Page 54 of Immortal Longings
“What the fuck?” Yilas says aloud, leafing through the papers. At random, she retrieves one where57and86are marked with two dots in the corner, circled in red.
But before Yilas can fold it up and take the map with her, something comes over her face from behind, turning her world dark.
CHAPTER16
King Kasa is always airbrushed when he comes on television. A serene expression, bushy eyebrows low and relaxed, beard smooth and laid flat. The background is hazy with light, as is the foreground, though perhaps that could be blamed on the digital alterations the communication rooms are making as the palace broadcast feeds out. Calla can’t guess which room the king stands in as he makes his prerecorded speech. She supposes that is the point.
“Even during prosperous times, there will be enemies at our borders,”King Kasa begins.
“Prosperous?” Calla echoes immediately, her tone dripping with derision. She strikes a match and lights the cigarette dangling between her teeth. “In what world?”
“It is why we have a wall, why we make the distinction between the city and the rest of Talin. The city is the center of innovation. The city is where everyone desires to be.”
“Cities,” Calla corrects the screen, dropping the blackened match and taking a drag of the lit cigarette between her fingers. “We’re twin cities, you son of a—”
“As you have heard, there are rebels in San-Er. This is true. They seek to bring down the regime, but you must rest assured that the palace guard is hunting down the perpetrators of such flimsy nonsense. We have already apprehended one of the rebels responsible.”
A lie. It has to be, because the palace hasn’t even determined how these alleged rebels got in.
“What we must do is live bravely in the face of their cowardice. We must show strength in the face of hardship.”
Calla cannot hold back the exclamation that fills her living room.
“What thefuckare you on about?”
She gets no answer. Sensing her rage, Mao Mao pads over and rubs up against her ankle. Her pant cuff is folded up: her poor attempt at hemming away the blood-soaked fabric. The rest of her clothes aren’t quite dirty enough to warrant a change, but blood at her ankle isn’t exactly pleasant either.
The television screen seems to brighten. Sharpening in preparation for whatever announcement is coming as King Kasa clears his throat and stares directly into the camera.
“The games shall speed up, in celebration of the regime and in defiance of those trying take us down. It is time to come together and resist disruption. Long live the reign of San-Er.”
The broadcast goes dark. Seconds later, it switches back to the anchors in the newsroom.
Calla leans into the couch, dangling her cigarette over the armrest and bringing her left hand up to look at the wristband. A shaft of light cuts along her bare skin like a second bracelet, the afternoon rays barely pushing through the window. Both she and Anton had their wristbands go off twice separately today,so they decided to part early and rest. But now, what exactly did the palace mean byspeeding up the games?
Her wristband starts to tremble.
Calla scrambles to her feet. “Oooh no no no—” She grabs her sword. Slings a jacket over her shoulder. In the distance, she hears footsteps thundering into the building. The clock on the mantel puts the hour at late afternoon. She’s being ambushed, with no way to know what’s coming, who’s coming, howmanyare currently heading her way. Battle in this apartment or the hallways would be claustrophobic—she has to get out of here.
“Mao Mao,” she hisses. “Go hide!” Her cat sprints off, noting her rush. There’s plenty of pet food stacked in the corner of her bedroom, and there are holes in the walls where Mao Mao can stay tucked all day. Soon as the fur bundle disappears, Calla shoves her arms into the jacket and runs for her bathroom. Her wristband is still humming against her skin, though the screen displays nothing. She skids into the laundry unit, shoves the window open, and climbs out in one fast swoop.
Fuck King Kasa. Fuck him to all eternity. Calla winces when her ankle lands hard in the alley outside, hardly taking a moment to gather her bearings before she is sprinting, burrowing deep into San. Three streets later, she stops and leans against a shop wall, trying to catch her breath.
The wristband has stopped trembling.
The city carries on: its beeping machines and its sagging wires, its winding streets and its slamming doors.
Calla straightens up, smoothing her hair back. She got away this time, but she can’t return to her apartment. The player will stake it out, waiting to add a kill to their list. From here on out, she must move where the games take her.
“Fuck,” she says once more, with feeling. Calla starts her trek deeper into the city.
By chance or by luck, Anton does not catch the king’s announcement. He’s boxed into the corner of a hospital room, sweating under his layers. The air-conditioning unit has been kicked right out of the window, the broken latches snagged on the sill. There are five beds, laid side by side, separated by curtains. Two beds over, a family loudly discusses transfer options, no longer willing to pay for the space.
Anton runs the washcloth along Otta’s arm. “I don’t know why I bother,” he says under his breath, so the people on the other side of the curtain won’t hear him. “I don’t know what you would say if you were around to see yourself reduced to this.”
His hand stops, the cloth paused by her wrist. Otta’s appearance has changed little in these years. She’s aging, as is only natural for a body occupied with qi, but not in the way that others do. It’s as if her body is playing catch-up with the rest of the world, always a step behind, continually forgetting that it remains alive and must continue to function. It would have been easier if the body had died. If Otta’s qi had been snuffed out entirely, then the gods would have made a decision on Anton’s behalf to take her away. Instead, she is locked inside something that was halfway saved, caught between life and death. Day after day, Anton must actively choose to keep her stuck in this in-between, because if he gives up on her now, then her death is on his hands.
“Give me a sign if you can hear me,” Anton says, as he does every time he visits, for months, for years. “Just something, Otta. Anything.”
