by Daryl Banner
And then Kid understands.
Remaining unseeable, Kid picks up the closest thing near her, a dented metal bucket containing pencils, but leaves the object in the visible world. The Head Lady watches, her needle eyes glossing over in fear. It’s working. Kid keeps the object within view and, with the grace of birds, pitches it across the room. It lands against the floor, contents spilled with an awful, clattering sound.
The woman, all her silver hairs appearing more silver by the second, says it simply. “You lied to me. You can’t see heat … you move things with your wicked mind, this foul Legacy of yours …”
“Like I said.” Aryl makes a squint and smirks smartly. “You don’t want to see me get angry. Sometimes I have no control of my powers and … and things go flying. Terrible things.”
Kid takes the cue and picks up a pair of scissors off the desk, aiming as if to fling them across the room and straight into the Head Lady’s heart.
The woman’s fear is quenched in an instant. Full of cold, she covers the length of the office in three simple strides, ignoring the scissors. Looking down on little spritely Aryl, she speaks in a tone so chilly and quiet it’s likely to freeze the both of their spines. “You ungrateful girl. We ought to put you on the streets and see how long you go until you die. They’ll cut your throat. Drag you to the market and make meat of you. Starving families in the ninth will eat you for dinner, you sick thing. Your family didn’t want you. Tossed to the orphanage and to me … generous, kind, giving me. I spend my days taking care of you. I make sure food’s in your belly. Three meals a day you get, isn’t it? More than you’d find on the streets. The spoiled shit of Sanctum is better than your like.”
Her every word drives Aryl further and further into the floor until suddenly her eyes have welled up, her mouth turned from smartly smirk to frown, and she falls to her knees.
No, Kid pleads, resisting an urge to kick her, or to kick the Lady or throw something else. Get up. Get up, stupid.
“Please,” Aryl says between her sobs. “I’m so sorry. Please. I have nowhere else to go! I’ll be grateful!! Please, please, pleeeease.”
The Head Lady Maram glares long and hard at the girl, her eyes like the spears of death. And in an instant, the cold is gone, and the woman rigidly wraps a hand around her in something of an embrace, hushing her, whispering soft words of comfort.
After the moment’s past, the woman says, “Clean this up. Every scrap, every … spider … and we will forget the rest of the punishment due to you for your regrettable behavior.”
“Yes, ma’am,” says little sobbing Aryl.
Maram turns at the door one last time. “Scissors.”
Kid, only now realizing she’s still holding the scissors in a faux-levitating state, drops them to the floor with a sad, tinny thud.
“Good girl,” says the woman.
The door shuts behind her.
Aryl starts with her work of cleaning up the paper spiders, throwing them into the trash bin one by one. For an awful while, Kid is left completely ignored, as though she’d become the ghost everyone thinks her to be. Finally she says, “You lied to me. I thought … I thought you saided your parents were dead.”
“Might as well be,” is all she returns, detached and empty. She studies the shape of a spider in her hand, letting it linger a bit longer before throwing it away. Aryl makes eyes with the red fog of Kid, then gives a huff. “She’s not all mean. Head Lady Maram is all I have, Red, don’t you get it?”
“We could be free,” Kid retorts, annoyed. “Living together on the streets. Get food stealed every day. It’d be fun, Aryl. Live anywhere we wanted … tops of buildings, alleys.”
“I prefer a warm room. I prefer annoying boys. I prefer three hot … three hot meals a day.” Aryl averts her eyes, continues the slow and tedious cleanup of paper.
Well, Kid considers, at least she isn’t dead yet.
Reluctantly, Kid joins in the throwing away of spiders. Aryl takes notice and her face visibly lifts, appreciating the help. Kid takes one of the spiders into her hand, throws it at Aryl and makes a hissing sound. Aryl breaks a smile, her whole face lighting up, and that’s when Kid decides it will be alright.
