Outlier: Rebellion (34 page)

“Yeah, I know.” It’s the time Wick’s supposed to leave headquarters for the Weapon Show, fifteen past the toll of midnight, approximately one half-hour after Rone has taken leave. “You doing alright?” he asks Cintha, who smiles lamely for reply. “Of course. You got nothing to worry about, Cinth. Your brother’s gonna be fine. Even he just said, this one’s gonna be—”

“Clean, I know.” She turns back to the computer, steady and languid.

Neither Prat nor Arrow seem to acknowledge he’s even there, focused so intensely on the computer and whatever nonsensical information flows across its screen. Likely monitoring the graffiti bombs, relaying messages to the others, whatever else the brains of the operation do.

Wick moves to the large window to wait, feeling very much alone. He can’t see the smoke of the fallen Garden anymore. Maybe it’s cleared out by now, wiped away and put out of sight like spilt milk … preparing for another unthinkable happening to take its place.
What the hell is it with my obsession and paranoia of things going wrong? Am I really that much like dad?

He glares at the ugly locked door. He stares at it and counts the minutes as they pass.
Maybe I should try talking to him. Say something at least before I go.
Only one minute’s passed. Twenty-nine left. The Sanctum boy … The boy with whom he exchanged his first kiss … locked behind a door. Wick wonders if the boy realized after eating his dinner that fateful night that it would be the last dinner he’d eat in the Lifted City for quite some time.
He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t want any of this.

Twenty-eight left. The clicking and beeping of the computer from behind the tapestry is the only sound in the loft. They can’t see Wick, the big purple hanging thing blocking their view. Wick looks at the ugly door again, considers …
Maybe … Surely, he’s lonely too …

Twenty-seven, and a wild idea forms. A wild and likely bad idea. Twenty-seven. Still twenty-seven. And—

Wick swipes a bottle off the shelf, a set of Victra’s rubber gloves, and a tiny rusted screwdriver before quietly passing into the adjoining room. Through the tight living space that used to be rented out, long since neglected, Wick sets down the gloves and bottle and navigates in the dusty darkness to the window. Fussing at the latch, he flips it open and swings out two anxious legs. He happens to be rather skilled at scaling buildings—as he tends to scale his own house on the daily—so without a bother, he reaches up, props his foot against the rim of the opened window and gives a push, grappling carefully with a conveniently-placed brick ledge that he traverses. He braces himself at the next window ever gently, which has been sealed with a large metal covering. Carefully, he twists the screwdriver at each corner, unloosing it.

When the thing indelicately swings down, only one screw saves it from a far tumble into the alley below. Wick pushes into the glass, lifting it and smiling inside.

Athan rises from the floor where he sat, his eyes instantly flashing to life. “Wick? What’s—? What’s—?”

“Climb through.” Wick grips the brick ledge, pulls himself out of the way for Athan, then slips back into the window of the dusty living space. Soon after, Athan emerges, his arms flexed in the effort, and the bright grin on Athan’s face as he climbs into the room makes it all worth the trouble.

Wick rubs the wall, fumbling in the dark until his hand happens on a lever. Flipping it, a small pool of light falls in the center of the room, certainly scattering all matter of spiders and bugs. Pulling a chair off a pile of assorted furniture, he sets it out and nods to Athan. “Sit.”

“What’s going on?”

“Sit.”

Athan’s eyes go from Wick’s face to the blue bottle in his hand, back to his face. His eyes glow with reluctant comprehension. “You mean, you’re going to—?”

“I’m gonna make a slum boy out of you.”

The look in Athan’s eyes at first is one of fear, then twisted into reluctance, into an unspoken question, and then finally thrill. Carefully, he lowers himself into the chair. It creaks loudly, a wooden, ancient yawn.

Wick draws up to Athan’s backside, stretches a pair of gloves on his hands, opens the blue bottle, and squirts into his palm. When his fingers run through Athan’s short, messy hair, he feels a rush of excitement. The blue coursing through the gold, he takes care to twist the color into the tips, avoiding the scalp as much as he can. It’s the hair he needs blue, not the whole damn head.

“Tingles,” says Athan with half a giggle.

“Shouldn’t. It isn’t hair dye, it’s just ink.”

“Maybe it’s your fingers doing the tingling.” Athan turns his head. “So why the change? Had enough of blondes?”

