The Reformation

by Garggie Talukdar

  “What did he say about your parents, huh?” She watched with satisfaction how his jaw locked, and while the others might have been yelling at them to stop, she didn’t hear them. “One word, and you become a maniacal murderer.”

  “Funny coming from the girl who tossed a match into a house so everyone inside could shrivel and die for her own safety. That says something about character, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “What are you hiding from us, January? We all have secrets, but you most certainly have the most. Which one of those is the fact that you are an Immortale spy?”

  “You’re insane. You know, I was actually starting to open up, but this is exactly why I don’t. You’re a lunatic, mad with something right now, Downcley. And you know, typically, I would be fine with letting you get away with this one, because clearly you desire something to make you feel like you are worth more than you are, make you feel like you are a use. But you have no right to make presumptions on people you don’t even know. Born and raised in the Razed city of Adelaide, I would have expected you to know of hardships, but of course you don’t.”

  “You think I don’t know of hardships? Every day that I breathe is a hardship. Every second that I have to move is a hardship because I am dying. I am in a constant state of pain, and I have been since I was born. You probably think a hardship is skipping a meal. You probably were one of those pompous brats with their life served up in a silver platter.”

  “Like hell it was. You know your parents. You didn’t have to watch as their bodies became wrangled and bruised. You didn’t have to know that you could do nothing to stop it. You didn’t have to grow up knowing that survival was priority and everything else was a luxury. You think that I came here to sabotage efforts that are trying to stop what I had to live through all of my life? You think that I’m here to help a species that have done nothing but screw up my life forever? You think that I’m here to assassinate the king like Paris Avelapoulos? —sure, I don’t agree with his politics, I don’t agree with his ways. But I’m here for a reason Downcley, and if you think that it’s to help the Immortales and destroy everything that I’ve tried to build here, so be it. You know, between working for the Immortales—whom I detest with every fiber of my being—and working with you, the former seems pretty appealing right now.” His voice was light and sardonic, which gave indication of how seriously pissed he was.

  Fey was aware that the white noise of everyone trying to prevent the fight had died down, as they no doubt looked at January with wide eyes as he revealed personal information of his for the first time, but Fey didn’t let that stop her. “You’re a conceited, arrogant jackass. People are being hurt and you make jokes?”

  He leaned in slightly, and Fey could see herself reflected in his grey eyes; sparking with fury, glistening with unbridled choler, but underneath it all, she could see the utter lassitude and desperation and pain that pawed its way aboveground, and for the first time, Fey Downcley could see January Kurata-Tormont as a human who felt things. As a broken boy rather than a cold statue of a man. “See if I give a damn,” he growled into her ear, then straightening and storming out of the room.

  Maybe it was desperation, but Fey still couldn’t back down. She saw that part of Jan that he had kept hidden for so long, he had let some of his secrets spill over, but Fey stuck with her accusation, through and through, even as she sat down, and even as everyone else at the table gave her looks of horror.

  Even as her own brain shouted out at her, she resumed her cross-legged position, looking up curiously at all the glances she was getting. “What?”

  Jax shook his head, snapping out of it first. “You didn’t just do that.”

  “Do what?” Fey asked, fighting down the bile that was pushing up in her esophagus. She had just registered Jan’s words, just registered how she assumed that his life wasn’t a hardship, but what was it that he said about his parents? —wrangled and bruised.

  “You just baited him and-” the king stopped, unable to finish. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Everyone is a suspect, right? I just kept my ears and eyes open, like you asked, and I acted upon my findings. You can’t deny that I have a reason.”

  “No, I can’t. But you had no justification,” Jax said, and Fey couldn’t help but recoil a bit at how openly he chastised her. Serves you right. The clock on the wall caught the king’s attention, and he stood, immediately followed by everyone else at the table following him. “I best be going; there’s a meeting I must get to. Start decoding that file as soon as you can, and Areya, if it’s not too much of a bother, please organize those documents I was telling you about and get those to me. Thank you.”

