Legacy

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Legacy Page 6

by Travis Brett


  They didn’t know how it felt to be activated, to be truly alive.

  Sparks spun around, walking backwards over the potholes. He was still careful to keep each foot on the edges of the cracks. “Wonderful evening for a romantic stroll, isn’t it?” he asked Caleb.

  A trail of rado-weed smoke swirled in Caleb’s wake, and a leather satchel hung over his broad shoulders. “I hope you know, Sparks, I don’t fuck on the first date.”

  “A kiss then?”

  “Only if you’re the perfect gentlemen. You’d have to take me somewhere a bit more . . . homely.”

  Sparks laughed. “Well, aren’t you a fussy mo’fo. You’ve got everything you need for romance here: rubble, cracks . . . fine artwork.” He gestured to the nearest wall, where the outline of male genitalia had been carved onto the brick.

  “I’m practically shitting wonder and affection,” Caleb said.

  “I often have that effect on people. I’m pretty much a—”

  “Natural laxative?”

  “Oh come on Caleb, you know I was going to say an angel of grace and charm.”

  Caleb snorted. “An angel, eh? Where do you get off? I swear that sometimes—” He stopped mid-step. “Is that a cat?”

  Sparks halted beside him. He had nearly stood on a mangled cat corpse. Three eyes, six legs, completely void of fur. A true mutie cat. Radiation had played its creative games with this one.

  Sparks hopped over the corpse. “I promised you all the romantic activities in the book, and a date isn’t complete without a barely recognizable cat carcass.”

  “You really do know how to treat a man.”

  “Like you can talk. I haven’t seen you on any dates recently.”

  “Too busy.”

  “Oh yeah? With what?”

  “Babysitting.”

  Sparks raised a hand to his hearts in mock offense. “Seems a bit mean to attack me, just because you can’t admit you’re far too ugly to get a date.”

  “Nothing wrong with my face. Chicks dig it.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “And what has the lil’ baby heard?” Caleb put on his coddling voice. He ran one huge hand through Sparks’ hair.

  Sparks pushed him away. Fuck that voice, I’m not a kid. “I heard it wasn’t the Days of Fire that nearly wiped out humanity, it was your face.”

  Caleb chuckled — full-blown laughter by his standards. He gave Sparks a solid punch to the shoulder.

  “Resorting to violence eh?” Sparks said. “You really are in denial.”

  He ducked Caleb’s next blow, and it’s follow up. Caleb grumbled something under his breath, then returned his cigarette to his mouth. Sparks turned his attention back to the street.

  He had never been to the third district before. The houses here were well maintained – not for appearances, but for defensibility. Steel bars welded over window frames, scavenged barbed wire hanging from rooftops. Some buildings even had improvised walls surrounding them, built from rubble. These were the homes of people who had enough to fear looting. Which, to be fair, didn’t need to be much.

  Several of the larger houses had guards. Sparks noted one burly thug holding a hammer in each hand. The man sneered at them as they passed. You look like a fine challenger, Sparks thought, care for a quick brawl? He blew the man a kiss. The thug raised a hammer threateningly but didn’t leave his post. Disappointing.

  “Was this what you used to do?” Sparks asked Caleb. “Back when you were a mercenary.”

  “I was more of an . . . offensive bodyguard.”

  “Your face does tend to offend.” Sparks’ comment earned himself another cuff on the shoulder.

  “Shut it, or I’ll take you back to your crib,” Caleb said. “Ah, we’ve got company.”

  Two militia approached. They looked ridiculous in their bulky body armour. How did they expect to fight with all that gear on? No manoeuvrability at all. It’s like they planned to get hit. Any pit fighter would be laughed at if he wore such armour — the true fighters knew speed was the only real advantage.

  One militia was armed with a bow, the other with an axe. They both sported the same close-cut black haircut and over-sized nose. What’s the chance two strangers were born so equally ugly? Must be brothers.

  The axe-armed man raised his hand. “Your papers.”

  Caleb opened his satchel while the militia showered Sparks with scowls. He winked back at them and resumed his whistling.

