“The Veneficii had always been the Predecessor's favourites. Their lieutenants. Their court magi. A few of the treefolk even pampered them like pets. Of all Nocturni, the veneficii alone were given the Full Keeping; in that society, a great honour. It was from this favouritism that Sunwalker rose. They made him their champion. Heaped upon his shoulders power after power.
He used that power to slaughter them.
Court records are unanimous on what happened next. With the Groves silent, and Sunwalker supreme, the surviving Veneficii, favourites no more, felt lost. Some revolted, plotting revenge or the return of their former masters. Others wandered off, to the Fenlands, to Snowdonia, ruling mortals like some evil, Draculistic force. The Court says Sunwalker had to act. Those who opposed him were called Striga, and the rest were given a choice: Keeping or death. Anything less would leave their magic unbidden. Allow the worst of the Predecessors to forever plague our world.
There is always something immediately dubious in Sunwalker’s claims. That’s by design. Here, one is supposed to gravitate to the immediate political benefit on display. Of all the Nocturnal clans, only the Poisoned Ones and the Scáthshiúlóir could oppose him. He would obviously suppress them. And so the rational reader throws the whole record, that entire piece of history, as conjecture and lies.
But that’s what the Court wants. It wants you to stop looking.
Sunwalker was powerful. Sunwalker was nearly invincible. But he could never defeat the Predecessors on his own. They were too powerful, too many, and with too much to lose. Nor could it have been a popular revolt, for breaking a Keeping was nigh impossible in the pyramids of power the Nocturni slaved in. He needed the Keepers. An officer’s coup. The very same people that would next become his target.
I don’t want to defend the Striga. I am a student of history, and that requires me to remove the rose-tinted glasses I would so love to see them through. But they, more than anyone, were the Wilds unchecked. Tyrants. Monsters. All I want is for you to consider why. These people risked their lives to throw down a crown. To free their people. Can we be surprised at how they reacted, when, even in the midst of their victory, their strongest put the crown back on? Offered again the chains?
I am not. But my view is clouded. After all, as of four hours ago, I've joined them.”
Excerpt from Frank Lysington’s anthology The Collected Works of Aisha Lakhani (2036), original document unnamed, original date unknown, believed to be August 2004, shortly after she fled her Keeper.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Brixton
April 11th, 1981
The pig whimpers. Heavy, laborious breaths that can still be heard over the rainfall. Drops patter onto rusted gutters. Holes in the roofs. Overflowing bins. The fires.
So many fires. In churches and shops and London Metropolitan Police cars. Fires to consume them all.
The wagon they pulled him from still sputters. Its circuits are melting, and so the siren bleats a disturbed, piercing wail. The smell of the petrol fills Jayden Belgrave’s lungs. He doesn’t have to smell, of course, not anymore, but Glenmore insists on it. Everyone, he says, best enjoy the evening roast.
The pig is a pig. Fat, blindfolded, his Met helmet barely fitting onto his sobbing and slobbering head. His taser lay broken at his side. He’s surrounded by eight men, and one boy. All thin. All in shades. Some wear Nike tracksuits, others jerseys, but they all sport headbands and berets of Red. Green. Black.
The colours of Afrika.
The colours of their people.
They hold pistols. Batons. Cricket bats. AKs. They stare at the pig with contempt and fury and rightness. Jayden wears a patterned shirt. One of his best. Only one tear. The knife is heavy in his hands.
Today, he turned seventeen.
“Please…” The pig stammers, searching through their shadowed faces. “I-I’m sorry, I-”
A single man pushes through the rest. He wears a black leather jacket. His hands are covered in rings. Long dreadlocks sway with his steps, zebra stripes by his hip. He bares down on the pig with a gaunt face, painted white with patters. The paint of their homeland.
A homeland that was stolen.
A homeland they’ve never seen.
Glenmore Ujamaa kneels down. The blindfold is swiped from the officer’s eyes. The pig blinks, disoriented, still murmuring a weak defense, until Glenmore shoves a Polaroid into his face.
