Andrei

For the first two days at the lair, I slept for longer than I was awake. In my dreams, I saw her face—my favourite face. That scrutinizing gaze, that upturned nose, that crooked smile and that chipped incisor. In my nightmares, I saw her face—that porcelain face, deadened by dull, amber eyes. In my sleep, I could still see. This was enough to endure—I daresay relish—the very worst influences the recesses of my mind had to offer.

A rustling in the corner alerted me to a presence in the room. I no longer had eyes to open—one fewer action to complete first thing upon waking, at the very least. I felt for the bunk above me, judging the distance as I rose lest I bump my head as I had done twice before. I swung my legs around the edge of the bed just as something landed in my lap. Soft, heavy fabric. My robe. No longer smelling of cinnamon and blood. I put it on.

"Thank you," I said.

"Yep," my new roommate replied.

I remembered the way he looked the day I'd first met him; tall, lanky, cheeky. Black hair, straight as board—short, but long enough to fall obnoxiously over his eyes. I was relieved that I no longer had to resist the urge to trim it. Footsteps, a light breeze, and the mattress sunk. I shifted to the side.

"Have you been out yet this morning?" I asked.

"The mood's still pretty somber. I don't mean to make this about me, but I've heard so many stories about Emerich Bach I feel like I knew him."

The collective misery at the lair was palpable. At night, while I struggled to fall asleep—alone in the void with my thoughts—I heard the weeps from the rooms down the hall. For many at the lair, Rick and Rhydian were the only parents they'd ever known. In fact, some had been brought in as babies as far as twenty-three years before.

"By the way," Riz added, "Rhydian left last night."

"Did he say where he was going?"

"Stracha."

"Did he say why?"

"No, but I asked him to keep an eye out for Bear, Turtle, and Llama. They'd like it here."

Affectionately nicknamed by Finlay and Sinclair, I'd only met the Animals briefly. The Endican, the Delphi, and the Senec—defected Partisans who'd once made a home alongside Vincent Delestade in Delphia. Sheep, the fourth Animal, remained there in search of his long-lost family.

"You weren't with them in Stracha?" I asked.

"We split up not long after arriving." A pause. "Don't get me wrong, they were nice. And yeah, we bonded. But I'm more of a solo act."

I could relate. "What did you do all that time?"

"Drank," Riz replied. "A lot. We all had the same dilemma, right? We were free, again, but where could we actually go? Stracha doesn't have churches, so we couldn't find sanctuary there. We didn't have any connections, and the most I'd seen of Stracha was the Drop, back when I was still a Nav for Palisade. Obviously, we couldn't stay there, so once I split from the Animals, I mainly just watched."

"Watched whom?"

"Anyone—everyone. Being invisible has its perks."

I supposed it did. "When you do that," I said, "go invisible—do we have any means of detection? Or are we all at your mercy?"

A long pause. "If a Barren sees me, it's because I messed up. It takes a lot of energy and concentration. At first, I could only do it for a few minutes at a time. A Delphi Partisan might be able to detect me, but they'd have to be suspicious already or else trying to tap into someone else's thoughts. They might pick up on mine if I'm not careful. "

"Interesting." I nodded. "Is that all?"

"An Endican might feel my feelings. A Senec could foresee my being there in the first place. And another Celestian Partisan could hear it from the wind itself. Like, for example, you. You know, if you actually tried to do something other than wallow."

"I'm not wallowing," I said, though I was absolutely wallowing.

"Sure," Riz replied and after a time, continued. "We'll see what Maryse has to say about that. They made me see her, too, when I first got here."

"Really? Why?"

The mattress bounced and the air around me shifted.

"We've all been through hell one way or another, haven't we? Maybe they wanted to see if I needed help. But maybe it was to make sure I wasn't a risk. You know what they say about us Celestian—we're all just one bad day away from setting the world on fire, right?" My roommate checked my shoulder. "And in your case? Just any old day away."

"Very funny."

"Yeah," Riz replied. "I'm a comic genius."

I rose from the bed, feeling around in the over-sized pockets of my robe. I gathered my hair at the nape of my neck and tied the blue ribbon around it. I took a few tentative steps forward, hoping everything in the room was as I had left it the night before.

"Chair," Riz said.

A moment too late. My big toe bumped into the leg and I sighed, making my way around the chair on the path to the exit.

Riz sucked in through his teeth. "Sorry. I should have put it back where it was."

I put my boots on without much fuss. "It's fine," I said.

Another long pause as I felt for the edge of the curtain separating our room from the corridor.

"Drei, before you go—you put any more thought into my offer?"

"No," I replied.

"No, you haven't, or no, you don't want me to teach you everything I know?"

"Yes," I said. I hadn't put any more thought into the offer and my answer was no.

With that, I left. After all, I wouldn't want to be late for therapy.

In preparation for my appointment, I'd been practicing the route from my room to Maryse's office and back again. There were no mishaps and I arrived unscathed. Once behind the curtain, the psychologist led me to a smooth leather chair and I was seated. I imagined she sat in a similar chair opposite, her voice projecting clear across.

"It's good to see you again, Andrei," she said.

I pursed the corners of my lips. "Well—what should I say to that, then? It's good to smell you again? Is that considered appropriate?"

