Jaceus sat on his makeshift throne of crates, and briefly recalled living as a prince of the Nötr without their adoration.

It was not comfortable, by any means. Nor were the stares and gazes of awe, wonder, trepidation, and even hope, on the faces of the Furies. With some exceptions, including Melea––who’d changed her name and went by d’Voris––and the one named Valha’ya, their leader, and his direct subordinate, Wisteria––they were little different in terms of their use of the Gene from some of the other Scions he had met in his time here.

As he looked at the bot of Glid, floating still in front of him, a message came to him by receptor––d’Voris. He accepted. She’d be returning with Lucas, and thereafter he’d discuss things with their current leader. Jaceus––tell the others, Lucas has gone missing, I suspect he has been taken. Inform the leader first. He had come here, sensing magic beneath his feet, only to find that one of their lackeys was burning their own hair to make lunch. Nothing of that original feeling of wonder, pure magic, that Skylark had cast, how long ago was it? Not even a month? With so many of them less potent than he’d expected for an anti-government group, the sense of magic he’d had waned for him. Their leader was currently standing at the far end of the room, discussing the next tower to burn. Jaceus had wondered at their perceived end goal, but only briefly; he now thought more on the powers of those who led this place.

“Jaceus, if I could ask you something," came d’Voris’ voice. Porte. “Yes, go ahead," he replied. The elder Furies member shook his head. “You really are something, Jaceus. You aren’t fazed at all by the use of my trait, are ya."

“I’m afraid not, Porte.” The man took several steps back, his mouth open. Jaceus gave a slight smile and, still in Porte’s voice, said, “It comes as naturally to me as breathing your air.” Well, after a few steps. But he’d done those so many times.

Oh, if only he had his Magpotis, yes, he could outshine all of the technology that he saw in this place. Not for the first time, he glanced around the concrete-embedded room and reviewed their powers.

Besides him, Porte. Scion Magy’cal, but could only change his voice. With his penchant for costumes, he was their reconnaissance. The man was smiling as he watched Jaceus look at the others.

Down by those single-stacked crates, Cade Melt and Kelit Forest. They were fashioning Lucas’s next implement, using only a pair of pliers and, of course, Kelit’s burning hair. A smell that he did not care to get used to. Cade could communicate with, or rather interpret the nonexistent souls of nonliving objects. Jaceus suspected that while Cade was Scion, his true trait was far less interesting, and that his ’object-reading’ was a façade. He knew, because even––because even Ila ce couldn’t do that, and objects had already been tested for the possession of souls. He coughed, and cleared that name from his head. Kelit could accelerate their hair growth, which they kept long, and readily used to burn. It made sense that neither member was a part of their fighting corps.

Ah, he was to tell their leader of Lucas’s capture. One who could actually read minds, or rather just human emotions. He’d declined Lucas’s request to check his own. Jaceus stepped off the crates, causing them to collapse, and walked forward to their leader. Porte from behind him moved quickly to rearrange the arrangements of metal.

“...Yeah, yeah, I know. We’re about to get overhauled.” Their attempt at a leader was, as usual, exuding not the seriousness demanded of his position, but an overt indolence. “Agate, your trait hasn’t been tiring you?”

Agate shook her head. “That is the way it works, boss.” Their chief director of communications, Agate Lide. Scion Zarr, her mind did not exhaust itself. A noble trait for certain given her role, though it did not preclude any physical toil that working would bring to her body. Jaceus noted how Agate’s receptor was blinking rapidly, as if to indicate that she was sending Thought messages to d’Voris, or to the other Scions in the room.

She noticed his approach, and went to tightening her ponytail. It was primarily a Lowers style, but even through High their hair was unnatural. Body-maintenance prescriptions. If he could tell Triomphe about that… If. “Yes, Mr. Elf. Whaddya need?” their leader asked, feigning of course his continued sloth. Jaceus knew he was quivering in his soul. His trait, or traits, he did not yet know. Agate respectfully stepped out of the way, biting her lip.

