by Rebecca Grey
"They are all the same, physically." I start, wondering out loud. More magic. "But do they all have the same conscious knowledge?"
"Who's your favorite teammate?" Hedda smiles waiting for an answer.
"Hedda, we need deeper questions than that." Juilliard waves her off.
The clowns must answer, and they do.
"My best friend, obviously." The first sits back into one hip.
"Not you, Orc." The second chuckles.
"Sure as hell isn't the Human either." The third taunts. I narrow my eyes on that figure. The third sure as hell is ready to push my buttons. But the second had said as much about Hedda, so I don't have much evidence to support a cause on that one.
"For fucks sake," Juilliard almost snarls. "These questions won't get us anywhere. Oh, Saints. Marcello I swear I won't let you die today."
I reach a hand forward, hovering just over the chest of the first clown-faced Marcello. "Yeah, you whining is going to help." I look to the guards. "May we touch them?" They nod in unison, their faces covered by large maroon helmets. "Perfect."
I flatten my palm against the first clown. A heartbeat pulses under my hand, strong and steady. A powerful acrid scent perfumes the air around them. "Who broke your heart first?" I whisper.
"Lily" The first whispers back.
I step to the next one. Looking into the large masked eyes. Who's behind it, if not Marcello? "My father." The second replies, his pounding heartbeat moving in time with my own. The voice is a rasp of an answer without the want of admittance.
With a long inhale meant to calm my own thrashing heart, I touch the last option for Marcello. I draw a finger up his torso from his bellybutton to the center of his pecs. Nothing except the strong wall of muscle and the heat of a living body meets my touch. "My dad."
My hand falls back against my leg, slapping against my thighs. I look at Juilliard. "Well they all have some sort of Marcello's knowledge. Which isn't good. But it's not the first. It's either number two or number three."
The Elf’s chin dips. Sloane and Finnegan cross their arms across their chest, looking from me to him. "You've been friends a long time?" Finnegan raises a brow.
"Yes. Years." Juilliard looks from the second to the third. He opens his mouth, a choking sound coming from his throat before his mouth snaps shut. His fingers inch to his neck and he clears his throat. "What did we eat in the evenings when your brother ruined dinner and we left without eating?"
What a simple question. Why not something more personal? Why not something more helpful?
"Blueberry pie, with extra blueberries. Always stains our fingertips." The first answers.
"Eat? You mean drink. Rum. Lots of it." The second says, but you can hear the smile in his voice.
"Anna's special homemade peach jam on toast. Simple but delicious." The third shrugs.
We all turn to look at Juilliard. The stain in his ears is gone, along with most of the color in his face. "Oh Saints," he whispers.
"What? Which is true? Which?" I demand. The music picks up pace the chime of something percussion sounding far too much like the staccato ticking of a clock.
"All of it." His throat bobs. "Mainly the last two, but all of it."
"Ask him something else." I can feel my stress rising with the crescendo of music. It crashes like a wave against the building anxiety inside of me.
"I don't know. I don't know. I can't."
"Damn it. Juilliard. I've only known Marcello for a couple short weeks. Don't make me pick the wrong one!" I shout over the drone of a camera and music that only gets louder. "Don't make me kill Marcello. You have to. Why can't you? Why? I..." I cut myself off before saying anything else.
I can't kill Marcello. That's what I was about to say. I can't kill him. I don't want to. I refuse to. Oh Saints, how far have I fallen? Genovese can kiss that first job goodbye because I'll never have the heart to do it now.
Sloane slips up behind me, setting her hands gently on my shoulders. Her stained red lips move next to my ear, hushed under breath. "Stay calm. Any questions will help. Just carry on a conversation."
"Why me?"
"You and Juilliard are the closest to him." The warmth of her delicate hands leave me as she steps back to her place at her partner’s side.
"Players, you have ten minutes left!"
Ten minutes is all? How had time moved so fast?
