CHAPTER 2 | TYPES OF DARK

June 25, 2022 - 4:30pm

National Zoological Garden, Pretoria, South Africa

Iosef, with a rhythmic gait that weaved him through the crowd, glided along the bustling walkways of Pretoria Zoo. The screams of excitement and stench of animals — four-legged and bipedal alike — didn’t deserve to be in the same space as his neatly coiffed hair, expensive Italian suit, or glossy black shoes. But then again, neither did the gaggle of penguin-men waddling after him. Their beady eyes greedily fixated on a briefcase that Victor held with no particular vim. They chittered among themselves. Iosef shaded his delicate skin from the scorching heat with an umbrella, wary of his wax body succumbing to the sun.

The shade was indeed appropriate for today’s peculiar order of business as their impromptu cabal came to an abrupt halt underneath a tree in front of a tiger’s enclosure. The weathered animal was cloaked in shadow, mirroring its onlookers on the other side of the fence.

“Well, gentlemen?” Iosef asked, locking eyes with the battle-worn beast, “It’s double the agreed upon amount. You've certainly eyed it enough.”

“Look…it’ll cover the discrepancies and, uh, inconsistencies of the necessary background check and due processes,” a man bumbled.

“But?” Iosef said.

“But, all that aside, we still cannot complete a private sale without the majority shareholder’s signature. It’s just not possible.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that. My associate,” Iosef gestured with his head towards Victor, “will sort all that out. Go ahead and take the briefcase. In good faith. And we’ll be in contact when it’s done.”

“In good faith,” the spokesman nodded, salivating— almost slobbering— as the money was dropped into his hands. The group slid away, squawking with excitement. Victor exhaled deeply.

“Fucking monkeys…”

“What is the point of all this? A zoo, boss?” The boy groaned.

“Is there a difference between a zoo, and a boardroom? A jungle, and a coffee shop? Open fields and an event hall? It matters not where we meet; these animals are everywhere.” Iosef’s disdain for fellow man surfaced; his thin nose scrunched up in disgust. If it were possible for eyes alone to grimace, his would have curved into the form.

Victor shared the sentiment. Still, the core of his question remained unanswered. Why the hell did Iosef Cain just buy a zoo?

“Ignore my digression.” Iosef sighed without turning away from the shadowed feline, “The chair, the final shareholder. Convince him to sign these papers. However you see fit. Do that and I’ll answer your question sincerely.”

Victor’s eyes brightened.

“Really!? However I want to?” Iosef gave no affirmation. A twisted smile furled onto Victor’s youthful face. “That’s too easy.”

~

June 30, 2022 - 11:53am

Money and Miguel’s Farm, Unknown, Nigeria

The sun had not yet unleashed its full arsenal, but even peeking over the clouds, its heat had Monika Rose sweating profusely. Without the help of atma reinforcement, her calloused hands tightly gripped the tattered rope of a knee-high, barrel-sized bailer. She tightened her core and continued pulling the water-filled bucket toward the surface until it finally hung high above the enormous well it came from.

The girl rushed at the barrel, barely able to catch it by its crudely made handle, and unhooked it from the pulley. With great difficulty, she hugged the thing with both hands, and began to inch her way towards a long, greystone barn just barely a kilometer away. It wasn’t the heat, or the coarse rope, or the weight of the bucket that displeased her the most about this training exercise. It was the fact that, for the past 10 days, she repeated it all day, and would continue to repeat it until she could complete the trial without spilling a single drop. What it had to do with atma training, she could not fathom.

Kuro, meanwhile, worked the vast fields of tall grass surrounding the well. He held a scythe reinforced with atma and hacked away at the plant matter before him. Of the two farmers, Money was his overseer, and was not a man of many words. As such, the explanation regarding the point of the farm work he’d been conscripted into was not made clear to him.

