Velli

Someone comes in from the far doors. My gun’s trained on them, and my finger’s on the trigger before they have the chance to move. It’s a girl. She’s got a short yellow skirt, a pink crop top, and black wedge sneakers that make her about four inches taller. They make me question what kind of gimmick she’s going for. She’s got red pigtails that shake then freeze when she sees she’s my next target.

I recognize her. She’s in a minor clique, forgettable. Her power has something to do with fire. Generic. Everyone knows someone with a power that has something to do with fire.

“I just wanted to see what everyone was running from! I didn’t see anything.” She raises her hands defensively.

This is the start of my legacy. My run. I’ve killed Mogvaz, and the world should know. But that’s not my plan. I’ve seen enough of the conference. I want to end it.

“No.” I do my biggest impression of a petrified witness to a massacre. “N-N-No, tell everybody. Tell them Rose Tower came through, killed Mogvaz, and left with her little sister.” I squat, pick up Mogvaz’s head, and screech, “But she’s coming back and bringing the rest of the Heirs!” I toss the head to her to add dramatic effect.

It works like a charm. She catches it and leaves screaming. They’ll all be leaving that way as soon as they hear about the Heirs.

I dry off, put my clothes on, and stash my gun in my waistband then sling my bag with the cash on my back.

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I’m anxious to step outside. The atmosphere is chaotic. Blue, yellow, and black portal lights are everywhere with people piling into them. Bodies the size of mountains, men and women whose hands are bloodier than heart surgeons, sellers and buyers of the misfortunate run or fly away. They were so loud, so boisterous before, but now, they’re quiet. Every move is sneaky. Every move is meant to go unnoticed. They’re a disgusting lot. This is how it should be. Evil should be afraid. The ground is littered with their “souvenirs.”

An old man in ragged clothes runs up to anyone who will listen, shaking them and yelling, “I’m only thirteen years old! My grandma stole my youth. Please, I want to go home.”

I call him over to me and sit him down. I explain he’s not in danger and if he just sits tight, I’ll help him.

He tells me the change is permanent and, through his sobs, says, “Will you find my grandmother for me?”

I tell him I’ll kill his grandmother for him. He nods.

The beautiful woman I saw earlier who danced with the violin man stands in a mesmerized daze. Drool drips from her mouth. Her “lover” left her. The violin man probably assumed karma would catch up to him when he heard Mogvaz died. I will.

A guy about my age lies dead against one of the walls. He wasn’t Powered. I know all the Powered, so he was probably brought here against his will. Maybe he was being sold. No, the tattoo on his neck tells me he comes here of his own volition. In loud black cursive letters, it says, “Tragedy or Majesty.” A popular saying made in the city farthest north, the Eighteen, the fifth finger of division’s Hand. Tragedy or majesty means the same thing every young man with ambition has said for centuries.

“Man’s life is short. Therefore, an honorable death is immortality,” the men of Antioch said.

“I’ll be back carrying my shield or arriving on it,” the Spartans said.

“Get rich or die trying,” they said in the early twenty-first century, when money mattered over mankind.

It all means the same thing.

I’ll follow that same path. It’s the one thing I can do for the dead kid. I go up the elevator and walk to room 624 to speak to the man called Prometheus.