NADYA

“That could have been worse,” Kaki says, buttoning up his special blue blouse. It is an arma, which is formal wear worn during outdoor parties. They are created to adapt to different weathering environments, with thick pads to counter the rain and a flowy skin to keep from heats in the Dry Season. I’ve never seen him wear it for previous holidays, like the Trial Ball or weddings, and yet he wears it now.

My cheeks are bright red as I tighten the back of his garment. “I suppose.”

“Should I do my hair?”

“You never care about your hair.”

“Yeah but… I don’t know.”

“Leave it. It’s probably going to rain, anyways.”

A short silence passes.

That could have been worse.

We’d spoken to Enlightened Everleigh about letting us go to the Fyi Festival, after I informed Kaki of my decision; a means to meet Kaki’s Jeran, the harbor of illegal knowledge and a man of blasphemy. Yet my path seems dictated by the Suns. But, after what we witnessed between Miss Gennadi and the other noble women after the theater performances, it felt like there was an even large barrier between the Enlightened and her nephew. The conversation lasted for two hours because of Kaki’s hesitance and the severity of Enlightened Everleigh’s moments of sleepiness, muteness, and ramblings. She agreed after a long, incoherent thought about ‘the big glowing caves and the seas islands.’ The Ten Islands were not at all a part of our discussion.

When I told Missus Yarna about Enlightened Everleigh’s approval, she said, “Nadya. You’ve never left the Fortress before. The City is no place for a young girl like you. The Fortress has all you need—I know you are not completely content with your life and I understand you are trying to overcome this, but running off and disregarding all you have been blessed with will not do you any good.”

But does wanting to see more mean that I am taking what I have for granted?

I suppose it does, if I think of what I have as lesser-than. I do not know which woman Kaki refers to when he says, “That could have been worse.”

Kaki had been in the room. Missus Yarna, in the most respectful and genial way possible, withered him with just a stare. I know she blames him for my fractures and lack of Purity. She often says I am too devout for him, but only in private, and only under her breath, when she thinks I cannot hear.

“Enlightened Alranath forgot about our lesson today,” Kaki says. “You know, even if I were to want a seat in the Court, I’d have to find a different tutor.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why? It’s true.”

“Many would love to have an Enlightened as their tutor.”

Kaki rolls his eyes dramatically. “Turn around.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to do your hair.”

“No, you are not, actually.”

“Yes, I am, actually.”

“It’s going to rain. And you don’t even know how to do a girl’s hair.”

“I bet I could do it better than you.”

My eyes narrow. “Fine. Prove it.”

He smiles and gestures for me to sit on the edge of his bed. “You’re so competitive, Nadya. I highly encourage you to take up a game.”

“I am not. And, even if I were, I can’t take up any games.” Ospry are allowed to do games like Kickball and such but, seeing as Purity is greatly affected by one’s work ethic and Kickball does not have any societal benefits, it is an indulgent practice. We are not permitted hobbies, but most hobbies must have some underlying connection to our work. For example, my sewing. It is a joy of mine and useful for mending all of Kaki’s dirty boy clothes.

My spine tingles as he pulls back the strands gently. I think he’s braiding it, but I can’t tell. I can hardly do my own hair. I never had a mother to show me.

I glance down at his burnt, red arms. They have already begun to heal. I wonder why a burn such as this may pass, but a burn such as mine will never go away.

“There. Done,” he says.

“That was fast.”

I look at my reflection in his back mirror. I cringe at the sight of my face, as I typically do. Then I do a double-take. It wasn’t a braid after all. Or, it was, but wrapped elegantly around the bun I usually adorn, almost like a laurel. He reaches out to pull a few strands in front of my face, to frame it.

My reflection is mine but… different. Elegant, almost.

“You look pretty,” he says with a little laugh. “Thanks to yours truly.”

“Shut up.”

***

The carriage that Enlightened Everleigh arranged for us is a lavish one, but also indiscreet. It is sleek and narrow, made to fit only four, with black cloth and wood formings its side. It is steam powered, with thin windows, and a clawed-up velvet driver’s seat. The red sky begins to dim purple above us as the Suns fade away and the Moons make their climb towards the peak. We are towards the back of the Fortress, so there are not nearly as many Souls here wandering about. The carriage, in the solitary, fading light, seems ominous.

