Each Separate Dying Ember - III

Daneel

"An' then, she shot 'im right frough the chest - one bullet, straigh' in, bam. Din'ya, Dany? Din'ya shoot him straigh' off - no 'esitation, no finkin' 'bout it, just bam right there, right once, right frough the chest. Din'ya, Dany?"
"Aiee! Kran, leave you' sister be! Can't this family sit at the table quiet fo' just a few minutes?"
"Ta-ta, Mma, you act like you no proud o' li'l Dany fo' winnin' her first Prelim. Ain't you proud, Mma?"
"Daneel knows I am proud. She does not need the story told again and again just to remind he'."
"Kran, you just don't want us to remember you' first Prelim. You get you' shit kicked, man!"
"Ta, Nnamdi, you will not use that language at our family's table! You have no respect, either of you! Now close both you' mouths or I will give you' hides a walloping you will not forget in a hurry!"
Kran and Nnamdi both shut up, but they make faces at each other, and when Mma isn't looking Nnamdi bites his tongue at Kran. Kran is the man of the family because we have no Pa, and no-one else would be allowed to cheek him like Nnamdi does - but Nnamdi don't care, because he knows that Kran would never wallop him for it like he would anyone else. We look after family.
And it's true that Kran did get beat on his first Prelim - and anyone who brought it up would get a smack for it too, if it wasn't Nnamdi. But Nnamdi knows he can get away with it. I could if I wanted, but I don't. Unlike Nnamdi, I don't like Kran even pretending to be angry.
The table gets quiet after that, because even Kran shuts his mouth when Mma tells him to. Kran doesn't listen to anyone except Mma - no-one tells Kran what to do. He's practically an Elder 'round here: he gets to boss about the Youngers, and he's got more cred than a Face. Faces are the quiet ones, the ones that never come out, that look like they have respectable jobs and that but are really in charge of everything - or at least, they think they are. And the Youngers, most of them are idiots, all wing and jump and race and taking on packs of Short-Wings - but Kran, Kran's not like that. He's got real respect. And he's important; half of the deals that go down wouldn't go down without him. He worked hard to get where he is, and lots of people would like to see him out - but Kran won't go easy. He's hard. He isn't afraid of Shorts, and no-one's ever tried to jump him. Nnamdi acts like a Younger sometimes, all cocky - but never around Mma, not when she gets serious angry on him - though he don't have to run jobs like the Youngers have to. If we didn't have Kran, he'd be out on the street selling, and he'd have to take part in the Disciplines for his cred. But he doesn't have to.
We look after family.
Jala walks in without knocking, calling out as she sticks her head through the dangling beads covering the door to our living room. Her hair is long and braided, and it falls down on either side of her face; there are beads tied onto the ends, and they jangle like the beads in the doorway when she turns her head. Jala's real smart - and beautiful, with her feathers all a dusky brown. She's a proper girl for Kran; he wouldn't have anyone less. Long-Wing men, they like to have smart girls. Anyone can make themselves beautiful, but it takes a lot for a girl to be smart like Jala.
Mma clicks her tongue with a sharp Ta-ta! and throws her arms in the air as Kran puts down his fork and stands up. "Can't this family have one meal together?" she cries, but Kran waves her away.
"Ta-ta, Mma, I have impo'tant business this morning."
I look at Jala. She's usually smiling, and she always gives me this little grin with her eyes all bright and dark - but today her face is set, and her gaze flicks nervously to Kran as she gestures out of the doorway. He walks through immediately, the jangling of the beads disguising his footsteps, but Jala glances at us before she follows him. I go back to staring at my plate, pushing a baked bean around with my fork, as she talks in her low, husky voice to him, whispering quick enough that I think she might be talking Somali - there's so many languages spoken around here that nearly everyone can at least pick up nearly everything, but usually we talk in English unless it's something really urgent. After several seconds, I sense movement as Kran grabs her arm, muttering something in a worried question. Jala responds, and there's a loud curse from the corridor. A moment later the front door slams shut.
Mma stands up after a few seconds. She's got her eyes focused on the ground as she picks up her plate, and then mine and Nnamdi's, even though we haven't finished yet, and hurries over to the sink. She turns on the tap and starts scrubbing, hard, without putting in any detergent. I glance at Nnamdi. He's looking at the doorway Kran left by, shoulders tense, feathers quivering as if with static.
He pushes his chair back, and leaves the table without asking - but Mma isn't paying any attention. She's scrubbing, feverishly, distractedly, and she doesn't even look around when he leaves through the beads in the doorway. After a second I slip out after him, feet light on the threadbare carpet, wings lifted a little uncertainly. He's stood in the corridor, staring at the coat-rack next to the door - a line of nails Kran hammered in a few years ago to get rid of the clutter on the bannister. My jacket's up there, and Mma's big waterproof coat, and Nnamdi's coat, and Kran's as well - he's left it behind. I glance out the frosted glass on the front door; it's overcast and grey and ominous. He likes that coat. He wouldn't want to, for instance, get blood on it.