  Caleb pulled a paper from the bag. Sparks caught a brief glimpse of the writing as the military grabbed it. He only recognized the four symbols on the top of the page, the same four that were tattooed on his neck and ankle. SX37. Sparks couldn’t read – he guessed the militia couldn’t either, not properly – but he knew enough to know that this wasn’t true paper. It was a dried, processed animal skin. Parchment. True paper was something only the ancients created.

  The military hummed as he pretended to read. Sparks expected all he was really doing was checking the stamp at the bottom of the document. Juliette’s seal.

  “Seems to be in order.” The military returned the paper to Caleb. “Stay wary. There’s been a rise in rogues recently.” He glanced at Sparks as he said it.

  “Noted.” Caleb tucked the document away, and they resumed their journey.

  Sparks absent-mindedly rubbed his neck where his tattoo scarred his skin. Sometimes he imagined that if he scratched hard enough it would peel away. Once, as a kid, he had tried all night, blood running down his arms, dead skin caught in his nails. In the morning those four letters still remained.

  SX37.

  It had been the night after he had been marked. He was six years old.

  He remembered the sound of his mother’s tears when they sold him, his father’s angry voice, but he didn’t remember their faces. They were just his first owners and were no better than the long line of men that followed. And now there was Caleb.

  Although, no matter what that document said, it wasn’t really Caleb who owned him. It was Roman who had paid for him. Sparks ground his teeth, trying to stop thinking of the old bastard. But now the thought was there, it stuck.

  Sparks couldn’t understand what he had done wrong. Why did Roman despise him? Sparks had fought well at Lady Luck — shit, he had saved Roman’s life. But did he get a word of thanks? No.

  With a shudder, Sparks recalled the final events at Lady Luck, right after Burrstone had been deactivated. Roman had looked straight at Sparks and reached for his gun. He was going to shoot me. Despite how well I fought for him, he was ready to kill me. Why?

  Sparks punted a loose rock, infuriated with the complete injustice of it all. You need to relax, he told himself, think of this like a fight — fights are never fair. Because of his height, Sparks had always had at a size disadvantage when pit fighting. Sometimes they even made him fight two opponents at once. But he always found a way to win.

  This would be no different.

  He would earn Roman’s trust. Somehow.

  * * *

  “We’re here,” Caleb said.

  Sparks pulled to a halt, examining the mansion before them. Standing at five stories tall, it was easily the largest building on the street. The windows were mostly still intact — an impressive feat — and were made of stained glass. Like many of the buildings this close to the centre of Legacy, steel support beams had been added, surrounding the walls like a cage.

  Sparks raised an eyebrow. “This is really a club for pit fighting?”

  “This is the Gentleman’s Den. They prefer to be called an upper-class gambling society.”

  “Why don’t the rich assholes just go to regular gambling clubs?”

  Caleb tossed his cigarette into the gutter. “Wealthy people believe poverty is contagious.”

  “Sounds stupid.”

  “No, it sounds arrogant. Stupidity and arrogance are similar, but not the same thing.”

  A gravel path led through a garden overgrown with rado-weed and thorns, en
ding with a series of steps rising to a pair of oak doors. Two brutes flanked the entrance, each holding crossbows. Three black pit bulls lay at their heels. As he approached Sparks realized what he had first assumed were patches of white fur on a sleeping mutt were actually large teeth growing from the skin.

  “What you want?” one the guards grunted.

  “To gamble, drink, and show Rosie a good time,” Caleb responded.

  The guard nodded, satisfied. “Welcome to the Gentleman’s Den.”

  The other guard opened the door and Caleb and Sparks stepped inside. “What the hell?” Sparks exclaimed. “They clean the floor?”

  “Of course.”

  “But why? It’s the floor!”

  “Excuse me, sir,” a polite voice rang through the foyer. “Can I take your . . . mutie?”

  Sparks tore his gaze from the freakishly clean tiles to notice an elderly man approaching. He wore plain black trousers and a thick shouldered black coat over a white shirt. A strange black sash hung from his neck. He glared down at Sparks over his upturned nose.