Wisteria Blend, likewise Scion Zarr with potent regeneration, was sitting just out of his peripheral. “Leader.” He did not know his name either; only one of theirs had a name, Taylor Cole. “d’Voris has contacted me; it seems that Lucas Kotaro has been captured. She should be on her way back.”

Agate smacked a hand to her forehead, causing her ponytail to swish. The unnamed leader of three frowned. “Now, that’s a problem.”

Clash. The pliers. Some steps and Cade rushed over, pulling at his beard. Followed closely by Kelit, gripping an unopened pack of what they called ‘cigarettes,’ an even more foolish thing than burning one’s hair. Jaceus crossed his arms and waited for the hubbub to dissipate. Cade, who was presumably close with Lucas, was asking Jaceus harried questions; the McFellen siblings were coming over now, light being emitted from Zefayus’s hands and Faer’s eyes; Porte had sat on one of his crates, head held in his hands. Glid’s bot was hovering at the edge of the crowd.

Valha’ya, the other Scion Magy’cal he had yet to ask about their trait, was running the photo shop above. Jaceus wondered why they could not just ask d’Voris herself via receptor, but calmly answered their questions as best as he could. Was d’Voris harmed? No. Lucas had been taken from within a v-World store; they had established a portal within the store itself, and d’Voris could not question the store owner, who had disappeared. Which Agent had taken him? They did not know. Jaceus felt some curiosity towards these Agents, installed by the Government. He had seen their listings––so confident were they––and they had so many. From his questioning of Porte, he’d gleaned that the topmost Agents were rarely encountered, as the listings rotated so frequently, and the most recent threat, one with brown hair, was a rare strength and, according to Lucas, had abilities surpassing those of d’Voris, Scion Emulus. Jaceus wondered… he did not do so for long. No matter how well versed in combat one could be, he could not use magic, and for that Jaceus knew he would have the advantage. If Ila ce were in his place she’d be enjoying the attention, although feigning boredom; but she knew nothing of human beings. She’d be maintaining her pull to them, and perhaps even doing some of their nexus tube food-making with her hands alone, or using her will. Well, maybe she wouldn’t go that far with those who were not born to use magic.

“Jaceus, what will you do?” asked Faer.

As if I alone can remedy their loss. Jaceus had only been there a few hours, and was already receiving the trials of leadership. Back home, he didn’t have to; and back in the Nötr that had been the way of things. The Furies had a leader; although looking at him slouched on his crate, Jaceus felt he understood their lack of organization.

“What can I do? They returned Nodari Vane to you; we can expect them to extend the same courtesy to Lucas. He is likely being stripped of his emotion reading as we speak.” He’d ask Valha’ya her trait, and compare it to the certain gifted Scions he had found shortly after appearing on Earth. Just two of them, and both had declined any further contact; the first a child Scion Ab’maluk who could play with memories as children of the Nötr would play with their magic; the second a Scion Zarr who’d displayed imperviousness to his endowing of will. Remaining in contact with d’Voris had been pleasant, as a Scion of his own race; but in truth she’d only reminded him of his sister.

Zefayus barked a nervous laugh. “At least he won’t beat us at future anymore,” he said, as if to make a joke; Faer glared at him. Cade shook his head. “First Nodari, now Lucas,” he said. “They’re whittling away at us.”

“As I was telling Agate, we’re about to get swept like the baseball teams,” their leader quipped.

“Well, Lucas can still fight, can't he? He's still one of our best at basic combat,” Agate noted; but Jaceus saw that her usual brisk manner of speaking had colored. Why each of them remained together, even pursuing renegade guerilla-style as Lucas had put it, Jaceus simply did not know… well, the tone of the room was rained down enough.

“I will go upstairs, to discuss with Valha’ya,” he said, and several of the others turned to look at him, hope reappearing on their faces. These hapless Scions.

