One village in a dusty world,

A Foreste right outside it.

This tale centers around a boy,

Living at the bridge of life and death.

Like his father ’afore him, he buried the dead

Like his father before him, he was a thief.

Young Grave Robert was the name he wore

Young as he was not yet old

Grave since his time in the Forests

Robert after his father’s father.

Long before he was brought to the world

The King was slain and the High Priest reigned

In his father’s youth

The priest exacted a vow,

The father’s life in exchange for his first son.

The child was born, the father resisted,

And his life was spared at the expense of his wife’s.

But the tragedy of death had yet to strike

When the child was taken by a different foe.

Whene’er a stranger touched the shadow of Foreste,

They were never seen again.

When the mother was in the village,

The father was digging a grave,

The child ran too close and was taken in.

There the fauns taught him,

After the elves took him in.

The faeries accepted him, just.

The goblins taught him to fight well.

Eleven years Young Grave Robert lived in the Foreste.

In eleven years his mother was buried

By his father the grave digger and thief.

In eleven years the other children began to court

Grown much older and nigh on married.

In eleven years, he learned how to tread lightly,

How to talk to the birds and the deer,

How to see what could not be seen,

How to know what could not be known.

He learned the ways of the Foreste

And was raised in the ways of the elves.

Slowly he grew into a man,

Began to itch to return to home.

After a year of imploring, the faeries released him

To run home to his time-worn father,

The first person to return from the Foreste.

Apprenticed to his father for a handful of years,

Soon he was digging the grave for his father.

None from the village offered to help

They continued to send their dead

And he buried the bodies along with his grief.

The taverner’s daughter,

Lucille the Lilly,

Visited him one day.

She asked of him a favour,

To settle a deal betwixt their mothers.

He agreed to the favour,

Not knowing what ’twould be.

Her hand in marriage it was,

An arrangement made when they were

Old enough, just, to run.

A handful of years after the visit,

They had lived together

In the hut by the dead,

A child was born to them, a son.

The High Priest paid a visit,

Declaring that the family’s debt had not been paid

Lucille the Lilly took Felix, their son,

To the water’s edge to bathe,

Leaving Grave Robert to do business.

Though they negotiated fiercely,

Grave Robert took a raw deal.

Five years off of his life,

For the debt that needed to be paid.

Grave Robert went to the

Stream by the Foreste

And saw, as his father may have seen,

His son dashing off, touching a shadow,

Disappearing as a magician’s coin.

Grave Robert ran to his wife who cried.

He steadied her and turned

To stalk into the Foreste after his son.

His wife stopped him.

He did a quarter turn to answer her queries

On what had been agreed.

He told her, she gasped, he ran.

As he entered the shadows, a whoosh sounded.

He ducked, in time, to avoid the arrow

That would otherwise have pierced his skull.

A twig behind him snapped,

He turned, fists raised to fight.

The goblin he now faced grinned with malice

And lowered his weapons with a nod.

Another twig broke and Steffan, the faun, arrived.

He informed Grave Robert that,

To save his son grief upon his death,

Felix was to remain in the Foreste for eleven years.

For within that time Grave Robert would be dead.

With this sorrowful news Grave Robert returned

To Lucille his wife to relay it.

He hugged her as she wept,

As they wondered when he’d be gone.

Grave Robert reflected,

For the next several days,

Of his time in the Foreste

And of the lessons he there learnt.

Kennith the Elven King had been his teacher

But only in the most direct of ways.

Though the dark-browed King taught him to shoot,

The goblins taught him when.

The King taught him what not to eat,

The other elves tested his skills.

The third most powerful being taught him what a party was,

The fauns let him experience many.

With a jolt Grave Robert found

That he only ever lived so long by chance,

A small amount of brainwork,

And the aid of the Foreste friends.

For Young Grave Robert,

’Twould have taken only one stray bite,

One missed step,

And Grave Robert and his kin,

Would ne’er have been.

With this in mind Grave Robert went to bathe

And in the stream saw a reflection not his own.

King Kennith, come to pay a visit,

Had humbled himself down

From his Forested throne

To discuss Grave Robert’s eventual end.

An arrangement was met,

The good King left,

Grave Robert went to the town

Intending to relay words to Roy

The blacksmith and his uncle,

Father of a bastard son,

The man who could help him.

Roy, upon espying who had come knocking

Hung up his tools with a grin.

Together they sat with an ale betwixt them.

Grave Robert made an offer

To teach the bastard son to dig graves

If he of smoldering eyes could teach Felix to smith

Upon his eventual return from the Foreste.

When asked why he could not teach his own son

Grave Robert confessed there was a simple reason:

He would be dead.

A pact they made,

The bastard son would be sent away

To learn to bury the dead and steal their gold.

Prologue

Cynim 26th 638: Neiyaume, Avencelle

The wind whistled through the cracked window. A fire crackled in the stone hearth, only half as bright as the full moon high in the sky illuminating the snow-covered pines below. A body lied beneath the falling flakes, the man’s limbs bent at unnatural angles. He had started to freeze. Winter was unforgiving.

Esme sipped her coffee as she peered into the flames. She settled deeper into her chair, a low groan escaping her. Age had overcome her once sharp mind and lithe grace. What a pity she required others to act on her will. Yet, she’d endure her state if only to use the granddaughter who had grown more similar to the cold snow than her family as she neared adolescence.

The door creaked open before closing hastily. Blanche’s breaths were uneven. She didn’t move from the doorway at first. The little girl beside her hadn’t moved, either. “Mother. We have arrived.”

“You took long enough,” Esme said. She didn’t turn to face her daughter. “Bring the child to me.”

Blanche didn’t answer, but she approached the second chair and sat down, her daughter on her lap. The little girl stared at Esme who couldn’t help but shudder. “Don’t let her stare at me like that. Her eyes are winter itself, I swear.”

The girl gazed down at her white robe, unperturbed. Blanche shifted in her seat. Her form wasn’t as small as it had been just a year ago before they had moved to the palace, although she was still thin. No, after the marriage, Blanche had been allowing herself to indulge in the palace’s luxuries. Esme sneered in disgust.

Blanche flinched and wrapped her arms around her daughter tightly. The girl didn’t resist the touch but didn’t acknowledge her mother. Most children would have relished in the affection. “Well? Why did you request her presence?”

Esme glowered at her daughter. There was hardly a resemblance between them. Blanche, true to her name, had blonde waves that swept down to her back, a stark contrast to Esme’s short raven black. Her doe eyes were bitter blue, giving her the appearance of a child where Esme’s eyes remained as dark and hard as coals. Her figure was delicate and fragile, so unlike their family’s broad frame. Not for the first time, Esme regretted her decision to marry Blanche’s father, if only for the sake of preserving her family’s sharp visage that eluded Blanche’s round face. Sometimes, Esme wondered if Blanche was her daughter at all.

Blanche’s daughter recovered some of the Amboise features that escaped Blanche. Her hair was the same ashen color, but it was not as long as her mother’s. She retained only part of her mother’s daintiness. Most notably, her eyes were dark silver and cruel, bearing a remarkable abundance of wisdom for a child of merely eight years. The child unnerved Esme to no end.

“Did you need me, Grandmother?” The little girl’s cool voice cut through Esme’s thoughts. “I would be honored to help.”

Esme snorted, “You are truly winter’s child.” She turned to Blanche. “We must discuss her future.”

Blanche shifted to better hold her daughter. “Her future? Mother, she lives in the palace, a relative to the royal line, as we do. Her future is more secure than most could ever hope.”

“Alas, you have always been so narrow-minded.” Esme rose from her seat and slowly walked to the window. The moon lit the night beautifully. “You know of our troubles with the neighboring kingdom of Sirnai, yes?”

Blanche nodded. “The country still denies free trade between our two kingdoms along with passage through their borders, and they execute any missionaries they encounter.” She snarled, “Savages, the lot of them.”

Esme huffed in agreement before beginning again. “We also received troubling reports from our ally, Rikel. They have attempted to cheat us on numerous occasions to date.”

The younger noble furrowed her brow. “Even so, how does this concern my child?”

A single icicle carved to be comparatively sharp as a dagger dropped on the figure below, puncturing where his heart would be. An effigy of a stab wound, but convincing. Esme smiled to herself. “The royal family, the Colettes. They have been in power for at least a century, no?” She chuckled, “A golden age of peace, or that is what the bards sing. A period where we allowed the rest of the world to grow complacent and sordid.”

The chair almost fell over from Blanche’s sudden movements. She stood in opposition to Esme, her daughter having slid off her lap and moved to stand beside her. “Mother, what you’re implying is treason!”

