8 : 128 : 13 : 21 : 03

When life gives you lemons, you slice it up, mix in vodka, and get limoncello. God bless the Italians. What I mean to say is, the key to everything is thinking positive. When things go south and the situation seems hopeless, you have to remember those times when you were really happy, having fun, and probably piss-faced, and believe with all of your heart those times will come again. And they will, as long as there’s alcohol in the world.

That thought never fails to lift my spirits.

Whenever I’m down in the dumps, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and empty my mind like I’m a less fat incarnation of Buddha. And I imagine I’m in Orethgon again. I remember the feel of the spring sun on my face; the lines of the gorgeous, snow-capped mountains that crown the distant horizon, and the emerald pastures that stretch below in the valley, and the bees and butterflies. And all the bad feelings simply melt away.

I sit there again on the little pier facing a round pond of crystal-clear water, my dear friend Lieselot next to me. We watch dragonflies play over the water’s mirror surface, and all’s right with the world. Then Lieselot has to go open her mouth and spoil it all.

“Hey, Zero.”

“Yeap?”

“Is there anybody in the world that you love?”

I peel my eyes off the postcard landscape to give my friend a look of alarm.

The way she phrases it makes it sound like I hate 99.99% of the population, which is not true! I’m mostly in the “make love, not war”-camp, really. Then I think again. Lieselot is way too young, dumb, and attention-deficit to be subtly catty like that. It must be just what it seems, her way of asking if I’ve a special someone in my life. Real talk for a twelve-year-old.

“Why?” I must question her motivations.

“Just wondering,” the girl mumbles, her gaze in the clouds.

She’s such a terrible actress. Clearly, there are ulterior motives.

So it’s for personal reference? God, they grow so fast these days!

I wonder who got her heart? Hope it’s not me. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I do think Lieselot’s pretty cute, in her own way. In the same way a wild boar is cute when it’s still a little piglet. But you see the tusks and know how it’s going to turn out in a few years, and can only give up any thought of a shared future. Of course, my friend's not a piglet, she doesn't have tusks, and I don’t actively contemplate the pros and cons of marriage with boars, but you get the point.

I should make things clear.

“Yeaaah, ‘just asking’.” I prod the girl with an elbow. “Who's the luck bastard? Is it anyone I know?”

Seeing how most of the people I know are ancient geezers, I’m going to have to call the cops if the answer is to any tone of yes.

“No!” Lieselot insists, her cheeks flushed, and gives me a forceful shove. “I was just asking! Don't get any weird ideas!”

Okay. It's definitely someone I know.

“Hey, I'm not judging,” I inform her. “Or, I am, but won't say anything. And if it's love counsel you want, you absolutely asked the right person. I may be an outrageously talented magician, among many other things, but romance is where I truly shine. I’m practically Cupid in the flesh.”

“Really?” Lieselot regards me with blatant doubt. What? I’m not giving off some kind of virgin aura, am I?

“Really-really, and not willy-nilly.” I aim to put her at ease. “So fire away. Bees and butterflies, I know it all. That’s what friends are for, right?”

Lieselot spends a moment under an awkward silence, clearly deliberating whether or not it’s a matter I should be consulted about. I’m not a psychic, but the process is kind of obvious on her childish, freckled face. Maybe I have it in me to be a telepath, after all?

In the end, curiosity wins over.

“How do you know what you feel is really real love?”

Uhh, a big one straight off the bat.

Of course, I have no real experience whatsoever.

How could I? I’ve never dated anybody in my life, being less than a year old. But I can’t let Lieselot know that! I’d lose all respect! Having a twelve-year-old look down on me? My spirit would never recover from that! So I scour my mental databank and try to formulate a suitably credible answer.

“That’s what we’d all like to know, isn’t it?” I pose, to buy time. “Is what you have really ethic and authentic, a 100% sustainable product? Or is it just a misunderstanding, a cheap Chinese knock-off, a glass shoe that disappears at midnight, with a no-refund clause and unresponsive customer service? Nobody wants to burn their fingers, the way I did with that kinky underwear I mail-ordered last month.”

“The glass shoe was the only thing that didn’t disappear at midnight,” Lieselot points out my mistake.

“Whatever, nerd. But the answer it always boils down to is, as cheesy as it sounds, that you have to listen to your own heart.”

“My heart…?”

“That’s right. Look in the mirror and ask yourself, how do you feel when you think about the other person? Do you get all hot and bothered? Do you have this funny, ticklish sensation somewhere in the pit of your stomach? A vague restlessness, the need to do something, quickly, but you don’t know what, and it’s driving you nuts?”

