Trickskin

by Amelia R. Moore

  “Please tell me he doesn’t breathe fire too. I’m pretty sure my bank account can’t take it.”

  “Of course not. That would be irresponsible.”

  “Irresponsible!” Zree parroted.

  Danika gasped and gave him an accusatory look.

  “I may have given him the ability to speak.”

  Her face scrunched up, as if weighing the pros and cons of this development. “Okay, so I already love him, but toucans eat specific fruit, right? I don’t think they make good pets, and are you seriously not going to tell me why you stole my dress?”

  “I borrowed it, and as you can see, took very good care of it.” Truthfully, he could have crafted one from magic, but stealing from Danika had been far more amusing.

  “I’m not judgmental, so if you like to cross-dress, power to you. Just ask first.”

  Loken almost scowled at her flippancy. “I borrowed it for a mission. I didn’t think you’d need access to it for lab work.”

  She looked intrigued and skeptical. “Fair enough.”

  Knowing she was dying to ask why he’d needed it, Loken denied her the chance by asking a question of his own. “What were those hand signals?”

  “ASL. American Sign Language. It’s a form of communication for the deaf. And the mute, I guess.”

  “Deaf,” he repeated, brows furrowed.

  “Yeah, my foster dad can’t hear. You don’t have deafness on Rellaeria?”

  Ah. “We don’t have a term for permanent hearing impairment, no. Such conditions are usually healed relatively quickly.” Muteness, on the other hand, he understood. He knew of some who’d had their tongues removed for their crimes.

  “Oh, wow. That’s cool. We’re not quite there, but it’s alright. Dad gets on fine.”

  “Is it common?”

  “Uh. Not really? I could look up the exact statistics but...”

  His translation spell didn't work on ASL, and the idea of learning a language few others knew was enticing. “Will you teach me it?” he asked, following an impulse.

  “Sure, I don’t mind. It’d be nice to have someone to practice with. Wanna learn how to write English too?”

  It was foolish to insist on being incapable of writing the primary language of his new home, so it was an easy choice. “Yes.”

  “Cool. We’ll start that tomorrow night though. Let’s watch a movie. Unless you’re not staying?”

  He pretended to debate the matter.

  “I’ll make us a snack,” she added, stretching the vowel.

  Victory. “Fine.”

  She gave a triumphant sound. “How about chili con queso dip?” Then, realizing who she was talking to, said, “Yeah, chili con queso. Trust me. You’ll love it.”

  “Love it!” Zree parroted.

  Danika looked at the aracari. “Okay. I think I have some blueberries for him…”

  “Fruit!” chimed Zree.

  Loken noted how quickly the bird had made the connection and wondered just how intelligent his creation was.

  “Hm.” Danika paused on the way to the kitchen. “Tomorrow, me and you have to go into town and see if they have a petshop…”

  A petshop? Why did there need to be a shop specifically for pets? Humans were so strange. “I’m not supposed to leave the compound.”

  Her face fell. “Really? That sucks.”

  “Lady Danika, truly you have a way with words.”

  She grinned at that.

  “As I was saying, I'm not supposed to leave the compound...so we will have to be quick.”

  Danika squealed in excitement. “Yes! Jailbreak! Okay, if we get caught, I'll tell them it was my idea.”

  “I'm glad we’re in agreement.”

  “Hey!” Danika whacked him playfully and got to work putting together the chili dip she spoke of. While she did, Loken fed Zree blueberries and, at Danika’s prodding, chopped up a plant called kale for Smaug.

  They watched a movie about a man named Lincoln, a historical figure important to the country. It was, more or less, a political drama, and he enjoyed it. The idea that humans could look up to a man gifted with words…

  He dismissed the fleeting thought of belonging.

  (No home. No family. No honor.)

  After the movie ended, Danika taught him a little more about the time period in which it had taken place, particularly the Civil War. The concept that slavery could be based on skin color was strange, to say the least. Even more so was the knowledge that slavery was illegal here.