Well, perhaps he would give them some more, and the Jaceus prior to the Bearing laughed inside his head sardonically. Jaceus walked to the end of the room, to the metal stairs leading up to the photo shop, to more oohs and aahs from the descendants. He climbed the stairs forcefully. He arose into the bright room of the photo shop, housed by their second, Valha’ya Glorae. She was sleeping on the counter. Fully spread across it, one of her arms dangling over the side, across the glass case containing photo frames, the other slabbed across her chest, which had its usual tears and holes. This would only be his second time conversing with her, or making that attempt; she had a certain standoffish attitude towards him, to her superior in the use of magic.

“A potent vision, but I am not your enemy,” he said.

The person on the counter made a soft sound, as if barely woken from sleep; it turned over, almost falling off. Jaceus made no move to prevent it. He sighed, and thought about the presence of magic in the room––there, held within the tall sansevieria behind the far edge of the counter. He dispelled it without motion.

The sansevieria glimmered, before closing up its fronds into itself, to realize into the real body of Valha’ya Glorae. She was not dressed in her usual torn tank top and Lowers jeans; she had donned a full suit of High flynder, lined eierch, and soleless iststarkes. The standard professional outfitting of High Government officials. Jaceus noted that she kept the illusion of sleeping, out of place Valha’ya on the counter. Her hair was cut, again in the High style, shaped around her face to point down in two ends, one across each cheek. It was a hazy pistachio.

He nodded, and smiled. Scion Magy’cal, truly. “Thank you for showing me your trait,” he spoke, and the true Valha’ya shook her head. “This is not my trait.” As she said trait, the Valha’ya on the counter yawned, and sat up. Jaceus took a step back. Wait. It was not an illusion. “Ah, hello, Emulus,” the second Valha’ya said. “Don’t tell the others. Only the leader knows. Consequences of the Gene, and such. For me.”

The first Valha’ya nodded, and returned to being the sansevieria.

The second Valha’ya––the one known to her comrades––lay back down on the counter, and closed her eyes. “I’ve put up the closed sign. You can go back downstairs. Get Porte in two hours.”

With that she stopped speaking, and soon began to “sleep,” her only movements the slow rise and fall of her chest.

“Verx,” Jaceus uttered.

enter Melea Voraëson

I wake up on hard steel crates that my clothing barely manages to shield from. They are the same I slept on the night before last, and the night before that. For the past week or more. The unmoving concrete ceiling lies above me, my first sight of the day. I give the premises a quick glance, and confirm that the others are here with me, most of them still sleeping, none on crates themselves. Lucas of course, if awake would have been looking my way… I’m not sure how I feel about Jaceus’ response to his capture, but he has only recently come to us.

“Morning, d’Voris,” Kelit tells me, unfurling their hair from beneath their head, which they used as their pillow. I catch sight of an opened, unfull pack of cigarettes, before their hair swathes it. “A new day,” I reply.

I’m sorry, Lucas, for not even saying goodbye. “I’ll be outside.” Your memories will be intact, so you will remember those words. I’ll try again… Thought message to: Lucas Kotaro.

They took it off you, as to be expected. Knowing Mik’vael, you’ll be treated appropriately, at least.

Cade, sleeping heavily wrapped in one of Agate’s blankets, rises next, and glances to his right, saying something. No one is there, except for parts of a set of pliers. After a second he returns to the blankets, covering himself completely. Our last conversation with the real you––“But you can have Jaceus on.” Those can’t be your last words, they don’t fit you. I should know. You knew you couldn’t win against that Agent––makes my trait look trivial––and yet you tried. I hope you kept your ideals to the end.

Vor, you’re kidding yourself. Lucas was not as far along in the Gene as you were… maybe eight percent at most. The one time you allowed him to check your emotions, when he first joined. I could tell. And I know you haven’t pursued its growth any further significantly, for if you had, you’d have sung its advancement to me. I’m almost at twenty per cent… back when Nodari joined, I believe he was around thirty. Still don’t know about Valha’ya, she doesn’t talk about it. But I think she’s even higher, or in between Nodari and myself.