“At the very least, I’ve gotten a lot better at reinforcing objects,” he thought. And he was right. The boy had also come to learn, through his various agricultural assignments, that blunt objects were more easily reinforced than sharper ones. As both Kuro and Monika trudged through their ostensibly nonsensical trials, they shared a misplaced envy of Soji, whose training was more…traditional.

~

“Stand up, Soji.” Miguel, wearing nothing but khaki booty shorts and a cowboy’s hat, stood over a battered Soji. The boy’s eye was swollen shut, his arms raised in defense as he inhaled deeply for air.

“I can’t,” he huffed.

“You must,” the cowboy replied.

While Kuro and Monika ‘enjoyed’ intensive farm work, Soji had been on the receiving end of numerous beatings. Miguel’s reasoning was that the boy’s strength was impressive, but his inability to really fight would get him killed. Maestros who do nothing but throw atma at their problems are bound to end up dead, he said. He considered Soji’s strange ability to be governed by the same principle.

The boy adjusted his stance. With his left hand, he pulled his nose into place with a CRACK. A droplet of blood flowed from his nostril. Miguel grinned with satisfaction as the boy closed the gap between them. Soji feigned a left hook, prompting the farmer to set up a block with his forearm. The fist never arrived. A straight punch rocketed towards the large man’s sternum instead.

Miguel sidestepped and clamped down on the boy’s forearm with an impossibly fierce grip. This was a dance step they had practiced several times before. And this was usually the part where Soji instinctively heated up his hand, a new trick he learned on his fifth day here. However, finally improving, the boy took a micro-step back and shot his leg into Miguel’s side, earning his release. His form was stiff, but effective.

As the man stumbled back, Soji launched his fist upwards for an uppercut. Miguel, still cognizant of his surroundings, leaned further back and dodged the attack. He shot his head forward in an attempt to headbutt the boy, but Soji was ready, having jumped into a knee kick. Cartilage and bone met, knocking Miguel’s head back. Soji climbed the giant man’s torso, legs wrapped around his core, and began smashing his fist into his face, as he had seen Tamara do days ago. He had no qualms about matching her brutality.

“He’s learning…” Miguel affirmed. The boy’s fighting style was wild, wasteful, and unrefined, but by God, it was effective…at times.

The trainer stopped the barrage with his free hand, grabbed Soji’s arm and threw him. The boy got up huffing, hands still up, but trembling from fatigue. Miguel, too, adjusted his nose back into place, spitting up the blood that trickled back into his throat.

“Well done. Let’s reset.” The man passed a bright red canister of gasoline to the boy, who walked outside the barn to see Monika several meters away with her barrel. He doused himself in the foul smelling liquid, standing in a wide, six foot hole filled with ash and burnt clothing. Miguel trotted over to him with a matchstick in one hand, matchbox in the other, and flicked it onto him.

Amidst the roaring explosion of flame, Soji could feel his displaced ribs, cracked bones, and bruises healing up. This was yet another trick he had learned during a hot shower on his first night at the farm. As brutal as the training was, he felt no need to complain, satisfied with the rate of his progress. Miguel’s technique was a huge contributor to this growth. His power allowed him to force ‘rules’ from various sports—and martial arts— over an area and anyone in it. The consequences of breaking these rules were…painful. And so, he learned. Soji shut his eyes, basking in the fire’s warmth.

“You spilled too much. RESET!” Miguel’s voice boomed from overhead.

Expectedly, a cascade of freezing water doused the boy and his suspiciously heat resistant underwear. The fire reluctantly disappeared with a hiss, letting loose defiant clouds out steam. This part of their daily training ritual was not to kill the flame — after all, Soji’s skin would soon swallow it all — but to wash away the gasoline, soothe the muscles, and alert the mind.

Shivering, he emerged from his hellish baptism. There, a sweating Kuro, fatigued Monika, and disappointed Miguel were waiting for him. Money followed Kuro out of the tall grass.

