The jobs were harder to get than Willard had expected, seemingly as if they had disappeared along with the people that used to hold them. The usual noises of Ferah had died down significantly, like a struggling beast on its last breath. There were fewer visitors, and even the smoke from corporate factories seemed to finally settle. The only loud sounds were the low rumblings of the mobile harvest stations scuttling about on the monolith.
The Sorissian village, on the other hand, was the direct opposite. As Willard walked through its dirt-trodden streets, he could hear children laughing, bells tinkering, Thimgoats bleating, and the constant ‘whack whack whack’ of hammers pounding wooden poles into the ground. Everywhere he looked he saw people putting up bundles of lights across their windows, cleaning the snow off giant leather tents, and hurrying past him with sacks of food in their arms. Soon each pole would have its very own banner, each light would brighten the dark night, each tent would turn into a feast hall, and each person would have their fullest meal of the year.
It seemed like the Makobi Festival would be finally taking place in the native’s village again after an entire decade.
In his hands Willard held a small rectangle bag. It had been given to him by Krummlae after his checkup, marking another worsening point in his condition. Willard had now graduated from casual-breather-therapy to serious-serum-treatment. There were fifty or so tiny vials in the bag, each containing twenty-five milliliters of herb-mixed-antibiotic-juice made by Krummlae himself. Willard wondered if he could sell his leftover breathers.
Out of the curve of the road rushed two. The one behind—the girl, was chasing the boy as he brandished a crimson scarf in his hand. Her face was glowing bright red, and her shouts were paired with laughter from both of them. As the two scrambled down the shallow curve of the southern road, the boy slipped and slid down. The girl stopped, but upon seeing him wave the scarf at the bottom, grinned and jumped down after him. Willard was rooted to the ground. As they got closer and their hoots of laughter grew louder, Willard saw his razor-sharp teeth. A inexplicable sourness spread through him.
Then the boy, looking back as he sprinted forth, crashed into him and sent them both onto the ground. The laughter stopped, and Willard, dazed, looked around at the spilled vials on the ground.
“Ah, sorry!” The boy got up immediately and pulled Willard up. The girl, who had arrived shortly after the crash, started gathering the unspilled vials and returning them to the bag.
“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Willard shook his head, “I should’ve moved.”
“No, mister! The fault is mine. I was overexcited after my passage-ceremony.”
“I’ve noticed,” Willard managed a smile as he pointed at the boy’s mouth, “you’re an adult now.”
“You know our customs?”
“Not particularly,” Willard nodded as he received the bag from the girl, “you’re too kind.”
“Why don’t you come to my feast? It’s the least I could do.”
“Maybe some other time.” Willard chuckled.
“Is that so…”
The two looked at each other, bowed at Willard once more, looked at each other again, then resumed their chase, laughing and skipping down the road.
Once they were out of eyesight, Willard spat twice in an attempt to rid himself of the sourness in his mouth. He looked at the yellow mucus on the road, felt a sudden guilt at doing so, and kicked some snow onto it.
They’re living my dreams.
He saw Mia as he made her way to the S-Lev station. She had balanced herself on the railings over the train tunnel and was rubbing her nape with her right hand, her brows furrowed, looking like she was in a heated conversation with someone on TochNet.
How did she get signal?
As Willard approached her, he realized that though she was extraordinarily beautiful, nothing stood out about her to the passerby apart from her lack of thick winter pants. If she wanted to, she could blend seamlessly into the crowd without him even noticing. Her presence reminded him of the Shades. As he got closer, he tried walking quieter to surprise her, but gave up as he cringed from the constant creaks of his rusted leg supports. Mia seemed to have heard it too. She turned, saw him, turned again and covered her mouth with her left hand as she spoke in rapid succession into her com device. Then she straightened, shook her head as though loosening her hair, and smiled at him.
“What brings you here?” she asked in an overly cheerful voice.
“I was just at Krummlae’s.” He showed her the bag as he walked past her, inviting her to follow. She hopped off the railings and came along beside him.
“What’s in there?” Mia asked, though Willard was sure she knew the answer.
“Medicine,” Willard said. “It’s nothing serious. Just a usual checkup.” He wondered if he should tell her of the conversation with the Shades.
“So!” Willard perked up after a few steps of silence, putting up his carefree face. “How was it?”
“What?”
“The town. Anything different? How do you like it, now that you’re back?”
“…it’s uglier than I remembered,” Mia said, looking at her feet as the two of them stepped down the stairs into the train station. “There’s more garbage. More smoke. And those harvest factories.”
“They are quite loud.”
“Yeah. I don’t think we had them back then.” The two entered the dented silver box of the S-Lev and sat down next to the window.
“No, we definitely had them back in the day. They were always there, just...dormant.”
“Dormant! Eh heh.”