  With quiet bows, Jax left the room as well, which was feeling heavier and more barren by the minute.

  There was some silence after his departure, and Fey felt the weight of her actions more clearly now, the silence amplifying her reconsiderations.

  The silence, minus Z’s incessant tapping.

  There was something about it, the familiar pauses and rhythm, that the mechanic had been tapping out on every available surface for as long as Fey could remember. “What are you tapping?” she finally asked before she could think, the results of the last time that she did such a thing clearly not teaching her a lesson.

  “Nothing,” Z immediately said, though then he took a moment and turned to face Fey, brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re tapping out a pattern; you’ve been doing it for as long as I’ve known you. Give me a piece of paper and a pen, and I’ll show you.”

  Z did as he was instructed, skeptical look on his face which Fey promptly ignored, and after everyone quieted down, the sound of Fey’s pen scratching into the paper in unison with Z’s absent-minded tapping all that could be heard.

  “There,” she announced, satisfied with her results as she pushed both the paper and the writing utensil back to Z. “That’s your pattern.”

  Z stood with his lip between his teeth as he read the scribbles that were supposed to represent what he had been taping for the past month, eyes wide.

  “That looks sort of like a Second Era system,” Celine mused, the blonde craning her neck to see the paper from behind Z.

  “I read it somewhere, that’s where I got my idea of dots and lines. The pattern probably means nothing though,” Fey quickly added, not trying to raise Z’s hopes too high. For a split second, with Z’s smile and Celine’s look of amusement, as well as Areya shuffling documents in the background, Fey could’ve thought that things were normal. That she hadn’t just changed the dynamics of their group.

  “Excuse me, Mister Z, Miss Celine, and Miss Downcley. I should probably get these to King Jaxcon,” Areya said, grinning as she held the perfectly aligned documents. Her eyes softened as she said, “And don’t be too hard on yourselves. All of you.”

  With the door clanging shut for the third time that night Fey tilted her head back, so she could see the ceiling mural. The colours and designs that had stolen her breath away only a few weeks ago, now only reminded her about change, and how constant that had now become in her life.

  Even when Celine left, Z following to do some work later on, Fey just stayed there, staring up, swallowing back the lump in her throat.

  Because even with all the dust swirling in her life, never resting in one place, there was one thing that she knew would be there when the dust settled, and it was that her accusation of Jan. And the worst part was?

  She still stood by it, and that officially made her much worse than she ever thought she could be.

  Thirty-Three

  “I HAVE a special mission for you guys,” announced Jax, sitting in his seat with a wide grin plastered over his face.

  Z stifled a groan; he knew that this special mission would be anything but enjoyable. This meeting, was anything but enjoyable. Ever since yesterday’s harsh words between Fey and January (Z thought he saw a fight when Celine and Jan went head-to-head, but yesterday’s fight was easily t
he most intense he had ever seen), the air had been tense. The little amount of opening up that Jan was trying to, immediately closed off after Fey’s accusation.

  And for once, Z actually found himself agreeing with Jan. Okay, so Fey’s opinion and thoughts made sense; Jan was cold and closed and the last one in the group that Z had come to trust. But Z trusted him now. Because he realized that Jan, in his own way, was trying to work with them, and Z appreciated that; most of the time, he couldn’t work with people. People’s inner mechanics and motives were much more complex than that of a machine’s.

  And Jan was trying, that was evident. He was attempting jokes (horrible ones, but they were still jokes), and cracked an occasional smile every now and then. And part of Z wondered why Fey was so desperate. It might have been a little too assuming of him, but he had thought that Fey saw it too; the fact that Jan was changing. So how much did she want to find out who the spy was—how much was it tearing her up on the inside—for her to accuse January without so much as a piece of evidence, knowing of what it would do for his evolution?

  The king’s voice broke him out of his internal pondering on the inside complexity of his fellow Strategists. “I need you guys to attend the Royal Ball tonight.”