“I’m only somewhat pleased with your progress. Monika, the well. Why are you rushing? Do you still not understand why you do this exercise?” The girl shook her head no, too tired to argue or serve up a snarky remark. Avenging Tamara’s honor would have to wait.

“I can only hope you learn sooner rather than later. Considering the fact that you rely on the atma basics and not your technique, a single finger’s worth of reinforcement is just as valuable as a fistful.” The man explained. As brutal as his lesson plan was, he had an enthusiasm for guiding them along the path of improvement.

“Kuro,” he continued, “still no technique?” The silver-haired boy shook his head, as he too, was too tired to speak. “Well you’re definitely an Instrumental atma user, that’s why we have you reinforcing various tools.”

“I’m surprised neither swordsmanship training nor farming have revealed his technique. Does he need to experience real combat?” Miguel rubbed his stubble.

“What do you mean, Instrument type?” Soji asked before Kuro could.

“This is why two ought to stay awake during evening lessons. There are four main types of atma techniques; Bodily, Figure, Environmental, and Instrumental. Of course some techniques may fit into more than one category, but that’s not the case with you,” Money cut in, eyes still glued to his video game.

“How can you tell my type? And what do types even entail?” Kuro always had questions.

“What determines a technique’s type is what medium it needs to work. Let’s use the example of someone with a fire technique,” Miguel explained, unaware of the slight wince the kids had at the mention of a fire user, “If said fire user shot the flames from their hands, that’s a Bodily technique. If they had to summon a spirit or a wraith that could then shoot fireballs, that’s Figure. If they could only summon fire from clouds in the sky, that would be Environmental. And if they needed an Instrument, summoned, created, or otherwise, that would then dispel fire…”

“…That’s Instrumental.” Kuro finished. He remembered Angelo’s strange cat made of atma at the mention of wraith.

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“Exactly. The key to telling one’s atma type is in its texture. Wraith types have silky, sometimes wispy, atma. Springy, solid atma is the indicator of a Bodily type. Environmentals have spongy atma, and Instrumentals are coarse, almost abrasive.” Kuro nodded in contemplation, mentally highlighting the different feels of all the techniques he’d come across thus far.

“So the idea,” he concluded, “is that as an Instrumental type, if I use various objects and make them ‘Instruments’ by reinforcing them, my technique will activate somehow.”

“It’s not just that,” Money added, “But using those objects in different contexts gives you a better chance at figuring out your technique’s activation mechanic.”

“I see. So why haven’t I discovered my technique yet?” The boy shook his head, frustrated at the roadblock.

“Can we…” Monika interrupted, finally catching her breath, “…eat now?” Money looked over at Miguel, and nodded. The shirtless cowboy nodded back in agreement.

~

As the trio scarfed down an enormous breakfast, nary a word was uttered. It would take too much energy to even begin to form a thought. Miguel watched on in amusement while Money continued flipping pancakes, struggling to keep up with them. His mind ambled over to a time long forgotten, when their father would do the same for them after their own rigorous farm work, before their mother would come to collect them for training.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Even without looking at it, he could tell from the cadence of the vibration, the identity of the caller. They had the kind of relationship where they could count on each other for anything, and only communicated for serious matters. As such, he slipped outside the kitchen unnoticed.

“This training is killing me!” Monika sighed, finally sitting back with a full belly. Money took his place next to them on the round wooden kitchen table with a plate packed with pancakes and a sizzling pan of sausages. He placed them both on coasters, careful not to let the surfaces touch the red and white checkered tablecloth.

“Trust me,” the farmer said unenthusiastically, “it could be so much worse.” Soji dug into the fresh offering on the table.

“How could it possibly be worse?” He asked with a full mouth.

“Ah, I probably shouldn’t tell you. My brother would be mad.” He waved away the kids’ piqued curiosity. They hadn’t spent very much time with the brothers, but had learned— from Miguel’s repeated scoldings about overplaying the GameBoy— that Money didn’t actually care about that. The young man, now in his early twenties, just wanted to at least say he tried to keep it a secret.

