Velli

“Hey, man,” I ask my teleporter. “Do you mind dropping me off at the front of the church? We’re a little far from it.”

“I gotta charge you extra for that.” The teleporter’s a skinny guy, balding, who wears a wifebeater T-shirt and long plaid pajama pants. Teleporters are independent contractors, so they can wear whatever they like, but most have the decency to wear real pants and shoes.

The church holding Amelia’s funeral is massive. The thing has two parking lots, one on top of a hill and another much closer to the large gold-and-white dome where the service will be held. The teleporter drops me off at the top of the hill, at the higher parking lot. The way down is long and meant for days that aren’t blistering hot like this one. It’s a winding path that’s about half a mile downhill.

“Oh, you gotta charge extra, huh?” I phrase it in such a way as to make it clear I know he’s a liar.

The guy scratches his ashy, stubble-covered face. “Yeah, have to. It’s rough being a teleporter. I’m in high demand.”

No, he’s not. Every teleporter has random ways in which they can transport people. His sucks. He makes these small, translucent holes above knee height so I have to jump in before I’m spun three times to arrive. The last one I used was an orange portal I walked through and I was there. No side effects. No spinning.

“All right, listen, man. I know you’re not in demand. You brought me to the top parking lot to get an extra ten from me. How about you just take me down? I’m already late.”

“Nah.” He waves his hand, shooing me away. “And it’s twenty if you want me down there.”

“I’m late for my friend’s funeral, and you’re squeezing me for another twenty.”

“If you’re too poor to spend twenty on her now, I hate to see how you treated her when she was alive.”

“Excuse me?” I push away my sports jacket to reveal my large knife encased in a leather scabbard.

His smile pushes from ear to ear. “Not my fault I gotta charge you.” He raises the right sleeve of his T-shirt to reveal a brand burnt onto his skin. It’s a jack-in-the-box. “I got the Treasure Chest Clique backing me. They make my rules, and you wouldn’t want to upset them, would you?”

I push my jacket tail back into place, covering my knife, defeated. I don’t want issues with any clique, for now. I’ll give this world hell as soon as I get powers.

Still, I try to stick up for myself. “That’s a brand, not a tat, meaning you’re not even a member. You’re just a volunteer to be extorted by them in exchange for mild, and I mean mild, prestige and protection.”

“Yeah, yeah, you say all that, but it works. You’re going to give me five stars on the app right now.”

I take out my phone and obey him. What’s worse than hell? That’s what I’ll give this world as soon as I have my powers. Oh, and I’ll help people too. My mom might have had a point about forgetting the good in the world.

Anyway, the skinny freak knows he’s beat me. He takes a big step toward me, and I size him up after waving my phone at him to show I did what he asked. He’s probably a hundred forty pounds and five foot six with soft, lazy hands.

And this is who you have to submit to. This is who gets to walk around feeling better than you.

The teleporter pats my head three times and calls me a “good boy.”

I swipe his hand away and walk down the long, cracked beige sidewalk. The sun’s light does nothing to fight against the overwhelming grayness in the atmosphere. It does plenty to make me sweat in my suit.

Fancy suit just to be treated like a joke.

“Cute scarf, by the way!” the teleporter calls from behind me. “Your mommy make it for you?”

I flip him off and rip the scarf from my neck, stuffing it in my pocket.

I wear the standard black loafers, black suit, and black tie that I should wear to a funeral, and I hope my collared shirt isn’t sticking to my skin by the time I’m down there. I walk toward the large dome. At least everyone came out for Amelia’s funeral and on time too.

Unlike yourself.

I’m trying, Fate.

A couple of stragglers walk with me down the slender sidewalks that allow us enough room to stay off the brownish-green grass. They either drove here or got screwed by teleporters as well. One of these stragglers is a woman in a black dress and heels. Her purse is tiny. A clutch I think it’s called.

She peeks behind her, probably because she hears my footsteps, then whirls around, swinging her purse. I raise my hands to assure her I mean no harm.

“You’re Velli!” she says. “It’s really you.”

“Yeah, um, it’s me.”

