The next day, I started having coughing fits. I coughed so much that it hurt everywhere. And once after a bad fit, when my dad was caring for me, I was crying from the pain. He took one look at the color of my tears and his face turned pale.
Next thing you know, on my ninth birthday, he took me to the airport, saying we were going on vacation to Cape Dartley in Celsior to celebrate. I got on the plane, headed to the window seat, and screamed, “All right, window seat!” really loud. I had even less impulse control back then, but only marginally.
But he wasn't next to me telling me to keep my voice down. Mom wasn't there, either. There was just an envelope labeled “To Liv.”
Then the plane took off.
I couldn't believe my bad luck. Did they abandon me? Did Mom get stuck in the bathroom for too long? Did they just not care? I wanted to jump into the aisle and scream for the plane to land, running back and forth until someone in the cockpit barrel rolled us back into the airport and dropped me off into my mom's arms from the emergency exit. I wanted to throw the biggest temper tantrum on Luminar until I was home safe.
As a matter of fact, I did. Almost.
As I stumbled across the empty seats into the aisle, I noticed that my tears were coming out way more than normal. I was scared and sad, no doubt, but they were, like, gushing. The kind of waterfall-ish crying you'd see in a cartoon for a cheap gag, splattering on the walls.
What's more, the tears were glowing, and golden yellow in color. They were hot. Turning to steam. And they hurt. There was a flash of white, and I fell on the ground.
I didn't know what it was at the time, but my eyes were burning out of my sockets from within. White flames were shooting out of my head through my eyes, destroying any organic matter they came into contact with.
Of course, in retrospect, it was the coolest, most death metal thing that had ever happened in my life, and I like thinking about it because it makes me feel like a huge badass. But at the time, all I could think about was the pain. It lasted about three seconds, and the whole time, I thought I was having my eyes bitten out of my skull by an invisible monster.
Before I could even scream, I blacked out.
[Liv was brought before the Cosmic Torch!]
After a long time in a dreamless sleep, I woke up, drifting off into another world's sky. I'm not too sure if it was a dream or not; I could feel everything and remember everything.
There was a giant glowing cloud above me, purple and green, extending farther off than any direction I could see. Below me, there was a mountain. I twirled about helplessly, examining the new environment. Am I dead? I thought. Is this Paradisia? Is Paradisia really gonna be just this, forever? Is that supposed to make me happy? This is the worst.
I looked up, and something looked down at me.
I screamed, but only because it startled me. When that feeling passed over me, a sense of calm overwhelmed me from this being's presence. It was a tall alien, or a god, or something in between. Sparkling robes that folded inwardly forever, thousands of pairs of spiraling human arms, an oval face like a marble slab with no eyes, ribbons of cloth circling it like halos.
All surrounding a central torch of rainbow fire that served as its torso.
I couldn't explain why, but I felt like the fact that this thing existed, meant that everything was going to turn out fine.
Be Not Afraid, it said.
“Don't tell me how to feel!” I said. “What happened to my eyes?”
You have been chosen to share in my glory. My gift shall be upon you until the end of your days. In exchange, I ask only to go forth into your world, and be marvelous!
“Yeah, okay, but what happened to my eyes?”
[Kuhallen — Anoint]
A plume of plasma shot out from the torch at its center and struck me in the heart. There was another flash of light—
[Liv became a Mystic!]
—and I was back in my seat, with a couple of flight attendants watching over my recovery.
Looking back, the creature was the Kuhallen, also called the “Mystic Spirit,” the “Torch Bearer” or the “Distant Lighthouse.” It's an ethereal being that controls the Cosmic Torch, the source of Mystics' powers. Some of us worship it as a god, but it's not a god—not in the way Argo and the others are. No one's sure what this thing is, or where it came from. The only thing we do know is that it's here to help, whether we want its help or not.
