Countdown: 5 days, 14 hours, 6 deaths
Once she makes her way out of the Entertainer's Guild complex and back out onto Fifth Street, she realizes that the concert must be in full swing. The music floats on the air, the deep, quick beat of the drums and lilting melodies of the reed flutes twining with the jazzy, generically heart-throb male voice of a singer. Aurelia can't hear the words, but she recognizes the catchy tune.
The crowds are thinner now than they were before, but there are still enough people that she can blend in with little effort on her way back to Lierte Ave and the bullet train. She squeezes into her seat, the bag of rice balls Bryna had given her balanced on her lap. The thought of hungry little bellies and sunken brown eyes makes her throat tight.
She steps off the train onto Tenth Street, and then makes her way Northwest on Hock under the bullet bridge.
As she walks, she scans the flyers plastered to the bridge- many are faces of the missing. Perhaps they were put there in the hope that the bullet brats would have seen them. Perhaps they think the bridges offer the most exposure. More likely, though, is that outside of Midcity, the bullet bridges are the only places that aren't cleaned off and scrubbed down every night. They are one of the few places in Glascoast where a flyer could last for weeks or months rather than hours.
The faces of all the missing are smiling- warm eyes set over rounded cheeks, teeth winking through their grins. Aurelia wonders if those who post the fliers realize that the people pictured will not be smiling if they are found. Many of the pictures are of dark skinned, green-eyed girls. Amaliem. Outliers. Many more are of taint-lines. The types that are invisible. Easily forgotten.
Besides the flyers, there are also plenty of graffiti, many of it still fresh. 'No justice, no peace,' is scrawled in massive black lettering, the logo of the terrorist organization below it. Aurelia shudders at the sight.
The children spot her immediately, and don't bother waiting for her to come to them, this time. Two of the little ones scurry over on skinny legs, and she sees their eyes brighten in delight at the sight of the little parcel she carries in her hands. She smiles at them, and hands each their very own rice ball. The children shove it in their mouths, and squeal with glee as the chocolate dribbles out from the corners of their lips.
The oldest boy- the leader who'd led her to the brothel- stalks over and gives the little ones a stern look. They scamper away, casting questioning glances over their narrow shoulders.
"You killed him," the boy says, immediately, not bothering with pleasantries.
"No one will ever know you were involved," Aurelia promises, and the boy glares at her.
"What do you want now?" he demands, and Aurelia holds out the parcel of rice balls to him. He glances back at the other children who stare at the package with hungry eyes and wet lips. She sees some of the fight leave his shoulders as he heaves out a sigh, and some of the fire drains from his eyes. He takes the parcel, his movements slow with resignation.
"Nothing. They're yours," she replies, and he shakes his head.
"Don't want your charity," he retorts, spitting the word like it is a curse. He shoves the bag back at her, and one of the little ones sniffles in disappointment. "Freebies always come with hidden strings anyways. It's better to know what you're paying for on the front end of a deal."
Aurelia purses her lips. "Fine. I'm not the best with directions," she lies. "Take me to Kalub Castus' flat in Polis Center," she offers. She has to make a trip there regardless; his company won't help, but it won't harm either.
"Everyone knows how to get to Polis Center," he grumbles, so low she can barely hear him. However, the boy casts a look over his shoulder at the young children who stare at the bag of sweets with wide eyes set over hollow cheeks, and he deflates.
"You going to kill him too?" he demands, and Aurelia says nothing, merely continues to stare at him. The boy glances over her clothing, must be comparing it to what she had carefully selected yesterday. He takes in the finer weave of the cloth, the more expensive pearls. Today, she is dressed as the sort of woman he would pickpocket, under other circumstances.
She sees it in his eyes the moment he realizes he has entirely misjudged her.
"Who are you?" he demands, and Aurelia shrugs her shoulders.
"An assassin," she replies. But The boy eyes her warily.
"Maybe you're a serial killer," he retorts.
"Would that really matter?" Aurelia returns.
The boy stares at the ground for a few, long moments, clearly at war with himself. Aurelia warms when she realizes that he means this child is one of the good ones- reluctant to pit ideals against pragmatism, despite his circumstances.
"Fine," he mutters, snatching the bag out of her hands again and tossing it to a hungry looking older girl- the pretty one with soulful eyes. The other children immediately swarm around her, eager for a treat.
The boy wipes his hands on his pants, and jerks his chin for Aurelia to follow him. She does for several blocks, but then gestures toward the bullet train when it seems that he is going to pass the station. It will take an additional forty minutes to walk to the Polis Center if they go on foot. His eyes go wide, his mouth drops, and he ducks his head as he follows her up the stairs, his shoulders hunching around his torso as though to protect himself from the stares of other passengers as Aurelia pays for his ticket.