“Look." His accent's clear. Untouched by this country. "Look at de boy.”
“Th-this is a misunder-”
“LOOK!”
The pig blinks. Cranes his head. It shows an eleven-year-old boy in a shirt that’s too large for him. Brown eyes. Holding a football with a big, toothy smile.
“Know him?” Glenmore’s lips tremble, until he grits his teeth. “Do dem pigs know de names of any Black boys in dis town?!”
“Bailey.” The pig manages. “Michael Bailey-”
“NO!"
The cop looks away, whimpering. Behind Glenmore, men start lifting their guns.
“Dat's de whip’s name. De plantation name! De name you carried from one ship to de next! HE HAD NO NAME!”
Jayden closes his eyes. The knife shakes. Rage burns through him like the marching of drums. But he can’t act. Not yet. Glenmore once told him that an Afrikan does not sneak around, quiet. They are like Zulu.
Before the fight, the enemy must hear their cry.
“Two days past,” Glenmore nods slowly. “Dis boy am stabbed. Dia’s blood on de street. He de cry. He de plead! But do our Police Metropolitan help? Do dey hunt down de stabbers? Do dey let dem doctors do dia work!? NO! DEY ARREST A BOY! PUDDIM IN CHAINS!”
“That’s not true! He needed the hospital. WE DIDN’T-”
Glenmore smacks him. Hard. Rings crack on skin, leaving indents and blood. Jayden hollers. All the boys do. Biting and cursing and feeling the rhythm thrash in their hearts until Glenmore lifts his hand. He’s breathing slowly. Looks at the bits of white flesh on his rings and tries to remain calm.
“Dat boy is dead. Because of you.”
The pig’s eyes flood with fear.
“We're sick of de pigs. We're sick of de lies! You’se give us dem looks, you’se storm our homes! You let fascists shoot us an’ landlords loot us an’ only stop to squeeze us dry!” More breathing. Glenmore blinks several times. “We’s march, an’ you say riot.”
“Word,” the other men nod.
“We walk on de street, you call it sus!”
“WORD!”
“An’ den you say dis boy’s death mean not’ing! Dat it’s black-on-black. Violent culture!” He grips the cop’s jaw. Pulling, squeezing, making the pig squeal. “WHOSE CULTURE ISSIT!? Who showed us de guns? De whips!? De hangings!?”
Thunder, and the ground shakes. Cheap windows rattling in their foundations. Jayden looks around. A new plume of smoke surges from one of the nearby blocks. A shop, from the rising alarms. It makes Glenmore smile.
“You don’t have to do this,” the pig beneath him says. “This won’t make people listen. It only hurts your families. Your homes!”
“Now it’s our homes?” Glenmore laughs.
“We can still walk away-”
“DERE IS NO WALK AWAY!” He gets in the pig’s face, foreheads touching. “Not anymore. Now, we smash. Now, we burn. We loot dis city like your father looted ours!”
More hollers. More cheers.
“One day,” Glenmore falls quiet. “When dis city is ours… you will know. You will know what it’s like to exist, an’ be despised. You will know what it’s like to see children wit’ shame in dia DNA. Jayden!”
Jayden blinks. Glenmore is rising, his intense eyes turned to him. He knows already what his brother will ask.
“Killem.”
It still sends chills down his veins.
“Ujamaa,” Jayden walks forward, knife at his side. “What if-”
“He’s right?” Glenmore smiles. “Can’t be. Dey never listened, an’ dey won’t start now. Not wit’out a message.”
“But won’t more pigs come-”
“Jayden!”
Jayden snaps and looks at the mud. “S-Sorry-”
“No.” Glenmore saunters over, getting in the boy’s face. “Jayden, you are Afrikan. You look a man in de face.”
Slowly, Jayden does.
“Do you pity ‘im?”
Silence. Jayden breathes.
Glenmore lifts his arms. “No shame in it. Dat is normal feeling. He looks nice. He human.”
Jayden sniffles and struggles to keep eye contact. Quick nods.
“But you know dat nice people, smart people, dey die all de time.” Glenmore walks closer. “X. Nkrumah. Your father.”