  The talk of war had Loken tossing and turning that night, anxious about the unrest between Draferia and his home world that he'd left behind. When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed the Drakain had invaded Rellaeria. His mother fought the best she could, but she fell under the endless barrage of claws and fangs.

  King Balan looked down at him in disgust. “You abandoned us all.”

  “I did not want this!” he cried, cradling the broken form of his mother. “I only wanted to be free!”

  “I brokered peace, and you chose your life over your people. You brought this upon Rellaeria.”

  Further protests died in his throat. What could he say to that? It was true, and now his mother was dead because of his selfishness.

  “You did this!” Sanjay spat, advancing on him with the hatred he usually reserved for foes. When he raised his sword, Loken didn’t attempt to dodge, didn’t attempt to defend himself. He just wanted it to end. The blade bit into his neck, and he awoke screaming.

  Loken didn't sleep the rest of the night.

  No matter how he tried, he couldn’t keep his thoughts from Rellaeria and the nightmare born of repressed guilt and fear. At five in the morning, he abandoned his apartment and went to the gym. Satisfied when he found no one else was there, he began his regiment, practicing moves his muscles had long since committed to memory.

  Footsteps interrupted him some time later, but he didn’t stop until he finished his repetition. It took Loken a moment to place the newcomer as Patrick Amaral, as they’d only met once before. He was still tense and in no mood for company. Loken vanished his daggers, but when he moved to leave, Patrick spoke.

  “Hey, wait. You don’t have to go. If anything, I should.”

  Loken eyed Patrick with more than a little hostility, not in the mood for pleasantries. Deciding his time would be better spent here, he acquiesced, re-summoned his daggers, and returned to his routine. Back home, on the rare occasions he frequented the training grounds, he’d often had to share them. This was no different, he supposed.

  Silence fell.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Patrick step onto a machine, press a button, and begin to walk in place. How tedious.

  “I come here around this time because it’s usually empty,” Patrick commented a few minutes later.

  Did he expect a reply? Loken wondered. Choosing not to provide one, for ten blissful minutes they continued on in silence. Despite the vigorous workout, it was difficult not to be aware of when Patrick stopped walking on his machine and began to watch Loken.

  “Would you like to spar?”

  Loken gave Patrick a look. “Did you come here with masochistic intentions?”

  “What if I promise to go easy on you?”

  Any hesitation Loken had was swept away in tide of indignation. It was obvious that Patrick’s question wasn’t born of arrogance, but Loken didn’t care. “Very well. Defend yourself.”

  That was the only warning he gave. Banishing his daggers (Loken predicted that cutting this man to pieces would be frowned upon), he closed the distance between them and aimed a jab at Patrick’s solar plexus. Because he didn’t feel like dealing with the consequences of murder, he pulled the punch.

  Humans were so fragile, after all.

  Loken didn’t expect Patrick’s human reflexes to enable him to dodge the attack. Nor had he expected Patrick to parry, landing a blow that knocked Loken off balance.

  Rolling to his feet, Loken narrowed his eyes and rushed
Patrick who barely managed to dodge his next strike. As they fought, it rapidly became apparent there was something not quite human about Patrick Amaral. Patrick wasn’t nearly as strong as a Rellaerian, but he was well beyond any human Loken had ever met. Regardless, the spar was far from even—though it proved a challenge for Loken to win. He’d had centuries of practice, after all.

  It ended when Loken had the man pinned face down. He could tell Patrick wasn't the type of man to surrender until he was incapable of continuing. He was persistent, determined.

  Once he was back on his feet, Patrick shook his hand. “I’ll get you next time,” he said, more jesting than challenging.

  Loken snorted to let him know how likely that was.

  Though the melancholy returned when he stepped back into his apartment, Loken attempted to occupy his mind by researching Patrick Amaral. According to the first site, he was a veteran of the Vietnam War. He and his infantry had gone missing and were presumed dead, but he'd been found—seemingly savaged by some wild animal. Honorably discharged, he'd made a miraculous recovery in less than a month and rejoined the warfront against all expectations, saving countless lives on every mission he undertook. Reportedly, fewer soldiers died when he accompanied their troop.

