Mason peers at me, then at his sister. I’m doing my damndest not to look at her. Just the sight of her, knowing the things that have come out of that mouth of hers and the damage they’ve done—it’s all I can do not to take one for my entire fucking species.
“Talk to Mike,” he says flatly, turning away. “If you like what you see this evening, perhaps I’ll let you get to know the man within the shoes.”
Huh. Well, what the hell do you know, I think, as Mason walks away without another word. There is a Mike.
Chantelle remains towering over me like some evil, pantsuited, bitch-valkyrie. When I finally dare to glance up at her, she’s glaring down at the WebbTech camera around my neck.
“No cameras during the keynote,” she orders. It’s a tone I wouldn’t dare fuck with, even if I did care about photographing the total dumpster fire Pyronamix is turning into.
I don’t want to open my mouth. I don’t trust myself not to say something smart. I grit my teeth, push through the pain, and force a smile as she follows her brother toward stage-left.
… breathe, mate. Breathe. You got this.
If only Penny could see what a total and utter wankfuck I’m not being right now. She’d be so proud, she’d probably blow me again.
A bloke can hope, anyway.
I’m suddenly yanked out of my pleasant fantasy and back into reality by the realization that the music’s been cut, and my foot has been tapping to a non-existent beat.
In its place is the crazed roar of a drunken crowd—desperate for something, anything, worth writing home about. I skirt around another curtain and peek out from behind it, in time to watch the King siblings strut their way across the stage to a chorus of cheers from their loyal, obsessed masses.
Brain puke, as Penny and I would say as kids.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Chantelle is announcing with a smile into a handheld microphone, “I thank you so much for your patience, and promise you, it will be well rewarded once the festivities of the evening begin.”
Another cheer rises from the crowd, as people start having hope there might be more than an underground hovel and some sluts with liquor.
“In fact, it already has been, purely by the presence of a man many will never, ever have the chance to see in their entire lifetime.” Chantelle is creepily passionate when it comes to talking about her brother. I head-canon that she’s into him, sexually. It helps me hate her more. “You are now all part of a very special, very exclusive club. If you want to be, that is.”
My head throbs, even without the terrible music pounding at it. My stomach writhes along with it. I fight the waves of sickness to keep listening. Retaining whatever I can, in case it’s helpful later. Might as well make myself useful while I’m waiting for the signal from Oliver to—heh—pull out.
I can be a good boy when needed. And when there’s possible head for me at the end of it.
“If my brother requires any introduction to you,” Chantelle continues, “you have my express permission to exit the building. In fact, exit our reality altogether. Because if he requires an introduction, you have hereby forfeited your right to exist within it.”
I look away from the stage as she introduces Mason. I don’t need to watch the King siblings sashay about in front of their cult of fans, it’s bad enough I have to listen to it.
Guess that’s what happens when you have an entire generation of kids medicated on electronics, I think with a sneer, and a spiritual bitterness Duncan says makes me sound like a grumpy old man.
That’s when I see someone I know across the stage, behind the opposite curtain. Someone it takes me a long time to recognize considering I only met him once, a week ago, and it definitely weren’t in no fancy fucking suit.
Izzey!
Of course, Penny said he was here functioning as Mason King’s personal security entourage. Mate, what I wouldn’t give for that job. With that much access to him, it would be easier to get away with murder.
“Four-hundred and twenty-three years ago—” Mason is saying when I glance back, exaggerating the American in his intertwined accent for dramatic effect. “On this very night, in this very location where we now stand, history was mere inches from being made.”
Through the nausea and the fog, I search for a recollection of today’s date. November fifth doesn’t ring any bells, though in my defense, the country’s been going through some changes over the past couple decades. Official calendars were all rewritten in late 2022. Unless it was an important holiday, or one the Sovereignty wanted to keep around, it ended up in the bin. A lot of the interesting ones were apparently thrown out, along with most of our rights and freedoms.