0055 Wick
Frey is seated at the table, her brown tangles of hair draped about her shoulders, and she holds a quiet discussion with her childhood friend Yellow. Wick has to remind himself that they are friends, that they’ve been friends, that all along Professor Frey has, in fact, been aware of the activities of Rain. She’s even been behind them, Yellow as her mouthpiece. She knows who Athan is and how he fell into the group. Literally. Frey looks a totally different person, but exactly the same. Or should I call her Gandra …
He understands why she had to hold the lie to them all, the reason she kept her identity secret. None of them could be trusted, not when she held such a righteous position as Professor Frey. Now that they are, all of them, in a certain predicament and under the Sanctum’s suspicious eye, they have something grave to lose, should their secrets be outed. Wick once felt that way not so long ago, when his friends weren’t aware that he could dream.
But now they know that secret.
“The Weapon,” Pratganth is saying to Wick, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe it’s some kid. Not a bomb, not a thing, but … can you believe that?? All the fear and the worry …”
“Don’t underestimate anyone’s Legacy,” Wick hears himself responding, borrowing the words of his professor.
“But he doesn’t even fight back.” Prat gives half a chuckle, his eyes barely visible under his curtain of tangled bangs. “I mean, he’s bound up with so much chain, you’d think he was a giant beast or something. He’s just a kid!”
“Outlier,” says Gandra.
The whole of them come to quiet at her one word. She turns her eye from person to person, ensuring that the seriousness of her word impresses on all of them. “Do not mistake what he is,” she goes on, “and keep your caution. There is a reason none of you are allowed in that room. It is not for mistrust of you, but for mistrust of him. We do not know what he’s capable of, only that he is in our control.”
From across the room, Rone makes a quiet comment. “But, being an Outlier … how do we know he’s really in our control? He’s bound by super heavy chains, sure, Cinth told me, but are we sure that can even contain him?”
“We don’t,” says Gandra simply. “But his power comes from his hands, we know this much. And with those hands bound to his own chest, he isn’t likely to use his power without bringing great harm to himself.”
“I still think I should burn his memory,” interjects Yellow, a tinge of annoyance in his voice.
“We may have need of that memory. Our opportunity is so close. Without their Weapon, Sanctum is unarmed and no tragedy can fall on us. An uprising can happen and the King stands naked, holding nothing but his own impending doom.” She gives a smart wink to her three students in the room. “Impending … My favorite word, remember? Right next to inevitable. It will happen, my little Raindrops. Our task now is to keep that Weapon hidden, keep that Weapon alive, and incite the rebellion. The slums will rise.”
“You just called us Raindrops,” mumbles Rone. Arrow, next to him, gives a chortle.
“I also gave an image of our King standing naked,” Gandra points out, playing back at Rone. “My sincere apologies. May we never have that privilege.” She glances at Yellow, who seems less than amused. “Oh, loosen up,” she says to him, tone changing at once. “We need levity around here. Things are much too serious. We can have a day to ourselves, can’t we? These five just rejoined us after a rather traumatic experience in the city. They must rest. And laugh. And think on what an old, wrinkly King looks like without his robes.” She gives a wink at Rone, who laughs.
“Yes,” Yellow says, his tone flat and hard. “Let us forget the dire peril we’re in. Let me forget it all for once.” He lets tip a glass of water that’s in his hand, drinking deep. Or so I think it
’s water.
Hours ago when they had first regrouped, each of them took a turn cleaning up in the two upstairs bathrooms, showering and wiping away the filth that the slums had so generously slathered on them. When Wick let the water wash away all the horror, he leaned against the hard, tiled wall and nearly fell asleep standing there. As he later dressed, he pulled on his red sleeveless jacket that he’d left in the loft before they departed so many days ago for the Weapon Show, and putting on the jacket was like returning home. Cintha even washed all their clothes for them while they were gone, so the jacket felt extra soft. He drew the hood, grinned himself silly, and forgot about everything that worried him for a solid thirty seconds.
It was a good, golden thirty seconds.
“You’re swaying,” Athan whispers into Wick’s ear, coming up from behind and bringing him back from the memory of those thirty lovely seconds. Two strong arms wrap around Wick at the waist, pulling him in like a stuffed bear. “You should get to a room soon, lay down your head.”
I should get home soon, he thinks instead, worrying on his mom, his brothers … The prospect of being home with them is so close, so possible. Why can’t he just take flight from this place?
He actually can. Gandra—Professor Frey—had explained to Rone, Tide, and Wick that their absences were excused from school, thanks to an expert working of the system by her influential hand. They are, in fact, not marked truant, excused away on account of an important school project. That also means that his family, by extension, is also safe from Sanctum’s eye.
