Velli

Three days to capture at least three all-powerful, homicidal legends is close to impossible. Immediately, I’m hit with a concrete cloud of overwhelming hopelessness. However, bad odds aren’t new to me. I just need to do something, anything to keep my mind going. My first step is to help the child whose youth was stolen and kill his grandmother if she can’t give it back. A promise is a promise.

In the grand hall, he sits alone in a pile of glass beneath a still-swinging chandelier. Each step I take toward him echoes, and the haunting presence of this place lingers. The gloom of the hall makes me scan shadows on the ground, and I imagine something leaping from the swaying fixture above me. The stillness mixed with the vastness of the hall is eerie. Disregarded junk and trinkets linger on the red carpet. So much gold lines the doors, shines on the chandeliers, and covers a few statues.

The old kid looks out of place here, but in a way, he belongs. If this is a dragon’s cave filled with gold and anything the heart could desire, he is the fleshless remains of a child that the dragon ate in his conquest for treasure.

Little fantasy metaphor, Fate mocks. That’s new for you? Don’t start speaking Elvish, nerd.

It’s the vibe the old kid gives off that turned my thoughts to fantasy. The broken glass encircles him like he’s doing some ancient Celtic ritual. I don’t have time for this. Or more fantasy or fairy tales. Prometheus’s story concerns me. Can I please have one celestial crisis at a time?

And I only have three days to do the impossible. They’ll each be tougher than Mogvaz. I don’t think even Mogvaz has killed a hundred people.

Leave the kid and—

Never. He needs help, so I’ll help him. End of discussion.

“Hey,” I call to him from a few feet away. I step toward his circus ring of glass.

It’s not a perfect circle, actually. The glass shards have been thrown around too haphazardly. The kid-slash-old-man is picking up the glass with such speed, I expect him to cut himself on a piece.

“Hey, careful with that,” I call.

The old kid’s bald and liver spot–covered face reflects in the glass. He tosses the shard aside in anger then picks up a new one. I don’t think he has a method to his glass picking. The old kid picks them up and tosses them at random, like… like he’s trying to surprise the glass.

Ah, unfortunate.

My guess is he thinks it’s some cruel joke the glass is pulling. He’s in the denial stage of grief.

“Hey, hey, man. It’s me, the guy from before. I’m Velli. Hey, what’s your name again?”

“Jeremy.” He doesn’t make eye contact. “You’re the last one.” His voice is as scratchy as an old man’s. He forgets the glass and focuses on me now.

I don’t like the look he’s giving me. Emotion fuels it. His eyes are red from fear or anger and rest above a tiny wisp of gray facial hair that can no longer grow. I pity him either way.

“Does that mean you’re doing this?” he asks. “Could you please stop?”

“I’m not doing anything, man.” I show my hands to plead my innocence. “Remember what you said, Jeremy. You said it was your grandmother who stole your youth and made you like this.”

“Couldn’t be.”

Oh, well, problem solved. Let’s go get ourselves killed finding a legend.

“Why’s that?”

“She’s my grandma, Velli. I mean, that’s Ito, man. That’s real Ito.” He drops the shard.

Glass strikes glass, and an ear-splitting crack follows. The sound runs across the vast, empty hall.

My thoughts wander to Dream and how I would have to explain to her that Ito means beyond-horrific ultraviolence, like an unforgettable murder scene. I think it’s named after an artist Pre-Rain. I still need to get her to forgive me. I could use her now. She’s the comforting type.

“Do you have a place to go?” I ask.

“No, man.” He pushes his face down to the floor just above a piece of glass and has a staring contest with it. “My parents died. My parents both just died. People can’t be this unlucky, man. That’s how I know this isn’t happening. It’s fake.”

Well, if he’s talking about unlucky, you might give him a run for his money, Fate concedes.

No, he’s right.

Is he? What did we just learn, Velli? Life sucks, and it’s hopeless.

Was that the sole lesson? Even in Prometheus’s story, the root cause of the world’s problems is one entity in particular. Extreme bad luck does often have a fault. I’d wager his grandmother killed his parents for her plan, whatever it might be. I’ll stall her death, after all. She’s the first one I’ll make escort me to the island. Two birds, one stone.

What would Dream do next? No, I’m not Dream. I’ll do this my way. I don’t bother fighting Jeremy’s delusion yet. He’ll come out of it when he wants to come out of it. Instead, I call a teleporter to get us out of here.

Jeremy questions the guy about five times on what he looks like, and the poor teleporter repeats with less and less empathy that he looks like an old man. This sets Jeremy off, and he’s dropped off via a portal inside his house. Anger, the next step of grief.

I don’t panic. His grief is a part of life, and he can’t do much to harm his house as an old man. That’s the sad part for him. He punches the hallway wall, and it doesn’t even give way to his blow. He screams in pain.

His home is a standard suburban one, with white walls lined with pictures of his family that seem to mock Jeremy now. The pictures of Jeremy with his family at amusement parks, graduations, and vacations now seem to be a cold reminder of the youth and parents he lost.