When I regained my vision of the world around me, I was surrounded by all sorts of colors I hadn't seen in any rainbow. I thought I was hallucinating. The usual red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, et cetera was still there, but I also saw tock, ninlil, yaga, domovoi, ereshkigal... ‘Overstimulation’ would be putting it nicely.”
“What do those colors look like?” asked Era.
“Uh...first, try to explain 'pink' to someone who's blind.
Anyway, I woke up a little later on the plane...
“She's coming to,” said a flight attendant.
“You alright there, champ?” asked another.
I said nothing, still a little ticked off that the creepy alien god dude didn't answer my question.
There was some whispering behind my seat. “It's a good thing she got on the plane when she did. You know what those people do to Mystics.”
And just like that, I figured out why I was put on the plane. I was one of those “kid-chompers” that I hated so much.
Had I opened the “for Liv” box after that, I would have learned that my dad was trying to protect me from the Emperor's new anti-Mystic policies by sending me off to live with my rich aunt Phoebe in Cape Dartley until the whole situation blew over.
But as soon as I landed at the airport in Cape Dartley, I threw the box away, unopened, because I had already convinced myself of what it contained:
Dear Liv,
So, turns out you're a Mystic. I had no idea you were into eating babies and taking over Rosencrace, but you never can tell with some people, can you? The fact that you're my daughter is the only thing that kept me from killing you, but even then, it's pretty damn tempting.
Never come back to Rosencrace, you kid-chomping pig. Glory to the Emperor.
No love,
Dad
My own family kicked me out of their lives, I thought. There were so many what if's about the situation that, among the possible options of how this could turn out, being disowned by my family was the nicest one. ‘They were trying to protect me’ never even crossed my mind.
I wanted to disappear. I'm not sure if the day I thought my dad abandoned me after my eyes exploded was the worst day of my life, but it's at least in the top three.
The actual worst day of my life happened a year later.
If you've ever been to the more touristy areas of Cape Dartley, you'll probably know it's not the greatest place to be homeless. Apartments charge thousands of G by the day, none of the hospitals accept insurance, and half of the food is locally sourced organic seafood that costs as much as a car. They put edible gold leaf on lobster, for Argo's sake.
Luckily, the place was filled with violent street gangs. Never thought I'd say that sentence unironically. Anyway, the large population and the high cost of living ended up turning class warfare into a literal war, and frustrated poor people turned to robbing and killing in order to find a better life for themselves.
I hate hurting innocent people as much as the next person. But honestly, when the Celsioran royal family clings on to all the cash in Aries while telling the poor that they need to “lose the entitlement complex,” there's a point where taking stuff from others ends up being the only option for survival.
So, I joined the Headwounds. There were six of us—five teenage boys, and me. They let me in after their ringleader—“Four-Fifty,” he called himself, still not sure why—tried to kidnap me. I punched him in the crotch so hard he cried. This impressed him. He was more weird than intimidating, to be honest. Their nickname for me was “Dumpy.” In retrospect, I don't thin
k they meant it as a good thing, but I thought it was kinda cute at the time.
We went through our days stealing jewelry and watches from various shops and tourists and hoarding our loot in an abandoned tool shed on Whipple street. We didn't know any way to sell it without getting caught, but we told ourselves that when we did figure something out, we'd be set for life.
It was a good year. Not only did the Headwounds give me something resembling financial stability and friends, but I also got more of a handle on my abilities as a Mystic. I had a first grader's knowledge of spark and healing spells, but now, I only needed to think “fire” and the space in front of me would go up in flames. I loved doing it. Still do. There's a rush that comes with it, like a wave of satisfaction that comes when I use my destruction magic. It's like laying down in front of an air conditioner when it's 102 degrees out. If I don't do it for a while, I start getting antsy.
Whether it's a fun hobby or a dangerous addiction that'll eventually kill me, I can't say for sure.
Which brings us to May 10th, 5201...”
Liv closed her eyes and let out a long sigh.
“You alright?” asked Era.
“Food…” she said. “Now.”