“I’ve never been in one of these,” I say.

“I have only twice, for religious conferences,” Kaki says. I remember them well—a Moon in which was spent to ensure that Kaki was not Enlightened and another was when he was quite little, before I was his charge. He had been lured out by a strange man claiming to be the founder of a new religious movement and nearly kidnapped.

In front of the carriage are two men wearing military personal. There are different branches of our military but, these Moons, they are collectively known as the military since the War ended and our kingdom has no desire to enter another one. Thick, leather jackets equipped with vests that have been modified for each man’s plague altercations. The one on the left is at least double my size, with a gruff face and a single dark eye—the other is sewn shut. His skin looks sickly green, and slimy. The second man is leaner, taller, with a musket over his shoulder and a face that is in the process of change. His eyes are larger than the average person’s, probably the size of my fist, and bloodshot. His nose is tiny and the way his lips are pursed together makes them seem like they are popping out of his face at an extreme degree.

If you’re of high class or noble family, then your family likely served well during the Sixty Seven Cycle War. The Industry of Servitude, the military, ensures that its people get compensation, with the help of the Industry of Temples. Even better than Prayer or debts, fighting for what you believe in can efficiently heal a fractured Soul.

The two military men raise their palms to their foreheads.

“Sergeant Mitia, Sergeant Norris,” Kaki greets. “Thank you for accompanying us.”

“Of course, Lightened.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” a shrill voice comes from behind.

Running towards us is a small girl of maybe six or seven carrying a white basket. She must be Pure, for the pretty white dress she dons is better than anything I currently own.

“Lightened Bakiyoria?” the little girl cries.

Kaki frowns. “Hi?”

“I heard—I heard you’re a miracle worker,” she says.

“I—what? No.”

“My mama said so,” she says.

“Who’s your mama?”

“My mama is named Ranna.” She giggles with a naivety found only in small children. “That rhymes.”

Kaki blanches at the name. So do I. The Lightened woman from Sal Gasve that had tried to stick needles in Kaki’s eyes. “Right. Well, tell your mama that I can’t perform miracles. Or see visions of the past, present, future. Or anything like that. Sweetie.” The words are clunky on his tongue—Kaki was never any good with children.

“But… you’re supposed to be special.”

“I think some people would consider me special for a few less flattering reasons.”

“Oh. Can I tell you my miracle anyways?”

He runs a hand through his hair uncomfortably. “Sure.”

“I’m going to whisper it to you.”

“Okay.” He leans down and lets her whisper into his ear. He wears a very solemn expression and nods thoughtfully. “Oh, that is not good now, is it?”

She shakes her head. “Mhm-mhm. It is not.”

“I’ll do what I can,” he promises.

“See! You are a miracle worker! Bye-bye, Lightened!” She runs off into the other direction.

I sigh. “Sorry, Kaki.”

“It’s okay.”

“What did she ask for?”

“A friend of hers got kidnapped,” he says. “I’ll report it to the authorities.”

“Kidnapped?”

“Yes. Troubling, isn’t it?” Stories such as that never happen in the Fortress. The Pure are not capable of such heathenry. It goes right along with not appreciating what you have and taking from others what is not necessary for you.

I nod, uttering a Prayer beneath my breath for the lost Soul. Kaki watches me with an expression I cannot decipher.

***

I learn very quickly that the rocking back and forth of the coach against the road makes me sick to my stomach. The inside of the coach is very nice. Beautifully carved out seats with dips in the middle so that it feels like you’re sinking a bit. Two sets of them face each other with a very small table in the middle and a leather hatch, for books and papers and other conferring items. The windows that are kept open, lined with green glowshroom oil.

The queasiness soon becomes obnoxious, and I cannot tell if it is the physicality of the coach or my own nervous thinking.

This is my first time leaving the Fortress in my entire life. We drive past the main turrets and towers, which hold the wings. Gerasim and Kirill do not hang in the sky to aid my discomfort. Slowly, the turrets creep past me. We approach the front gates, built long before I was born. Since the Fortress was built as a military base, the gates were made to be extremely hard to penetrate. They are not grated or barred—they are pure metal, hundreds of legs long and high. Not as tall as the Fortress walls themself, but pretty close. It takes over fifty people just to open the gates. They are the Gate Keepers, a branch of public servitude similar to the Rain Keepers. The closer we come, the smaller I feel.

