—through my hair, the low whooshing of pressure against and around the girth of the tower.
Reminds me of the time Oscar and I decided we were going to start a podcast. The first episode was useless. We did it outside on a windy day. The recording was completely ruined by the blustery wind. Playing it back, it sounded a lot like the top of this tower.
I open my eyes.
Once again, Oscar is standing with his back to me, at the edge.
“Where were we?” he says, “Oh yeah.” He waves me over.
I take a few tentative steps over to the edge, next to him. The heels of my boots are slick with dust from the streets below.
“We took this city together, you know. The two of us.” Oscar says. “It was really something. Like something out of a Marvel movie.”
“Did we have to kill anyone?” I say. I can’t help it. The question, and the hard, accusing edge it has to it. I need to know. No matter what, I need to know.
Oscar sighs, looking out over Opus. He’s annoyed. I can tell.
“I should probably ask.” He says. His irises are the color of wet leaves in the fall. “When was the last time you remember seeing me?”
I think back to that time out on the gravel lot, Oscar’s blank face pressed against the rocks.
But that’s not right. Not really.
“You’re gonna think I’m crazy.” I say. “Honestly, maybe I am.”
“You’re not crazy.” He says. “After all you’ve been through, you have every right to be. But you’re not.”
“We’ll see.” I say. “Oscar, I—just before I synchronized. I saw you. In the Bedford house. I—” It hits me. Oscar’s expression confirms it. “That was actually you, wasn’t it?”
Oscar nods. “I’m in the room, right now.”
For a second, I just stare at him. “Fuck.”
“And a squad.” He says, glossing over my outburst. “We disabled the stream hours ago. Blocked off the roads. No one’s coming. No one’s getting—”
“Mason?” I say. “What happened to him?”
“He’s not going to be able to make due on his promise.” Oscar says. “He can’t hurt you.”
A heavy stone drops in my gut, pulling me down.
There was a time when this information would have relieved me. But now I know that Mason didn’t actually want me dead. He just wanted to motivate me. He wanted us all to get out of this.
I can’t understand why they didn’t just tell me.
Would you have believed?
Maybe at this point it doesn’t matter.
“Hey.” Oscar grabs my shoulders. “Before that, though? What do you remember?”
Something snaps. Everything that’s been building in me for the past ten years.
I shove Oscar’s hands off me. “What else? You. Dead on the ground. Because of me.”
Oscar slinks a few steps away, eying me like a stranger.
“Don’t you have anything to say about that?” I say. “What I did to you? What I did to your sister—”
“Everything we could say about it has already been said.” Oscar says, face falling. “We’ve had this conversation before, okay? More than once. And it always ends up the same. Because Jackie isn’t actually dead.”
The wind picks up and rustles Oscar’s hair, dangling tendrils against and around his face like reeds in a stream.
“What?” I say.
“Medically, in a way, she is. But her mind...she can still come here. When they allow it.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Who’s ‘they’?”
Oscar just looks at me. Then, “They really did take everything, didn’t they? All of it.”
“I was kinda hoping you’d tell me it wasn’t true.” I say.
Oscar swallows. “Come with me.”
*****
We unfurl in the middle of the market plaza. Dust kicks up in tall, ragged plumes, briefly obscuring the sagging, decayed buildings surrounding the square.
It’s difficult to determine what parts of the damage are from the gunfight minutes ago, or just the result of the steady, unhindered progress of time. It seems that even virtual worlds, sufficiently simulating real life, cannot escape the reality of entropy. Like a hurricane-ravaged shipyard.
The Rifters, dotted amongst the graveyard of buildings, are like bits of wreckage bobbing in the wake. They are young and old, male and female, short and tall. There’s no one element unifying them as a group, except perhaps their penchant for survival and adaptation. There’s more on the line than just the game for them. They need Rithium. It is a way for them to stay in good standing with criminal gangs in the real world. For some, it’s the one thing keeping them out of prison, or the rehab facilities.
I know this, because I can see it on their faces. None of the wild-eyed excitement and enthusiasm that I associate with the early days of Rithium. Only a tense, focused expression. I feel like a sports player in the field, looking up into the stands, seeing a silent wall of expectant, anticipating faces. It’s the one thing that is tying them all together, in this moment. That, and the name of Rifter.
They don’t trust me. Not all of them, anyway. They want something from me. They’re looking to Oscar, not me.
I can tell this as Oscar walks ahead of me. He whistles, loud and shrill, two fingers clamped between his lips.
Damn. Always wished I could do that.
A series of loud thumps echo in the air. Something long, black-scaled, and definitely a dragon swoops up over the Opus wall. It passes over the sun, casting a long, cold shadow across the square.