“Yes…?” Lieselot leans forward, her eyes sparkling.

I look back into those chocolate-brown eyes and tell her,

“Because if you do…then it’s not real love. It’s the buttercups I put in your tea.”

Lieselot’s expression freezes on her face. The hopeful light fades from her eyes.

Without a word, she stands up on the edge of the pier and turns to me, a hollow smile on her lips.

“Hey, Zero.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know how to swim?”

“Um, no. Now that you ask me, I don’t, actually.”

What’s that got to do with anything?

“I think it’s about time you learned how.”

Having said so, Lieselot proceeds to grab me by the collar and throws me into the pond. It’s only March, the water is ice cold!

The moral of the story?

Never mess with a girl with seven older brothers.

8 : 304 : 09 : 26 : 04

I open my eyes in a black pit with the hangover of the century. I’m fairly sure it’s not because of vodka. I have no idea where I am, what time period it is, or if I’m even alive and not experiencing firsthand the posthumous depository that the Adventists try to warn you about.

Then my physical body kindly informs me I’m still alive, technically, and will remain so to the foreseeable future. I’ve been asleep for a decent while and saw weird dreams, but I’m undeniably awake now. I’m also cold, stiff, numb, bound from neck to feet, my head hurts, eyes hurt, hands hurt, feet hurt, hips hurt, ass hurts, and that’s just for starters.

The chronologically last memory I have is of a dazzling lightning spear hitting me straight on the kisser. Yet, somehow, I’m still hale and whole.

Either I’ve got the recovery powers of Wolverine too, or that spell was set to stun.

My wrists and ankles are cuffed with iron, and I have a heavy collar of similar make. Iron doesn’t conduct mana, effectively cutting off the circulation of magic juice to my limbs. Additionally, there are thin paper bands wrapped around my figure, inscribed with rituals that scatter elemental energy. All attempts to invoke magic fail pitifully. The wrist cuffs are linked to the collar, so that I can't move my hands too far from my face, to pull off the bands. Trying to rub against the floor or the walls does nothing. The wards are like glued on me. Oh fucking hell.

I give up struggling and look around.

First, the good news: I haven’t gone blind. I’m in a dungeon cell without any windows, or lamps, or candles. As you’d expect, it’s a little hard to see without any light, even for my eyes. My new flat is about four feet wide, seven feet long, six tall, and the sad thing is, I can lie down sideways by just bending my knees a bit. I hope I’m still growing.

There’s only one door out, made of four-inch oak boards, reinforced with iron bands and bolts bigger than my thumbs. There are two locks on the door and I don’t have the key to even one.

Then, the bad news: this is the only pair of pants I own.

I spend three weeks in them.

Three long weeks without a bath, or a change of clothes. Imagine that. You can’t.

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?

I get no yard time. Only total isolation—or, not quite. Once a day, a guard pops in, a lantern in hand, and even the pitiful twinkle of that small candle burns my eyes. He drops a bowl of some hideous mess on the floor, supposedly my meal, and empties the bucket that serves as my toilet, and that’s my only human contact in those three (3) weeks. Oh yes, the warden also entertains me with hilarious, carefully picked one-liners on each visit, such as, “top of the morning, witch bitch!”, “still breathing, wizard’s apprentice?”, “how’s it smelling?”, or “just do me a favor and die off, will you?”

I exercise my right to remain silent.

I may not seem like it, but I actually have standards for comedy.

One night, the guard gets unusually verbose and comes to squat next to me.

“They’re coming for you,” he announces in a whisper. “Tomorrow night. Folks from the capital. The real bad boys. Those madlads know how to treat your ilk. They get tons and tons of practice. Hope you like your coals hot. And your tongs…hotter.”

He does the dumb trick where he pretends to detach his thumb and then kindly takes his leave without waiting for applause.

The countdown to my ugly demise is on. Oh, I can hardly wait.

That’s what my existence has boiled down to. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Quietly waiting for the day when they’ll rape me, torture me, and kill me, and not necessarily in that order. All because I wanted too much firewood. Now there’s a joke.

Like so, I sit in the dark, huddled in the corner of my cell, trying to dream about better times.

And you ask me why I'm crazy?

8 : 283 : 15 : 08 : 57

It’s hard to keep track of the passage of time without ever seeing the light of day. I almost start to believe my captors have forgotten about me, but my fifteen minutes in the spotlight finally come around. The cell locks are undone and three guards walk in together. They pick me up by the arms, pull a thick sack over my head, and drag me out.

