Seconds: The Shared Soul Chronicles

by Brindi Quinn

  Jobe rolled his eyes.

  “I can’t wait to hear embarrassing stories about this one,” said Tide, tipping her head at Jobe. “I have a feeling there are going to be a lot. Anyways, how’d you know he’d be here? I can’t imagine you just hang out at the mines for fun.”

  Foster chewed the end of his glasses. “Rye told me.”

  Tide had been seeking to warm his grayness, but the blatant proclamation made her freeze. During her outing with Rye, she’d mentioned at some point that her next mark was a tartaroise, but why would Rye tell Foster? He didn’t exactly LIKE his Main, did he?

  Jobe cringed and rubbed his face. “Ay-ay-ay, Foster. It’s not polite to bring up your Second on a first date. Ink’s going to think you’re a creep.”

  “She already knows,” said Foster dully.

  It was a response Jobe wasn’t prepared for. “What?!” he spat, shooting Foster a wild glare of accusation.

  Foster shrugged. “She faxed when Rye was out. I responded.”

  “Oh. So you two already know each other then?” said Jobe. But the question sounded artificial.

  “Not really,” said Foster. He stared at Tide. He was trying to remain cool. He was trying to keep it together, but the sorrow exuding from his pores was painfully apparent. Tide no longer sought to comfort him. Rye. She needed to ask him about Rye. Since the Gustway, she’d been thinking that Rye had just up and left her, and she’d harbored feelings of betrayal, but there was something now that made her think otherwise. Like he hadn’t left. Like he’d been taken. And she a strong suspicion that Foster had had something to do with it. Seeking to escape his depressing gaze, Tide walked deeper into the mouth of the mine.

  For the princess, the situation was awkward and confusing, for Foster, it was something unbelievable, and for Jobe, it was a nightmare. But for the demon, it was perfect. He laughed again, and the corners of Tide’s eyes began to fill with blackness.

  “Huh?” The princess blinked several times to wipe it away. The blackness persisted, and before Tide could understand what was happening, something slipped around her middle and she was pulled into the mine.

  Foster and Jobe watched her go. They did nothing to help, though Foster extended a listless hand after her.

  Jobe shook his head. “Way to go. Now look what’s happened. And you showed up here without an excuse or anything? Geez! Of course it would look unnatural.”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t help it. Rye found her, and . . . it was like . . . Never mind. And you, what were you thinking, Chuck? What were you thinking in making her your partner? Just to be mean or what?”

  “I have my reasons,” said Jobe. “Actually, I didn’t know for sure it was her until I tracked her fax. I assumed given what you’ve told me, and once I figured out her name . . . I just wish I’d known that Rye had found her. That’s problematic.”

  “You mean awkward? Sorry. Can’t help what form he takes.”

  “Hmph. Now that I think about it, that must’ve been why she was so into Seconds. The spacey blockhead.”

  There were a few moments of stillness.

  Foster stared at the place Tide had stood. “She doesn’t . . . remember anything, does she?”

  “Nope, not as far as I can tell. And it’d better stay that way. It’s obvious they’ve gone through great lengths to make sure she doesn’t, and who knows what’ll happen if she finds out. If you want to keep seeing her, I suggest you do it from afar. You KNOW what I mean, right?”

  Foster did know. He didn’t want to listen to Chuck, but Chuck was right.

  “Fine,” he said.

  Jobe groaned. “Was it worth it, bro? Do you feel ‘better’ now?”

  “No,” said Foster. “Not at all.” He put his head in his hands.

  “Ha. Serves you right.”

  “Be nice.”

  Foster flicked his glasses onto his face and pulled at his collar. He was feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. He looked to the sky. It was overcast. Sad. Gray. As gray as his shirt. As gray as his soul. He’d wanted to see her in person one time at least – the young princess who’d forgotten him – but now that he had, he knew what he had to do. It was up to Chuck now. And Rye. To make sure she stayed that way. To make sure she stayed lost in oblivion. That was best for everyone.

  Foster let out a sigh and left Jobe standing at the mouth where Tide’s body was being consumed by an unseen demon.

  “All right, Chuck,” he said. “I’ll leave her to you.”