A hitch. Jayden shakes, as Glenmore puts a hand on his shoulder.
“You didn’t know ‘im, Jayden. But I did. We did. ‘E was a good man. ‘E loved ‘is people. ‘E loved ‘is town.” Glenmore’s voice grows weighty. “Why do you tink dose pale NF bastards butchered him?”
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Jayden half-listens, staring at the pig.
“Why do you tink de cops let dem?”
His hand shakes, but the grip tightens.
“Dis world is cruel,” Glenmore continues. “It wasn’t made for us. An’ no matter what dem Panthers an' fake Power people say, it won’t be fixed wit’ soup kitchens an’ free schools. De enemy, dey only know blood. Will you give it, Jayden? Or are you’se gonna stays dia subject?”
He clutches the boy’s shoulder.
“Are you’se gonna stay dia bitch?”
He showed Jayden Fanon. Showed him Nyerere. Showed him pride and duty and power. How can he say no?
“Take Afrika back.” Glenmore stands aside, leaving the path clear. “Make your Da proud.”
The pig shrivels as Jayden approaches. His face hardened. His muscles pulled back.
“Please.” The officer shakes his head, stammers. “I’m a father too.”
Jayden closes his eyes.
“I have a family-”
“Stop!”
Eyes open. Jayden breathes. The knife is a foot away from the pig’s throat, halted mid-swing.
Glenmore scowls. “Blade won’t cut it.”
“Den what…” Jayden turns around, stunned.
“It won’t send de message.” Glenmore responds. “Dey seen too many stabs.”
Glenmore brings his hand to his forehead, rubs it down his eyes. Jayden understands, but still fears. The knife is so heavy. He just turned seventeen.
Jayden digs the knife into his palm. Pulls. There’s a wince, a swish, and he listens to the blood hiss and sizzle. It’s red, mixed with yellow, the smell of acid quickly filling the air. The pig sees the hand, and sputters. It’s bubbling like blood shouldn’t. Burning the cobblestones where it lands.
“No.” The cop seizes as the hand nears him. “No no NO!”
“Make ‘im squeal, Jayden.”
And Jayden makes sure he does.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
August, 2004
"Don’t wanna be an American idiot, don’t want a nation under the new media!”
Aisling Finnerty thrashes to the song. Buds in her ears, hair bending every way.
“And can you hear the sounds of hysteria?"
“Ashlin’,” someone calls.
"The subliminal MINDFUCK-.”
“Ashlin’!” Red grabs her arm, furious. “Why are we in a swamp!?”
They are in a swamp. The marshes of Walthamstow, to be precise. Acres of boardwalks and mud, herons and reeds. She squints at him. Her high just peaked, and so she sniffs the air, eye twitching. Green Day bashes so loud in her ear drums, she can’t even feel the aether dripping down her nose.
“We’re Shrekin’!” She makes a wild gesture, then marches across the boardwalk.
"Well maybe I'm the maggot, America! Not a part of a redneck agenda!"
“You know, Harav always said ‘is getter lived in ‘is fookin’ swamp! Big fookin’ beastie! Foot-long teefs. Tear out your eyes!”
“What a fittin’ pair,” Red chides.
“Bet I can summon ‘er!” Finnerty smiles, fidgeting. “Bet I…”
She stares at the floorboards. Still bobbing to the beat.
“Welcome to a new kinda tension, all across the alien nation…”
“Ashlin’, wait-”
She stomps. A big hop that rattles the boardwalk.
“Where everything isn’t meant to be okayyyyy~”
"You fookin' DOLT!" Finnerty laughs, pointing at the startled Red. "I 'ad you! Fookin' sniffin' like a dog!"
"I ain't sniffin' fer her," Red growls. "It's the smell. Like-"
"What's the matter?" Finnerty lifts her arms, shaking her feathers. "Never wallowed in your own shit before!?"
He gives her a look as she hops onto grass. There’s a small metal shack in front of them, locked, with no windows. Finnerty remembers the first time she was brought here. The first-
No. NO.