Esme scowled at her. “The Colettes have permitted us to dwindle, wasting away in the dark of winter. They refuse to take action. The nobles have amassed wealth, pitting power against power, expending our resources on meaningless luxuries. My husband spent more time with the ladies of the court than his responsibilities.” Her excitement drove her on. “The Amboise family has led this kingdom through countless calamities, the majority caused by its own monarch. The time to act is imminent.”

“But her. What role does she play in this?”

The older woman sighed. “Yes, the child. She is essential to restoring Avencelle to its early grandeur. However,” she paused, “she shows no traces of sorcery. This presents a problem.”

The child did not move, instead keeping her eyes steady as she watched Esme. Blanche was less discreet, her voice trembling. “There are two researchers east of here who study magic. Maybe they could help her.”

“Excellent. See to it.”

“Mother, why is she important to you now? You have never shown any interest in her before this.”

Esme gazed down at the granddaughter she loathed with a hollow show of faith. “I intend to make the Amboise family royalty, with her as the first of her line.”

Blanche’s hand clapped over her mouth. She eyed her daughter carefully. “Her? Surely you don’t mean that.”

“The first step is to wed you to Duke Folant of Estra, in Sirnai. There, you must prepare her in secrecy while gaining the favor of the king. This will be the difficult part, as Sirnains despise foreigners. We will have to craft a viable identity for you to avoid complications.”

A shiver passed through Blanche. She collapsed into her chair. “I don’t understand. How quickly is this to happen? Why was I not told of this sooner?” Her eyes widened. “What about Claudien?”

Esme gave a loud snicker, “Oh, he won’t mind. I doubt he’ll ever even know.”

Blanche shook her head defiantly. “I will not go against Claudien, especially not to overthrow his own blood-”

Her voice shriveled as Esme turned her gaze on her. Taking deliberate strides, she stopped in front of her daughter. With a tender look, she placed an icy hand on one cheek. Blanche stared back at her mortified.

Then, the frost began to spread. Tears came to Blanche’s eyes, but she did not look away. The cold crawled across her skin, biting into her flesh. The girl watched from her place on the floor with an empty expression.

Esme retracted her touch, bringing her freezing agony with her. Blanche let out a gasp and clawed at her face, falling to the floor. Esme dipped her head in disappointment. “If you continue doing that, you are bound to leave scars. No real damage has been done. Be grateful.”

Blanche tried to nod, but it hurt to move. She settled for a faint “yes” and took her seat once more.

Esme looked at her in disgust. “I have given so much for you, have spent my entire life striving for you and your heir’s success, and you repay me like this?” Blanche gazed at the floor in silence.

Esme looked to her granddaughter. She hadn’t reacted to her mother’s pain. She leaned down. “Do you want to make your grandmother proud?”

The girl simply stared back at her. Silver eyes had already decided. “I think I have no choice, Grandmother.”

“Smart girl.” Esme gathered the child on her lap as she sat down. How strange that the girl never smiled. Esme whispered, “Do you want to be remembered?”

“Most do.”

Esme contemplated her vague reply. She accepted it with a terse nod. “Then we must begin preparations. Tomorrow morning, I will look out my window and see a man, presumably stabbed. I will make a fuss over your safety, and you and your mama will leave without suspicion and go to the border. An associate of mine will escort you to your new home.” She smiled, but her contempt bled through the display. “And, your new papa.”

The little girl nodded in obedience. “Of course, Grandmother.”

Esme pursed her lips. “I have faith you won’t disappoint me, Anya.”

Anya slipped off her grandmother’s lap and returned to her chamber. Blanche followed her, a lost puppy following its master.

Esme stared into her coffee. The face looking back at her was beginning to crease. Her own end didn’t worry her as it had only a few years before. No, she wasn’t afraid of death. How could she be when she had a successor like Anya Amboise? A little girl with a heart of ice and the will of her grandmother.

A laugh echoed through the room. Soon, it would all be over. The Colette family would end in steel and ice, as it should have long before. Finally, Esme could see a bright future for her kingdom.

A happy ending at last.

@ demcmurphy

#fiction #fantasy #slavetofrost #sciv #shortfiction #quickread #winter

An Outerlords Chronicle story

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Project Notes. Notes and interviews will be taken via voice recorder for future editing. All raw information will be turned in along with the finished project for grading. Any breaks in the recording will be done only upon request by the interviewee or at the conclusion of each night.

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Start date 2/16/2012. Recorded interviews will be with local pub owner Don Schuter. The recordings are to be edited and used for my senior journalism project. Don was suggested to me by an acquaintance. He is supposed to have quite the story to tell.

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Personal note, dated 4/2/2012. Don has been reluctant to talk about his past, and several nights have been spent recording conversations and buying cheap booze. The recordings taken on these nights were useless and, subsequently, will not be included in the final draft. Though Don has never expressed any wish to keep what he tells me private, he has been very good at avoiding my questions. I think he’s done this before.

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Personal note, dated 4/3/2012. I didn’t come home last night. Don finally told me his story. I guess I was persistent enough. All I asked him was, “Can you tell me your story?” Holy shit did he tell me a story. I don’t even know what to think. What if he’s telling the truth? God, I hope he’s lying.

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Personal note, dated 4/14/2012. It’s true…all of it… This will be my last notation regarding my interview with Don Schuter. I dropped out of school yesterday. My professors don’t understand, how could they? They’re just like I was, ignorant. They aren’t ready for it, they might never be. I’ve attached the recording of that night’s interview. It hasn’t been edited. If you want to know the truth, this is a good place to start. If you choose to go down this path, be ready for it. Be more careful than I was.

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It’s the morning of Monday, April second 2012, and tonight I will be interviewing the owner of the Schuting Gallery, a local pub that lies just off North 6th street right next to the on ramp to interstate 515. It’s located on a small turn around that had once been used for nothing but bad parking until Don purchased a piece of the lot from the city to build his pub on. The pub is everything you would expect to find in any city in the Midwest, but seems out of place in Vegas. Beer signs and local band posters cover the faded paint on the walls and an old jukebox fills the small place with tunes from most of those same bands. The place looks and feels faded, except for the old oak bar, which Don keeps clean, clear, and polished to shine in the dim lights of the room.

When you enter the Schuting Gallery, you’ll probably see Don behind the bar most nights in the low hanging haze of not-just cigarette smoke. He’s a good looking guy. A white male in his mid-thirty’s, Don is a bit rough around the edges. His blond hair and beard are kept short, which makes him look military, and the way he keeps his patrons in line shows that it’s likely true. The place is filled most nights with locals, and the ones that frequent the Schuting Gallery are the ones that keep tourists away.

Don Schuter has lived in Las Vegas since 2003. From what I’ve been able to learn from other sources, he’s single and has no kids. Maybe I can confirm that with him tonight. He doesn’t talk about himself much, mostly he talks to regulars about their days or is filling drinks. It’s been difficult to get a chance to sit with Don for any length of time. When we do, he often needs to get up to grab a drink for someone. I’ve noticed that he’s also good at distracting me with questions about myself before I can even begin to ask him anything. Tonight is a Monday though, so maybe it will be slow enough to get some good answers out of him.

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Today I am with Don Schuter in his pub the Schuting Gallery, and he has graciously closed his pub for the night to allow me to interview him un-interrupted.

So Don, can you tell me your story?

Sure kid, no problem. I wasn’t expecting much for business tonight anyway. Do you want a drink or anything? I’m gonna grab one if you don’t mind.

Yeah, Bud light if you have it.

I asked if you wanted a drink kid. If you wanted water you could have just said so.

***

I’ll get one thing straight right away, you don’t know me. You might think you do by how I look or how I talk, but trust me kid when I tell you, you don’t know shit.

My father gave me three things before he left. A first, middle and last name. I kept two of them. The IRS and DMV know what my middle name is, but I’m not going to tell you. Let’s just say the old man had an asshole’s sense of humor when I was born.

I’m originally from Wisconsin of all places, Milwaukee to be precise, and I spent the better part of nineteen years learning how to survive against the worst that place has to offer. Crime, poverty, bad driving, and worse housing. I’d seen it all and came out the other end just fine. I even loved someone once. Until that changed too.

Now, you probably heard some rumor going around about some of the crazy shit I say when I’m drunk, and wanted to find out about it yourself. Well kid, today’s the day that I’m actually going to tell you, and we’ll see how lucky you feel afterward.

I’ll give it to you straight, you don’t know what the world is really like either. Oh, you probably think you do. You have it all figured out. You, maybe, watched ol’ Billy Nye as a kid and graduated High School so now everything makes sense.

The world has order to it. As a kid you were taught that your greatest goal in life would be fulfilled when you found that order. You have experts and “proof,” graphs of all shapes and sizes, which answer every question you’ve ever been taught to ask. If your experts say something isn’t true, well, who are you to question them…right?

