Gaslight Trials | The Wattys2023 Shortlister ✔️

8 | A Whisper in the Dark

There is an energy to an embrace. As the matter of one powers up the other, the intensity gives off welding sparks. The first time Mariposa wrapped me in a soft duvet hug at the junkyard, when Ma died, the moment wove our souls in a way that was a forever bond.

Today, it's I who cradles Mar close, like a human shield. It's a different hug, but both the duvets and the human shields have their time.

"Don't call me that. My name ain't Spark. My name's Veda Igglesden." I press her face onto my chest as her sobs intensify in my arms.

"Please..."

"Ain't gonna do it, Mar. Ye are my best friend. I don't wanna take yer life." A decision solidifies in my mind. "I want to offer ye a new one. When this is over... If ye wish, and if I win, ye can come and live in the mansion with Pa and me."

"I... what?" Her tongue darts over her dry lips, her irises flitting every which way. "Do you truly mean it?"

"Aye. Together, like sisters. Wouldn't that be grand?"

"It... It would." Silvery tears slip up from the corner of her eyes.

"You believe I can win, don't you?"

"I do." She nods. "If anyone can do it, it's you, Veda."

"And I'll never let the Puncher take ye after this. He'll never hit ye again, or call ye common doxy or other ugly names."

"P-promise?" Mar stammers.

"Cross me heart and hope to die."

"But... But what about all these people?"

"Who cares? They wanted a show, we gave 'em a show. Screw em. Who are they to us? No one. And who are we to them? Expendable cannon fodder. We ain't Flutter and Spark. We are Mariposa and Veda. Best friends."

"And best friends stick together." She squeezes my hand.

"Aye. Best friends stick together." I stand up.

Mariposa follows suit, clutching the broken instrument. 

"Why should we do what the crowd wants? We should do what we want."

"Our lives are not theirs," she whispers. "They're ours. I YIELD!"

The wounded wooden violin hits the ground and joins the swarm of unmoving butterflies.

The spectators let out a collective ill-tempered "oohs" and dissatisfied "boos." At first, the crowd's furious, incomprehensible mutters pitter-patter on my ears like the drizzle drumming on the roof of my old hut. Then, they die down and I see people turning their heads towards the pit number one, their hands clasping their mouths.

Langdon.

I don't even wait for the Grand Duke to proclaim the first semifinal battle finished. I slalom around a bunch of newspersons who barge in our pit, curious, hoisting their cameras in the air, pro'ly to snap a photograph for the Wilhelmina Gazette.

"Veda? What's wrong? Hold up!" Mar runs after me.

I wave away the solemn looking apothecaries in gray robes, carrying dem medical bags cuz we ain't hurt, jus' a lil' dizzy.

Mar and I burst through the massive, makeshift steel door connecting both combat arenas, and step inside the fighting space.

The Duke's son stands proud at the far end of the pit number one, wearing a powered brass exoskeleton with armored plating. Summer-cloud white wings, nearly as tall as his body, arc off his back like a concave reflection. Each long, narrow metallic feather tenses and shakes in his heaving fury. They slam upward. When they come down in a flash of silver, Angel is off and away.