I murmur a Prayer beneath my breath as we hit something extraordinarily tall and it rocks the carriage so hard that Kaki and I slam forward into the table. It is likely a plague-root in the ground.

We pause as the gate opens and then, slowly, the Fortress moves farther and farther, smaller and smaller, inch by inch. My heart hammers against my chest.

All my life, the Fortress has been something bigger than myself. A history I will never completely understand. A home I will never completely know. Sectioned off from the rest of the kingdom, yet bustling all at once. Sprawling yet organized, neatly kept together, organized well and happily by class. Gorgeous yet functional. And always predictable.

I stare intensely as we move further and further along the dark path, filled with brush and plague-root.

The smells hit me instantly. While the Fortress wasn’t all sweet fruits or purified blood—it was musty most of the time, really—there was not a lingering aroma of smoke, and fresh blood, and feces and more smoke accumulating into a thick, oppressive air. So much smoke, I realize. I can hardly see the red skyline, the air is so gray.

I cover my mouth with my sleeve and cough as the road becomes even more rocky. It is like we are driving on a bunch of thick stones of different sizes and shapes. I tell Kaki we might have to stop so I can hurl. The black roots claw their way out of the ground like gruesome, dying hands. Running through the packed soil are veins of black. The same sort you see in the trees. The ground is similar in the Fortress, but not as severe.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

I don’t realize I am death-gripping the edge of my frock until Kaki says, “Relax, Nadya. We’ve barely gone ten legs.”

“It’s going to be a bit rocky,” the coachman warns up front. “It’s downhill from here.”

I didn’t realize that the Fortress was built on elevated ground. It almost looks down on the rest of the City. Because the windows are on the side of the coach and not the front, the City reveals Itself to me gradually.

First is a long section of plague-ridden brush and trees. They are thickly overgrown, covering up paths that seemed like they had once been used but have long since been abandoned. I try to follow where they may have led, but it all comes back to mounds of brush and black wood.

I almost expect the City to have a neat gate or clear point of entrance, like the Fortress.

Instead, it comes upon us slowly. As the ground flattens and my stomach doesn’t feel like it’s going to be turned inside-out, tents start to pop up on the side of the road. They are made of overgrown leaves, old skin, and logs, held together with vines and charred rope.

“What are these?” I ask.

“The Tyn,” Kaki says.

The Tyn. The faithless. This is where they live?

“Or maybe not the Tyn,” he muses.

“Have you been to the City before, Lightened?” one of the Sergeants asks.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “Once or twice.”

It would be one thing if the tents were simply a dozen. But that is simply not the case. “But… we provide everyone housing. The Industries make sure of it. What is this?”

As we draw closer to the City, the tents slowly dissipate, as though they were never there.

The small Tyn huts turn into squished, one-room homes stacked on top of each other. The road gradually opens itself and sprawls into multiple, with paved sections on the sides as the buildings grow taller and taller, as though trying to break the surface of the smoke for fresh air. All made of wood, many attached to plague-ridden trees—the bottom floors are often the trunk of the buildings. They are eerie looking, the way they all slant to the left, pressed down by an unyielding thumb.

All around there are people. They wear long, flowing garments that cover up their skin. I can see even now they are heightened versions of the arma—thick shoulder pads and hoods to protect from the rains. They watch our coach with dark eyes. There are only young people, twenty at the eldest.

The farther we get into the City, the more coaches and carriages there are, but most are not steam-powered. They are being pulled along by shirtless, plague-ridden men, who scream and yell as their coachmen wave bags in front of their faces.

“What is that?” I whisper. “What are they doing?”

“It’s an illegal practice,” Sergeant Mitia tells me, “using the dying for labor. It is the Rubies who endorse this; they are practitioners of the strong versus the weak and they pay these men well.”

“They look so young.”

“Because of their fractured Souls, most here do not live longer than twenty-five.”

“That’s it?” I whisper. They are younger than Missus Yarna. In the Fortress, most reach their mid-thirties.

Families hang out on balconies that protrude from the apartment complexes. I am not sure if they are truly balconies or simply uncovered sections. I realize that none of these buildings have doors.

