Next topic: SEE.
“So. We destroyed their cameras—that means they can’t tag us later, right?” Jacinta asked Gregory, biting her lip.
“Unless they bring us in a lineup somehow, then correct. The cameras are uploaded to their stations after the day’s over; it’s not a live feed being sent there, thankfully. So we got lucky, but…we need to lay low for a bit, especially with you being unregistered.”
She nodded, rubbing her forehead. “Fuck this place, honestly…”
Her mother had the pregnancy out from the government’s nose. They were bad enough when it came to having a kid that was supernatural; ever since Pandora’s Box in the 80’s, the tides had swung far. Authoritarian. A hateful leader that ushered in more hate through short texts. The country was collapsing into itself—wealthy getting wealthier, the poor getting poorer. Hatred of the ‘other’ had grown; walls built along the south border, a monument to their current president, who won through a violent, deadly coup, a lie. Mega-corporations were swallowing individual businesses whole. Prices were skyrocketing, social programs slashed, education cut, voting near-impossible. Cameras in the streets; beyond the police, who handled human affairs, and the SEE, who handled supernaturals, there were militias—untrained people who thought they were heroes. Cults, groups—echo chambers online that fostered death, destruction, danger.
Even New York City, a ‘champion of supernatural rights’, had lost its way. Federal over state, over city—their rights were slipping through their fingers like sand. Their safety, waning.
Gregory’s best friend, Amir, was shot years ago from a member of a ‘militia’—murdered by a wannabe cop, just for walking down the street at night. The killer got off free. Amir, a liberated djinni, genie, whatever term used—they said his death was justified. Said he looked suspicious; that was enough. No trial. No murder case. No protests could happen in his name; any organized protest (of three or more people, even peaceful) had recently become illegal.
Amir was eighteen.
It was harrowing. The world was sliding backwards, but the risk of fighting back was too high. Revolution would be stopped—it had countless times before. Pandora’s Box, which happened in 1980, was an incident of a magical…collapse. It was unclear; the history books wrote it strongly anti-supernatural, of course. But thousands of people died, monsters were unleashed, right in Washington D.C. Supernatural investigators knew the wrongness with the magic. It was artificial, copied.
People knew it was a setup. The president that was office in then, he made it to fearmonger. Pearls were clutched tighter. Breaths, hitched. More legislation. Supernatural leaders were assassinated again, again, again.
Years passed. Jacinta was born right on the cusp of Y2K, 2000; the world-ending catastrophe, pastors warning of supernaturals unleashing the Devil.
Nothing happened when the ball dropped in Times Square.
Only more legislation. More control. More of a vicegrip against the necks of the unborn, the innocent.
Any child born with one drop of magic blood would be registered, constrained—taken in for bi-yearly tests. Magic use monitored. Any child with too much magic potential, too much danger within them—
Taken Beyond with a capital B. It was unclear what happened to them, where they went, but they were probably studied, then killed. The country wasn’t new to genocide; it was founded on it, ripping it from indigenous people’s hands—but another had gone on for years, years. Slavery of supernatural folk was abolished, just like it had been with African-Americans shortly before, after a Civil War—but its scar never healed.
Magic was a dangerous thing, yes, undoubtedly so. It needed education, training, practice; but none of that was offered. It all was taken, pulled away; people left to flounder, fail, die.
Jacinta’s mother warned her. Jacinta was a child that had too much magic in her blood. She would be killed.
So since then, Jacinta lived under the radar. She’d swallowed her magic, pressed it deep down, repressed it. But it had come out in dangerous ways—explosive ways—so she had to learn. It was her being, her body, her blood; it was a part of her that couldn’t be torn, ripped, forgotten.
Gregory helped her. He met her in work; saw her shaky hands as she set his plate of pancakes and eggs down, asked for coffee. She just lost her mom, he just lost his friend—they united over unfortunate, unnecessary losses, the litany of collective tragedy that supernaturals understood.
And now, another death. Jacinta and her sister were the last of their family line.
Another death.
Only, by her hand.
Jacinta blinked, trying to remember where she was, what they were talking about. Slight push, slight start of a migraine—she ducked her head beneath the low light, drank water. Doña Francesca. She didn’t want to think about her grandma. Why she didn’t warn her…did she set her up for this? Let Jacinta end up like her mother? Doña had a hateful streak, sure, but—
No. She’d never do that to her.
“So. The loot you got. Lemme see. For saving my ass, you’re free to keep most of it. We can do…20-80. I think most of what I snagged were some cans.” Jacinta said, trying to force herself to feel better.
Gregory nodded and stood. “Alright, hold on.”
As he walked off, Jacinta’s phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket. Olivia.
“Hey sis! So. I was thinking! You know that show, Single Woman Looking to Date 27 HOT Men at Once Until she Finds her One True Love?”
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
Jacinta paused. Sucked in a breath. Did she deflate her excitement and tell her that Doña was dead? Tell her that she was nearly killed by some SEE agents? Ask her to come to Gregory’s?
No.
Smooth over. Roll along.
“Yeah, I think I heard about it.” She chuckled, raising a brow. “Why? You know I hate shows like that…”
“But this one’s different! Alright, look—” Olivia began to talk about the specifics of the show. If she didn’t have a concussion from before, the oncoming headache was from the details here. Jacinta put the phone on speaker and set it down, staring, listening, smiling. Olivia was younger—eighteen, senior in high school. Jacinta had been taking the parental role for…years.
So she tried to make sure that Olivia lived a regular life, being a teenager, going out with friends, prom, school; all that.
And apparently, watching shitty reality TV, too.
No magic. Not to her. They both were half-blooded; Jacinta had the magic gene, not Olivia. Ignorance was bliss. Jacinta promised her mother that she’d keep that for Olivia, give her a good life, a quiet life, a human life—
“…Jaci?”
