Bryn

On Level Eight, you can’t tell the wristband has affected projections. Everyone’s so colourful anyway — vibrant hats, recycled outfits, and layers upon layers of fashions that saw their heyday before the dawn of time.

Still, here I am, lurking in a manner I’ve never thought I was capable of in the real, wearing a black hoodie I borrowed from Greyson yesterday and have no intention of ever giving back. It’s huge, enveloping me to mid-thigh and swallowing my hands, but it’s comforting and even smells nice. It also makes me invisible among the Bottom Dwellers and creates a barrier between them and me as they keep rubbing against me as if I’m an extension of their own bodies.

It’s slow going, mainly because of the crowds, made slower as I’m really not sure where I’m going. I’ve managed to track most of the names in Jonas’ book and every single one of them have been no help at all. I’ve one left. A woman by the name of Dorothy Needleye.

Where’s that glitching bolt gone? Greyson mutters in my mind and I smile, enjoying the gentle background noise of him focusing on his work.

I’m beginning to like this level. The language is exquisitely complicated. I love the challenge of finding new hand-signs to stump Greyson, though he mostly corrects my gestures and last time asked if I meant to say ‘motherless goats of all motherless goats.’ I’m relying heavily on a translation program Greyson has scrounged up, and it’s pretty basic. At least I’m not insulting anyone.

I squeeze between a man the size of a vending machine and his wife, maybe his husband, I can’t tell with the navel-length beard draped over quite a substantial bosom. I keep my face carefully neutral as the bearded lady makes some hand gesture at me. It either means “watch where you’re going, you midge” or “would you like some spiced ginger cheese.” My stomach and I almost hope it’s the latter.

Ah, there’s my next target! A tall, willowy woman with legs I swear go to her chin and coloured rubber bracelets that wrap up both arms. I sidle over to the woman as she bends impossibly in half to pick up an errant, bouncing button with fingernails as sharp as claws. She’s a seamstress, but not like the ones I’m used too.

She takes to a dark brown overcoat a man is still wearing with a needle as long as my middle finger and glinting just as sharp as her nails. The man looks weary as she stitches the button on before closing up a shoulder tear with neat, deft movements.

“Nice threads,” the woman says loudly, her hands full, and tilts her head towards me and down at the hoodie I wear. I tug at it nervously and shrug. “Prices are not negotiable,” she says with another nod to the flashing board across the top of her work space. It looks just as portable as her booth.

I take two large steps to pull away from the steady movement of the crowd, relieved when people stop jostling me.

“Are you Dorothy Needleye?” I ask, even though I know I have the right person. Her customer scowls at me, his adam’s apple bouncing in his throat as the woman stabs the needle into the material of his sleeve in order to not lose it as she selects another from her earlobe. She has dozen of needles and pins, all different shapes and sizes in her ears; the skin is like a sponge, full of tiny holes.

“Says so, doesn’t it?” the woman says and then with a few quick moments that are too fast for my eye to catch, she’s done something strange and the man’s jacket is not only tear-free, but well-fitting as if he’s been born to wear this coat. The man appears just as surprised.

“A pleasure, sir,” Dorothy drawls, stabbing the two needles back into her ear lobes. The two sign at each other rapidly before Dorothy holds her arm out to the man. He waves his own above her wrist and the transaction is complete.

I shuffle aside as the man vanishes into the crowd and lean closer to study the stacks of buttons on her small workbench. I remember Jonas’ memory of me as a child collecting buttons and I wonder if I still have the collection at home somewhere.

“So, girly, how can I help you ’cause I sure in sky can’t help you with what you’re wearing.” I frown, annoyed, and her laugh is sharp as she waves me around to her side of the booth. She’s much taller than me, but once I’m next to her I realise she’s standing on a carton with the words BUTTON NUT written along the side. When she steps down she barely reaches my chin.

“I’m not here for any of that,” I say and she sighs, glancing around as if hoping to find another willing victim/customer before crossing her arms. Her bands are actually quite beautiful, a few with different slogans written along the sides and one looks familiar. I squint and make out the words GO NAKED.

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“Rayburn had one of those!” I blurt, hoping the name’s familiar. She glances down, holding out her arm slightly and then rotates the one I’m pointing out.

“Doesn’t ring any bells.” Dorothy shakes her arm and the bracelets bounce in colourful bands.

“Where did you get it?” I push and the woman actually tugs up her modes to give me a sharp look. A week ago and I would’ve been unnerved, but now I just wait patiently. Her eyes are a piercing lilac, showing a mixture of puzzlement and wariness.

“Can’t honestly say.” She settles her modes back in place. “Anyway child, if I can’t tailor you anything, is there a point?”

“Yeah, sorry. Look, I’m seeking someone.”

“And this someone would be?”

