Arcane

by Elle Park

  Shouldn't he wonder what that says about himself?

  "Um, Nolan, I really think you should—"

  "Right, right," he waves, cutting off Arturo's attempt of dismissal, "look at me, gossiping like a bored church lady. I'm too young for this," he says, a heavy sigh slumping his shoulders. "This is why I don't like spending too much time in these meetings—their oldness is contagious, I swear." After a moment of serious contemplation, he perks right back up. "Anyway, enough about me. The tests, Arty, the tests. We're on a clock here," he claps, "come on, come on, come on." Surprisingly, the coach act works, immediately prompting the frazzled man into operating the tablet with fumbling fingers—and rendering him too distracted to worry about Nolan's presence any further.

  We wait and watch as he palms something in each hand, his closed fingers obscuring my view. The door to my cube slides open, and I'm not sure whether it's for someone to enter or for me to leave, but my silent question is answered when Arturo steps in, unfolding his fists as he stands before me.

  "All right, Kaia," he begins sticking small metal disks on my face, "these are called blitzers. They will transmit the exact same waves as someone with the appropriate orb would during an attack, thereby triggering your abilities for me to analyze and assess. And since the procedure does not require any other participants, it is much more safe and efficient." There are now two disks above my brows and one on each temple, and it feels as if they have some sort of suction capability, clinging to my skin with strong but subtle force. "Remember, these are nothing more than hallucinations, but if it ever gets to be too much—"

  "Safe-word," Nolan loudly blurts, shooting his arm up like a six-year-old. "We should make a safe-word. How about 'the donkey says hello'—sounds ominous, no? I think it's pretty bad-ass."

  Arturo looks at me for confirmation, but I shake my head. "That won't be necessary," I say with finality, ignoring the pout on Nolan's face. The only way I can find out more about me is if he does, too. I'm not going to stop that from happening.

  "If at any point you become physically harmed—which shouldn't happen—I will stop it, myself," he says, his intense gaze unwavering. I wouldn't mind a few injuries if it meant I'd get answers, but I stay quiet for the moment, knowing it will lead to an argument I probably won't win. At my nod, he smiles, releasing a rushed breath. "Good. Well, we better get started, then."

  Once I'm alone in the cube, both Arturo and Nolan begin staring at me expectantly, and after a stretch of silence, the latter begins dancing and rolling his hips, even singing as obnoxiously as he can. At our confused faces, he huffs, flailing his arms out.

  "Oh, so time hasn't frozen over. I thought it did when no one was doing anything," he says, his voice rising with the last few words.

  "I don't understand."

  "Okay, let me be more clear: why was no one doing any—"

  "No, no," Arturo mutters, waving a distracted hand. "I mean," he sighs, "I don't understand why the stimulus is not affecting her." His frown deepens as he looks from me to his tablet, repeating the motion as he pulls at his hair with evident frustration. "Look—this is what she should be seeing," he says, holding the device up for us to see. The screen is showing a white canvas with a sinister ring of flames. "You don't see any of this, Kaia?"

  "I don't," I confirm.

  "Wow, you guys would sure be in a rut if I wasn't here," Nolan sings, clucking his tongue. "As always, it's up to me to come to the rescue." His nose is tilted skyward, and his smugness is rolling off him in waves. "Come on," he urges, "ask me what's wrong." When neither of us say anything, he narrows his eyes. "No fun," he grumbles to himself. "Well, whatever. Being the gracious man that I am, I'll just tell you," he pauses, his lips pursed as if dying to reveal a secret, "the blitzers aren't working because of Kaia's barrier."

  My barrier?

  "Her barrier?"

  "That is what I said, yes."

  "You can already hold a barrier?" Arturo asks, sounding impressed.

  Not when I need it, apparently.

  "Sometimes," I reply instead.

  "Usually, they're more stable when the person feels safe or comfortable—which is why this is odd. I can't imagine this situation to be very comforting." He shakes his head. "Anyway, I'm going to need you to lower your defense, Kaia."