  Sparks’ arm twitched. His fingers curled into fists. It had been a long time since anyone had called him a mutie — a slang term normally used for deformed animals — to his face.

  Caleb placed one over-sized hand on Sparks’ shoulder. “Certainly. I can find my own way upstairs.”

  “Of course, sir.” The old man’s voice was unnaturally proper, his diction too crisp. “Follow me, SX37.”

  Sparks pushed Caleb’s hand away. “My name’s Sparks,” he said.

  “Of course, SX37.”

  “And your name is History.” Sparks fell in step behind him. “You know, on account of you being so old.”

  They walked through a doorway and down a circular flight of stone steps, lit by small fluorescent bulbs which lined the bottom of the walls. Sparks ran his hand across a handrail made of marble, the smooth texture cold against his skin. People live in houses like this? Posh assholes probably even sleep on cushions.

  If he were here, Roman would probably be ranting about what the Ancients had made such a mansion for. Sparks wouldn’t have listened. The Ancients were dead. Gone. Departed. If they even had existed at all.

  Roman believed a lot of shit though. He said they had been other cities just like Legacy, that men had been able to talk through cables underground, that guns had been common enough for everyone to own one, even though the entire city was filled with people. Impossible.

  How could a civilization with that many guns be wiped out?

  How would you feed that many people?

  Utter bullshit.

  The door at the bottom of the stairs was reinforced with steel plates. Three thick bolt locks ran across its edge. With a tired groan, the old man pulled back the bolts and pushed the door open.

  “You’ll wait here.” He didn’t even look at Sparks as he spoke. “I will return for you when it is time for your fight.”

  “Come on History, sure you don’t want to stay and enjoy my company?” Sparks grinned. “You could tell me all about the Days of Fire.”

  History frowned, irritated. “The Days of Fire were a hundred years ago.”

  “So how old were you back then? Twenty? It’ll be a nostalgic experience for you.”

  “I’m forty-two.”

  “Ah well, say hello to your granddaughter from me.”

  The thick door shut with a weighty groan. Sparks counted the three clicks as the locks slid into place. He was left in a bare stone cellar, lit by a single flickering bulb. The air was stuffy and smelt of mould and dirt. Nobody had bothered to clean the floor here, nor the walls. Or anything else.

  Three boys sat in the corner, all roughly Sparks’ age. They watched him with keen interest. He knew exactly what they were thinking about: one of them would be pitted against him in the fight, so they wanted to judge how dangerous he was.

  Sparks strolled over and sat with them. “I like what they’ve done with the place,” he said, gesturing theatrically at the room around them. “The lack of furniture adds volumes to the sense of being in a dungeon.”

  On the street above, Sparks’ ragged leather boots, ripped trousers and woollen vest had felt like beggars’ garments, but contrasted against these boys, Sparks was embarrassingly well-dressed. He felt a little guilty for the clean clothes Caleb had brought him.

  “So,” he clapped his hands together. “Who do I have the pleasure of beating up today?”

  The largest of the three grinned. “Bold words. I reckon I might have to start the fight by breaking your jaw. That’ll shut you up real good.”

  Sparks sized him up. He approved of what he saw. The boy was a solid foot taller than Sparks, and the criss-cross of scars running up his toned arms testified to his experience. His nose was bent to one side — like it had once been broken and healed wrong — and his smile revealed he was missing over half his teeth.

  “I’d still be the prettier fighter,” Sparks replied.

  The boy laughed. “Feisty. I like it. This will a fight to remember.” He extended a hand to Sparks. “My name’s Mole.”

  Mole’s grip was firm, uncomfortably strong. “I’m Sparks.”

  One of the other two — the smallest, who also looked near-starved to death — gave Sparks a confused glance. But if he recognized Sparks’ name, he didn’t say anything.

  “Who’s your owner?” Sparks asked Mole.

  “Mark Gilligan.”

  Sparks recognized the name. While he had been at the Haven, he had met several Adrenalites who fought for Gilligan. “Ah, that fucker. Tell me, does he still feed you only chicken before a fight, because he thinks it’s good luck?”

