CADO [DISCONTINUED]

= Ch 16: The Three Prophets =

I crane my neck, looking up at the beautiful skies, streaked with clouds and darting gliders. The tinge of the sunset soaks into a hot air balloon, weighed by its lengthy sand bags. A grin breaks out on my face. The beauty of this fragile world balances like that of a spoon on the edge of a bowl, or an egg on its end, or... or... No, that isn't it. Words can't describe everything, and words can't describe the intricate wonder that arcs about us.

I dance along, feeling lighter than ever. Behind me, Jesse drags along, barely even trying to keep up. He kicks a rock down the street.

I turn around but keep walking backwards, calling back, "So how was work, flower boy?"

His eyes dart up, a simmering glare. "Oh, screw off."

I hum. "Alright, alright."

"What's got you so happy?"

"I dunno. Maybe it's being back in the story! Back in a plot, back in a character!"

"What about it, though?" He grumbles.

"What about it?"

"What's so special about it?"

"It's the creation of something new! A channel of the self, of the mind. It's an escape, a relief, — and yet stories can be more honest and true than we would ever be otherwise. It's as magic as we can ever get, yet it's so practical." I stop walking, allowing him to catch up.

"Practical, huh."

"Well, if we're talking about books — "

"Yeah yeah." He swats the idea out of the air, strolling past me as though he were in a funeral procession.

"What's wrong?" I finally ask.

He stops, glancing back. "Nothing. I'm just not as into this story mumbo jumbo." He shrugs. "Why not live it up? Especially now that two others are here."

"True, true. Tonight we can ask the others what they want to do." I start walking alongside him. "But what if that story had something for you?"

"Such as..."

"The freedom to live it up and have a plotline and a world?" I tilt my head. "I've got some plans for a story that I think you'd like."

"Oh?"

"Mmhm. After this, we'll talk. I have the perfect role for you. But that's besides the point." I slap his shoulder. "It's story time."

"Ow — "

"Shh! Look — in that bar!" I point.

Through the dusty windows of a beaten-down pub, a sea of blues and whites ripples throughout the crowd. Sea shanties drift ruffle the air.

"Darian's men," I mutter.

"Don't be paranoid!" Carnage crosses his arms, his nose up to the sky. "There must be plenty of ships out there with the same colors."

Five rugged sailors, three men and two women, stumble out of the bar. They stumble into the middle of the road, tipsy but collected. We freeze, prey in the sight of its predator.

One glances our way, then does a double take.

She hollers, "Hey, ain't that —"

"Oh, nono!" I raise my hands. "I'm just a local."

"No, I know it's you! That flag on yer belt, yer Captain Cado! Aintcha?"

"No — never heard of her!"

"Bullshit."

"Carny," I whisper. "Run."

We turn tail and sprint for our lives. A yell follows us at our heels, footsteps echoing through the murmur of the quiet streets. Around us, the city bends and weaves at each turned corner.