Flashes. Red hair. Little dimples. Freckles. Eyes. Laugh-
Finnerty slams her fist into the steel. Two times. Three times. Until the pain makes the memories stop. She didn’t snort forty of miligrams of Adderall to focus on that.
“-everything isn’t meant to be okayyyyyyy~”
“It’s locked.” Red kneels down, studying the handle. “Er… quintuple-locked…”
“First one’s 0-5-5-6,” Finnerty calls.
The lock sinks into the grass.
“How ya know that?”
“Same way I know you’se lost 500 quid bettin’ on fookin’ Oakland.”
Red scowls at her. Finnerty shrugs.
“Me girls get bored!”
“So ya kept Ratcatcher’s spy network?"
“No.” She scoffs as she pushes him aside. “I kept me Floppy Disk Nest. I’m digital! Much more efficient! Harav’s shit was always word-of-fookin'-mouff."
7-0-6-2. 0-3-8-0. The locks bundle by her feet, the codes easier and easier. The only difference is the final one. It doesn’t use a calibre.
1-8-7-0.
A tick. A tug. The heavy door slides against the mud. Aisling Finnerty smiles.
It’s one of the largest armament hubs in Southeast England. Assault rifles, SMGs, hunting shotguns, a fucking Desert Eagle! Perfectly polished. Properly labelled. They’re all placed on symmetrical racks, boxes and boxes of ammunition stuffed in the shelves below.
Red steps in behind her, his expression collapsing. “Holy shit.”
“I know,” Finnerty beams. “She’s prepared.”
They come from across time, all over the world. Kalashnikovs, Great War rifles, Keaton gifts, smuggled shipments. But Finnerty passes all of them by, kicking aside a shoebox full of T.M.-62s to reach the true prize.
An RPG-7. Hanging just beneath the flickering lights.
Red hand stretches over the different silencers being kept in a glass display case. “An’ where exactly did my girl get the cash to fund this side project?”
“This side project?”
Finnerty turns, grinning ear to ear.
“Red. Red, Red, Red. This ain't the side project. It's only Cache One."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Three seconds have passed since she rang Jayden’s doorbell. And that’s a problem. Three seconds is long enough to make Finnerty start thinking.
Today’s been difficult. She didn’t sleep - a side effect of the snorted Adderall. Allegedly. But that’s okay, she had important things to do! Like sit, curled up, in front of her monitor, watching the Polyphron Ltd. headquarters through the CCTV cameras she hacked a week ago. Good fun, great television. Except that nothing breaks the runes. Nothing. Not even the fucking wind.
When she’s hungry, her prey’s asleep. When she starts flying, it turns to rain! And now Jayden has the fucking gall to make HER come to HIS fucking house all the way in FUCKING BRIXTON to talk about HIS problem, when he can’t even answer the FUCKING DOOR in FIFTEEN FUCKING SECONDS!
She shouldn’t care. Why does she care? Harriet’s stupid. Harriet’s a loose cannon. Harriet was always going to get into a mess like this, so why should Finnerty even fucking bother!?
…
… twenty-five seconds. She’s going to cry.
But then the door opens, Jayden’s face comes into view, and the maelstrom of her mind evaporates into a grin and finger guns.
“‘Eyyyyyy. Wagwam, bruv!?” Finnerty ‘fires’ a few rounds.
Jayden stares at her. He’s in a Michael Jordan jersey. Gym shorts. Buzz cut covered by a black beanie. “You’re wet.”
She looks around. “Course I’m wet, it’s fookin’ rainin’.”
“No. You’re wet, as in, ‘you smell like wet dog.’ When you last shower, bird? I can taste dose feathers like petrol on a stalled car.”
“Fook off.” She brushes him aside and stamps on the Welcome! mat. “Don’t be gettin’ all fookin’ lyrical.”