He takes the little slip of paper between his hands and holds it closely, as though it is a treasure, when she passes it to him, and he follows her to a bench like a little duckling, all brashness and confidence seemingly gone in the face of this unfamiliar situation.
Aurelia gives him the window seat, understanding just how much the boy will want to stare out over the polis as they ride over the bridge he lives beneath. As expected, he rests his grubby forehead against the window, presses a dirty hand to the glass, and gazes out at the city blocks arranged in concentric circles from the Polis Center, emanating out like spokes on a wheel.
"You can see the ocean from here," he says, his voice awestruck as the bullet train jerks into motion and whips them to their next destination, blurring the view. She glances out the window, sees the sea winking green on the horizon, peeking about above the white-washed domes of the polis. It's a view she's accustomed to, unimpressive in its familiarity.
"Have you ever ridden the Bullet before?" Aurelia asks him, and he nods, his gaze still glued to the window.
"Not since my Mam died though." He rubs at his nose with his dirty hand, continuing to gaze out at the whizzing view.
Aurelia can't find anything to say to that.
The doors ding and spring open at their stop. Aurelia stands easily, and the boy follows, pushing his way through the crowd, muttering mumbled apologies as he bumps into people. They step out of the train, off the platform, and down onto the pretty, paved, tree-lined street bursting with flowers, Polis Hall's multi-colored glass dome visible over the well-kept white washed buildings.
The dirty child stands out like a shark in a reef.
"It's that one," the boy says, pointing, clearly discomfited by his surroundings. Aurelia follows the trajectory of his gesture, and her eyes land on a row house with a walled-in yard and windows lined with shutters painted a vivid shade of red.
"Patrol comes by every half hour," the boy says, warning her. "Maybe more, today though," he adds.
That is actually a helpful piece of information. It makes things much, much more difficult.
"Here," she says, counting out enough alums to pay for several loaves of bread, and presses them into the boy's calloused palms. He goes to protest, and she firmly shakes her head.
"It's not for free. It's an advance payment, for the next favor," she explains. The boy eyes her warily, but then his fingers close around the coins. With that he is gone, melting into the shadows cast by the flowering trees, disappearing back beneath the bullet bridge- likely scurrying back to his makeshift family and their crude little home.
Aurelia watches him go, and then glances back to the row house, sitting tall and proud with its red shutters and flowerboxes bursting with color.
How, by the tides, is she going to manage to get inside?
She takes stock of her surroundings- the pretty paved sidewalks, the intricately wrought iron streetlamps imported from Arzton, the well-manicured lawns.
It is an exclusive neighborhood; the type that probably has its fair share of nosy neighbors and a neighborhood watch. Any suspicious activity would likely quickly be reported- which leaves out sneaking into the house or climbing up the trellis onto the balcony and breaking in. Any obvious modes of entry are strictly off limits.
She meanders slowly down the sidewalk, in the guise of a neighborhood stroll. She passes Kalub Castus' home, follows the curve of the road, and thinks. She could pretend to need to use a phone to gain entry; could capitalize on the media and pretend to be a friend of Krissa Larch's. Could even claim she has news about the man's son- although either of the latter could backfire if the gossip turns out to be unfounded.
As she turns the corner, investigator's yellow tape stops her cold. Smoke rises from a crumbling ruin- a few members of the patrol pick through the remnants of a burned-out shell of a rowhouse. Aurelia's breath hitches in her throat and she ducks her head, her heart pounding in her chest. She does her best not to make eye contact as she passes the mercenaries posted there.
"They're getting ballsy," she overhears one of the mercenaries say as she hurries past.
"First it was threatening letters, then packages in the mail, now burning the Senator's houses? What do the terrorists even get out of this?" the other mercenary grumbles.
And then Aurelia has turned the corner, safely out of their sight, and they are out of earshot. The numbers of the streets get lower by the block, and she pauses outside of a cafe on third street.
The dome of Polis Hall dominates the landscape now- the roofs of the buildings across the way are bracketed by a semi-circle of colored glass. At one point, before the revolution, years before Aurelia's mother had been born, the dome had been topped with a statue of a snakehead forged from pure Blueridge gold. The snakehead is the sigil of the Argryus family- the family of the Senator who had risen above the rest, established his own position of power, and had thrown Glascoast into chaos during the twenty years of his tyrannical reign.
They say after his death, the golden statue was melted down and cast into the rings of office that all politicians- the Central Seven, the Senators, the Guild Council, and the Guild Boards- wear today. In primary, students are taught the symbolism of it- power from the hands of a tyrant being transformed into power in the hands of many.