"Can you uncuff them?" Juilliard urges. "Can we see his hands?" The guards shake their heads. Juilliard's bites down on his lip, staring between the three options. "I'm sorry. I.." The words get caught in his throat again, an emotion he can't bring himself to portray.
Carry a conversation with him... I can do that. I glance at Juilliard. "If your fucking genius brain can come up with something useful to say, please by all means jump in and help out. The whole lot of you are useless, I swear." I sigh, more mad at myself than all of them.
Juilliard nods and the rest of the team stays quiet. But the Marcello's, they chuckle. All of them. In a jarring noise that doesn't match any laugh I've ever heard before, like the wrong chord struck at the wrong time during a song.
"Do you hate me?" I say quietly. I don't bother to touch the first, I don't believe that's him. I just stare at the lifeless eyes that look back at me. Marcello can't see me, or any of us.
"Sometimes." The first replies with a shrug.
The second and third stand perfectly still. I curl my finger under the mask, running it along the underside of a sharp jawline. I watch as the next inhale is a shuddering breath that travels through his body. "I could never hate you, Nils. Not for long enough for it to matter."
I laugh. "I want it to be this version of you if that's the case," I whisper mostly to myself, moving to the next clown face.
Cold, smooth plastic settles against my hand as I cup the cheek of the mask. "And you?" The figure leans into the touch. "I hate you every day. But I love you again by the time I fall asleep at night."
Maybe I want it to be this one... Maybe I want Marcello's love. I pull my hand away. Marcello couldn't love me. Not yet, not this quickly.
"Yesterday, what was the last thing I said to you?" Juilliard interrupts.
Other teams walk up and down the row of three, examining the players as if they can find some physical attribute to give it all away. They rattle questions, but all we can see is the way their lips move, the sound doesn't carry over the terrifying trumpet of music.
Panic clots inside of my throat. Time is ticking away and we have a fifty-fifty shot at saving his life or losing him.
"You told me to forgive and forget." The first clown straightens.
Juilliard and I don't bother to give that one a glance. Not when we're staring down the last two clowns. Hedda paces behind us, wearing a path into the gravel.
The second sighs. "You called me a masochist."
We shift our gaze to the third. "You told me to stop loving people who will never love me back."
"Well?" I shift to Juilliard.
"...both are true..." He lowers his gaze to his feet.
"Saints, Juilliard."
"Players. You have one minute remaining until you must make your selection."
A thousand questions come rushing to mind, too fast for me to grab a hold of a single one to ask. All of them are plain and unhelpful. I grip my dagger tightly into my hand. The cross on the hilt bites into my skin.
Words tumble from me. Words meant to be spoken only on someone's deathbed. Only on Marcello's deathbed. Because if he's going to die, I can't let it be without me getting it all out first. I can't let it be just like Arron’s death where he slowly wasted away and I never told him how much he meant to me, how much he helped me, or how he made me better. That shame has eaten me away, every moment of every day. I can't survive another decade with the weight of a new shame on my shoulders.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry Marcello. I'm sorry about what I said about Lily. I'm sorry you have a shitty father. I'm sorry that I'm such a bitch all the time. I'm s
orry I fucked your brother. I'm sorry I didn't tell you that I feel it too. I'm scared. If you're using me as a pawn in this game and nothing more, then the more I feel the stupider I am. Thank you for caring enough to get me here. Thank you for not leaving me in the fucking Bend when you realized I was Human. Thank you for getting me out of that stupid party I didn't want to attend. Thank you for catching me. Thank you." I repeat again. "I'm sorry I was too stubborn to say it sooner."
The first clown chuckles. The music is so loud I can hardly hear his response when he speaks. "It's about time you said all that."
"Is this your attempt at killing me before they do? I'm afraid that it's working." The second shakes his head. "Are you telling the truth?"
I stare wide eyed, unable to answer as the crowd begins to count down the final seconds. The third clown leans forward. "I've already forgiven you." Is all he says.
Gravel skitters around me as I spin back to my team. "Which one? Which one?"
"Ten, Nine, Eight..."