Willard wondered why she chuckled at the last word. Probably was some Bagiraek joke he’d never understand. The two sat in silence for some time while Mia fiddled with her hair. The train exited the service tunnels and into the bright winter light beyond, into the snow fields as far as the eyes could see. Dazzling white snow glistened in the light, almost too bright as Willard felt his eyes starting to hurt. He squeezed them several times but failed to get a single moisturizing tear out.
“Do you like it here?” Mia asked. The train screeched on the rails as it made a steep turn. The velocity swayed her shoulder against Willard.
“No.” Willard wondered why it came out so quick. For nearly his entire life, Ferah had been his home, and he couldn’t remember the time before his family moved here. But for some reason, Willard felt trapped. He had never belonged here. He couldn’t keep his balance on ice, couldn’t walk without forcing his leg supports above the snow, and couldn’t even discern the whistling sounds of a Marime-Beatle swarm from the regular wind. However, he would have refused a choice to leave. Normality, constance and stability is a gift he’d gladly choose over change. Perhaps it was why he refused to leave Sorissu after maturing even after mother’s attempts to persuade him. Though he liked to think of his decision as an adherence to his responsibilities.
“Then I have the perfect gift for you.” Mia smiled and elbowed Willard’s arm. Before Willard could answer, the train screeched again, this time on flat ground. Willard felt himself pushed forward as the S-Lev decelerated. Mia frowned. They were slowing down in the middle of a white plain.
“Will?” Mia stared at Willard as he pressed his forehead to the window. On the distant horizon several black dots were growing larger and larger, puffs of snow shooting out in all directions behind them.
“Pliach.” Willard spat, “Scavies.”
“What?” Mia blinked.
“Bandits.” Willard pulled out his wallet and stuffed it into his boots. He turned towards Mia, who stared back in total bewilderment.
Willard shook her, motioning her to do the same. He looked back and realized the dots were much closer now, as he could see a group of ten speeding towards them on Snowslicers, their tattered wrappings billowing behind like streaks of dark flame.
“I-I don’t have a wallet!” Mia stammered. Willard realized his hand might’ve been too tight on her shoulder as his fingernails dug into her flesh. But she didn’t seem to realize and was looking at him with a frantic expression. The other passengers had started doing the same things now, taking off bracelets, necklaces, cardholders, and other valuables and shoving them into hidden areas, either on themselves or in the slits between their seat.
“What?!”
“Don-don’t you guys use Bicloud?”
“Who stores their savings digitally these days?!” Willard looked out the window. The riders had disappeared, leaving the empty mechanical sleds on the ground. At the same time, the front door of the train slammed open.
Three cloaked figures entered the compartment. Actually, instead of calling their outfit cloaks, it would be more accurate to call them large rags. Their bodies were entirely covered in yellow tainted wrappings with dark red swirls that covered them like outlandish tattoos. The masks and oversized goggles made their head look larger than they were, and the feathers above the masks gave them an almost comedic look, like the many ceremony masks of the natives. But their most distinct feature would have to be their smell. All three of them emitted a stench so strong it could make one lose their sense of smell for a day with waterfalls of snot running down the nostrils.
The moment the two closest to the passenger seats set foot in the compartment they raised their guns, and the middle one untethered a large plastic sack from their waist. Once it was unzipped, the two started screaming at the passengers. Scavenger-speak was indecipherable, even with best translation neuroprograms installed. But the message was carried over effortlessly.
Willard pulled out another wallet from his pocket and handed it to Mia. He then twisted off the silver ring Krummlae had given to him for one of his birthdays.
“When they come, just hand this to them,” he whispered at her, “and act more scared than you are.” He prayed for her to not do anything stupid.
As the three approached, Willard fiddled with the ring in his hands. Such a small tribute was definitely not enough. All he hoped for now was to return home with only a bruise on his cheek. Or eye. Or both, like last time.
The three stopped at their row. The one on Mia’s left pointed their gun at her. It was a long, crudely fashioned rifle, with layers upon layers of bandages securing the barrel and the forestock in place. Though it appeared shabby, Willard had seen its shot pass clean through a security officer before. That was one of the rare occasions where the Scavs actually killed someone.
“GURAK! NOW!” the one pointing the gun shouted, pushing the words out with all the air in their stomach, as if those were the only two words of the Standard Tongue they know.
Mia hesitated, then pulled out the wallet. The Scav snatched it away and tossed it into the open bag and mumbled something to its friends. Then it pointed the gun at Willard.
“I—I’m sorry, I only have this ring.” Willard flashed them his most sincere, apologetic smile. “Nu-bu-but! It’s carved from Sibithian stone! Worth a fortune!” He waved the ring at them. The one with the gun snatched it away and showed it to the one holding the bag, supposedly appraising it. Willard knew Krummlae wouldn’t have given him a fake.