His parents seem to be typical suburbanites. Outside, they have the Berserker Clique’s symbol on their door, signaling that they are under that clique’s protection. The Berserker Clique are midtier guardians at best. A wealthier family would have hired someone more prestigious. The Berserker Clique will be no use in finding out who killed his mom. My belief in this family’s blandness heightens the more I stroll through the house. The house is filled with framed quotes of corny cliches.

“If prayers bring rain, then it can heal your pain.”

“Love first.”

“Did you water your gardens today? The Rainbringer watered us. How about you return the favor?”

“In this house, we sing. Even in the rain.”

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Nothing’s wrong with the sayings. They’re just meaningless. Typical inoffensive posters that mothers put up. I’m hostile to them because I find them pathetic. They’re made to not fit into any other religion but to show off how spiritual one is. To me, it’s needy… normally. Now, I see things differently. Yes, this family was bland, but maybe, subconsciously, that was on purpose. This family just wanted to fit in to be left alone. I can’t blame anyone for that.

“Granny!” Jeremy yells, but it’s obvious to me for three reasons that she’s been back and gone.

One, the lights are on, but I imagine the family would have turned the lights off as they left. Therefore, she turned them on when she got back and didn’t bother turning them off again.

Two, a few family portraits have been knocked over, face down, and broken glass surrounds them. Knocked over in a hurry because of guilt or maybe even a sick pleasure in seeing her plan come to fruition.

Three—

You’re a psych major dropout! Save it, Sherlock.

I’ve read a lot about psych, even postdropout, Fate.

Anyway, three, the door was open when we walked in. She didn’t take the time to close it.

“Granny! Granny!” he yells again.

I follow him. He turns to look at me and, with shame, turns his “Granny” yelling to “Grandma.” He really is a child.

Clutching his arm, he wanders into what I take to be his grandmother’s old room and plops down. The room’s stripped bare, even the bedsheets. “Stripped bare” is probably not the right word. Portraits of his family decorate the wall with the grandmother included.

At one point, Jeremy becomes desperate enough to check under the bed. Of course, nothing’s there. He plops down onto the mattress. I’m careful not to touch him while he festers with rage. Red-faced, beating his chest, and a grimace that could crush a can, his reflection stares back at him from a glass of water on his grandmother’s nightstand, distorted and very real.

His face drains of color, and he seals his eyes tight to resist crying. His emotions change again. I imagine he sees how angry he is, and he scares himself because he shouldn’t be this angry. People shouldn’t be this angry. It’s scary to know how much rage one can have. Closed eyes are a poor dam for Jeremy. The tears don’t take their time coming. They flood out of him.

I want to turn away. Seeing a man so old cry like that creates an ugly, bubbling discomfort in my heart. I shouldn’t be watching it, much less hearing—no, experiencing—his cries. They aren’t loud enough to shake the walls, but they have such a presence. The door calls my name. Yes, let him mourn alone. Does someone who’s already lost everything want to be alone, though? Maybe, but is that healthy? For now, I’ll stay.

My instinct tells me not to touch him because he looks to be my elder, late eighties, bald, with liver spots everywhere and a strong bend in his spine. He’s thirteen, though, so I give his back a reassuring rub.

And what is that supposed to do?

“You can touch me, man. I’m not some corpse. I’m thirteen. I’m thirteen!” he cries.

“Yeah, sorry.” I rub his back harder, like that’s going to do anything.

With a weak display of strength, Jeremy swipes my hand away. The effort cost him. He topples over, and I grab his shoulders as he balances himself on my thigh to stay upright with my help.

“I got you, sir—man,” I tell him.

He looks at me with his green eyes beneath thinning gray eyebrows that are down to strands. “I did something…” he croaks in his aged voice. “I stole from this store like a year ago… some gum. Do you think that’s why this happened to me? I can give it back if I can just find it.” His eyes flash with frustration. His cognitive ability, unfortunately, matches his new appearance. The gum’s most likely gone. “This happened to me for a reason. It’s because I was bad, right?”

The bargaining stage of grief.

What is he asking you for? If you knew how bad luck worked, you wouldn’t be you.

Fair point.

I’m not sure if lies are better here or the truth, so I take my time thinking of my reply.

He cuts me off before I can say anything. “I can swear. To the Rainbringer or Division, by my own name if I need. I’ll never sin again. For all my days…”

The crying starts again. Less intense. Slow, leaky drops of tears stream down his face, and hiccup-like breaths come from his broken heart.

Depression.

I’ll give him what I would want if I were him. Honesty. “You don’t have long to live, and it’s not your fault.”

“I’ve watched lots of porn.”

“Yeah, not the best for you, but people have committed worse sins. Still not your fault.”

“Then, why me, man? You reap what you sow, karma, and all that stuff, right? What did I reap to get this?”

He means what did he sow. I don’t bother correcting him. “I couldn’t tell you.” She pops into my head. How She ruined so many lives because it was Her will. Sad, random nonsense. “My guess is nothing. It’s just the way it is.”

