"This unknown phenomenon is most likely yet another result of the catastrophic effects of the Carpa Malum bomb. The incident in question left behind 12 casualties yet no form of the radioactive residue was found on the site. Of these casualties include high ranking Trinity officer Eden Kennedy whose body has yet to be recovered. Being the eighth incident of this caliber over the course of a month, and with no evidence of natural influence, scientists are left baffled by what could possibly be causing these indescribable effects..."
I'm half listening to the few words I can make out through the static, and half too focused on the mug burning my hands. It's my daily routine now; sipping coffee as I stare at my tiny cable set while combing through the knotted mess that is my hair. Most stories just repeat each day; some tell updates regarding Carpa Malum, some about another Karma uprising, all told by Monica Blaire. Her enthusiastic, yet nauseating grin is painted across the screen, burning my eyes with personified annoyance. Just seeing her, hearing her nasally voice, is enough to make my stomach turn in frustration.
She's reading off cue cards, describing the same story for the eighth time. Some strange event occurs and no one can explain it. This time an entire alleyway was flooded with 3 feet of water, wiping away a decent portion of the Lutum marketplace. Stafford researchers are so intrigued because that alley is nowhere near a water source and that region has been in a drought for the last 3 months. The entire world has been, for the last five years at least.
Carpa Malum, translation: catastrophe. A grandiose disaster. Calamity, tragedy, havoc, and most commonly, the end of the world. The explosion from five years ago that decimated all of the European provinces and a quarter of the Asian and African land, leaving the rest of the globe consumed in uncharted amounts of radiation. The effects it has had on the climate and the environment are unparalleled, a new unique tribulation presenting itself to scientists everyday, like a code they need to decipher. During the first wave of radiation, seventy percent of the population was decimated, leaving only the strong individuals to survive. Everyone older than 40 and younger than 10 most likely had their rotting carcasses burned by their remaining family members to stay warm. The less lucky, however, had to watch their loved ones being dragged away by groups of navy blue officers to buildings that tower in the sky.
There's nothing I could've done, I keep repeating to myself, remembering my own unfortunate circumstance. I know the words are true, but I still can't believe them. There's nothing I could've done.
"Castelle!" called Devon. I snapped back to reality in time to notice my ceramic cup crack in my hands, allowing what feels like lava to slowly drip down my arm. I don't react, instead, I wave off the excess drops of liquid and nonchalantly dry my hands.
"How do you manage to break every cup in the house? It's not like we can afford new ones." Devon hands me a towel while using an old shirt to mop up the coffee on the table. He notices the news story playing on the screen and shakes his head, murmuring something about me and my grudges.
My typically filtered thoughts escape my mouth before I can catch them. I sit there, glaring at the cup when a more aggressive than intended "Can you blame me?" breaks between his chastising comments. I take the cloth from his outstretched hand and wipe my arm and shirt before the coffee has a chance to stain, silently cursing my lack of self-control under my breath.
"Unless you're planning on picking up a new set of mugs, I can blame you all I want," Devon stresses the last few words, straining them through his teeth in mockery. He takes the towel from me and tosses it in the sink, spewing nonsense about responsibility and being careful.
"Like you should be talking." I shoot him a glare. "Just last week you managed to break a valuable, expensive, piece of equipment at the factory district. Not only did we have to pay it off with the little cantos we had, but that incident cost you a pay cut."
"That was not my fault," he juts a finger in my direction, cutting off the last syllable of my statement in the process. He just shakes his head disappointed as I cross my arms in firm protest. "Harsh sis, but fair point." He laughs and says something just out of ear shot, but I don't attempt to string together his words either. Rather, a chipped piece of porcelain rocks back and forth under the tip of my index finger with all of my attention devoted to that instead. I don't realize it, but I must still be staring with the same dazed expression because Devon just sighs and gently leans to face me, "What were you thinking about this time?"
It takes me a second to respond, and it seems like he's about to drop the topic entirely when I finally do. In a hushed tone, "What else could it possibly be?" is all I manage to say. My eyes lower so I only have to face the broken cup instead of his concerned gaze. He's quite literally the last person alive who can gauge such a reaction out of me, and I'm still debating whether or not to kill him for it. It makes me feel submissive. Weak.
"There's nothing we could have done," he tells me, a hint of what sounds like empathy in his voice, but I know better than that. "Mom and Dad were much older than forty, and Shelle was just a toddler. It was inevitable. We were in the age threshold of Carpa Malum, isn't that enough? That at least we were strong enough? I mean sure, without Dad we were demoted to Tetra status, but at least that's better than death."