The three seemed to have come to a consensus and chucked it into the bag. Willard wiped the sweat off his forehead. But before they moved on, the one holding the gun seemed to notice something on Mia’s neck. It pointed the gun at her and poked the air with it.
“I can’t give you that.”
The sweat returned to Willard’s face. He flashed his most sincere smile again at the Scav, who was already more agitated, then pulled Mia towards him. He cast his gaze down on Mia’s neck and saw the amulet she had been fiddling with on the elevator. It had silver branches enveloping a red crystal in the center, looking like a heart with veins across it— it was a grotesquely beautiful thing.
“Listen, Mia. I don’t know the story behind that. But you NEED to consider your current position. Please, Mia. I—” Willard’s words were cut short when he saw smoke from the rifle.
Huh?
He saw the smoke again, this time in the same fashion.
Huh?
Then he saw the smoke come out one more time, like a videoclip rewinding itself. Willard realized that it was another one of his deja-vus, and squeezed his eyes as hard as he could.
“I’m not giving it to them,” Mia said. Her words seemed to pull him back into reality again. No shots had been fired, and both of them were still alive.
Willard gulped down a wail of anger and frustration. The Scav was shaking his gun more violently now and was nearly screeching at her. So he had to raise his voice too.
“Mia, listen! You give it to them! Now!” He reached over and tried to take it, but Mia shot out a firm hand and grabbed Willard’s wrist. The grip was so strong it stopped the blood from his arm and turned his knuckles white. But Willard paid it no attention as he saw the Scav point their gun straight at her turned head.
Time seemed to stagnate for the next few seconds. As Willard opened his mouth, Mia’s head tilted down from the muzzle and her right arm shot up, curving behind her head so fast he couldn’t even register it as he himself was dragged down onto the seat by her left hand. Then Willard realized his hearing was replaced by a strange high-pitched ringing similar to the screeching of the freight-trains. It was then that he finally saw the smoke from the barrel that he realized a shot had been fired. Several black pieces of burnt paint float down onto his noseridge. He looked up and noticed a pitch black bullet hole etched deep into the ceiling, inches above his head. Without giving him the time to think, Mia, her right hand still holding the red, hot barrel, wrenched the gun away from the Scav and thrust it back into their head. The stock flew right into their face and Willard heard a sickening crack as it connected with the cartilage of their nose. The Scav gave a muffled grunt and started to slump down. Before their knees hit the ground, Mia drove her right foot into their chest, and her back braced against the couch, pushed their limp body into the Scav holding the bag.
Before the third Scav could lift their gun, she leaped onto the armrest and like an acrobat, grabbed a handstrap with each hand and swung herself across the walkway. As she knocked them over, she snatched the long barrel with both hands and gave it a twist. Instead of pulling it out from their arm, she managed to snap the bandages securing the barrel to the forestock. With her knee pressed against the Scav’s neck, she gave the barrel another twist, yanking the long metal pipe clean off.
“Behind you!” someone in the front rows shouted. Willard pulled his attention away from Mia and saw the second Scav pushing the flaccid body of the first one off their leg and reaching for the gun.
She won’t make it in time.
With a sickening feeling in his throat, Willard unbuckled his seatbelt. He had to do something, and fast. He knew that. When he was younger, he had often daydreamed about moments like this, where he would heroically save the ones he loved and completely demolish the evil forces. But when the actual moment having come, he found himself sick in the stomach. His legs, unwilling to do his bidding, kept themselves firmly rooted to the ground. His body screamed.
Move, Willard!
He stood up, hearing the pop in his knees. His breaths sharpened, and he took one step forward. The Scav had wriggled free and already had the gun stock in his fingers. Willard looked around, and saw Mia clamber out from the back rows, half of her head dampened with blood. In one hand she held a long, metal pipe, its shaft also blood-soaked. He looked back and saw the man grasp the very back of the gun stock.
It’s now or never.
Willard shifted the center of his gravity towards the lower front of his head and lunged at the Scav, who already had the gun stock in their arms. He crashed into them, hands gripping the barrel, trying to wrestle the rifle out of their hands. At first he thought he was actually getting the upper hand, as the Scav’s right arm loosened from the gun. But as he watched, the arm pulled back, its hand balled, tightened, then shot back again, this time straight into his stomach. There was a dull thud as the knuckles found his waist, striking right on his belly button and forcing the air out from his chest. It was as if someone had tied a piece of string to his small intestine and yanked it with all their might, making him choke on his saliva as it gushed out of his mouth. It tasted sour.
With his grip slack, the Scav easily pulled the barrel from his hands. Willard hunched over, arms around his waist and squeezing them as hard as he could. As he turned his head towards the Scav again, his vision was obstructed by a dark brown object. Then he heard the crack, and the world swiveled around him. The world grew closer. Willard realized he was on the ground. He felt the hotness across his cheek and his left ear. It was a searing hotness, as if someone had pressed an iron on his face. When he looked up, he saw the muzzle pointed at him. It was large and round, with a dark hole in the center just large enough to fit one eyeball.