Well here’s what I know. Your experts may be smart, hell, I know they’re smarter than I am. They know a lot about this world, but they haven’t got a clue about what’s really going on.

I’ll ask you this, it’s the best test I know of to gauge if you’ve got a clue as to what I’m talking about.

Have you ever heard of the Outers?

No.

I didn’t think so.

Let’s try this instead. Have you heard of vampires? Werewolves? Dragons? The Bogeyman? Of course you have, everyone has one way or another. So in a way, you know a little bit about the Outers, just not what I’m going to tell you about them.

To understand my story, you’ll need to try accepting that all of this supernatural stuff; ancient monsters, local legends, a lot of the old gods, even some fictional story characters, all have their origins as Outers.

Hey kid, I know what it sounds like, hell, I’ve been right where you are once. Even rolled my eyes just like you are now, but remember…you found me, you asked to hear this. Let me finish my story and then we’ll see what you think. Ok?

I’m getting ahead of myself though. You wanted my story. That was your question at the start of this whole thing. So, I’ll tell you some of the highlights. I’ll be completely honest with you and I’m not going to try and sugar coat it, my life’s fucked up, but there were some good parts too.

My mom and I moved to Sherman Park when in 1985 when I was about six years old. It sounds nice, but the name lies to you. It’s not a good part of Milwaukee, and as one of the few white kids in the area, I had to learn fast how to avoid getting beat up, or worse.

If you walk anywhere in the area the first thing you’re going to notice is that every house is built to be its own privately-owned fortress. Barred windows and doors keep anything larger than a squirrel from trying to get in. Constantly drawn drapes prevent others from looking to see if you have anything worth stealing. I’ve even seen places with thick wood or metal shutters built in to help keep stray bullets from flying through the windows at night.

My house was just like that. It was a tiny two-bedroom stucco place my Mom was able to afford by working three jobs. The security door and windows looked awkward on the poor little place. Like a skinny teenager wearing a tux for the first time. Acceptable, but a little pathetic. The previous owners had decided that painting it bright green was the best way to make it stand out in the neighborhood, and they were right about that. Even after the paint had faded to an oily puke color, it was hard to miss.

We were sandwiched between two monolithic old Victorians who’d watched their prime die before their metaphorical eyes. One was vacant, and would have made a wonderful place to explore as a kid if it wasn’t regularly used as a flophouse for people to sleep off their latest fix. The other housed an elderly black couple who had bought it back when Sherman Park was going to be something special. Their last name was Anderson or Jefferson…something like that. They were good people to have as neighbors, and they and my Mom got along well enough.

Our place didn’t have what people think of as a yard. The city had bought the back half of the lot before it was ours and used it to house a cluster of city dumpsters for the surrounding neighborhood. I can remember as a child thinking that nothing could be as awful as being woken up at 5:30 A.M. by the city garbage truck slamming empty dumpsters back into their concrete corral. I’ve since learned that isn’t true, there are worse things…just not many.

The lack of yard space didn’t affect me much growing up though, because we lived pretty close to the park that the neighborhood was named after.

The price of the house, and the green space of Sherman Park were the main reasons why my Mom had chosen that house when she bought it. The park itself is gorgeous, or at least it was when I lived there. A baseball diamond and basketball courts provided outlets for the kids of the area, and plenty of groomed grass and tall old trees provided relief from the hottest of summer days.

At night, however, the park transformed into something different. Something cold and terrifying. I learned early on that as soon as the streetlights started to come on, it was time to get home. Nobody had cell phones back in those days, so I’m sure I worried my Mom sick when I came home later than planned.

I had few friends growing up. As the scrawny white kid in the neighborhood, most of the others in the area wanted nothing to do with me, and several had worse ideas in mind for me than that. There were a couple of kids, however, that I became very close with.

Aisha and Dreyvon King were twins my age. We’d met at the park when we were around seven or eight. I don’t remember it exactly, but my Mom told me that I first met the twins when another kid had tried to steal my favorite action figure. She’d heard me start yelling and rushed over to see what was happening. By the time she got there, Aisha was helping me stand and handing me back my toy while Dreyvon, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, stood between me and the boy who’d knocked me down. The other boy ran off when my Mom got there, and the twins told her what happened. After that, the three of us were nearly inseparable.

The twins were fraternal I later found out when I could understand the word, and they lived in an apartment building a few blocks from my house. It was a three-bedroom apartment in a building that had seen a lot of better days come and go, and was prepared to see more of the same treatment. The Kings did what they could though to keep their kids as comfortable as possible.

Their parent’s names were Warren and Suni, and they insisted that I never call them Mr. or Mrs. anything. They were in their mid-thirties, around my age now come to think of it, and they had one of those relationships that you could mortar walls with.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people as in love with each other as Warren and Suni.

Warren worked for the city, doing road construction. He was a huge man, just a few inches shy of seven feet and his job kept layers of hard-earned muscle on his frame. Suni on the other hand was just a bitty little thing, but when she walked into a room, people turned their eyes toward her rather than her husband. She worked part time at one of the local bank branches, and part time giving haircuts to people in the area. They were both well-known and respected, Warren often coached kid’s basketball at the park, while Suni was very active in the community.

The respect the Kings had earned in the neighborhood was extended to the twins as they got older. As one of their closest friends, I also enjoyed a measure of that incidental respect, and it helped see me through some particularly rough experiences. Being a friend of the Kings was almost as good as walking around with a bulletproof vest on.

I can remember a time when I was about fifteen or so, when a group of guys followed the three of us back to the twin’s apartment after a long day at the park. It was later than usual for us to be getting home. Aisha had been talking to an older boy that she liked, while Dre and I shot some more hoops.

Dre was the first to notice something was wrong, and I watched him take on a dark, hard look in his eyes I didn’t recognize. A moment later, I too noticed what he was reacting to. Dre had had seen what we had all missed, that the street lights had come on without us noticing and the lengthening shadows had begun to make the park feel sinister.

We’d quickly gathered up Dre’s ball, and our remaining full cans of Coke, and hurried over to where Aisha was still talking to that boy. As I said he was an older kid, maybe seventeen or so and his attention was completely on Aisha so he hadn’t noticed Dre and I approaching until Dre was grabbing her hand and telling her it was time to leave.

Now, you couldn’t really blame the guy for being distracted and not noticing our approach. Aisha was a very pretty girl for her age. She was tall, obviously taking after her father, but luckily that was where her resemblance to him ended. She took after her mother the most which, even then, included an incredible combination of enticing curves, full lips quick with a smile, dark walnut skin, and a bright personality that could drive clouds away.

Aisha started to protest when Dre grabbed her, but had stopped mid-way through her first word when she noticed how dark it had gotten. She then said goodbye to the boy and gave him a quick kiss, which left Dre and I staring blankly for a moment, before gathering her things.

As we left the park that night, we were immediately aware that we had picked up some un-wanted attention. Four figures had started following us the moment we left the older boy and his friends behind.

Dre set a quicker than normal pace that evening. Even so, just before we reached the twin’s apartment the four figures caught up to us. They stopped us on a section of sidewalk where the streetlights didn’t touch. Warren had been sending letters in, requesting that the city repair the lights, but as usual nothing had been done about it.

They were older than us, most likely in their early twenties, and they made sure to surround us as soon as they could. I’ll never forget what happened, and what they said to us that night.

The first one to talk was the largest of the group, which isn’t that surprising in situations like those. Even though they all had years on us, the speaker still wasn’t as tall as Dre was. Dre had hit a major growth spurt when we were thirteen or fourteen and he was nearly as tall as his Dad. His height tended to make him look gawky rather than fierce but in the dim light, and with my nerves on edge, he just looked like he was about to kick someone’s ass.

“Hey kids,” the guy had said trying to sound cool. “Where you going?”

“Home,” was all that Dre said back to him.

“Really,” the guy said with a little chuckle in his voice. “Maybe we’ll walk you there. It’s not really safe on these streets at night.”

“We’re fine,” Dre had said. “We’re almost there and our folks are expecting us.”

“Really?” Another one of the guys asked, a bit too much interest in his voice. “Maybe we could crash there for the night. Like Damian said, these streets ain’t that safe when it’s dark out.”

He must have been the funny one in the group, because they all started laughing at the implications.

“Ha, yeah,” another one had too eagerly chimed in, his voice high and nasally. “I don’t know about you guys,” indicating his group, “but I’m really thirsty too. I’m sure you’ve got something at your place that could help with that, right?”

More laughter came from the group and I remember starting to feel more worried than I ever had when I was with the twins.

“Come on,” Damian, the head asshole, said in a mocking tone. “It’ll be fun.”

He was openly leering at Aisha, who was clearly trying to melt into Dre’s looming shadow, and just as clearly failing at it.