  "He's just being polite, sweets. Arty here can forcefully break it down if he wants to, but it'll be easier on you if you just do it yourself," Nolan says, making himself comfortable on a small clearing at the corner of the table.

  I've tried all this time to keep hold of it, and now they want me to let it go?

  "Think of it as practice," Arturo adds hastily. "This will help you to better your control, and you won't be reduced to simply hoping your barrier stays in place."

  It seems the only thing I can do in here is nod.

  All I have to do is mentally strip myself of my imaginary jumpsuit—sounds simple enough. I close my eyes and try to visualize it, to go through the motions in my head, as if I'm undressing an ordinary outfit at the end of an ordinary day. The thing is, if I want to be true to my original creation, this is no ordinary piece of clothing.

  I can vividly remember the material, the design, the intent with which they were specifically made and incorporated. No zippers, no buttons. I purposely dismissed the use of those devices so that I'd have something permanent, something that I wouldn't be able to take off even if I wanted to—which is exactly what I'm expected to do right now.

  This is ridiculous. It should be easy. I just need to picture myself without the tight, black, latex-like suit—and I do. I even keep my eyes open, glaring down at my body, hoping to convince my brain that I'm wearing nothing but the training uniform I didn't think I'd ever have to wear again. But even after several attempts of seeing flames and feeling heat, nothing changes.

  "It's all right, take your time," Arturo says, trying to ease my frustration. "As much as The Union wants quick results, they'll wait until we actually have them."

  "It's true," Nolan agrees, smothering himself with a handful of potato chips. I was so focused on my current dilemma that I must not have noticed him walking out and back in, yet another snack in his possession. "I popped back in for a second—you know, to assure them that I haven't bailed—and they're too busy arguing about you to actually think about you," he says, crumpling the now empty bag as he looks for a trashcan. When he can't find one, he opts for gently placing it on the corner of the table, half-heartedly flattening it with a few awkward pats.

  He begins rambling off random bumps and tangents, and I don't think he's even hearing half of what he's saying, so I don't bother to, either. Instead, I zone him out, blocking both guys from my senses. My lashes are fanning the tops of my cheeks, and the darkness provides a feeling of isolation, helping me become more aware of myself in ways I normally overlook.

  My heartbeat is steady, and my breathing is even. I realize my shoulders are bunched, though, and it's forcing tension into the back of my neck and down my spine. With a heavy exhale, I consciously loosen the affected muscles and straighten my alignment. Physically, I'm relaxed, which makes me more vulnerable and susceptible to an attack—it feels counterintuitive, but I remind myself that I'm still in control and that this is what I want.

  The suit is still there, tying knots into my flesh. This time, though, I don't just attempt to slip out of it or pretend it magically vanished—I tried that already, and it didn't work. Using a different approach, I imagine disintegrating the mysterious fabric as if it's paper burning to ash, allowing the broken particles to fall from my body and fade into the air.

  And all at once, I'm bound by flames.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  BRIGHT, RELENTLESS CURLS of red, orange and yellow obliterate my vision, the raging wall trapping me in a ring of its heat. And I'm not given any time to adjust to the drastic change in temperature. It doesn't begin as a pleasant warmth that brings a flush to my cheeks, but rather a full-on blast that instantly brings my blood to
a boil, the liquid fire burning through flesh and staining my bones a scorched crimson.

  The thick, suffocating air makes it hard to breathe, and the sound of my scratchy coughs, along with the deafening roar of the flames is almost enough to drown out every other noise. I can hear the muted voices of Nolan and Arturo, but it's difficult to tell who's who, as I can't make out every word they're saying. I'm trying to decipher a stream of mumbles when, like waking from a bad dream, the inferno disappears before I can blink twice.

  As I raise my arm to card a hand through my hair, the movement creates a breeze, bringing my attention to the sweat drenching my shirt and clinging to my back. I indulge in a slight shiver, rubbing down the newly formed goosebumps. There's a strong impulse to gasp and wheeze, to reassure myself that I have an unlimited supply of pure oxygen, but I restrain myself to a few strained, shallow breaths.

