Paragon

by Rowan Rook

  Anson refused to acknowledge the voice as its soundless words wormed their way through his head.

  It was ironic. The Author, the entity Auratessa considered its creator, was portrayed as divine, but the thing was wretched and noisy. Perhaps watching its world give away to darkness had dimmed and damaged its own soul.

  The Author had started speaking to him the day after he'd fled from Shakaya and Aydel. At first, the so-called god had continued trying to blend its thoughts with his, but when his belligerence proved it couldn't fool him anymore, it had nearly become hysterical. Now, it seemed to have settled a bit. It harassed him less frequently, and when it did, it was much more direct—it no longer tried to disguise itself as a part of him. The more it spoke, the more the role it had played in his life sickened him.

  Anson had been on the run, with barely a full night of rest, for nearly two weeks. His days were spent in hiding, constantly moving, while his nights were plagued by uncomfortable dreams. He'd left Havventhale behind as quickly as possible. If he were lucky, the royal guards would focus on the castle's home continent in their search for the queen's killer. He'd returned to the port where he and the Butterflies had once docked, bribed a fisherman to sneak him onboard with almost every last piece of Rune he'd had, and returned to Lusanthine.

  He was an absolute mess. His clothes were torn and stained with mud, blood, and whatever unidentifiable filth had latched onto him. He still had his bag, but every outfit he had to cycle through was soiled in its way, and the notebooks and lab supplies served only as reminders of more hopeful days. Having used his bandages on Tayla, he'd been forced to rip off scraps from his clothes to wrap around the wounds Shakaya had left him. His ponytail was tied at a messy, slanted angle to obscure his missing ear, in case that detail found its way into a suspect description. He'd hardly eaten for the last few days, completely out of Rune. Sweat clung to his skin, and itchy stubble was starting to sprout along his jawline. He'd departed from the Academy with noble's clothes and a heavy wallet, but now, he returned in rags. He looked much like the boy who had once stood in front of that same door for the first time so many years ago.

  He hadn't known what he was going to do when he returned to Lusanthine, but as time went by, an immediate goal surfaced. The wounds he'd taken from Shakaya weren't terrible in comparison to having his arm nearly torn off or losing an ear—she'd held back—but the gash in his side wasn't healing. Her poison was doing its job. Even if a victim survived injuries inflicted by her customized chakram, the infection it left behind often finished them later. He'd seen it happen to a few other Lyrum in the labs. If he didn't take care of the infection creeping through his veins, he'd eventually become one of them. The cold ache in his side and the fog gradually spreading over his senses reminded him of that as the sun set on another day.

  Shakaya kept an emergency dose of antidote on hand in case of mishaps—what the Author said was true—but it wasn't as though he could simply find her and ask for it now. However, while she wasn't a scientist, she had still tinkered in the labs with second-hand knowledge from him and Rickard. The labs were where she'd made her weapon; there had to be a dose of her antidote there. He needed to find it, and perhaps some of his old supplies and belongings while he was there, then leave the Academy behind for good.

  He gazed up at the emblazoned Academy logo above the doorway, one last time, before stepping inside.

  Anson moved quietly but swiftly toward the stairs, not pausing for nostalgia. Still, he couldn't help but notice the smell. The last time he'd left the Academy, the stench of smoke had still hung in the air; now, it was the sting of sterile chemicals that burned his nostrils. Perhaps it had always been that way and he had once been desensitized. The Academy seemed to have all but recovered from the invasion, its tiled floors and painted walls their usual pristine white, just like the harsh fluorescent light beaming down from the ceiling. Scattered voices wafted about the building, but thankfully, none of the security guards seemed quite deserving of their salary, engrossed in conversation rather than watching the door. He stopped only upon arriving at the scanner that guarded the second-floor research hall. It used a different system than the card reader outside, and due in part to Rickard's zealousness, was much stricter.

  Here went nothing... Taking a deep breath, Anson placed his hand on the scanner.

  Sirens surged from the machine like a scream. Orange light spun across the walls. Footsteps pounded up the stairs.

  He'd been not only removed from the system, but blacklisted.