I guess, I don’t really know what possessed me to do what I did. Maybe I was trying to be a smart ass; it wouldn’t have been the first time my actions had gotten me into deeper shit. Maybe I was trying to get their attention off of Aisha who was clearly scared.

I don’t remember much of what I screamed at Damian when I charged him. I assume there were a lot of “fuckers” and “assholes” thrown in for flavor, I was at that age. I do remember though, exactly what I did, clear as day. Almost as if it were burned into my soul when I did it.

I took a quick couple of steps around Dre and swung the bag, with the remaining cans of Coke in it, straight at Damian’s balls. It connected at an awkward angle, but even so, Damian doubled over with a squeal of pain-filled terror. I screamed something like, “Still thirsty Bitch,” my voice likely breaking at that moment due to the tension and my age, and swung the bag again hitting him in the ribs with a meaty thud.

I remember feeling overwhelmed with elation and pride at what I had done. I’d done it…me. I’d kicked that guy’s ass. Saved my friends, and myself. I’d even come up with an awesome one-liner on the spot. Hell, the neighborhood would be talking about this for weeks, months even. I’d finally be cool shit at my school. Nobody would fuck with me anymore. Maybe, somebody would want to make a movie about it one day. Yeah, then I’d be famous, and rich, and everyone would ask me to take care of things, like Warren.

All of that flashed through my thoughts, as I stood triumphant over the monster I’d just stopped.

I turned back to look at Dre, the plastic bag leaking with the wet contents of the burst cans of Coke inside, and my smiling face met the fist of the guy I had thought of as the funny one. My legs turned to jelly when he hit me and I fell sideways with the blow onto the bag of sodas I had been holding, pinning it beneath me and feeling the contents dig painfully into my ribs, warm liquid beginning to soak slowly into my shirt.

I’d barely gotten my eyes focused when a shoe, approximately the size of Texas, slammed into me just below my rib cage. The kick blasted the air from my lungs, and I suddenly felt like one of those astronauts in the movies that try to breathe when their tanks run empty. Then there was the pain, oh God the pain. My guts felt like someone filled me with liquid fire. I probably threw up; you usually do after a hit like that.

Damian and I made an interesting matched set on the sidewalk, I suppose. Both of us curled up into a ball, whimpering and trying not to move, afraid the slightest twitch would make everything get worse.

Of the two of us though, Damian was the luckier one. He was left alone to manage his agony. Me, well, I got to entertain his funny friend who kept kicking me while I was down and gasping for air. It seemed like anywhere his foot could reach was fair game, my stomach, my back, face, arms. He even kicked me in the ass, and the whole time he kept laughing and asking me if I liked it.

I didn’t like it. Not even a little.

That is, until I looked up at him in time to watch a basketball, thrown by Dre, slam into the side of the funny guy’s head as he drew his foot back for another kick. His head snapped viciously to the side and I saw the guy’s eyes lose focus as he too dropped to the ground in a senseless heap.

Later, we would talk about how lucky that throw had been. If he’d missed, a lot of things about that night might have ended differently. As it happens though he didn’t miss, and I remember thinking the strangest thing at the time. I could see Dre, still extended from his throw, standing between the other two guys, who hadn’t moved, and Aisha.

He had a look on his face that I suddenly remembered seeing when I was eight and he’d fought off the other boy. It was an intense expression, a mixture of rage and fear, guilt and acceptance. It was the look I’ve since then seen on soldier’s faces when they gunned down civilians strapped with bombs that were charging their unit. The look a loving father has when he spanks his child for the first time, or that good doctor’s get when they realize it’s better off for their patient to die. That look of doing something they hate, out of love.

I remember looking at his young face, his brown eyes wide, his lips slightly parted. I could see his body trembling, and he was breathing the night air in gulps. Our gazes locked, and an intense feeling of intimate connection rose within me as I thought about how good he looked in that moment.

My mind did a quick stutter step…Wait. What? Then everything began to happen again too quickly to continue down that train of thought.

Nobody had watched the basketball after it had hit the funny guy in the head. It had sailed off, and landed in the street, bouncing several times. A car that had been driving down the street towards us suddenly slammed on its breaks to avoid hitting the bouncing ball. The squeal of tires on asphalt was deafening as it split the night air.

At the same time, Damian began to get to his feet, finally getting over the shot I’d given him. His eyes still held a measure of pain as he gingerly crawled to his hands and knees. When he finally got to his feet, he looked down at me and I could see murder in his eyes. My muddled thoughts latched onto that particular scene with strange fascination. I’d seen hatred before in the eyes of others as they looked at me, that wasn’t new, but I’d never seen anything like this. It was pure, undiluted, murderous intent, and it was directed towards me.

As Damian reached behind his back toward his belt line, I heard a car door open and a deep voice suddenly filled my heart with hope.

“Dre, Aisha! You were supposed to be home an hour ago. Where have you been?” The voice of Warren King yelling at his children was like sweet music to my ears.

I heard Damian curse under his breath and he stopped reaching for whatever it had been. Instead, he carefully stooped down to grab his funny friend from the ground as the guy’s eyes finally came back into focus. He gestured for the others to help him, and as they lifted the guy to his feet I heard Damian whisper to the others.

“Shit! That’s Warren King. Fuck, I didn’t know these were his kids. Let’s get out of here.” The group quickly took off down an ally and vanished into the shadows of the evening.

Still lying on my side, I watched Aisha dash over to her Dad and wrap her arms around him. I could see that she was crying, great wracking sobs of too many emotions all at once, into his chest as he looked a bit puzzled at what was going on.

Dre hurried over to me and knelt down to offer me his hand up. I remember that I wanted to tell him what a nice throw it had been; I wanted to act cool in front of him instead of lying on the ground. I even opened my mouth to say just that while he grabbed my outstretched hand and pulled me to my feet.

The pain of being hauled to my feet left me feeling dizzy and out of focus, however, and the compliment turned into a wheeze of pain. My stomach and side hurt so badly that I couldn’t stand up straight and remained hunched forward a bit. I looked up at Dre’s face after I got my breath and abruptly stopped what I was about to say for the second time, when I saw his face.

In the space of a heartbeat, I watched emotions fly across his face starting with happiness, a touch of confusion that then made a beeline for fear. I remember watching his lips move as if he were speaking to me, but I couldn’t seem to hear him. Everything seemed to be fuzzy and I couldn’t focus.

I don’t remember how I got back onto the ground, but I do remember looking up as Warren’s huge frame gathered in close to my aching side. Dre’s face was right next to mine and he looked like he was talking again.

His mouth looked interesting when he did that. I remember that his eyes looked really big, and brown, and worried, and they were focused on me. Aisha’s face hovered behind his, and she had her hand pressed to her mouth, a look of horror on her face. I couldn’t pay attention to her though, her brother was just so close to me.

The next thing I knew; Warren was carrying me to his car while Aisha held the door open. Dre got in the other side of the back seat and reached out to help guide me into the car. I was really cold for some reason, and Warren’s huge arms were warm and steady.

Then I remember feeling like I was moving really fast. I opened my eyes to see Dre looking down at me, I must have had my head in his lap from the angle. He was saying my name and he had one hand on my forehead and the other arm wrapped around my shoulders, steadying me.

Then I was being lifted out of the car again by Warren. He held me close against the bare skin of his stomach and chest, and I noticed that his shirt was tied around my midsection. It felt so warm there. Like I was at home, in my bed, with the blankets pulled up close to my chin. I closed my eyes and tried to wriggle a bit deeper into that feeling of warmth.

Imogen stood in the middle of the ruins of an old castle by the name of Castell Dinas Brân clutching the emerald and silver pendant of two snakes coiled around each other dangling from her neck and a trunk in the other. (The author knows that this isn’t the best first sentence, or first paragraph, for that matter, but it gets better, trust me.)

There was the sound of a branch snapping, causing Imogen to turn. She saw a genderly ambiguous person with tan brown skin in a tailcoat and trousers wearing a red cape. Ey walked over with a bone parasol, swinging it around like it’s nothing. The gold chain of a pocket watch dangled out of eir pockets. Ey stared into Imogen’s soul with storm grey blue eyes, and if Imogen had looked close enough, she would have seen eir true form as a skeleton.

Ey strolled straight up to her and stopped right next to her. Ey stared at her for a second and then turned eir attention to the place where the portal was supposed to appear.

Imogen narrowed her eyes at em for a moment. Then she turned back around, cleared her throat, and raised her wand to the air. Closing her eyes, Imogen focused on reciting the incantation to call the planes and cause them to warp together. “Magic is love./Magic is life./Open to me, O Witching World, to grant me knowledge for a life full of strife.” (The witch who wrote the incantation and carved the door to enter the world was bitter about her all-powerful knowledge and blamed magic for her depression. To her, ignorance would have been bliss and she was trying to save people from turning into her. In a sense, she was right. Most drama seemed to stem from people fooling around with magic, more specifically magic potions.)