"I think the last one." Hedda nods. "Sounds like him."
They all sound like him.
"It could be either of them. They both speak so damn near the truth. The last one? I don't know. The second?"
The horn blows. The music screeches to a stop. Even the crowd is silent, waiting to see who will live and who will die. Marcello's fate is in my hands. Why couldn't it have been me behind that mask? Why couldn't it be me?
Armor brushes against armor as the guards step forward, away from the three male figures before me. They move quickly, ushering the rest of my team back against the wall. Juilliard opens his mouth to speak but the guard’s hand strikes his face, sending spit flying into the dirt. Juilliard glares at the guard, backing away with everyone else.
"We'll start with team one. Team Marcrux, Thomos, please select your teammate."
Even from this distance I can hear Thomos cursing. So much weighs on this choice. And as the announcer had said earlier, we need as many players as we can get for the final event. That's probably where Thomos' stress stems from. My stress comes from the thought of losing Marcello. As much as I want to hate him, he's grown on me and I can't handle losing anyone else.
I don't watch the large muscular Orc step forward and point. My attention shifts between the second masked Marcello and the third. Which one is it? Which one are you?
A wicked scream erupts, drowned out only by the gasps and cheers of the crowd. Death, their entertainment has made its first appearance. Only then do I dare to look.
Two masks sit in a heap of dust. One mask, belonging to the Hybrid that Thomos did not claim, is stuck to Danisha's flickering hand. Her hair sparks like lightning as she cries and falls to her knees. The muscles in her face are visible under the flesh that stretches in long bloody strings between her body and the mask. Crimson stains her clothing, her blood pouring out of her face.
Thomos is pale, rightfully so. But he nods to his mistake and walks back to the rest of his group. He doesn't look back as the Dryad falls to the ground completely. Skin lays like wet noodles from her high cheekbones to where the mask finally falls as it slips from her fingers. Her screaming turns to a whimper.
With heavy stomping boots a guard leaves Team Marcrux and stops at the girl’s trembling body. His sword glimmers in the spotlight as he yanks it from his belt. "Team Marcrux, you did not select the correct player." Then he sinks the blade into her heart, watching her groan and a new puddle of blood drip from her fleshy lips.
All three of the Marcello's before me shuffle at the sound of her death. The potential for that to be one of them higher than it should be. I should have paid more attention. I should have.
"Team Riveria, Credence, please select your teammate."
Why couldn't Juilliard help more? What can't he say? My night with Jefferson comes rushing back. Not the way he fucked me, no. but what he'd said before. The Elves are all spellbound in one way or another. We couldn't tell you who the prince is even if we wanted to. Could Marcello be the prince? Did I discredit him too fast? It would explain why Juilliard could help so little. Why the words kept getting caught in his throat. Maybe whatever it was that he wanted to ask would have revealed too much.
No, no, no. I can't have fallen for the prince. It would ruin everything for me. I've come to The Oasis for the heart of the king. I've come to pull the beating organ right from his chest. I didn't come here to learn to love the heart of the prince.
The crowd lets out a breath in unison as Credence successfully unmasks Lux. Though it wouldn't have been so terrible if we lost her. I would have rather enjoyed that.
Now the question sits on the edge of my tongue with no way to ask it. No way to get the answer. Is Marcello really the prince? Would King Caspar have risked his heir in this game like that? Maybe. Maybe to help him prove that he'd picked a good team.
"Team Ashford, Jefferson please pick your teammate." Jefferson, with his black hair tied at the nape wastes no time in lifting a finger to point. He smiles easily as all three clowns in front of him grab for their masks in unison, pulling them away from their faces. Two of the bodies crumple to piles of ash, their masks clattering against the floor a couple times before they still in the piles of undone magic. Rake holds the mask in his hand, tossing it down to his hooded feet in an exaggerated sigh. The two men shake hands.
