When you are born working class, you run to save yourself from pain.
In Fumedge, every chase is as potentially lethal as it gets. You know you must escape at any cost. You focus. You think. You deal with the trauma later. Or don't. Survival always comes with a price. But you pay this price, because you have to.
So I run to save myself from pain.
I jolt up, brush past the Puncher and Mariposa, and stumble into the winding hallway. Pausing to take off the shitty boots, I clasp them in my trembling hand and face the indecipherable maze of corridors.
A palm lands on my shoulder.
"Oi!" I growl.
"Your bedchamber is this way," says Sophie.
I am grateful for her help, so I shut up and follow.
Upstairs, in the room, she leaves me alone.
I toss the murderous boots into the furthest corner and stare at the blisters they had caused me. Slicing the bodice with a pocket knife from my leather breeches, I run to the bathroom. I touch the cold porcelain toilet bowl with my warm forehead and vomit all the breakfast courses, one after another.
Lighthaven does not agree with me.
I fall onto the bed in my silky thing, not even bothering to undress. The sheets are made of soft fabric. A thick fluffy pillow gives me a new sense of warmth, and I press my face into it.
"No. Dontcha dare cry, Veda Igglesden. No, dammit." I fist the stupid tears out of my eyes.
Guess I wasn't gonna make it fer a spot of lunch. But Mar sure popped in fer breakfast, huh? The heck are the two of them doing here? Is Puncher one of the chosen Champions? Is she?How could she not tell me? Am I supposed to fight my best friend in the Gaslight Trials? Harm her?
Bollocks.
Thoughts wrestle in me mind until they wear me down .
⚙️🕰🗝️🎩⚙
Seconds, minutes, or hours could have passed. I wouldn't know, and I couldn't care rat's shite. Bright, strong sunlight is leaking through the plush curtains when a rap rouses me.
Sophie steps into my bedroom, her eye clock showing me it's three in the afternoon. She lays out a new outfit for me.
Eager to get rid of this ridiculous dress, I don the tawny breeches, a flaxen shirt, a sturdy brown belt and a thin-hooded mustard-yellow jacket that falls to my thighs. My favorite part is the boots: these are made of soft leather and have a narrow, flexible rubber sole with treads. Perfect for running.
Sophie's mechanical arms extend with a 'zzzzap,' and pry the wooden door apart. Two other identically clad maids step in, pushing two enormous platters of food on the trolley. My tortured tummy rumbles.
Eggs and bacon? Haven't eaten that stuff in years. And not one—two piles of fries!
Next to them, a tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled. There's an elegant, tall glass of orange juice.
"So we're not havin' lunch together? Ooh, la-di-da, the majestic Duke mus' be sick to the back teeth with my oddball behavior. Am I right?" I cannot help but snicker at the thought.
"Madam Igglesden, you'd do well to please the Grand Duke Lucius Sextus from this moment on. It is for your own good." Sophie's voice is stern. "You are expected to finish your meal in solitude. Then, I am to escort you to your carriage shortly. The Tinkering in the Commons Pit begins in half an hour." Her mouth is a thin line.
I don't have a clue what the Tinkering is, but I'd best not try my luck, after the lil' stunt I've pulled at breakfast. I lunge at the fries pile, ignoring eggs, bacon, and the fruit.
Taters are taters, after all.
When my stomach feels like it's about to be split open, I lean back and pat it with a content sigh. "Ready when you are."
Sophie chaperones me outside the castle, hauling my tattered rucksack, and I get my first proper glimpse of the Lighthaven, one of the richest cities of the Empire.
The majestic spires, clock towers, and domes glisten in a rainbow of hues that tower into the air. Auto cars glide down the wide paved cobblestone streets — nothing like rattletraps that crawl the roads of Fumedge. Elegantly dressed people with bizarre hairdos and painted faces stroll at their leisure.
None of it feels real, and when Sophie clears her throat and I turn around, I'm even more certain I have stepped into a dream.
Before me, attached to a small carriage, stands a majestic four legged, cream-coated creature with muscular chest. Its mane of pure white floats around the elegant snout. What skullduggery is this? I'm utterly vexed. I reach forth to touch it without a second thought.
The animal snorts and pulls away, the pale strands twisting gaily in the wind. Their wispy ends scatter, shattering the illusion.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" A tiny, chubby man half my size in an elegant black suit barks.