As soon as she had spoken the words, ancient, black, ornate double doors with the number 9 3/4 and brass lion head door knockers emerged out of the ground, causing the ground to ripple like water. Around the frame of the door, it read “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate,” which meant “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” (Told you this witch was bitter.)

With a sigh, she stepped forward and put her hand up to one of the knockers. Suddenly, the lions came to life and roared at her, trying to scare her away. She hit the heads on the nose with the end of her broom, causing their mighty roars to turn into pained whimpers, and grasped the brass handle of one of the lions. Bringing it down three times, the doors opened and revealed bright light that she was blindly supposed to walk into.

As soon as the door was opened, the person brushed straight past Imogen, bumping her shoulder against Imogen’s, and stepped through, disappearing into the light. (It may be worth noting that one can only enter through the door if they were a witch or they had magic.)

Imogen looked straight up at the narrator. “I’m not going in there. I’m not naive like all other chosen ones. I know that as soon as I walk in there, the author is going to make me get run over by a carriage. No, thanks.”

(Doesn’t really matter to me whether you go in or not, but it matters to the gods. Also, it matters to the writer. So, if you’d please...)

“Fine. I will. As long as the author doesn’t try to run me over with a carriage.”

(Tch. Fine. I don’t care. I don’t write this shit. Ahem.) Imogen stepped through the door and a new world unfurled before her. She strolled through the cobblestone streets and stared at the buildings that had been constructed in the medieval style with white walls and wooden supports as well as thatched roofs. There was a hustle and bustle to the town with carriages passing her by, but the place wasn’t crowded by any means. A sweet aroma of freshly baked bread as well as the fragrance of marzipan beer, the witching world was famous for it, hung in the air.

Sighing again, Imogen pulled her acceptance letter from Medusa Gorgon’s Academy for Young Witches out of her pocket and read it over once more. It said that she would need a copy of Inconceivable Monsters Who Live in Dungeons and You Should Try to Avoid by Gecko Slizard...and a bunch of other books that the author doesn’t care to mention, and that Imogen just skipped right over. It also said she would need a wand and the first thing she saw was the sign for “Wilde’s Wand Shoppe.”

When she stepped inside, the smell of dusty magic and the warmth of the fire crackling filled her senses. The shop looked rather small and quaint from the outside, but it had a lot of personality. The shelves were packed with boxes upon boxes upon boxes of wands, all different shades, the colours of the rainbow to be precise. There were tall sliding ladders in a few different places. Though it might have seemed chaotic to some people, it was an organised chaos and that spoke wonders to the shopkeeper’s, Mr. Wilde’s, character.

Before she could even ring the bell on the desk, there came a feminine voice from the back of the shop that said, “Oh, dear!” After a few moments, a man with face make-up and a white wig pulled back into a ponytail with a black bow emerged from the back on a sliding ladder. “I am so sorry, darling! I always seem to be losing track of time!” He leapt off the ladder with stag leap and stuck a perfect landing. He grabbed the monocle hanging around his neck and put it up to his left eye, scrutinising her for a moment.

Then a broad but genuine smile filled his face. “Aren’t you just adorable, darling?”

Imogen rolled her eyes. “Don’t call me adorable,” she said with a slight curl of her lip.

For a moment, the shopkeeper just stood there and narrowed his eyes at Imogen. Then it was gone in a flash and he had returned to his naturally gay (and in this case, the word can be taken either way) self. “I know the perfect wand for you!” With that, he vanished into the stacks and, in seconds, returned with a pristine white and gold bordered box in hand.

Opening it and pulling back the thin cloth, she revealed a black elder wand with a dark twisted handle. (This is the ‘elder wand.’ Wonder what that says about Imogen.)

The shopkeeper leaned forward over the counter. “That was made specifically with you in mind and was carved from the elder tree, Elder Spruce. It even wept when we cruelly harvested its bark to make this wand. That’s good luck. Cherish it.”

“Thanks,” Imogen grumbled as if it were an obligation to say. The wand was interesting, the rarest of its kind, but it was what she had been expecting so she wasn’t surprised.

From the back of the shop came another man’s voice, “Oscar darling...”

Oscar giggled. “Drop sixty-nine quazar on the counter when you leave. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do believe I am being summoned.” He stepped onto the sliding ladder and disappeared into the back.

With a scoff, Imogen scooped up the wand in its box and left the shop without paying (if you read the prologue and knew what I know, you could easily puzzle out why this character does what she does. But without needing any previous knowledge, all I can tell you is that this character is not the usual lawful good protagonist). She pulled the list out of her pocket again and checked it over before entering the building with the sign that read “Wit Beyond Measure.” (You’re not going to get it unless you are familiar with how the word “wit” was used by Shakespeare.)

As soon as she had stepped inside, a raven flew at her face. Imogen raised her wand about to cast a spell on it.

“Huginn,” a strong, confident female voice rang out in the silence of the shop. “Stop terrorising the customers.”

Begrudgingly, the raven returned to its mistress’s shoulder, but not before it cawed in Imogen’s face. There was another raven on the woman’s other shoulder that was glaring daggers at Imogen. The woman had a striking beauty about her with quiet confidence. Her piercing, ice-cold, sapphire blue eyes (man, that’s brooding YA hero level type of description) were on the book in front of her, but had they been aimed at someone, they would freeze someone to the spot. A silver crown set with a sapphire in the centre was placed on top of her regal, wavy black hair. She wore an elegant black dress with a simple black cloak. It had the symbol of Elder Spruce in brass clasping it in place.

“My name is Odwina Ravensbeak,” she said without looking up from her book. “These two troublemakers are Huginn and Muninn. Let me know if you need help finding anything.”

Imogen nodded as if she were listening, but her attention was already on the shop. It was a quaint, little bookstore with two floors of books. The lower floor was directly under the second floor, making it appear like a cute reading loft. She ran her fingers over the spines of the beautiful, ornate, one-of-a-kind, leather books, and her fingers rested on the leather-bound copy of SHUNKspeare plays. After looking it over for a moment and arguing with the narrator for a bit, she pulled the book off the shelf, walked up to the second floor, and grabbed the books she would need for school, without really taking the time to check their prices and conditions.

Imogen slammed the stack of books on the counter, causing Odwina to glance up from her book and stare at her with slight inquisitiveness in her eyes.

Then, with a sigh, she marked her place, taking the time to get it as perfect and pristine as possible, and rung Imogen up. “That’ll be 250 quazar,” she said.

“Are you kidding me?” Imogen asked exasperated, to which Odwina just shook her head. “Why are textbooks so fucking expensive?”

Odwina shrugged. “No one knows. It’s as mysterious as the dark side of the moon.”

Imogen crossed her arms. “Yeah, well, there’s no way I’m paying that. I can just conjure my books for free.”

Shaking her head, Odwina clucked her tongue. She held up the copy of SHUNKspeare’s comedies. “But can you conjure this up?” Imogen paused and Odwina smiled mischievously.

Finally, after a moment that felt like forever, which the narrator swore she did it just to agitate them, she dropped the coins on the counter, grabbed the brown bag of books and left the shop. When she stepped out of the shop, a dark brown skinned, frizzy-haired witch with an eccentric, mischievous glint in her brown eyes was standing outside the shop waiting for her. She wore a red jacket with the crest of the school on it and a black ruffle skirt. She wore short black high-heeled boots with a bit of lift in the toe. With her wand in hand and her arms crossed in front of her chest, she looked like she meant business.

When she saw Imogen, she looked her over. “You’re the chosen one?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “But you don’t meet any of the qualifications.”

Imogen crossed her arms. “Oh,” she replied. “And what exactly are those?” (It appears the author has created two sassy, overly confident lesbians for this story. I may have spoiled something about the plot, but I’m a goddess. There’s no way she can get rid of me. It’s a part of the author’s pact with me.)

“Usually the chosen one is a boy...”

“That’s because of the stupid patriarchy. I’m defying my gender role, giving the book the uniqueness it needs to stand out.”

“Chosen ones are usually incompetent in their abilities when the novel starts...”

“So, I did a little bit of studying up on my stuff. Can you really blame me? Girls have to work twice as hard to prove themselves.”

“Though, it appears that you have overly confident down, so I guess you’re not completely a lost cause for chosen one.”

“Thank you. I take that as a compliment.”

The woman sighed. “Come on.” Then she started to walk away without even bothering to check if Imogen was following her. Imogen rolled her eyes and thought about how stupid it was that they had sent someone to escort her when she could have just gotten to the school on her own, but she followed the woman anyways.

