Izai glared at the neon sign of the Caverna Hideout. Nestled between a barbershop that catered exclusively to MegaFolk hair and a small travel agency with flashing lights proclaiming:
‘We’ll get you the best affordable GaleShip prices all over Aradahi.’
It was an inconspicuous place for a rendezvous.
Across the street, Olav stood with his shaggy long blonde hair blowing in the wind, his head slightly bent forward, and one hand halfway in the pocket of his jeans. A cigarette dangled between the thin, long fingers of the other hand. “Fuck,” he muttered expelling the last warm gust of air from his lungs. “This shitty weather man.”
It was the month of Separy, after all. The temperatures had begun to drop all over Polassa. Olav stuck out his cigarette to Izai. Izai held the tip between his thumb and index fingers, watching as it slowly caught light. After a puff or two, they entered the Caverna Hideout.
Inside, the floral scents of MegaFolk liquor overwhelmed them. Izai’s nose scrunched involuntarily as water filled his eyes. Olav tapped him twice on his hip. Izai glanced around, noticing the Rosea MegaFolk, towering at least a foot above regular Folk like Izai and Olav, their skin as pink as cherry blossom, their hair white as fresh snow, casting curious glances their way. Among them, the fewer Kaisita MegaFolk, like the Rosea but with skin as blue as twilight skies, were scattered sparsely in the small pub, blending into the dimly lit corners.
“Is Remi here?” Olav mumbled to the bartender; his words nearly drowned out by the synth music playing overheard. The bartender, a Kaisita man with hair braided down to the small of his back, leaned on the slightly damp counter, trying to catch Olav’s words. Olav repeated slightly louder, “Is Remi here?”
The bartender jerked back; his smile gone in an instant. Then he wiped the counter down with a rag. “It’s Pa Remi,” he said annoyedly.
From behind, Izai felt a large hand clap his right shoulder, squeeze tightly, and shake him a few times. “GentleFolk. Please. Let’s take this to my office,” a Kaisita man said. The voice belonged to Remi.
He led them past the booths, the seated tables, and the MegaFolk eyes burning holes into their backs. In the office, Remi leaned back in his leather chair, loafers crossed on his cluttered desk, and a telephone receiver held to his mouth. He gave a slight nod, and the boys sat opposite him. Remi’s double, the one who had escorted them in, offered them drinks, which they refused. At this, he poured one for himself. The boys watched as the Remi who had brought them in, merged with the other Remi seated at the desk.
After setting the receiver down, Remi straightened in his chair, clapped his hands together, and began to rub them. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you boys,” he said with a broad, gummy smile and raised eyebrows. Izai realized that he might be the only MegaFolk he had met without hair. Often, the women wore their hair short, while the men preferred longer braided styles. Yet, none ever completely lost their hair; some would gradually transition from bright white to grey and eventually to black, much like the grey hair peeking out from Remi’s pink silk shirt.
“Thank you, Pa,” Izai replied, “it’s an honour to be recognized by someone of your stature.”
The MegaFolk rose from his chair and perched himself on the desk, sweeping aside a heap of papers, coins, and powders of various colours. “Are you kidding me?” he said with a smile. “A PrimeBorn Puller – a gift from the gods,” he glanced at Olav, then shifted his gaze to Izai. “And a PureBorn. That’s a gift straight from the old god himself.”
Remi swirled his drink thoughtfully. “I have a mission for you.” He slid a photograph across the desk. It showed a Folkling – chubby, short, bluish, and with balding grey hair. “This is Tai,” he continued. “He owes me 5 000 Yibi. I want it back.”
The Folk boys inspected the photograph. “Any idea where he is?” Izai asked.
“He’s at the Laracasa,” he responded handing Izai a satchel.
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The Laracasa was a grand hotel recently built on the shores of Polassa Bay in West Polassa. Bankrolled by the MegaAkila, who had been investing their Pure-Sap wealth into every corner of Aradahi, the hotel stood proudly. Folk, in the barbershop Izai visited, had concluded that it had been their desperate bid to match the influence of their regular Akila counterparts.