I don't respond, partially because I'm not in the mood to talk but mostly because I know my rebuttals are futile.
With the last sip of his coffee, Devon stands from the table. "I'm heading out to the factory to pick up some extra cantos. Someone's gotta pay for that new set of kitchenware. It's almost nine so the lab should be open soon. Don't be late again." He places his cup in the sink, careful not to crack one of the few we have left.
I nod, sipping my coffee extra loud so as to drown out the sound of his nagging.
He picks up his corduroy coat from the hook protruding from the wall, dusting off the neckline and inspecting the fabric. "You know, if you just got a real job then maybe we could afford to move out of this dump. Volunteers don't get paid." He slips an arm through his jacket while throwing mine towards me with the other.
I ease my way into the comfortably fitting leather, pulling my hair over the back. "I'm not volunteering, I'm observing. I get hired after my training period, remember? Which, if I recall correctly, ends today," I boast proudly.
"You do you, but I'm off. I'll try to pick something up on the way home."
"With what? We're broke."
"You're broke, I'm innovative." I know what that means; he's going out to steal. At this point, it's basically sport. He found a nice little boutique the other day; it sells expensive clothes and even more expensive pastries. We have been living off of the stolen goods from that store for weeks, but to our defense, we haven't had much of an option for our survival. I have my own shop but instead of clothes and French pastries, mine sells knick-knacks, toiletries, stationery, and everyday items. Our favorite pastime is seeing who can steal more within an hour. He thinks practicing every day will give him a chance at victory, but I still have the pleasure of remaining undefeated.
The door clicks behind him, and the buzz of the clock next to our cable set marks the passing of another hour. The number 0900 blinks on the screen, taunting me as I roll my eyes. I'm about to leave when I remember a detail I've almost forgotten. I lift the corner of my mattress closest to the door, and slide the hidden dagger from underneath. There's no use of keeping it, and there's no need to hide it from Devon, but I still do.
The metal finds its place between my ankle and the leather of my mud covered boots, and a feeling of comfort washes over me. Bolting out the door and patting the nearly set coffee stain on my blouse, I leave the house with the knife cooling against my skin.
The pavement is scorching from the burning sun, the heat making its way through the holes in my shoes, like walking on coals with the only protection being a pair of worn out socks. The only non-tattered article of clothing I own, and actually care for, is my leather jacket that I just can't seem to function without. I can't remember a time when I haven't needed it.
I continue down the streets in a slightly panicked run, narrowly avoiding several innocent passersby. My messenger bag slouches over my shoulder and hits my right thigh every other step, forcing me to adjust the strap more frequently than I'd like. A bead of sweat forms on my forehead as I round the corner into the much-desired shade and down the dilapidated former city structures. The buildings shielding me from the sun are half-formed and caved in on themselves.
Most are overpopulated with orphaned children and lost tetras, eyes bulging while scanning the streets for any roaming Karmas, hoping to get a little protection in the shadows. That won't help; Karmas find people wherever they hide, but I doubt these children have anything worth their time. The pavement of the roads are nothing more than pebbles that blend in with the dirt, but every now and then you pass a cement or tar chip about the size of a fist. Across the dust of the roads, half the city is bustling and bargaining at the central market, selling and buying any scraps people can get their hands on in worn down stalls and booths.
It's easy to differentiate the petty thieves apart from the poor souls trying to provide for their lost lives. Nowadays, only a few spoiled, power-hungry aristocrats shelter away with all of the money, leaving everyone else to fight over their leftovers. Well, I guess that hasn't changed.
A riot breaks out behind me and, based on the ensuing shouting match, I'm guessing an amateur pickpocket was caught trying to snatch someone's wallet. The situation is common enough, I don't even bother to turn my head, and instead keep my momentum towards Trinity Central. A much more interesting scene, however, starts to unfold just around the corner. Ahead of me, on the other side of the street, a crowd around a half-demolished booth clears with a scream, revealing its owner, a young man, with a dagger piercing his neck. He doesn't seem much older than his early teens, unfortunate really, but that dagger can only signify one thing: Karmas.
As if on cue, three individuals with a knife tattooed on the bottom right of their collar slowly encircle the motionless boy. Even from where I'm standing, the mark is obvious and dark enough to match their air of dominance. There isn't a single person not familiar with that insignia and what it represents. The short woman of the group pokes at him with her foot, a devilish grin plastered across her face.
I sneer at the sight, trying my hardest not to just spit at the Karmas directly. Nothing more than cowardly tormentors, I think to myself, snickering at the irony of my words. The crowd erupts into a cacophony of murmurs, speculations, and hushed warnings to stand back.
