"You really did it this time, Castelle, what the hell were you thinking?"
Devon's pacing back and forth in front of me, rubbing his hands together in stress and anxiety. His brows are furrowed and his eyes are fixated on the ground in front of him. His hair is a mess and his shirt haphazardly buttoned. It looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. I have a pounding migraine and I rub my head in an attempt to clear my thoughts. I decided against telling him the conversation that conspired between Monica and I, knowing Devon, he'd blame himself for the situation.
As I lift my arm, I catch sight of that dark indent on my wrist. I absentmindedly trace the mark with my left index finger as I attempt to tune out the exasperated rant coming from my brother's trying to make sense of things. He pauses and looks at me, and I try to cover the mark with my left hand, though I know there's no point.
I don't blame him for rambling since I can't make sense of it either. The scene from the day before continuously plays in my mind. My vision tinting black, Monica running away in fear, black fire lighting around me, the desert igniting into the world's most mysterious wildfire. I don't understand what happened yesterday, but after I burned everything in sight, I passed out and woke up in a blank room with nothing but a single light bulb, a television screen hanging next to the door, and a sterilized cot in the corner.
I sat alone, staring at the ceiling, until my brother walked through the door with anger and worry striking his weary face. He continued to mutter to himself for the next twenty minutes and I've been staring at my arm with a blank expression. The more I think about my anger from before, I see the black slowly climb up my arm only to recede when I calm myself.
Something seems off about Devon, more than usual at least. He seems concerned, but his face doesn't show fear and sympathy, instead, he almost looks disappointed. Listening to the words being spit under his breath, I see his eyes widen in horror, and a quiet sentence escapes. What's going to happen to me? It's clear those words weren't meant to be heard, and I just pretend to not have heard them.
After a minute, he takes in a deep breath and exaggeratedly exhales, lowering his hands and scrunching his eyebrows together only to focus his vision on me again. "What happened, Castelle?" he enunciates each word very carefully.
It takes me a second to string together a coherent sentence, and when I do I realize it's still not really a response. "I wish I could tell you," was all I could manage after a few moments of silence.
He looked like he was about to speak again until a large, bulky, middle-aged man enters the room. He had a scar running down the left side of his cheek, a thinning scalp which clearly indicated his age, and a permanent scowl tattooed onto his burning glare. I would be intimidated but I noticed he walked bow-legged and with a limp, his back was hunched and he stood lopsided.
I could tell the limp was from a prosthetic leg he was trying, but failing to conceal, back and arm injuries could be from age but the emblem marked on his chest suggests it was from fighting. He donned the uniform of a high ranked officer; blue with white cuffs, and a triangle of stars splayed on his pocket. Despite the dangerous criminal seated in front of him, he wasn't scared, but disgusted, sneering right when he saw me. After a quick evaluation, I realized how easily I could overtake him if I really had to. And I might if he keeps looking at me like that.
He grabbed Devon by the arm and forced him outside. The fight seemed to have gone out of my brother, and I don't blame him. The man left the door wide open, and the notion of escape crossed my mind. I could've just gotten up and left, but before I could do anything, President Malachi Blaire entered the room.
A wave of exhaustion finally washes over me, the events of the last few days taking a real toll on my stamina. I walk over to the wall on my right and sit down, staring at my target across the room. As the pompous aristocrat walks towards me, I hold out my wrists in defeat, pleading for him to incarcerate me. Running takes so much effort that I simply don't have anymore.
He wears a black tailored blazer, unbuttoned, and a white collared undershirt with the top button forgotten. His hands are shoved in his black dress pants, and he's leaning against the doorway, staring at me with an expression I can't seem to decipher, though it defines his jaw even more. His eyes are bluer than I remember, his hair falling over them in a mess that's somehow tangled yet put together. He attempts to push his locks back, but they keep falling into their original place.
He's grown since I've last seen him, he must be at least six feet at this point. I haven't spoken to him since we were children, but part of me can't help but notice how attractive he's become.
