Aiden

The pain bares fangs when consciousness rears its head. The agony is all that informs me that, unfortunately, I am still alive.

White hospital lights burn themselves deep into my corneas and it is the mind-melting migraine and the pain deep in every bone in my body that makes me sit up just so I can roll over and puke bile all over the tile floor.

My wrist has been wrapped in thick bandages and my fingers, clumsy and swollen, feel the back of my head for a wound, locating rows of stitches. While the pain is astronomical, I know the healers worked tirelessly on me. I can tell from the way everything is so intricately cared for. The fact that I'm still alive alone is proof.

Which tells me they’re intrigued by my proposal. And, for now, that’s good enough. Though there’s no telling how long that will last. I better than anyone know that trust around here is a limited resource. And I am only valued until I am no longer useful. Perhaps then they’ll kill me.

Butter me up like a pig for the slaughterhouse.

“Ah Mr. Brooks, you’re awake.”

The door opens swiftly, revealing a white doctor’s coat and a woman with tight black ringlet curls and dark, smokey eyes. Her beauty is striking. But I don't trust beauty.

“The dictator,” I rasp through my shredded throat. Words feel like broken glass against the tender lining and I suppress a wince. “Take me to him.”

“You are not going anywhere right now, young man. You need to rest,” the woman says sternly, more like a mother than a doctor. I scowl, unable to contain it.

“Don’t fuck with me. This is urgent.”

“And your request has been submitted, I assure you. You should hear back in two weeks.”

“I’m talking to him now.”

I move to sit up, but the room spins with voracity on its axis, ending with me collapsed back in the stretcher. The woman sighs with a small smile, her features softening.

“Trust me, Mr. Brooks, you will see him as soon as you possibly can. Most people wait months, years even. He’s a busy man. So take the time to rest and recover.”

“What do you people care about my health? Aren’t I like your sworn enemy or something?”

“Enemy?” The doctor asks with an airy laugh. “Atlas has no enemies. We are a united people; all we want is peace. Now you are a refugee, no? If you give it a chance, this too can be your home.”

I’m too dumbfounded by her words to make a comeback. No enemies? Peace? What kind of bullshit is she spewing?

But the doctor drops it and her attention narrows on gathering my vitals as I’m left with a wandering mind in silence.

“The dictator-” I start after a long minute.

“We do not call him that here,” the woman says with a patient smile, a learned practice. “For he is not a dictator, nor monarch. Instead we refer to His Authority as Our Covenant.”

“Ok well ‘the Covenant’…. Does he just expect me to sit here in a hospital for two weeks while there’s a war just beyond these walls and a bounty on my head?”

“A war?” The doctor says with a giggle. It’s convincing, which frustrates me. “There is no war, certainly you must have been affected by all that heat and exhaustion to say such a thing. But no, of course not. His Authority has made only the best arrangements for you, Mr. Brooks. Including your own penthouse suite, a guide to show you around our lovely city, and anything else you might desire. There is so much to do here, and much to see. We do hope you give it a chance and consider a future here in the heart of Atlas; a heaven on Earth and a unity for all mankind.”

Something sour rots inside my stomach. All I can ask is, “What did you say your name was, doctor?”

“Rahima. Rahima Qumar. And if you have any other questions, I’d be delighted to answer them.”

My endless questions thrash about in my brain, though none leave my lips.

“That’s all for now. Thank you, Rahima,” I say hollowly. 

“In just a moment, your guide will show you to your room.” She smiles, bowing slightly in courtesy before turning and leaving.

I’m too groggy to make sense of anything she just said. No war? Does she really believe that? My eyes scan the room, looking for cameras. This must be some kind of practical joke, a prank.

My fingers pose themselves in front of me, summoning a string of small flames on command. I’m surprised to find I can still access my gift and am left wondering why they didn’t take that away upon my arrival.

Unless Rahima really believed the words she was saying and thus doesn’t know about the war. But that’s impossible. There’s no way I could believe something like that. Not when it’s tearing the world apart just beyond this city.

An eager knock shakes me from my thoughts. A man enters, a mouse-like man with thin-wired glasses and a casual suit. His gel-slicked blond hair looks plastic, as does his taut smile.

“Ah Mister Brooks, good to see you’re awake.”

My nose twitches in distaste but I stuff it down.

“Call me Aiden.”

“Of course,” the plastic man says, still smiling. “Well, Aiden. On behalf of the entire city of Atlas, let me extend a warm welcome to you.”

I do my best to match his plastic smile, do what I can to conform. Be a good puppet. For now.

“Many thanks…” I trail off, searching for a name.

“You may call me William. If you need me or anything of me, ask for William Tusk.” I’m hit with a rather intense urge to sock the shit out of William’s smug expression. But I save face and smile.

“Many thanks, William.”

“If you’re ready, I shall escort you to your room. All your belongings have already been put away for you.”

Of course they have. I’m sure my weapons have been confiscated too.

William wheels over a wheelchair for me and gestures towards it. I hide my scowl best to my ability. Even though I don’t need a wheelchair and can walk perfectly find on my own.

“I can manage,” I tell him confidently, but his smile does not budge.

“I insist.” Something about those words sends ice down my spine. This is not a request. Rather an order. I don’t refuse again.

A settling sense of uncertainty grows as I drop down into the chair. William takes it upon himself to push me out into the hallway. I’m aware that my mercy is at the hands of every single worker here. 