I find myself deviating from my normal path, backtracking a few steps to gain a clearer view of the situation. Two men, one very stout and the other tall and lanky, and a woman are seen in the center of the crowd, the aforementioned woman now kneeling beside the fallen boy. She nods and the other two begin digging through the victim's pockets to find anything of any value. Suddenly, the woman's face lights up as she pulls out a ring embroidered with the brightest diamonds I've seen since Carpa Malum. I can just imagine Devon's face if I were to pull that out in front of his stolen pastries.
I want that ring.
She lightly tosses it in the air a few inches and catches it in her hand, a snarled smile slowly cracking on her scarred face. I drop my bag and crane my neck around to get a better look at these sad excuses for criminals. I tilt my head to the side, my long hair falling over my eyes as I stuff my hands in my pockets, and walk towards the gathering crowd when the woman notices me. Her smile falters and her arm falls back to her side. She lets out a half chuckle as she eyes me up and down. She's just barely older than me, no more than a year or two. Her blonde hair is tied back in a tight knot and her ears and nose are pierced with unfortunate studs. I can't help but notice a slight southern accent as she speaks with her overly condescending tone.
"Whatcha lookin' at, Rice Ball?" she asks, slack-jawed and almost too pleased with her albeit embarrassing quip.
"Whatcha holding there, Blondie?" I mimic her tone while gesturing at her closed fist.
"Oh, this? Beautiful, ain't it? I need to get this back to my hubby over there so how 'bout you step aside," she tilts her head with a fake smile. "Or else." She steps forward and uses two fingers to push my left shoulder back.
My eyes travel with her hand, following it to my shoulder with a half-smile and an open mouth, pressing my tongue to my top row of teeth. I let out a single laugh and turn my attention back to the girl, a smirk dancing on my lips as her confident expression remains. Suddenly conscious of the situation, I move forward with giddy.
"Or else what?" I challenge. I poke her shoulder the same way she did mine. She chuckles similarly to how I did. Though quieter now, I can still hear the sound of hushed spectators questioning my sanity for provoking three Karmas. The girl casually places the ring back in her right pocket while still staring daggers into my eyes, and throws her right fist towards my face at a speed much slower than I anticipated. Leaning back with ease, I grab the arm waving above me and fling her body forward. She lets out a startled yelp and claws at my arm instinctually. I step on her collarbone and smile at her stunned expression.
The crowd around us let out a collective gasp, people whispering words of disbelief at what they're currently witnessing; a Karma overpowered so easily. I hear her two companions step behind me and with my other leg I press the shorter one's side, while the added weight on the woman's collarbone made it snap with a sickening crunch. She lets out a pain filled screech as the taller man flies at me and lands a strike on my left side, knocking the wind out of my system for a second. He's riling up for another attack when I take the opportunity to pick up the woman, and shove her in his direction to block his outstretched fist. Her eyes fly out of her face in a comical fashion, like a cartoon I haven't seen in years.
The stout man, now enraged, charges at me with a series of furious grunts, his face now red and bruised from falling to the ground. I duck at his lazy attempt to grab me, pivot to the other side of him and slammed my foot into his back, causing him to wheeze in astonishment as he collapses to the ground next to the woman who remains cradling her broken limb. The taller man makes a haphazard attempt at grabbing my loose hair, but he misses and tugs on my jacket instead, forcing it to fall lopsided, the left sleeve rising halfway up my forearm and the right sleeve dangling off my wrist.
He grabbed my jacket. Panic and fury battle for dominance in my head as I slam my elbow into his jaw, causing him to fall back. He spits out blood and a tooth onto the ground as he looks back at me, eyes growing with horror and confusion.
I stomp on his head, forcing him to forget anything he might've seen, once for pulling down my jacket, another for the expression he just gave me, and a few more for my frustrated rage. He swallows hard and looks away as I walk over to the woman still crying in pain, and grab the ring sticking out of her pocket. She has a similar look on her face as the man did when she gets a clear look at my arm. I punch her, hard, knocking her out in the process. As the anger leaves my system, and my sight comes into focus, I shake my head and press my eyebrows together once to regain my scowl and composure. I take a deep breath before turning back to her, my friendly facade no longer strewn across my face.
"Sorry buttercup," I say mocking her accent. I toss my hair over my shoulder and walk past the fallen men and the awestruck crowd, now silent after witnessing this bizarre event. The piece of jewelry finds a home in the front pocket of my messenger bag, and I throw the sack over my shoulder. With a few tugs, my jacket falls back on properly, but I still hold the cuffs with my fingertips in a semi-conscious attempt to conceal the dagger tattooed on my left wrist.