by Daryl Banner
“There are wild creatures that come out during the rains!”
“Oh? Like you?” taunts Wick.
Dran scowls. “Are you wishing to get a hand, elbow, or foot knobbed off by a toothed Great Fish or a long-clawed Wildercat? Just the other day when Kraag foraged up the river, he said he saw—”
“Save the lecture until we’ve a roof over our heads, will you?”
“Aye, I’ll save the worthless lecture for when I’m standing over your mauled body, mauled by a fucking Wildercat.”
Through the soggy, waving trees they go, watched over by a magnificent sky of grey warring clouds and flashes of bright light chased away by rolling booms of thunder.
It’s a five minute sprint before they are standing safely in a cabin at the edge of the village of Gaea, their little dwelling here in the Oblivion, staring out a glassless window at the rain. Wick can see the wet porches of two neighboring cabins, their inhabitants standing on them, watching as the weather rolls by.
Has anyone here ever gotten used to the difference in life outside the confining Wall of Atlas? Or will such simple things as the weather always be so awe-inspiring out here?
“You’ve never even seen one,” mumbles Wick, hugging a heavy blanket of wool over his shoulders to warm up.
Dran quirks an eyebrow, his eyes caked in that dark goo that is courtesy of his Legacy, making him look like a raccoon. “One what?”
“Wildercat. Your so-named deadly, completely untamable cat of the wild. Long claws or not, you’ve never seen one yourself.” He elbows Dran. “How do you know it isn’t just a tale these idiots have concocted to scare us into staying close to camp? As it is, we—”
“Anwick,” Dran states warningly, knowing where he’s going.
“We haven’t explored beyond the rift,” Wick persists anyway.
“We are exploring more every day. We know the terrain of the wild for a good amount of distance in all directions. Need I show you the map in the commons cabin, which gets bigger with every passing day? Why are you not satisfied?”
He’s seen the map a hundred times, hence his annoyance with how the map immediately truncates at the rift, which he still hasn’t seen in the flesh. “That map grows bigger and bigger, yes, but not in the direction of the rift.”
“And with good reason. Until we have the means …”
“We have Legacies aplenty. Let those be our arms.”
“I’ve been out here a lot longer than you.”
“And you don’t speak for the rest of the camp,” Wick spits back, his frustration mounting like the storm outside. “People are restless.”
“You are restless.” Dran faces Wick at once, towering over him a whole foot. “What you ought to be worried over is how you and I are getting back into the Last City of Atlas. Not how you and I are getting farther from it.”
Wick’s face sobers. “I do want to get home. Don’t mistake me. I want that more than anything.”
“So?”
“But there’s nothing but desert that way.” Wick waves his hand toward the south. “All the way from here to the Wall, just sand and heat and nothing. We can’t reasonably cross it without first building our resources and knowledge. And that includes exploring the areas we have been too afraid to explore … until now.”
Dran shakes his head in pity, then turns away to face the storm outside, folding his arms.
Wick comes right up to Dran’s side and rests a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We will get home someday. I know it. Everyone does. But maybe our answer isn’t here. Maybe it’s out there.” Take a deep breath … This next part is gonna hit a nerve. “I’ve been … I’ve been thinking I should ask Chief Cagemont if we can assemble—”
Dran’s reply is instant and stone-hard. “That woman will not be your leverage. I don’t care how sweet she’s gotten on your like, or how inspired she is by your Legacy, or how curious she is about what’s beyond our Oblivion. She doesn’t believe we’ll ever return to Atlas. She thinks this is our only future, and that, my dear friend, is an idea I will not subscribe to.”
Despite the tension building between them when they argue—which Wick has, over the months, gotten quite used to—he will not let it go, nor does he let go of Dran’s shoulder. If he has to take advantage of Chief Korah Cagemont’s kindness toward him to learn what’s beyond the rift, he will.
“Tell me, Dran,” Wick persists, his voice even, his hand giving a squeeze. “What of those woods to the west? What if there are more sources of food we haven’t yet discovered? It’s the thicker, deeper woods—the wilderwoods—that stretch on and on. They wrap about the side of Atlas like a glove, maybe even touching the Wall at some point. You can see it if you look far enough at the cliffs. We could bypass the sands. Can you imagine what—?”