They don’t build houses like this anymore. Prefabs, all two-storey, lined up next to each other like ducks in a row. It’s a shithole - overflowing bins, rundown bikes, obliterated sidewalks. But the homes’ colours are cheery - reds and pinks and aquamarines. If she was stupid, and dumb, she’d think that’s why the Belgraves chose it. Sure, the sink barely works and the door’s on its last hinge. But the colours reminded them of Barbados, or they just made them smile.
But she's not stupid. She knows why. City would never give migrants a fucking brick council house. Belgraves didn’t choose shit.
The interior isn’t grand, either. Finnerty might not be mint, as the mandem says, but even she can tell it’s all granny stuff. Embroidered couches, doilies, and why so many fucking ducks? Only difference is Jayden’s room. The walls are layered in posters of Wiley or Dizzee Rascal. The corners filled with… magazines. A boombox wobbles on a pile of clothes, constantly banging out some grime beat.
Finnerty perks up. There’s tapping on the window. Bap bap bap. Nancy flutters on a tree bench, cooing to get in.
“Ah!” Jayden calls the moment she reaches for the window. “No.”
“Why not!?”
“‘Cause dat bird’s bait, Bird. A fahkin’ menace!”
“Only to you!”
Jayden folds his arms. “I wanna get serious.”
“Oh?” Finnerty sits on his bed. “'At way I don't see you streetside recently?"
“You been wit’ Keaton’s little Texas Ranger,” Jayden sneers. “‘Ow can you tell?”
She knows it from his voice. Edged. Angry. Hurt. She makes a face. “You miffed at Red?”
No response.
“Why? He pointed a gun in your face, yeah, but-”
“You fahkin’ know why.”
He’s tense. Squeezing his arms. Eyes darting about.
“.... When I hooked wit’ you, Bird, I knew dere’d be changes. Shit I don’t expect. Shit dat force me to swallow me pride.”
“So why you’se still actin’ like-”
“Will you shut up?”
Finnerty’s lips seal closed.
“Sometimes…” Jayden exhales. “You don’t make it easy. But I stay. I keep me mout' shut. ‘Cause I know how dis world works, Bird, before you'se say I don’t! De Unbound don’t care ‘bout freedom. Not for people like me! An’ t'ough youse ain’t one of us, no matter ‘ow much you prance around…”
She smiles at that.
“... I trust you to know shit.” Jayden scowls. “So ‘ow you tink I be tinkin’ when you’se be cuddlin’ up wit’ dat princess Blackbird, or a man who kept my people in chains?”
A flash. Jayden pulls something from his pocket - a crudely marked floppy disk. Finnerty immediately springs. “You’re not allowed to see-"
“Red. Hunted. Slaves!”
“Two-hundred years ago!”
“Don’t matter when!”
“You weren’t even alive!”
“It’s in me fahkin’ blood!” Jayden paces back and forth. “Don’t be goin’ off ‘bout how ‘e’s not like dat anymore, ‘ow ‘e’s changed! Dey never fahkin’ change! You know dat!”
“Whatchu wan’ me to fookin’ do, Jayden!?"
“What you did for de kikes!" He thrusts. "Cable Street his fahkin’ arse!”
“Jayyyyyyyden!” A voice from downstairs startles them. It’s followed by tapping on the floor, rap rap rap, with what must be a broom handle. “You said you’d take out de bins today!”
“‘Low it, mum, I’m busy!” Jayden huffs, brushing his shirt. “Look, Bird, you’re Irish.”
"Fook does 'at mean!?"
“Means you wouldn’t geddit. Means you don't got experience-"
"Experience!?" She stands up, gets in his face. "Wiff what? Bein' dicked around!?"
“No folk put your folk in chains an’ sailed dem ‘round de world!”
“‘Cause we was starvin’, moron!”
"But now you'se all cushy."
"Tell 'at to Belfast-"
"IT'S NOT DE-"
"YOU FOOKIN'-"
They continue like that. Screaming in each other's faces. Until they can't hear what the other is saying. Or even hear themselves.
“He’s a Confederate, Bird!" Jayden finally reasserts control. "A real, full-blood, fahkin’ Dixie! If you tink I’m just gonna stand aside, ignore everyting I ever fahkin’ stood for-”
“JAYDEN!”