  By most accounts, many from his fellow soldiers, he was a true hero.

  That's all there was. No doubt ALPHA restricted what was available to the public because there was no explanation for his oddities. Clearly, the man had increased strength, endurance, and reflexes. Also, the war he partook in as a young man was many years ago. Humans had short lifespans, but Patrick didn't look elderly.

  It was a fascinating mystery, but reading numerous articles on the subject took less than an hour. At seven AM, two hours before the lab shift began, he lay down, intending to read an ebook to burn time, but as soon as he did, the lethargy he’d been battling overcame him. He didn't want to read, and he could think of nothing else to do. He wasn't even sure he wanted to sleep, though he was more exhausted than he could remember being in some time.

  He felt weighed down, and suddenly, the act of standing up seemed more daunting a task than finding a way back to Rellaeria.

  Rellaeria.

  Loken wondered if his mother was alright or if she, like in the dream, had fallen victim to the consequences of his actions. It was pointless to speculate; he knew that. Yet he couldn’t stop doing so as guilt and homesickness vied for his undivided attention.

  Even from his bedroom, he could hear the knock at the front door. “Lyall? It's 9:30. You there?”

  Loken knew Danika wanted to go to the store for her aracari-present. He also knew he had agreed to accompany her, but the idea of getting up seemed a monumental task.

  He had the presence of mind to realize he was being illogical but lacked the energy to invent an excuse to remain in bed. So, he simple didn’t reply.

  “You're never late, so I figured you got called away on a mission, but Callum says you're off duty today.” She continued. “Lyall? I feel really awkward talking to myself in this hallway Pretty sure I'm ninety percent rambling right now.” A pause. “Hello?”

  Loken didn't understand why he was feeling this now. It was as if, after months of constantly needing to observe and adapt, of simply being too busy for melancholy, everything had finally caught up to him. Life was starting to become routine, and that routine gave melancholy roots to grow.

  Or maybe it had been with him the entire time, buried under an avalanche of cultural shock and a repressed identity crisis.

  “Lyall?”

  When he gave no answer yet again, he listened to her footsteps as they disappeared down the hall. Guilt welled in his stomach, but mostly he felt relief. He wanted to be left alone to deal with this the best way he knew how: letting it run its course.

  There was nothing else to be done. The root of his pain couldn’t be fixed or dealt with while he was on Earth. He wasn’t entirely sure it could be fixed if he was still on Rellaeria. After surviving worldwalking, he’d sought to forget what had driven him to the breaking point. Instead, it festered like an untreated wound.

  Maybe he could have overcome the fact that the man and woman who’d raised him weren’t his biological parents, though the deception hurt him deeply. He didn’t know how to move forward because the horrific truth was that King Balan had kidnapped him from Draferia as an infant...and his ‘parents’ had willingly raised a stolen child.

  Loken was nothing more than a warprize.

  Chapter 7

  He wasn’t aware he’d fallen asleep until a voice from the hallway roused him.

  “Fruit!”

  Loken’s eyes slowly opened.

  “Fruit!”

  Unusually groggy, he rolled over and listened, struggling to place the voice.

  “Fruit!”

  The aracari.

  “Fruit!”

  Was Danika nearby? Certainly she wouldn't let her new pet wander loose without her? She was quite protective of the lizard, so he couldn't imagine the bird would be any different.

  Loken let Zree chant, “Fruit!” five more times before he found the will to pry himself out of bed. As he suspected, the aracari was alone outside his door, sitting on the floor with ruffled feathers.

  “Irresponsible!” Zree decreed.

  It felt like an accusation, but Loken knew Zree was very likely just repeating the few words he knew.

  “Better come inside, pest,” he told the bird.

  Zree tilted his head before hopping into the apartment. Loken left the door ajar, knowing Danika couldn't be far behind. With that in mind, as much as he wanted to return to bed, he took a seat at the kitchen table and waited for her to arrive. Zree flew to the chair across from him and initiated a staring contest.