“No, I do not, in fact, wish to think anything of the wilderwoods, where we have lost no less than six of our men and women.”
“Dran, your lack of imagination is annoying.”
Dran takes in a deep breath, then lets it out. Suddenly, his whole demeanor softens. “You’re speaking to the inventor of the Retractable Sharp, mind you.” Dran straightens his posture and gives Wick a superior smirk. “Besides, our sense of orientation is an assumption right now. We could be staring at the back of the Abandon. Or it could be the first ward. Who knows? We sure as fuck don’t.”
“We very well know which way is west and east, obviously.”
“Thanks to the sun, I know.”
“So that is west, and that is east, and that—” Wick points. “—is the north end of Atlas we’re staring at. It ought to be the sixth across that desert, by all rights. All of the Hightowers in the north of Atlas, on the other side of that Wall, entirely unaware of us staring at their backsides from afar.”
“Well, aren’t you a regular genius. The sixth is northwest,” Dran corrects him with a smirk. “So we might be staring at the fifth, if we are truly north of Atlas. Or even possibly the fourth. Isn’t the fifth rumored to be a tiny sliver of nothing? My point was that we don’t know for sure. The city is a fucking mystery, and Sanctum worked as hard as they could to keep it that way.”
Wick studies the side of Dran’s face. He isn’t sure he’s going to get anywhere arguing with him, as he’s a stubborn piece of black-iron steel at times. Of course, so am I. “A mystery, indeed.”
“So if you want to continue being a genius,” Dran goes on with a snarky tilt of his head, “maybe you can start figuring out how us more sensible types plan to get across those endless sands … instead of obsessing over the rift.”
Unlike Wick, Dran is not having such a good day, it seems. He gets like this, on and off. At times, Wick isn’t sure how to handle his mood swings.
But he certainly knows where the moods come from: the same tortured place Wick’s dreams do.
He decides to coax a bit of confession from his friend. “I’ve … been thinking a lot about Athan lately.”
Dran doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, finally, he nods slowly, grunting, “Aye. And I of my Mercy. What of it?”
“Do you think we’ll ever see them again?”
To that, Dran only stares out the window, not answering. The soothing wash of rain is the only sound to fill their ears. Neither of them seem to move or even breathe as the rain brushes the rooftops and the wind sweeps in through the glassless windows, a drop pulled inside and touching Wick’s face now and then, like a tear.
Even the storms are beautiful out here.
When the storm clears hours later, the world is bright and smells of grass and damp soil. Wick and Dran step outside together, the warm sun beaming over them, drying up the world. Others have emerged from their cabins, too, and it isn’t long before people return back to their work.
For some, that work involves foraging, crafting, or for some of the lazier folk, a lot of nothing. For others, such as the cooks, it means preparing a middle-day meal. Between the three or four of those with cooking talent, their Legacies make the ne
cessary process of preserving the animals’ meat the hunters have captured possible without freezing or refrigeration, as well as the processes of skinning them, carving them up, and cooking them over a fire. In just under an hour, a meal big enough for the whole camp is ready. Some sit on their porches to eat. Some gather around the fire, despite sweating in the humidity the rain left behind and the sun over their heads. Still others sit among the grass and dirt in circles, talking and sharing stories of their latest discoveries while swatting away flies.
Wick and Dran seek out their crew of usuals to eat with on the porch of the crafting cabin—a few boys younger than them from the tenth who were touched by Metal Hand together, charged falsely for an armed robbery, a sweet young woman who always has stories about her latest trips into the grasses, and an old man named Trovis, who keeps silent and just smiles at everything. Now and then they are joined by Rychis, Kraag, and Barley, fellow men from the ninth, but today the three are not yet back from a midday hunt.
Every day is a journey out here in the Oblivion, but one unlike any that Wick has experienced before, even in his dreams. Each day feels less real than the last. Wick sometimes wonders whether this is a dream he’s stuck in, or if his life in the slums of Atlas was the dream and he’s only now woken up.