If only life turned out as neat and tidy as the symbolism often makes it out to be.
A uniform of a man at a window-side table within the café catches her eye- gray, as all servant's uniforms are, with the hammerhead sigil of the Castus family embroidered at the back. The seat across from him is empty.
Aurelia slips inside, glances around the bustling café. On the wall behind the maître, there is a corkboard with flyers of upcoming activities to celebrate the kick-off of Tournament Season. There are ads for numbers to call in order to place bets, and in the corner, tacked up rather hastily, is a picture of a pretty, young, Amaliem girl, the word 'Missing' emblazoned above the photograph in an attention-grabbing red. The maître seems to note the direction of her gaze, and he rips it off the corkboard, muttering something under his breath as he does.
Aurelia quickly explains that she is meeting someone, and then sidesteps the maître to sidle up next to what the Castus' servant's table. He is the doughy, fleshy sort, the kind of man who has likely rarely, if ever, known the attentions of a woman. And young, very young. She wouldn't put him a day past eighteen. It takes a moment for him to notice her, and when he does, his dark eyes go round as saucers.
"Do you mind if I sit here? There's a wait for a table," she says, putting on her prettiest smile- the one that makes her teeth flash and her dimples wink. The servant stares at her in awe for a moment, before he flushes crimson and stammers out an invitation for her to join him.
She takes a seat, then waves over a waiter. She quietly places her order for a glass of iced hibiscus tea, and then plants her chin on her hands and gazes absently out the window. She keeps the servant in her peripheral vision, noting how he wipes his palms on his pants, the way his mouth is working as though he is trying to find something to say.
It isn't until the waiter brings her tea and slips away from the table with a curious glance between the pair that the servant appears to get up the nerve to speak.
"Do... do you live around here?" he asks, his voice faltering a little, and when she glances back at him there is a dusting of red across his fleshy cheeks.
"No- just visiting Polis Center for the day," she replies, pasting on her prettiest smile again. "With it being Tournament weekend, I thought there might be some special sales in the shops," she adds. "And you? Do you live here?" she asks, pleasantly, and the servant's face flushes even darker.
"Yes. But... but it's not my own place... I live in my employer's house," he explains. "It's really not all that bad. I have a room to myself, and the cook feeds us well..." he adds, and then bites at his lip and wrings his hands, as though afraid that he's said too much. It takes all of Aurelia's Courtesan training to mask her reaction to the information.
"For a Castus?" she asks with a pointed glance towards his uniform.
"Kalub Castus. The senator," he replies with no small measure of pride. The wealthier and more prominent the family a servant serves, the more respect he is afforded in turn. While Castus isn't the most prominent of Senatorial families, it is nevertheless a respected one.
"How impressive!" Aurelia exclaims, adding a note of wonderment to her voice, and the young man across from her beams.
"What do you do?" he asks, and she quickly plays the character game. Sweet. Soft. Simple. Empathetic. Not particularly bright.
"I'm a teacher at a primary school," she says, and then adds, "But my father was an Artisan who did very well for himself," to explain the relative opulence of her clothing in comparison to her explained station.
"How do you like it- teaching primary?" he asks, and Aurelia props her hand on her chin, stretches her smile wider.
"I love it," she replies.
In all likelihood, she would probably hate teaching primary students- all of them too young to fully understand the importance of their education and the seriousness of their comprehensive exams. All bickering and fighting and thinking that they know more than the adults who surround them.
The way his face both lights up and softens at the same time in response to her answer confirms her assumptions about his character.
"I'm Jaac," he introduces himself, offering his fleshy hand.
"Elia," she replies, placing her palm in his. Her skin crawls, but she keeps her smile sweet and perfect.
They chat back and forth- she invents some funny little anecdotes about her fictional students, he tells her stories about the trials and tribulations of other servants in the Castus home. From his tales, he unwittingly gives her information she needs- what time Kalub Castus usually comes home, what his habits are, even the general location of his study in relation to the servant's quarters.
When he checks his watch, his face falls a little when he notices that his lunch break is over, and she tells him that she needs to go anyway. He insists on paying for her tea, and she lets him with a blush and a flutter of her lashes.
He seems reluctant to leave her as they step outside the café, and she reaches out and grabs his hand before he can turn away.
"It was really nice to meet you today. Would you... would you want to have dinner with me, tonight?" she asks. "I can pick something up, bring it to your place... we could eat in your room. Maybe share a bottle of wine..." she adds.
He is too ecstatic at his good fortune to question her motives.