  Dumbstruck, Anson reacted too slowly. When he spun, the soldiers he'd seen chatting in the lobby were already behind him. Confused recognition slowly spread across their faces.

  "Is that...?"

  "It's the Lyrum Ms. Rickard told us to watch for!"

  Anson's jaw clenched tight. Rickard.

  They knew. The Academy knew. Even after surviving so much horror, this was the first fear that nearly swept away his consciousness with one foul breath. This was an old nightmare finally coming true.

  The door hissed open behind him, and more startled, bewildered voices flooded over him from the hall.

  "That's—it's him!"

  "Amaranth?"

  "I can't believe he was actually foolish enough to come back..."

  What did I tell you?

  "Shut up!" Anson shouted to none of the voices in particular, his gaze spinning in frantic circles. His heart hammered faster until its beats nearly blocked out the noise. He was trapped—a circus performer surrounded by curious spectators.

  His shaking hands ached to arc through the air and summon flames. Just as he was about to surrender to the instinct, a weight crashed into the back of his skull and knocked him, face-first, to the tiled floor. Pain radiated from his jaw, his infected wound. When he managed to look up, it was Lucillo's smug face that greeted him.

  Lucillo shook blood off his fist. "It's him! It's our esteemed Amaranth, himself!" Even his voice was pompous, "You're even dumber than I thought to show your face around here again."

  Fury radiated from Anson's reddened cheeks and bared teeth, but the guards caught him by his shoulders and wrists when he tried to lunge toward his former roommate. He held in a scream and kicked at the air, but all he did was stir the pain in his side. The energy drained out of him beneath Lucillo's far-too-satisfied stare and the gazes of his colleagues. Some watched him like some strange, exotic thing, even though he knew most of them by name. Some watched him with tense bodies, ready to flee. Some watched him with their eyes angled toward the floor, their faces pale with shame.

  It was useless. He was no match for his Human captors.

  A new set of footsteps approached, tapping lightly down the hallway. A woman parted the spectators with a wave of her hand, as if her subordinates were all under the control of her Translation, and stopped at Lucillo's side. She twirled a strand of white hair between her fingers. "So it's true, I see."

  "Rickard!" Anson fought his captors with fresh adrenaline. "You snake! You–"

  Rickard leaned closer. "Oh, I think it's angry. Don't let it bite you—we haven't drugged it yet."

  Anson's nostrils flared as the Head Scientist's eyes found his. He fought the urge to spit in her face. Instead, he met her stare, but through the mist blurring his vision, he could barely see her, at all. His face burned with humiliation.

  He knew where this was going. It wasn't hard to work through what Rickard had planned. Of all the ways his life could have ended, this had to be one of the worst.

  Rickard's lips curled with a cruel smile. "Shall we test it, just to be sure we aren't mistaken?"

  "I'll prepare a table." One scientist hurried away.

  No no no no! That would only make it worse.

  "Don't!" Anson pleaded. "There's no need! It's true! It's true..." He stared back at his former colleagues through aching eyes and a tight throat, trying to retain what little was left of his dignity. "I'm a Lyrum."

  Hushed murmurs passed through th
e crowd.

  "I thought... I honestly thought Lucillo was wrong."

  "No way!"

  "It makes sense...he was always so distant."

  "He was peculiar, but I never imagined..."

  "Is that even possible? How can we not have noticed?"

  "He...doesn't behave like a Lyrum, though..."

  "It was in my dorm! I slept in the same room with a Lyrum! I—"

  One voice shouted above the others, "But how can he be a Lyrum? He's twenty-six! Lyrum don't live that long!" It was another of his former roommates, Ryn.

  Lucillo shot around another smug smile. "It's not twenty-six. It's twenty-four. A small lie, in comparison to everything else. I even found proof of projects it never told us about—including experiments to extend Lyrum lifespans." He looked at Anson, his smirk as toxic as Shakaya's chakram. "A shame none of it worked."

  Anson hung his head, no longer able to meet the gazes watching him—some in sorrow, some in hatred, some in fear. "I'm sorry."

  Rickard straightened, still fiddling with her hair. "This is quite the travesty, indeed." Her voice sounded anything but remorseful, "I allowed the thing into the school. I take full responsibility for this incident. But...it's clear what the next course of action should be. Prepare a specimen cell."

