I love stretching the bounds of imagination and stretching the limits of my fictional characters by fraying the fabric of imaginary societies until they unravel into nightmarish dystopias. But the job is less satisfying when reality paints the picture for you. I mean, c’mon! Current circumstances are leaving NOTHING to the imagination. [sigh]
But I’m a professional, so I soldier on. Like we all do. The thing is, I’ve read this story too many times to just walk blindly towards its climax. I’ve written this story, and I absolutely don’t want to live it. It’s one thing to be the person pulling the strings of my fictional characters. It’s quite another thing to be one of those characters in the unfolding drama.
For those of you not familiar, this is how the story process goes:
First there has to be an inciting incident that draws our protagonist out of their normal state of existence and compels them to action. As I look around the nation (and world), as a whole, I’d have to say this box has been checked.
Concurrent with the inciting incident there must be a motivation or goal for the protagonist. As a result of the inciting incident, what is our protagonist bound and determined to accomplish? In genre fiction this is almost always something dealing with life/death, love, or enlightenment. The bigger the stakes the better. As I look around the global and national stage, the stakes seem to be pretty honking huge (HEWWWJ).
Next in the process comes the antagonist and the barriers for the protagonist as he/she/they strive to accomplish their goal and/or save the day. These hurdles come hot and heavy. They need to crush the hero nearly to death. The more impossible the circumstances, the more heroic the effort. This stage of the story lasts until moments before the climax. The climax is what will determine the outcome. But our current dystopian nightmare hasn’t reached the climax yet. And to be honest, we are probably still years away from it.
We’re stuck in the punishing, brutal middle of the story. This in and of itself should not be a surprise. For a few of us, we may be nearing our end. But most of us live each day assuming we are somewhere in the middle of our own story. The problem is, we typically assume this personal story to be a romance or a comedy. Perhaps an action thriller. More and more, our collective story is turning into a dystopian tale. And with each passing week, the tale is getting darker.
I know what I would do to my own characters at this point in the story, and it ain’t pretty. I would cause riots, death, loss, and confusion. I would take awake support networks and comfort mechanisms. I would push my heroes to the brink of total collapse. I would stress relationships, breaking them to the point where they look impossible to repair. Those things make for a good story…when they all eventually come back together in a satisfying manner.
I don’t like it when my real life works this way. I have a hard time trusting that a satisfactory ending lurks somewhere over the horizon. When I write the story, it’s easy to feel in control. When it is happening to me, it’s easy to feel powerless. You know what? I’m guessing I’m not the only one who feels this way.
Just remember, all of the greatest heroes of fictional lore felt hopeless and lost at some point in their journey. As a nation, here in the United States of America, I believe we are collectively mired in the brutal middle of our dystopian nightmare. Depending on your perspective we’ve been here for shorter or for longer. It’s up to us to decide how near we are to the climax, and what the outcome of that climax is.
As for recommended reads this week, if you want the crap scared into and then out of you, read Empire by Orson Scott Card. Or you can listen to this dramatic reading of the Declaration of Independence (especially the first 2:30), and ask yourself if we are obligated as a people to rise up once again:
Major Group Promotional Thing With Several Awesome, FREE Dystopian Stories!
Speaking of Dystopian Nightmares! Here are some more of the fictional kind. These help me forget about reality and be grateful that things aren’t worse!
Outburst: Ep.5, Scene 5 — Ep.5, Scene 9
[Click here to start at the beginning.]
The stench inside is so pungent, my first concern is washing it out of my hair. Then I realize the odor isn’t the worst of it. Yetic had been dressed conservatively. Hair I can wash. Eyes are a different matter. Flush with heat and dizzy from fumes, I focus on the section of concrete floor in front of me.
I’m here with Neca. Just stay close to Neca. I repeat the words as a mantra while stepping on Neca’s heels. Why isn’t he moving faster? Time slows. Neca’s normal swagger morphs into a slow-motion saunter. The rippling humidity and sweat seems to soak up all sound. Doesn’t he know everyone is looking? Of course he does. Idiot. I chastise myself and grit my teeth.