"What's it to ya?" I spit inna dirt.
"That's my horse right there, that's what. You are scaring it."
"A... horse?" I speak the creature's name with a newfound reverence.
"Never seen a horse before?"
I shake my head no.
"What animals pull the carriages in Fumedge?" Sophie leans forward with interest.
"People." I swallow.
When I am seated on the velvet cushion, the coachman clicks his tongue, egging the animal. As we move southward, we pass buildings of a dozen stories tall, with steam powered lifts to take the citizens across the floors. An overhead monorail connects the sections of Lighthaven to the Castle District.
The up-and-down of the carriage wheels disturbs my unpleasantly full stomach and I open the window fer some air before I can vomit me soul out again. Here I am, plump and well-fed, takin a cozy ride inna carriage, while Pa is working hard at home, starving.
The people in Fumedge are starvin. Starvin for fresh meat, for beautiful clothing, for clean air, for rest.
The people in Lighthaven are starving too. Starvin' fer novelty. When one has everything, one always yearns for more.
As my ride halts in the Commons Pit, I am the last Champion to arrive. Seven identical carriages are parked at the back arena entrance.
Everyone wears the same uniform as me, but their shirts and hooded jackets are in different color.
When I trot over to join the circle, the Grand Duke frowns at my tardiness.
Seeing Mar in cobalt blue attire, and the Puncher in pumpkin-orange one, confirms my worst fears. She tries to catch my eye, but I ignore her and stare promptly ahead.
What she did was unforgivable.
The Duke steps up on a raised platform and speaks in a sprightly fashion. "Welcome, Champions, to the tour of your very own... Workshop! It is designed exclusively for you inventors." He gestures at us to follow him as he walks through the entrance.
Son of a... I clasp my mouth not to swear out loud. On the inside, this place is more massive than the biggest factory hall in Fumedge.
The Grand Duke stands tall on the shiny, metallic stairs and waves his ornate cane. "Behold! The Workshop will be your daily home until the actual combat begins the following week. Each competitor has a section for themselves."
Fair. I see the black, green, red, and yellow section on the ground floor; blue, orange, gray and white sections are upstairs.
"You may walk towards the one that is labeled with your name plaque and get to work. I assure you they are fully equipped for the tools you may need for either augment creations, or repairing and improving what you brought with you."
Easy enough so far.
"Between the combats, the remaining inventors will tinker together."
I gulp. Shite onna stick. The thought of seeing my seven competitors standing so close next to me makes me queasy. Sharpening their weapons and armor, preparing their augmentations to hurt me.
Friends and foes alike.
"You are forbidden... I repeat: you are forbidden to engage in any combative exercises with another inventor."
My eyes can't help but flit to the others. I know three of them: Mar, The Puncher and the Duke's son. The other four are a blank slate. Yet I distinguish the Fumedgers from the Lighthaveners.
The Fumedge inventors haven't been fed properly. I can see it on their bones, their skin, the hollow look in their eyes.
The look that I, too, must have.
"That would be all. I shall leave you to get better acquainted." He waves gingerly, as if this were a fun tea-cozy, and is gone.
One glance at my uniform tells me I should drag me sorry arse to the yellow section, in the far right corner of the ground floor. I do that before anyone speaks out.
Sure enough, the name "Igglesden" is carved above it and I just stand there, mouth agape, amazed by the tools it's equipped with. Sewing, woodworking, painting, leather working, metal working, crafting... I could do absolutely anything here, holy Pete! Bring my gadgetry to perfection. I rip open my rucksack and dump the Exoboots on the workbench.
"Time to polish and enhance ye, beauties." I whisper to my babies, proud of the Pa's invention.
The occupant of the red section, to my left, labeled "Steelfist," arrives shortly after, sporting a crimson uniform.
The boy strolls over to me, and I quickly cover my tech with my hooded jacket.
He's a Lighthavener, alright, packin all dem muscles. The lad's round face betrays his age—definitely not even eighteen. There's a deep richness to his black skin. A homely vibe evoking sturdiness and warmth of coal lumps back home.
He flashes a smile and stretches out his palm. "Steelfist."
"Duh." I roll me eyes towards the label.
One: I didn't ask for him to come over to talk to me. And two: who the feck introduces themselves with a stupid nickname?