“A single guy led his band of faithful followers to this very room, with an intent to finish something our forefathers started long ago,” he continues. The crowd stares, entranced. Eating up every single word.
“However, he made a mistake.” King’s tone sharpens. “A mistake he grew to sorely regret. A mistake that cost him his life. Today, as we endeavor to do the same, we shall not make that same fatal mistake.”
The crowd looks as confused as I am. Both by his words, and the way he’s saying them. If this is some sort of dramatic opening to the festival, they may just pull this shit off as the greatest party of the goddamn millennium.
“We, as Dreamers, must not shun our government,” he declares, “but instead work hand-in-hand with it. We must avow our Sovereignty as one, and dedicate ourselves fully to the service and restoration of our glorious sovereign nation!”
That earns him the expected cheer. Because to not cheer for nationalism or salute the Sovereignty carries a penalty of three months’ incarceration, minimum.
I use the moment to peer back over at Izzey. He’s alert and attentive, paying me no attention. I don’t know if he’s even seen me.
“So tonight, fellow Britons,” Mason starts to conclude, drawing his sister to his side in a warm embrace, “we as siblings ask you to join us. Join us, as we reject the status quo. Join us, as we unite in the pursuit of something larger than ourselves. Join us, as we dream of a world beyond the borders of not only our country, but our own imaginations. Join us as Dreamers—and be the first to pledge your eternal allegiance to the Abyssal Sin!”
With that, he turns, and Chantelle takes his place center-stage. Apparently, his work here is done. He and Izzey cross paths, and I become suddenly aware of something as he does.
Izzey’s not Mason’s bodyguard. He’s working for Chantelle.
And in his hands is a familiar object—one that should absolutely not be down here. It should be upstairs, in a vault, ready and waiting to be stolen.
Shit!
“OP!” I hiss into my microphone, presuming he hasn’t done anything stupid like muting me in the middle of a mission. “OP—that—the book! It’s not upstairs, it’s here, in front of me! Repeat—the fucking book is here on the fucking stage!”
I wait. Patiently. Trusting, trusting, trusting.
Trust, which is so important to Oliver, the annoying but adorable little muppet. Trust, which he is currently skirting the line of breaking when it comes to me and him.
“OP? Mate—you there? DEFCON 2, son!”
There’s no response. And this is not the show we were promised. My mind begins to race as Izzey passes Chantelle the blue, aluminium lockbox, and she in turn plants a soft kiss on his bearded cheek.
You son of a—!
That panicked ire is bubbling up again, threatening to erupt. Like a volcano. There’s a soft humming in my head, a female voice I don’t recognize. It’s doing its best to calm me, but the rage keeps on rising.
There’s no stopping it. Not now the people I was supposed to be able to count on have completely fucking abandoned me—
“Aldrnari, praevaleo…”
Chantelle is opening the case in her hands, holding it at arm’s length without removing the contents.
“Aldrnari, praevaleo!” she declares again, in a language I’ve never
heard before. The entire fake festival is taking on a weird, creepy, cultist vibe and I’m not entirely sure I’m digging it. Even if it has livened things up a bit.
“OP, you’ve got to the count of five,” I threaten under my breath, “and I swear to fucking Nova and every single one of her damn angels that I’m going in!”
The crowd is stirring, not sure what to make of this development. Some are drunkenly into it, throwing their libations high in the air. One or two are backing up, too sober to deal and ready to leave. If I weren’t here on business, I have to wonder which crowd I’d be part of.
“Two,” I hiss, skipping ‘one’ entirely. Chantelle’s head is rolling back, her pale skin radiating a warm glow. I wonder if this is why Mason made himself scarce so quickly. I wonder if he knew what was about to happen—or if he didn’t want to know.
Fuck, I don’t want to know, and I ain’t even related to the bitch.
“Three…”
Chantelle is still chanting, but I can’t hear what she’s saying anymore. A shrill, razor-sharp whistle slices my mind in two, and I double over from the pain. My gut hollows out completely, filling with an acidic burn. My knees buckle. I’m terrified I’m going to puke—or worse, pass out.