I stand next to Nnamdi's shoulder as he turns out the pockets of Kran's coat. They're empty. He glances at me, jaw set.
Kran's taken his blackjack as well as his knife.


North

I know that most people would be restless if they had to stay in bed for three days, but I don't really mind it. The smell of bleach is a little sharp, and I miss the rustling at night where the mice scrat around in their bedding and kick sawdust out of the cage, but Clay brought my books in the morning, and I can at least sit up to read and work. I asked him for my laptop when he came without it, but he just stared at me and said, in a very slow and clear voice, that it had been stolen when we were attacked last night. I'd forgotten; 'laptop' was code for 'the package', which meant that for the sake of candour I couldn't then have my laptop ten minutes later. After a moment of thought, I asked Clay if I could borrow his laptop, but he just glared at me. "We never share our computers," he pointed out, which just made me sigh. I was trying to use 'Clay's laptop' as code for 'North's laptop', but that clearly wasn't happening - and there was a doctor in the room at the time, so I didn't correct him. It gave me a good excuse to finally finish my Edgar Allan Poe collection, anyway, without any technological distractions.
I had just finished A Dream Within a Dream when the Enforcement officer entered.
With a start, I look up as the door opened, pushing my glasses up my nose where they had slipped while I was reading. The first thing I notice, as soon as he comes into the room, is that he is clipped - this man does not work in the field. An officer who patrols the streets has to be able to fly: if he's clipped, then he doesn't leave his office very often. Which means he's important.
Where's Clay? I've never had to be afraid of the Enforcement because I've never been on the wrong side of the law. I have already decided, with absolute certainty, that I do not like being a criminal.
Oh God - criminal. I'm a criminal. I have broken the law. Have I broken the law? I never took or gave any money and in the end the deal didn't actually go through and there's nothing on paper to implicate my involvement - but I was there, and I did hold the package. They've found the package. My fingerprints are on it. Clay didn't clean up properly. They found fibres from my shirt on the gun where Pike pressed it into my chest. One of the Short-Wings survived. They claimed that I attacked them.
Oh God.
Can I pretend that I didn't see him? Quick - he's only just come in the room, I can drop the book and fall back and pretend to be asleep.
Run. I can definitely run. The window looks reasonably breakable...
Shut up, North. That's Pike. Pike would have said that - apparently I think loudly and when I panicked it used to annoy him.
Pike's dead.
"Pike's dead."
Why would I say that!? I just told this officer that Pike is dead! He knows Pike's dead! Now I must sound like some kind of psychopath or raving lunatic or sadist, gleefully reciting my dead friends after an attack I survived - I need Clay to be here, I need Clay to explain everything and get the story straight and sort this out.
I'm going to be arrested. I'm going to be arrested while I'm in hospital, and they'll clip my wings and I'm going to go down with all of them - but it's not like it was my idea! It's not like I was actually that involved! I was just carrying the package because Clay was supposed to do it and he couldn't be there, and Bay didn't want any of the others to be in charge of it... But I can't implicate Clay like that. After everything, Clay stays out of trouble.
But the officer doesn't say anything. He just stands there with his clipped wings politely folded, hands behind his back, feet set at shoulder's width, watching me.
Not guilty. I have to look not guilty.
How does one look not guilty? Is there a kind of innocent expression? They used to think that crime was genetic and a person's disposition could be learned from the gap between their eyes and the size of their ears and the length of their feathers - can I try and look like a person who would never get into trouble? I try. I don't think it works. He's still not saying anything. I need to speak soon, to say something other than "Pike's dead" - but what can I say. "I demand a lawyer!"? Yes, that's a very not guilty thing to say. "I demand a Clay!"? Even better. Logical - be logical, North. How would you act if you had just been attacked in the street and an Enforcement officer had come to speak to me?
"D-do you w- do you want my st-state- my statement?"
The officer smiles - a terse little twitch of the lips. Perhaps he was just waiting for me to speak all along; now, he starts to cross the room toward me.
"Oh. Umm- uh, I g- I guess Clay gave it- I guess Clay gave it to you. I-I'm sorry, I was- I was hit quite b-badly on the h-head-- on the head- um, what are you, what- excuse me--"
He's stepped around to the other side of the bed. As I scramble clumsily away, he takes my arm; his palm is rough and his fingers hard. I try to pull away but his grip is impenetrable - there's a needle in his other hand, and he pushes it into my arm before I can scream.