  He started away, but Jobe had something else to say. He fought to swallow the cynicism that strived to escape him. Managing to choke it down, he admitted, “I miss you, Foster. We all do.” Foster said nothing, but Jobe took his silence as some sort of response and continued, “Try to pull it together. It’s what she’d want, you know. Think back. She wouldn’t want you to be like this. She wouldn’t want you to be so . . . skeletal.”

  But that was exactly what Foster was. He was a skeleton now. A skeleton of his former self. Since the day he’d pushed Rye out, everything had been different. Everything had been broken, and there was no way to revert it to what it had once been. Foster had accepted this.

  It was exactly what the demon wanted. It let out its heartiest laugh of all.

  Foster left Jobe. He disappeared into the grayness of the storage district’s lockers. Jobe stood by the mouth of the cave and waited. He waited for the return of his princess. Once the demon was done with her, it would give her back. That he was sure of. What he didn’t know was how long it would take.

  But he’d wait. For the princess, the hunter would wait as long as it took.

  Chapter 8: The Reappearing Boy

  Even though reawakening was something he’d experienced a dozen times or more, it was something he’d never get used to. It was something he hated. Flesh formed around air. Thought formed around energy. It was time to reawaken again.

  “All right, Rye. You win . . . for now.”

  The boy suspended in darkness heard a voice through the nothing. He opened his eyes and found himself sitting in the corner of a small, dingy room. His body was slumped; his knees pulled snugly into his chest.

  “Finally,” said Rye in a voice that was hoarse from disuse. Aching in at least five places, he pulled his body from the ground and started to dust himself off, but when he looked down at his sports jacket – “Filthy.” – he threw it aside and slipped up the hood of his sweatshirt. His mouth tasted gross. He needed to get home. “That was so LAME of you, Foster!” Rye kicked the stained pillow he’d been resting on. He didn’t want to know what sort of liquid or secretion had tainted it, but whatever it was, it left a stale stink in the air around him. “SO LAME!”

  The ceiling above him drooped in several places, and with the thumping of overhead footsteps, small snow-like debris drifted downward onto his shoulders. He gave both the residue and ceiling looks of distaste before finding his way out the door, which – as it turned out – was one in a hallway of many. With tired limbs, Rye straggled across the black-spotted carpet. Grimy knobs littered either side. Behind them, other abandoned Seconds waited to be released from their curses. Reawakening was never a pleasant thing.

  Rye stuck his hands into his pockets and moved slowly. He didn’t know what part of the city he’d ended up in, and he knew from prior experience that it was best to assess first in these situations. There were some parts of St. Laran where it was dangerous to show off the red.

  The Second calmly left the building and glanced behind him. According to the rusted sign, his place of ‘rest’ had once been a hotel. Now it was just another wasted slum. An ugly blemish on the face of an otherwise decent-looking street.

  Rye rubbed his dirty face and blinked into the sun.

  Aside from the eyesore hotel, the area was surprisingly clean. Surprisingly populated. Surprisingly bright. The place gleamed like the complexes of the tower-dwellers. That was because Bororore coated even the lower buildings there. That sort of thing was a growing trend, although the ore
was still primarily used for ritzy skyscrapers and lengthy undertrains.

  Sensing no danger, Rye made brisker his step. He wanted to make it home as quickly as possible, for he was certain he carried at least a little of the hotel’s stench along with him. He needed to refresh. He needed to catch his bearings. But more than that, he needed to send a very important fax.

  “Tide,” said the young mouth that was Rye’s.

  He felt rotten for leaving her alone in the ruins God knows how many days earlier. It was unacceptable, and even though it wasn’t his fault, amends had to be made as soon as possible. She deserved that much. Hell, she deserved much more than that. Playing catch-up was just one of the joys of reawakening.

  Rye continued on. Shifty. Sharp-eyed. As soon as he recognized something, he’d find his way back. The only problem was, he didn’t recognize anything. He never had been great with directions. On top of that, he wasn’t feeling very REAL at the moment. He felt wispy, and that was dangerous. If he didn’t hold onto himself, he’d end up right back were he’d started.

