the corner to see construction workers making their way to the shoreline.
"I have to get out of here before the Hiezers find me," Milos whispered.
"I'm coming with you until you’re safe," Oosnie promised, offering an expression of motherly worry beyond her years.
"Don't you have to be at trade school or something?"
Oosnie dropped her head dejectedly. "Nobody cares where I am."
He turned to her, took her soft hand and said, “Well, I care.”
Together, they ran off into the shadows.
Mulderan stood brooding within the walls that kept him. His confidence was that of a lion’s, appearing no less regal without his pauldrons and crown. Time in power built something that couldn’t be stripped from him. It couldn’t be seen or touched, but it could be felt. It was innate. In his mind, a hundred thousand soldiers stared back at him, prepared to defend the Grand City of Nepsys with their lives. Endless Hiezer citizens found asylum at his direction. He was the New World’s savior, and no set of bars could keep him from his destiny.
"You're a powerful warrior, Wes. There will soon be a time when you'll be standing at the Gates of Eternity, defending what we’ve built." Mulderan’s back was to him.
Wes, covered in bandages, struggled to rise. "Thank you, Highest Lord. It would be an honor. But surely no rebellion could gather the means to challenge our walls. From whom would we be defending it?"
Mulderan sneered. "Isn't that the right question?" He turned to face him. "The weak."
"I don't understand...”
"You will, in time. Before we were invaded, I’d entrusted the highlords with delicate information."
Wes looked over curiously.
"The planet’s inner core is highly unstable," Mulderan revealed, his face twisting into the strangest smile Wes had ever seen, like it was fighting to suppress some forbidden joy.
Wes grasped the bars dividing them with his large hands. "Are you suggesting... another quake?"
"I am. And right about now, I would suspect that the highlords are gathering our forces to the city that will preserve our species."
It's too bad fear is their ultimate motivator. It will impede their judgement. Survival and preservation of society is the true goal. My leadership will be needed.
Wes bowed his head in shock. "We lost four billion souls between the Global Quake and the wars that followed. If another occurs, we’ll dwindle down to nothing," he said wit
h angst.
"The Hiezers and its Protective Order exist to prevent just that. We will succeed this time.”
Wes turned around and lost himself in thought, rehashing the years he’d spent helping to restore order to a broken world. "How long do you suspect we’ll rot in here?"
"Eldra will return us to our positions soon enough."
Volaina had always been revered for her work. Sins at every level understood that when the Hiezer’s had a plan, this woman was thrown like a wrench to get in the middle of it, to break the machine, thwart it, and run like wind in the night when intel was intercepted by her hand. Every time… every single time, she’d return physically unscathed, making it look so easy. But it wasn’t. Her insides were scrambled, mentally and otherwise. The Hiezer guises that she’d worn were all rank with sweat and worry. She could smell it.
Was it worth it? She thought so.
Insecurities could remain a secret and regrets could be suppressed, because in turn, she kept rebellion lives safe. And so she worked silently to forge another mask in the dungeons of her mind, to wear even in the comfort of her home, and in the face of her people.
Not every facet of her life was a complex question of identity, though. One artist accepted her praise as truth, and bestowed a gift to her the only way he knew how. A desk sculpted of the finest marble included a blend of the Sin symbol infecting the Hiezer’s sitting at its base. The infiltrative commander found herself staring at it often, finding the work fitting, and the name, spot-on - “Masks of the Self,” a suitable brand for her developing spy unit, and for her.
She flipped through a file on her desk, contemplating the best method to accomplish her next objective: to intercept the agenda of the Hiezer Protective Order.
This angle is a dud. We have no means to take this guard out of his position. There has to be another option, one that doesn't involve starting from scratch.
She tossed the file to the side and buried tired eyes in her palms, before grabbing the next. Her following probe began with optimism, before it fell short, yet again.
Blague’s intermittent meetings fleeted as an afterthought… one by one, they came and went while she sat glued to her chair. Urgency, timing, foregone opportunity, was everything she wasn’t willing to risk by moving. Every minute not spent on achieving her goal was a wasted one. Sabin knew this, she thought, because before and after each meeting, he made it a point to pass by her room and give a wink, evoking a smile against her will every time.
Her defined face grew drawn and her eyes bloodshot as the next sleepless night loomed. A knock on the door echoed in her room, further denying slumber.
"Come in," she called out in her deep Russian accent.
Two Sin spies entered: a young man with ruffled hair parted in the middle and an older man with a hardened look. The latter walked forward, shaking a folder in one hand to draw attention to it.
"This may be our shot, Commander Volaina."
"I'm listening…"
"A Hiezer elite went on a duo mission with a green guard in Senation. Five of Telfice's scouts intercepted her and made quick work of the newbie…”
“And the elite? Spit it out.”
He cleared his throat. “She took out three and critically wounded a fourth, but the fifth scored a bullet in her spine," the older man said. "Long story short, she’s considered missing to the Hiezers. Here’s the kicker… she’s a general."
He tossed the folder onto her desk.
“She’s slightly bigger than you, but you can pass,” the younger man added. “Just avoid going to headquarters at all costs. Ever since a certain sabotage, they’ve been forcing guards to remove their masks upon entry. Best interception would be to join an ongoing mission.”
Volaina scanned through the report while listening. "Excellent job, Fenros and Maze," she said, closing the file. "Prepare a drop-off flight for me. I already know where I'm headed."
