Bran
Cheddar, we’re meeting with Shinjiro.
You need to get them to safety. Don’t listen to Meatloaf.
If you do, Ice will end us.
Cheddar
What!? So, I’m not a spy?
I’ll try. Um, who’s Shinjiro?
Bran
No, friend. We’re secret rebels now.
Your dreams hold the answer.
----------------------------------------
Ice
----------------------------------------
This was his time. A minor ritual in self-care to fill endless hours. There was something about the comforting smell of a freshly baked cinnamon bun. He didn’t need to eat — no Finder Keeper did and especially not the right hand of Lady Wraith, but Ice still enjoyed the occasional peaceful moment where he could delight in the simple things.
The smell was enough that he forgot the discomfort of the iron framed chair and slightly too tall table. The echoing noise of the many fountains and the chatter of shopping shades formed the soundtrack to his private experience. West City Mall had the densest population of shades on her Dinner Table. Even Finder Keepers had a troublesome time moving around inside, but not him. For Ice, the mall had become a sanctuary of sorts.
He made sure his tie was safe, then braced both hands on the table’s edge and leaned his head directly over the puffed-up icing covered pastry to inhale. The smell wafted through him, and he shuddered as he returned to his seat. The weight caused the chair to slide back over the unforgiving tiled floor.
Pulling the chair back into position, he reached into the pocket of his blacker than night blazer and pulled out a small bundle of silver cutlery wrapped in dark blue cloth. He set it on the table and took his time unwrapping and inspecting the fork, knife, and spoon. Soon he would be back to herding his subordinates, putting into action Lady Wraith’s grand design, and negotiating a new alliance treaty with the Ragers, but first — his pastry.
His skin flushed in anticipation as he picked up the fork with his left hand, the knife in his right. He felt the slight resistance as he pinned the bun to the paper plate. The gentle back and forth as he carved a piece of ecstasy from the whole. A gentle drip of icing on the blade…
“Um, excuse me? Lord Ice?” Meatloaf tapped his shoulder.
He felt the many bracelets on her wrist jingle beside his ear. “Really?” He gently set the fork and knife down on the paper plate, gave the cinnamon bun a forlorn look, and shifted the chair back from the table. He heard Meatloaf gasp in pain as the metal leg connected with her shin. Good. He looked over his shoulder.
“Sorry to bother you, sir.” Jumbo Shrimp executed a tight spin and ended the comment with a finger gun pointed Ice’s way.
Ice stood up from the chair, adjusted his dress pants, smoothed his tie over his button-down shirt, and did up the single button of his blazer. Then he turned, pointing the toes of his ever-polished shoes at the trio of underlings in front of him. The cloth and leather he wore were all the same color — black. Not freshly died, but the actual black of deep, unrelenting darkness.
Curious, Ice gave each of the trio an appraising look. He hadn’t sensed a disturbance. They made it this far into the mall without breaking a single shade. Impressive.
Meatloaf was reattaching a ‘one ring’ collectible featured in the Lord of the Rings back to a chain around her neck. Invisibility against shades — not bad. She blurred the line between Junker and Jingle. Many of her Jingle casting peers would never lower themselves to using collectibles or plastic jewelry, like the spider ring she wore. Most Jingles were fools. Ice appreciated Meatloaf’s ruthless and efficient leadership style, but she knew better than to disturb him unless it was important.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Jumbo Shrimp was wearing a pair of street shoes. They hadn’t changed his physical dimensions, but Ice noticed he had trouble standing still and his head bounced to a beat only he could hear. Each time he stepped; lights flashed in rainbow colors from the sneakers. The Sole Stepper had danced around the shades.
Bran had lunch boxes hanging where suspenders anchored to his khaki colored pants. He held another in his hand, green metal with the image of soldiers on the front. A sixth was hanging from the blue backpack he wore. Bran was probably under the influence of whatever powers a G.I. Joe box gave him; he stood straighter than Ice remembered and his thick glasses tucked into the front pocket of his shirt. Unboxers were enigmas, even to Ice; their artifacts were so rare no one fully understood how they worked and from what Ice knew, each lunch pail, kit, bag, or box could have different effects on different Unboxers.