Era pulled open an extra-large bag of CBC's, and as soon as Liv heard the distinctive “pop,” she sat up and snatched the bag from him. Shoving the open end of the bag onto her mouth, she snarled as she devoured the bag's contents, pounding on the back to ensure that there were no figurative survivors.
She shredded the empty bag in half, breathing heavily. Her face was covered in orange dust and tears. Her breathing became slower, and deeper.
She looked back at Era, thoroughly disgusted with herself.
“Anything else?” he asked, smiling.
She smiled back and laid on the couch. “Nah, I'm good now. Just needed to get that out of my system.”
Era looked at the bag's remains. “More like into your system, I'd say.”
“Shuddup!” she chuckled and tossed a throw pillow into his face.
“So, was that the omega werewolf-ism coming out?”
“Kinda. The symptoms can be more intense when you gotta remember something bad. Reminds me, though. You know that thing you said, about already having had the worst day of your life?”
“And that Lord Monty can only hope for second place?” asked Era.
“That's something that's been keeping me fighting, to be honest. Thanks for that, Slasher.”
Era blushed. “And that's what May 10th is?”
“Yeah...
It was by the Koschei Steel Mill docks, early in the afternoon. There was this old barge captain guy coming off one of the barges to finalize a shipment of steel making materials.
I'll never forget his face: covered in trimmed white hair, a rigid jawline and these tiny, beady eyes. He had a knit cap, at the tail end of spring, no less. Seriously, if you think “burly old sailor dude who probably has at least one anchor tattoo and at least seven corn cob pipes,” this vogger is who would come up in your mind. You'd think he was a model reference for fish sticks packaging.
The Headwounds and I were hanging out along the wharf, hiding behind some boxes. Grizzled sailor dude comes out and speaks with a white collar type from Koschei Steel, who had this big clipboard.
Four-Fifty told us that there was an entire bargeload of expensive sports watches being unloaded here, so we told ourselves we were gonna storm the barge and make off with the whole ship like pirates. Four-Fifty had heard so much about the street pirates the Empire was dealing with that he figured there was no competition in the “classic” sea pirate field, so strike while the iron's hot, right?
Speaking of iron, you could imagine our anger when we overheard the conversation: there was nothing on the barge but 2,000 metric tons of industrial grade pig iron. In retrospect, one doesn't really tend to ship 2,000 metric tons of sports watches to a steel mill, but even so, I was pretty pissed.
“How the vog we gonna sell iron?” I asked.
“Shut up,” said Four-Fifty.
“You said there were watches,” I said.
“Shut up, Dumpy.”
“You're a liar.”
He kicked me in the stomach. I tried not to scream because I didn't want to be noticed.
“Stick to the plan,” said Butt—best codename ever, by the way—“we can still take the boat.”
But then, Sailor Dude pulled out this old-timey pocket watch. We could see the diamonds on its edge shine from where we were.
“Gold!” said Butt. The others shushed him.
But gold or no, I wasn't about to go home without stealing some jackass's watch. I ran out from the boxes and knocked him over.
Rather, I tried to. He kneed me in the chest before I could do anything.
“Gods,” said Sailor Dude to Clipboard Dude. “Do Celsiorans not have any pest control?” He had an unfamiliar accent. Probably came from Kammeniland, or some other Nordic region.
He grabbed me by the back of my neck and brought me to his eye level. “What you doing here, my rabbit?” he asked.
“Gimme your watch,” I told him.
He laughed in my face. I can still smell his whiskey-soaked breath, just from thinking about it. He muttered something about “You people not beating your childs enough, so spoiled.” I was so angry I could have passed out.
So, he grabbed me by the shoulders, and threw me over the wharf into the water, laughing his ass off.
Then…well. Let's just say I wasn't kidding about this being the worst day of my life. Slasher, have you ever heard of the Riastrad?”
“Nope.”
“It's this...like, lemme put it this way, have you ever watched DrakeSphere X?”
“I've been meaning to, but nah.”
“Ever see Terrorheart Chronicles?”