Glid’s bot is turned off. He’s home, his real home. The next time I see him in person, I’ll ask him some questions. Ever since they got Lucas something’s been lingering at the back of my thoughts. If… if she is coming in force, she’d let me know. She didn’t for the bakery visit, but they were just taking Nodari who’d happened to be outside. She looked good then. Two years ago when Valha’ya faced their First Agent, she couldn’t defeat him. But he couldn’t defeat her. Hmm. Let’s see… my twin daggers, check. The boss is over there, besides Wisteria. Only one entrance but their weapons… let’s see what the Government has listed today. Scroll, scroll… there she is.

Kojo, spinner

Xeric, none

Mik’vael, aegis

R’aegoth, none

N’ziet, none

Felton, holo throwers

1123, N/A

Artok, weapon

Hector, Mr. Crabs

Shaen, andante

More “none”s this time. I hope they’re not as strong as R’aegoth. He was not a Scion… What strength, for one fully human.

Thought message: Mik’vael Voraëson. Accept.

Mel, just letting you know that I’ll be coming in today. Full strength.

Thanks, Vael. How many should we be concerned for?

Our top three, unfortunately. The Director wants to sweep.

Thank you for telling me. When will you be coming?

An hour after we send in a Fury. He was your partner, right?

Yes, he was. Talk to you later, Vael.

Put up a good fight, sis.

… At least he didn’t give her his name. He still has that. “Lucas Kotaro.” A good name, one he kept from his receptor registration. Unlike yours truly, who changed her born name by arranging some letters and removing some. Especially the ë. I will not have the High E down on my surname, unlike my sister. But she still works for the Government. It’s a good position. I wonder what our parents would say about it now.

Agate is walking towards me, a plate holding two cups of coffee in her hands. Her eyes are very worn. She was probably working all night, which she can do of course given her trait. But her body will still show the efforts. Thank you, Agate, for being the committed member you are.

She takes a sip from one of the cups, exhales softly, and hands the other to me. I take it. My body may uphold minor exhaustion, and I have not fought in some time, but those crates are hard. “Thank you, Agate.” She nods, and takes some more deep sips of the coffee.

“Any luck on finding a new place?” I ask.

Agate shakes her head. Her ponytail is off today, her bright yellow hair sitting slumped on her neck. “Not yet, d’Voris. The boss believes Lucas will be sent here, followed by some Agents. I’ve also been arranging with Zefayus and Porte some backup plans.”

I nod. I will tell her about the hour… no, you can’t. They do not know that the Second Agent is your biological sister, non-Scion, but sister nevertheless. “I do have this feeling. Strong Agents… like the one that incapacitated me, might be coming.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

And we’re hopelessly underprepared. The Lazy Boss is still in rotation, we can’t do anything with him unless he joins in protecting this place. He has not once used his trait in the entire seven years I have been with the Furies. That I am aware of. Wisteria may know. I should talk to Wisteria.

“I’ll make more coffee,” Agate says, and walks back to the steel ladder. I am finished with mine, and seek out Wisteria. She is also quite far along, for her age… but she does not talk either. I may have to use force.

I do not see Jaceus in the room. He has returned to his own domicile, after all. I put a hand on my receptor. I can always contact Jaceus Rodoym if we must. He is pure Emulus and can walk distances and command non-Scions and replicate most Scion traits, even if not Emulus. I need to trust in the prince. I hear the bell upstairs, the one of Porte’s photo shop.