It’s almost as if an old, injured alpha wolf has returned from a failed hunt. The pack stops everything to smell the blood and swell with challenge. Each of them is considering the new order after Neca’s demise.
Maybe they’re focused too intently on Neca to notice me. But it’s hopeless. I’m wearing more clothes than the six closest fighters combined. Only Neca comes close in the quantity of covering, and before I can avert my eyes he’s pulling his top over his head. Why is everything so quiet? I struggle to breathe.
Suddenly, Neca slaps his hand on his locker door. The entire room bursts back into motion. The banter and the clacking weights return. The slowed motion speeds up. Finding a stool, I collapse onto it and breathe deeply. I raise my head and dare a peek toward Neca. Having hung his shirt inside the locker, he’s resting his head on his forearm.
“Everything okay?”
He sighs. “Yeah, fine.” Grabbing a sparring uniform, he sits next to me. “Some things I’ll miss. Some not so much.”
Not knowing what else to say, I simply nod as Neca changes. Mercifully, he suits up in the much less revealing uniform fighters use for sparring, rather than the loincloth that appears to be the standard.
Even so, I’m forced to find something else to focus on. Cautiously, I shift my stare from my feet to a set of practice cages. Only one of them is currently in use. Charged with telekinetic energy, it shimmers like the shield dome. The cage floats midway between floor and ceiling while the two fighters locked inside float in the middle of the cage.
The charged nickel and copper mesh ensures that no one outside the cage can interfere, as well as ensuring the fight doesn’t spill out to harm the onlookers. I’ve never understood how. My father had tried to explain it too me using terms like wavelengths and electromagnetic radiation. In the end I had to take his word for it.
The sparring fighters are novice grade. That much is noticeable instantly. Several other fighters watch, and it seems a safe and appropriate place for me to focus my attention.
Floating in the center of the seven-meter cube, they practice their mental deflections. One uses a physical attack while the other employs a telekinetic defense. Then they swap. It’s a basic exercise, and yet I’d probably end up with a bloody nose on my first attempt to block.
I shudder as I think about life in the academy. Combat training starts two months in. How many of these fighters, like Yetic, are planning on registering along side Olin and me? And have already mastered these simple techniques?
I’ve been so worried about getting into the academy, I’ve failed to consider how to get ahead once on the inside. Olin is a natural. He’ll catch up in no time. What about me? In a real life combat situation an enemy will employ telekinetic and physical attacks at the same time. They certainly won’t provide advanced notice or take turns.
Neca slams his locker, jolting me from my thoughts. “I’ve gotta warm up.”
“Okay,” I mutter as I stand. He’s angry, but I’m not sure if it’s because of me or something else. Not wanting to be left alone, I shuffle behind him. Someone whistles nearby, possibly at me. I don’t dare acknowledge. If ever there’s been a poor time and place to pick a fight, this would be it.
Neca stops next to a bizarre structure sprouting from the corner of the large open room. It’s like a cage, but built into the floor and walls. The inside of it bristles with an odd assortment of padded appendages, like an inverted porcupine. Neca pushes through a narrow door and slams it shut after him.
The cage jolts to life with telekinetic energy. Where the energy is coming from, I’ve no idea. Masa would never allow such an illegal drain on the mind pits. I tense as someone sidles up next to me.
“No one owns the gauntlet like Nightmare.”
I glance at the stranger. “The gauntlet?”
He nods toward the cage Neca entered.
As he does so, the gauntlet activates. Instantly, the name makes sense. In a burst of frenzied animation, the appendages within the cage swing and jut and twirl. So many of them move simultaneously I can’t keep up. They invade the interior of the cage with such ferocity, there hardly seems space for Neca to move.
And yet he moves more quickly than the attacking arms. He spins sideways, flips, bends over backward, bursts forward, tucks into a ball. The motions blur into each other. As far as I can tell, he and the device haven’t come into contact with each other. This goes on for an unbelievably long time—probably less than a minute, but the intensity renders it an eternity.