His fingers tangled in the yellow, Wick leans forward and whispers, “It’s a disguise, Sanctum boy. You’re coming with me tonight.” He can’t see Athan’s reaction, but he can’t imagine it’s anything less than ecstatic.

While they wait for the ink to set, Wick discards the gloves and sits on a stack of turned-over vegetable crates across from Athan. He observes the Sanctum boy. “I’d say the week’s tainted your Sanctum cleanness. Even those clothes look a bit slummy now.”

When the twenty-seven minutes that once existed at last expire, Wick slips Athan down the narrow stair and out of the Noodle Shop. The whole time Athan whispers, “But it’s just hair color … It’s just … Are you
sure
it’s enough to disguise me? I didn’t even get to look in a mirror!” Wick just grins, his excitement carrying them down the street, east the fourteen blocks to the train.

On the train, Wick’s earpiece makes a fuzzy belch, then Arrow’s voice comes in: “Wick, you on the go?”

Wick pushes a finger into his ear. “Yes.”

“Hey. It’s a lot more crowded than expected, so they opened all the entrances to the arena. That means a slight change in plans. Juston’s got the west exit, Yellow the north, Rone the south and you the other south.”

“I don’t do well in crowds,” Wick answers back. Athan wrinkles his brow, giving him a strange look. Wick points at his ear, explains in a whisper: “They’re talking to me. I’m wearing an ear—”

“Victra’s going to keep near you two in the south quadrant and use her sight. Everything is ready to go. The ink will blow after the last weapon demonstration.”

“We’re here.” Wick rises from the bench, Athan following. The two of them spill from the train as it squeaks to a stop, many others apparently taking this route to the Weapon Show as well.

The arena is aesthetically unimpressive, but its size is staggering. A humungous cylinder of metal, the thing is surrounded by throngs of people, some pushing their way in, others loitering in circles of heated discussions about different kinds of metals and tempers, inventions, blades with various features … Wick ignores as much as he can manage, squeezing through the crowd. Wick’s grabbed Athan by the hand so as not to lose him, but it’s to little advantage, as Athan insists on being glued to Wick’s back as they move. Wick keeps his breathing measured, his eyes focused … He does
not
do well with crowds. So many people around, he already feels his heart in his throat and his muscles tightening with anxiety.

They enter the arena without issue and the yawning dome of a ceiling is remarkably high. Athan grips Wick by the arm, keeping close. Any worry Wick had about bringing Athan along is for naught; the types of people that visit these Weapon Shows have just as wild hair, insane and downright bizarre choices in attire … some sport pink rubber, mustard jackets, tall green spikes of hair …
Athan nearly fits in better than I do.

Wick makes his way through the crowds, attempting to decipher which exits are the south ones, and of them, which is Rone’s to watch and which is his. With a wiggly panic cutting through him, he thinks,
Whichever exit is further from where my father might be—that’s what I’ll take.

Yes, it hasn’t been lost on him: his dad is here somewhere. His hope is that he’s with the presenters of the weapons, or working something behind the scenes, as he’s a smith. But even the workers of factories and the forges and metalshops come as mere spectators, sitting among the audience and not showing off their skill. Not everyone pines for the attention of Sanctum officials, or the Marshal of Order’s greedy eye.

“So many
people,”
Athan says, his eyes so wide it’s a wonder he’s blinked at all since they got off the train.

“Stay close,” Wick answers unnecessarily, as Athan could not be any more pressed against him, “and stay behind me. I don’t … I don’t want Victra seeing you.”

“How would she see me?”

“Through my eyes.” Wick shifts his back, anxiously looking from left to right, to the exit, to the other exit. He can’t keep still, feeling like he’s drowning, like the crowd of people were a vast, thick liquid he’s been unwillingly plunged into.
You wanted to be a part of this,
he reminds himself.
This is what you wanted. Rain is what you wanted, so either stand here and be a force of reckoning, or pull out your umbrella and go home to bed.

“You okay?” asks Athan.

“Of course,” he lies, feeling the pangs of a headache knocking at the door of his skull.

Athan pulls him around. Wick is now forced to stare at him, the effect like an anchor in a sea of madness. “Look here,” those beautiful lips tell him. “There you are.” Athan smiles and the whole world crushes away … noise and chatter and volume.

“But—But Victra might see you. She might—”

“So let her. And let her see this, too.” Athan presses his face into Wick’s. Now it doesn’t matter if Victra peers through his eyes because all she’d see is blissful black, as they’re closed for this brief island of Athan’s peace.