More knocks. Louder. Coming from the door. Ms. Belgrave doesn’t wait for her son to open it. She storms in, her white hair in a bun, throwing a heap of plastic bags at his feet.
“Bins. Out. Now!”
“I fahkin’ can’t!”
Ms. Belgrave loudly gasps. “An’ now you throwin’ de swears at me!?”
“Mum!”
“Who owns de house, Jayden? Who cooks de food?”
“I cab’t even eat it-”
“Because you hate your mumma!”
“NO!”
“Jayden, do you tink I brought a boy into dis world so dat he could disrespect!? Be cursin’ his own flesh an’ blood?”
Jayden starts to open his mouth, then closes it, looking at his shoes.
“Dat’s right.” She steps to the side. “I brought him into dis world so ‘e could take out de bloody trash!”
Jayden grabs the bags and storms out, muttering to himself. His mother smiles, dramatically wiping her hands before she turns to their guest. “ASHLEY! Come here!”
“No, ‘at’s arright, I-” But Finnerty’s cut off. Even she cannot hold back Lisette Belgrave’s monstrously large hugs.
“How are tings?” Ms. Belgrave squeezes. “How are tings?”
“J-Just grand,” Finnerty manages out.
Ms. Belgrave grins as she sets the girl down. She’s wearing a vibrant, dusk-coloured dress. Her eyes are a rich hazel, her teeth white, and, as always, she’s applied a generous amount of lip gloss.
“I hope me boy ain’t givin’ you de trouble. It’s de music he plays. Always talk too much mouth ‘bout de sex an’ de drugs! Bad juju! Bad juju! But you would never do dose tings!”
“Not at all, ma’am.” Finnerty sniffs.
“Ma’am?” Ms. Belgrave giggles, slightly waving her hips. “Oh, you too much, you too muuuch. Dat’s what I like about you, Ashley! Youse de good influence.”
Finnerty quickly nods.
Footsteps up the stairs. Jayden storms back into the room, staring his mother down. “Dat it?”
His mother rubs his arm, then leans in for a big kiss. “Dat’s me boyyyyy.”
“Mmmmmuuuuummmmm.” Jayden’s voice is low.
Ms. Belgrave doesn’t stop until she’s given a big, sloppy peck. Finnerty doesn’t watch, staring blankly at the wall. “Right, you two. Be good!”
The door closes. Jayden waits five more seconds. “Where were we?”
“Somefin’ ‘bout Dixie?”
“Right.” He frowns. “You ain’t talkin’ me outta dis, Bird. Dis not old-timer shit like Fireside. He is an en-e-my! You forget dat, you forget de ends. You forget my-"
"Are you done?" Finnerty's bristling.
Jayden pauses, considering. “Yeah. I’m done.”
“Good.” She stands up. “‘Cause normally I would beat the shit outta you for half the fookin’ shit you fookin’ said.”
Jayden curls back as she points a menacing finger at him.
“Do not say I’ve forgotten me ends. Ever. Not when you’se mad, not even when it's a fookin’ joke! Who protected you from Ujamaa, Jayden? Who kept the Reeves off you and your mum’s skanky shorn little arse!”
Jayden scowls. “You.”
“Least you got ‘at right.” She slaps the top of his head. “But I’m guessin’, if youse bold enuff to say ‘is to me face, half the Boys are whisperin’ it behind me back?”
“More den half.”
“Tell ‘em this.” Her face hardens. “We’re not joinin’ Keaton. We’re not goin’ Unbound. 'Is my fookin’ Freehold, and I ain’t turnin’ it into a washout’s parade ground. But we’d be kvetches if we do ‘is wiffout help, innit?”
“But we don’t ‘ave to do dis. Fireside-”
“Thin ice,” she hisses.
He gets quiet at that.
“Now, troof be told, I never been a fan of Red, eivver. You won’t believe me, but the crew ‘e an’ Harriet were in? Chock-full of Born-Agains an’ self-righteous cunts."
“Actually, dat tracks.”