The effect is instantaneous. With a muffled cry, I drop back.
Everything spins into darkness.


Jedekiah

Bastards.
That's my first thought.
They shouldn't have gotten me - I shouldn't have let them get that close. I'd been coming back from the bridge when three of them jumped me - one of them got a knife in the gut, but they knew who they were jumping and they knew that I was alone: the second had my arms and the third a hood over my head before I could get them. I couldn't see, but I kicked anyway - the poor shit in front of me got a knife and a kick the same, and I reckon I threw him pretty hard into another. I beat my wings hard, knocking one of them back - but another slashed at them with a knife, and I wasn't prepared to risk a full cut into the muscle. Even I'm not a match against three Broads - and yeah, they were definitely Broads. Shorts aren't that organised and Longs never hunt in packs.
At least the package is hidden, though - because I know what they've got me for. Guns, gear and dark grey suits: this is bigger than an inner-city gear deal.
The sack is good quality - dense, dark, and not just some potato bag someone nicked from the markets. Someone has thought this through very carefully.
There's footsteps around the edge of the room. I'm tied onto a chair - wood - with my hands tight enough behind my back that my shoulders have a hot poker shoved into the joints. My wings are bound tight behind me. I heard as much as felt the feathers snap when they shoved me down. They've made a mistake: wood breaks easily, and when it breaks it's sharp. The steps come behind me - uneven stone floor, slopes down just to my right - and there's the rustle of a sleeve as an arm is lifted. The hood is undone, and a hand grabs at the top to lift it. I tilt my head forward ever so slightly, trapping the fabric between my chin and chest. They yank on the cloth, trying to pull it off - and I surge upwards. The Broad - a man - stumbles back as the hood comes away suddenly in his hand, and with him I rise, throwing my head back with a violent jerk. It makes impact with his stomach and he falls against the wall - only a few feet behind us - and I tumble back with him. I land on my back, the chair underneath me, and the impact on the hard stone is enough to splinter the wood. I snap my head forward to stop it cracking on the flags. With the wood already weakened, I roll onto my front and unfurl my wings in an explosion of sinew and feathers; I can see now but it's still dark, and my hands are still bound behind my back. There's a sound behind me and I kick, hard - but in that moment the cold muzzle of a gun is pressed against my temple.
Very slowly, I turn my gaze to the right, growing very still. The man's holding it absolutely steady against my head: he'll pull the trigger without a blink.
I could say "If you kill me then you'll never find out where I hid it" but that would be a mistake.
That would be admitting that I stole it.
I don't sit placidly back down on the remains of the chair or drop to my knees with my hands over my head - but I stop fighting. They don't get me a new chair; two Broads grab a wing each and press them down, with an effort, to my sides. This time they bind them together, rather than just folding them inside my arms. One pushes my head down, and another kicks me behind my knees. I could hit him with the club they've conveniently made with my hands, but instead I just drop down onto my knees and bow my head.
I'm facing into the room, and now I can see - there's two people tied to chairs on each side of me. I make a quick study of each of them: on my right, a dark-skinned Long, maybe three years older than me, scowling with his jaw set and his long wings awkwardly folded around the chair; on my left, a skinny, pale Broad, head shaved down one side with a line of stitches, dressed in - of all things - a hospital gown and mostly covered in bandages. One of his eyes is covered in a patch. There are glasses on the very end of his long, straight nose - they look as if they're about to fall right off.
The Long gives me a quick, cursory glance out of the corner of his eye, then goes back to staring straight ahead. The Broad is staring at me, his one eye bulging wide. The side of his head that isn't shaved is covered in white-blonde hair, and he's openly gaping. There's a cut down across his cheek, slashing across his brow and taking a nick from the top of his ear.
I made that mark.
I stop looking at him and go back to staring straight ahead. So one of us is the thief and another is the one who was stolen from - so what about the black Long? He's mixed up in this somehow or another, and from his expression I reckon that he knows full well how that is.
Finally, my gaze falls upon the Broad stood opposite. He's watching the three of us with an amused little smile, and when he sees me looking at him he raises one brow. I bite my tongue at him. He smirks, but doesn't speak for another minute. I'm not going to say anything, the Long's brooding like an angry chicken, and the Broad's shaking so much he couldn't scream if you shoved a poker up his ass. If they want to try and freak us into talking, they're going to be waiting a damn long time.
"Now this is tricky," he says suddenly, actually making the Broad jump. I roll my eyes at him, and the Long snorts. Then the man's talking again, and we all shut up to listen. "Because, y'see, something's gone wrong that really should have gone right, and well, when things go wrong everyone looks for who to blame! Now, I really don't think this is fair but you know how it is - and we have to sort out that problem. So let's assume, for argument's sake, that right now it's everyone's fault. Fair?"