It is close to the evening, and families walk home, chatting and laughing on the inner streets. Many have drums or other instruments slung over their shoulders. They sit down in groups and sing. Fences litter the area, but most stop and start at random intervals. Some kids a little younger than Kaki and I play atop them, seeing who can balance the farthest without falling. Everyone is thin to the bone. Groups hang out by red drawings, smoking and glowering.

Authorities walk past. There is no street corner without their patrol. In comparison, their uniforms are much more pristine. They walk around with guns and wear lazy expressions.

Some of the fences are lined with chains. Plague-ridden men and women sit there, shackled. I pale at the sight.

“Suns,” I whisper. “Suns.”

“Look there, Nadya,” Kaki says.

He points to one of the alleys. The coachman slows. Hanging off the third or fourth story of one of the complexes is a series of quilted skins, ranging from shades of green to brown to read. Each skin has a different adornment on it, most of them done in dark brown and feathers. The sections are choppily cut and sewn. I try to make out what it depicts, until I realize that each square has its own story.

“It’s a mural,” Kaki says, breathless. “A beautiful one.”

“Lightened,” Sergeant Norris says.

That’s when I notice the heap of black right beneath it. “Oh Suns. Suns! Stop, stop! Stop the coach!”

The alley is only large enough to fit Kaki and I shoulder-to-shoulder, and its opening is blocked by six bodies, lined side-by-side. The ones in the front are slumped back in sitting positions. The one furthest to the left has its head resting against its chest. The one to the right leans against it, the one beside that leans on the previous, and so on—a crazy set of fallen cards. Each has skin that is lost of color, hair so thin it is nonexistent. Their faces are more bone than flesh. Two of them have their mouths open, revealing black teeth and tongues. The smell is excruciating.

The coachman doesn’t stop. And everyone else just walks on by.

“That’s horrible. That’s horrible,” I say.

“Nadya, calm down,” Kaki says.

“I think I’m going to faint. What in the name of Gerasim and Kirill is that? Why—”

“Those are the Black Streets,” says Sergeant Norris. “Where the less Pure let their dead to rot. They will be picked up by the Slaughter Houses soon.”

I try to erase the sight from my memory, to no avail.

We pass a makeshift playground. In a fenced-off yard, a bunch of crates and broken coaches and run-down pieces of wood are stacked to form a mini headway. There is even a ladder made of vine and a small pit dug in the ground. Three or four kids play with a ball. Laughter rings.

Everywhere I look, bodies. I cannot tell which I am imagining, making worse in my head when they are really bags of dark trash or shackled near-dead Souls. I replace the scene with the bodes in my mind. “One of them was a child.”

No one responds to me.

“How long until we’re at the Fyi streets?” Kaki calls to the driver.

“Not too long, Lightened.”

I whisper a Prayer, hoping that those Souls we just saw lived their lives to the fullest and in peace, or as close as you can get to that here.

The rest of the City is that same balance of beauty and morbid. For every thirty I see smiling and creating music on the streets, I see one shriveled old job moaning and wailing on the front steps of a home. Long lines trail outside of Shops, full of discontent, angry faces. There are fashions I have never seen before in the Fortress, like tattoos on the face or capes with different insignias. I see men and women who have done themselves up to emphasize their own plague. A group of men, half-naked, running around another one of those make-shift playgrounds, screaming and yelling at each other. The authorities running down the street, yelling at them to shut up. They are disturbing public peace. All over, the trees and brush are unkempt, and I see a few men hacking into these thick soles with axes—a practice I have only heard of in rumor at the Fortress; plague mining.

We take an extraordinarily sharp left turn.

“Here we are,” the coachman says. “These four streets, this cross right here, are the Fyi streets. Where would you like to be dropped off, lightened?”

“Are you even going to be able to find a place to stop? The streets are filled.”

If you didn’t know about the Festival before, you would certainly become aware. The Fyi Streets take up two or three blocks, with about three times as many people than I have seen yet. The coach stutters to a stop because of the sheer amount of coach and foot traffic. Kids, mostly, and teenagers. They distribute paper bags and hang up weaved decorations on all the balconies. The laughter is rambunctious. A few legs away, a group of teens sit with thick metal tins in their laps. They play a slightly inconsistent rhythm. At first, I cover my ears at the shrill noise. But then I notice the kids dancing in front of them.