I get up, and Cade is already struggling to get out of his blanket. Agate’s voice, which my ears pick up, comes from above, greeting Lucas’s voice, which is hearty. I continue walking, and then steps come down from the ladder, and Lucas steps down himself. He’s trying to straighten his hair and is making the fist signals with Cade. It’s their own thing, I don’t do it myself. I think I might be smiling. All seems normal, for now. He has lost his trait, and is wearing what must be Government material. Flynder. I recognize it, of course. I grew up wearing it every day.

“Lucas. Welcome back.”

“Yeah, Lucas! d’Voris is saying hi. Cheer up, Lucas.” Cade puts an arm around Lucas’s shoulder. Lucas looks at me, and smiles.

“Lucas? Guys, guys. I go by Luke, remember, is she new? She’s new. Cade––you gotta tell me in advance of our alter recruits! Hey.” He is coming over. “I’m Luke. Luke Kotaro. Welcome to the Furies, er… d’Voris, was it? d’Voris. Ah, that apostrophe. Cool. It’s very nice to meet you.”

I walk, and to my left walks the First Agent Xeric, poised to share his caliber with his inferior Agents; to my right, walks Second Agent Mik’vael, brushing her hair by hand; behind me some ten paces, proceeds Eighth Agent N’ziet rik Drie, deigning to hold a pair of bodiezes in his hands; he is flanked by Seventh Agent 1123, and Tenth Agent Artok of the Second Bureau, their Weapon leaned against their shoulder and towering over our host, casting a dim shadow; towards the front pads our Ninth Agent Felton, wagging its tail.

Hector, and Sara, were neither chosen for this task; the former rightly, albeit by Director Morht’s reasoning of “insufficient time to master his new weapon,” which has been uploaded to the listings we so generously provide. Sara’s cause for vengeance was good justification for her removal from this operation.

Bola, were she here, would be throwing Felton’s holos; we will have to designate one for the task. N’ziet echoes my thoughts immediately. “Would someone care for leading Frisbee?”

“Not me!" Xeric chirps, sounding more youthful than his normal self. He is younger than all of us, true, but older in identity; watching him skip lightly along the sidewalk, I almost envy the miniscule creatures that he doesn’t care to avoid.

Mik’vael shakes her head. I agree; her powers are needed.

Agent 1123 raises their hand. Felton woofs, and prances over to their placement in our phalanx, tongue lolling. 1123 Thinks before reaching into the air, and pulling out Felton’s toys. They are well shaped. Much superior to Hector’s fishbone cadaver.

I nod in approval, and examine with moderation the sights. We are in a Lowers borough, a broad street lying between our unit and the opposing sidewalk; they use it for their vehicles. Streetlamps populate both sidewalks every ten paces. Storefronts meet my cursory gaze, discouraging me from breaking off from the platoon to try their offerings. A clothing store. A warehouse for their phones, which we do have, but only use when in Lowers. A place for eating food made by a small-time corporate, I believe it is called a ’restaurant.’ A theater.

“Mik’vael, please go over the Scions again.” Xeric, hands clasped behind his back. His white hair waves gently in the midmorning gusts, like a gathering of snowflakes.

“Of course, First Agent. Their foremost threat would be contained in their leaders, who rotate without a set schedule. They rarely participate in combat, but––”

“Today, we shall ply their strengths,” N’ziet interjects. “Powers against powers create revelations.”

“Yes, N’ziet. Whoever is on rotation today, all three are never on site simultaneously, as our agent inside noted in his report.” Xeric nods. He has read the report, as I have, as all seven of us have prior to stepping into this levgion. Xeric is one for review, which is a good trait to have.

“But as our agent opines, the leaders’ descendant strength surpasses that of their current #2, Valha’ya Glorae––” Xeric laughs like a child–– “combined with the leaders’ personal assistant and #3, Wisteria Blend, as well as a close #4, Malae d’Voris. R’aegoth, can you qualify her skill?”

Ah, I have almost forgotten. I mince over a crack in the sidewalk. “Not a threat to be noted. She overpowered Hector, which is to say, N’ziet?”

The bodiezes crack in his wrists. “Nothing at all.”