The walls in the hall are almost all window, filtering in a peachy early evening light onto the speckled marble tiles beneath us. The architecture and decor are crafted with anal attention to detail, from the intricately carved ceilings, to the statues along the wall of every hallway corner.

Outside the windows, I find we are surrounded by patterns of smaller buildings and carbon copies of the same style of bilevel house. But what catches my eye is the grand stretch of wall that encircles us entirely, stretching maybe thirty feet high at the city’s borders. The sun sets just beyond it, sinking into the hidden world beyond. Only colorful skies can be seen beyond it.

“Those walls,” William says, unprompted. “Were built over a century ago, by our great and former leader Isidore Banks to protect the city from invaders. Now it is used as a landmark, to remember our roots. And to remind us that all our walls need not divide us.”

I don’t comment. Anything I say in response would only sound suspicious.

“Ok here we are,” William says after fifteen or so minutes of walking. I thought the hospital would be in a different building, but it seems it’s all connected by these long and winding glass hallways. 

We stop before two grandiose gold-engraved wooden doors, so gaudy I can’t help but physically cringe. Way to keep a low profile.

“Is there anything less… grand, perhaps?” I ask through my clenched teeth. These people are living like kings while the rest of the colonies like Nova Carta–the ones that are still standing–are barely eating a proper meal a day. It's vile.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” William snickers. “It is only acceptable for the guest of Our Covenant to be waited with the utmost respect and pleasantries.”

“Honestly, I’d rather sleep in the hospital.”

“I insist,” Tusk says with that tone of voice meaning I have no choice. I swallow hard and nod stiffly, allowing him to present a key to me, an extravagant gold key that he uses to twist the lock open before pressing into my palm.

The size of the room is ridiculous. I’m rolled into the foyer where marble ceilings are ornamented with golden chandeliers and timeless, priceless art. A statue of who I assume to be this ‘Isidore Banks’ person stands by the wall of windows that show off the large property gardens out back, and the city just beyond that. The foyer is complimented with a full kitchen, including bottles of priceless wine that are displayed like pockets of gold from twining metal leaves above the spirit cooler. There are so many couches and chairs that I have no idea what use they could possibly be for besides decoration.

White sheer curtains separate the space from another room. Upon closer inspection, the bedroom. Where an absurdly large mauve-colored bed with gold ornamental sheets sits in the center of the room, ornamented with gaudish red rose petals. Beside it lies a vanity, a pristine wooden dresser, and a ruby red loveseat. The sight of the entire room brings a bitter taste to my mouth and I swallow back the bile that coats my tongue. The whole thing makes me sick.

“In each room there is a bell. All waitstaff has a key to enter, so long as you leave the third lock undone on the main doors. If ever you need assistance, just ring.”

“Thank you… William,” I say through gritted teeth. The man wheels me to the bed and helps me sit down. I spot the sight of my bag on the loveseat, where two white ears poke out the side.

The sight of the bunny makes something boil inside me. But I turn away, shove it back down. I should get rid of it. I should. But I only turn away, pretend it doesn’t exist anymore. I can’t bear to think about any of that right now.

“I will make my leave, sir.”

With an obnoxious bow, the mouse man exits, taking the wheelchair with him. I don’t move until I’m sure that he’s long gone. Only then do I check for wires and cameras.

I don’t spot any, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. And I’m far too suspicious to let my guard down. Especially here. Especially now.

The sight of the room is making me feel seriously ill, so I attempt to find refuge in the bathroom. But I should have known better seeing as the bathroom alone is the size of my old apartment complex, with a huge hot tub, bathtub, and a shower that stretches from wall to wall.

I walk into the shower with the intention of making it fast. But the second the water hits me, I’m lulled into a trance. How long has it been since I’ve had the luxury of clean running water? Hot water at that. 

But after a few minutes of blissful luxury, the guilt begins to creep back in. As I’m reminded of Nova Carta, of a city that crumbled in my hands, of the blood that stains even deeper than my skin. I’m not here on vacation. I’m here on a mission. To atone for my sins, my selfishness.

And I’ll kill them all if I have to.

Still wet, I stumble back to bed. Bitterly, I gather fistfuls of petals in my hand, their delicate skin bruised instantly like ripe fruit. I catch sight of the stuffed animal on the couch, that bitter feeling inside melting into rage. Three seconds. I'll give myself three seconds to feel it. That's all I can afford.

One. He betrayed me. He fucking betrayed me. He lied. How could he lie to me? How could he lie to me?

Two. How long has he been going behind my back? Has he been answering to Clovis this whole fucking time? Is that why he kept so many secrets? Did he know this was going to happen? That Lynch would wipe out an entire city, an Alloy city, overnight?

Three. Was I just a pawn to him? Like I was to Clovis Lynch? Was that all I ever was to him? I can’t believe how stupid I was to actually believe him. To actually believe that someone could love me for me. With no strings attached.

I open my eyes, take deep breaths to calm myself down. That was three seconds. I won’t let myself feel anymore.

I have to be rational, calculative. I have to become a monster to kill one.

My fists uncurl themselves. Where I was just holding a bundle of petals, only ash remains. The particles begin to slip through my fingers, along with that anger, leaving nothing but an aching emptiness behind.

And a strange feeling that I have just dug my own grave.