  “Rye. Rye. Rye. My name is Rye. Rye. Rye. Rye. My name is Rye.”

  To an observer, he would’ve seemed like a loon. He was sure of that. But it didn’t matter. It would all be worth it once he made it home solidly.

  The stinky boy kept moving, eyes on the horizon in search of familiar landmarks. Eventually he passed a school, Eastfelt Intermediary.

  Eastfelt. If the title wasn’t lying, he wasn’t far from home. He tried to search his memory back to Foster’s time in school. The city districts went: Callahan, Eastfelt, Abardo, Dentra, Eeon. His home was in Abardo. That meant he had to head . . . west? But which way was west? He’d have to ask someone . . . But he was so grubby at the moment that human interaction was the last thing he desired. Rye let out a groan. This was the pits!

  “Excuse me.” Chugging his pride, he approached a Second woman who was walking along the boulevard with stark determination.

  The Second stopped and looked up at him with eyes of vacancy. “Yes?” she said.

  “Which direction is west?” asked Rye.

  The Second slowly raised a rigid hand and pointed to her right.

  “That way?”

  The Second nodded.

  “Sweet!” Rye gave a whoop. He was one step closer to finding home. “And is that the way to Abardo?” he asked.

  The Second nodded again.

  “Thanks!” said Rye.

  The woman said nothing. She continued to stare. Rye squinted at her. Her steps had been defined but her eyes were so . . . soulless.

  “Yo. You doing okay, there?” he asked. “You seem a little . . .”

  “I’d worry about yourself,” she said stonily with eyes that remained disconnected.

  “Uh-”

  “Your aura’s much too defiant. It’s your role to take on the pain, but all you’re doing is indulging. Learn your place.”

  “Whaaa?”

  But the woman started her determined march, leaving Rye behind and confused and irritated.

  “Bull crap.” Rye formed his hands into fists. “I’ve chosen to separate from the pain that was his. It isn’t mine, so why should I bear it?”

  He turned down the right-hand road, but he wasn’t walking briskly anymore. He was stomping. He couldn’t stand weak-minded people like that. Seconds who’d mindlessly take on their stereotyped roles. He wouldn’t be that way. He’d choose to enjoy the time he’d been given. He’d choose to ‘indulge’.

  Fuming, Rye continued along the side road until, after several minutes, he stopped to draw a deep breath. He was regaining himself. Regaining solidity. The red brand on his neck burned a little at the thought, but Rye paid it no mind. Soon he’d be home and showered, and then the first thing he’d do would be to send Tide that message apologizing for his disappearance. After all, someone as high-towered as her probably had no idea what’d happened to him. She probably had no idea what happened to Seconds when their Mains . . .

  “Stupid Foster!” Rye grumbled again. But even saying his name made the shallowness return. “I’m Rye. I’m Rye. I’m-”

  “Well, well,” said a lazy, droning voice from behind.

  Rye stiffened – the voice was dripping with ill intent – and coolly glanced over his shoulder. The street was still populated, but it was sparser than the main road he’d been on before. Two twenty-something males, one of which was surely to source of the voice, stood a short distance away. The first was as tall as Rye, but much lankier and heavily tattooed. The other was pale with black hair. Rye ignored them and continued along the pot-holed street.

  “You look like you’re fresh from a rebirth, Sec-scum,” the droning persisted. Rye threw another annoyed glance over his shoulder. The tattooed one. He was the owner of the lazy voice.

  “For real?” said Rye dryly. “On a bright, pleasant day like this you’ve got nothing better to do?”

  Apparently they hadn’t. The two strangers jogged up next to him and took position on either side.

  “You’re pretty cute. And tall too,” said the pale one. “Wanna have some fun with us?”

  “Golly! Good old fashioned bullying? How cute is that?” Rye fluttered his lashes. Then his expression turned deadly. “Piss off. I just want to get home and shower.”

  “Shower? You can borrow ours,” said the pale one. His eyes shined. “How about it?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Too bad, but you don’t really have a choice,” said the tattooed one. “You see, you’re just our type.” He placed a firm hand on Rye’s bicep.