“My turn was coming, man. When I went out with the boys and we’d go chat with girls, I never was any good at it because I was short and, like, sickly pale.” He laughs at himself a bit. “Of course, everyone makes fun of me because I’m always getting rejected, and it’s my boys, so I take the jokes and laugh, but I also laughed because I thought my turn was coming soon. My dad was six foot five, man. Six foot five! As soon as my growth spurt hit, they’d watch me getting with the girls. And I was getting powers! That and I’m persistent. I was getting better at my introductions. Want to hear one?”

“Yeah.” I let go of him, realizing he can hold himself up now.

He scoots a nudge away from me on the bed, pats his clothes down, and adjusts his collar like he really is about to hit me with his best line. His face is still wet with tears, but he makes a considerable effort to ignore it.

“Um-hmm,” he says with a cough. “Excuse me, miss.”

“What?”

“Can you play along? You’re the girl in this role.”

“Oh, um, yes.”

“What is that?” he yells and points at the floor with a heavy breath from his ancient lungs.

Is this part of his bit? “What is what?” It’s probably a roach. I hope to Division it’s not a Drowned Roach.

“It’s a—” He stomps on the floor with a thud and so much effort I know I won’t hear his line because something is here.

“What is it?”

He grabs the cup of water on the table, pulls out a piece of ice, and crushes it in his fist. “Sorry, there was some wild ice between us. I had to use an icebreaker,” he says between big breaths and a prideful smile.

I think I’m going to kill myself.

“Oh, clever,” I tell him. “A lot of work to get to that.”

“You seem like a girl worth working for.” He breaks character and gives me a playful punch in my elbow. “That’s the real line.”

Huh, that would have made a girl blush, and he knows it. He’s proud of himself, and he chuckles and chuckles until it turns to a cough and he falls on the floor. I grab him again and set him back so he can breathe properly.

He wheezes. “I’ll never get to say that line to a girl I like, will I?”

Not unless he somehow likes them in the walking-corpse age range.

“It’s… it’s… unlikely, Jeremy.”

The tears stream, again, and that’s okay. I let him cry.

“I’ve made no name for myself. I’ve never kissed a girl. That’s it, then?” He isn’t talking to me anymore. His eyes are locked on his reflection. Unearned wrinkles and bags sit beneath his green eyes. The only thing that’s of his own invention is his frown.

I could take him, couldn’t I? He would be an easy sacrifice to Tiamat. He doesn’t want to live. He won’t have much longer. This was a gift to me.

She’s face from the Prometheus story smiles in my mind’s eye. Fungus fur, eyes on the side of Her head to avoid something that could kill Her.

That could kill you.

Her rampage. Her injustice. Her truth. She was in charge, and we were less than toys to Her. I understand Her to be true. So Jeremy’s end makes perfect sense. Life sucks, then you die. That’s it.

“Nope,” I tell him. “That’s not it.”

Jeremy’s eyes leave his reflection and hang on me.

Like a noose.

Like a star.

I put my hand on his chest and move it where his heart should be. “Your heart’s still beating, isn’t it?” I ask, and he nods. “Then, you can defeat an army as far as I’m concerned.”

“I can barely walk.”

“Snakes kill, and they don’t have legs.”

“I’m weak.”

“You can always get stronger. I’ll buy you a half-pound weight to do some curls.”

“But—”

“You’ll never be what you were, but I’ll do my best to help you like what you are.”

“And the girls?”

I shrug. “We’ll figure it out. As long as your heart beats, you’ll never know who you’re going to meet.”

“You make that up yourself?”

“No, I got it from my mom.” Speaking of which, I need to visit her. I can’t stay here long.

We talk until then, and he tells me about his past. The games he used to play, how he hated school, and what he wanted to do after he grew up. Probably a decent fifteen-minute chat.

The glass of water shatters on the floor. Jeremy falls with it. He didn’t pass out. No, he is extremely conscious. His jaw drops, his body shakes, and he points one ancient, wrinkled finger at his wall, indicating a portrait of him, his dad, his mom, and his grandmother. “That’s my grandmother.”

Is he entering a new phase of grief? Is he in shock again?

“Jeremy, careful. Yes, your grandmother—”

“No!” he yells. Without anger. Without sadness. With intensity. “No! I know what we thought my grandmother did. But that’s her, not the lady who brought me to the Conference of Desires.”

“Jeremy? You know what your grandmother looks like.”

“No, no, trust me. I know I’ve been out of my mind, but I’m seeing it now. That woman came here one day in place of my grandmother, and we believed her. We believed she was my grandmother.”

“Jeremy…”

His words hold the sting of sobriety. Yes, it’s possible that someone could have that power.

“You have to believe me,” he wheezes. “It’s so obvious. Why didn’t I see it?” He slaps himself. “We fed her dinner. We talked with her every day, and we didn’t know! I can see it now. Oh, she was good. She was tricky. She killed my real grandmother. How many times has she done this? Will you stop her, Velli?”

“Absolutely.”