The unspoken agreement I made this morning with Devon finds its way back into my mind. As I pass the marketplace, I'm able to snag a couple scraps of meat and a handwoven scarf, less than normal, but still enough. An argument across the street about the price of some fruit has escalated to an unnecessary brawl, but one that I'll use to shield my thieving. I wrap the scarf around my neck and bury my head in the wool fabric as I walk briskly around a corner, out of sight.
I make it a few paces, when I notice an intriguing scene unfolding. Just up ahead, a wall of navy blue suits block my vision of a mysterious figure. Remembering that I'm just outside Trinity Central, it doesn't take me long to figure out who they're protecting. President Malachi Blaire hurries along the streets with his guards, but as long as I've known him, I've always preferred to call him Kai. "Malachi" sounded much too pretentious, though fitting.
A crowd is gathering around for just a glimpse of their handsome commander in chief, but personally, I couldn't care less about him right now. The thought of seeing him again burns me to the core, but then again, he probably doesn't remember me at all.
The sea of guards move towards an alleyway surrounded by media, groups of reporters climbing on top of each other for an interview, and cameras recording the entire fiasco. I choose not to concern myself with whatever it is they're covering, but it must be important for Kai to make a personal appearance. A gust of icy wind forces me to retreat back into my scarf, and reminds me to keep moving.
Just as I'm about to turn another corner, locks of hair part from my view, moving with my head, and the guards separate slightly, leaving an opening to an old acquaintance. I'm almost lost in his two oceans of blue that widen at the sight of me. Our eyes locked, and I feel ten years younger, back to when he was a boy without responsibility and when I was a girl with a standing in society. I force myself to remember who we are now, and to remind myself that we have no more business being in each other's company.
His expression remains emotionless, but a familiarity dawns on his face as he lifts a hand in recognition. It takes everything I have to turn my head away as quickly as I looked up, feeling his lingering gaze burned into the back of my neck. I can almost make out the sound of my name being called, but convince myself that it's impossible. He doesn't care about me anymore than I do for him. Malachi Blaire. I shake his face from my mind.
As I enter my half-formed excuse for a home, I notice Devon's jacket lying on the ground.
"I'm home," I call to no one in particular, although there could only ever be just one person I'm referring to. The silhouette of my brother stands in the kitchen, and I hear the unmistakable static of the television turned on. He's watching the news rather intently. An impromptu report it appears, with an older reporter than Monica Blaire, though one I'd much rather prefer. Her brown hair tousles in the wind as she screams into the microphone, her voice barely audible through the commotion behind her.
The chaos in the background is intensified by the screaming of everyone trying to evacuate the area. A little girl, hair as white as snow falling over her shoulders, skin the brightest shade of pale I've ever seen, stands in the middle of it all. Government officials are attempting to subdue her, innocent bystanders are trying to get away as quickly as possible, and familiar media trucks pull up behind her, pointing their cameras at her obviously distraught face.
My jaw drops the second I notice what she's doing. Ice is slowly forming on the ground and shards of it protruding from the earth like stalagmites in a cave. The little girl, in her muddied blouse stands in the middle of it. Controlling it.
She's managing to create ice out of nothing, and none of the guards can get close enough to reach her. Her eyes seem frightened, but the way she stands makes it look as though she was freezing the street on purpose, a vendetta taking over her small figure.
"That can't be possible," I mutter under my breath, though it's not only the ice that astonishes me; it's the fact that this child seems no older than nine years old.
* * *
If you gave birth after Carpa Malum, the child was most likely immune to the effects of the radiation. Depending on the family's class and socioeconomic standing, most families often have to make a decision: stay with the children, or sell them for a quick canto. Many parents leave, forcing the children to raise themselves in the streets or find another group of orphaned children to survive with. The oldest these immune children could possibly be is five years old. If the children are born before the bomb, then the youngest any child could be would be fourteen or fifteen as the radiation killed off everyone in between, leaving a ten year age gap between the two generations. How could this girl have survived Carpa Malum at such a young age. Who is she?
