Outlier: Rebellion

by Daryl Banner

  Patrons take notice, turning face. Other tenders and men are rallying around. We’re outnumbered and Grute is being an idiot. Yet fear is the last thing in his eyes; he’s drunk with a title and the power he believes it gives him.

  “I’ve got a lead to pursue, by order of Taylon the Bonebender. Don’t you know him?” Grute lifts his chin, smirks down on the man. “Not a boy you wanna piss off, I’ve been told, unless you got yourself a sick desire to be bent.”

  Halves cuts in. “Grute …”

  The tender reaches for his belt, and quicker than a flame Grute cuts at the tender’s leg, cuts another man’s arm, and slices a glass of brew in half. The tender screams like nothing human and drops to his knees, then to his face, still screaming into the floor. The patrons have all stood up, alarmed. Several flee out another entrance, sunlight spilling in and kicking all the candlelight in the room sideways for one ugly moment.

  Grute stands over the wailing man. “I’ll need to question that lady.” He indicates with a nod. “And that one,” to another glass box. “And … not the one with the thing on her nose. No. Pity I don’t remember my lead’s name. Hey,” he nudges the still-wailing tender with a boot. “You can provide me a room in which I may conduct my inquisitions. Your private office, perhaps.”

  Halves shakes all over, from his chest to the tip of his nose to his knees. He’s already drawn his neon, already another hand ready to pull steel if needed. What the hell, Grute? What the hell? He fights an urge to flee, fights a worse urge to abandon his partner, to run for his life. Obert would understand … Obert would understand …

  Two answers.

  But Halves does not flee. Twenty minutes later, the three chosen women—the three prettiest, by coincidence, surely—have been thoroughly picked over by Grute, who seems to regard them less as leads and more as desserts. “Hey, guard the door,” he commands Halves, then takes a lady into the private office.

  There are no leads. Nothing drew Grute to Lady Luck but his own horniness and the power of a uniform. Halves glares at the wall opposite him, so angry it makes his teeth ring. What can he do but wait? A man watches Halves from the shadowy bar, his stare as sharp as the blade he’s surely dreaming to put through the both of them, regardless of Halves’ involvement in this. I could kill Grute. For each of these women, I’d kill Grute over and over. Yet here Halves stands, doing nothing at all about the injustice at his back except fuming. He hears soft moaning through the door.

  He’s heard enough.

  When a lady leaves the office, Halves tries convincing himself that nothing happened, but notices her shirt is buttoned one-off. Another’s hair is disheveled when she leaves, her eyes dead and sickly. The last one hugs herself, shivering, eye makeup running.

  No, nothing happening here at all.

  An hour later, Grute’s apparently had his fill. “Leads proved most unhelpful.” Then on the way out, Grute hands one of the tenders a gold coin. “I’m no businessman,” he tells him, “but I know a fine selection of lady when I see it. You ought to offer massages: in with a stiff shoulder, out with a stiff something else.”

  Back on the streets, Halves can’t talk. If he dared to, he’s afraid the conversation would end with a weapon in his partner’s face. I don’t trust my hands right now, he realizes, noticing they’ve turned to fists, knuckles white.

  “I didn’t fuck them,” Grute volunteers three blocks later. “You’re thinking it. But I didn’t fuck them. Oh, and it wasn’t real gold I paid with. Do I look like a man with gold in his pants? My Legacy’s adapting little things to suit a purpose. I can make any scrap of shit look like gold, no slummer’s gonna notice. Too blinded by the shiny to notice. Too stupid. My dad was that sort of stupid. Piece of gold got his neck slit when I was just eight. Only smart thing he ever taught me … there’s a reason the Lifted use such a soft metal as gold for their currency—it’s a thing that isn’t even loyal to its own shape, so soft a bite can change it.”

  Halves doesn’t respond, dreaming how different patrol would be with Ennebal at his side, how true it’d be. Just that one day when he, Aleks, and Ennebal took to the streets during a practice patrol. Ennebal … He can still picture her by the candlelight, stirring his heart and—other things. He wonders what she’d look like dancing half-naked in a glass box … then is immediately struck sick by the thought, ashamed.

  “Doesn’t matter, real gold or not,” his partner grunts. “Still has as same a value to an idiot. Lies are free in the slums, don’t you know?”

