Kismet: A Game of Fates

Chapter 9 - The Girl Named Maps

As usual, Maps was shit out of luck.

Soaked, cold, and at the end of her thread, Maps took a very, very, deep breath. If she ever ran into that damn bear of a dog again she'd– well, she'd have a stern word with it for pushing her in. Crisp, teal water of the Still's River ran up to her shoulders, sending her muscles screaming for her to get out. Her skirt was heavy with water and her blouse clung to her arms and breasts; closer than any imaginary lover had dared to try.

Ma would say it was her fault, that she knew the risks of running on the River's banks.

Her mother was so clever in the many ways she found to blame Maps.

It wouldn't matter that Maps' was the fastest runner in the Crew, the only one trusted to smuggle goods from the hidden gate in the Wall for a reason. On any day, Maps delivering twice as many packages as any other runner and still found time to work as the Still's only mapmaker. Yes, her methods had risks, but they had rewards, too; running along the banks of the River was the fastest way to get past crowds that blocked busy morning streets. Though the cobblestone bricks were as slim as her feet, her footing was sure. Unless she fell, it was always worth the risk.

On days she fell– not so much.

Before pulling herself out of the River, she looked for the pencil that kept it up in a bun at the base of her neck. The splash of falling in had pushed it out, unravelling the chaos of her long hair.

With no luck, or pencil in sight, she felt herself bottle up a desperate scream and place it on the shelf for another day. The lost pencil was not her fall's only casualty, but she would have to deal with that later.

If she went home, she'd have to wear the words she said to her Ma last night. Not enough time had passed yet to wash the sting of words she shouldn't have said to her, but Maps had never apologized in her life. A trait she inherited from her Ma, the word curdled in her mouth just thinking about it. Going home was not an option.

If she went to the Market, she'd be harassed by Chief's yellow-vested minions, the Wasps, for being an unlawfully abiding citizen. Her family's reputation made things equally hard and easy to get things done. Though she was almost always up for a brawl, today she was in no mood to defend the Crew.

She could grab a change of clothes at Ms. Gibson's– The old fart owed her enough Favours. Twice a week, she called on Maps' to draft the tedious patterns of her book. Though there were others in town that could stitch and knit, Ms. Gibson's tailor shop was the Still's source for modern fashion. Her family owned the only book in the Still on crafting new garments, "Direct System of Ladies' Cutting for Tailoring Pattern Drafting in 1901," by T.H. Holding. The book's language was stiff, and the pages even stiffer, but it was the Still's only source for information on making garments. Other than the Gibson family, Maps was one of the few allowed to see it– Her needlework truly was that bad.

She started walking in Ms. Gibson's direction, until she realized she'd have to empty her many, many pockets.

So the Library it would be. People gave her strange looks as she passed through the crowds, but she barreled past them until she arrived at two large wooden doors marking the entrance of the Still's most important building. She didn't head in through the main doors, making her way instead to the dark alley beside it. A layer of soot covered this part of town, permanently colouring the old bricks varying shades of black.

When the first survivors gathered in the Distillery District, they turned the many stores and restaurants into livable quarters. In the early days, the dark days, they were without electricity and running water for years. They survived by building makeshift fireplaces for heating and cooking, syphoning the smoke outside through grey pipes they called "coughs." She could see smoke slip from the window's cough and join the street's heavy smog.