Microcosms of You

Vastarina

Rain slapped the pavement, staining the dark stones even darker. A boy clad in a black, knee-length coat briskly ducked under an awning, his face hidden behind a mask coated with atrine glue. He should be safe with the mask doing its job by altering his features.

He clicked his tongue as he dusted the droplets that condensed against the rough fiber of his coat. It has taken much to steal this disguise that involved a raid in the nearest Dominian Army base and the death of one of his closest friends. Arthas. May he rest in peace.

The boy ground his teeth. He refused to let his sadness creep back to his heart. He was here on a mission, not a visitation ceremony. He was not sent here to mourn, either. None of them were given the luxury to cry about the things they have lost.

This was perhaps the reality he found himself caged in. He stared across the pavement, the rain making sharp, tinkling noises against the brittle material the awning was made of. Uniformed men clothed in hard olcium fibers paraded by in their routinely patrols, each bearing long sticks of metal that served as their weapon. Dominia's symbol glittered in pins strapped to their chests, the Consul's own crest emblazoned by their sleeves. The boy pulled his cap lower, no longer confident that the atrine mask will hide him. Not when the soldiers from Dominia wore the same thing.

Just dry off the rain and go inside. It should be a breeze. I'll be back by dinner. The boy thought to himself as he brushed off more droplets from his sleeve. Behind his mask, he frowned as he inclined his head at the awning. Of all days that should rain, the clouds chose this day when he was out here, about to retrieve an answer to the question all of them had long been asking.

A strong draft of wind blew past him, his ears recognizing the faint whir of a skee. He pressed his cap harder against his head, his hair ruffling with the sudden blast of wind made by the motion. His eyes settled on a blue-and-pink vehicle hovering by the street, its pink neon lights turning the dark pavement stones an ugly shade of olive. The soldier aboard the skee was talking to another soldier who was part of the patrol team. The boy wasn't equipped with a proper communicator to be able to overhear what the soldiers were talking about.

Other than the blunder of soldiers mysteriously gathered at the entrance to the Gallery where the boy was at, there were surprisingly a few number of people milling about in the streets. Was it because of the rain? The boy could understand that. He wouldn't want to get his only working pair of hoverboots wet.

He sighed, toying with the ends of the scarf he wrapped around his neck in a hurry when he left the hideout. Just a few seconds more and he will enter the Gallery as scheduled. A few seconds more and Frodian will have the answer. Perhaps, the boy thought, he would see to it that his parents were avenged this very night. After a good dinner, of course.

He clasped his hands together as he leaned his back against the dry wall, never keeping his eyes off the soldiers conversing on the pavement opposite the Gallery. With a finger, he tapped the communicator wrapped around his wrists twice. Frodian knew what that meant.

He's in. He's safe.

The boy blew a breath which only succeeded in fogging up his mask. Ugh. Stupid disguise. He stopped himself from clicking his tongue in annoyance as he peeled from the wall and strode inside the the Gallery's elaborate lobby. His footsteps squeaked against the marble floors, his own masked face glinting at him as he tore through the Gallery's empty receiving area.

He thought so. This was probably why Worhil chose the Gallery to be their answer's hiding place. They thought it to be safe. Worhil certainly haven't set foot in this territory then. The boy bit his lip to keep himself from cursing at the thought. He grew up in a planters territory with nothing but echil grain fields and patched houses. Of course, people wouldn't have the time nor the money for paintings and vases.

The boy passed every display by, narrowing his eyes at the soulless light the paintings were displayed with. What use was art when half of the population was hungry? What use was the Gallery in a territory ruined by the Consul, himself?

A pair of well-fitted ladies passed the boy by, laughing into their lightscreens about something they have been watching. Fools. Even the rich have no time for art. And yes, the Consul. The boy had enough hate for that man to risk his neck in this mission. He wanted the Consul's reign to end in blood, just like how the planters' lives did.

The boy shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat as they clenched. Everyone knew that no one was really safe from Dominia's conquering shadow but no one really expected that ruin would come in the form of the Consul. The Consul was sent here by Dominia to survey, to gather information about their planet. Instead, the Consul used up the his money to fund his own desires as well as that of his loyal men. Of course, with money involved, it did not take long to win this planet's rulers to his side. Before long, the Consul had taken control of all the planet and his word was already the law.

Enter the planters massacre in which the Consul was responsible for. Their planet was known for its agrarian livelihood. Almost everyone here were planters. When the Consul rose to power, he began taking up land for himself, building lavish parks and places for entertainment, like this Gallery the boy was in. It didn't take long before the planters, themselves, asked for fairness. They asked that the Consul leave them a piece of the land he acquired so they can feed the planet. The Consul thought otherwise. He had the planters murdered.

All of them. The boy's parents included.

That's where Frodian found the boy-alone, confused, and most of all, an orphan. It didn't take long for the hate to develop, for the cry for justice to grasp the boy's heart. The Consul must pay. The Gallery must fall down. The boy must hurry.

He tore through the corridors Frodian forced him to memorize the other day. Every corner, hallway, and display, he had committed to memory. West wing. Worhil's answer was in the West wing.

His footsteps echoed across the empty hallways, quick and efficient. He rounded a corner and a single display greeted him. The West wing, then. He made it.

He took the mask off, sweat slick at the mask's edges and at the side of his face. His eyes landed on a painting lit by the same baleful yellow light, its colors bright and relentless. It was a blunder of red and black, the careless strokes of the brush evident from the swatches scratched across the canvas. The boy found himself drawing closer, his mouth parting in awe at its sheer ferocity. His eyes rested on a plaque to the painting's right.

Vastarina. It's a term the boy knew all too well. From a language the Consul thought he had wiped out from the planet. Resist. That's what the word meant. Something his parents didn't say too often.

As he stepped closer, his nose caught a whiff of a familiar smell. A scent that he had grown accustomed to, growing up in his parents' mill. It's the paint. Made from echil grains, swathed in red and black.

Red. Blood. Justice. Death.

Worhil's answer.

Something crashed. Judging from its muffled state, it must be from the lobby. The boy cursed, pushing the sleeve of his coat back to reveal a black-blue communicator strapped to his wrist. He tapped it once, the screen powering up to shed white light to his face. He tapped another icon, twisted the knob at the side to adjust to an untraceable frequency, and brought his wrist up to his lips.

The boy cast his eyes on the painting once more. Red. Black. Blood. Death. Vastarina.

He couldn't be wrong. This was Worhil's answer. This was what Frodian was hoping for when he extended a contract to the planet-famous arms dealer. The boy waited for someone to pick up the line from the other side. Heavy, wet footsteps thundered across the Gallery's marble floor, signifying that the boy didn't have much time left.

The line from his communicator screeched as a garbled voice tore through the screen. Frodian Catering Services. How may I help you?

The boy glimpsed the first sliver of the long metal Dominian weapon peeking from the corner. Sweat trickled from the side of his face. He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and forced the knots on his stomach to undo.

"Worhil concedes. We attack at dawn. Long live the resistance," the boy rasped into his communicator.

The other line went quiet for a while before a garbled voice poured through. Long live the resistance. See you at dinner.