Well, this is it.
Willard closed his eyes. But for several seconds, nothing happened. He still felt the ache on his face. Then he felt something long land on his leg. Something heavy fell beside him, and he felt warm droplets spray on his face. As he opened his eyes, he saw the Scav writhing besides him, head up at the ceiling, arms flailing about. Something warm oozed onto Willard’s outstretched hands. He pulled it back and stared at the crimson liquid on his fingers. For a few seconds he failed to recognize it, then the scent of rusted iron hit him. He heard muffled shouting in the distance, his face and ear still burning. Someone grabbed him by the arm. Still dazed, he allowed himself to be carried up. The face of a cute girl appeared in his sight, her gray eye staring straight into his soul. Willard wondered why she looked so familiar. Then he remembered what had just happened.
“M-mia?”
“Don’t blink.” She shone something bright at his pupils whilst keeping his eyelids in place with two fingers. Then she sighed.
“There’s no permanent damage,” she said, pushing him along with her as she strode down the walkway. “We need to go.”
“Go?” Willard stared back at the Scav on the ground whilst stumbling to keep up. There was a strange, dark pole sticking out from their neck, and its end had propped their head and shoulder up from the ground.
How did that get there?
Without giving him the time to think, Mia ejected the emergency exit hatch at the end of the compartment. The bone-chilling breeze shot in, cooling Willard’s cheeks and leaving tiny frost-marks on the iron hatch frame. It helped Willard regain some of his senses, as he stared out at the blinding white plains before them.
“What are you doing?!” he shouted at Mia over the wind as she made her way through the hatch.
“We’re leaving. The rest would’ve heard the gunshot by now,” she said in a matter- of-fact manner. Then she disappeared into the outside.
She really is a terrorist.
Willard gulped. With the gut-wrenching feeling was still tugging at his stomach, he knelt down and clambered his way out. The instant he was in the open, his fingers froze. Then his toes, and then his ears. The cold seemed to pierce his insulation-suit and gnaw at his joints, draining whatever energy was left in him. He sank knee-deep into the snow, and began waddling his way towards Mia, who had hopped beside the Snowslicers parked next to the train.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
This is madness.
Grunting, Willard heaved himself from the snow and climbed aboard the hovering machinery. As he did, he heard the vibrating sound of fists thumping on plastic glass. He turned and saw several masked faces staring at him, some trying to break the windows with their gun stock, others rushing to the ends of their compartments.
“Mia, they ar-OHHHHHHH!” Before he could finish his sentence, she had twisted the control handles of the slicer, sending the slick vehicle forward like an arrow. The recoil would have thrown Willard off if she hadn’t shot a hand to grab him. She pulled him back, and he held on to her waist with both arms. The wind was blowing across the two with such force he was sure one precisely placed snowflake could take out his eye. He could feel the slicer going up, dropping, then up again, but couldn’t see the terrain as everything was masked by the blindingly white snow. Willard knew by now the train would be but a tiny dot behind them, but he didn’t dare look back.
Mia, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the wind and cold as her hair streamed behind her.
“Where’re we going?!!” Willard shouted, but he couldn’t even hear himself over the winds.
The two sped across the Eastern wastelands. The snow died down after a while, revealing the gray landscape. The gray stood out like several frustrated strokes on a blank canvas, the painter not bothering to moderate the paint on his palette knife. Occasionally the slicer would pass over a spot where the upper ice layer was thin, and Willard would hear the vibrations of the slicer’s stabilizing shaft reverberate throughout the caverns below. As Willard poked his head up, he could see distant mountains, their misty silhouettes gradually becoming darker and darker. The sun was setting in between the intersections of two mountains, and, as they got closer, its beams of light cast stripes on the dimming ground, like the fingers of a giant slowly stretching over them. In the distance he could see Giant Land Urchins moving about, the shadows of their titanous bodies adding to the giant’s fingers. Willard wanted to warn Mia that these were the untamed ones, capable of releasing toxic blood vapor, but realized that she already knew that before she left, so he kept silent. Eventually, as they reached the bottom of the mountain, Mia slowed the slicer down to a cruise. They were still in the wastelands, but Willard could see more and more traces of civilization. To their right, on the great plains, the old weather monitoring stations were beginning to pop up. Twenty-meter tall radio tower stationed on a standardized cargo-housing-unit with a small electric pump next to it, the only observable specks of humanity within the Sorissian wildness.
As they cruised on, these stations popped up more and more frequently. The air also turned warmer, with a strong acidic stench mixed in it. As they made a steep turn to avoid a rapid climb up the mountain feet, the white landscape darkened. At first Willard wondered why the color had reached such a deep shade, then he saw what it was.