He spins around to face Athan, puts a kiss on his lips, then notices his hair. “You managed to keep the blue in it.”
“I … I didn’t really wash my hair.” Athan laughs, putting a self-conscious hand to his head, his arm flexing. “But a little did come out. I had to get it out of my eyes. I …” He shrugs his two soft shoulders. “I kinda don’t want it to come out.”
“Blue boy,” says Wick, then kisses him again. Even his lips are soft … so, so soft.
Then Wick pulls away, fighting back a yawn, and the little moment is over. They sit leaning against the wall under the wide window, Wick loosely held in Athan’s arms. There’s a lot of separate conversations and chatter in the room, but Wick doesn’t pay attention to any of it. He just lets Athan’s arm hold him close, the hand giving a random squeeze every few minutes, and allows his heart an occasional lurch of excitement and his stomach a play of butterflies, entirely inspired by the Sanctum boy at his back.
Tide, who’d been in the other corner of the room spending time looking at leftover Charms with Arrow, Rone, and Victra, suddenly comes center of the room and belts out, “When’s lunch? Isn’t anyone else hungry as fuck?” His shoulders glow brightly when he raises his voice, burning under that dumb armor he still insists on wearing.
I still think it’s a bad decision. The regrettable and lowly Tide Wellport is now officially a member of Rain. It was somehow put to an unfairly slanted vote, and Gandra made a word or two to Yellow, who was finally talked out of taking all of Tide’s memory. How nice that would’ve been, Wick imagines, ruing, to make Tide forget everything, including his own Legacy. What’s a wind-pusher without his wind? And besides, sending Tide home without memory—and wearing all that purple glow—seems a cruel thing to do.
Suddenly the peace isn’t so peaceful anymore. Too many people here. Wick gently breaks away from Athan. “I think I need a minute. You’ll be fine, right? I’m just … I’m going downstairs for a bit. Don’t worry.” He doesn’t wait for a response, slumping down the wooden stair and out of the thick-aired loft. With Juston, Arrow, Rone, Victra, Tide, Athan, Gandra-Frey, Yellow … His head is likely to implode at any moment from the strain.
Downstairs, he passes Cintha sitting in one of the booths doing nothing at all. With a nod to her, he pushes through the kitchen doors, rounds a corner, and descends into the basement.
So cold. But it’s the only place without noise or occupant. He hugs himself, drawing his hood and cursing his jacket for having no sleeves. Really, doesn’t it defeat the purpose without any sleeves? He leans against the wall and lets himself slide to the floor. Wick takes his first deep breath, his body relaxing, his muscles unwinding.
He shivers. There is no reason in the world why this cellar should be so cold. But then he glances at the ugly metal door and is reminded why: the Weapon of Sanctum. Gandra made a strict instruction that no one is allowed in there. He couldn’t go in even if he wanted to; the door’s locked. It looks more like the vault to a safe than it does a door. Keep that Weapon hidden, keep that Weapon alive, she said. Wick still can’t get over the fact that the Weapon is a living, breathing person. A boy about his age, in fact. The first and last thing that he knows about the Weapon isn’t his name, nor his exact age, nor even a facial feature or color of hair.
It’s that his Legacy is in coldness. To think of coldness as a weapon unsettles Wick. Cold reminds him of loneliness, of every winter his family spends without a heater because they can’t afford one, of dead things. Outlier, he thinks, somehow relating to him. Chained up, locked up by your own secrets, a freak … Outlier …
After ten minutes, he’s warmed up considerably just hugging his own arms. He glances again at the door. Slowly, he rises and crosses the little cellar, coming around the long thick wine rack and standing in front of the metal door. He worries if he touches the door that he’ll freeze to it. He moves a wary hand, lets it rest on the handle. With just a little tug, he makes a frightening discovery.
The door is unlocked. It swings open only an inch. Instantly, his heart’s in his throat. What does he look like? He should shut the door. He should shut it and lock it. What if the Weapon is deadly? By all accounts, he is. Wick licks his lips, his hand still on the door, the worst of thoughts burning his brain. Don’t do it.
But maybe just a peek. Just a little peek.