The trio had to keep dodging shades as they tried to find safe ground to hold a conversation. Ice waited; he didn’t have to worry about shades. They avoided him, not the other way around.
Meatloaf threw a matching pair of bracelets on the ground, one to her left the other to her right. They landed and grew to the size of hula hoops. A thin layer of purple filled their centers. When a shade was about to run into her, she made sure the other hoop was clear and stepped into the first, then teleported to the second. She bounced back and forth through the portals, avoiding shoppers.
They were the Fryer cell, minus Cheddar, and they weren’t Ice’s top performing unit, but they were close. Their reputation was enough that he checked his wrath; what they had to say could be important. Would it be more important than his cinnamon bun? Ice doubted it.
Minutes passed, but they were so busy dodging shades they couldn’t get a full sentence out. It was becoming… tedious.
Finder Keepers could still break shades, and shades would try to feed on them, but by Lady Wraith’s will they couldn’t drain energy from Finder Keepers. It was still poor form for them to break shades, as it took them away from their true purpose. Which meant she prohibited intentionally breaking them — only he could do that. Her purpose was his purpose.
Ice thrust out his arms, his eyes flashed purple, and all the shades in sight broke into mist and flew towards him. One-by-one broken shoppers slammed into the dark cloth of his blazer, tie, and pants — swallowed by the material’s darkness. In moments, he wore a charcoal gray suit and tie with a black dress shirt and shoes. A ring of shade free space opened around them. “There. Now, speak.” His brow creased, giving thin eyebrows, and narrowed eyes the appearance of blades. The occasional claw or face appeared as shades swirled through his clothing — they were his to command.
Jumbo Shrimp shuffled back as one shade snapped against the restraining fabric. His pointer came up and directed Ice’s gaze towards Meatloaf with a thrust. The dancing shrimp 3-step moonwalked to put some distance between her and him.
Bran stood at-ease on Meatloaf’s left — legs shoulder width apart, arms clasped behind his back. His eyes were steady on Ice.
Meatloaf, eyes studying the floor tiles, cleared her throat and spoke. She told Ice everything the cell knew about Asher’s pull, his artifact, and his use of the awaken spell.
Ice showed a master level proficiency in patience, listening silently while Meatloaf prattled on, fidgeting with her rings and bracelets. Occasionally, she would glance to meet his deep brown, near black, eyes before they darted away under his glare. He should probably let up. She would stutter less, and this would go faster, but he shook off the thought and maintained his dominating stare. Yeah, this was important information, and they were right to find him, but it had a cost — a casualty cooled on the table behind. Ice knew, once cold, the bun would never be the same. They were lucky. His blood price was set only to a frosty glare — he could deliver much worse.
Meatloaf finished speaking. Ice waited. Nothing could be world-ending because Lady Wraith controlled everything. The worst that happened was rebellion, but even then, the Lady still got her meal. It was just torn, shredded, and often served slightly crispy because of burns, bullets, and sharp implements. He had seen several rebellions start, but his Finder Keepers always restored order in the end. In fact, he even welcomed the last rebellion. Things had become repetitive, which can happen when you live forever and sleep is forbidden, but there was something different this time. It worried him — a feeling he had near forgotten. “That artifact. It was in the Southern Maelstrom vault.”
“Um… yes, I believe so.” Meatloaf looked over at Bran to confirm.
He nodded.
Jumbo Shrimp snaked his head to the side, keeping rhythm. “He’s already in the know. Ain’t no question.” He emphasized the point with both arms shooting out in a downward X and stepping to the side.
Meatloaf’s face reddened in fury, and she snapped her eyes up to Jumbo Shrimp. “You don’t think I knew? I knew he knew!” She tapped an earing on her right ear and pointed “Right wrist. Left leg. Then squeeze.”
“Wait!” Jumbo Shrimp spun and sprinted towards the closest glass and metal railing.