Finally! I’m about to get murdered and/or sodomized! Yay! Wonder how it starts? I’ve never been tortured for real before. I hope they won’t ask anything too tricky. Like which one’s worse, the first Transformers, or Pacific Rim? Gosh, that’s so unfair! Hollywood should’ve left the big robots to Japan!

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

They drag me up a spiralling staircase, involving a lot of stairs. Apparently we're in a big tower of sorts. Just guessing. Eventually the gang picks a room and pulls me in. Hitting my feet on the edge of every step along the way got pretty old, so I greet the feel of a level floor with heartfelt gratitude.

The guards plant me down on a creaky chair. The sack is yanked off my head and I squeeze my eyes shut, blinded by pale morning light shifting in through an arched little window in the side wall.

Oh god that hurts!

The pain in the goggles gradually fades and finer details begin to emerge from the shining. It's a barren, stone-walled room ideal for interrogations, or job interviews to Amazon, with only one way in. No excess furniture or decorations. There’s only the sturdy table in front of me, in the middle of the room, and across the table in front of me sits one young man.

“You have ten minutes,” a guard announces and the merry trio exits the room. The door is shut with a bang.

I sit there, bound, stuck face-to-face with the unknown creep. He leans his elbows on the table and stares at me, not talking, just staring, his fingers crossed, as if he’s trying to solve a picture puzzle. To be precise, he’s probably staring at my non-human ears and charming eyes, trying to guess what the hell I am.

Come now. Surely you don’t think you’re the only one who can play this game.

I stare back and start doing the profiler thing.

Okay. I called the guy young before, but that's compared to the people in the village. He's still in his mid-twenties or close to thirty. A slim figure, broad shoulders, rough hands. Not aristocracy, that's for sure. Tanned, gets out a lot, huh? A clean face, not scarred, or obviously vitriolic. Brown, sun-bleached hair hangs partly over a pair of hazel eyes. There's no righteous wrath or disgust in those eyes. They're almost friendly, but maybe it’s part of the act? I shouldn't let my guard down. The guy's not dressed in chainmail, but a long, wine-red leather coat, a plain sweater under it. He may not be nobility, but that coat can’t have been too cheap either. It would look hysterical on anybody else, but he’s got the looks to pull it off. I glance under the table. Practical, tough trousers with a lot of pockets for tools. Lots of belts. Cool boots, worn from use. A knife in the left boot.

Financial success and taste for fashion? Holy macaroni, did they get a real specialist, just for me? I’m so honored. Bet the pain he inflicts will feel extra special.

That took a really long time to describe, but actually happened in an instant. And then the guy ends the silence.

“Okay—”

“—WHOA, WHOA, HOLD IT!” I crack and twist my face away. “Don’t hit me! Not the face! Please not the face! I’ll talk! I’ll talk! Transformers is better! Barely, just because of Samantha Fox! I’m partial to chicks with a tan. There, are you happy now? Please don’t tell me you got that on record! I’m so ashamed to admit I even know those movies! Mechs are so geeky! Ew!”

My heartfelt appeal is followed by a very uncomfortable pause.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the man then tells me.

“Oh.” I open my eyes and fix my posture. “I knew that. You look too much of a pussy to hit a girl. Aw, get outta here and call somebody competent!”

“This isn't an interrogation,” he insists with some difficulty.

“What, you’re going for the good cop act? Well, it’s working; I give up. What do you want to know? I’ll tell you everything—which is not very much, to be honest with you. I know fuckall about anything that matters, but I can add my top ten bear puns to the deal, if you like?”

The man rubs the bridge of his nose. “What is your name?”

“So it is an interrogation?”

“Would you please tell me your name?”

“Much better.” I nod with approval. “Well, you can call me Zero. Nice to meet you, Mr Not-in-Chains, the long-lost brother of Alice in Chains.”

I somehow managed to introduce myself almost normally. Yet, the guy returns me a highly sceptical look and reiterates,

“What is your legal given name?”

“Oh snap! I admit it may not be the most original name in fiction, but it’s the only one I’ve got, smartass! So take it or leave it.”

“Okay.” The man sighs and leans back in his seat. “Look, I’m here to help you. 'Zero'.”

“You’re a shrink?” I raise my brow in awe. This kingdom is more advanced than I thought!

“I’ll revise,” he says, “I’m here to help you get out.”

“You’re an attorney?” There’s going to be a fair trial, after all? That’s a surprise. They didn’t even give me my one phone call. Not that anybody here has a phone, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

“Not quite,” the man corrects me again. “What I'm insinuating is that the method of your release may not be strictly lawful.”