The woman stops to gawk at me, and I continue past her, giving her a smile. I already feel bad about my tardiness, and she looks like she wants to talk. If I show up any later, I’ll never hear the end of it from Dream, if she ever speaks to me again.

“So, so sorry for your loss.” The woman’s heels click-clack as she catches up with me. “You and Dream are the last of Amelia’s group, right? The Happy Doomed. Amelia made your name, right?”

How’s the name working out?

Well, we got the doomed part right.

“Yeah, she did,” I tell her. “That was our name. Actually, sorry, it is our name,” I correct myself. It’s important to give hope.

Even when you have none?

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I have a little.

The woman makes a face—intense, lips tight, and as serious as a funeral. “Y’all did so much for us. For me.” She relaxes, and her eyes sparkle. “Do you remember me?”

I hate that question. I don’t remember people that can’t kill us. I don’t know people that can’t kill us. That’s all Dream’s job. We could have raked her leaves, or we could have saved her family from being slaughtered by the Wet Men. We do both.

Did both.

My sole desire was the cocktail of survival, victory, and the rescue of life. Is that wrong?

Yes, one of your many flaws.

“Yeah,” I lie to her anyway. She doesn’t have to know, and I am an excellent liar. “What did you give us after…? You made us something.” They all make us something, food—always good—or homemade gifts—ranging in quality.

“Yes! Cinnamon rolls!” Her joy leaps from her mouth and into the atmosphere. “I remember this face you made, and you snuck a piece off one of Raphia’s plates when he wasn’t looking.”

I don’t remember that mission, and I wish I did. It was always mission, mission, mission then on to the next one.

“They were excellent,” I lie. “I love how you didn’t go light on the icing.” Just an educated guess.

“I could make you some more. Deliver them myself and—”

“No!” The word slips out faster and harsher than I intend.

“Oh.” She’s taken aback.

I suck the joy from the atmosphere.

“I understand. You have to keep things secret. Can’t have one of your enemies knowing where you live.”

“Yes, sorry, I’m glad you understand.”

Is that it, Velli? Or are you afraid she’ll see how her hero lives? How her hope is hopeless. Are you afraid of letting anyone into your house because you’ll be letting them into you?

“Excuse me.” A gentleman comes up in a similar funeral suit as me. “You’re Velli, from the Happy Doomed?” He makes a clanging sound as he walks. Attached to each foot are balls and chains made of dirt that dig into his skin through painful-looking spikes.

“Yes, I am.” I consider walking away. I’m going to be so late to this funeral. “I really need to—”

“You really helped me, man. Do you remember sneaking me out of the Eighteen when I was abducted? Ah, man. I thought there was no way because of”—he points to the ball and chain wrapped around his ankles—“all this, but you guys did it. I can’t thank you enough.”

That mission I do remember because getting in and out of the Eighteen is tough. The Eighteen, the fifth finger of Division’s Hand that’s tried to break away and become the sixth adulterated finger three times.

Before I can say goodbye and finally make it to Amelia’s service, someone else who we’ve saved or helped at one point or another comes to thank me, then another, then there’s a flock around me. Sometimes, I forget how well loved I am by the Unchosen. Thank-yous, handshakes, hugs, and more whisk me all the way to the entrance of the church.

I wish I could remember their names or faces. I could make an essay on the lives and origins of every monster and man we face, though.

Once I reach the entrance, ushers escort me away from the masses and bring me through the dome like an artist headed into a concert. Someone calls me from every direction, and a hand touches me from an angle, prodding me forward or tugging on my jacket.

Going through the hallway doors and into the sanctuary is a humbling experience. The dome has to seat at least five hundred people, and they’re all here to honor Amelia. Low light, blue tint, and blue seats in the stadium make me feel like I’m walking through a sea, a sea filled with people who all love Amelia.

People who you let down, and they’re all just too dumb to realize it right now. You were the brains. You were supposed to keep Amelia alive. They’ll hate you as soon as the grief passes.

Yeah, yeah, I guess they might. I keep my head down until I arrive at my seat.

The majority of the light concentrates on the stage. Someone’s delivering a speech.

Sniffs and tear-filled coughs besiege the stadium. Already-drenched tissues wipe faces that won’t stop crying. Red eyes look at me, and I wish I could lift everyone’s spirits again like I did in the parking lot, but the misery of the moment is thick.