I risk a short glimpse over my shoulder. Once again, all eyes are on Neca. This time there’s no blood lust. Instead, tails go between legs. The old wolf still demands admiration among the pups.
I focus on the gauntlet and wonder when it’s going to stop. How can Neca sustain this? Is he risking further harm to put the pack in its place one final time? Neca’s shape blurs as the speed of his movements intensify.
The cage jerks as it collides with him, but he doesn’t slow. If anything, he speeds up. The cage starts to rattle and bounce. Nervously, I look around the room. Everyone has gone wide-eyed. No one is doing anything to stop it. Somebody has to do something.
I lurch for the door.
Before I can reach it, Neca screams. Exploding into a wall of the gauntlet, he pulses with a blinding white light.
I cover my face and dive backward as the detached wall careens across the room. By the time I scramble to my feet, I see Neca standing in the gap where the gauntlet wall used to be.
Breathing heavy and dripping with sweat, he appears unharmed. And he’s smiling.
“Neca?” I move closer. Something’s not right. His smile is too angry.
He stares past me.
A voice booms from across the room. “Nightmare, what the hell you trying to prove?”
Neca pushes past me. His smile morphs into a snarl. “Just warming up.”
“Well, get in here for your physical before you warm the whole place up. That’s coming out of your winnings, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.”
With the mention of Neca’s physical, I stride after him. I’ve got a purpose now, a reason to be here. And nobody’s going to stop me. I pass Neca on the way toward the open door where the man in charge had poked out his head.
Neca reaches for me, but I dodge his grasp. “Calli, where are you going?”
“I’m going with you.”
“It’s just a physical. It’d be better if you waited—”
“Can it, gauntlet boy.”
He swears under his breath.
Let him swear. It won’t stop me from hearing what the doctor has to say. Who knows, maybe after what I just saw…maybe Neca is strong enough to fight. If not, I won’t let the underground chew him up and spit him out. Not now. Not like this.
I enter the room ahead of Neca. Three men are talking near the far wall. Yetic is on his way out.
He raises a brow when he sees me. “Come to join the winning side?”
I roll my eyes and step aside, ensuring his sweaty body doesn’t brush up against mine. He and Neca pass each other in the doorway without comment.
Neca stops as soon as he enters, his snarl now a frown. “Huemac, since when do you attend fight day physicals?”
I follow his gaze across the room. It’s obvious which one must be Huemac. One of the men is dressed in a doctor’s frock. The one who yelled at Neca moments earlier is wearing a sweat-ringed undershirt. The last man is well dressed in a colorful tilmàtli.
“Since Huehue skipped town, that’s when. Not that it’s any of your business.” Spotting me, the new boss does a double take. “Since when do you bring your,” he points with his chin, “companion to a physical?”
I don’t like the way he stressed the word companion, but at least he refrained from labeling me a yoalzoah—a trespass that would have required me to break his nose.
Neca moves toward a metal table. “Trust me, I didn’t bring her. She goes where she pleases.”
I smile and nod my agreement.
Huemac smirks. “My kind of woman.” He turns on me. “Now get the hell out.”
I narrow my eyes, sizing Huemac up. Physically, he’s much more imposing than Centavo. While the two men appear similar in age, Huemac’s not immortal. He’s a regular guy in his fifties. My parents taught me to respect my elders, but if it comes down to it, I’ll kick this one’s butt.
Neca lifts himself onto the table and rolls his shoulder straps down to his waist. “Save yourself the trouble, and let’s just get on with the physical.”
Huemac shifts his gaze from me to Neca, trying to judge the seriousness on the fighter’s face.
Neca doesn’t blink. “There’s a chance you might physically remove her, but you could kiss that tilmàtli goodbye at the very least. And more than likely we’d have to fish your totoltetls out of your body cavity. You know, after we removed her foot.”
For added effect I curl my lips into a snarl.
“I don’t have time for this.” Huemac throws up his hands. “Doc?”
The doctor snaps his gloves in place as he approaches the table.