Wick cautiously peers through the crack he’d just made in the door, as if the sight within could end his life in an instant. Through the crack he sees nothing but a brick wall. Further. Further in. Just a little peek. He pushes the door one more inch, dares his eyes. He sees the edge of a cage. Further. He pushes it once more, his lips parting, a shiver working its way up his back, tickling the hairs on his neck, and he sees him.
He sees the Weapon of Atlas. That’s him? The boy’s locked in the thickest chains he’s ever seen, his hands bound to his chest just as Gandra described. His hair is black and wavy, thrusting down his forehead in a crazed mess. His skin is pale as death and his sunken eyes show deep black pupils that look endless. Something about him doesn’t even seem human, though he plainly is. Don’t be a fool, Wick. It’s just your fear twisting your mind. The boy has a long, slender shape. He’s dressed in threadbare jeans, the knees jutting out of holes, and his shirt is two sizes too big, hanging half off his left shoulder and torn a bit at the neck. He looks a mess … a dark, ragged, brooding mess …
The boy doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t so much as twitch a finger, but his eyes move at once, finding Wick’s. The moment eye contact is made, Wick shivers and regrets opening the door. Even the handle he’s holding is becoming colder—as if frosting over. The breath in front of Wick’s face turns to mist, his eyes burning from the frigid atmosphere. This was a mistake.
He pulls the heavy door shut. It bangs horribly, its ugly sound assaulting the cellar and rattling his skull. There … I’ve had my peek. When he leaves the cellar and comes out of the kitchen, Cintha’s tiny voice finds him, still seated at the booth. “Did you meet him?”
Wick wrinkles his brow innocently. “Meet who?” She gives a meek smile, and Wick realizes he knows better than to play coy with Cintha; she seems to know most things before anyone else does. “Well … I didn’t mean to. The door was unlocked. A fine job we’re doing in keeping him hidden if we can’t even manage to keep the door locked.” He makes a dry, joyless chuckle.
“He’s about to be fed,” she explains. “I unlocked the door. The
kitchen’s making lunch for us, a bowl’s set aside for him.” She peers down at her fingers, studying them. “I told Kendil I’d leave the door unlocked so he could feel less …” She can’t find the word, shrugs instead. “Anyway. He’s not gonna hurt us.”
Wick takes a seat at the booth with her, his hand finding a spoon and playing with it nervously. “What do you mean he’s not gonna—Wait. Kendil? That’s his—?”
“Yeah. Kendil.” Her eyes don’t meet Wick’s, as though she’s ashamed. “They don’t know I’ve been talking to him. I refuse to call him what everyone else does. He has a name.”
“The Weapon, you mean? Oh, sorry …” Wick wipes an eye, then leans forward, curiosity driving him. “So how do you know?”
“That he isn’t gonna hurt us? Well. I think he wanted to be captured. I think … I think we treat him better than his last owners did. Owners.” She sighs, pressing hands to her face. “Owners. Like he’s a pet. Owners. I can’t believe I said that.”
The door to the shop clatters at the sound of a pair of customers coming in. The floor seems more lively than it’s ever been, at least while Wick’s here. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that he hasn’t ever known the Noodle Shop during the day, only visiting it at night in the past.
He thinks on Athan suddenly. “We treat our captives well.”
“We don’t trust them well.” She gnaws on her lip, looking up at Wick with apologies in her eyes. She speaks as if shyly choosing each word. “If only things were … easier. I know that you and the sky-boy are close. And I know you’ve grown closer, I can sense it. Sexual energy is my Legacy, after all.”
“I wonder what’d happen if you used your Legacy on a guy like me,” says Wick, trying to get a smile out of her.
She just shrugs. “I wouldn’t try. Maybe I’m wrong about my ability. Maybe all I do is quicken pulses. Maybe I just push at men’s hearts. Maybe I’ve had it wrong all along.”
“Maybe.” Rone had planted such a notion deep into Wick’s worries. Until now, he hadn’t given it much thought. It’s too scary, too overwhelming, the idea that Wick’s Legacy might’ve been something entirely different than what he’s thought it’s been his whole, seventeen years of life … and to think, how he’d been covering up his Legacy with the lie of “acute smelling” …