“Huh?” I frown at this highly unexpected reveal. “Wait, did I get this right? You’re here to break me out?”

“That is more or less what I'm saying, yes.”

“But why?”

“You don’t want to leave?”

“No, no, I do. But, just, not too many nice things have happened in my very short life so far, and this twist sounds a little too good to be true already. Why would you go that far to help me? To begin with, I don’t even know who the hell you are.”

“Fair enough,” the man says. “My name is Sephram. I am not part of this castle's force, but came here to see you on behalf of a certain organization.”

“Wow.” I'm sincerely in awe. “So you’re a spy? Like, MI-6?”

“Am I…?”

“Yeah, hello, James Bond? S.H.I.E.L.D? Section 31? Kingsman?”

He gives me the fluoride stare.

“Forgeddit.”

Doing exactly that, the guy called Sephram resumes,

“We happened to come across your case by chance, and my colleagues were of the opinion that there might be more to you and your story than meets the eye. So I took it upon myself to pay you a visit and see if it wouldn't be a mistake to let you burn at the stake. It’s in my power to offer you a fair chance. A choice. Start over and come work for us. Or, stay here and face what follows.”

I blink. “They're actually going to execute me?”

“Yes.” He nods, not joking. “Yes, they are.”

“But why?”

“For using magic to kill people?”

“They were asking for it?”

“’They’ were soldiers of the state! Do you at least regret it a little?”

“I do regret—not getting them all. Does that count?”

“…”

The man takes another timeout, looking like his head hurts.

Life’s not all black and white, you know! There are also Fifty Shades of Grey. Unfortunately.

“So they’ll kill me in revenge?” I ask. “Without even a trial, where I might give my side of the story?”

“The execution is to be your trial,” Sephram explains. “If you survive being burned, then you’re a witch and you’ll be beheaded instead. But if you burn properly to ash, then they’ll write down that you were innocent, and your family will be allowed to hold a funeral for you. If you have any family, that is.”

“Jees—oops.”

I was so shocked, I almost dropped the J-bomb there. That’s over the line. There’s a rhyme and reason even to breaking the fourth wall.

“But you’ll help me?” I ask the guy. “If I agree to join your...group?”

“We’ll have to see about that,” Sephram answers with reservation. “We’re not sure yet if you’re the kind of talent we’re looking for. But you’ll be free, and have the opportunity to show if you deserve it.”

“That warms my wounded heart,” I tell him. “And what do you think, personally? Do I deserve to live?”

“I don't know,” he says.

“No, you do. You think I should be left here to die.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you thought about it.”

“No, I haven't made up my mind yet.”

“You’d let an innocent little girl with animal ears be burned at the stake. That’s it.”

“No, I—it wouldn’t be my preference, okay?”

“But you wouldn’t save me either, if it came to that. You’d just turn your back and walk away.”

“Well, you are in a prison,” Sephram argues. “Think whatever you want about the local justice system, but they don’t generally execute people for no reason. I don’t know the next thing about you, Zero. I have very few reasons to trust you. But that doesn’t equal to me wanting to see you dead. It’s nothing personal.”

“Is everybody in this group of yours like that?” I ask him.

“Like what?”

“A heartless bastard.”

“We’re—No, that’s not what I...”

“—Yeah, I know, I know. I’m just fucking with you.”

I got tired of watching him squirm.

“In all seriousness, you’re absolutely right to not trust me,” I assure the guy. “Hell, I don't trust me! A chance is good enough. I’m all fine with that. And I’m in, by the way. What do I need to do?”

Sephram wipes his face, looking like he regrets coming here already.

“Is there a test?” I ask him. “Where do I put my name? FYI, I can’t write. I can’t read either, so there’d better be nothing shady on the contract. Wait, did I just ruin my chances? Hey, my life skills may be few, but I’m a quick learner!”

“It’s not your literacy that matters, I can tell you that much,” he says. “What we care more about is your general attitude.”

“My attitude?”

I’m so fucked.

Sephram looks me straight in the eye as he explains,

“Our Order is sworn to protect peace and balance. As such, we can’t go around making things yet worse for everyone. That means, no indiscriminate killing. No antagonizing the law enforcement. No terrorizing the innocent. No more the sort of things you did at Buckinworth. Do you think you can give me your word of honor on that?”

“Look,” I say, “whatever you heard about Buckinworth, I’m sure it’s nothing but lies and slander, and not remotely close to what actually went down.”

“You mean you didn’t threaten the villagers and kill and dismember a number of soldiers who came to arrest you?”