Taking a seat near the door, I decide to stare at Huemac the entire time for two reasons. First, it keeps me from seeing parts of the physical examination I’d never be able to erase. Second, it seems to rattle him.
The more straightforward aspects of the exam proceed as expected. The doctor speaks his findings out loud throughout the procedure while the sweaty man, presumably the fight manager, records it all in a book. Muscle tissue is found to be healthy, reflexes normal, eyes and ears normal. Neca turns his head and coughs.
The doctor retreats to his desk. “Physical examination complete, no abnormalities of note.”
Just when I’m beginning to wonder if that’s everything, the doctor opens a large drawer and removes a strange-looking helmet. Returning to the table, he places the helmet on Neca’s head.
For the first time since entering the gym, Neca shifts uncomfortably.
The doctor moves in front of a computer terminal. Punching a few buttons, he continues in a deadpan voice. “Starting psychic exam.”
Neca twitches.
I crane my neck to see over the doctor’s shoulder. The screen is meters away, but I can distinguish a moving readout of spikes and troughs. Somehow they’re using the helmet to monitor Neca’s brain.
“Hmm,” the doctor mumbles while punching buttons.
Having forgotten me, Huemac jumps up and crowds the doctor. “What is it?”
“A second, please.” Irritated, the doctor focuses on the screen. “These readouts are all over the place compared to his last exam.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Huemac’s voice tenses.
“It means,” the doctor cracks his knuckles before typing in another series of commands, “his psychic levels have changed since the last time I performed this examination. Now if you please.”
“Oh, right. Sorry, doc.” Huemac backs off slightly, but continues to block the screen from my sight.
My mind buzzes. What did Huatiani do to Neca? Is the damage permanent? Will the doctor be able to tell how it happened? I stare at the side of Neca’s face and shift on my stool.
He refuses to look at me. Instead, his eyes bore a hole in the wall directly in front of him.
“Right here,” the doctor points at the screen. “This receptor. It’s as if the whole thing has been blown. All the others are compensating.”
“Blown?” Huemac sounds angry rather than concerned. “What do you mean, blown?”
The doctor shrugs and shakes his head. “Overloaded, suppressed, overwhelmed. The exact cause isn’t important. Bottom line, his brain has been damaged.”
“Damaged?” Huemac shifts his gaze from the screen to the fight manager. Slashing his fingers across his throat, Huemac orders the manager to cease transcribing. “Damaged how? In the cage?”
“Most likely,” the doctor faces Neca, “unless the fighter has engaged in extra curricular activities.”
Neca swallows but doesn’t break his stare at the wall.
Huemac waves his hand, dismissing the thought. “It doesn’t matter. What are we talking about here, doc? You said he was compensating. Hell, the kid just blew up the gauntlet. He can still fight, right?”
“Yes, he can still fight.”
Huemac breathes deeply, cracks his neck, and relaxes his shoulders. He winks at Neca. “You had me worried there, kid.” He gives the nod to the manager, who starts scribbling again.
“But,” the doctor interrupts the celebration.
I feel my gut shrivel inside me. Here it comes.
“It could kill him.”
The room falls silent. Beyond the closed door, I hear the rest of the fight day preparations continue as though nothing has happened, as though my heart hasn’t imploded under a suffocating anxiety.
After sufficient dramatic pause, the doctor continues. “If another receptor blows, it could cause a chain reaction, hemorrhaging, loss of brain function. With time the likelihood will decrease, but the injury is still recent. The newly-formed neurological pathways are unstable.” He scrolls his finger across the screen. “Even without blowing another receptor, the underdeveloped pathways will most likely slow his response time.”
The doctor flicks off the computer, approaches Neca, and removes the helmet. “Diagnosis: The fighter is classified at high risk.” The doctor’s voice is deadpan again, as if he knows no one is listening. He watches Neca watch the wall. “Probable decreased psychic response time. Possible psychic overload leading to loss of brain function and eventual death.” He sighs and returns the helmet to its drawer.