“Fine!” He feigned exasperation, “Since you’ve overwhelmed me…” He leaned in close. Kuro and Monika did the same while Soji kept chewing.

“Behind the barn,” he whispered, “there’s another well. It’s got a lid on it, hidden by dirt. But in that well, that pit, is a cave full of blooms. And that’s where Miguel and I used to train when we were younger. Days at a time, too. There was a chute to send down food and water, but other than that, that place would not open before the time that was set was up. We were on our own.” Monika’s eyes widened.

“How do you guys have blooms down there? And how does nobody at the Institute know?”

“Oh they know,” Money explained, “This isn’t just a regular farm. We also supply subjects to the M.I.I. . We’d rather not, but we only inherited this place. Now it’s our duty. As for how, it’s just a regular domain. This entire farm was built around it.” The room went silent save for the sound of Soji chewing.

“But don’t Blooms dissipate? What would the M.I.I. be doing with dust?” Kuro asked.

“The blooms that make a location a domain are slightly different from the ones we’ve been learning about. They start out as ‘sin and dust’, yes, but they can also latch onto living creatures, and become a type of bloom we call blacks. Those were the ones that were at the field trip that day.” Monika answered. She paused to watch the boys’ expressions at the mention of that day. Still waters.

“Blacks…I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to call us that anymore.”

“Shut up,” Monika laughed, relieved, “Technically, you are a black.”

“Monika, I’m going to bite you,” Soji warned then paused, “Wait, I thought I was a doe. What’s the point of all these different names?”

“Does and blacks are the same thing, but one is a little more religiously inspired than the other. In casual conversation, though, they’re all just blooms. The other terms are usually saved for paperwork.”

“Huh. Makes sense. But seriously? Blacks? Does? Those are the only two terms you guys have for those things?”

Monika shrugged.

“She’s messing with you guys. Black is an outdated term. Normal people call them CKs,” Money said.

“So you supply those CKs to the M.I.I… In exchange for what?” Kuro asked, ignoring the two. If given the chance, they’d waste their energy beating on each other like children.

“We’re not communists,” Money chuckled. Even maestros had worldly needs.

Kuro wondered silently what kind of experiments, what kind of research could be ongoing with bloom carcasses. Perhaps the woman who ruined their lives knew something about that.

“I’ll have to look into it when we get into the Institute.”

“Anyway, isn’t it about time you get back into the field? Your next tool is the machete.” He attempted to change the subject, suddenly hearing Miguel’s footsteps. All three children gave him a look with a single raised eyebrow and a smirk.

“I didn’t mean it like that, don’t be annoying,” he held his hands up in facetious surrender. Miguel entered the room with a grim expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“They moved up the Orchestra. The tournament is eleven days from now.” All three trainees turned in unison, Soji almost choking on his food.

“It’s supposed to be in August!” Monika whispered.

“That’s not enough time!” Money gasped. The brothers worried themselves over how they would prepare the children for the Orchestra. It wasn’t enough to just pass. They needed overwhelming victory to solidify their place as Maestros for the Institute. Soji, with his unique position, especially needed to prove his use. The M.I.I. was a machine that had no qualms about discarding parts with no function.

“We could always use the pit.” Money suggested. The look on Miguel’s face could not simply be described as ‘angry’. His skin reddened, eyes widened, and muscles contorted to become a different person entirely.

“Don’t even think about it,” he seethed. By now Kuro and Soji had stood up.

“Why not?” Soji interrupted, “You and Money are strong. You were made strong in that pit. And if we don’t have much time…” Miguel looked as though he was on the verge of exploding. Soji realized his error in exposing the fact that he knew of the pit.

“I will never let you enter that place. We were made strong, yes. But the cost was high. You haven’t bled, kid. None of you have.” The room was silent. “My job…is to toughen you up so that you never have to.” He held the half-bloom’s gaze. Finally, the tension fizzled out as Soji lowered his eyes and silently yielded.