When they pull apart, Wick is smiling. Athan too. “Just us here, see?” The blue has set in his hair, but blonde still dominates, creating swirls of greenish-blue among the spikes of yellow. Even in its slapdash mess—or perhaps because of it—Athan looks absurdly sexy. “Be the calm they need, Wick. The others are depending on you, aren’t they? And so am I.”

For having such a firm, steady voice, he sounds so sweetly innocent, like no frights of the world dare taint it. Wick breathes in slowly, breathes out, his eyes not for a second leaving Athan’s.
Let her see.
“I could’ve used a dose of you at the square when the Garden fell. Where were you then?” But he didn’t think the question through, as Athan only grins and answers, “I
was
there. And I believe it was
you
who found
me.
”

“Yet I still can’t figure out who saved who that day.”

The earpiece squawks, chirps, and the lights in the arena begin to slowly dim.
It’s beginning.
Wick pulls to the nearest exit, pushes a finger into his ear and says, “I think I’m at the south … I think I’m in place, but didn’t get a visual on—”

“I’m here,” Rone’s voice answers, and the sound of it is a great and unexpected comfort to Wick. “We’re in place, all of us. Just sit back, my man. We have an entire show to watch before the
real
show begins.”

Athan is pressed against him, his hand on the Sanctum boy’s firm thigh, and Wick realizes there’s quite literally nowhere else he’d rather be. He fights a very random and ill-timed desire to make a grab at Athan, his hands speaking sweet temptations to him. Athan’s breath pushes in and out at Wick’s ear, and it gives him cause to smile, relax, and feel his heart race all at the same time.
Maybe you’re both good and bad for me,
he wonders, heart still fluttering.
You calm me as much as you excite me.

The Weapon Show begins unceremoniously with a presentation of long blades and short blades and how different metals behave in combat. This is then played out with a combat demonstration between two skilled men. The audience is a strange mixture of happy and awful. Some drunk women in the front make fun of nearly everything presented, hushed by surrounding folk, only to then be joined by raucous men at the side, jeering and laughing despite the presenters’ confidence or weapon. These demos serve many a purpose: for the forgers of the new weapons, they become a giant advertisement to Guardian and Sanctum. They are also something of an audition for men and women who fight, demonstrating the use and flexibility of their weapons. Some showings are more impressive than others, but most of them are boring. The real sport is in seeing if any of the combatants might slip and hurt one another. It happens.

The most exciting presentations are the inventions. Wick is fascinated with some of the strange weaponry and gadgets that have been made to suit certain purposes. One woman shows a long staff made of smooth chrome, sure to appeal to Sanctum folk, but when it’s unsheathed and thrust in a certain direction, sharp points emerge and what once was a simple rod of metal now becomes a gadget of several functions: a blood-letting tourniquet of knives, a ranged sword, a pickaxe … There’s even a small point emerging two-thirds up its length that looks like a toothpick. “See here,” she exclaims, “as I let loose last night’s beef from my teeth.” The crowd laughs; every good presentation has its humors. Even the drunk women in the front laugh, and the wild men at the side.

“Stay steady,” says Rone from the earpiece. “Stay steady, kids. We’ve one more presenter before the final, and then we’ll make it rain.” Victra answers with a mumble and Juston from the other exit clears the call. Wick, still content to have half his body pressed against Athan, grits his teeth and awaits the cue.

“How do they detonate?” whispers Athan.

Wick shakes his head. “I don’t know. They haven’t explained. Only that it will happen when—”

“Okay, okay, got it.” Athan squeezes against Wick’s arm, sending a jolt of exhilaration up his back, hairs standing on end.

The next presenter comes out. His hair is pitch black and even from this far distance he can be seen wearing a wily smile. He seems confident, dressed in flat greys and a black band on his arm, floppy boots with laces untied and dragging. He takes center, his voice impressively audible. “My name is Dran. What I have to show all you fine fools is the world’s first knife. Or, rather, what the world’s first knife
could
have been.” He produces a blade like any other, its sharp the length of a hand. “It’s a good sharp, isn’t it? A fine sharp, a knife that can hit an eye like any other.” Demonstratively he aims, raises arm, then flings the thing, fast as lightning. It strikes into a wooden post. “Such a nuisance, once a knife’s thrown that it no longer belongs to you. Or does it?” The presenter raises his arm, a true showman, and the knife flips from the post as though beckoned by some unseen force, returning at once to Dran’s hand. “A retractable sharp!”