  “Heh.” Rye yanked his arm away and grinned because he knew he could take them. Even in a weakened, just-awoken state, he could definitely take them. The martial arts training he’d shared with Foster was still very much solidified in his memory. It would be easy. Fun, even. But there was something he didn’t count on. Something he was powerless against.

  “SO, who’s your Main?” said the pale one, leaning in closely so that his mouth was nearly to Rye’s ear. “We overheard you say ‘Foster’. Is that him? Is Foster your Main?”

  Rye cringed at hearing the creep use Foster’s name.

  The pale stranger laughed. “Guess we guessed right. Hey, you aren’t even a real person, are you? FOSTER is.”

  And just like that, Rye felt the uprootedness begin. His luck was bad, because as luck would have it, the strangers had found him in his most vulnerable state – when he was most susceptible to losing grounding – and they’d also happened to eavesdrop the name of Rye’s Main that had so carelessly been muttered.

  “I said, PISS OFF!” Rye tried to elbow the pale one away from his ear, but since his limbs were already returning to numbness, the attempt was easily dodged.

  Pale Face laughed again. “See. You’re just empty, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, Sec-scum,” Tattoo joined in. “You aren’t real. You’re a flicker. An emotion. An abomination.”

  Rye scowled. “Shut it!” But he was drifting. And rapidly. At this rate, he’d be gone before he could even begin to fight back. If he didn’t act quickly, he’d end up in the middle of whatever presumably sick plans the two strangers had for him. So act quickly he did. Leading with his fist, Rye swung his arm in an attempt to hit Tattoo in that smug, long-jawed face, but something was wrong. Rye’s body hadn’t obeyed; and he wasn’t just numb anymore – He hadn’t moved at all!

  “Dang it!” Realizing defeat, Rye did the only thing he could – swing his head from side in an effort to shake them away. He came off looking like a crazed mongrel.

  Tattoo and Pale Face laughed in unison.

  “You really are fresh from a nap, aren’t you?” said Pale Face.

  “Strange,” said Tattoo. “He LOOKS strong, but there doesn’t seem to be much to him, does there?”

  “Well, there wouldn’t be. I’m sure FOSTER kept the good parts.”

  “True.”

  But while they were mocking, Rye was concentrating. Silently fighting. Tel
ling himself he was real. Reconnecting to the earth. Tattoo noticed, though, and put a stop to it before Rye could make any real progress.

  “Go ahead,” droned the stranger, nodding to his partner. “Let’s get this over with before he gains control.” He moved his hands behind Rye’s shoulders.

  Rye braced himself. Chances were that any pain would travel through the numbness.

  “Mmkay.” Pale Face locked eyes with Rye and chewed his lip before landing a hard punch into the Second’s kidney. Rye doubled over, but Tattoo held him up.

  Rye was limp. Not from the pain he’d definitely experienced, but from disconnectedness. He couldn’t straighten up, and he couldn’t fight back. Not even when Pale Face lifted his hood, peaked beneath, and said, “There it is.” The creep drew a finger along Rye’s collarbone and up to the red of his neck. “This’ll be fun.”

  Rye gagged at the disgusting seductiveness of the caress, but the strangers took no notice. Each put an arm around his middle and began to pull him back the way they’d come.

  Any onlookers that saw the abduction did nothing to help. Why should they get involved in the affairs of a person who hadn’t even been born? Why should they care what happened to something so ‘unholy’?

  Rye was floating. He fought to stay connected to the earth. He fought to exist. But every time he started to solidify, Pale Face or Tattoo would whisper some discouraging quip that pushed him away from the ground.

  He was helpless.

  They dragged him to a lower-apartment a very short distance away. Apparently the duo didn’t travel very far from home to catch their prey. The apartment was one of the ones coated in Bororore, but even so, it was outdated within. There was no bellhop there. There was no front desk clerk, either. And there wasn’t a manager to monitor the going-ons of its inhabitants. Rye stumbled along, unwilling and disconnected, through the dark-lit lobby.

  “Almost there, darling,” whispered Pale Face in Rye’s ear.

  Rye’s empty stomach sought to upheave, but there was nothing in there for it to throw out, so he simply cringed.