There was a glass partition that ran through the middle of customs and Smithy was pressed against it, her palms blanching pink. Mike tried to keep his focus on her; not on the guards escorting him, not on the pain that buzzed through his body, and definitely not on the civilians who regarded him with horror or curiousity.
“Contra legem,” one of his keepers remarked to a woman wearing the red robes of a servant, “in mal repuditare; un Diablo.”
“Video,” the servant waved her hand, “Vade permitele. Let him come through.”
Mike staggered through the metal detector, “Thanks.”
“Your type has only been trouble to us since we opened the wall,” the servant frowned at him, “If you want to thank me, get a honest job.”
Mike’s ears burned, and for the moment he was thankful that his red skin hid his anger. As he passed through the gate to Citadel, Smithy nearly flew at him, the flames in her eyes swirling with anxiety, “They’ve taken Anabelle.”
“Took her?”
Smithy was quivering, “We cooperated with them . . . I don’t understand why they took her . . . They said she can’t come back. They’re going to reform her.”
Patience moves faster than haste, at least that’s what the proverb said. For Mike, however, patience had just run out and he was on fire in a very literal sense; flames blossomed from his palms. All the pain in his body vanished as he pivoted back towards the border, his furor materializing with a whoosh into a ball of flames.
There was a hiss and a strange crackling sizzle as a shield of white expanded in front of him. Some of the ice turned to steam, the rest splattering into a pile of mush as it hit the industrial-grade carpeting. Mike’s eyes scanned the other side of the border; the cluster of guards scattered as they ducked to the ground or ran for cover. One man stood out-of-place, his blue ponytail still swaying from his dash forwards, his hands upraised.
“Ice Maker,” Mike had only seen one other person who could make ice; she was from Citadel, and more to the point, she had been cursed. The Ice Maker turned, his fellow guards rising around him. “Run,” Mike called to him, the words barely forming on his lips. The rush of adrenaline was abating, and with it his consciousness pulled back like the tide.
—
“They’ll cut off her horns, make her wear contacts. She’ll still be red, but she’ll look more human and that’s all they care about,” the voice was unfamiliar and heavily accented. Mike tried to open his eyes, but found he couldn’t. “They’ll parade her around as being reformed until she either makes a mistake or realizes the truth,” the voice paused, “You know what I mean by the truth?”
“Uh-uh,” this voice was closer, familiar, it was his wife.
“That the cursed are no better or worse than anyone else; that is the truth that no one can strip away from me. Take my citizenship, take my livelihood, take my friends. Strip me of my pride and humanity. Still, I am worth as much as the ruler of Eden. My hair is just as blue, and my heart loves my country the same.”
Mike forced his eyes open, staggering to a stand. “Woah, Honey,” Smithy grasped his shoulders, “they said you should get up slowly, that the tranquilizer might make you disoriented.”
“Tranquilizer?” he slurred.
“They shot you while you were distracted by me,” the man swam into focus; bronzed skin, blue hair, khaki uniform.
“Are we still prisoners?” Mike felt for the chair he had been sitting in. It scraped along the vinyl floor sideways as he attempted to reclaim it. The man grinned at him from his seat, his elbows resting on his knees in a position that seemed a little too casual for one who was meant to be guarding them.
“I’m not,” Smithy shrugged, “for what it’s worth. But I also didn’t shoot fireballs across the room or infiltrate the government, like Whittaker here.”
Whittaker held out a hand. “Please, call me Whit,” his fingers had the chill of one no longer living. The chilly handshake made it obvious; he was the guard Mike had seen earlier, the one who had protected his fellow guards by making a shield of ice. In spite of his selfless deed, he was now a persona non grata. After all, the cursed were prohibited in Eden.
“We have to get Anabelle back,” Smithy toyed with the necklace around her neck. In her anxiety, she was heating and deforming its delicate chain, “We need to get ahold of Alister. If anyone can help us, it’s him.”
“Alister?” was all he could manage. Last he’d heard Alister had suffered some sort of strange injury and was in a coma. Remastering, that was what his friend Carl had called it. Remastering, like somehow you could rewrite someone’s mind to make them bow to your will. Even if he was healthy, Alister was temperamental. Maybe Smithy thought he could leverage his position as a government appointed priest, or maybe she thought his Edenian servant could be of use. Either way, she had grown up with him, and that had to count for something.