We're next. I'm next. Please, please, please. I pray up to the Saints. Please let me pick the right one. Unless he's the prince, then kill him now before I'm too attached. I fear I'm already too far gone for my own good, wrapped up in his 'good boy' charm and his damn hero complex. What a shame that if he has truly fallen, that he will have fallen for the villain of the story. I'm not good. I account for nearly half the bloodshed in The Bend itself.
"Team Windsor, Nilsa, please pick your teammate."
I don't have a redemption story. I'm not fighting to make the good better. That's what makes this all feel so suddenly terrible. The Oasis has its faults most certainly, faults that Marcello seems wildly aware of. Still, here I am under what feels like the brightest most terrible spotlight in all of the world and I know that if given the chance I'll dismantle what little good is in the world. Why should they have it all and I so little? And what of this tale that Marcello has spun me of Lily? Or his father dismissing him? If that were true then there's no way he could be the heir.
The weight of the world doesn't feel so suffocating with Marcello. Marcello is a promise, whether he knows it or not. He's a promise of reformation to take the good and make it better. To make the bad in this world better. And if he fixes it as he truly believes he can...then why should I tear it all down?
He has to live through this for that. I have to pick.
I have to pick correctly.
My hand remains in a fist as I raise my arm. I leave it hovering there between the two figures. Sweat runs down the back of my neck, creating a trail down my spine. The last version of Marcello, Hedda thinks... but what does she know? Even Julliard, Marcello's best friend, is uncertain. First he chose the last like Hedda, but a moment before the horn blared he'd changed the answer to the second.
It's not the mannerisms that are clearly identical that makes this so tricky, it's the way that even the clones of Marcello himself know so much about him. How would they know about Lily? How many people has he told this tale of woe? Am I just one in many? Don't think about that. Not now.
I can't help but think back on one thing that has been said tonight. The one thing that makes me think I know which one it might actually be. "I hate you every day. But I love you again by the time I fall asleep at night." There is no way, no fathomable realty where Marcello Torres loves me... Nilsa Windsor, the Ghost. The smallest, most hopeful, and idiot part of my brain sparkles at the idea. But what if he does? The announcer himself said that while spellbound they can tell no lie.
And there I go running away with my thoughts again. This very admittance is the one thing that will save his life. Marcello does not love me. Marcello is
merely attracted to me. Attracted to my wit, which if I do say so myself is likely the only good thing I have to offer. Other than my ability to sneak around without notice, to climb impossible walls, and to effectively yield a dagger, okay so there are many great qualities, but none of which make me an eligible bride.
"Team Windsor, Nilsa, you must pick." The announcer repeats.
How long have I stood here paralyzed with these thoughts?
I lift a single finger aiming for the figure I surely hope is Marcello despite my team's suggestions. Now, as the cuffs behind their backs dissolve to smoke, they all reach for their masks and I pray to the Saint that's blessed Marcello the most. I pray to Saint Luck, may his blessings be in our favor.
Two piles of ash and dust drift down to the arena floor. The second figure cups his mask and pulls it from his face. There is no screaming, no strings of flesh, and most of all there is no love.
Marcello stands between the two piles of the magic made copycats. Relief floods his features as I imagine mine does as well. Applause erupts from the crowd I can't see around the shining lights pouring down on us. My own team cheers behind me.
The announcer carries on, unaware of whatever moment is passing between Marcello and I. "Team Cuttingham, Bekke, please choose your teammate."
Everything in the room feels small and quiet, even when I know that it's not. My shoulders finally fall away from where they've grown tense and lifted all the way up to my ears. Marcello doesn't move from where he stands, only tilts toward me as he speaks.
"Did you mean all of that?"
The space between us seems to shrink. Everything I've said before, all those words came from a place of desperation and vulnerability that I can't often offer. I want to take them all back. Marcello isn't dying... he's not dead. And I want everything to go back to normal.
"Nilsa?" This time he does move closer.
I can't think, I can't even breathe. A wave of heat fans over my body quickly followed by a clammy cold that tries to take hold of me. Marcello takes another step and I take a step away, keeping what distance between us I can. One hand, the hand with feeling stretches toward me.