“F-four…!” I choke out. I’m determined to give him to the count of five. I’m determined to trust he’ll respond.
The temperature of the room is increasing dramatically. Heat lines ripple and distort my already blurry vision. A wave of mind-numbing nausea rushes over me, my body reacting to the heat in a way it never has—with a vulnerability I didn’t even know I had to it.
It’s different. It’s a cold heat, an icy flame, if that makes any damn sense. It’s overtaking my mind and flooding my senses, and from what seems like miles away, someone in the crowd lets out a bloodcurdling scream.
I don’t make it to five.
I’m launching myself across the stage, the boards alighting with liquid flame beneath my feet as I lunge for them. For the Opus Veritas. I’m driven by madness, fueled by my rage, as everything ignites around me in a blistering inferno.
Gravity shifts as the world is set ablaze.
I’ve not been burned since I developed these abilities, since Nova blessed me with these Magicks. But something about the flames that lick at me as I lay prone on the stage is searing my skin, charring my clothes, and slowly but surely eating me alive.
“Oh, Diesel, you have no idea what you’ve done…”
The last thing I see before the inky blackness overwhelms me is Izzey’s face. And the wicked smirk he’s wearing as he leans down toward me, seizing the front of my jacket and hauling me up through the flames.
23 Oliver's Grand Escape
“So, what is that thing?” At this point, I’m doing whatever I can to stall for time. Perhaps I can at least distract the police officer for long enough that the rest of my brigade can finish pulling off the heist. “From one tech-head to another?”
Gav snorts, glancing down at the crackling baton in his hands. “Electromagnetic Pulse Rifle. Special issue. Worked hard to earn it.”
“I’ll bet you did,” I say, doing everything I can to keep the tremble out of my voice. It still feels alien to be facing off with Gav like this, despite me deciding days ago that he was almost definitely playing us. “So, um—”
“Look, I’m going after this Irene slag with or without your help,” Gav says bluntly, and while emotion isn’t my forte, I’m convinced there’s a note of desperation in there, too. A note of urgency. “Without is gonna take a lot longer, and it’ll be a lot messier. So, unless you’re gonna read that message to me, shut your jaw. So I can separate it from your face.”
While threats may work better if the one making them isn’t trembling with reluctance, nine times out of ten—when one is being held hostage—I imagine they’re fairly convincing. This is one of those nine times.
I nod frantically, remembering all too well the way Penny’s fist connected with my face. The last thing I want is to be on the receiving end of a similar but deliberate assault.
However, before I can read and relay the message, Alfie’s voice radios in through the static. “OP!” His voice is frantic. “OP—that—the book! It’s not upstairs, it’s here, in front of me! Repeat—the fucking book is here on the fucking stage!”
“Book?” Gav’s piercing blue eyes dig deep into my own, seeking out answers I don’t want to hand over. “What book is he talking about? Wait—is this the same book you lot wanted me digging stuff up on?”
“I need to answer him, Gav,” I say, my voice edging on a plea. “Or he’ll do something stupid…”
“OP? Mate—you there? DEFCON 2, son!”
“Tell me about the book,” Gav demands, and when I crinkle my brown and raise both hands to protest, he jerks the EMPR at me again. Several sparks come a hair too close to my skin, and I jerk away in shock.
“Tell me what you know!” he barks. Like a dog with a bone, bullheaded and brash.
“OP, you’ve got to the count of five, and I swear to fucking Nova and every single one of her damn angels that I’m going in!”
“Okay, okay!” I cry out, shielding my face with my hands.
At this point, my only thought is Alfie. Whatever it takes, I have to respond to him. Whatever it takes, I cannot let him feel as if he’s been abandoned.
“I’ll tell you everything we know,” I splutter, “if you please let me answer him!”
Gav seems to consider it, before saying, “Tell me first. Look lively.”
“Two.”