The boy withdraws the hand, but the smile stays. "Alright. Iggles-den." He struggles with the pronunciation. "Give me an idea of what you can do."
He's not giving up on this conversation, is he?
"I'm just... really fast." I shrug.
But I know that's not all I can do. I think of my stun ray gun. Welp, sure as hell not gonna spill me secrets to me competition.
"Fast is good. Makes you harder to catch." Steelfist plops on the yellow chair and it complains under his weight.
He mus' ave at least hundred pounds on me. But the look in his eyes is not one of contempt.
It's an appraisal.
On his hands are the deadliest-looking brass red gauntlets I had ever seen. Yet he handles them with ease and familiarity of motion.
"Handy little things. My Graviton Surge can lock on the opponent. Then, I just leap, slam the ground and pummel at them till cows come home."
Cool tech. My face betrays no emotion, but I'm impressed. I pray I can dash away from that graviton surge of his. One well aimed punch could break me scrawny neck.
"I bet you are here for the house. Shot at new life, huh? As for me, I hope to put up a good show for my daddy dearest," he whispers.
That pulls me up short. Does he mean...
As if being able to read the question in me eyes, he nods. "The Grand Duke. I'm his illegitimate son. Guess he wasn't all too keen on showing me off to the world after his short-lived affair with a laundry woman."
Wha? Is the Grand Duke really his father? Has he ignored his bastard for so long? That's proper screwed up. Does Langdon Septimus know he 'as a half-brother?
"So, you see... I'm really motivated to win this. To gain his favor."
I recognize the pain in Steelfist's eyes, and I know he isn't lying. Makes me wonder where my real parents are and why they have, too, ignored me. Pa never talked to me about 'em.
"Word of advice," Steelfist says. "Scout the competition." Then he walks off, and I hear him hammering away in his section.
I caress the familiar tools and inhale the scent of brass, copper and oil, and suddenly, the unease is gone. I'm not an outsider down here. In their fancy schmancy castle, perhaps, but not down here. Here, it's all about combat, and enhancing our inventions. The two things I do best. Steelfist's feckin right. Everybody in this workshop is my enemy.
Even my dearest friend.
And I should get to know their strengths and their weaknesses.
If I'm clueless, I'm sure to be defeated.
As I start up the stairs, determined to snoop around the other sections, I slam into a blur of white. We both lose our footing. After a bit of rollin' and yelpin, I disentangle myself from no one other than...
Langdon Septimus. White shirt, white breeches, and white leather belt complete his pristine look.
"Apologies, Milady Igglesden, I was just coming down to..." His cheeks are bright red.
"To check how I was faring, Milord?" I curtsy. "How kind of ye, to show care for the poor dame of the suburbs, unaccustomed to the grand city ways."
He chuckles. "I see. You have indeed become a noblewoman overnight."
"I assure you I do not know what you mean, Milord." I bat my eyelashes.
"Tell me. I am burning with curiosity. What has befallen that wild-spirited creature, angry and ready to push..." He pauses. "...aside anyone who stands in her way?"
Curse 'im. He's talkin 'bout the trash heap incident. I lean towards him with the sweetest toothless grin I can muster and whisper into his ear. "Lemme tell ye a secret, lad. Tis easy to act noble. Just be a bit of shit, and wear what everyone else is wearing."
"Ah, there she is! A destructive she-tiger has unsheathed her claws after all." Langdon Septimus' hearty laugh is infuriating.
How dare this eejit mock me?
I'd never forget where I came from. The mines they had us in. Air so thick with black soot it clogged your throat. Stuck in your eyes. But I pulled up from the depths of Fumedge. I wanted to offer my Pa the taste of Lighthaven, too. And fresh air. To give him a new life. It's real for me.
"Does this amuse you, Milord?" I narrow my eyes at him. "We are Champions in the Trials, devised by the Grand Duke, and we might all perish."
"I am well aware of the gravity of the situation. Yet I am certain each combat will last merely until the opponent yields. The Grand Duke is a visionary behind the Lighthaven. A beacon of trade and prosperity. He wishes nothing but equality for Fumedge as well. My father is a..."
"Yer father is a swine!" I cut his sentence in half, trembling in earnest ire.
He clutches the handrail until his knuckles whiten. "Is it so hard to believe that he truly wishes the best for his people?"
