Page 48 of This Cruel Fate

Chapter Twenty

Xolia shouldered her way through the cold and crowded streets of the government district at peak rush hour. The government district was three blocks away from the sprawling grounds of the Presidential Palace, but the buildings were just as stately and lined with uniform trees along the impeccably kept sidewalks. Amongst the court buildings and other municipal governing institutions sat an old bar by the name of The Armistice.

Founded back during the days of the monarchy, it had managed to stay open after humans came into power by way of the building’s reputation for discrete backroom politics and the rumored passageways from the bar to the Sovereign Court building. While Xolia had no doubt that most of the people on the streets were tourists, curious as to how the country ran, none of them would be allowed into the bar. One had to be a government employee or have an invitation from one. Xolia hoped that Atlas had been mostly sincere in his offer. Though watching her be turned away from an elite bar as she was on the cusp of getting the second-most coveted seat of power in the country had a certain level of pettiness that she wasn’t sure he was above.

Still, spending the night around useless alcohol with Atlas sounded better than wallowing in her shitty apartment, wondering what errands Helen had Adonis running. Security teemed around the building, and the bouncer was wide and brawny, his sharp gaze missing nothing. He lifted his chin up at Xolia’s arrival.

“I’m here to see Atlas Campion,” she said, purposefully forgoing his title.

The bouncer didn’t comment on it. “Name?”

“Xolia Stone.”

He grabbed a leather binder and flipped it open, scanning the list. “ID?”

She pulled it from her bag and handed it over, the bright red of her card signaling to everyone looking that she was a variant. Satisfied with her identity, he nodded her through.

The inside was all dark wood and warm lighting. Leather seats formed small circles around low tables, where various groups of men and women in suits sat, talking in hushed tones. The bar itself showcased an impressive array of alcohol, none of it the low-brow bottles Xolia had tried with Rowan when they first started their suppressants. Truthfully, Xolia didn’t know the difference between those bottles and the ones in front of her, other than their price tag.

“Xolia, you showed up,” Atlas said from behind her.

She tensed at his voice, her only reassurance that he wouldn’t try anything was that they were in such a heavily guarded place. This wasn’t the lawlessness of the fights. Besides, she’d already accepted the job. If Atlas wanted her out of the way, he’d have a harder time now. Forcing herself to relax, she turned around to greet him. She hoped that her smile didn’t look too forced.

“You expected that, though,” she quipped. “I was on the list.”

He shrugged, motioning towards the bar. “I like to make educated guesses.” They sat down at the far end of the bar, partially obscured by shadow. “What’ll you have?”

“Nothing,” Xolia said. Why would she waste her time?

Atlas gave her a funny look. “Why not?”

She returned his incredulous look. “What’s the point?”

His mouth dropped into a surprised o before he threw his head back and laughed. “I forget how sheltered you are sometimes. Here.”

Again, that sinking feeling of naïveté rocked through Xolia. She had fought in a war, killed people. Yet she couldn’t stop from fumbling her way through connecting with people nor from always missing the point or some key context. While twenty-four was incredibly young by variant standards, she had always imagined her future full of freedom and certainty. There had been no room for uncertainty in the past, it wasn’t really fair that it appeared as she got older.

Something cylindrical poked into her thigh. She looked down. “What’s that?”

“Sel, Xolia, I’m trying to be discrete.” Atlas clapped his free hand over his face.

Because that’s subtle. She mentally rolled her eyes at him but glanced around surreptitiously before grabbing the small canister from him. Glancing at the object, she couldn’t figure what was so special about it. It was gold and looked like it screwed at the top.

“It’s powdered obruo.” Atlas leaned in close to her to whisper. “You’ll have to go to the bathroom and snort it.”

Xolia blanched. “Why would I do that?”

Atlas turned to give her a more straight-forward look. “Don’t you want to get drunk? You just got your victory after all. Celebrate my misery with me.”

“I don’t know what obruo is, though,” Xolia said. Did he think she was completely stupid?

Perhaps he did. He rolled his eyes at her continued hesitance. “It was the first iteration of rimere.” Rimere was the widest-used suppressant on the market for variants. It was what Xolia had taken daily for seven years. “It slows down healing time, which is what allows you to get drunk, but doesn’t take away your ability to use your powers. It’s a great, albeit hard to get ahold of, party drug.”

“For whom?” The majority of variants weren’t well paid enough to buy out-of-date prescription drugs.

“We didn’t all choose some moral high road upon the war ending to work in some under-funded government offshoot,” Atlas said. “Some variants do well for themselves and want to enjoy the spoils of war, simple pleasures like getting drunk and lounging around all night.”

Xolia spun the vial around. “I would think you’d be busy writing policy and overseeing the Senate.”

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