“Oh—oh yeah, I’m listening. Sounds cool. Yeah.” Jacinta responded, chuckling awkwardly.
“Ohmygosh—so yes? You’re going to watch it with me? Great! I’m so happy! Lately you’re kinda distant…anyway, it’ll just be the two of us, watching those sappy shows tomorrow night! Yay! I’ll be there at seven. You know I’m vegetarian now, right? Please please please no meat; I like falafel from the place across the street if that’s okay…? Yogurt’s good though; I still love tzatziki so you’re good if that’s alright…”
Jacinta raked her hair back, nodding. “Of course, sis. Anything you want. Sorry I’ve been so busy; prices hiked in the last few months and Doña wasn’t doing well and it’s been really tough, I’m so sor—”
“I get it. You’re helping me too. From afar and stuff.” A rare pause. Olivia sighed into the phone.
Jacinta sank further against the table, shutting her eyes. “…yeah. You know that you can always stay with me, long-term, if you need. How’re Emmy and her family doing?”
“They’re all great! They say hi. I got a new phone case, actually—it’s full of water and this cool silver glitter. They got it for me as a gift actually.”
A slight punch to the gut. She was thankful for the other family, of course she was; she just hated that she couldn't provide that herself. Jacinta’s eyes heavied, pressure building within the inner teardrop corners. Water. She swallowed, forced a smile, even though Olivia couldn’t see it. “That’s great. Just great. I…I need to go, but I’m excited for tomorrow. Thanks for calling.”
“Yes!”
Jacinta set the phone against the table and ended the call. She ducked her head into her hands, squeezed her eyes shut, and waited. She breathed: in, out, again. No. She wasn’t going to cry, wasn’t going to collapse, no, no—breathe.
In. Out. Again.
Again. Again. Again.
Again.
Her earthquake hands eased, smoothed-over. She unfurled her fingers, set them flat against the table, eyed her bitten-down nails. Doña always used to slap Jacinta for those. Softly. Usually. She'd tell her to let them get long and pretty. Jacinta was a lady; she needed to act like one. Like Olivia.
Great. So she’d be watching some awful show…but she’d do anything for her.
Anything at all.
“Alright, so. The loot.” Gregory rubbed his hands and stepped out from his bedroom. He’d been listening; there was the knot of worry between his brows. “I have—”
“Actually.” Jacinta began, tucking a section of hair behind her ear. “Can you hold onto it for now? I need to get home. Oregon needs to be fed. I’m sorry—and now Olivia’s coming over. I love her, of course; I just need to clean up. God, today was a mess. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, how can I ever accept such an apology?” He feigned concern, setting a hand on his chest. “No, seriously—it’s alright. We both came away…somewhat unscathed. Anyway. Let me know how that show goes tomorrow after your sister, alright? And don’t forget your bag of beans.” He chuckled.
Jacinta nodded, giving him another hug, before slipping on her shoes, bag, and exiting.
Outside, subway, home. Notifications popped up on the Atlas; she mentally tried to keep it on a visual ‘silent’ mode—it complied. The subway was mostly empty; it rattled and screeched on. She checked her phone. Social medias, which she never posted under. Texts—oh. Olivia sent her an image; she opened it up. Emmy’s dog, a beagle, floppy ears and big eyes. She smiled, hearted it.
I’ll send a photo of Oregon when I’m home. She texted back.
No response immediately. Jacinta waited; headed uptown, uptown—Harlem. She paid the streets no heed, just rushing to her apartment, her home—
“Hey, Jaci!” Her roommate, Banu, called from the common area. She was a Peri, and just as gorgeous as the rest of them. Her body was splayed out, wings extended, open—a cross between the thin lacework of a traditional fairy and the feathered sight of a common, humanoid angel. They shimmered, full of color, but were soft and lush. She’d felt them once, only once.
Jacinta realized she was staring—she chuckled, facing Banu, back of her neck prickling, warming. “Hey. Sorry I got home so late. Oregon didn’t bother you too much, did he?”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Nah. Everything alright? You look stressed.”
“…yeah. No, but yeah, I’m good. How’s Ivy?” Their other roommate—a nymph.
“In her room, as per usual. You do what you need to do.”
Jacinta nodded and walked into her room—right where Oregon was. He yawned and stretched, large eyes narrowed, body arcing.
“Took you long enough. I was minutes from leaving this apartment and finding a mouse to kill, Jacinta.”
She shook her head. Oregon was a cat—named so for the lesser-known Salem, the Salem in that state. As her familiar, they both communicated intelligently.
Sometimes, she wished it wasn’t the case.
“Well, I’ll open you a can of food now.”
She set the filled plate down. Oregon purred, rubbed his orange body against her legs, and began eating.
“Doesn’t taste as good as a mouse…”
“You really want to leave? I’ll let you out right now. They have giant city rats, now. They'll kill you. Also, no warm bed to sleep on, no human contact, no magic, no tuna, no—"
“Ugh. I’ll stay. But only for the tuna.” Oregon grumbled.
Jacinta smirked, sent the photo of him to Olivia, and moved to clear out her bag. There was still a lot to do before she could even think of sleep.
First, sugar. She wasn’t diabetic—instead, insulin resistant, one of the many symptoms of PCOS. She grabbed the medicine from the fridge, sat on a chair, took a fresh needle, slid her pants down to her knees, and pressed the needle against her thigh, watching the amount of clear liquid sink. It clicked—done. She pulled out the needle, rubbed the spot, sighed.
Insulin prices skyrocketed, too. She was getting ones that were homemade…even if they could be dangerous. She couldn't afford the alternative.
Jacinta lived along the shadow of the world, always cut against razor’s edge. She didn’t have a choice.