  "That's strange," Arturo says, though I'm not sure to whom. When I flick my gaze to him, I notice he's not looking at either of us, but rather glaring at his tablet. He takes a few minutes to mumble under his breath before finally acknowledging us. "I don't know if—I have a theory—it's impossible, really..."

  "Come on, Taro," Nolan claps him on the shoulder, "you of all people should know that there's a world of difference between nearly impossible and the impossible—our world, for instance."

  "I'll have to run another test—try something new," he says, nodding.

  Whatever he was able to find out, it better be good, and whatever it is that he wants to try, it better be worth it, because we've only been through one short trial, and I'm already feeling drained to the point of passing out.

  I know that I wasn't literally surrounded by a fence of flames, but my mind forced me to believe the experience was real in every way. There are no marks, burns or tints on my skin, and yet I can swear it still feels hot to the touch. My lungs are clear but feel stuffy, my eyes are fine but keep fluttering, and there are jolts and tremors still flying throughout my body. Even so, despite these aftereffects, if it was The Union watching me from outside these walls, I would do all I could to mask what I'm going through, to make me less vulnerable to their scrutiny.

  Although Arturo is still a virtual stranger to me, he's only doing this because The Union ordered him to, not because he has the same agenda as them—at least, that's what I'm trying to convince myself of as I finally allow myself to succumb to the exhaustion. I begin to walk backwards until my spine meets hard glass, promptly sliding to the floor. My knees are bent and supporting my elbows, and I take a few moments to physically recover from my mental trauma. And if the easy silence is any indication, both guys seem to understand what I'm doing and why I'm doing it.

  It only lasts about four-point-five seconds, though.

  "I'm all for beauty sleep, Kiki, but now is kind of a bad time," Nolan drawls, chuckling.

  Giving him a disapproving look, Arturo shakes his head. "It's okay," he smiles at me, "I know this must be overwhelming."

  He's right, it is. But I'd rather be just overwhelmed than ignorant and overwhelmed. "I'm ready," I say, leaning the back of my skull against the wall.

  As soon as I voice my permission, another cube ascends from underground until it becomes level and attached to mine. It's almost the same layout as the one from the Cage Match, except the wall separating the two glass boxes—including the one I'm still stuck in—stays firmly in place.

  Soon after, what looks like a mannequin appears in the center of my neighboring cube. It doesn't seem to be made of the usual material, though. From the natural flesh-tone color, to the detailed curves and ridges, it looks almost like a real person, save for the absent facial features and genitalia. There's even a human softness to it—a quality that simple plastic or fiberglass could never achieve.

  I have a feeling I won't like what happens next.

  Studying the faces of Nolan and Arturo is a task that is sure to drive me crazy. So, instead, I shut them out while I wait for whatever is to come. The specifics of this test weren't mentioned, so I don't know what to expect or how I'm supposed to prepare myself—though, perhaps that's the point.

  My eyes snap open when the first strike hits me—and, instinctively, they land on Nolan. His blues don't appear haunted, and there is no visible tension in his face or stature. He's not the one doing this to me, then. When a dull pain lands between my ribs, I'm unable to stop the tears from pooling and trailing down my temple. It's then that I realize I'm already on my side, clutching my gut as if that will stop the deep pangs.

  It's not just me getting beat and battered.

  The incredibly life-like but undoubtedly lifeless mannequin looks about as bad as I feel—and if I had the strength to examine myself, I'm sure I'd find that my appearance is similar, if not the same. Its skin, for lack of better word, used to be smooth and unblemished. Now, though—I don't know how, but now there are bruises of every color blooming with violence, and a bloody cascade is streaming down the torso, painting it a bright crimson.

  Some blows are too much, and my vision blurs as my mind goes blank. My hands are wet with something too thick to be sweat, but I don't have the energy nor the courage to bring them close for inspection. Unlike before, when I was drowning in the roar of the flames, the only thing I can hear now is a buzzing in my ears and the frantic beat of my heart.

  It stays that way for a while, even after the pain stops.

  "... Fascinating."