"I can understand if you're angry. It makes sense."

Her voice was annoying, I realized. I couldn't recall her voice being annoying. Perhaps the pretty face had been a distraction, but Maryse spoke as if her nostrils had been pinched shut with a clothespin. Perhaps they were, for all I knew. The room smelled of antiseptic—which I enjoyed—and lavender—which I did not.

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"I'm not angry," I said. "Why should I be angry?"

The scritch, scritch, scritch of a writing utensil against parchment.

"I could think of a few reasons one might be angry in your position. The adjustment period, for one. It must be frustrating."

"A minor inconvenience, at best."

"Then perhaps you feel a sense of injustice," Maryse offered.

"Injustice? To think I am owed anything—good, bad, in between—it's absurd."

"So how do you feel, if not angry?"

"I feel fine," I said.

"Fine?"

"Fine."

"No better, no worse than any other day?"

"No," I replied. "I always feel fine."

"You always feel fine?"

"Yes."

"The night in the laboratory—the night you almost killed Rhydian, you felt fine?"

I crossed my arms and leaned back against the cold and squeaky leather chair. "I almost always feel fine."

"What was different that night?"

"With all due respect, what does that night have to do with anything?"

"You were angry then, but you're not angry now."

"So?"

"What was different that night?" Maryse repeated.

"I don't know," I said. "I suppose I was worried."

"About?"

"About the threat of the Anima, about being unprepared." A pause. "About my friends."

"What about the previous time you lost control?"

I filed through the prior months in my head. A simple task, for I had an excellent memory. A gift I'd finally come to appreciate. The Bountiful Blessing—I'd reduced the proprietress to tears when I'd caused the accent lighting to swell and finally extinguish. "I was worried then, too. About my…"

The other leather chair squeaked.

Girlfriend? Lover? Sinclair. "About my friend," I finished.

Scritch, scritch, scritch. "You were viciously attacked by a centuries-old Anima, rendered sightless and left for dead, and you're not angry."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"Most people would be angry, and it'd be a healthy response in moderation."

I shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you."

"But your worry for your friends," Maryse continued. "That makes you angry."

"So?"

"So, you value their lives—the quality of their lives—above your own."

"All this to determine I'm a caring friend?"

"No, all this to determine you suffer from low self-worth."

A snort. "I could have told you that."

"Sure, that might have helped me, but it wouldn't have helped you. Can you think of a time you lost control when it wasn't directly related to a concern for your friends?"

That was easy. "The Widow's Peak Inn—the patrons. They would have killed me."

"So you lashed out in self-preservation?"

"I…yes, I suppose. It was hardly deliberate."

Scritch, scritch, scritch. "So then…"

I raised an eyebrow. "So then?"

"You cared enough in that moment to put your worth above that of others. Andrei, you care what happens to you—therefore, you must care about what happened to you. You must feel something other than fine. You're allowed to feel something other than fine."

If I'd been confident as to where precisely the curtain was, I'd have stood from the uncomfortable, squeaky chair, and made my way toward it. Why did they—the medic, Rhydian, Maryse—all want me to be upset? I'd accepted my fate. What was the point of anger, sadness, frustration—any of it? I was fine, why wasn't that enough? What difference would it make if I admitted I was terrified? That despite all the years in solitary confinement, I now felt more alone than ever? That I couldn't see a way forward—both literally and figuratively. In the past, my future had been bleak—execution, incarceration, suicide, or the priesthood. None of which were things I wanted, but what did it matter then? And now? Would I stumble about the lair for eternity, trying not to trip on the furniture? Preaching to whom and about what? I wasn't even religious. It wasn't self-pity. It was reality and I was fine. I wanted to be fine. I needed to be fine.

"You want me to acknowledge and come to terms with the emotions I feel?" I asked.

"It isn't about what I want," Maryse replied.

I ignored her. "You want me to find a way forward with an appreciation for myself—even better, an idea of how I might contribute to this life in spite of my circumstance?"

"This isn't about me. Do you want those things, Andrei?"

"Let's for a moment pretend that I do," I said. "Then I want to meet with him."

"Who?" Maryse asked.

I uncrossed my arms and leaned forward on my knees, aiming my face in Maryse's general direction. "Jakob Adler. I'm told they've built a door to the laboratory since last I was here. I assume it's locked."

Jakob Adler—the blind, ancient Anima who would have been in the throes of puberty when he died and was returned to life.

"Wh—I don't think that's a good idea. Besides, it isn't allowed."

"Rhydian's gone, yes?"

"Yes, but Jakob? No one's been able to reach him. He's hardly coherent. He's—it's unwell."

"Unwell, but not dangerous behind silver bars, and you have the opportunity to give me what I need—what I've always needed. Someone who understands. Someone with whom I can relate. Perhaps this is what Jakob needs as well. If you are here to help, if this really is about helping others and not about you, you will take me to him."

The other leather chair squeaked. The thud of a book tossed upon a table. The tink of a quill set beside it. The date, time, and place was set: two days from today, half-past midnight, in front of the laboratory. And in that moment and those to come, I wasn't frightened or sad or angry, but I was something. I was excited.

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