A trash heap.
Garbage mounds piled so high they covered the other half of the mountain face like a ragged blanket. In some places in the waste field something larger than the rest would stand out, be it the legs of Mobile Harvest Stations, tires from powertrain-haul-trucks, broken wingblades of Daybreak-thopters, and several others Willard couldn’t name. But what caught him off guard wasn’t the scene. It was the smell.
The entire place had a pungent smell even stronger than the Scavs. If theirs was made from sour sweat, this was made from decaying flesh. Willard could almost see the mellow, dark orange odor drift down from the peak of the mountain and collect in a misty cloud on the ground. As they approached, Willard felt himself getting evidentely warmer.
“There.” Mia pointed at a lone weather-monitor station several hundred meters in front of them.
“We’ll spend the night there.”
She parked the slicer next to the electric pump, then jumped down, dusted her hands, and went over to the pump. Willard followed, his legs sore from squeezing the sides of the seats for too long. The sun was only a sliver above the garbage peak now, and the light orange light of day had turned dark blue.
“Help me with this,” Mia called. Willard trotted forward, and saw Mia point at one of the two levers on the pump. The pump looked like it was one of those manual-electro- generators, except much more antiquely designed. In fact, the dents and colors of the cargo- crate it was fitted into told Willard this entire station was probably much older than it showed.
“Alright. Three, two, one!”
The two pushed their lever down, putting their entire weight on it. The pump creaked, then gave a metallic squeal and started shaking rhythmically.
“Taki. It worked.” Mia gave the pump a proud slap.
Taki?
“It’ll be dark soon.” She swung open the door of the cargo-housing unit. It made a loud creak that was quickly overwhelmed with the crashing sound of a pile of trash sliding downhill on the opposite side. Some critter was probably scrounging around looking for food. They were buried under the trash, now.
Willard followed her in. The room was completely unlit, and the musty smell of dried and crumbling cardboard permeated the air. Willard heard a ‘flick’ behind him, and a singular wall-mounted lamp lit. It flickered, emitting a faint hum as it lit up the room with a dim yellow light. The housing unit was clearly designed as a temporary, one-night shelter. There was a shabby leather sofa at the opposite end of the room, its stuffing for the right armrest torn out and scattered across the floor, leaving the springs dangling out like twisted branches. Several sheets of gray cardboard were laid out on the ground, their original colors long gone. On Willard’s end of the room there was a dark burn on the ground, but only slightly visible from the piles of small, plastic cylinders covering the floor. Mia noticed them too, and a scowl came over her face. She said nothing, made her way to the sofa and swiped the piles of those plastic cylinders to the side with her foot with such force it looked as if she was kicking them. She dusted the sofa, climbed onto it, and curled herself into a “U”, with her head on the good armrest and her legs over the backrest. Then she suddenly perked up, hopped off the sofa, and walked out again, leaving the door open.
Willard looked out the window. The sun had set, and the remaining dark blue light of dusk was fading rapidly. Soon it would be dark, and the freezing blizzards of the night would come. He wondered if that tiny wall-mounted pump would be enough to heat the room up. Though, instead of the cold he was more afraid of being buried under a landslide of trash. Mia came back with two dubiously shriveled sticks, a cup, and something that looked like a mini-stove.
“Got us dinner.” She placed the stove above two sheets of cardboard, inserted the cup into the holder, and snapped the two sticks until each segment grew no longer than a digit.
“What are those?”
“Dunno, bandit food probably,” she shrugged and gave the stove a screw.
“Don’t worry. I scrambled the tracker on the snowslicer,” she said.
“O-oh. Well, uh, good, then.” Willard stood, closed the door, and made his way back to the sofa. The springs creaked as he sat down. His cheek throbbed.
“Should we add some water into it?”
“How do you know this place?” Willard ignored her question.
“Krummlae used to take me to maintain them. Says they were here even before his time. It’s a good thing they’re still here, though.” She chuckled, letting out several laughs that contradicted her youthful appearance. “I half-expected them to be taken down by now.”
“Why is that?”
“Eh, dunno. It’s a...gut feeling. Maybe I was wishing to see old things taken down.”
Willard got the feeling that she wasn’t exactly referring to the monitoring stations, but didn’t prod her on. Silence.
“Don’t get me wrong, I don’t advocate the destruction of history. Old things are nice, but old-enough things stop new things from being.” She stared at the cups as the further ends of the sticks started dissolving.
“Where did you learn how to fight like that?” Willard blurted out. It was something he had held in during the entire ride, and now his curiosity had reached its peak.
“Experience,” Mia said in a serious tone, not looking at him. She had the look of someone remembering a painstaking period in their life. Then she seemed to realize it, and her expression softened as she stuck out her tongue and made a face. Willard didn’t know why she did it. Perhaps it was to cover up something heavy.