“Get ready for the next session. If we really only have eleven days, we don’t have a single hour to waste,” Miguel ordered, with a tone that left little room for dissent.

Kuro and Soji shot each other a look. Monika followed behind them, catching whispers of their silent conversation. Of course, if they tried making a run for it now, they would be caught, and would lose their chance to get near the pit permanently. No, their disobedience had to be acted upon under the guise of night. The boys were reminded of the times they’d sneak out of the house to buy late night suya with leftover lunch money.

There’d be no treats for this adventure, however.

While Monika returned to her well with its corresponding pail, and Soji assumed position with Miguel, Kuro followed Money to a well-kept shed just behind their farmhouse. It was one he’d come to be familiar with; the scent of its neat, hardwood floors and matching wooden racks welcomed him back with a humid embrace. Hammers and hoes, shovels and shears; these had been his bread and butter. This time, however, Money walked past the staple farm tools and gingerly picked up a weathered, but clean, machete. The shed’s warm white light reflected off its scratched surface as Kuro collected the tool from his mentor.

Despite the ceremonious nature behind the boy’s reception of the machete, he once again found himself performing the most mundane of tasks. Clearing brush this time around. Atma surged through his body, but his mind was elsewhere. The fabled pit that Money mentioned held a place in his mind that the fountain of youth held in the thoughts of geriatrics everywhere. The only difference was that his fountain mocked him from the other side of the farm.

Even so, he was no fool. The time spent there would likely be on par with what he and Soji faced during their field trip, if not worse. But Kuro wasn’t sure if he’d even taken the time to acknowledge just what his life had become since then. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in crying, for on his first night in Tamara’s home, that’s what he did. It wasn’t that he had an aversion to mourning, for when he thought he lost Soji, that’s what he did.

It was only after several minutes of swinging that he discovered the true identity of this melancholic nonchalance. It was acceptance. Acceptance that there was no going back. Acceptance that this was his life now. Acceptance that he’d eventually become accustomed to the stench of death. Kuro surprised himself with how quickly it came to him in such a situation. Perhaps, he thought, it was because of the stakes. He could not afford to welcome denial or hesitation into his mind; their appetites would eat at his resolve and that would mean his death. Or worse, Soji’s.

“Which brings me back to the pit. If I want to protect those close to me, to see my mom again, and find out about my dad, I have to be strong enough for what comes after the Orchestra. I have to be strong enough for anything.”

His rumination was soon disrupted as an unanticipated wave of fatigue crashed down on him. Kuro recognized this sensation as atma depletion.

“Already?” It had only been half an hour, after all. His limit was at least twice that. The boy looked down at the remaining brambles, not noticing their strange composition. The sticks looked like they’d been separated and glued back together with some bits missing.

“Done already?” Money appeared with his trademark grim countenance, his focus split between a GameBoy and Kuro.

“I’m not sure why…I can usually hold reinforcement for about an hour.”

“Curious,” Money thought with a raised eyebrow.

Perched on a tree, he extended his empty hand as though offering the boy something. A pale blue apparition, a translucent arm with white gloves, shot out of his shoulder and placed a glowing yellow box in his hand before disappearing.

“A wraith?”

The boy crushed it between his thumb and index finger as one might crush a sugar cube. In its place was a tiny red and white mushroom, reminiscent of something he might have found in a popular video game.

“That’s your technique…come to think of it, how come you never use yours when we practice with those wooden swords?” Kuro asked. He approached his teacher who gestured for him to come.

“Don’t take offense, but my technique has an interesting condition for combat use; I have to consider my opponent a threat. I could call out my wraith, sure, but Jump would just watch.”

“Jump?”

“Ah, my technique’s name is Jump Force, so I call the wraith Jump for short.” The name inspired much intrigue. Just what kind of power came with a title like that?