  Less than ten minutes later, Danika tapped on the door, inadvertently knocking it open more. “Lyall?”

  “Come in,” he called.

  “Have you seen—?” She paused as she wandered into the kitchen. “Zree! There you are! Did you come to see what Papa was up to?”

  “Absolutely not,” Loken said adamantly. “You aren't teaching him—”

  “Papa!” Zree echoed.

  Loken closed his eyes and took a breath.

  Danika laughed and then asked, “What fruits do you have? It's his lunch time. Come to think of it, I can make us all something.”

  Lunch? Asking what time it was would reveal how disoriented he was, so he didn’t. Instead, he focused on trying to dissuade her from staying. “I'm afraid you’d find my refrigerator rather lacking.” The groceries from when he’d first moved in, granted by ALPHA, were long gone. Some frozen and boxed things remained, but he had no desire to consume them.

  “What I'm hearing is we need to visit the pet store and the grocery store.”

  And so his plan had backfired.

  “Well,” Danika continued. “First, we’ll do lunch. Then shopping. Oh, shit. The Alatheia System project! Right. We can do that too.”

  The daunting list of tasks that needed accomplishing didn't improve his mood.

  “Lyall? Are you okay? You look pale.”

  Did he? Despite that he was sitting, he felt tremulous and unsteady.

  (Unsteady. You mean mad? You’re losing your mind.)

  He almost laughed sardonically at the thought, but he didn’t wish to invite Danika to ask questions. She was sitting across from him now, eyes brimming with solicitude. I’m fine, he wanted to say. He was a master liar, but for some reason, he couldn’t get the words out.

  “Lyall?”

  He was suffocating, lost in a canyon of hopelessness that logic couldn’t help him climb out of. It felt like there was nowhere to go, no tangible future or path forward. It was a soul sickness, he knew, so why did he feel physically ill?

  He jerked at the clink of a glass as it was set in front of him. To pacify Danika, he took a few sips of the cool water.

  “Are you feeling sick? Wanna go see one of the doctors?”

  That fill
ed him with enough anxiety to reply, “No.” He most certainly did not.

  “Okay,” she said, sounding more worried, if possible. “Did something happen?”

  “No.” Which wasn't a lie. Nothing had happened recently.

  “You seemed fine last night after the mission...”

  She’d just offered him a perfect excuse, but he knew it was a lie that could cost him. If word got back to ALPHA that he was disturbed over a mission, who knew what they would do? Then again, if word got to them that he was apparently having a mental breakdown, wouldn’t the results be the same?

  “It’s nothing to do with the mission,” he finally said.

  “Then what?”

  Loken bit back a condescending reply. “Have you ever lived off world for an extended period of time?” Of course she hadn't. Humans had yet to physically explore their entire solar system, let alone beyond it.

  Danika’s expression softened. “Homesickness is awful. I know there's nothing I can do...but if you want to talk about it, I'm here. I'd love to learn more about Rellaeria.”

  The last thing he wanted to do was to continue thinking about Rellaeria. “Another time perhaps. Why don't you feed Zree, and I'll meet you at your apartment in thirty minutes?” Hopefully that would give him time to collect himself and freshen up.

  It was obvious Danika didn't want to leave him, but she relented. “Okay. Just…” She paused, looking conflicted, and then said, “You're not alone. I know it might not feel that way, but you're not.”

  His breath caught in his throat at her unexpected declaration.

  Yes, I am. There is no one else like me, he wanted to say but couldn't. For though it was true, he couldn't imagine explaining why to her.

  (If she could truly see you, she would not make such declarations. Trickskin. Deceiver. Traitor.)

  Danika gave him a half smile, oblivious to his inner turmoil, before calling Zree to her shoulder and leaving.

  He managed to make it to her apartment on time, though he'd briefly debated sending a doppelganger in his place. Actively managing one (rather than making one with preset answers and phrases) would take concentration he didn't have, so he dismissed the idea.