“Affirmed, Mik’vael. Continue.”

“We can ignore the rest. N’ziet, you and 1123 will capture this d’Voris. Remember, we only purify, do not harm if able.”

Felton whines.

Mik’vael smiles besides me. “And you as well, Felton. You three will be responsible for her capture.”

R3-MD’s daughter barks.

Our weapon shadow swerves, as Artok avoids a streetlamp. “I’ll preclude the rest of the Furies,” they say, and I nod. “That leaves our most harnessed three. I would moot one per leader, but alas, they rotate, as this agent says. Our three for Wisteria, Valha’ya, and the leader sitting post today.”

“A 3 v 3 game! Sounds fun!” Xeric whistles. He pauses briefly to jump over a ‘fire hydrant.’

We stop at an intersection, to allow some ‘cars’ to move past with a light that holds red, hanging over our heads, but not over Artok’s weapon. In my mind, the logical procedure would be to pit our First against theirs, our Second against Valha’ya, and myself against their own third. However, Xeric ostensibly had difficulty with their second, which gives me some pause.

Some twenty paces behind us stop some Lowers residents, no doubt halted by our presence. I do not wonder at their thoughts about our identities.

Mik’vael applies the finishing touches to her lavender. It has undergone no change, of course. “Ermm. There’s a rational way to go about this, isn’t there.”

Xeric shakes his head. “Please. I believe our Director prizes efficiency for success. Valha’ya Glorae is a powerful Scion. Mik’vael, you and I will combine strengths to take their leader, and in so doing, remove one head of the cerberus. Blend is rarely unattached to them; we will take her as well.

“R’aegoth. Your physical ability will prove good against Valha’ya’s trait––you shall face her well, as you have before. Celebrate!”

He is our First Agent. It is a most sound plan.

“As reviewed in our briefing, you know their faces.”

The light above becomes green, and we move forward. “With the success of this operation, we will have significantly reduced their overall threat, or annoyance rather, short of their other two leaders,” Mik’vael states. “We can take care of them later, perhaps after the Examinations.”

“Do they sell coffee here?” Artok asks. Mik’vael turns her head back to them, and nods. “Good. I’ll buy, say… in an hour.”

“Leave your weapon outside, when you do that.”

Artok chuckles.

My eyes now receive what appears to be a modest storefront, a window case holding photos. Families united, school youths, elderly which exist in the Lowers. A young man with features to combat my own is leaning against the door. He has shoulder-length golden hair, and looks upon us with what must be immense disdain, or a passing interest. This must be their leader.

Mik’vael throws an arm out, and a leg for Xeric. “You are not Taylor Cole––who are you?” she asks. Her shoulders are tense, and looking upon the person more directly, I feel something strange, a tiny antlion etched into the pit of my stomach, for this individual is not like one I have encountered before in this world.

Scene 2

Tr’aedis recited lines from Meniscus’ Pastiche of Bodiezes and Parabol’s Folly in Calendar Summer inside his head. The one in black besides him stayed silent, treading the long grass without trampling their shards. They did not speak to each other, and Tr’aedis felt more comfortable going over nymbic meter in Neo English than the unfamiliar language of the people here. He did not know where he was, or how he came to be there, but he had a receptor that did not work, which suggested no Worldnet; an alter-zippered light vest, Armadillo brand; silver-brown cordons; and Falcon shoes. They all failed to merit the ’alter’ label when he looked at the three wing-marked cloaks ahead, which seemed to ripple with the air of the morning not because the wind moved them, but because they moved the wind.