  0033 Athan

  Their hands almost touch when Wick hands him the cap to the graffiti bomb. Athan twists it on, twists it tight, then tighter, but his gaze is lost somewhere on Wick and his slender, toned shape. Wick seems distracted just the same, studying Athan, sneaking peeks. Athan’s pretty sure Wick isn’t surveying his work ethic like he claimed a few minutes ago … but he’s surveying something, that’s for sure. Maybe I ought to flex a bit, see what else you’ll survey.

  “More ink?” Athan picks up the bottle, hands it over. When Wick reaches, their hands touch. Finger strokes finger as the bottle slips from one palm to the other, then he fills his little canister to the tip. Neither of them smile; the electricity in their fingers just smiled plenty enough.

  Then suddenly the bomb in front of Wick bursts, spraying blue words up his arm and across the ceiling. The two of them gasp, stare at one another, and explode into laughter.

  “Here,” says Wick, coming around the table, “you got some on your forehead.”

  “I do?” Athan bites his lip and stands still, letting Wick come up to his side, right up close, too close.

  “Yeah.” Wick licks his thumb, then gently brings it to Athan’s forehead, wiping. Their faces are inches apart. Athan notices his heart working faster. He lets go a smile.

  Wick notices, their eyes meeting as he continues to gently stroke his apparently-inky forehead. “What’re you smiling about, Sanctum boy?” Athan shakes his head. “Nothing, slum boy.” He still smiles. “Hey, keep still,” Wick commands, grinning, rubbing.

  Athan studies his sinewy arms as he goes, gently rubbing. He may be rubbing electricity into his forehead. Are you sure your Legacy is with smell? Because I’m starting to suspect your Legacy may be in your touch. “You have quite a figure,” Athan lets him know, “for someone who doesn’t regularly visit a gym.”

  Wick licks his thumb, starts dabbing somewhere at Athan’s temple, moving to the top of his cheek. “I get my training in. I work out in a metalshop down the road from my house. All my brothers are pretty athletic too, runs in the family.” He licks again. Even the way he licks his thumb is gentle, cute, his soft lips parting for the tongue, caressing the finger. “Except for my older brother Lionis. He’s … Well, the only thing he lifts are books. To his face. Though he does regularly climb trees, so …” Obviously thinking it funny, Wick gives a laugh.

  When he finishes, his hand rests somewhere on Athan’s shoulder. No words are shared for a while. Neither of them are smiling anymore, only staring. Athan gets a strange sensation like they’re staring into a mirror, except it’s not their own face they see, but a slum boy’s, and a Son of Sanctum’s.

  “I want to show you the roof,” says Wick suddenly.

  Athan raises a brow. “I’m allowed up there?”

  Wick pats him on the shoulder, rubs a bit. “It’s about time you let go of the rules and live. Isn’t that what you’re here for?” Wick’s eyes seem to flick down Athan’s body for the quickest moment, a nervous sort of gaze, perhaps. “C’mon, let’s get you out of this dusty loft. But you can’t tell anyone … That should be obvious enough.”

  “Obvious.” Athan grins, his heart fluttering with joy. The roof! He can’t imagine how many amazing things he’ll see up there … It’ll be like his nightly room-gazing up in the Lifted City, how he used to stare down at the slums, except … except I’m here! I’m actually here!

  Wick grips and slaps him on the shoulder again—apparently he likes my s
houlder—and they both move toward a skinny door at the other end of the room past a purplish tapestry.

  That’s when the thick-faced girl sitting at the table behind the tapestry speaks: “It’s not a good idea.”

  She was there the whole time?

  “You’d make a good spy, Cintha,” Wick jests. “I didn’t realize you were here. We’re just going up to the roof, not to the streets. We’ll be right back.”

  Cintha is so unreadable and devoid of expression, it’s difficult to figure what she’s truly feeling. All that seems to show in her face is a vague, apathetic sort of sadness. “I can’t stop you, obviously. But if Victra or Yellow find out—”

  “They won’t,” Wick assures her calmly, “because you won’t let them, right?” He winks, thinking himself charming, then pushes through the door and up a ladder.