  Z choked on his inhale. “What?”

  “I need you all to go to the Ball,” Jax repeated.

  This mononymous Ball, was only the most important social event to occur in NNR (which Z realized with an extreme amount of disappointment). It was the Royal Ball celebrating the (lovely) union between NNR and Elix, between the lowly Eartherners (a name which Z never understood; they both still lived on Earth, didn’t they?) and the prestigious Immortales. In short, an evening celebrating the fact that, although they signed a treaty declaring that they were equals and were to live in their own ways, they were still marionettes on the hands of their puppeteer. Also, the anniversary of the cease-fire in WWIII fell on the same day of Jax’s birthday.

  Of course, given the two most important days falling into one ball, people took that as an excuse to dress up ridiculously, and Z had only heard of the horrid tales filled with the lace and beads and skirts of the ladies, and the male’s staunch suits and buttons and- ugh. And to add on to the terror of it all, they all had to wear feather masks. Feather masks. Feather masks. Although, it was an awfully special occasion, so Z had only one answer to the information: “You're crazy.”

  “If I was crazy, I doubt I would be the leader of NNR,” Jax pointed out, sounding entertained.

  “You have a point. Would our king be your cousin Duke Dmitri?” Jax chose to ignore that comment, continuing as if he hadn't heard Z.

  “I need you to go to the Ball, and keep an eye and an ear open for anything.”

  “Gossip,” Celine supplied.

  “Need it be,” Jax shrugged. “The more reliable, the better, but any information that you can dig into, works.”

  “And what exactly are we looking for?” Jan asked, and Z noticed the dark bruises that ringed around his eyes. From across the table, Z could've sworn that he saw Fey scowl.

  “Rebel alliances, anything on the Immortales. As the day draws closer, we need more and more information,” Jax explained.

  “But our mole-” Fey started, casting an evident dark glance at January, which he returned just as intensely.

  “Fey, stop with all of this childish nonsense,” Celine cut in, looking as frustrated as Z felt, her curls messily thrown all over her head, “We get that you have your own suspicions on who this mole is; you expressed yourself clearly last night. But we don't know anything, so stop jumping to conclusions. Heaven knows that our group is estranged as it is, we don't need a new issue to tear us apart. Jan, if you want us to trust you, you sure as hell better prove it. And don't you smirk Fey, you've done enough harm as it is.” She let out a deep sigh, before turning to the young king, “Jax, I trust that we have clothes suitable for the Royal Ball?”

  Jax nodded, looking half-appraising, half-terrified at the blonde's outburst. “Check your dresser. And no one knows of the fact that you'll be attending, so if it's not too bad, you have to get ready on your own.”

  “Thank you. Fey, I'm done being mad at you, so if you need help with your hair, you know where to find me. Oh, and Z, try and look presentable for once.”

  Fey and Jan both winced as the door slammed shut behind her.

  “When do I not look presentable?” Z finally asked.

  “Dude, look at your shirt,” a weary Jan shot back. Z looked down at the grey fabric to see, true enough, a grease-stain.

  “It was only because I was working on the truck’s new carburetor!” Z feebly exclaimed, trying to come up with an excuse. And maybe, just secretly on the inside, he was trying to get both Jan and Fey roll their eyes at him so they could see eye-to-eye on something.

  Instead, Jan let out a tired sigh, pushing himself away from the table. “I have to go.”

  “Of course, you do,” Fey interjected, a dark glare in her look. Suddenly, January didn’t look so tired.

  “Yes. I have to go give my good old pal Kessia, a call, and tell her just what a little obnoxious girl has been doing day and night.”

  “Why you little-”

  “Enough,” Jax’s booming voice was enough to silence them immediately. “Celine is right, I’m sick of all this squabbling from you both. Grow up! For such a serious matter, you seem to be taking it for an excuse to snap up at each other’s throat. When I told you of my suspicions of a spy, Fey, I was not implying that you were to point fingers at a person who you distrusted, despite the fact that January has made it apparent that he might want to put his pride aside for once.” Jan opened his mouth, then wisely closed it, looking much humbler than Z had ever seen him.