He looked as, gently as the grasses swayed, the figures ahead floated out of sight. He continued to look but did not see them, only the grass which was unperturbed by their swift departure. It was as if they’d shimmered out of visibility by portal; but there was no portal, and Tr’aedis knew that none were in this place, that none were needed. The individual besides him quickened their pace, and Tr’aedis hurried to follow. As he walked, he began to notice shapes sitting deeply on the horizon; large polygons that had a form so delineated as to be discerned from this distance. He brought his eyes further forward, and saw that the grasses were ending; or rather, becoming more sparse, with more of the ground showing itself. Their feet now began making soft pads along the dirt. More of the foreign creature, a group of them, leaped and jumped out of their way, some dozen meters ahead; he heard curiosity, and turned his eyes up to see winged figures making their way along the sky. They were small to the eye, but he could tell they were human-ordered, with discernible faces, torsos, limbs, and feet. They did not look his way.

“Mayre wendte torr,” the other said, and Tr’aedis’s vision became complicated by certain outlines, or hues, laid upon the grassless plain between themselves and the formations beyond. He attempted to take it in as they stood upon a low-rising hill, facing the empty ground; the hues were blue, but they were also red and green, and sand from ancient texts; of amethyst, of portals’ opalescence, of the tea-full scented orange he would waft when passing the Dorr house. He continued to look. They were outlines. They were distinct and flowing lines drawn upon the area, that moved and wavered with the land, of ideas and notions and thoughts to be had. He knew he was in a place, a place superior in breadth, that supported the grass behind him; but he knew also that what he saw before him was the shape of a world.

“Veld-het.” The man of crenulations placed a hand on his shoulder, and moved him forward. In this means they approached the nearest idea. Tr’aedis realized then that the thoughts were forming a letter, and that the letter resembled an N.

The man touched a hand to the letter, and indicated that he do the same.

He reached out, and put his palm against the blue.

“Got you this time, Elly,” he yelled, running back “And here we present to you, the closing act of Mindolet,

into the portal sending Thought for Home, and starring Tr’aedis von Hiischklen as Mindolet.”

disappearing, Eleanor’s wispy yellow The mediary crowd got up, clapping, as Tr'aedis

hair running in the wind laughed and took turns bowing to all sides

“It’s your favorite, habelsam floret,” Father

said, pushing the plate towards him. Tr’aedis

took the floret up with his fingers, and licked

the cream off first. It was wonderful and he

asked Mother for more

“I’m Tr’aedis. And what shall your name be,”

he asked the soft-haired person, who identified

himself as Klost, Klost Louv. He was in the same

Methods class as Eleanor. He asked if they could

be friends, and Tr’aedis declined. His one true

Waking up and the automatic window revealing

Eleanor’s house, across the street. He could walk there

again today, without portal. He’d do it to annoy her.

A scent… it was not quite something he had smelled before. A rough, full odor of rawness and power, of thrill and stupor all at once. He thought of real mindo. He breathed sights of High’s architecture, alter titanium platforms pursuing the cities. He touched the mixture of plants hidden in the bio terra forests and the tints of morning air clinging to portal walls; he opened his eyes, and a hand, an arm, was extended bare towards him.

“Mnide, gönhel,” they asked, and in their hand was cupped a shard of the brightest pink, nearly shining into Tr’aedis’s eyes. It had its own layers, or spirals, held within the item of food, which he felt it to be; not knowing what else to do, he glanced at his guide, who nodded; and he took the shard into his fingers. He instinctively almost dropped it, for it had appeared sharp; but it was soft, and the shard relaxed in his own cupped hands, expanding into a flat, round circle. He leaned in towards it, and more of that foreign power entered his nostrils, his veins, surpassing the sparse body-maintenance nanos swimming around his capillaries; he extended his tongue, and licked.

It was pecan. As he moved his tongue between his teeth, he tasted carefully tended hedges, and tall spires, and a certain window. It was somehow familiar, yet also a taste he had never had before, from any of the levgions; he swallowed, and said thank you in his own tongue.