“Experience?”
“I...got myself into a lot of trouble when I first reached Erste,” she chuckled, “you never knew just how apathetic humans can be until you’ve reached their capital.” Saying this seemed to take all the energy from her, and she pulled her legs back, her left arm around her knees and her right hand rubbing the amulet on her necklace. Her eyes were focused on Willard’s arm, but her gaze was far away. Willard held his breath, rubbed his palms together, then clenched them. “Then someone came and...and taught me how to fend for myself.”
“I learned to speak and act so I could fit right in with the Masadons.” She glanced at Willard, “Meekos.”
She dug her hands into the crevice of the couch and started halfheartedly picking at the stuffing. Willard waited. He felt like any words from him now would disrupt the scene. However, instead of going on, Mia seemed to have reached something stuffed inside the couch. She frowned, and pulled out a red cylinder. At first Willard thought it was one of those standard-issue cigarettes, but this was much bigger than that, with a green volume-indicator in its center. Mia stared at it with a look of mild disgust, her upper lip twitching slightly.
“And how to deal with this.” She held the cylinder in two fingers and raised it above her head. “The drug that drive cities, Lucere.” Then her penetrating gaze fell on Willard, and the pain on his cheek worsened.
“Have you taken any Lucere before…Will?” Her voice was suddenly probing, like a Nesgowl getting ready to pounce its prey who’ve already became aware of their presence.
“No.” His answer was short, instant. Indeed, he had been tempted many times to take it. But when he heard the stories of those addicted, he had firmed his resolve to never touch the likes of it. Anything that threatened his family would be shunned. Even himself. Moreover, he heard that the stuff was manufactured from the blood of the Jugang…
A strong wind blasted the door open, sucking the room of its heat and pushing the piles of used Lucere injectors back.
Willard jumped up, staggered against the wind as he shuffled towards the door, and forced it shut again with his entire body. He realized his cheeks had frosted, and couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. They would defrost in several minutes, then the pain would come and they’d blow up like sausages. Willard dismissed it. It’ll all be over in one night, anyway. He sank to the ground, his back against the door in case it opens again. Though if the real winds came, it would probably fling both him and the door off its hinges. The fact reminded him of his distaste for Sorissu once more.
“You okay?” Mia was on her feet.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. You were saying?” Willard waved his hand at her.
“You’re not fine.” Mia knelt down beside him and took his left hand in hers. Willard saw reddish-brown streaks across his palm.
Did I cut myself? Then he realized that the blood wasn’t his.
“Oh, it’s from that Scav on the train.” He pulled his hand back and stuffed it in his pockets, “I’m fine. Please go on.”
Mia hesitated, then sunk beside him. Her eye betrayed the conflict behind it.
“Chimo, Mia. You obliterated them,” Willard chuckled, “you’re gonna be the center of everyone’s talk next week.”
“Will, are you tired of this?” she suddenly asked. He looked at her, but her gaze was cast towards the end of the room.
“Of Sorissu? Yes. I told you that on the train, remember?”
“No, not that. Well, I mean, it’s a part of it. But what I meant was...” She hesitated again, but decided to go on with it. “....Are you tired of the way things are?”
“I.......” The crackling sound of fire and the tremors of falling debris reappeared in Willard’s mind. He coughed and wiped the corners of his mouth with his jacket. “Yes.”
There was a “pop” in the cup on the stove, and she scrambled up to check it.
Are you tired of the way things are?
He smiled. Who wouldn’t be if their fates were entirely controlled by forces outside their own grasp? One word for some corporate climber, and an entire community would either become unimaginably rich or starve. Though it’s nearly always the latter. And those climbers have a lot to say. There had never been enough of anything to start with. Ferah had gotten the longer end of the stick, being in cooperative terms with the natives. If it hadn’t been for Krummlae and his people, half of Ferah would starve. So everyone started working harder. But when everyone’s working harder, work gets harder on everyone. And so Willard, and indeed the rest of Ferah, was stuck in a perpetual loop of slow deterioration.
It’s exactly what the Shade said.
Eating, sleeping, working, repeating. He himself had groveled for a job opening as a garbage sorter once, nearly kissing the man’s boots, only to be spat at and glowered at with disgust. He had gotten a gig sticking promotional posters across the four settlements, posters stating “all positions are honorable” and “work is virtue”, freezing in the wind while his employer sipped hot tea somewhere in Vaharach. He had walked across the commercial districts of Vaharach, and the tourist children, every one of them clad in ludicrously expensive overcoats worth twice his life, had pinched their noses when he got close. Children from Bagiraek.
I was from Bagiraek!
Then these children would grow up to be spoiled, Meeko brats who’ll determine the fates of the next generation. Then Adrian would take his place. Then the miserable cycle repeats. He had just grown numb to the injustice, not immune.