Eugene took one last drag of a hand-rolled cigarette and stepped on its ashes. He looked up to the Aura’s fortress standing tall before him, then back to Blague and Sabin. A sigh escaped him. He wanted the two faction leaders to coexist silently forever, because anything would be better than having to choose again. He scoffed and walked to follow behind Blague, bumping his shoulder harshly.
“After you, boss.”
Blague ignored his right-hand’s angst, and instead stood to face the finished strongholds standing before him. Not long ago, the area consisted of rubble and bare bones construction. It was a place where he revealed his deepest secrets to his friends. But now, layers of fortified stone neatly cascaded down to mirror the Sin symbol, creating a finished aesthetic far different than the fortress dwarfing it. It represented all of their progress, their promise, and their propensity to gamble. Lending their hard-fought treasure to the Aura was a frightening endeavor.
The mark of the Sins is permanent. There's no changing that, but what it represents is just a matter of perspective.
A collective hymn penetrated the fortress doors, leaving the Sins apprehensive about entering. They exchanged looks of uncertainty, like they were about to enter a church mid-ceremony.
Eugene shrugged. "Well, I prepped her, but she's still not ready."
Sabin put a hand on Eugene's shoulder. "Don't worry, buddy. What harm can come from a conversation?"
Eugene pushed Sabin's hand off. "I guess we'll find out."
"She should be handled with caution," an exceptionally deep voice warned.
Sabin jumped, startled by the thunderous noise from behind. "Can you please stop doing that?" he asked, turning to face the source.
"I did not intend to evoke fear." Orin focused his cloudy eyes on Sabin.
Sabin stared at the man. "I swear, you were less weird with those cloths over your face.”
"Says a man with golden eyes," Orin responded, stepping toward Blague.
"Let's move along." Blague made his way to the colossal stone door. Layers of stone extended far inward, engulfing them like an unwelcoming cave before he unlocked the entrance and headed in.
"Everyone loves my eyes…" Sabin defended himself, his voice drowned out by the incessant chanting.
"The smoke of Vicissitude has latched onto her,” Orin presaged. “Such a rare effect should not be taken lightly."
"Have you seen anything like it before?" Blague asked.
His father didn’t utter a word.
Chanting ceased and eyes followed, like a haunted room full of live-eyed paintings. They trekked into the space of silently watchful Aura members, across stone tiles that reverberated their footsteps, and toward a walled off room trickling with a crimson haze. Although all of this was built by Sins, it didn’t feel like it. Reinforced tinted windows transformed sunlight into muted blue to give the ambiance of a Cryos mark, but that failed, too. Instead, it enhanced the vibrancy of the red smoke spewing from the door ahead to make it appear like blood dripping upward.
“Jen is in meditation in the World Quarters.” Eugene grimly pointed ahead.
“Ugh,” Sabin scoffed under his breath, making faces behind the mope’s back to mimic him, and then deciding to turn his attention elsewhere… to the vast new building interior that was just a pile of brick and Izodite not long ago.
So much to appreciate, even the Aura…
There, among many sets of gawking eyes and streams of smoke, he spotted an attractive woman cleaning a rifle larger than her leg.
Dreamy. My kind of girl, he thought. And so he swung his green half-cape proudly.
No reaction.
Hmph. If that didn’t do it…
He stroked his beard at the end of his pose, crying for her attention.
The woman, obviously keen to motion in her peripheral, and also no stranger to that weird feeling of having eyes on her, peered up at the hunter. A second of awkwardness. Then she caved and gave him a perplexed half-smile for acknowledgment.
"She likes me," Sabin assured himself.
“What?” Eugene muttered
, still a few steps ahead. First he looked to Sabin, recognized the stupidity, and then turned to the woman he was breaking his neck for.
He rolled his eyes. "That's a look of disgust. You jackass.”
"No way, that's love," Sabin said playfully.
"It's amazing how much of an idiot you are."
"A lovable idiot," Sabin agreed.
Eugene sighed.
Blague pushed open the twenty-foot tall door leading into the World Quarters to be met by a ton of smolder. That same intoxicating scent, that feeling like a ghost was passing through him. Just like on the island, his breathing wasn’t impaired by it, only his sight. Curtains of ethereal air formed faces that mocked them, to haunt him. But each layer slowly peeled back angrily when he didn’t react, like he was being admitted into a psychic’s den against the gatekeepers wishes. Eventually, after seconds that felt like minutes, a figure seated cross-legged on the floor revealed itself wrapped in Aura combat wear.
Her half-cloak beamed with the symbol of her people stitched onto her chest, a Yin to the Sin’s Yang. Red versus blue. And then the smoke slowly rewound back into her pores to give the trespassers a clear view of whom they sought. Four deep scars ran down her face, from eyes to chin, like permanent streaming tears. A calm expression eased their fears and contradicted the dreariness that they’d walked into.
"Sins of our movement are wary of the Aura," Blague began. "I'm here to alleviate their concerns."
Jen opened her eyes and rose slowly. "Hello, Blague," she greeted as she flashed a smile that made her eyes squint. "I'm glad you’re confident that their concerns will be put to rest."
"The Aura swooped in and saved us in the Battle of Old New York. I have many to thank for that, including you." Blague motioned to the proclaimed goddess.
Sabin whispered to Eugene, "She's gorgeous."
Eugene punched him hard in the arm, and then turned back to listen.
Jen took her first step toward Blague and Orin. "I'm no battle commander, but I have resided silently among the Aura for years, taking in what it means to be part of a movement outside of the hierarchy. I'm glad that my first decision as a… leader, is one that worked out for the best. I foresaw the outcome, after all." She kept her tone light.