The person nodded, smiling. A full mouth, under a nose and ears and eyes strongly formed, front-facing more of that light-producing hair the other had possessed, which glinted in, Tr’aedis realized, the heat of midafternoon. The person besides him said something in their language, and with his black-ridged arm pointed once more ahead, and Tr’aedis squinted to make out, far ahead, the woman who had politely questioned him, with hair of the sun. She was moving her hands through the air in front of her, and some flickerings. Golden flickers. As Tr’aedis’s eyes adjusted, more color and movement and sound swathed his vision and senses; and he saw the kind of place where he was, a place he could only compare briefly to the Blucorps student organization at Blazon; they were making food.

His guide walked in that direction, and Tr’aedis continued to follow, and attempted to take in what was around him.

He almost bumped into a low, white creature, although not wholly white; it possessed a tangly skin that, running his fingers through, came off in fluffs. He hastily returned them to the creature, which emitted a baaa and bustled past, followed by three others of the same. Large pedestals that supported transparent globes and spheres and round spaces within which, Tr’aedis saw, people were sitting on what appeared to be invisible seats in the air; they were eating. Soft tinges and flickers and swells rose from their hands, and without being able to smell through their containers, Tr’aedis at once felt envious of whatever it was they were eating; for it was natural, made here. More scents arose, and he found it hard to distinguish which was coming from where; which colors to associate with feelings; as with the person who had given him his first taste, which he realized he craved, she was one of many arrayed in a fine row, one on each side of a path; there wasn’t only the strange white creature, but also plump, mahogany grunters, making oinks as they bustled past; neither animal was tended, as they walked on their own accord through the place. The ground below his feet was smooth, and somewhat translucent; it reflected a dim brightness as he glanced at its shining surface. He noticed that the individuals on either side of him were all moving their hands through the air, signifying not language or emotion but simply structure, as other shards, a globule here, a spiky concoction there—food was being grasped from the air! One of the makers had what resembled his guide’s crenulated clothing, but not quite the same; for they had it on their face, in some lighter fashion, as well as their head, and instead of hair, what looked like frozen flames. And they were wearing clothing covering it, the same as their companions: slim-fitting material that might have been shirts and pants, but looked of one piece, and each had its own design, too complex for him to take in singly; he moved past.

They arrived before the person wearing the wings on her sleeves. With a last flourish, she pinched her fingers and a tight, dark-brown rod shaped by softened swirls taking their turns around its length completed its appearance; her hair light, she took the piece which was far too delicate to be food, and put it to her lips. Closing her eyes, she seemed to take it into herself. Tr’aedis and the one wearing black watched as she nodded, giving it her approval; before laying it down on the low-raised seat by her side, which carried several others. She then turned to his guide; Tr’aedis noticed that she was no longer accompanied by the man with silver hair, or the one who had not spoken.

“Aveï Puræ, stym-nu Dtaer,” she told Puræ, for that must be his name. Tr’aedis recognized; it sounded like ’pure,’ or ’purer,’ but with the last syllable relaxed. Puræ nodded, a hint of a smile kneeling behind his eyes; they were a subdued gold. The result, Tr’aedis thought, with the absence of hair, struck him as the bearing of one who would forsake his beliefs for the sake of another, even to the extent of self-abasement; that was what Tr’aedis saw: eyes that could be playful, but also strong. Puræ put a hand on Tr’aedis’s head, in a gesture that may have been of gentility, or authority, or control. “Ligaeryen-nort dir?” he asked the woman, with what Tr’aedis deemed to be a full combination of the utmost respect and a grounded familiarity.

She nodded. “El-taenis vent worn, faet shi. El-lënt wendth torr.”

She beckoned for Tr’aedis to follow, as she turned to walk forward through the place of food creation. Tr’aedis followed once more, taking in the smells, the vibrant colors, the cries of greeting from the other makers as the woman passed them. She laughed, waving her cloak-borne arm, sheets of sun draped across. The people knew her. Puræ besides him nodded left and right; he was known here as well. Tr’aedis felt something strange in his heart; he was walking through the backstage lights, and into the heady appraisal of the unknown faces.