Of course you’re tired of the way things are. You’re just too pathetic to accept change, since you’re scared that it’d worsen your fragile little “normal-life”.
“Then leave this place. Come with me to Erste.” Mia tossed the cup away after fully inspecting its contents, “my friends will take care of us.”
“Friends?” Willard raised his eyebrows. Mia’s expression froze. The vivid image of her standing atop a pile of rubble came into his mind.
She sighed. “Will, please. I’ve already convinced them. Just nod, and you can start a new page of your life.”
“Who are your friends, Mia?” Willard kept his voice level.
She stared at him, realizing that they had reached the unavoidable turning point. “They...they’re not who you think they are.” She curled her legs up and stuffed her nose in between her knees like a brooding child.
“Is that so?” The scar across Willard’s back itched as the dreadful realization crept up his spine. “Then who do I think they are?”
Mia was silent. Then, as the silence between them stretched on, Mia looked at him. He stared back, expressionless. “You...You already know,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
“It’s true, then?” Willard couldn’t control his voice as he started getting louder. Suddenly everything made sense. Why she left, why she refused to tell him anything about it, and why she was always absent for the last few days.
“...that depends on what y-”
“Is it true?” It wasn’t a question anymore. It sounded more like he was begging her to say something other than the truth. “Is is true? That you’re a…a…”
“...it is.” Mia cast her eyes down. Her brows were furrowed, her eyes glistening, and her entire body curled into a small ball, with only the top of her head still visible. Willard didn’t know if he was angry, sad, or disappointed. Maybe a bit of all three. But more than that, he was scared. He was scared for his little sister, who had single-handedly taken on three barbarians of the wildlands and triumphed.
“...Why?” It was all Willard could manage. But the feeble word had weight behind it, and it pressed down on her as she squeezed herself into an even smaller ball. The winds outside picked up again, and the door rattled against Willard’s back. For a long time the whistling of wind as it gushed through cracks on the doorframe was the only sound in the room.
“At first, it was to get out of this miserable place,” Mia said, her voice shaky, her head buried beneath her arms. If he could focus on anything other than her words, he would have felt offended. Indeed, Ferah was a miserable little town. But it wasn’t for miserable folk. Ferah was home. Everyone was a part of a bigger family, and that even included their native neighbors. Looking back, Willard was probably the only miserable one there. It was almost absurd to think she would come to hate this town that took her in.
“Then I realized that it was all the same.” She sniffed, snorting the snot back in. “I wanted to come back. Truly, I did.”
“I’m...haunted by my decisions, Will. You don’t...know...” She looked at him, big round tears rolling down her face. “The places I’ve been…the people I’ve killed…”
“Why did you come back?”
“I wanted to…ah…to be reassured that I am still loved.”
Willard felt a tug in his stomach. “That was…a really serious confession.” To know that someone still loves you. Isn’t that what everyone wants? Isn’t that why he insisted on mother saying it that day? He pulled his clean sleeve out from his jacket and dabbed her tear-streaked cheeks with it. For a second he was two decades younger, wiping the tears off his little sister’s face after her gizmo failed to start. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to go back, back to the time where his only concern was the cold.
“Why didn’t you come back, then?” he whispered.
“I...I was tired of the way things are. The way they will be.” Willard saw determination behind her teary eyes. Even her blind one seemed to radiate a sort of passion, hard as steel and hot as fire. “I wanted to make a change.”
“By killing people?” Willard moved away from the door and knelt in front of her, his voice even softer now. “What change are you making, Mia?”
“I’m going to change the world,” she said. Her tears were still there, but Willard could see a dancing flame in her eye. Again, they were staring at something far away. “No one would ever starve. No families torn apart. No crime unpunished.” She looked at Willard, and when she spoke again, the spite was so venomous it sent shivers down his spine.
“And no company to condemn their own people.”
Willard’s pupils dilated.
“What?” The blood started rushing to his head.
“It wasn’t us. We didn’t cause the cave-in.”
“But...why? Who, th-…the company? No, surely they wouldn’t. The cost.....”
“There are other things more important than money to a megacorp,” she said dryly.
Willard sank to the ground.
“And since you were the only person who survived, they’d-”
“Assume I know something?”
She nodded. “The Masadons are onto you. You...you won’t make it past the festival. The Shades probably set you up to be an ‘accomplice’. ”
Willard was silent. And in that silence, only one thought came to him.
“And...Adrian?”
“Will, I-”
“I won’t let that happen.” Willard clenched his teeth. “I will not allow it.”
He realized that was an irrational thought. Hell, he had said it himself. People like him were no threat to the Meekos. Action would only prove their point. Suddenly he was powerless once more. Or maybe he always was powerless, and was just briefly reminded of his incompetence. Then Mia smiled, her puffy red eyes glistening again.