“He was…is my brother. Jonas. Jonas Morgan.”

“You sure?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t sound that sure.”

“I am.” I say firmly. “Can you help?”

She sighs, stands on her box to scan the crowd one last time before reaching up and yanking down her sign. She folds it up roughly and shoves it into her pocket before the screen has had enough time to power off. Hopping off her perch, she slots the carton neatly over the trays of buttons and the metal dowels holding spools of different coloured thread.

“Get the table will you,” she orders. “You may as well be useful.”

I tilt the table over quickly to fold it up and lug it under an arm as Dorothy steps into the crowds.

“Where are we going?” I ask, a little nervous as we turn down a quieter alleyway. Long stairways lead up to narrow, metal balconies lined with uniquely painted doors. I crane my head back, my arms aching, and try to count how many levels there are. At least eight. Maybe more. The higher up, the darker it gets.

“My place. Here we are,” she says and stomps up a set of stairs. The whole structure shakes, but the woman isn’t phased. Three storeys up, she gestures to a door labeled 73P, decorated with a detailed dress manikin stabbed through with dozens of sword-sized needles. “Home sweet home.”

She ushers me in and it isn’t until the door shuts behind me that I actually question what I’m doing here. My sense of self-preservation is clearly broken.

Greyson, if you don’t hear from me in 30 minutes, send a search party.

Wait, what?

“You said Jonas Morgan?” The woman asks before I can answer Greyson and I nod slowly. “Dump that by the door and go on through,” she says over her shoulder, heading into a tiny kitchenette to drop her armful on the tabletop. “See if you can find him in there.”

There’s a door leading into an unlit room so I carefully rest the table against the wall and then hesitate. What does she mean about finding him in there? I recall the Old Earth tale of Blue Beard, the locked room full of the bloodless bodies of his wives. Is Jonas suspended on some hanger in there? Like an unwanted coat?

In the doorway, the light flickers on automatically and my breath huffs out of me in relief. No bodies, hanging or otherwise. Just a small bed, a dresser and a tiny sink in the corner. On the walls the paint is flaking in large even squares. I step closer and realise they’re actually very fine, thin pieces of paper. Like tissue, slightly transparent and in all shades of colours. Pale pink, soft lavenders, mellow yellows and faded blues, and across them are handwritten names, a name for each square, all stapled to the wall in no obvious pattern.

There are hundreds of them.

You okay, Bryn?

Yeah, Grey. I’m okay. Though I’m not really sure if I am.

I sense Dorothy hovering behind me.

“Why do you do this?” I ask. “What’s the point if you don’t remember?”

“I made a promise to someone I used to know, to keep a record of everyone he couldn’t save.” Her words were softened by fondness, her smile etched from sadness. “On Old Earth, there were places of remembrance, marked by stone. Memorials for those lost to us forever. It seems pathetic, these scraps of paper all that’s left of lives lived, but I can’t bear to take them down.” She sighs. “Your brother might be here somewhere. Take a look.”

I take one corner while Dorothy starts in another and methodically we check each piece, moving towards the middle. His name finally catches my eye. Jonas Morgan. His name is on a yellow piece of paper, one of the newest, and the ink is still dark.

“Here he is,” I say, tracing the letters with a trembling finger.

“You know you’re the first seeking a name. The first I can remember anyway.” Dorothy sounds resigned to her uncertainty. “I’m sure all these people spoke to me at some point. Every fortnight or so there’s a new name up there I don’t remember adding. Go on, take it down while I get one for you,” and the woman heads into the kitchen for a piece of paper. I slip a finger nail underneath the staple and carefully levered it out. There’s nothing on the back, no message or clue where to find Jonas.

“What a waste of time,” I growl. I was expecting answers, a clue at least, and I want to lash out. Rip off the flimsy pieces of paper and beat my fists until they bled. I push down my anger and frustration, compressing it into a little ball, and breathe out. I fold Jonas’ name carefully and pocket it anyway, a physical reminder that he does exist.

“Here, write your name. Clear as you can,” Dorothy says, oblivious to my stewing frustration, and gestures for me to lean on her dresser. I wrap my fingers around the pen awkwardly and carefully write out each letter, slowly spelling out Bryn Morgan in black ink. I don’t remember ever learning to write my name, but it comes to me as if I’ve practised handwriting.

“Bryn Morgan,” Dorothy hums vaguely, like she has no intention of remembering me anyway. She reaches up to the empty space that Jonas’s name once filled and reuses the staple to pin mine in its place. “Makes you wonder what real memories we have left when you see all those names.”

I let myself out of Dorothy’s place, leaving her staring at the paper covered wall, her last words spinning round and round inside my head. Not only has the Guardian taken my brother from me, he’s also stolen part of what makes me who I am. I’m different from the girl who had a brother. We may as well be two different people.