The hotel lobby was magnificent, with marble pillars soaring to the ceiling. The cold floor they stood on had a checkered pattern of white and brown tiles, and the air was filled with the scent of the great Pine Cone trees native to South Usadu, the MegaAkila’s homeland. As Izai approached the receptionist’ desk, he took in the classical paints draped on the walls, each depicting moments of Aradahi that they had been taught in school.
Perhaps history had been taught differently in Polassa, and throughout the Yimani Republic, or even across the entire continent of Iradi. Each painting portrayed the MegaAkila with their vibrant orange wings spread proudly, their striking beaks pointed confidently skyward, and their plumage in shades of white and grey, triumphantly overcoming and relieving Aradahi of all the troubles that once plagued it.
Behind the reception desk sat a Hanu Folk much like Izai himself. Her brown skin glowed warmly under the light, and her large, doe-like brown eyes sparkled with flecks of gold. Her hair, a cascading crown of tight curls, framed her face with a natural elegance.
“How can I help you tonight?” she asked, her lips curving into a gentle smile. Her name tag read Kenai.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Olav hesitated, tapping the desk uncertainly before leaning in. “A Folkling… Tai. I’m looking for a Folkling named Tai,” he mumbled.
“Folkling?” she repeated, her tone tinged with distaste.
Olav straightened up and adjusted his jacket sleeves to smooth them out. “Right,” he muttered to himself, “what do we call them now?”
“You’re looking for a man of Awahu descent,” she said, tilting her head with a smile.
“Right.” Olav pulled out the photograph and slid it across the desk. “Here he is.” Kenai examined the photo before glancing worriedly at Olav and Izai. Her hand made a dash for the phone. Olav snapped his fingers, and her head dropped.
“What the hell are you doing?” Izai spoke through gritted teeth.
“I panicked,” Olav mumbled, shrugging. Kenai raised her head again, and Olav, slightly louder and clearer, said, “A guest named Tai called about a window that’s not closing.”
“Tai?” she echoed; her eyes half-closed.
“Yes,” Olav replied, rubbing his fingers, eyes darting from side to side hoping that nobody would see this. “I forgot what room he was in, but you said you would look it up.”
“Right,” she said, blinking as if waking up. She typed on a keyboard a few times and stared across at a screen. “He’s in room 428.”
They shuffled across the lobby to the elevators as quickly and discreetly as they could. Once past the first floor, where two other guests exited, Izai smacked Olav on the back of the head. “You know how many years they are giving out for Pacifying these days?”
“I panicked,” he raised his shoulders.
Izai gave the satchel to Olav. “We have to do this quick,” he said. “How long do you think it’ll last?”
“What’ll last?” Olav sniffed.
“Your Pull. Your Pacifying,” Izai’s voice grew in volume.
Again, Olav shrugged.
“She’s probably a Regular,” Izai sighed. “I’d be worried if she was Talentborn.”
On the fourth floor, they moved slowly toward room 428. The faint smell of cigarettes on Olav was carried away by the gentle cool air swirling through the hall. Inside the satchel was a Frost-Sap blanket, whose touch would render Talents unusable. Izai had decided it was best for Olav to handle it as they would need his Pulse and Push more than Olav’s Pull.
“What’s the plan?” Olav asked.
“I knock. He opens. You rush him and wrap the blanket around him.”
Olav inspected the blanket; its dark colour seemed to absorb the light in the hallway making it just that tiny bit dimmer. “What if he overpowers me?”
Izai let out a sigh of frustration, “He’s a Folkling. You’re like a foot taller than him.”
“Still, aren’t they stronger?”
“Their Pulse is weaker. Their Push is like double the strength of ours, well mine at least. But Pull is the same.”
“I meant naturally.”
“Does it matter?” Izai stood before door 428. “There’s two of us.”
He knocked once, twice, three times on the door. From the inside, he heard a lady’s giggle and a loud voice telling her it would be right back. The Folkling opened the door just enough for his purple eye, half his nose, and mouth to peek through.