  Fey on the other hand, looked shocked, and downright furious. “Jax, I-”

  “I mean it, Downcley. For now, if you cannot show cooperation—or hell, civility—to Mr. Kurata-Tormont, I’m afraid we will have to move you across the hall.”

  “Move me, please. Anything to distance me from him,” Fey snarled.

  Ouch. Even Z felt that stinging blow, so he could only imagine Jan’s response. But the latter just held his stare with her, one willed with a sort of intensity that Z would never wish to explore.

  Fey quickly stood up and marched out of the room, after breaking her impromptu-staring contest with Jan. Z could tell that she was mad, but mad enough to not even address the king before leaving? —she practically had fume coming out of her ears.

  As the doors slammed shut for the second time today, Jax slumped down in his seat, resting his head in his hand with a deep sigh. “Good god, it’s just a ball.”

  “The Ball, Majesty. Surely you must know of the apparel we must wear, to know just how dire of a situation this is.”

  Jax managed a wry smile at Z, but it dropped just as quickly when he turned to January.

  “And you, January. You’re lucky to have two interferences today. But if you really want to prove your innocence, win our favour. You’re a suspect—everyone is—but Fey doesn’t suspect you blindly. She just doesn’t have the evidence, but even me being the king doesn’t prevent a solid case from landing you in the gallows. Me being the king, ensures that if that evidence finds its way onto my desk, you will land in the gallows.”

  Jan returned Jax’s hard eyes with his own, looking undeterred under the king’s threat. In fact, he seemed only encouraged, standing up with his lost poise, the fire burning a little brighter from behind his eyes. Whether that was a sign for the better or the worse, Z didn’t know. “I better cross my fingers then, Your Majesty, that this evidence doesn’t materialize.”

  Z excused himself.

  …

  The suit really was uncomfortable. With its stiff collar and strangling cravat (was that what it was called? —Z didn’t pay too much attention to Celine’s lecture as she tied it like a pro), Z could hardly do anything. And he doubted that Celine would appreciate oil spilt on his too-tight shoes that Cel
ine spent a good 5 minutes fawning over; where that girl got her taste in uncomfortable clothing, Z had no idea.

  So he simply set to working on something on his laptop. Until he realized that he finished all of the small projects that he started, and if he bothered to start another one, he wouldn’t rest until he finished, which would most definitely not fall within the time he would have to be down for his entrance at the ball.

  Z just stared at his screen blankly, thinking of what to do. He couldn’t just wait; there was too much nervous energy inside of him. So instead, he tried racked he brain, trying to remember something, anything, to research. Something like-

  He typed speedily in the search bar of his revival of some Second Era search-engine. He was thinking about yesterday, about Fey’s comments about his tapping. Z had a lot of nervous stagnant energy, one that he emitted using tapping and tinkling around with his mechanisms. But Fey had told him that there was a pattern in which he tapped. Longs and shorts, pauses and too close taps.

  Celine had mentioned something about Second Era practices filled with tapping and messages, and although he knew the odds of it being just a coincidence, part of thought, just maybe, maybe, it could be something.

  Finally finding the Morse system which Celine had earlier been talking about, Z excitedly pulled out the sheet of paper filled with Fey’s narrow print on it. But before plugging it in, he let out a deep breath, allowing himself to be disappointed, because the odds were not in his favour, the odds were not in his favour, the odds were not in his favour.

  They apparently were.

  Some 15 minutes later, Jan came knocking at his door, holding an ornate wooden case with the royal crest on it. “Your mask. Come on, Z; we don’t want to dampen the mood downstairs with our beheading due to our impeccable timing.”

  Z didn’t even argue or bite back with a sharp comment. Instead he just tossed his laptop on his bed, shoved the paper in his breast pocket (which Celine would reprimand him for), and took the box, thanking Jan.