Suddenly, the Long speaks up. He's not so arrogant as to try a "Do you know who I am?", but that's written in the way he says it and the hard jerk of the chin when he talks. He's got a little too much nerve for someone currently tied to a chair.
"I was wai'in' for it. It en't my faul' if it gets lost on'a way."
"Really?" asks the man opposite, his eyes suddenly gleefully bright. "Definitely not your fault, then?"
The Long senses the trap. He carries on anyway.
"Nuh."
"Excellent. Well, evidently we can't deny such a blatant truth as that. Why did we even bring you in? Cut him free, Jones."
On the order, one of the men - still wearing a dense black hood that serves as a mask, small holes cut for the eyes and lips - reaches down and slashes the Long's hands free. He stands, rolling his shoulders and unfurling his wings halfway, shaking the feathers a little. They aren't too badly broken; he didn't struggle when he was brought here. Damned if his walking out is going to go so smoothly. But he shrugs his shoulders once more, nods to the man still sitting, smiling pleasantly, at the far side of the room, and makes his way to a metal door set above a few steps into the wall. As he opens the door - unlocked - I sense the two Broads behind me tense, ever so slightly. Both their guns are still out and pointing at my head. And no-one stops him. When the door shuts, there's no sudden thump as he's knocked back against it, no muffled scream, no small click to indicate a gunshot fired with a silencer. He just walks right out, and no-one stops him. Which must mean that they have something much worse planned for his fate.
The Broad tied to the chair on my left is staring at the door openly, agape. Does he actually believe that the Long is really walking down the street now and nothing involving graves, gunshots or knives in the gut are approaching his near future, physically or metaphorically? If so, no kid was ever denser. He is the actual equivalent to a village idiot.
Eyes dark and dangerous, I turn my gaze back to the man opposite. He knows exactly what's going through each of our heads right now - and he's prepared to wait and let us stew on it for a long time to come. "So I can assume that you are both happily accepting of your share of the blame?" he asks cheerfully. My face is set, unerring and, if not unreadable, then at least filled with so much bad language that you couldn't read it without a blush. "Excellent. I am sure I do not need to go into details: you both know what has happened and how you are implicated in this... Unfortunate circumstance. So listen here." Suddenly, he leans forward, hands folded on his knees. His voice is hushed and dangerous now, but his eyes still hold that jovial, too-friendly light. "Something very important to us has gone missing, and we really would like to have it back. I'm sure that you would too. Now normally if something like this were to happen, we would simply charge the cost to the person who seemed most to blame - but I can say for absolute certain right now that what has been taken is worth more than any of you could possibly pay if you put all of your funds together and worked hard for the rest of your lives. Fortunately for you, your lives - and notably your deaths - are not worth that much, either. So all of my colleagues were a little stuck on how we could possibly resolve this terrible and unfortunate issue. You might think of it as... Carnival justice.
"Many cultures in history have used games to act as penance for sinners. Do you know how things work in a carnival? If you do the carnival harm, you serve the carnival to make up for that harm. A man who kills a clown replaces him. An urchin who steals from the caravans is put to stealing for the carnival. All until the debt is repaid - no more, no less. Entirely fair, some might say - certainly an elegant solution. Carnival justice. Which is why my colleagues and I - and we really do think that this is very fair - have decided on an alternate course of action to resolve the issue of blame and repayment.
"The Disciplines begin in less than three weeks. You will form an equipe, you will work together, you will win the Disciplines, and you will walk away free men. Fair? I believe so. It is certainly a nicer alternative than some that could have been decided." He sits up straight again. "'But oh!' you're thinking; 'That man just walked free! Could I have not done the same?'" With a smile that is tighter than before, he gestures to one of the masked men by the door. They give a small nod and leave, closing it quickly behind them. A few moments later and the door opens once more. She's so slight that only one man needs to hold her; she's bound by her hands and, unlike us, gagged. I don't realise why until I see the round, bloody marks of teeth on the hands of the man holding her. Her frail body twisting with every step, dark eyes wide and filled with a burning belligerence, she is thrown down to kneel beside me. She casts no more than a cursory glance at the Broad boy - but her eyes lock onto me, and she freezes dead stiff.
It takes me just a few seconds to realise why. She shot me in the Prelim - didn't even hesitate, didn't sob, didn't let her hands shake, just picked up the gun and bam, straight through the chest. One shot. No need for two; I was dead as soon as the bullet shattered my ribcage into my heart.
"Welcome to the Disciplines," the man says. His voice is filled with a jubilant glee at the situation. "I see you already recognise your new team-mates."