"All politicians only wish the best for themselves, pretty boy. Get that into that thick skull of yers."
"Darling? Could I borrow you for a minute?" A sickly sweet female voice whines from upstairs. "You promised me you would show me your armor. And you know how I hate being kept waiting."
"I shall be right up with you, Cornelia," Langdon Septimus stammers, and I enjoy seein' im sweat.
"No need, darling. I am coming down," she chirps.
The alabaster-skinned woman that descends the stairs in an elegant embroidered white dress is jus... Perfection. Armed with a parasol, her sleek shoulder-length crimson hair is nothin like me bird nest. A perfect porcelain smile almost has me cover me mouth in shame.
Next to 'er I feel so... mousy, poor and plain.
A regal dove and a common sparrow.
She hooks her arm in Langdon's and her cheeks dimple. "A pleasure to meet you. Charmed, I am sure. Aren't you going to introduce us, Langdon?"
"Erm, yes, I... Cornelia, this is one of the champions, Madame Igglesden. Madame Igglesden... This is Baroness Cornelia Tertius."
"His fiancée," Cornelia adds. She clutches the poor sod's shoulder and whispers, poison dripping from her tongue: "Ah, the slum rat. She should be easy enough to dispatch, won't she, darling?" She wrinkles her nose as if she'd smelled dog shite.
Then she turns to me, resuming her lovely smile. "I assure you I shall be following the Trials with great interest. You are that little inventor girl I have been hearing about! I do compliment your bravery. How you sacrificed yourself for your old father. How you have successfully struggled to almost overcome the barbarism of Fumedge."
Barbarism? That's ironic, comin' from a woman ready to watch the slaughter.
Only the booming voice echoing across the Workshop stops me from shreddin this hoe to pieces.
Langdon Septimus turns towards the brass speaking tube, suddenly very interested in it, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the handkerchief.
"Dear Champions," the voice says. "Please gather immediately in the center of the Workshop, and witness the draw. Some amends are to be made before it is shown to the general audience."
I push past Cornelia Tertius, slammin 'er in the shoulder.
She lets out a small "oh" of incredulity.
"How absolutely, dreadfully clumsy of me! I am terribly sorry, Baroness." I try my best to look repentant.
A twinkle in Langdon Septimus' chestnut eyes tells me I have not succeeded in that endeavor.
When I arrive at the indicated spot, a tall brass automaton is gluing the yellowish parchment on the metallic pillar.
Seven names and seven symbols are already drawn.
There's one question mark remaining.
The automaton turns to me, and I am all too aware of everyone's stares.
"Cham-pion na-me?" The robot demands.
I... What in the blazes? I was sure "Igglesden" would be on there. No one told me I needed a bloody Champion name! Think, Veda!
Don't show them Sparks. I hear Pa's voice. Sparks would scare them.
Good. They should be scared.
"Cham-pion na-me?" The automaton repeats.
"Spark." I purse my lips, and draw a lightning symbol in the air with me forefinger. "Champion name: Spark."
Standing in the dimly lit chamber of the Workshop my heart races with both excitement and trepidation. My decision is made, and with it, a new persona is born. I choose to be known as "Spark" - a name that embodies my defiance and my determination to challenge the norms of this shity town.
I glance down at the pendant my father gave me, the delicate clockwork trinket that symbolizes my past and the path I once thought I'd follow. It gleams in the faint light, a silent reminder of my roots in Fumedge. But here, in Lighthaven, the land of innovation and progress, I feel a magnetic pull towards change.
Deep down, I know I shouldn't have picked this nickname. Pa will disapprove. But I can no longer suppress the fire within me, the desire to challenge everything I've been taught.
I am gonna be Spark, the embodiment of change, the spark that ignites a revolution of ideas. I clench my fist in determination.
An eerie, lunatic cackle echoes the Workshop.
I turn around and face the bald girl from this morning.
In her lizard-green uniform, she is even scarier up close. She has no eyebrows or eyelashes. "Spark? Oh, how fun to finally meet you. I am Di, short for Diana. I bet I can make prettier toys than your dearest Pa. I do hope we can play together soon in the Pits. We'll be the best of friends. Until I blow you to pieces, that is." Di waves a bomb in the air cheerily.
Oh... Fudgesticks.