“Contra legem,” one of his keepers remarked to a woman wearing the red robes of a servant, “in mal repuditare; un Diablo.”
“Video,” the servant waved her hand, “Vade permitele. Let him come through.”
Mike staggered through the metal detector, “Thanks.”
“Your type has only been trouble to us since we opened the wall,” the servant frowned at him, “If you want to thank me, get a honest job.”
Mike’s ears burned, and for the moment he was thankful that his red skin hid his anger. As he passed through the gate to Citadel, Smithy nearly flew at him, the flames in her eyes swirling with anxiety, “They’ve taken Anabelle.”
“Took her?”
Smithy was quivering, “We cooperated with them . . . I don’t understand why they took her . . . They said she can’t come back. They’re going to reform her.”
Patience moves faster than haste, at least that’s what the proverb said. For Mike, however, patience had just run out and he was on fire in a very literal sense; flames blossomed from his palms. All the pain in his body vanished as he pivoted back towards the border, his furor materializing with a whoosh into a ball of flames.
There was a hiss and a strange crackling sizzle as a shield of white expanded in front of him. Some of the ice turned to steam, the rest splattering into a pile of mush as it hit the industrial-grade carpeting. Mike’s eyes scanned the other side of the border; the cluster of guards scattered as they ducked to the ground or ran for cover. One man stood out-of-place, his blue ponytail still swaying from his dash forwards, his hands upraised.
“Ice Maker,” Mike had only seen one other person who could make ice; she was from Citadel, and more to the point, she had been cursed. The Ice Maker turned, his fellow guards rising around him. “Run,” Mike called to him, the words barely forming on his lips. The rush of adrenaline was abating, and with it his consciousness pulled back like the tide.
—
“They’ll cut off her horns, make her wear contacts. She’ll still be red, but she’ll look more human and that’s all they care about,” the voice was unfamiliar and heavily accented. Mike tried to open his eyes, but found he couldn’t. “They’ll parade her around as being reformed until she either makes a mistake or realizes the truth,” the voice paused, “You know what I mean by the truth?”
“Uh-uh,” this voice was closer, familiar, it was his wife.
“That the cursed are no better or worse than anyone else; that is the truth that no one can strip away from me. Take my citizenship, take my livelihood, take my friends. Strip me of my pride and humanity. Still, I am worth as much as the ruler of Eden. My hair is just as blue, and my heart loves my country the same.”
Mike forced his eyes open, staggering to a stand. “Woah, Honey,” Smithy grasped his shoulders, “they said you should get up slowly, that the tranquilizer might make you disoriented.”
“Tranquilizer?” he slurred.
“They shot you while you were distracted by me,” the man swam into focus; bronzed skin, blue hair, khaki uniform.
“Are we still prisoners?” Mike felt for the chair he had been sitting in. It scraped along the vinyl floor sideways as he attempted to reclaim it. The man grinned at him from his seat, his elbows resting on his knees in a position that seemed a little too casual for one who was meant to be guarding them.
“I’m not,” Smithy shrugged, “for what it’s worth. But I also didn’t shoot fireballs across the room or infiltrate the government, like Whittaker here.”
Whittaker held out a hand. “Please, call me Whit,” his fingers had the chill of one no longer living. The chilly handshake made it obvious; he was the guard Mike had seen earlier, the one who had protected his fellow guards by making a shield of ice. In spite of his selfless deed, he was now a persona non grata. After all, the cursed were prohibited in Eden.
“We have to get Anabelle back,” Smithy toyed with the necklace around her neck. In her anxiety, she was heating and deforming its delicate chain, “We need to get ahold of Alister. If anyone can help us, it’s him.”
“Alister?” was all he could manage. Last he’d heard Alister had suffered some sort of strange injury and was in a coma. Remastering, that was what his friend Carl had called it. Remastering, like somehow you could rewrite someone’s mind to make them bow to your will. Even if he was healthy, Alister was temperamental. Maybe Smithy thought he could leverage his position as a government appointed priest, or maybe she thought his Edenian servant could be of use. Either way, she had grown up with him, and that had to count for something.
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