There’s a person clutched in its claws, talons interlocked like the bars on a cage.
The dragon’s wings grow louder, the force of its flaps causing dust to push off of the cobblestone street. The remnants of surrounding buildings creak and moan, wobbling on their support beams.
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The talons spread wide, and Sater’s limp body falls soundlessly against the stones.
Oscar marches over, Beretta in hand. He kicks Sater in the shoulder. “Come on. Up.”
Sater jolts upright. He clambers to his feet, wiping the dust from his eyes.
Oscar’s free hand moves quickly, snatching Sater’s knife and bow and tossing them away. He snaps his fingers. Two of the closest Rifters bound forward, grabbing Sater and dragging him over to where—
Tanya.
She’s on her knees in the outer edge of the square. There are several Rifters standing next to and behind her, weapons at the ready, watching her.
She’s watching me. She’s just barely far enough away that I can’t read her face.
The two Rifters set Sater down next to her, before stepping off to the side, awaiting further instructions.
There’s another loud flap as the dragon circles, veering to the other side of Oscar, facing me. It extends its legs, bracing for the landing. Then, it drops. Its talons puncture the street, sending out spiderleg cracks in the cobblestone. The ground tremors. To my left, a support beam finally gives out, and an entire structure snaps apart and crumbles, wood splintering.
Oscar turns to face me. Behind him, the dragon crouches, its eyes on me, waiting obediently.
“This must be so confusing for you.” Oscar says.
“It was.” I say. “I think I’m starting to catch up.”
Oscar nods. “We’ll talk. I promise we will. But first, unfinished business.”
He walks toward me. Somehow, it feels like there’s this massive gulf to be crossed between us. One he crosses in the space of twelve paces, in the middle of that square.
He stops in front of me, draws a tucked pistol from his belt, and puts it in my hand.
It’s a glock. It’s black and cold. The handle is dimpled and scratchy against my palm.
Something strange happens, as soon as it’s in my hand. Something I’ve never seen happen in Rithium, before. The entire glock shimmers, turning see-through, white outlines making out the shape of it, before going back to normal, like some weird glitch in the matrix. There’s a sudden warmth there, a pulse.
The data transfer.
The weapon’s data has been restored to the Black Dart. If we get out of this, Tanya can upload the information, use it to prove what happened. That the weapon was used to—
For a moment, I just stare at it, like a dead fish from a stranger. Like I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it.
Do it.
I hold it up. I use my index finger and thumb to pull back the slide. I peer into the ejection port. A bullet rests snug, ready to be fired. The shell is pitch black, with intermittent white lines running across it.
“Lines have been crossed.” Oscar says. His voice sounds far away. “Transgressions made. But I fought for you. I convinced them things could be different. All we had to do was turn back the clock. Things would be different, I told them. So I let them. I let them do it. Because—”
“Transgressions were made?” I say. I hold the glock limply in my hand, almost dropping it. “I was on the wrong side, so you had to sort me out?”
“Kit, you made a promise to me.” Oscar says, firmly. “Like I said, we’ve already talked about Jackie. You know what you told me? You said that you would do anything to make it right. Are you telling me that’s not true, anymore?”
I have no recollection of this, but I know it’s true. I would have done anything for Oscar. Anything to try and make things the way they were between us. To make things better. Years of medicating myself with Rithium still hadn’t changed that, or done anything to take away my guilt. Even though my memories of this are apparently just fragments anyway, and my brain’s attempt to piece together some kind of cohesive whole. Yes, there was a period of time, before I was locked up in rehab, when I continued to associate with people like Samuel, so that I could stay away from the law, and put off the withdrawal. The rest is a blurry, drug-addled flash of images that could have been several years inside Aberdale. It could have been only the last month, or a week. It’s a broken puzzle, so many pieces strewn and disconnected. Most have fallen off the table. I may never see them again.
“If I don’t remember that conversation,” I say, “Did it actually happen? Was that person even me?”
Oscar’s jaw clenches. He’s starting to look impatient. “Don’t get abstract and philosophical on me. WE are the Black Darts. It’s us. These,” he holds up his Dart necklace. “These are just tools. We use them to get the job done. Because the government tells us to. Because the consequences of disobedience are worse than the actions themselves. We knew that. You can’t just disavow that. You can’t just walk away, pretend it never happened.”
“You can always walk away.” I realize that now. I don’t know why now is the time that it comes to me, after so much of my life believing otherwise. Such a sweet, terrible lie extended out over so much time. Such a grand, horrible truth.
I always had a choice. I was never a victim. Perhaps no one ever is.