They made their way through the town the author still has yet to name and into the No-No Woods. As soon as they were in the woods, the sun fell away, and the shadows grew longer. The branches reached towards her like hands. An owl hooted, even though it was only midday. She could hear a witch cackling and a sweet melodious voice drifting on the breeze. She also caught a glimpse of a red cloak through the trees. (The author is really trying to drill this image of the woods being dangerous and menacing, isn’t she?)

When they were out of the woods and away from danger, (See? What did I tell you?) they stood in front of a two-story stone building (fitting considering who the headmistress was) with Romanesque features such as turrets. A few students flew in on broomsticks and found their groups. A few were casting spells, turning their fellow students into animals. Familiars followed their masters and mistresses into the building.

Imogen glared up at the narrator. “Why couldn’t I have flown in on a broomstick?” she demanded.

(Do you know the spell to cast for operating a broomstick?)

She shrugged. “Maybe not, but the readers don’t need to know that.”

(Operating a broomstick is enchantment magic. You’re not an enchantment witch.)

She curled her lip. “Nothing saying that I can’t try.”

(No, but it is strongly discouraged. You can’t account for anything if you break the rules of magic. The author would probably have to roll on the Wild Magic table. Now, where was I? Ah, yes.) Erica turned to Imogen and gave her a piece of parchment folded into thirds with a red wax seal with the crest of the school on it. “Read this. And go see Headmistress Gorgon. Good luck.” Then, without another word, she disappeared amongst the students and into the school.

With a sigh, Imogen gently broke the seal in the letter and opened it. It read...well, the author decided that you didn’t need to read the letter word-for-word. Instead, she decided to give a summary of what was contÁined into Medusa Gorgon’s Academy, which she already knew, and that she had been assigned to room 208 with Áine Brackenbridge as her roommate. It also had her schedule at the bottom of the page. Lastly, the letter contÁined vague information on how to find Medusa’s office.

Shaking her head, she placed the letter in her pocket and headed into the school. As she walked, she passed hundreds upon hundreds of doors. (So many doors and only ten of them were actual classrooms. I’ll bet the rest of the doors went to other fantasy worlds. Or to the Underdark.)

She also ascended several flights of stairs. Each flight had their own personality. She rode on a few staircases that tried to make her dizzy, but she wasn’t taking their shit, so she cast an obedience curse on them to make them stop. There were a few timid staircases that they had to use very specific incantations for. There were a few dramatic staircases that any obeyed their passenger if they sang a very specific Broadway show tune all the way through. They were the most frustrating because one also had to find the exact key the specific staircase preferred. One missed note meant one would have to start to over again.

When Imogen got to the top of the stairs, she turned to yell at the narrator again. “What the fuck?” she demanded. “Do you make every student go through this?”

(Not every student, but you wanted a challenge and that’s exactly what I’ve given you. Maybe next time you’ll think about talking back to me.)

“Maybe, but probably not. Scratch that, definitely not. I won’t stop fighting you until I develop as a character and that won’t happen until I meet my love interest.”

(Well, you’re in luck cause that’s coming up soon.)

“Wait. What?”

As she was standing outside, Headmistress Gorgon’s office about to knock a red-haired fairy came flying at her from inside the office. (Yes, it’s a cliché. It’s supposed to be. Fun fact: this clichéd meeting was in the original drafts as well.)

The fairy bounced back after running into Imogen. “Whoa,” she said. She offered a hand to help Imogen up. “I’m sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

Imogen looked at the red-haired fairy girl and stared into the girl’s emerald green gaze that was obviously supposed to be mesmerising and that just made her angry. Her short stature, silver wings, and freckles were supposed to make her more attractive to Imogen, but it just aggravated her even more. She hated how the author seemed to know her well enough to play matchmaker for her.

She shook her head and dismissed the fairy, standing up and brushing herself off. “Nope,” she said.

The fairy blinked. “Excuse me?”

“No. I just can’t do it. I’m out.”

With that, she opened the door and walked in without knocking. She was in such a rush that she blew straight past Vice Headmistress Marjorie Lewis, who was at her desk engrossed in her spell drive working on her latest fanfiction. When Imogen strode into the office, she caught Headmistress Gorgon off-guard, causing her to look up in surprise with black snakes rearing up and hissing.

I stand with my legs apart, bending over a square grey structure with a button in the center. I am in a jungle, in an abandoned place that seems to be a control room of some sort; the walls have boards and ancient computers that dangle by their dead wires with cracked screens that miraculously still sustain life - a few sprigs of shamrock are nestled in one bunch inside, with various types of ivy creeping all around the room. How ironic, I think, that Death and Destruction give way to Life. The room is an open box-like structure with no ceiling and three walls, littered with stacked papers layered with dust, wires oozing from computers and their screens, and blueprints that seem to have designs for various machinery - or weaponry, I can’t tell - but they have been torn to shreds, either by enemies or the wildlife lurking around in this dense jungle. My eyes rest on a stained rectangular piece of cloth with faded colours as well as a blotched hue of carmine - I don’t recognize it completely, but vaguely link it to a history lecture back in high school. It appeals to me: it is a circle with a vertical line running down the middle, and two arms leaking downwards like an upside-down ‘Y’.

The button, however, is the reddest thing I have ever seen; it is as red as the glowing Netflix screen I had been snoring in front of less than twelve hours ago, as red as the glistering ‘F’ scribbled on my math test that was handed back to me last week, as red as the stuffed Elmo that I was clutching as I lay sobbing on the floor not so long ago. My hand is frozen exactly three inches above it, casting a shadow on the ‘Do Not Push’ written in bold black letters and increasing my temptation every minute to do exactly what it tells me not to.

I want to push the button so badly. It beckons to me; my temptation piles up like lava in a volcano. But I cannot. Not without thinking about its consequences first. I had always been told that actions have consequences. But this is an action I have been waiting for my whole life. An opportunity to fix what humanity has done wrong. Sure, it may take away the very thing that makes us human - the soul, the spirit of our humanity, but I think it is worth it.

A familiar-looking young man runs into the room. He is panting hard, but he sees me frozen in front of the button and rams into me. I stumble back awkwardly, his hands wrapped around my arm and preventing me from giving into my temptation. I jerk free of his grasp and look him square in the eye. I carefully observe the intention in his eyes, heartlessly at first, but then see a terrified young boy and feel my heart drooping through my rib cage like a setting sun. “I’m sorry,” I say to him. “But it has to be done. There’s no other way.”

His eyes are desperate. “Yes, there is. Don’t do this. Please, Pandora,” he begs. I snort. He is too immature; too naive to understand that I’m doing this for him. For our families. For this forsaken world. His thoughts and ideas were always about things like ‘peace’, love’ and ‘unity’ between people. He always had a thing for humanity.

But he won’t understand. Humanity must evolve. Into what? A peacekeeping society that has no judgement and discrimination. A kind of brotherhood with only one goal to achieve: perfection. And I have that chance three inches below my hand. I can take away mankind’s biggest flaw, and make them perfect. Like they were supposed to be.

Cerulean pearls form at the bases of his eyelashes. He is shuddering, glasses dancing off of the edge of his thin, crooked nose. So fragile. But there is no place in this sanguinary world for fragile idealist teenage boys. I hear the President’s words echoing over and over in my head: Better to rid ourselves of flaws and then achieve the Ultimate Objective, President Prometheus had said.

“Pandora.. Dora, listen to me. This isn’t you. Don’t let the President influence you.”

“Your perfect illusion corrupts the possibility of change, and thereby holds humanity back from becoming what they were meant to be,” I hiss, repeating the President’s words.

Enough debating. I bring my hand down - but then his slender fingers wrap around my wrist and twist it away from the button. He twists my arm again, and pulls me into an unwanted embrace. I see his lips moving; he is saying something but my ears ring and I suddenly feel dizzy. An electric jolt of pain streams through my body like..like..a cool stream dividing into further cyan rivulets, like a viridian-coloured vein on an emerald leaf in the summer...I frown. Where did these thoughts come from? I am the most cynical person in the world, constantly trying to look for perfection and criticizing whatever is not up to those expectations. How did I find the very thing I seek in these impossibly euphoric thoughts?

I blink, then focus on my surroundings. He is still standing there, his eyes flashing murderously, imitating the glare of a clean, polished dagger. His mouth twists, contorting his features into an unrecognizable face as he glances down. Following his gaze, I realize his fingers are gripping an ivory handle. It is beautiful - until I realize that it is dotted with delicate drops that mirror the shade of sangria. It smells metallic. I limply realize where the pain is coming from. I look up at him. My senses are fading, but I can make out his words. Spoken softly, like a lullaby.

