Heartless | A Powerless Fanfiction Novella

Chapter 1: Corrine

The reverberations of the hits travel through my arm, snaking their way cruelly into the rough feel of my uniform. My mind swirls, but I don't lose count, I won't lose count. You would have thought the mayhem of Loot Alley would have been enough to drown out the little boy's screams, but Plagues it was not. And even if the world surrounding us would have been drowned in the depths of the ocean, his little voice would have still found its way to me.

2...3...4

I do my best to keep them as slow as possible, as light as I can only so that the eyes of the Imperial watching me would deem this a pleasing punishment and won't take it upon himself to deliver the blows. If there is one thing I am grateful for in this Plagues cursed moment is my mask: only obscuring half of my face from the view of the audience crowding around us but being enough to conceal the single tear now plummeting to the ground. I almost stopped for a second just to turn and make sure no one had seen it, as if the gleam of it staining the cobblestone at my feet was a trace I didn't dare leave behind.

Another cry from the boy and I wished I could tell him it was better coming from me, I wish I could reassure him and apologise for the useless pain I'm inflicting on him. Those scars will remain there just like the centre of that damned wooden post has remained bloody from all the innocents it has carried.

8...9...10

I stop. The white material on my skin was too tight, my chest heaving not from the effort of this cruelty but from the struggle to keep my heartbeat silent. If my luck meant a Hyper was around at least they would mistake the painful thumping of it for a sickening thrill rather than mourning. I make to move away leaving the whip to drop to the ground but before it does it's snatched by the very Imperial who was watching me. His rough voice growls in a low laugh as if to himself and not even bothering to direct it to me.

"Three more for good luck." And that's all he murmurs before he resumes on the boy.

His whips instantly put all my effort to be gentle to shame, almost ten times as hard and scarring. The man looks disgustingly pleased with himself and that action alone is enough to turn my stomach into a knot. I don't allow any more tears to fall nor change my expression, I just wait until it's over and the child is let loose to run away. My eyes don't follow his little figure disappearing in the distance, they only remain glued to that red stained post - the wood worn, the indents from the misfires of whips too clear and scratch marks too deep on either side. And yet it still was not enough to deter people from committing the petty crimes that brought them to meet such fate.

The boy had stolen fruit. The boy was caught. The boy was punished. That was the extent to which I was to limit my knowledge to. No I hadn't seen his sister in the crowd crying alongside him, no I hadn't seen her cling to the pieces of fruit that had remained in her possession as her brother took the blame for her. No, I didn't see him wave her away after each hit, urging her to run and not watch.

I live to serve. Not to feel.

It is almost as if they make us wear those masks to be blinded to emotion. But with only one eye hidden beneath the white material, the other remains seeing the truth - an unfortunate design fault.

I finally break the hold on my thoughts enough to detach myself away from the situation. With the crowd now dispersing since the 'show' was over I have no problem moving swiftly through the maze of people and getting lost with the wave of sellers and buyers moving about the square. Although 'getting lost' is probably the last thing I am doing and only thing I wished to be true - the white I wore contrasted viciously with the plainness of the clothing surrounding me, I was nothing but a bright reminder that even with the simplicity of the colour I adorned it was nothing compared to what the world surrounding me mirrored: suffering. The slums of Ilya weren't the kingdom's proudest display, but they had no problem covering that small and inconvenient detail of aesthetics with their Elites.