  Almost my entire body—including every other strand of my hair—is damp and clammy, and I'm not enjoying the way my clothes are clinging to me, but I can't find it in me to move just yet. I do, however, manage to lift my gaze from the floor.

  I assumed they'd be staring at me, but instead, their attention is to the side—more specifically, to the screen on the wall. The same figure standing a few feet in front of me is now displayed on the large monitor.

  "Three broken ribs, two bruised..." Arturo continues, his voice a strangely excited pitch. He makes a comment for every picture that pops up on the screen. The images flick from various bones—most of them cracked or damaged in some way—to what looks like deteriorating muscles, and even a full-body map that pinpoints the source of both internal and external blood loss. "I can't believe what we're seeing is real," he says, practically stuttering in awe. I'm not exactly in the mood to appreciate his enthusiasm, though.

  "Yes, very cool, Turo," Nolan pats the dazed man on the shoulder, "now, are we done here? The geezers might pretend to be patient, but I prefer not to act like something I'm not. I'm a busy guy, guys, so if we could wrap this up, that would be great."

  "No," Arturo blurts, his eyes wide and panicked. Clearing his throat, he composes himself. "I mean, there is one more area I would like to experiment. After that, I believe I will have enough information to make a general report."

  "Fine," Nolan huffs impatiently, as if he's the subject of this experiment—an experiment that most people would call torture. "Just, please, for the love of me, don't take another five hundred years," he begs, clasping his hands and shaking them in a dramatic fashion.

  "Right, yes, of course. I'm already on it."

  "So, what's next?" I ask, the question coming out as part of a low sigh.

  "Well," he hesitates, clearly a little wary of my state, "I'd like to move on to a more... personal orb, shall we say."

  "Ooh, how personal are we talking?" Nolan hums, a wicked grin on his face as he drums his fingers together.

  "One that will target you from within—in this case, one that will elicit fear." He looks down at his fidgeting fingers for a moment. "If it's all right with you, we can begin immediately."

  I nod, my eyes already long closed. The fatigue is seeping into every cell of my being, threatening to shut down both my mind and body. It's strange, really, now that I think about it. Although I was always weak and weary following the assault of an orb, I don't remember ever feeling this...drained—like I've depleted every last ounce of the energy that keeps me alive.

/>   "Okay," I hear Nolan drawl, slow and unsure. "Why isn't she freaking out yet?"

  "Just wait." Arturo's voice is considerably lower than before, sounding almost like a conspiratorial whisper.

  I don't know how many seconds or minutes pass, but they won't hear me complaining about the wait. We could stay like this all day if it were up to me.

  My head is lowered, and I'm content with staring at my shoes, inspecting the clean, scuff-free surface. There was a time when I refused to wear anything but sneakers, no matter the weather. Cheap flip flops and heavy boots would only slow me down if I ever had to run—and that was something I often feared I'd have to do.

  Until I realized I wouldn't have to run if I knew when to walk away.

  It's as I'm thinking of various footwear that another pair of shoes enter my line of sight. Immediately, I can tell they belong to a child, the small size and Velcro straps a dead giveaway. The pink material is not nearly as bright as I assume it once was. Although they aren't dirty, they are definitely old and worn—which means that, unless they're hand-me-downs, or unless the kid has somehow stopped growing, I suspect her toes are squished and sore, and that she has gotten used to walking with them curled and bent.

  I know these shoes.

  My craned neck slowly straightens as my eyes trail up inch by inch, up the faded jeans, the polka-dot sweatshirt, and the golden locks of hair that frame a soft, oval face.

  I know this child.

  Her sea-green eyes are clear, yet haunted—like an abandoned mansion that people only talk about or view from afar, never approaching, never getting close to investigate. Except, now, she's the one to approach. She's the one to get close, to drag me into the dreadful house that set tongues wagging but feet rooted in place.

  I'm trapped under her gentle, willful, absolutely captivating gaze. Even as she looks away, down at her shoes like I did just moments ago, I'm unable to do the same. It's only when she begins fidgeting that I realize she's waiting for something—waiting for me.