I stare at every face in the room, landing back on Neca’s. I understand the words coming out of the doctor’s mouth. I don’t understand the responses—with the exception of Huemac. His response makes perfect sense. Before the doctor had started his official diagnosis, Huemac had yanked the pencil out of the manager’s hand. I understand why he isn’t going to stop this. But why isn’t anyone else?
Zorrah had said the doctor’s report is public record. Once people know, Huemac will have to stop the fight. I jump down from my stool. The slapping of my bare feet echos across the room. “The fight’s off.”
Huemac turns on me. “Listen here, achitzin—”
“If you won’t tell the people, I will.”
“I wanna fight.” Neca lowers himself from the table. He stands between me and Huemac. “It’s my decision.” He grills me with his eyes.
“But—”
He shakes his head, his chin trembling. “You can either choose to spend a pleasant lunch with me on what could be my last day on this earth, or we can say our goodbyes right here, Calli Bluehair.” He extends his hand, waiting for my decision.
I hesitate.
He turns away.
“Wait.”
Neca strides toward the slack-jawed fight manager. Swiping the pencil out of Huemac’s hand, Neca drags the manager’s logbook aside and signs it in an angry flurry. He snaps the pencil in his fingers and tosses it to the ground. “Gentlemen, see you in the arena.” He stops in front of me.
There are so many things I want to say. I swallow. The bottom line is that none of those things include the word, goodbye. “I’m coming with you.”
Neca nods. A smile creeps across his face. “Good, I’m starving.”
Before I leave the room, I shoot Huemac a dirty look behind Neca’s back. I want the new kingpin to know our business isn’t over.
Neca and I don't talk much over the next hour. He insists on paying for lunch. I insist on providing the place for our final meal together. I wonder briefly about Olin, but I’m confident he and Zorrah won’t mind being on their own a while longer. Today will be filled with last moments for all of us.
Neca breaks the silence as we traverse the same stretch of cave from a few days earlier. “You sure you’re not planning on knocking me out again? If this is your plan to keep me from—”
“If you're only going to live another handful of hours, it can't hurt to show you my mother's garden.” In reality, I'm hoping to give Neca a reason to live, at least a little longer. “Besides, if I wanted to knock you out, I would have done it at the dump. It’s full of places to hide a body.”
“You have experience with this?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds. “No, actually, I prefer the mystery.”
“Well, we’ve passed the place where I knocked you out anyway. The garden’s not much further.” Light appears in the distance.
“Thanks for sharing this with me. I know how much it means to you.” Neca speaks in a hushed tone, reverent almost.
“Sorry you had to wait so long to eat.”
“I’m sure it’ll be worth it.”
For the first time I can remember, Neca and I engage in polite small talk. It worries me. Somehow it feels like we’ve given up—like we’re disengaging from each other in advance. If that’s going to be the case, we should have shook arms earlier. I blurt out the first thing I can think to say. “If you happen to survive, maybe you can look in on it every now and then.”
“I’d be honored.”
We stop before the final descent into the broader mouth of the cave that shields half of my mother’s garden from the outside world. In between breaths, I hear water trickling from a few seepy spots. The day hasn’t yet turned to rain, but it will soon.
“It smells wonderful.”
“The honeysuckle is still in bloom.” We slide down the slope and weave our way through the shade garden. Finally we exit the cave and stand blinking in the grey light of midday. The spring bubbles to the surface a few meters away. Tiny waterfalls drain into the canyon all around us. No more than fifty meters of the narrow, snaking canyon are visible in either direction. The resulting effect is like being at the bottom of a funnel.
“It’s perfect.” Neca closes his eyes.
“The cave provides a constant temperature. The spring provides a constant flow of water.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I hold my tongue.
“Right now, this moment is perfect. Thank you.”
I wait several more seconds. Apparently I find perfection more awkward than does Neca. “Should we eat?”
He nods. “Even better.”
After Neca unpacks the food, I realize it rivals the breakfast Olin and I had that morning. Throw in the kiwi, and I’m surprised I’m even hungry. “You really know how to have a last meal.”
He smiles and hands me a slab of jerky. “Why are you so afraid to die?”