“I’m sorry, Pandora,” he says.

Once there was a little spoilt girl trapped inside the will of a crone.

She had always been spoilt and had never learnt to overcome the urge to rage at the injustices and ills of being young and not mature.

She railed at the injustice of no power, for children are always expected to be seen and not heard.

In time she aged in body but not in mind. Spoilt as her spirit was, she grew stunted and gnarled. She lost the innocent shell of youth and became disfigured, all the while raging and ranting at the woes of development and the slowness of ripening.

Years flowed, and the spoilt girl flowered as a thorn. She was taken by a man and begat two children for him. She soured him with her childish tantrums and spoilt ways. He ran off to the foreign legion never to return.

Of course this riled the petulance of the girl crone and the more she twisted herself with anger and curses of injustice.

Alone with two children and a raging anger she found herself unfit for work and useless to the beauties of life around her. She took to the street begging for small coins and scraps of whatever was on offer. She learnt to live and grew more dark in spirit and thought.

Her two children when of an age conspired to run away for a cloud of gloom followed their mother and this was effecting them. They fled under the cover of darkness one bleak eve.

Bitter and spoilt was the girl trapped in a crone.

She learnt not to smile nor weep nor groan but to beg and be glad that this talent, as she saw it, had not fled her as her children and husband. Her pains became her refuge and her ills her blanket.

Time waltzed and nothing changed for the girl trapped in a crone. Then one noon upon a busy market a messiah was passing and unto the girl trapped in a crone he extended his grace for he was keen to her plight.

Gnarled and twisted she was with scars of pain and tragedy. The messiah revealed a miracle unto her and released the girl trapped within the crone.

There was a joyous cry from the throng of people around the miracle. They cheered and wept in happiness for all had seen the hideousness of the crone disappear.

Yet amongst the joy there was a wail. A wail so pitiful and spoilt that all were silenced by its sorrow. They turned to see the spoilt young thing screeching in spite. “This is not what I want This is not what I prayed for; I prayed for vengeance on my husband and wretchedness for my miserable children that abandoned me.

Why have you done this to me you do-gooder why have you taken away my only means of getting money and scraps? How can I beg now? They will laugh and tell me to go away and grow up.”

All were stunned at the ungratefulness of the girl crone. Yet none could answer her question, not even the messiah, for he saw then the folly of his deed.

There is no place for light when shutters bar the day; and no day can pass where noon does not shine. So is the way of nature.

Noah Kennedy: the most flawless boy you will ever see. His perfect hair falls right into place while his perfect eyes glisten in the sun. Everything about him was perfect. He would never like a guy like me- an outcast, a loner, and a rabbit-obsessed reject. When he talks to me, which is a rare occasion, I can never get a full sentence out because I end up stuttering every word. He probably thinks I’m a weirdo.

~

I remember the day I had a real conversation with him like it was yesterday. Well, it was yesterday. I woke up to the sound of birds singing and the sun shining through my window. I had a feeling it was going to be a good day but I wasn’t quite sure why. I got out of bed and went downstairs to make myself a nice bowl of cereal, corn flakes to be exact. As I was chowing down, I saw that it was a beautiful day so I decided to go to the park. Once I finished eating, I went back upstairs, grabbed my guitar, and headed for the park.

“Bye Mom! I’m going to the park!” I yelled to my mom as I walked out the door. The park was only a few blocks from my house so it wasn’t a long walk. When I arrived, I saw him. What was Noah doing at the park on a Saturday morning? He always goes down to the piers on Saturdays. I got nervous so I went to the farthest part of the park from him, making sure I could still see him. I sat down and started strumming my favorite song when I saw him walking towards me. Oh no, I could feel the butterflies forming as he got closer and closer.

“Hey, Sean. How are you doing today?” he said as he sat down next to me.

“I-I’m okay. How are you, Noah?” I replied as I looked away from his gorgeous eyes.

“I’m okay, I guess. I was going to go down to the docks today but I decided to switch it up.”

“Oh, t-that’s cool. How are you liking this switch-up?”

“It’s pretty cool! The park is a nice change of pace.”

“Yeah, I like the park a lot.” I was so confused as to why he was talking to me because he usually never talks to me.

“So, do you come to the park a lot?” Noah asked as I looked down at the ground.

“I try to come at least once a week, just to get out of the house.”

“Yeah, that’s why I go to the docks every Saturday,” Noah explained with a twinkling smile. I tried not to stare for too long.

“Well, my mom is probably starting to worry about me so I should head home,” I announced as I started to get up.

“Oh, okay. Before you leave, do you think I could get your number?”

“Oh, um... sure!” I replied as he handed me his phone. I put my number in his phone and handed it back to him as I said “Goodbye” and started walking back to my house.

This is the beginning of something I’m writing. I’m most concerned about the dialogue because I’m not very good at making dialogue natural and engaging so please tell me what you think!

(Also, the terms Reds and Blues are just substitutes until I decide on what to actually call them)

“Hold it Raven! You’re not going hunting alone are you?”

I freeze at the edge of the village. I was about ten steps from disappearing into the shadows of the trees before Jacob spotted me.

Sooo close. I groan and wearily rest my forehead against the trunk of a nearby pine. My pack weighs heavily on my shoulders, reminding me of the various knives I brought along, ready to strap to my legs and arms once I could make it out of sight of people. I even hid my bow and quiver of arrows a half a league away several days ago so I could escape without anyone suspecting I was going hunting.

And now Jacob has ruined it. He jogs up to me, grinning, with a gleam in his eye that I’ve come to dislike. Although he is what I might call a friend—my only friend at that—he just doesn’t know a thing about reading moods and expressions.

Like now, for example. I glare at him and mentally scream, Leave me the hell alone!

And he keeps smiling.

“I’ve been wanting to go hunting all month.” Jacob stretches his arms over his head and straightens his shoulders, emphasizing the fact that he’s about a foot taller than me. “But every time a group leaves they don’t have room. Everyone’s already divided into teams of five, and we’re not supposed to have six so I’m stuck here.”

“Sounds rough.” I say through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been waiting forever for a chance. Can I go with you?” Jacob puts a hand on my shoulder and I glance up at his excited and hopeful face.

His golden blonde hair is cut short in preparation for the warmer season, although I warned him that winter would last longer this year. I’ve let mine grown out, taking advantage of how the long black strands keep my neck warm when I leave the shelter of the tents and cabins.

Jacob’s eyes are just as contrasting to mine as his hair. His eyes are dark and mine are light, almost silver. And while Jacob is tall and heavily built, I’m short and scrawny. Yet the town still insists on treating us like brothers because Jacob’s family took me in when my parents were killed by Blues five months ago.

I hate the Blues, and I hate pretending I have a new family. Jacob is barely my friend, much less my brother. We are nothing alike.

When I don’t answer Jacob’s question he says, “You’re not really supposed to go alone, you know. It’s against the rules.” There it is. He’s warned me about the ‘no hunting alone’ rule. If I leave then I’ll have no excuse to make to the Master when I get back about “forgetting” and all that. Damn you, Jacob.

“Oh yeah, I forgot.” I say halfheartedly. “Do you have gear ready? If we’re leaving then it’ll have to be soon. We need to cover a few leagues before dark.”

I’d rather be stabbed with a dull knife than spend a hunting trip alone with Jacob, but being confined to the village is worse than both those options. I need to get out of here now. Away from the cramped tents and rough log cabins. Away from the people that insist on pretending they’re happy and content. Who could be content to do nothing with the situation the Reds are in?

We’re living in the depths of the forest, a hundred leagues from the nearest town. We just made it through the coldest winter of the last several decades, and lost half the young children to the chill fever. We barely have enough food, even with two hunting teams out at all times. And hardly five months ago, one of the other Red villages was attacked and annihilated.

My parents died while making a trip to Undre, a village about ten leagues from our home town, Helmlock. There they were slaughtered and buried with the several hundred other Reds who lived in the village. Over four hundred of us, just murdered. And rumor is that another Red settlement close to Gothing City was attacked as well a few weeks ago.

Yet everyone in Helmlock is pretending that everything is fine. Who needs the comfortable life of a Blue anyway? Without hardship, need, or fear of death? Who needs to trouble themselves with taking revenge?

I finger the iron pendant around my neck that bears the Red symbol, easily finding which one it is, despite the fact that I wear about fifteen trinkets on different cords. I’ve had this one the longest though, and I know the feel of its thick leather tie the best.

Jacob nods eagerly. “I’ve had gear ready for the last week. I’ll be right back.” He flashes one last smile and takes off through the paper-thin layer of snow. Even though we’re both fourteen, I sometimes think Jacob is closer to eleven. That’s just the way he is.