  Anson's heart skipped a beat. He'd known this was coming, but— "No!"

  Lucillo jabbed an injector into his chest and pulled the trigger.

  Anson screamed, his muscles going limp as hot pain rumbled through his bones. He'd felt the sensation exactly once before—a Translation inhibitor.

  "Very good," Rickard nodded. "Take it away and have the rest of the procedures done."

  Anson no longer had the energy or the will to resist as the guards dragged him away, toward the lab rooms. His heart beat slower—a death march.

  "Rickard, no!" Ryn shouted. "This...this isn't right! Distant or not, he was still one of us." He shook his head. "Don't you see how sick this is? I don't want my roommate on my lab table!"

  A few other voices resounded in agreement.

  Rickard offered Ryn a solemn, practiced smile. "The intruder may have managed to fool all of us, but Lyrum are skilled actors precisely because they possess no deep feelings of their own. Capably mirroring the behavior of one isn't the same thing as bearing a Human heart."

  Anson seethed in silence, unable to do anything but clench his captive fists. Heh. When it came to acting, Rickard knew what she was talking about, that was for damn sure. She was laying it on thick.

  "But can't we just... Can't we just let him go?" Ryn persisted. "If he's twenty-four, it's not like he has a lot of time left."

  "And risk all the damage it could do in the meantime?" Rickard gasped. "You can't possibly suggest that we release a Lyrum out into the city in sound mind." Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure we need such naive researchers in our program."

  Ryn bit his lip and stared at the floor, defeated.

  Anson mouthed him a 'thank you,' but his former roommate didn't quite meet his eyes.

  An uncomfortable hush settled over the Academy's scientists as soldiers hauled their former colleague away.

  Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ

  The cell door closed with a creak when Anson's back hit the filthy floor. The pride on Lucillo's face forced him to look away. The lock clanged shut.

  Lucillo walked away without a second glance. A crowd of other scientists—some with faces shadowed by sympathy or gazes wide in horror—lingered for a while longer, gawking and murmuring in quiet voices. They dispersed after a few slow minutes, and the door to the specimen room shut with a hiss that sealed off the light from the research hall.

  Anson simply lay there, against the tile that smelled of blood, sweat, and urine.

  ...The drugs would start kicking in soon, anyway.

  The last hour was a terrible blur that his pounding heart wouldn't let him dwell on. His body shook as the new memories sunk into him and stained his spirit. He'd been stripped and forced into the thin, white coat adorned by the Lyrum captives. He'd been injected with a menagerie of drugs—he wasn't sure whether knowing what they all were made it better or worse. He'd been held down, examined, marked. He'd had a speech inhibitor forced down his throat. Throughout the procedures, Lucillo had stared at him with that arrogant grin, relishing his pain with sick pleasure.

  Anson's fingers curled into weak fists. He'd never been like Lucillo...had he?

  Emptiness wormed through him—the emptiness born from his family's deaths so long ago, reawoken by Shakaya's betrayal, empowered by Tayla's death and the Butterfly's terrible truths, and raised into a monster by his own mounting regrets. It swept through him with such force it threatened to swallow him whole from the inside. There was nothing left to fight for. Perhaps it would be best to simply fall asleep and pray that he didn't wake up...but who would he pray to? He no longer had even a benevolent god to believe in.

  Don't you blame this on me! I gave you everything you needed. You were so promising once. Rickard will be here to talk to you soon. For Author's sake, listen to her!

  Anson sighed, almost wishing it was his last exhale. Maybe the drugs would be a blessing. Maybe he wouldn't last much longer, anyway. He did nothing for a long while, lying motionless in the stench of the specimen hall.

  At least, until fingernails dug into his toes.

  Jolting up, he whirled to find a Lyrum from the neighboring cell reaching for his foot through the bars. Blood welled beneath her nails. He jerked back against the opposite wall, but fingers sunk into his shoulders from behind. He tore away and centered himself in the cell, his knees pulled close to his chest. Spiteful stares surrounded him, leaving him nowhere to hide from the hate. ...Many of the captives recognized him as Amaranth, it seemed.