“Nah.”
“Uh, ever see Vinnie Vulture Goes to the Dentist?”
“Seventeen times.”
“You poor thing. But yeah, you know that part where Vinnie absorbs all the friendship energy of his schoolchildren friends to defeat Stinky the No Flossing Gremlin, and turns into Super Friendship Vinnie? Replace friendship energy with pure hate, replace Vinnie with any given Mystic, and replace Super Friendship Vinnie with a monstrous new body that reflects the worst parts of the user's personality, and turns them into power. That's the Riastrad—a Mystic's battle-trance.
Point being, after I fell in the water, everything became a blur of anger, but...some kind of switch flipped in my brain. When it was over, I was standing over Sailor Dude's mutilated corpse, and my hands were covered in his blood. Four-Fifty was sobbing and begging me to stop.
A week later, I was in a courtroom. I finally learned Sailor Dude's name—Captain Harald Gustafsen. His family had been flown in from his home country to take the stand and one by one, talk about how kind and generous he was, like that counted as crime scene evidence.
I couldn't get a look at them because those horrible eye and mouth locks, the kind that the Emperor used back in Rosencrace, were on me. And I wasn't used to breathing through my nose back then. I thought I was gonna choke and die. That was the nicer option, compared to whatever the judge, the Right Dishonorable Voghead Sara Paulsen, decided.
My public defender was a useless bastard, so we had to go with a plea deal. If I plead guilty, I'd get 20 years in Umbra's Folly instead of life. Ever hear of Umbra's Folly?”
“Only the name.”
“Worst prison in Celsior. I don't wanna bum you out or anything, but...let's just say instead of ID numbers, prisoners are sorted by their torment ratings.”
“But...you were a kid.”
“And Judge Paulsen wanted to go to Sadji-Taa for a couple of weeks to “find herself” and drink local kombucha. The Nirvana's Edge resort spa was 25,000 G a night, Umbra's Folly is a private prison, and they were paying 50,000 G per kid to fill the cells. You do the math.
Look, as much as Minion encourages me to forgive my enemies, I will hate Judge Pau
lsen and every condescending yuppie bastard like her until after I'm dead, and even then, I'll flip them off from my casket. I hope they all choke to death on quinoa flavored butcher knives and wash it down with organic whole grain rat poison and a few pieces of celery in bottled water that they bought for 2,000 G because they're useless, soulless, brainless, heartless, ballsless garbage undeserving of…
Sorry, Slasher. I know it’s been a whole voggin’ decade, but I’m still kind of raw from all this.
Unlike the other kids she sold, I was lucky enough to be bailed out by a stranger with powerful connections. From what I heard (still had the eye restraints and whatnot, so couldn't see) this guy in the gallery stood up, the judge told him to sit down, and he said “Celsioran Civil Code 37-Hotel-Kilo.” I'm pretty sure that's secret legalese for “can you not?” And like that, the judge reduced my sentence to 8 years’ probation.
Later, this guy was the one who took off my restraints, and the first thing I saw was his smiling face, which was always covered with sunglasses—even at night, for some reason. He introduced himself as Mr. Sam and said he would help me control my powers as a Mystic. For all my eight years of probation, I always felt the safest around him.
I moved in with my Aunt Phoebe, and Mr. Sam lived with us as my caretaker/probation officer. I never learned much about Mr. Sam as a person, only that his purpose in life was to “help scared little girls,” and that he spent most evenings away on business while I only saw him in the daytime. I don't even know if Mr. Sam was his real name. So yeah, all the little nicknames I use for people…I get that from him. It was kind of his schtick.
For all my eight years of probation, I always felt the safest around him.
He put me in school, where I met Minion. Can you believe I used to bully him? Well, only for about a year or two in middle school, but he was always so sweet to me despite it. He kept it up, and after a while, I found myself unable to keep calling him Lardfat MacKenzie without feeling like garbage for doing so, and I ended up being his best friend instead.
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