I freeze with the jerky between my teeth. Then I tear off a piece and chew to stall my response.
Neca does the same, waiting patiently.
I don’t want this time to degrade into bickering, and that means taking the question seriously. I swallow. “I’ve never told anyone this, even Olin.”
Neca nods.
“Honestly, death feels too much like losing.”
Neca contemplates the answer before following it up with another question. “You hate losing that much?”
“It’s just that—” I start and stop. After breathing deeply, I continue, “I can’t not try my hardest. If I don’t, it’s like I’ll never know what would have happened. You know, if I would have tried harder.”
“But can’t you always try harder?” Neca offers me a fresh tortilla.
I tear off a piece and let it melt in my mouth. He has cut straight to the one question I’ve never been able to put to rest.
“I mean, how do you know you’ve given it your best?”
I shake my head. “You don’t. I don’t. I just keep trying.” We continue eating. The sounds of water animate our surroundings.
A few minutes later, Neca picks up the conversation. “What happens when, after continuously fighting not to, you finally die?”
I find the question uncomfortable. Still, discomfort seems better than numbness. “I don’t know. I guess at least I’ll know I tried.”
“But you will have failed. Doesn’t that make,” he reaches out and takes my hand, “doesn’t that make all of life a failure? I mean, if the only point is not to die?”
I’m out of my depth, and I know it. I’ve spent the final years of my childhood setting priorities and meeting them. I haven’t had time for philosophy. Out of desperation more than anger, I throw up my hands. “I don’t know. What choice do I have? I can’t just give up.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“What are you saying? That I should give up? That I shouldn’t take an opportunity if I have one?”
“I’m sorry, I know this is hard, but it’s important to me,” Neca says.
We both pause to eat. I chew the last of my tortilla, but barely have the appetite left to swallow. As I finish, a raindrop strikes the top of my head.
“Come on.” Neca gathers the remaining meal and helps me up.
We hurry under the protective mouth of the cave. I lead the way to my favorite spot to sit and think—a dusty wallow between the well polished tree roots of a tzapotl tree. There’s barely room for the two of us. I end up on Neca’s lap, my head propped against his chest. Outside the lip of the cave, the rain falls in sheets.
He picks up the conversation from before. “Let me start over. I’ve never shared all this with anyone. I’d like to share it with you, if that’s okay.”
I shift my head. The physical touch relieves my emotional unease. “I would like that. I’m sorry for getting frustrated. I’m not very good at this.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve no one to compare you to.” He pauses. “So I suppose we’re both virgins at this.”
I reach up to slap him for his juvenile innuendo.
He catches my wrist and places my hand on his chest. “Besides, you’ve been a natural at everything else.”
Sitting here in my mother’s garden, curled into this dark-skinned chadzitzin psych-fighter, I’ve never felt more secure. Never have I longed more for a single moment to last forever.
“What if the goal of life isn’t to live forever?” Neca’s words crash into me, shattering my brief calm. “What if death didn’t amount to losing?”
I struggle to adapt to the deeper line of thinking than I’m accustomed. “I suppose the rules would be different.” I feel his pulse accelerate.
“Exactly.” He rests a hand on the back of my head, causing me to draw a halting breath. “This garden reminds me of a place I’ve only read about but hope to see someday.”
“Really?” His mention of the future gives me hope he doesn’t plan to die today.
“I would show you the book, but Centavo took it with him.” A weight enters his voice when he speaks of Centavo. “He showed it to me last year. Since then I’ve read every page three times.”
“What’s it about?” I’m not much for books, but Neca’s excitement is contagious.
“It contains hundreds of stories over thousands of years. The very first one is about a garden and a couple—lovers.” His hand stops at the base of my braid.
I shudder and nudge into him further.
“They were made for each other, a perfect fit in every way. They cared for the garden, and in return the garden provided for their every need.”
“So what went wrong?”
Neca chuckles while stroking my hair. “I’m getting to that. They had a decision to make. The garden protected the two sacred elements of creation. As overseers of the garden, it was the couple’s role to preserve the elements and keep them from converging until the allotted time.”