  “You know it.”

  They bantered about nothing in particular for the next ten minutes, joking about fights and past owners. Sparks realized how long it had been since he had spoken with other Adrenalites, unless he counted his brief exchange with Burrstone. He had missed this. Caleb was alright, but he didn’t understand what life was like for an Adrenalite. He couldn’t know Sparks like these boys could.

  At the first lull in the conversation, Sparks decided to try his luck at getting information. “You guys heard about Candle?”

  The two smaller boys shook their heads, but Mole nodded enthusiastically. “Of course I have,” he said. “Death to the Captain. Death to the Ministries. Death before defeat. Right?”

  “Death before defeat,” Sparks repeated with a smile. “How do you know about him?”

  Mole shrugged. “Word gets around. You don’t escape the wind farms without making a name for yourself.”

  “That’s bullshit,” said one of the other boys. The middle-sized one. “I heard there’s over a hundred militia guarding the wind farms. No one escapes.”

  “Candle did,” Mole said smugly. “I heard he used a rock to cut his own chest open. The shock gave him such an adrenaline rush that it activated him — he didn’t need an injection. Then he fought his way out with his bare hands.”

  Sparks’ excitement dampened. Mole sounded like he was trying to impress them with exaggerated lies, but Sparks needed something factual to report back to Roman. “Do you know where I could find him?”

  Mole laughed. “You idiot. You think he’d still be alive if he anyone knew where he was hiding?”

  “But someone has to know, right?”

  The smallest boy turned to Sparks. “Why are you looking for him?”

  “I . . .” Sparks hesitated. “I want to join him.”

  “You want to go rogue?”

  “Of course I do. Those ministry idiots deserve to—”

  The boy’s fist slammed into his cheek and Sparks reeled backwards. He tasted blood in his mouth. Instinctively, he rolled away and leapt to his feet. “What the fuck was that for?”

  “I knew I recognized your name.” The kid was now also on his feet, one finger pointed at Sparks. “You work for that bounty hunter. You kill rogues.”

  Sparks’ groaned, taking two steps back as the other boy
s also stood. Now that he was standing, Mole’s height advantage over Sparks was a lot more obvious. He crossed his arms, snarling. “Is that true?” he asked. It was more of a threat than a question.

  “I . . .” Sparks hesitated. Should he lie? No. That felt like the cowards way out. “Yeah, a bounty hunter brought me. So I fight rogues. And I beat them too.”

  Mole spat at Sparks’ feet. “You’re a fucking traitor.”

  “I’m not a traitor! I’m . . .” Sparks paused, suddenly unsure what he was. He had helped Roman capture Burrstone. But that didn’t mean anything. It’s not as though he worked for the ministry. “Roman’s my owner, I have to do what says.”

  “Bullshit. You’re helping the ministry catch Candle, aren’t you? That’s why you’re asking about him. You’re a lying fuck.”

  All three boys advanced on him.

  Sparks retreated a step. Could he talk his way out of this? Not likely. Talking had never been his forte. Instead, he repositioned into a fighting stance. “Try get a second punch. I dare you.”

  Mole took another step towards him. “Oh, I’m going to do more than that. I’m going to kill you. I’d be doing Candle a favour.”

  Sparks’ eyes darted between the three of them. He shuffled backwards until his back was against the wall — not ideal, but it was better than getting surrounded. Three against one wasn’t great odds, no matter how good he was. “You can’t kill me,” he said. “My owner will have your skin for it.”

  “I’m not allowed to kill you down here. But during the fight? I’ll rip your head off.”

  Mole was right — Adrenalite fights weren’t meant to end with death, but they often did. If Mole did kill Sparks during the fight, no one would blame him.

  Regardless, Sparks felt his confidence return. In a one-on-one fight, there was no way he would lose.

  Mole kept advancing, the other boys just behind him. Sparks realized Mole wasn’t going to risk a fair fight in the ring. He was going to injure Sparks now, enough that Mole would have the advantage in the proper fight later.

 

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