“What is it?” the Folkling asked.
“Room service,” Izai replied, his voice wavering slightly as he glanced around.
“But my friend, I never called for no room service.” The Folkling glanced back. “Sweetheart, did you call for room service?” A voice responded, “No.” The Folkling turned back, puzzled. “Why so suddenly dark out there, friend?” Realizing what was happening, he slammed the door shut.
Izai and Olav exchanged puzzled glances, unsure of what their next move should be. Olav urged Izai to kick the door down, but it was reinforced, and even with his Pulse, it wouldn’t budge. Izai then touched the doorknob, freezing it completely, before heating his palm to the maximum temperature he could. The doorknob shattered.
Inside, a Porenadi Folk, much like Olav, clutched a blanket to her chest. Olav averted his gaze to the side, staring at the ground, while Izai shielded his eyes with his palm.
“Right…” Izai cleared his throat. “Where’s Tai?” he demanded in his deepest voice.
“He… just… vanished,” she stammered.
“Fuck,” Izai sighed. “He could be anywhere.”
“Where did he go?” Olav mumbled; his eyes still fixed on the same patch of green carpet.
“I don’t know,” she replied, burying her head, leaving only her eyes exposed.
“I’m sure you know,” Olav said, tapping his foot. “Just give her a slight scare man,” Olav tapped Izai.
Izai understood. It was a show of force. To other Talentborn, specifically Pulsers or Pushers, it meant nothing, a mere theatrical trick. But to Regulars, it served as a stark reminder of their place in the hierarchy. He stepped back, his feet spread slightly apart, and his hands clenched into fists. With a deep, focused breath, he summoned a warm energy that swirled and intensified within him, urging to burst out. An aura of intense flame rose around him, casting a fiery flow that outlined his entire silhouette. He held the display for a few seconds, carefully controlling it as to make sure it did not burn any of his clothes. When he finished, Olav’s face was flushed, sweat running down his temples, and his blonde hair plastered to his forehead.
“Okay, okay,” the lady spoke. “He’s going to watch the Alpha Asili and SolarFrost Saints game tomorrow.”
Satisfied, they rushed to the elevator, hoping no one noticed the receptionist had been Pacified. When the doors opened, two Folk security guards stepped out, dressed in black suits with black shades and titanium ropes snaking from backs to their wrists, ending in a knife tip.
One guard threw the rope at them. Izai avoided the blade, caught the rope, and gave it a tug, sending the guard flying. “Okay, he’s not a Pulser,” Izai said. The other guard lunged at them.
“But I’m guessing she is,” Olav said, then sprang into a sprint toward the door marked STAIRS.
Olav opened the door while Izai remained behind, feeling the Essence within him swirl and heat up like a pot of water slowly coming to a boil. He knew she couldn’t be a PureBorn or even a PeakBorn; she would hold a higher-ranking position if she were. She had to be only a Pulser. As she approached, Izai channelled the Essence to his waist and arms, delivering a powerful punch that unleashed a searing flame. The intense heat burst through his sleeves, propelling the flame forward and knocking the guard back.
At best, he thought, it would incapacitate her. Given her slightly older age, she was likely a stronger Pulser than he was. He hoped that the distraction of her being knocked down and the small fire in the lobby would buy them just enough time. And it did. They were now on the roof, 30 floors up. Olav gazed down at the narrow side street and the expanse of ocean stretching before them.
“I’d rather go to prison,” Olav stated.
Izai grabbed Olav and cradled him like a newborn. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I could still die if you fuck up you know?”
Izai took a deep breath. The commotion of guards echoed behind them. He knew what he required of his Pulse was immense. Alone, he wouldn’t worry, but with Olav, his Push was the better alternative.
He leapt from the roof, the air rushing past and billowing through his sweater. As the water drew closer, he channelled the Essence to his feet, igniting a powerful flame that burned through his socks and shoes. The intense heat, bright enough to catch the attention of onlookers, slowed their fall, and they landed safely in the water.
They swam to shore.