“You’re right.” I say. “It was always a flawed plan. There was always going to be one thing standing in the way. And it’s you. You’re what’s stopping the Bannerets from putting an end to this.
“Stop it.” Oscar says, face twisting into a snarl. “It’s over. This operation was saved, today. Things will continue as they always have. The only question is, are you going to be a part of it?” He gestures toward Sater and Tanya, hands bound, on their knees against the stone.
I look at them. Sater with his messy, gel-infused hair, full of dust and dirt, bruises scoring his arms and face. Tanya, with messy curls of hair veiling her eyes. She jerks her head, waving enough of the hair away that she can look at me. She’s panting, like a runner who’s tripped and fallen, her mess of hair rising and falling to the beat of her lungs.
She trusts me.
I can tell, even from that wide-eyed look, as sure as if she’d spoken it aloud. She was shaken. Discouraged, even. But she still believed we were going to get out of this.
It’s then that I notice Oscar has his back turned, putting some distance between us as he walks closer to the dragon. When he turns back around, there’s a sad glint in his eyes, a sheen that could be mistaken for tears. He unclips his holster strap, fingers brushing the gunmetal, ready to draw.
“Do it, Winter. Or I will. First him. Then her. Then…” He breaks off. “C’mon, Kit. It’s now or never. They’re not gonna let me stretch this out.”
Slowly, I lift the gun, gripped tight in my palm. I point it at Oscar.
There’s a cacophony of gun clicks, cocks, and slide snaps as the hundred or so Rifters surrounding the square level their weapons at me.
Oscar just shakes his head. “You pull that trigger, you’re gonna wake up dead.”
I pause for a moment, then lower the glock. I could never do it. And there wouldn’t be any point. It’s a failed bluff.
I pull the glock back, sliding it in my belt, cold metal pressed against my lower back. My hands fall to my sides, hovering a few inches from my revolvers.
“No. I’m done. You’re gonna have to do it yourself.”
Oscar’s brows furrow. “No remorse, huh? No guilt? Don’t care what you did, anymore?” Lines draw. His face twists up with rage, teeth bared. “You knew it wasn’t safe. You didn’t care. You put yourself first. You did this.”
I stare at Oscar, eyes dancing between his face and the fingers touching his Beretta. But in my mind’s eye, I see his lifeless face, laid back against the cold gravel. For one long, interminable moment, it’s all I can see.
I jerk my head forward. A curt nod. An admission. “You’re right.” I say. “I knew it wasn’t safe. I didn’t care. I put myself, and my problems, first. I did this.”
I let out a long, low sigh. It’s something I’ve known all along, though I could never quite admit it. So much energy to put into something so futile. Perpetuating the untruth. Defying gravity.
Because it wasn’t that it was who I was. Calling myself worthless, and a piece of shit, was somehow easier.
It was something I did. An action I took. A choice I made. Not some nebulous sense of self. A vivid, definite reality.
It’s not about me.
It’s not. Still, I can feel the relief and catharsis pouring over me, filling me up. Even if Oscar never forgives me, maybe I can still face this. Maybe, there’s hope.
“I’m sorry.” I say it without thinking. No need to think. No need to filter, or obfuscate. To myself, or anyone else. Not anymore.
As my exhale tapers off, and I take a deep breath, even though I’m not in the real, it feels like the first real breath I’ve taken in ten years. I can finally breathe again.
I drop my hands further, slowly cupping the bone-white revolver handles with my palms. My legs are spread apart in a steady, ready stance.
“I hope one day you can forgive me.”
“Then do it.” Oscar says. His face falls, slackening. “Please.”
I slowly rotate my head, teeth clenched tight in my mouth. “I’m sorry.” I say again.
For a second, it seems as if Oscar might break. The wind ebbs, winding its way through the market. Oscar is motionless, save for the tangles of hair dancing against the side of his face.
Then, as the gust wanes, his brows knit back together.
“Me too.”
The joints in Oscar’s wrist go taut as he clamps down on the Beretta, knuckles white.
I activate my Action Skill. At the same time, there’s a hum coming from the Dart, throbbing against my skin. That’s when I realize-
Tanya was right. I do know how to use this thing.
Something kicks in. Muscle memory. Intuition, perhaps. The Dart buzzes. I can use it in conjunction with my Action Skill. I can use it to draw it out, augment it-
Oscar draws his Beretta. It’s happening slow. Painfully slow. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. All this time I’d been trying to provoke Oscar, to turn him on me. But it didn’t work. Because he’s pointing the Beretta at Tanya.
For a brief flash of motion, I can see the bullet itself. And then it’s in her.