Dancing is not quite common in the Fortress, nor is music as abundant. Still, I have never seen this dance; it is nothing like our formal duets at our Balls.

They are in groups of three, their arms interlinked. They stomp un unison, but each person in the trio does a different movement at a different time. The one on the very left would stomp their left foot, while the middle claps their right hand, while the third jumps up in the air. It looks so primitive but so choreographed.

“I will have to drop you off here, Lightened,” the coachman says after assuring us that the traffic will get better.

Kaki and I depart, followed by the Sergeants.

“You do not have to come with us,” Kaki says. “We’ll be fine on our own.”

“It is a safety precaution, Lightened.”

“Really, it’s okay.”

They do not budge. The Sergeants march on either side of us as we start our walk down the street. Many eyes turn towards us, frowning at the unusual uniforms. I realize that many of these families may not have seen a military uniform since the War ended. For the first time, people stare because of the Sergeants, not because of Kaki. Without such a conscious audience to reside over him, he seems calmer than I’ve ever seen him, yet that feeling does not extend to myself.

“What do you think?” Kaki says.

“It’s loud,” I say.

“Do you want to stay and enjoy the Festival?”

I raise my hands to my ears. “It’s loud,” I repeat.

Kaki leans in and whispers, “Jeran lives in a much quieter district of the City.” At my silence, he says, “Or we can go back to the Fortress, if this is all too much. I understand. I’ll talk to Jeran a different Moon.”

Go to Jeran, stay here, or what? Because it is loud I will run back to the Fortress? Am I really so unable to adapt? But I want to scream at the sight of those bodies—only those who have no respect for their dead will let them rot as they do in the Black Streets. These people are not my people. They care not for Praying over the safe passage of their dead Souls. Kaki’s Jeran has no respect for our religion, reading his texts.

The idea of speaking to someone who disregards such an exquisite rule of our religion makes me vastly uncomfortable. But that was the point of this, wasn’t it?

But does what Mister Jeran does to his own Purity affect my own?

“How are we supposed to ditch the Sergeants?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “That’s why I liked sneaking out. No one to watch you.”

We walk over to a stand that is set up in front of an old, abandoned building. Or I think it’s abandoned until I see a face inside. The overgrowth and general rucketness of the structure did not make it seem anything like inhabited. The stand in front has pictures drawn of pies. Meat pies, being baked fresh outside on a fire and hot stone-stove by three elderly women, with slightly plague-ridden carrots. They are humming a tune together, in harmony. A long line comes from the front, but I notice there is a second line from the back. Before I can wonder as to what that is, Kaki grabs my sleeve.

“Look. Those are the orphans.”

They walk in drones. Three giant crowds of children led by a single patron each. They are ragged, tired things. Thin and barefoot, they walk hand-in-hand. Many seem petrified, wide-eyed and gaping at all the sights around them. Some slump, some grin.

Rounds of applause come from various crowds; whistling and animalistic noises.

“Yeah, finally free from your prisons!” a voice calls.

Lights go off. Red and green. I am not sure what they’re made of, but they illuminate the children.

People shove through us, making room in the center of the intersection for the children.

The patrons speak to the kids, telling them they are allowed to roam free on the Fyi Streets only. They start to pass out necklaces and weaved laurels with white bone heads.

“These are gifts from the community,” one of the patrons says. “Look around you. They’s are here to support you all. Look over there, at that man. He has scarves for you all, for the Cold Season. Go, grab them! But makes lines. Lines! Lines!”

Two of the groups follow suit.

Kaki leans towards me. “I know how we can ditch the Sergeants,” he whispers. “When the authorities come, you and I? We run.”

“What do you mean, ‘when the authorities come?’” He says nothing and I glare. “Kaki, don’t be annoying.”

The last of the orphaned children groups remains in the center. The patron turns around. Both of her eyes are covered with a rag tied around her head. Running down both cheeks are the remnants of scars. I can only assume they are from her eyes. She has lost both hands, stumps now, and blackened. Two children grip her right leg and another tugs anxiously at her skirt.

The kids in the last group have formed themselves into five lines, each with five kids. The first row are on their knees, hitting the ground over and over with their palms. The second row is pounding upon the first row’s head. Gently, I think. The third and fourth rows stand utterly still.