  When he looked away from them to stare at the blank back wall, he realized he wasn't alone in his cell.

  Anson recoiled into the bars of the door, afraid his new roommate might suddenly lunge at him, but the other man's face offered only sympathy. Taken aback, Anson managed to meet his fellow prisoner's glassy brown eyes.

  It was...curious. The man looked rather old—older than made sense for a Lyrum. Wrinkles creased a weary brow framed by short black hair with graying roots. While still a small man, his features lacked a Lyrum's delicacy. Anson stared, in spite of himself. This man couldn't be a Lyrum, but he couldn't shake the feeling he'd seen him somewhere before...

  Then he remembered. A voiceless gasp escaped.

  Hayl Blaker. The man who had become Elavadin City's mayor and the Academy's headmaster after the recent passing of his aged father.

  ...What on Auratessa?

  Anson shook his head, and after a last moment of hesitation, summoned the will to reach into his own throat. He gagged, nearly biting down on his hand as his fingers gingerly searched his windpipe. He needed to remove the speech inhibitor before the drugs set in. His fingers brushed against its metallic shape. He pressed down on a switch with his thumb and carefully pulled out the device just before his gut lurched. Stomach acid hit the tiles. He watched, his head spinning, as it slowly flowed toward the grate at the back of the slightly tilted floor—the grate meant for...well, he didn't want to think about that yet. Good thing he hadn't eaten for a few days. Still, when he wiped the spittle and blood from his lips, his gasp of relief found his voice.

  Anson tossed the speech inhibitor through the grate. "Piece of shit," he muttered, partially to ensure he could indeed still speak. The curse wasn't directed toward the cruel device itself as much as the person who had shoved it down his throat. His eyes narrowed at the thought. The other scientists had surely known that he knew how to remove it. Lucillo had simply found amusement from holding him down and prying it through his jaw.

  Anson slumped toward the tile. He'd installed many inhibitors throughout the years. ...If he ever wanted to take everything back, it was now.

  What a selfish person, echoed a thought from a dream.

  When he finally looked up, he startled.
His roommate had leaned in closer, despite the sluggishness of his drugged limbs. Anson eyed him uncertainly and lowered his reclaimed voice to a whisper, "Mayor Blaker?"

  The man nodded, staring at him with wide, pleading eyes.

  "Not a word when any Humans are in here, understand?" Anson glowered. If the scientists confirmed what he'd done, he wouldn't have been surprised if they removed his tongue next.

  Mayor Blaker answered with more hopeful nods.

  Anson sighed and spared a glance around before scooting closer. "This will hurt a bit."

  The devices created to stifle a captive's voice were installed in such a way that they would tear the victim's throat if they were removed incorrectly. There was a discrete switch that tucked in the inhibitor's sharp edges, and it had to be pushed in while the device was pulled out. Even then, the removal remained a somewhat painful—and distinctly unpleasant—process.

  Blaker gagged as Anson pulled the thing out and threw it away.

  "T-thank you..." Blaker managed, his voice foggy from disuse and his induced haze. It seemed he'd been held prisoner for a while. "I never thought I'd hear my own voice again." Tears glistened in his glassy eyes.

  "Mayor Blaker..." Anson rested against the door as the world tilted. The drugs were beginning to grab a hold of him. "What in Heaven's name are you doing in here? Are you...?"

  Blaker offered him a sad smile. "I'm not a Lyrum—my mother was. I'm an Otherling. Apparently that's enough of a reason to lock the school's own headmaster in one of its cells."

  Anson's eyes widened. "An Otherling? It's illegal to keep Otherlings captive."

  Bitterness oozed from Blaker's face. "Doesn't seem to matter much when Rickard writes her own rules. The Monarchy itself is in no state to care."

  Rickard herself aside, this was the first time Anson had knowingly seen an Otherling. He couldn't help but stare at the other man, so similar to and yet so different from the ideal balance between the species he'd sought to create. His mind raced. He could have learned so much more if the Academy had been allowed to study Otherlings during his years there. He shook his head, clearing away the part of himself that remained a curious—cruel—researcher.