“…I—I plead excessive self-defense.”

“I want your word,” Sephram repeats with an emphasis. “Swear it.”

I recognize it’s not the time to get stuck on the details. If I screw this up, he will actually walk out on me, and I’ll be doing this back-and-forth with a real torturer next.

“Fine, yes. I promise. Word of honor.” I can’t make any honorable gestures while tied up, so I hope my word alone will do. “There. I promised. Now what?”

“Now, we leave.”

Deeming the negotiations concluded, though clearly not yet fully convinced of my righteous character, Sephram stands up.

“Now?” I ask him. “How does this work? I don’t know the next thing about the whole crime and punishment crap, but will they really just let you take me?”

“They won’t,” he says. Before I can point out the contradiction in his answer, he raises his voice. “Guards!”

The guards weren’t too far away. The sound of the lock turning comes right away. The door swings open and the merry trio of potheads shifts back into the room, eager to get rid of the unscheduled guest. How did he get an appointment in the first place?

Sephram goes to the guardsmen and makes a casual smirk. “We’re done.”

Two of the soldiers head on to pick me up, while the third hangs back to hold the door. As soon as the men pass Sephram, he throws his hands to the sides and brushes their necks. Both guards fall limp and drop mid-step.

“H-hey—!” The third guy makes a startled sound, but doesn’t get any further. In one quick step, Sephram is in front of him, pushes the outreached hand aside and sticks something in the guard’s neck. The soldier leans back against the door and slides from there to the floor, out like a candle.

“Woow, what happened to all that vegan talk from a minute ago?” I ask Sephram while I watch him fondle the downed guards, looking for their keys. “No indiscriminate killing? No antagonizing people?”

“So you cared enough to remember? That’s something.” He collects a set of long needles he poked the guards with and shows them to me. “Sedative. An in-house recipe. Jumbles their short-term memory. We don’t want their reports to be too concise when they wake up. Rule number two: never compromise the Order. Now that we have our backs covered, we can take our leave. Unless you’re getting second thoughts?”

“Oh, hell no, get me out of here!”

Sephram unlocks my shackles and then throws the keys to the floor between the guards. Free of the weight of iron, feeling like I’m going to start floating, I stand and rip off the talisman bands. Having your mana circulation blocked is like being constantly constipated, but pooping doesn’t help it. At last, I can breathe normally again, after as many weeks.

Instead of leaving by the open door, Seprahm closes it, turns around and strides to the back of the room. He takes out a flat disc from his coat pocket, and casually flings it at the wall. It looks like a big, plain coin, about three inches wide. And it’s heavily enchanted. Instead of bouncing off the wall, it sticks to the stone face with a click. A bright flash follows, and a circular hole is opened straight through the wall.

We suddenly have a big window in the chamber, with a clean blue sky and white clouds visible on the other side. A strong gust of fresh air blows against my face.

“What was that?” I ask, impressed.

“That there would be our exit,” Sephram tells me. “I suggest you take a leap of faith, unless you prefer to wait here for the gentlemen to wake up. Don’t ponder overlong. The cavity closes soon on its own.”

I understood that reference.

Sephram goes to the hole in the wall and leaps out without a second thought. Seriously? What’s this group of his about, anyway? I’m not a fan of high places. I look at the hole, then back at the guards, who groan and mumble on the floor, already about to come to.

Well, what’s the worst that can happen?

I dash across the room and dive head first through the hole.

As I gathered, the room was near the top floor of a castle tower. A fairly tall tower, I might add, about forty meters, attached to the corner of a thick curtain wall. Below the wall runs a deep, wide moat full of dirty green water that separates the castle from the surrounding township. Having no wings, I fall down like a rock and can only pray the moat’s deeper than it looks.

Don’t tell me this was the big plan?

A leap of faith? Leaving my life literally in the gods’ hands? I thought he was talking about Assassin’s Creed!

My all too secular senses tell me hitting the water from this height is no different from landing on solid pavement, and that I’m going to die a very ugly and not necessarily painless death. Maybe slightly more comfortable than being burned alive, but I’d rather try neither!

It’s too late to complain.

I scoop the air with my hands in a futile attempt to slow down my descent and do as anyone else would in my position: shut my eyes and scream at the top of my lungs.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEH——!?”

Only a few meters above the moat, a net appears out of nowhere, a net woven of magic instead of rope.

A decelerating effect kicks in, momentum is absorbed. My fall stops short, and I may or may not wet myself, just a little.

Don’t ask me what happens next.

Because here's where I pass out again.