"I'm not supposed to have anyone over..." he begins, scrunching his brow with thought. "Shift change happens at nine... if you come then, I could sneak you up. I'll take care of the food," he offers, and this time, Aurelia's smile isn't forced.
"Sounds like a plan," she agrees, and leans over to press a light kiss to his cheek. His entire face flushes crimson, and his grin goes so wide it looks almost as though his face might crack.
A little pang of guilt tugs at her, but she pushes the feeling away. He's tempting fate, really, allowing a stranger to come into a Senator's home. He knows the risks. She reassures herself she has nothing to feel guilty for.
She watches him go, and then glances around her. She will need a dress for Cadmus' gala tomorrow night, now that she has secured an invitation. The shops in Polis Center will have the best selection, so she might as well take care of that now.
She glances through the windows of the various shops as she walks, and ducks into a couture dress shop that has a lovely green silk gown on display that looks to be close to her size. The shopgirl there promises that the Artisan will be able to make the minor alterations necessary for the dress to fit her like a glove by the following afternoon. Aurelia gives Camellia's address for the delivery, and then heads back to the bullet bridge station.
On her way, she passes ancient, white-washed concrete buildings, boasting some of the oldest panels of stained glass in all of Glascoast. From the outside, there is nothing impressive about them- a constellation of chips and shards in varying shades of muddy blues and grays. On the inside, however, she knows the old windows burst with a kaleidoscope of color still as vivid today as they were when they were set into the concrete blocks over four hundred years ago.
As she walks, she feels a prickle of unease begin to build at the base of her spine. It is a tingle that starts low and builds, causing her throat to slowly begin to constrict.
She glances to the left and right of her but sees nothing out of the ordinary, nothing save for people garbed in silk and chiffon, and breadfruit trees hanging heavy with ripening fruit. She quickens her pace, and the feeling spreads.
It constricts something in her chest, makes her breath come in short spurts. Her belly flops over and the prickle turns into a spike that races up her spine and numbs her hands. She glances behind her, brushing a wayward wave back into her braid in an attempt to be discreet, but still sees nothing.
Nonetheless, the tread of her footsteps echo with 'danger, danger, danger,' in a quickening rhythm, matching the increasing tempo of her heartbeat. She turns off of the busy Central Boulevard, making her way through less crowded streets toward the downtown bullet station.
Now, without the throng of people, she can hear the footsteps that echo somewhere behind her.
Her flesh constricts into goose bumps, the hair at the back of her neck rises. She quickens her pace, and the footsteps follow. She moves as quickly as she can without drawing attention to herself, her heart pounding, manically thudding in her throat. It takes all of her willpower not to break into a sprint.
She sees a group walking together and she quickly ducks into their midst, ignoring their surprised looks. She slips through and around them, and then hurries up the stairs to the bullet station platform.
She checks how long it will be before the next train departs. One minute.
She purchases her ticket from the kiosk quickly, keeping one eye on the clock, her ears tuned into her surroundings. She still feels it- that sixth sense, the one that keeps her hair standing on end, her heart thumping, her palms sweating, her breathing shallow. Thirty seconds.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees someone slinking up the stairs- too slowly to be attempting to make his commute, too purposefully to be aimlessly wandering through the Polis. Her heart leaps up to her throat and lodges there, sticking somewhere between her trachea and her vocal cords, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to speak. Fifteen seconds.
She pushes herself toward the front of the crowd so that she will be one of the first to board. The bell tolls, signaling the train's arrival.
She can barely hear it for the pounding of her heart in her ears.
The train pulls into the station and the doors whoosh open. She elbows her way through the mass of people exiting the train, and receives their disgruntled shouts of indignation in turn. The rest of the crowd piles on after her, and she stares out of the window, waiting for a glimpse of her follower. Hoping he doesn't make it onto the train.
The doors begin to shut, and she nearly lets out a sigh of relief. But then it becomes trapped within her as she sees a figure racing towards the doors.
She cannot make out his face- there are too many people between her and the doors for her to be able to make out anything besides the fact that he is a man- a man who is not wearing the colors of a mercenary.
He is three steps away. Two. One.
The bullet train waits for no one.
The doors slide all the way closed and the train takes off, just as he reaches out his hand to board.
Aurelia sucks in one gasp of air, then another, and notes that the people standing closest to her ease away. It takes her three more stops until her heart stops racing, but the feeling of being watched doesn't fully fade for a long time after.
Not until after she has climbed out at Colin's station on Hock Ave. Not until after she has gone up the flight of stairs and let herself into Colin's flat.
Not until she steps over him, passed out on the floor, a needle still clutched in one rigid hand to close the curtains, blocking out the light and whatever eyes may have followed her.