“Why? What would happen if they did?”
“Together the elements had been used by God to create the universe. But they also had the power to destroy.”
“I don’t get it. If the elements were so powerful, why would the god leave them in human control?”
“That’s the best question of all.” Neca can barely contain himself. “I’m not sure of the answer. This is what I think. I think God wanted the humans to learn. I think he wanted them to become something better than they were, but to do so they had to be given the decision.”
“Okay, I guess.” I don’t understand the story any more than I understand my feelings for Neca, but I want to know more about both. “So what happened?”
“To care for the garden and protect the twin elements the couple had already partaken of one element—the divine herb.”
“What? You’re making this up.”
“No, I swear.” Neca holds up his hands, interrupting his teasing of my hair. “It makes perfect sense. Whatever the divine herb is, God must have buried one of the elements within it.”
I shrug, hoping that the movement will encourage him to return his hand to my head. “Sure, why not?”
“Think of the couple as being half divine. They already possessed long life.”
“So they were immortals?”
“Not exactly. Not yet. But after many years, the day of their decision came.”
“Finally, some action.”
“Yes, well, the world outside the garden had become violent and ugly. The couple decided they could do more good if they combined the elements, so they partook.”
“What was the second element?”
“I don’t know.” Neca returns his hand to the base of my braid. “I don’t understand that part. Whatever it was, it overwhelmed them. They didn’t have the ability to control the elements together. God responded in anger, removing the couple from the garden and concealing its location. But the damage had been done.
“The couple bore children. The evil they had unleashed among humanity intensified and spread the violence. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t stop it.”
“That’s a downer.” My eyes drift shut.
“The best they could do was create a record of their mistake and preserve the truth in hopes that someday their descendants would succeed where they had failed. Late in life, the couple had one daughter who seemed unaffected by the second element. Before their eventual death, they entrusted the truth to her. Then she entrusted it to one of her children, and so on.”
“And that record of truth ended up being—”
“The book on Centavo’s shelf, exactly!” Neca verges on giddy.
“I know all this should mean something to me, but I’m going to need a little more help.”
“Life!” Neca’s voice echos in the recess of the cave. “What if it isn’t just about living as long as possible? What if there’s a larger purpose to our existence? What if we could control the second element? Or bottle it up again?”
I want to experience Neca’s passion. I want to encourage him. But I don’t know how. It’s not part of me. Instead I close my eyes and whisper, “So wouldn’t we still want to live as long as possible?”
“What if death is a lie?”
“But it’s not.” I feel my agitation growing. “People die. Everyone dies. You said so yourself.”
“What if death is just the beginning?”
“That’s ridiculous. Listen to yourself. Death is the end.” The small hope I felt at the beginning of Neca’s story shatters. Not only has he given up on living, but he has deluded himself into thinking there is purpose behind death.
I push away from him and stand. I’ve only moments before tears overwhelm me. “Maybe it’s pure selfishness, but I want to spend the rest of my life, however long it is, with the belief you’re still alive. One stinking day is all I’m asking for, and you can’t even give me that.” Tears bursting forth, I flee toward the dark comfort of the caves and away from the dark-skinned chadzitzin who continues to complicate everything.
Neca tries to catch me. Tries and fails. I’m sure I won’t be lucky enough for him to lose his way completely and miss the fight. None the less, he loses me.
Having traveled the route between the dump and the garden hundreds of times, I level out at a steady jog and let the tears flow. I have no right to demand he not fight. I have no claim on his life. After tomorrow morning, I’ll never see him again.
But of all the horrible luck, and based on the little I know of the matter, I think I love him. At the very least, I owe him. How can I let him kill himself after all he’s done for Olin and me?
I climb out of the sink hole in the dump and increase my jog to a run. With nothing more than an idea, I steer toward the main entrance of the underground. I’ll tell people. I’ll force Huemac’s hand.
My mind and heart are too numb to push the idea any further. All I can think of is Neca’s brain exploding in the cage. On autopilot, I reach the entrance to the underground and realize I need more than an idea. I need a plan. Before I can come up with one, I’m interrupted.