“Ah, look at you, all pale in the face,” she teased, then her expression lightened. “Don’t worry. You’ve got me. I’ll get y’all outta this place.” She had the kind of confidence that mades it clear she knew more than she was letting on.
“My friends will make a distraction. Then we’ll get you out of here.”
“Your friends.”
“Please.”
Willard squeezed his eyes hard. The usual lack of moisture smothered his hope of this moment being a dream. Everything was happening way too fast. A day ago he was still lying on the ground of their tiny room, halfheartedly listening to the second-rate anchor babble about how some dead guy started a festival long ago. Now he was camping out in the middle of a trash field, his long lost sister telling him his only chance of survival would be with the help of terrorists. Willard climbed up onto his feet and paced around the room. He imagined masked figures kicking down the door, bursting into their house, dragging Adrian by the arm and manhandling mother’s wheelchair. Black bags would be forced onto their head as the hooded men shoved them into tiny jetpods, all the while holding them at gunpoint. And then his departure would give the Shades the perfect reason to label him as a conspirator. He would live out the rest of his life in hiding, always glancing around his back.
“What about ma? Adrian?”
“They’ll stay. I’ve made arrangements for them to be transported after you, some time later. Don’t worry, my friends’ll take care of the rest.”
“I don’t trust them, Mia.”
“Will. I know what’s going through your head. But please. They’re your only hope.“
“There are other ways.”
“Believe me, if there were, I would’ve tried them already. Forgive my plainness, Will, but I spend more time with the Masadons than you. I know them. They could wipe you clean off the surface of Sibith, clear all your records, and it’ll be as if you’ve never existed. They’d probably reconsider if you’ve suddenly gained lots of fame, but...well, there wouldn’t be enough time.”
“Wait. There was the cave-in! I was swarmed by reporters. Surely-”
“Will, this entire thing’s going to blow over in under weeks. And YOU are not the attraction. The statistic you represent is. And what more is one more death to the thousands? Blame it on after-effects, depression, a neighbor’s hate-crime, whatever.”
He knew she was right. Even if his death was to cause public concern, the Shades would just make it look like a.......a suicide, and frame it as the result of mental trauma or whatnot.
“If you don’t trust them...trust me.” Mia spread her hands. ”You trust me, right?”
Willard looked at her. Of course he trusted her. They used to be each other’s only shield against the rest of the world. But then again, after she left, time whipped him into the quiet, meek person that he was now——someone both of them used to hate.
“I...” he hesitated. A bitter smile flashed across Mia’s face as she realized the cause of his uncertainty. Indeed, why should he trust her when she left without a word, left him to suffer on his own and refused to elaborate on upon returning?
“Will, you have every righ-”
“I trust you.” Willard smiled, putting on his best face. His words seemed to lift a mountain off her as big, round tears started dripping down her face again. Willard leaned back against the metal door again, this time feeling the weight of the day pressing down on him.
“You know what changed about you, Mia?” Willard glanced at her with his sideeye.
She sniffed, gave a small hiccup, and turned towards him. “Yeah?” her voice was shrill, as if she’s barely holding back her sobs.
“You cry now.” Willard chuckled, a sound appropriate of his age, “it’s like you’re growing backwards.”
Mia stared at him for several seconds, then suddenly, as if someone had twisted a torsion spring on her, burst out laughing. Then the shrieks of laughter became howls, and she was rolling on the ground, clenching her waist and kicking her legs in the air. Then the howls became wheezes as she curled up into a ball, still clenching her waist. Finally, after all the air in her lungs had gone and no more strength could be mustered for another laugh, she lay on the ground, gasping for breath, staring at the ceiling. She sat back against the door, wiping the tears off her eyes. She hiccuped again, and rested her head on Willard’s shoulder.
“That’s one way to put it,” she muttered, her previous ecstasy overtaken by a sudden drowsiness.
“So...what’s the plan?”
She yawned. “It’s better if you know as little as possible. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”
Without saying anything, Willard unzipped his heavy winter jacket and wrapped half of it around her. She snuggled closer to him, and the two stared into the dark end of the room.
“Hey, Will.”
“Yes?”
“This is the second time you actually went with my plan.”
“I don’t think I can handle a third.”
Soon, her breathing lightened, and her hands slid down onto the floor.
For a long time he couldn’t sleep, listening to the whistling winds through the cracks of the door and the rhythmic breathing of his sister beside him. He did not go through with her plan, whatever that may be. He would not allow himself, nor his family, to be handled by the likes of murderers and arsonists, no matter how close they were to his sister. He remembered something Makobi once said. It was a commonly overlooked line in his heaps of memoirs.
To best my enemies, I must first become the thing I loathe
Willard glanced at Mia, who had snugged up into a ball beside him. Then the following line came to him.
That is, only if I had the resolve to forsake my allies. Yeah. Willard tilted his head back. That’s what I’ll do.