“I’ve actually been wondering about that…how do you decide on your technique’s name?”

“It sort of just comes to you in the moment. Calling it anything else would feel wrong. After all, a technique is a function of the soul. So when you use it, you know.” Money explained, plopping his miniature mushroom in Kuro’s hand.

“Eat.” Kuro obeyed, too tired to argue anyway. It had a sour, acidic taste, forcing him to swallow quickly. Almost immediately, he felt his atma well back up and swell with magnitude.

“What is this!?” He cried, feeling a deep sense of bliss radiating from his stomach and coursing through his body. Money smirked. He was very proud of his technique, not that you’d know it from how dreary and tired he looked all the time. He offered no answer to Kuro’s query, letting the boy wonder.

This, to him, was a fruit of youth. Wonder. Miguel and him had different ideas of what it was that they’d lost in the pit. For Money, it was undoubtedly youth. The silver-haired boy turned back to his chore, machete buzzing with atma. He swung at the brush before him. This time, Money noticed strings of atma fly off the machete and land on the crumbling plant matter. Instantaneously, the small area of space the spark occupied was erased. The sticks all snapped and contorted to account for the sudden missing space.

“All my super 'shroom does is temporarily increase atma, yet those sparks of atma just did something weird…this must be related to his technique. But can’t he tell that he’s using it? Perhaps because he’s an anomaly, the rules are different?”

The clearing of the area continued until there wasn’t much left, and the sun had begun its graceful descent out of sight. By this time, Kuro had ingested four mushrooms, while Money kept the secret of the boy’s atma depletion to himself. The self discovery of one’s technique was something that he would never take away. The duo marched back to the farmhouse, the warm glow of its interior acting as a beacon in the rising darkness.

~

Dinner was quiet,the weight of the impending Orchestra loud enough. Even Soji, who was talkative in the evenings no matter how drained, said nothing. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Miguel dismissed them to shower and get ready for the first of many late night sessions. The kids stood up robotically, trying to inconspicuously make a silent escape.

For a moment, Miguel attributed the absence of the usual bickering over who would shower first to the grim Orchestra news. His gut instincts poked at him. It was when the kids passed the threshold for the kitchen, that he realized that something was definitely off.

“Wait!” he shouted.

The trio shot out of the house and headed for the barn. Miguel rushed after them. Kuro jumped onto the roof of the barn, while Monika ran through it. Soji ran along the long building’s side, absorbing the setting sun’s heat to outrun Miguel. The man charged forward, his atma flaring as if to use his technique when Money tackled him.

The brothers tumbled to the ground.

“Money, what are you doing?!” He roared, scrambling to stand up.

“You have to let them! This is their resolve!” Money argued.

“No! They don’t know a thing!” Even from the inside of the barn, Monika felt the boom in Miguel’s thunderous voice.

They eventually converged on the very well Money had spoken of. It had no embellishments but the dirt covering its iron lid. Monika kicked off the meager dusting, revealing a tiny analog input device and a handle. Ignoring the device entirely, she forced open the entrance of the man-hole sized covering. As Kuro and Soji arrived, the stench blasted them a few steps back. Rotten flesh and something unidentifiable, bittersweet. They could hear the chittering and moving limbs of several Blooms writhing and bouncing around like excited children at a playground.

Everything about the place attempted to ward them off. The pit was a hungry animal baring its fangs.

“Tread forth and be devoured” It growled.

Miguel thundered after them. With little time to second guess, Soji jumped down the hole. Kuro followed without hesitation. Just before she could follow through, Monika caught a glimpse of the herd of creatures below her and dropped the lid, frozen for a moment as a memory flashed in her mind. That moment was enough for Miguel to catch up, but too late for him to rescue his constituents. A mechanical whirring confirmed the irrevocability of the kids’ actions. The cowboy slumped over, hands on knees.

“Congratulations, Rose. You just killed your friends.”