  Sunlight spills over Athan’s face for the first time in a week. His first instinct is to breathe in deep when they emerge from the roof hatch, breathe as though he’d been all this time suffocating—but the first thing in his nose is a foul blanket of smoke and he erupts into a fit of violent coughing. Recovering, tears in his eyes, he says, “Ah, slums.”

  “Ah, slums,” Wick agrees, seeming to fight an urge to laugh. “All you dreamed it’d be?”

  Athan rushes up to the edge of the building, then feels the throb of his heart and steps away, exhilarated. He sits down, staring up into the bright sky and the dark and ugly thing in the way. He never until now regarded the Lifted City as a dark and ugly thing in the way … not ever, because at home, the stars and the moon and the sun and the clouds are never interrupted.

  Wick takes a seat next to him—surprisingly close—and he says, “Looks different from down here, huh?”

  Athan nods, wordless. He lies back, his shirt lifting a bit and showing a tease of his abs. From Wick’s staring, it has not gone unnoticed, and Athan doesn’t mind at all. Look all you like, he dares the slum boy. He’d be lying horribly if he said he didn’t enjoy the attention Wick gives him and his body. It was this very attention that saved his life after all, wasn’t it?

  The next instant, Wick’s lying beside him, staring up at the same obstructed sky. “So is it true that people in the Lifted City hate us,” asks Wick, “and think us dirty, and take no mind to us unless we aren’t delivering their berries and glass and luxuries quick enough?”

  “No,” Athan half-lies, answering too quick. “I mean, there’s always a bad word to have, but not just for the slums. Mother’s said a thing or two. And father. But I’ve always—Well, I’ve watched the strum of lights every nightfall at my window, sometimes over the railing of the Lord’s Garden … when there was a Lord’s Garden.”

  “I’m not sorry it fell.”

  “Neither am I.” Athan knows what he meant, and he’s sure Wick knows the same, as they’re both smiling. Even though a part of him is, in fact, sorry his favorite view-from-the-sky fell. “To be honest, I’m a bit surprised my family hasn’t made greater efforts to find me. Or,” he reconsiders, “maybe I shouldn’t be. They’re so involved in their own. My sister can be quite—oh, how do I put this kindly—grossly self-centered? Maybe she’s throwing another lavish party with my mother,” he adds gloomily, thinking on the last engagement he attended and how well that went. He still hears the boys and their scornful laughter, still feels his clothes drenched, sticking to his body. “My sister has plenty to celebrate, being rid of me the last week or so.”

  “I can’t understand how anyone would be happy to be rid of you. They ought to be lucky you breathe their same air.”

  Athan’s all his life waited for an opportunity like this. Never has another guy been so close to him … so possible. He realizes the hairs of their arms tickle each other. He’s that close! Suddenly Wick makes a nudge, and their arms are touching, skin to skin. His heart gives a jump. Their feet are close too. Athan gives a little kick of his shoe against Wick’s, a tease back. Wick lets out a little soundless chuckle; music to my ears, even when your laughter’s silent.

  “I don’t know if I can trust a Son of Sanctum,” Wick says suddenly. His voice is so, so small, barely carried by the wind.

  “All we seem to do at home is trust,” Athan replies. “I understand life down here may be different … Thieves, criminals, poor stealing from poor, and … lots of reasons to withhold trust. It’s not like that where I’m from.”

  “The rich lie as easily as the poor.” Wick nudges his arm again, sending happy electricity through Athan. “And I’m sure, if you consider it carefully, there’s as many a thief upstairs … Maybe you’ve been betrayed more than you know in your happy home in the clouds.”

  Athan lets his head rock a bit to the side, feels his hair grazing the side of Wick’s face. We are so close … He is so, so close to me. His life in the sky’s never given him such gifts. He bumps Wick’s foot again, slum shoe to his. This has to be driving him crazy. It has to be, because it’s driving me crazy. “I’d considered jumping from my bathroom window only days before the park exploded.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I was …” He thinks about the boys and the cruel laughter. The Lady Oalia and her giant, feathered hat. His sopping-wet suit, to the socks. The shamed look on his mother’s face and his sister’s. “I guess I just wanted to be free.”