"Can you believe that?" asks Devon. The report ended a while ago, but we both still sit in awe, allowing the reality of it all to sink in. "The ice, the age, I mean, how could either of those be possible?" he raises his hand and pinches his fingers between his furrowed brows. "Aren't you supposed to know everything?"
"Everything is a lot," I remind my brother. I think he's expecting me to say more, but I have nothing more to tell him.
He shakes his head, deciding the information isn't worth badgering me over and finds a new topic of discussion instead. "So," Devon starts, standing up from the table, "You officially work at Stafford now, huh?"
"Technically," I laughed with pride, "I just finished my last assignment, which means I start with my first official project tomorrow." He nods as though actually caring about what I'm saying, which honestly I can't really think about either as my thoughts are still occupied by that little girl. There haven't been many questions I couldn't answer before.
I contemplate whether or not I should mention spotting Kai at Trinity Central earlier today, but decide against it. It's not really something I need to bring up as it probably won't happen again. Devon suddenly perks, his face lit up as he starts digging through his bag and pockets. A goofy grin dances on his lips as he drops four apples, two loaves of bread, a rusty silver necklace, and a pair of silk gloves on the table. This beats anything that either of us had ever managed to get in a single day before.
"Beat that," he says slyly. I drop an orange, the meat, and the wool scarf on the table and throw my hands in the air in defeat.
"Ha!" he yells elated, "I won! I finally won!" he pumps his fist in excitement, jumping like he just won the lottery. As I pull out the last of my loot from my bag, my finger closes around a treasure I've forgotten about: the gold ring embroidered with diamonds worth more than twice what he's stolen in his entire life. I watch as his smile drops into an expression of disbelief, radiating with astonishment.
He stutters amazed, trying in vain to form a coherent sentence.
I lean back in my seat smugly, and tuck my arms behind my head. Diamonds are found on the ground after a natural storm, but never as clear as the one on the ring. Gold is a rare commodity that no one ever sees, the tools for digging it up just don't exist anymore and no one cares enough to try, making this ring priceless. Seems as though I've won again.
"Maybe you should figure out how to be a better thief." I turn away towards the kitchen counter and start fixing supper. After a few more moments inspecting the ring to make sure it isn't fake, he retires to the mat on the floor where he sleeps, and slumps in the corner in defeat.
My attention is consumed by the open flame as I start to sear my stolen scraps of meat over the griddle. We eat it with a few pieces of half burnt toast and an apple each, not really speaking if only to ask for something to be passed. The rest of the night fades away into mindless small talk blocked only by the static from the cable set.
Soon, the clock blinks 2200 and Devon decides to turn in for the night. I could never sleep before midnight, so I decide to wile away the hours by the "window" - a hole left in the wall from before we moved in - and stare out towards the moon. Light trails in through the hole and shines on my face, slowly rising through the sky. I sit up a bit and rest my palm on the broken cement and listen to the dust fall on the other side, allowing myself to be mesmerized by the night sky.
A sigh that I can't control leaves my mouth, the brevity of my thoughts falling away with it. The events of today replay in my mind, taunting me with the questions I couldn't answer and the people I couldn't avoid. Tomorrow won't be any different, and neither will the days that follow, all I can do now is survive through them.
A crunch from the other side of the door notifies me that it's that time of the night once again, and so I leave my thoughts behind at the window.
I saunter towards the door, repeating the motions as if this were a normal daily routine. My body leans against the door, close enough so that my ear is pressed against the wood and I can make out each sound on the other side. I hear breathing, mischievous snickering, and footsteps loud enough to notify me that whoever's on the other side of this door is an amateur.
My hands closes around the dagger in my boot, pulling out the object that feels all too familiar. I toss it in the air a bit, realizing just how natural it feels in my grip and throw open the door, thrusting the knife to my right side where it finds a home in my victim's chest. She lets out one more surprised gasp before she falls to the ground, lifeless on the gravel. Glaring at the fallen body and the dagger marked on her collar, I recognize her as Blondie from the market earlier.
It's been a year and the Karmas have never missed a day, but then again, neither have I.
I wipe the blood off of the blade, shaking my head at these tedious attempts at assassination, and put it back under my mattress.