It all comes down to a question of time. I frantically wrack my mind for anything and everything Penny ever told me about the book, everything we ever learned from our wide-ranging but uneventful bouts of research.
“We don’t know much,” I blurt out. “Only that it’s called the Opus Veritas, which from what I can tell is Latin for ‘the work, the truth’. The Sovereignty have been hiding it—we have no idea where they got it from. We believe it’s connected to these, these Chasms—”
“Three…”
Gav motions with the EMPR. He looks almost as uncomfortable with all of this as I am. I squirm in my seat, whimpering with the pressure. Tears brim in the corners of my eyes.
“It—it’s got something to do with, uh, with Nova! With the goddess, the Anomaly sun goddess! But it’s not Her book, we think it’s more a book against Her, a book someone might use against Anomalies—”
“F-four…!”
There’s a pang of chaotic panic in Alfie’s voice that jolts me out of my fright-or-freeze react. I sit bolt upright, both hands gripping the armrests of the chair as I finally explode.
“Gav! Please, let me answer him!” I slam my fists into the padded leather. “PLEASE!”
To my astonishment, instead of showing me what the Electromagnetic Pulse Rifle can do or threatening me again, my former ally just stares at me.
We sit in silence. With me waiting for him, and him waiting for—god only knows what. My hearts thrashes against my ribcage, beating the inside of it like a drum. My voice breaks in a pathetic whine, cracking open a whimper somewhere deep within my body.
“Gav… please…”
He stares, and stares. And stares. A single bead of sweat runs a slick, warm trail down one side of his forehead, around the curve of one wide, blue eye.
We both wait. We both listen.
But, he never makes it to five.
All sense of mind forgotten, I grab for my mouse, unmuting the mic and bracing for the beating as I begin screaming for my friend. But the beating never comes. Gav remains motionless behind me, his stance faltering just a fraction. His guard lowering just a tad.
To my horror, there’s no response.
My body slumps forward, over the keyboard. My mouth is agape. The comms line is deathly still, a graveyard of static. Despite the denial playing over and over again in my mind like a defragmenting hard drive, I know how bad this looks.
I know how bad this is.
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“OP,” Gav says from behind me. His voice is quiet, but firm. “OP, or whatever your legal alias may be: you are hereby under arrest under charges of high treason to the sovereign crown.”
“Don’t do this, Gav,” I mutter weakly against the keys. “You don’t have to do this.”
“It’s over, OP,” he repeats, and he motions to the lower right screen. “Dee and the new guy are already under fire. They’ll be apprehended in minutes, and we can process all of you together. I’ll even ask to handle your case file myself. I promise you, mate, I’ll make sure proper justice is served.”
My laugh is humorless. “There is no justice left, Gav,” is my bitter response. “This entire system is broken. If you take me in—”
“Hands behind your back, son.” Gav’s mind is made up. The crackling of the EMPR fizzles out, and his boots crunch over the concrete toward me.
It’s over, then.
I twist in my chair, just enough to look up at him. He’ll never have me in those handcuffs he’s brandishing, because he’ll never see me coming.
I’ve been one step ahead of him this entire game, and I don’t intend on seeing that change.
“If you come real easy,” he promises, “I’ll even ask if you’re allowed to go to trial.”
My frown breaks into a sad smile. “Regardless of what a hell of a bloody deal that is, Gav,” I tell him honestly, “it’s not going to be enough to convince me.”
I hate shifting. I really do.
Everything becomes big and bulky and overwhelming, so full of color and noise. Everything smells, stinks even, with odors both pleasing and offensive to my overly sensitive nose and mouth. Everything changes, in a way I’m still getting used to. And despite Alfie’s insistence that I shift more often, my level of discomfort is so great that at times like this—when I really need it—I do regret not listening to him more.
I wonder, now that I’m terrified for his life, if I would ever admit that to him.
Shaking my fur out and unflattening my poor, tender whiskers, I squirm out from the bottom of my tee-shirt and dart between Gav’s legs for the exit.
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