While I wait, I take out my knives, methodically strapping them to each limb. There’s no need to keep them hidden now that Jacob is tagging along.

Four knives for the outside of my thighs, one twelve-inch and one eight-inch on each side. One for each calf, both slim and seven-inches long. Two four-inch knives go in my boots, and two more eight-inch blades are strapped to my forearms, under the dark-silver fur jacket I wear.

The twelve-inch knives are not only my longest, but the most expensive as well. They aren’t really made for hunting, but for fighting against humans. I bring them with me every time I go out with a hunting team, though. The two blades came from my father, and I’ve wondered why he had them. Did he expect a war with the Blues? But if he did then why did he leave them here when he went to the other Red village, knowing it was much closer to Blue territory than we are?

It’s a pointless question, I guess. Father isn’t here to answer it, and the two elegant, greysteel blades belong to me now.

I bought the rest of my knife collection myself, much to the chagrin and skepticism of my new “parents”. I’ve already proved myself with the blades though, and now most people just smile when they see me decked out in greysteel before each hunt.

My fingers twitch with anticipation. Now that I’m wearing my gear, the only thing missing is my bow and quiver. My hands nervously reach for them, missing their weight against my back. Where is Jacob?

I’m just about to turn and leave alone, damn the Master and his rules, when Jacob rounds the corner of the last cabin in the clearing.

There are about six hundred of us in Helmlock, but the clearing is large enough to fit shelters for a thousand. That’s how many people there used to be when our Red group came here a century ago. Our population was expected to grow, but in the harsh environment and through the cold of many winters, our numbers lessened, and have been plummeting rapidly for the last few years.

Damn Blues and your perfect lives. I grumble to myself.

“Let’s go, I’m falling asleep here.” I call to Jacob, and take off into the comforting forest without another word.

Caleb Batista is an Intelligence officer in 2059 on an operation in Philadelphia chasing insurgents. Caleb Batista is the great inteligence officer of the 2040 who coordianted the fall of Cuba and the helped kill Castro after faking his death for decades. After a car accident, Caleb was never the same officer but he now has a hunch on a group of insurgents which has been give the green light to follow.

In the cusp of 2060, the world has advanced in technology and science and Caleb is part of the North American Intelligence trying to keep global peace. His six month planned operation in Philadelphia goes bad during when a bomb explodes at his meeting site. He survives the explosion and wakes up in what he thinks is an insurgent camp.

The camp is in another world, where his enemies celebrate his arrival. He meets men and women with unique powers and a world beyond his. These men and women provide insight into his world and tell him what he is fighting for is a lie. These people know more about him. He is told he is not a prisioner but a casualty.

After he spends one day in this world he returns back to his home in New York City six months later. He is given in intelligence from the other world that contradicts his mission by the men and women of the other world. He is also heading to stop his funeral. A day in the other world is six months in his as his Agency has declared him dead.

Caleb is in search of the truth and the more he meets these men and women with special powers in his world, the more skeptical he becomes of the world he is protecting. He is given a special power which reveals itself on his return and he begins a quest for answers to questions he has never asked. Both of his worlds are on a collision course.

The hallways were silent but for the muffled thumps of lime green converse padding over the cracked and dented tile floor. Motionless if you ignored the body creeping forward, skin sheathed in ripped jeans and a black Guns and Roses t-shirt. Ordinary, if you didn’t happen to look too high up at the black and blue shimmering hair, cascading over a lonely head. A broken head.

Home to a broken mind.

Doors creaked open as the figure ghosted into the room at the end of the dark corridor. Light streamed through the bullet holes that puckered the walls. The evidence of a recent bombardment was shown in the gaping crater that sat hungrily right outside the single shattered window.

It was a perfect place to hide.

Residual fallout would cover any heat signatures, and bar the hellborn place from any search parties.

They thought she was alive.

She knew they were right.

That was why they wanted her.

NO!

A fist to the wall. Knees to the floor. Tears to the scarred cheeks.

This is not real.

Yes, it is.

It is not my fault.

Yes. It is. You were the one who ran. You ran and you hid and now they hunt you.

This is…

Red haze.

Power comes from anger. Anger comes from not enough power. Self-pity can not save me.

...

It’s gone now.

The girl pushed herself to her feet, then swayed with sudden dizziness.

Not again.

It had been twelve days since her last drink. Liquid was scarce to come by in the dust-ridden plains, and it wasn’t much of a priority since most of the council were halfmen. They didn’t care.

She would have to find something soon.

The girl wanted to feel a little more… at home with the place she had claimed as her own for a while. So she unzipped her pack and drew out a small sleeping bag, a scanner, and a small photograph. She laid out the bag, activated the scanner, then gazed fondly at the photograph for a few minutes before zipping it back up in the pack. She needed to be ready to pick up and move everything at a moment’s notice if needed. The sleeping bag and the scanner were expendable.

The snapshot was not.

As she rearranged some concrete slabs to create a more comfortable nook to stuff herself and her sleeping bag into, she thought about the snatches of memories she had retained over the years. She took each precious thought out of an ancient filing cabinet in her mind, turning them over and over as she studied every detail of her past. She, once again, found nothing more than she had the first time she studied them. The first time they had studied them.

But she still tried. She couldn’t give up. Not yet.

Turning them over and over again in her head, she snuggled down into the sleeping bag, and drifted off to the roaring silence of the wasteland around her.

⇌⇞⇋

Suddenly, she was jolted awake as a boom echoed out over the barren landscape. The small scanner in her pack began to vibrate and buzz, and as she yanked it out, a red warning was blinking over its cracked plastic facial screen. WARNING

The ancient type splayed across the screen threateningly.

TYPE SIXTEEN|oU BOMBER APPROACHING

They found me.

She banged on the small bot relentlessly, trying to get it to display directional coordinates. The banging resulted in no more than a coded gobbledygook running over the display. Finally, it choked out a single line of legible text.

NORTHEAST

She swore as the device sputtered and died, then tossed it into her pack. She did the same with the already-dusty sleeping bag. She poked her head out the broken window, and just caught a glimpse of the tail of a plane as it circled lower and lower over the school. She cursed again, then continued stuffing odds and ends into her pack.

Once her few possessions were loaded up, she barreled down the broken hallway, no longer bothering with stealth. The bomber was circling overhead as she burst through the school’s double doors.

If I can make it to the metro station, I can catch my breath. The steel-plated maglev tunnels would provide a short refuge for the night, if she could manage to stand the electrical charges that shimmered through the damp air long enough to fall asleep.

She suddenly glanced back up just in time to see the bomber that had been circling the school change its course. It was now racing toward her. She swore as she pulled her pack closer around her shoulders and increased her pace, legs blurring as they raced over the packed, ash-covered terrain.

She could see the metro station in the distance, could already feel the electricity humming through the air as she dragged it into her lungs. But her racing had already become a running, the blur that was her feet slowing til she felt that every step was dragging in the dust, no quicker than the last.

There’s no time.

The bomber was already catching up- she could hear its engines sucking in air just as determinedly as her lungs were, each breath painful and ragged. Yet the engines were coming closer, closing the distance her feeble lungs were killing themselves to widen.

No.

No.

NO!

They wouldn’t kill her yet. They wanted her alive, to fix themselves. She had a purpose to them.

For now.

Then they would kill her. Kill her dead.

The bomber was overhead. The sound of its engines now were the only thing she could hear. Ringing in her ears, a constant drone of death. The bomb bay was opening, and she wondered if she was important enough to be captured physically, or if they would be so crude as to simply revert to a net. Out it came, and…

Huh. So I really am worth something.

Out dropped small black packages, and, as soon as gray parachutes had engaged, the small black squares unfolded, each into a regular-sized halfman.

More like three-fourths men.

Their bodies metallic, with only the half the face remaining as flesh.

I think. Hard to tell with those dumb helmets.

The metal men were dropping through the air like a stone into water, and, by the time the first one had landed, they were already pumping artificial legs, metallic lungs not even flinching as they drew in air nearly as fast as the jet engines had.

The girl growled in frustration,, then poked at a small screen strapped to her wrist. The display lit up reluctantly, and she prodded it for a few seconds.

If only there was water.

She huffed, and touched a small icon on the holoscreen. Her converse instantly became a blur once more, and the halfmen were bewildered as she zoomed away, leaving them to choke on the dust she had kicked up in her escape.

But, a few seconds later, her screen began to blink rapidly and flash a warning.

HEART RATE REACHING MAXIMUM SPEED

Her legs trembled, and sweat was running down her back.

PLEASE STOP OR YOU WILL BE SHUT DOWN

She growled again, but did not slow her pace.

WARNING

WARNING

YOU HAVE

BEEN

wARnEd

.

She thudded to the ground.

⇌⇞⇋