  “Bird in a cage,” says Wick. Athan can feel the vibrations of his voice, that’s how close their heads are, practically touching. He gives his head another nudge, feels his temple at Wick’s soft ear. Their shoulders touch too, his pulse, racing. Athan realizes he’s rock hard now, his cock protesting against his pants. He squirms a bit. “I’m afraid you’ve gone from one cage to another.”

  “I like this cage better.” Athan sighs happily, his chest jumping, jumping, jumping. Cock pulsing. Wick’s shoe touches Athan’s, and doesn’t move away. It only now occurs to him: he’s opened my cage for a reason.

  Athan turns over suddenly, bracing himself with a hand, arms flexed, and lifts his body over Wick’s. Held there, eyes connected, noses a foot apart, just far enough to get a good, clean look at the slum boy’s adorable face. Nothing is said. No smile. Only staring.

  Wick’s hand moves, rests somewhere at the small of Athan’s back. His other hand rests on Athan’s ass. Is he exploring me, or inviting me? When Athan feels the subtle pull of hands, the tug … he answers.

  Their faces draw together, and their lips gently meet at last. Athan’s eyes shut, banishing the world.

  This close, he only hears slum boy breathing. Breath, that’s all he listens to, in and out, crazed and animal and made jagged with yearning. Their hips finally connect too, crushing into one another, and his cock is so hard that it aches when they press together, from his thighs to his steeled cock to his belly, he is suddenly sick with the joyous, crushing agony of another hunger.

  Their legs seem to unite, wrapped up firmly, even their shoes having a bout. Athan loves being in control, holding himself over Wick, his powerful arms on either side and their mouths wetly working on one another with tender tongues … every little action, an experiment. Does he like it when I lick his lips? They tilt their heads another way, his eyes still closed so as to feel the slum boy’s mouth more intimately. Does he like tongue? Does he like it when I suck, when I pull, when I shove my mouth so deep into his that it aches? Their faces may never come apart.

  Suddenly the world flips, Athan and Wick wrestling one another. They laugh, it’s so sudden, and then Wick’s the one on top, attacking Athan’s face in the sweetest way, two pawed animals pouncing. He’s stronger than he looks. The heat and the hardness generating below their waist isn’t a thing easy to ignore. I want to take off my pants. I want it free. I want yours free. Even as they kiss, Athan suddenly finds he can’t stop smiling.

  It seems like forever when they finally pull apart, Wick on top, and they study each other’s faces, both of them breathing hard. Wick’s mouth is wet and red. Hmm … My mouth is stronger than it looks too. Wick grins,
shakes his head, parts his lips as though to say something … then he lowers and gives Athan a gentler kiss, lip pushing lip. The world somersaults, blurring and swirling, full of giggles and weightlessness and breath.

  Wick rolls off, quivering. The two of them lie next to one another once again, though now their whole sides are pressed together. Despite the insane tightness that now bothers his pants, he feels the thrill rippling through his body like tiny shockwaves, calmer and calmer as he catches his breath. Was it a life in the slums, he wonders, or this, that I so wanted?

  Athan climbs to his feet suddenly, races up to the other edge of the roof. When he looks back, Wick’s sat up, confused and watching. “The buildings are close to each other,” Athan observes.

  “What’re you doing?”

  Athan peers down at the alley below. It’s such a far drop, but he knows he’ll clear it with just a bounce. The other roof’s so close, just like a boy’s arm, like a shoe …

  “Athan?”

  He takes several steps back, braces himself, then sprints. A great leap—a moment of weightlessness—and then his feet find the other roof, landing. Whipping around excitedly, he laughs and exclaims: “Easy!”

  Wick gets to his feet and slowly approaches the edge. He seems to be judging the distance—focused more on the vertical than the horizontal. Eyes meeting Athan’s, he says, “No way.”

  “Don’t you feel that charge inside?” Athan grips his own chest, how it rages. “How it tells you that you can make the leap? That you’ll survive? Listen to it!”

  Wick is afraid, there’s no doubt. But he slowly steps backward. Their eyes meet. “I’m a fool,” he calls out, the wind taking half his voice. Or maybe it’s the fear.

  Then he breaks into a run, his face tensed, screwed up in concentration. He hits the edge, jumps crazily, limbs spread and waving—and lands with plenty of distance to spare, breathing heavy, eyes wide and excited.