The children then reach into their cloak pockets. Each carry a large vial of a white liquid. Confused murmurs siphon through the crowds.

The man that had been selling the black feathers steps out of the crowd. He waves a dramatic hand. “My dear Giselle spent her life fighting for children like these….”

Suddenly, an onslaught of yelling. I look to my right to see the authorities unsling their guns and rush forwards, but the crowd shoves them backwards. The Sergeants grab Kaki and I and push us behind them, unslinging their own weapons.

“...each of these children are Birds without Wings,” he announces. “Cut off from birth. Not only do they lack family, but they lack freedom. We’re all aware of this.”

He has to grow louder to be heard over the chaos that erupts, but no one can get past the protective barrier around the vial-holding children.

“Each of these kids has a vial. Some hold a life-threatening poison. Others a sweet marmalade drink of the freshest fruits. They look the same and have a similar scent. Each is labeled. Can anyone here tell me which vial is which? They are labeled! They are labeled!”

Furious, outrageous cries come from all about. I can make out no words.

“He’s going to kill them,” I say to Kaki. “He’s going to kill those kids.”

“No,” Kaki says. “He won’t.”

“Where are the Suns?” Giselle’s husband screams. “Where are they to ask for guidance? The Moons watch over us now! Someone tell me, before I command these children to take a sip!”

The screamings of the crowds grow even more intense. People wearing the laurels and bone-beads that the children handed out protect them from the bustling authorities. I am shoved forcefully into Kaki, my plague-ridden knees crying out in pain, who wraps his arm around me and keeps me there. They are going to riot. This wasn’t a festival at all. Or maybe it started as one, but the old man’s fliers, the words I couldn’t read, must have indicated it to be something else. It was an invitation.

There is a glimmer in Kaki’s eye. “You knew,” I whisper. “How did you know?”

I don’t even know if he hears me.

He grabs my arm and drags me into the opposite direction, away as the Sergeants fight to keep the crowd stable, acting on instinct. Sergeant Mitia yells, “Lightened? Lightened! Hey, where are you going?”

“Run for me,” Kaki pants.

“What?”

“Use your gift! Run for me, Nadya!”

A gunshot goes off. I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder.

The bullet landed just between the man who sold me the black feathers. I register my scream but I do not hear it.

Then I start running, towing Kaki in hand, nearly dragging him through this City’s streets.

***

When we finally stop, I register that I have no idea at all where we are.

Then I begin to hyperventilate. The streets all look the same and I cannot see the Moons so there is little light, for the lights have broken here, and I’ve seen more dead bodies in this one night than I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and the sounds of the drums blare in my ears, and the sound of the gunshot that shot that man right in the forehead.

Kaki grabs me by the shoulders. “I’m sorry, Nadya. I’m sorry. Hey, look at me. It’s okay. It’s okay—”

“You knew!” I screech. “You knew that that was what was going to happen, you know—”

“I didn’t know beforehand or else I wouldn’t have let us go, but I saw the bone beads and—Nadya, calm down. It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re not in danger, okay? I’m sorry. I really am.”

I say nothing. I only look ahead. I cannot quite tell what the black speck a few legs away is, but I imagine it to be a body, half dead, reaching out to me with a shaking arm. Kaki slowly turns me to face the other direction.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought. Do you want to go back to the Fortress? We can go back to the Fortress.”

I find myself shaking my head.

Missus Yarna thought that to want to experience something new was to take what you have for granted, but I disagree. I think I’ve never appreciated my life more until this moment. My thoughts are jumbled and I cannot seem to speak. My heart races much too fast and my legs hurt so much from the running—or maybe they shake because of my nerves. Either way, I cling to the edge of the tired old building beside us, the wood digging into my nails.

Why would the Suns allow this City to be in such a state? I wonder. It is a surprisingly clear thought considering that I feel as though I cannot breathe.

“Okay,” Kaki says. “Are you sure—”

“Show me your friend,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Your Jeran.”

Prove to me there is something good here, that when I look out the balconies and imagine a life beyond the mountains, it is not all like this. Prove to me the Suns look after good Souls here. Prove to me the Fortress is not the greatest achievement the Suns believe we can achieve.

Kaki said that we have to face the uncomfortable to learn: if this is learning, I think I would rather remain ignorant and stupid.