Perhaps he truly was obliterated in Cloud Tower by the touch of Metal Hand. Perhaps this world is his eternal mind consoling him for having died and left his body behind.
Perhaps this is the Beyond.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, thinks Wick with a smirk and a little careless shrug. Perhaps you are losing your silly mind, slum boy, he teases himself, for a moment thinking of Athan’s voice.
That moment of his voice makes him think of his hands. Of his body. Of his blue eyes, his golden hair, his broad, handsome smile.
No, this is no dream.
The Last City of Atlas, waiting patiently across those sands, that is the dream. And I must return to it as soon as I possibly can.
An hour later, and while picking meat out of his teeth, Wick says his farewells and separates from the others. Alone, he walks up the grassy hill to the thinner woods that face the hot expanse of desert. He reaches the precipice—the top of a hill that feels more like a cliff overlooking the great expanse of sand where the Wall of Atlas is visible far, far in the distance. It’s the very first place Dran took him on his first day here in the Oblivion, the day Anwick Lesser’s eyes were opened. ‘What is it you think you’re looking at?’ Dran had asked him. ‘The Wall,’ Wick had answered, in awe. And then Dran: ‘Aye, but have you realized yet which side of it you’re standing on?’
It’s near the edge where the hill turns into a cliff that Wick finds a triplet of trees he’s claimed as his own. Tiny notches live in the bark, notches that Wick put there himself: a notch for each day since that first one out here in the Oblivion long ago. He pulls out a blade made of sharpened flint from the pocket of his tattered linen shorts and cuts one more notch for today.
One hundred and eighty-one notches, spread across three trees.
One hundred and eighty-one days since I’ve seen you, Wick thinks to himself, closing his tired eyes and picturing Athan Broadmore in the darkness behind his eyelids, his golden hair, soft eyes, and broad, heart-crushing smile.
Wick sits down, leans his back against the tree, and stares across the endless waste, filling his eyes with the view of the distant Wall. It looks so tiny, which is even more alarming still, as he knows exactly how magnificently, unfathomably tall the Wall is up close.
If it looks that tiny from here on this hill, then we must truly be unimaginably far away.
Crossing that desert alone would take days. Maybe even weeks. The more he thinks on it, the less certain he is that any of them will ever see Atlas again. He knows there were attempts by others in the past to cross the sands, but they’re either found dead, or return half-alive and reduced in number, reporting on others’ deaths. Maybe the people of Gaea are just waiting for the right Legacy to be spat out of the portal point where Metal Hand’s victims appear, to aid them in somehow crossing those sands.
But even if they were to cross them, they still have the daunting, most trying task of all: getting on the other side of that Wall.
He doesn’t suppose they will be getting a person with the very precise Legacy of teleportation or flying anytime soon.
I wasn’t the right Legacy they were wishing for.
“Sulking doesn’t suit you.”
Wick snorts and shakes his head at his guest—the same guest he ever has out here. “Always following me around, are you?”
Dran takes a seat near him, leaning his back against the same tree. Their shoulders touch as the pair of them stare off across the sands. Neither of them speak as the gentle, warm breeze dances across their skin like silken sheets.
“Are you not tired yet?” asks Dran lazily. “Or is it too early?”
Having others know about his condition has never been easy for Wick. Out here in the Oblivion, however, anything seems to go. No one’s made a big deal out of his being the only one in the world who sleeps past the age of two.
“A bit early. I don’t get tired until long after sundown, and even then,” mumbles Wick just as lazily. “So much keeps me up at night. Thoughts. Many, many thoughts.”
“Share one of your thoughts with me.”
Wick isn’t so sure Dran wants to hear the most of his thoughts, which involve Athan and things they might do behind closed doors, so Wick purses his lips and searches for something he can share. “Well. To be honest … one such thought I’ve had is … why doesn’t Metal Hand teleport the actual big metal gauntlet he wears? Or the very particles of air and dust before his fingertips?”