"Castelle," he begins, "It's been a while." His eyes remain hard as he stares at the wall, shooting me a courteous glance every now and then. Neither of us say more for at least a minute. I sit there, my mouth opened dumbly, with my eyes jumping up and down his body, trying to assess his tone, his face, his stance, something. But he's a book that I just can't seem to read. I must look idiotic.
"What? No hello?" he continues, looking at me wholly now, "As cold as ever. But I guess it is understandable considering what you did." His expression falters, but that doesn't bother me as much as the fact that he can still bear to look at me. "It's a shame, you and Monica used to be friends." He says the last bit as an afterthought. Had I been anyone else, it wouldn't have been heard, but the way he swallows hard stirs something in me. Guilt maybe? I still might not be aware of what I've done, but I do know I don't regret doing it. So how is this man making me feel guilty with just a glance?
His boyish eyes remind me that I used to be very close to the Blaire's until Monica became the Blaire Witch that I remember her as now. That was six years ago, making Kai nineteen now.
I force myself to remember who he is now. What he's done to his country, the people on the streets, the aristocracy laughing at us. He's no different from the rest of them. I force myself to remember what he's allowed Stafford to do, and how's he's just sat by while it was all happening. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, I force myself to remember how he's allowed all of this to happen. He's the reason why my life turned out this way, way I've grown so accustomed to fighting.
The past is the past, but right now he's the enemy.
Kai must notice my cold expression because he starts towards me and I subconsciously back away, feeling smaller in his presence than I've ever felt before. "I knew you hated my younger sister, but I never realized how much." His words make me swallow, but I refuse to look away, not giving him the satisfaction.
"What are you doing?" I managed to say without my voice wavering.
"Just catching up with an old acquaintance." He looks up and down my person, and suddenly I notice I'm wearing nothing but a medical robe. Aware of how vulnerable I am, I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks and start to wish I had my jacket with me. There are at least a dozen thoughts fighting in his mind, but he just looks down, and meets my eyes again. "Why did you do it?" he asks, looking genuinely hurt now.
"I'm sure you know why," I glared at him intensely. Probably not the best time to act petty, but I don't care, he deserved it.
Kai's staring at the ground. I can tell that he wasn't mad, but his eyes hung helplessly, "I'm sorry. But at least you got your revenge." He stood up, turning away from me.
"Well then, just kill me already." I call out to him much louder than I intended, not realizing how badly I want my request to be granted. "Get your's."
He turns to me with another look that I can't decipher, "You're right, I should kill you." He pauses, choosing his next words very carefully. His sadness is put away, and his eyes turn just as cold as mine in an instant, remembering that he's talking to a prisoner. "But there's no need to chastise you, at least not yet. You have much too great a purpose to serve. It'd be a waste to get rid of you now."
My eyes unconsciously flick back to my arms. One is carved with the strange black indent, another adorned with a piercing dagger, both exposed for the first time. My mind runs, wondering which he could possibly be referring to. "Why not?"
"My motives will be revealed in time, first there's a little task I'll need your help with."
I want to laugh, baffled by his lack of resolve to punish me. "I killed your sister and you want me to run an errand for you?"
"Trust me, it's no simple errand. I'll have guards sent to you soon to escort you to your new quarters. I'll request your company as soon as the arrangement is settled, so be expecting that as well." His strict business tone sounds foreign coming from his mouth. "And I'm glad that we got a chance to talk. I can't believe I missed you growing up so much."
"It's hard to believe that you missed me at all," I muttered mostly to myself, but by a slight turn of his head, I can tell that he heard me.
His tone doesn't change, his face doesn't soften. He remains the exemplary, unfeeling Commander in Chief he's been raised to be. "That's a shame to hear Ms. Berkeley," he looks away, believing the response was enough.
"Enough of the niceties. Just tell me, what are you going to do with me?"
He clears his throat. We're no longer the close pair we used to be, just two strangers in a room speaking business. "I can't give much information, but I'll give this. You're going to Trinity Central."
"Welcome to Cardinal Tower."