“You sure know how to piss people off.”
I smell the tzapotl bark on Yetic’s breath before I see him.“Yetic, what do you want?”
“To do you a favor, although for the life of me, I can’t figure why.”
“You’re calling off the fight?” For a second, I buy my own delusion.
“What? No. Why would I do something axnohtic like that?”
“Nothing, never mind.” I can’t trust Yetic with the truth. He’d probably side with Huemac and try to lock me away until after the fight.
“I wanted to tell you to get out of sight until registration.”
“Oh, thanks. That really helps.”
“Shut up for a second.”
I clamp my lips and stare at him with mock expectation.
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever you said to Huemac earlier lit him up like a match to a pine tree. He and his goons are looking for you. If you stand out here in the open much longer, they’ll find you.”
“And that should concern me?”
“Wake up, Calli. Huemac ain’t your precious Centavo. He eliminates threats, and for some reason you’ve become a threat.”
I open my mouth to retaliate, but then Yetic’s meaning settles in. “Oh.” I look over both shoulders. “You think he would kill me to keep me quiet?”
Yetic takes me under an arm and ushers me toward a nearby alley. “Knowing Huemac and knowing your propensity to blab, I don’t even need to know what dirt you’ve got on him.”
A thought hits me. “How do I know you’re not working with him to keep me quiet?”
“Are you listening? The people that work for Huemac kill first and offer polite warnings second.”
“Oh, right.” A breeze funnels through the alley, drying the sweat on the back of my neck.
“Look, I know I’m not at the top of your friends list at the moment. I swear I had nothing to do with Huatiani showing up at the warehouse. I smelled the trap a second before you, that’s all.” He blinks and rubs his eyes. “You might not believe me, but I care for you and your brother. I’m glad no one got hurt.”
“No one got hurt?” I struggle to keep my voice down. “No one got—”
“I mean, other than…look, I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t there.”
I jab my finger into his chest. I’m so upset I can only sputter my contempt.
“That’s my fault.” Yetic throws up his hands. “I admit it. I should have stayed to help.” He glances both directions. “One minute the general is after you, and the next no one knows where he is. It doesn’t take a genius. I don’t know how you did it, but you won.”
His admitting he abandoned us tamps my rage beneath the surface. “Wait, are you threatening to blab about what happened?”
“No, no! For the love of—” he runs his hand across his face. “I’m trying to keep you from getting killed by Huemac, you know, to make up for abandoning you before.”
“Ahh, how sweet.” I bat my eyes then roll them. “Thanks, but I’ve got business to attend to.”
“Wait,” he catches my arm. “What business? Maybe I can help.”
I shift my humorless gaze from his face to his hand on my arm. He lets go. “Don’t you have a fight to get ready for?”
“Hey,” he shrugs, “I woke up ready.”
His smug attitude makes me want to gag. I close my eyes and think. It’s possible Yetic’s pride won’t let him fight if he knows the results would be skewed. He wants to be remembered as the undisputed champion, not as Huemac’s bloodthirsty shill.
Then again, who’s to say Huemac would even go down for this. Sure, he’s withholding medical information and tampering with the odds, probably because he’s already violated the rules by betting his own funds. But he could fake the report. With Neca dead and me in the academy who would argue? On top of it all, I might be underestimating Yetic’s dislike for Neca.
I stare him down. “There’s no way you’ll call off this fight?”
“Never.”
“What if I were to tell you Neca had been the one who fought Huatiani, and that the encounter weakened him?”
“Not my problem.”
I drill him with an angry glare.
“Hey, Neca agreed to the fight. He signed the book, and the doc cleared him.” Yetic stabs his palm with a finger. “I saw the signatures.”
I can barely swallow my rage. I’ve got one last, desperate idea. I breathe deeply three times, until I can speak using a normal tone. “You swear you came here today with nothing but concern for me?”
Yetic nods. “I swear. Why?”
Part of me can’t believe I’m saying it, even as the words leave my mouth. “What if I were to take Neca’s place in the cage?”
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