Dran lets out one short bark of laughter. “Of all the shit to be thinking on …”
“You asked for a thought. I gave you one.”
Dran shrugs, the movement jostling Wick’s side. “Who knows how Metal Hand’s Legacy works? Maybe it only affects flesh and bone and blood, whatever’s inside us, and that is why we arrive here naked as our birthday.”
“And I wonder sometimes how he came to discover his Legacy. Did he accidentally cast his friends away when they were children? Or his own parents, even? Are they here among us, concealing their identities?” Wick turns his face slightly. “Have any of these notions crossed your mind? You’ve been out here longer than I have.”
“Certainly. And if his friend, parent, or sibling was touched by him at a young age, they’d be much older now. Maybe even dead. I mean, we don’t really know how old Metal Hand is. Has anyone seen him out of his metal armor? I heard he has an ugly face.”
“Or her.”
“Or her,” agrees Dran, nodding slowly. “Could be that she has an ugly face. Rychis said he saw it once, though doesn’t recall much but ‘an ugly, mannish face’. Metal Hand might be a large woman under that suit. I’ve often wondered was his or her real name is. Or what it was before Impis took them in, claimed them as his own. Like a toy.”
“Like a big, deadly toy.”
“And if Metal Hand did send a friend or family member out here, and they were one of the first, it’s possible they didn’t have the skills it takes to survive.” Dran shudders. “I don’t wish to think on how it was for the first several who didn’t have a comfy Gaea to live in. Or the first many who had to build Gaea from scratch … who had to figure things out for the rest of our lucky like.”
“And I can’t stop thinking of my brother,” Wick goes on, unable to help himself now that the doors have torn open in his mind. “That last look on his face before …” He sighs, unable to finish.
Even after all this time, thoughts of Lionis’s leap off the edge of the Lifted City still haunt him. Countless times, he’s jerked himself awake and given a shout into the stale air of his cabin before realizing where he was. Each time he’d jerk awake, he would then hear the muffled chatter of some folk outside his cabin, which calmed him. Or he’d be met by Dran, who might have bee
n standing somewhere outside, heard him, and raced in to see if he was okay.
Dran’s been looking out for me like a brother of his own.
Despite being out here for so long, often he expects to wake up in his house in the ninth, or in the headquarters at the sixth, or even sometimes in the Noodle Shop. But every morning, it’s out here that he wakes instead. Out here in the Oblivion.
“It really affects one’s mind, living in the wilds,” Dran mutters thoughtfully.
“That, it does,” Wick agrees.
He is struck suddenly with a deep appreciation for Dran’s existence. The pair of them have been nearly inseparable since Wick first appeared in this place. They also both share the loss of a brother at the direct hands of Sanctum as well as the separation from their lovers, who are still in the great and terrible city across that desert.
Of course, there is something else they share.
Something of which Dran is blissfully unaware.
Something Wick may never have the guts to reveal.
I am the reason Dran is out here at all. It was Rain and our bombs of blue ink that exploded that day long ago at the Weapon Show. It was Dran who was blamed for them, he and his brother sentenced to death by Ruena Netheris. It was Dran’s brother who was killed by the scream of the Banshee King on the broadcast as a result, and Dran touched by the cold, clammy bare finger of Metal Hand.
All of that was a direct result of Wick and Rain’s actions.
“Something on your mind?” asks Dran suddenly.
Wick’s face must have revealed his worry. He deflects the look with another question entirely. “If you never got to see your Mercy again, do you think you would move on?”
Dran wrinkles up his face. “The fuck sort of question is that?”
“An honest one. What if one of these days, some pretty girl got tossed among us from Metal Hand’s touch?”
“No one has come in months,” Dran points out. “Not since you.”
“True. But still. Entertain my what-if.”
“What makes you think I haven’t already had my fun with a lady or two during my time out here?” Dran folds his leg and props a hand over his knee. “As badly as we wish to return to the city, it’s not likely we’re finding our way back inside anytime soon. Mercy’s found herself a man by now, certainly, or else takes pleasure in her wicked solitude. She’s always been a strong woman.”