GRAVESKIES

Chapter 12

That evening, because she had comfort at the clap of her hands, Ryujin put on makeup. She hadn't tried it in a long time— she'd forgotten how fun it was, how many different ways her face could look. In the mirror, smoothing out short, messy black hair, Ryujin felt like a different person. Lipstick, a punch of red on her lips. Eyeshadow, a daze of gold over lids and cheekbones.

She wore clothes she couldn't wait to afford on her own. Ryu could barely handle herself at the thought of seeing a revered Capital designer tomorrow; even the assortment of day (and night) clothes she'd found in her closet made her into an unfairly beautiful version of herself. After trying on every option, she'd settled for a flowy dress shirt with several buttons undone and a flexible charcoal-red velvet tuxedo. For the first time in months she had the privilege of leaving her throat open and bare. Her fingers were coated with heavy silver rings. The velvet on her skin was stolen and addictive. Everything she adorned herself with felt like a cheated trial period. When comfort depends solely on your success and ability to submit, it's hard to feel like you deserve anything at all.

Ryujin ordered a bottle of wine and watched the sun set over the city. She hadn't concerned herself with adulthood in a long time, but this had to be its idealized rendition. She was filling a void she hadn't known was there in the first place.

Then she left.

"Do you wish to be driven anywhere in the Capital? By limousine, or perhaps carriage?" Juno asked when Ryu stepped out of the elevator.

"No, thanks. I'll just walk this one out."

"Are you sure? It's not the safest out here at night."

"I come from a warzone. I have a natural inclination to fly away in case of danger. I think I can manage a walk around the block."

As if she'd ever retreat.

Juno hesitated and parted her lips, but didn't protest any further. Ryu was smart enough to know she should take care. She'd been interviewed and photographed a thousand times. Even if nobody aimed to hurt her specifically, she had a target on her back. She wasn't at war with anyone, but the world was at war with what she represented. With her identity. So an attack wasn't really an attack on her, and an attack could come from anyone.

And there were many people in Axis.

The streets brimmed with pedestrians, with music and beggars. Ryujin passed by many restaurants, clubs and shady buildings. People invited her in— many offered her a discount, or even to pay for her presence. Some tourists asked to take pictures with her in front of objectives: museums, fountains, statues. Some asked to kiss her hands, touch her wings, staring like she was an exhibit in an art gallery. Each handprint made her feel a little bit more out of place. A kid demanded she fly him up, and then yanked off one of her feathers for safekeeping. He was a child, what could she do? Kids don't know any better. Ryujin smiled through it, though she grew and grew tired.

Many pedestrians' eyes were glued to the softly glowing screens of their phones. Although she'd learned from others how they function and how to use them, Ryu had never had a personal smartphone. Deviants weren't allowed phones; their mere presence online was regarded as propaganda. It was hard to tell what they'd even be advertising for— it's not like way they were born comprised a specific lifestyle. Essentially, people could talk whatever they wanted of them and their very public lives, and deviants had no way of responding, defending themselves or gauging the public's opinion of them.

Ryujin walked past a stocky brick building with giant, thick iron doors barricaded with wood planks. Screams and cheers thunderered from within; the walls nearly shook, bursting at the seams. She immediately guessed what it was: the walls draped with tape and graffity gave it away. A battle arena. Sponsors partnered with coaches to train any deviants that slipped through the cracks of the military system, raise them into killing machines that would bring them profit in underground gladiator fights. They often wielded illegal custom weaponry and heavy machinery, parading more than just their command of weapons, but spectacularly resourceful and grotesque victories.