“But we need ‘im. We need ‘is experience. We need ‘is contacts. We need access to ‘at fookin’ fookload of Southern guns Dixies buy when ‘ey dream ‘bout killin’ you.” She kneels down, meeting his eyes. “Don’t gotta be friendly. Don’t ‘ave to play nice. Not the first time we’ve ‘ad 'at sort in our ranks. ‘At would be you.”
Jayden’s look turns absolutely venomous. "What?"
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
He doesn’t need to. He stands up, face right in hers. Aether steams as it travels through his skin. Searing hot. Ready to melt. "I... have never-"
“I knew a lotta girls in the Rookery ‘fore you and Glenmore Ujamaa stormed it, Jayden." Her look is harsh. "Harav kept dozens."
He frowns. “An' dey were treated so well."
“I never saw ‘em again. Not one." She moves closer. Letting him see her fangs. "Any idea where 'ey went?"
Jayden's breathing has slowed. His eyes dart about. Fangs biting his lip. "Bird. Look. Glenmore said we needed de money-"
"Don't."
"Dey were killin' our men. Slittin' throats! We couldn't-"
"So you sold 'em!?" She scowls.
"Glenmore sold dem! Not me!"
"Ohhhhh. I guess it's fine, 'en! It's not like 'ey'd 'ave experience, wiff 'eir pale-ass fookin' skins!"
"He changed." Jayden's voice shifts. "He stopped fightin' for freedom. He stopped fightin' for me. Why do you tink I left? After Camden, he-"
Finnerty gives him a look. Too soon. Way too soon.
He steps back. "Bird..."
"I know. I know 'ow people work. You didn't stop. You didn't fink. Not until it was too late. You just took the money and looked away. Like everyone does. Like Red did."
He scowls at her.
"Jayden, I don't care. It's whatever. History. But if you don't let it stay history, if you keep kvetching 'bout slavery and slaves? I'm gonna start caring. Real fookin' fast."
Finnerty stands, heading for the door. Jayden looks at the spot she left, deflated.
“Tomorrow.” She says like an order. “I meet 'at Arab bitch in Soho. I made Andrzej pull his weight, so he's on shift at Maccies. You're comin' instead. Wiff Red."
He starts to pipe up.
"'At's an order!"
A second’s silence. Slowly, Jayden lowers his hand. “... Why Soho? Ain't dat Court Town?”
“Simple as.”
“An' she's goin' dia?" Jayden tilts his head. “You sure we can trust her? She is Veneficii.”
“I don’t." Finnerty turns, and opens the door.
“Why the fook you fink I’m bringin’ you?"
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The house is dark. Dead silent. Until she wakes.
Her breathing is heavy. That doesn’t make sense. Finnerty doesn’t breathe. A clawed hand falls over her chest, trying to hold back a biting, unknown pain. She blinks, taking in her surroundings, the bathing white light that shoots from her computer screen.
Always footage of Polyphron.
Never footage of her.
She grits her teeth. Climbs back into her seat. It’s coming again. That pit, that emptiness, but it can always be stalled by busywork. Storing all her secrets. Whispering to her kids. “Why still do it?” Red asked her. How could she not? She needs action. She needs change.
Adderall instead of sleep. Stolen blood bags instead of food. Watch. Watch. Watch. Plan. Whisper. Kill. That’s what she does best. She’ll sit for hours, if she needs to.
Except that it’s Hour One Hundred and Seventy Nine. And her feathers keep going slack. Her thoughts keep slowing down. Her eyes…
Finnerty slides up. Throws on her trackie, checks the clock. 2AM. Early enough. She’s still wearing shoes, so she just plods to the porch, where Nancy and Pumblechook wait for her.
Ketamine. Ket will do it. She marches into the rain, a bird on each shoulder. Eyes bloodshot and searching.
People tell her she can’t solve problems with drugs. She tells them that they’re fucking cunts. She just wants to sleep. Wants to think. Wants those happy little tingles that tell her she’s done enough.
That she’s still Harav’s best.
His perfect little girl.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++