Page 77 of Beyond The Maples
I pull myself back from the edge; despite the warm glow in my chest, I know this is far from over. I'll let myself celebrate when I'm back down, safe on the ground.
At the center of the slightly curved top, there's a short metal podium screwed to the surface. On top there is a siren, a brass circular metal wheel on one side covered by steel with cut holes, on the other is an arm with a worn handle crank. I chew my bottom lip. It's not far, but with the way the top of this is built, slipping off would be easy.
I shimmy myself over, making sure to keep hold of my anchor ropes firmly.
I pull myself up so I'm kneeling beside it, the stupid shields still attached to my feet making me sit at an awkward angle. Using shaky hands, I reach to crank the wheel. I turn it and turn it, expecting some resistance and sound... nothing.
I try harder this time, almost rocking myself backwards. I note the wheel on the inside spinning, but it's too fast. There should be some traction.
It's broken.
Shit. Shit.Shit.
Why can't anything just be easy?
I reach around to the side, digging my nails into the seam of the metal case and pull. It's rusted, but it starts to inch away and I let out a pained groan as my fingernails resist.
Finally, the case pops free, and I look inside. I pull the crank again to see what it looks like... and nothing engages. I think for a second, running through all the possibilities.
Hopefully, it's just a wheel off the track. Otherwise, I am royally screwed. I have no tools or supplies.
I pull the front gear off, cleaning it a little on my shirt. Then I put it back, pushing until it clicks its teeth between the others, hopefully connecting, and pull the inner looping wheel forward. It reminds me of the one and only bicycle weowned. I remember my dad fixing it a lot. I smile a little, thankful for the memory, hoping someday I can teach Willow. She's never been near a bike.
Another reason I can't die up here. Things to do, and all that.
I put it back together as best I can, testing that the lever drives the wheel now, and a small, garbled sound comes out. Better than nothing, I guess.
Shoving the main plate back on, I take one deep breath, and crank it; once, twice, three times. Faster and faster.
A loud, roaring whine, screams out of the small siren, echoing off the clear ceiling, and I let it go for a few more awful seconds before I stop, chest heaving. Tears spring to my eyes again, in both relief and pride. I did it. My head slumps forward, resting on the podium as I hear another roar of cheers from below. My eye catches on something. Sitting underneath the machine are name tags. Over a dozen of them. Worn, and in different colours than my own. All laying flat underneath the speaker.
My eyes catch on one name.Valo. My fingers run along the stitching absently. I had suspected he'd done it, from the rumours of how fast he'd moved up the ranks. Now I know.
My victory is short-lived, as I peer over to the edge. Because now I have to somehow get myself down.
I hadn't let myself think of the way down because I knew I'd chicken out.
When Deacon and I were kids, we'd scale the outside of abandoned buildings. I'd always beat him, always get higher. But then, coming down was always awful. He'd usually have to talk me through it. This is much higher, and the stakes are much higher too. If I die now, my crew gets nothing.
Wiping my damp hands on my pants, I wrap the fabric over them tightly again, wincing at the raw skin there.
I swing my heavy iron-disked boots over the edge and frantically lock one foot in as I begin to slip a little faster over the lip than I'd like.
Immediately, I realize this is going to be harder than the ascent. Swinging my free foot hard enough below my locked in foot is nearly impossible. It doesn't feel secure enough and I hold my breath for a moment, trying to slowthe panic taking root. My sweaty hair has fallen out of its stupid tie and is getting in my eyes. I silently vow to cut it all off as soon as I make it down.
I manage to start slowly, making it down the tower little by little. If I thought going up was slow, this is worse. The gravity wants to suck me down and my thighs burn as I squat and swing back in a downward vertical crawl.
As I make my way down, my feet are once again completely numb. That's probably why I don't feel that my shoe has come loose until it is far too late. I look down just as the fabric previously securing my shoe to the metal handhold loosens, and I watch as the disk slips down the bowing sole of my shoe towards my toes.
I lurch to grab it, but I hear a scream. It's Farra, I realize, telling me to hold on to the fabric, so I tighten the hand that was about to reach down. My moment of relief is over in a breath, as I hear the disk clatter against the hard floor with a crack. My tingling foot is suddenly half-bare in the torn-up boot.
I am so fucked.
I'm about a third of the way down, if that. I have more than a twenty-foot drop to hard ground underneath me. I hear Farra demand someone go get something to soften my fall, and others arguing with her. I tune them out.
Straightening myself, I look at my other foot, still secured obediently inside my shoe. There's no way I can do this with one disk. I think about leaving the disk entirely and shimmying down with just the fabric and my bare feet, but the silky material and my sweaty, bloody skin will mostly likely have me plummeting. I close my eyes and envision all the different ways I could get down using what I have. All of them suck, but I pick the one I think will hopefully keep me alive, and at the very least, minimally injured.
I crouch, holding the fabric in an iron grip; if I lose it, I'm done. I lower myself so I'm as small as possible, balancing on the remaining shield. I wrap the two ends of the fabric around my left hand, tight against the tower. Reaching down, I pluck at the laces of my mangled shoe, letting it slip off my foot. I hear a squeal from below, followed by athud.