An usher places me beside Dream. Of course, she wears no jewelry. Most of her jewelry is from her sister, Rose. She doesn’t want to put the rest of the crowd to shame. And of course, she’s beautiful in all black. The tight bun gives her a dignified look that, unfortunately, reminds me of her sister. Again, I get that nervous feeling that makes me want to pinch my skin.

I open my mouth to tell her she looks great.

She doesn’t want to hear that from you.

I shut it and settle into my seat.

I know she knows it’s me beside her because she doesn’t say anything. She stares, puffy eyed and hurt, at the stage. I search my pocket for the scarf my mom gave me. It’s gone. I suppose it fell out at some point. Good. It’s not right to have something so positive here.

XXX

Many, including Dream and me, separately, come up to speak on Amelia’s behalf. All our goals are to honor her and uplift everyone’s spirits. One for two isn’t bad.

Does it honor her? If she’d want you to be happy—and this is Amelia we’re talking about, so we know she’d want that more than anything—and you, Dream, and every loser in here can’t manage to make anyone smile, isn’t every word drooling from your mouth just pissing on her grave?

I’m hurt, and I’m stressed, scratching my head and pulling at my hair because Fate’s right, and I can’t stop it.

Fate, not here. For one day, don’t make me.

I feel a tear coming. Careful, Dream’s looking.

I find myself sniffing and squirming in my seat to avoid Dream’s gaze.

That’s right, always the brave face, soldier. See, that’s not bad. You squirm and hide. You can do something right.

The next speaker comes from a row in front of us. He wears a traditional black suit, fancy black pants pulled up to just below his knee, and no shoes. It’s like he’s walking in square fish bowls without the fish. Water splashes with each step. Step is the wrong word because he’s not able to raise his feet, so he more shuffles to the stage. It reminds me of Anne Graves, except so much more pitiful.

He’s a pastor, not here, somewhere much smaller. I forget his name and the name of the church.

A couple of laughs from kids echo in the silent auditorium, and shushes from their parents follow.

Don’t you miss having parents?

The man embodies all of the shame hurled at him. It’s in his shoulders, weighing him down. If I remember right, his Weakness is that he walks on water and sinks on land. The pastor keeps his head down. Maybe willing his feet to go faster. It doesn’t work.

After his unique walk of shame, he arrives in front of the steps to get on stage. The usher and the pastor exchange some words to get the position right, and he’s carried like a baby up the steps. Another usher comes to grab his… I guess shoes.

Finally, he faces a mourning audience. I hope he’s a little past middle-aged because he certainly looks like it. Gray hair cut low and a forehead tortured by wrinkles on his black skin. He leans against the wooden podium for strength. Behind him, a picture of Amelia rests on the projector. She’s looking down upon him.

He takes one massive breath. “Now, if you were grateful for your time with Amelia,” the man says, and his demeanor transforms. The shy, ashamed man is gone as he exudes frightening focus and passion. He stands straight, his head held high, and his voice is golden. Booming, authoritative, and each word sticky, slow, and more impactful than syrup on a pancake. “Stand up, and give a shout of victory.”

I straighten in my chair, now alert. Muffled praises ring out.

“I said, if you are grateful for your time with Amelia, stand up, and give a shout,” he demands.

Movement follows all around me and praises to the Rainbringer. I find myself standing as well as Dream. Perhaps everyone in the room is standing and offering a word of praise.

“Now, this is a celebration of life, and life we will celebrate. So I said, if you are grateful for your time with Amelia, give me a shout!” he screams, then we scream.

It’s infectious. An organ player who did a couple of songs in the beginning but has remained useless since plays an upbeat tune. Everyone in the room shouts as the atmosphere surrenders to his will.

“Thank you, thank you. Now, have a seat.” He motions for us to sit.

We obey.

“This is a difficult time for all of us. A lot of us feel forgotten at this moment and confused about why the Rainbringer would allow Amelia to die. Allow me, if you will, to remind you of our faith and to keep our hope. Let me tell you how the Rain came and why we can have joy, even in a moment like this.”