The Rising Dawn

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Detonation of War

Nika hung from the shackles round her wrists, head bent, hair trailing along the floor.

“It will be easier,” the secretary said, impatiently, “if you just give in and tell me.”

Nika lifted her head and stared at him through bleary eyes. She didn’t have the energy to spit in his face anymore. One of her teeth lay on the floor, so small and pale, a bizarrely horrible sight. Blood tried to glue one eye closed. Her thoughts were scattered.

 It had all been going so well. Right up until the point when it started going very, very badly.

“What is happening?” the secretary demanded. “What is going on? The city is in uproar! If they aren’t at the wedding, they are screaming in panic!”

“It’ll be worse,” Nika said, hoarsely. “It will always be worse. You’ll never win.”

“We can exterminate you,” the secretary sneered, in tones that suggested it wasn’t his choice of words.

“Can you crush an idea?” Nika asked. “Can you destroy a belief? Can you eradicate a soul? Can you stop humanity?”

The secretary’s eye twitched and he seemed to be talking to her left ear. It was the first obvious sign of madness but Nika had made her mind up about that long ago.

“You will pay for your crimes!” he almost giggled. “He will be so angry with you. You’re an ant. I get it now.”

Nika said nothing. A lot of her energy was focused on consciousness. She had reached a point she recognised: the point where the pain was distant and focus was impossible and nothing seemed important or significant anymore. It was a danger zone.

“More pain!” the secretary ordered. “More pain!”

Nika shut her eyes and didn’t even bother to brace herself. There was no point anymore.

Aono took the beating in silence. He tried to roll with the blows, curled around himself to protect his stomach and face. He pretended that he didn’t exist. It made it easier.

 When they eventually left him, they chained him to a wall. He scarcely felt the cut of the metal around his wrist. He hugged his knees under his chin as best he could, sending his mind far, far away to some other place where the pain could never reach it.

There were soldiers in the streets. Their voices were loud, their footfalls heavy. Shouting echoed. The wedding guests froze, the musicians dying away in a discord of jumbled, slurred notes.

“I suggest you all go home,” a braying voice called, “and lock your doors. Sorry to crash your party but there is danger afoot.”

With mumbled complaints, protests and a few tears, the wedding descended into pandemonium.

“Ethan!” Tricks called, barging through the crowd. “Ethan!”

He grabbed her by the wrists, pulling her out of the crush of people towards a wall.

“We’re leaving,” he said, roughly. “Now!”

“No,” Tricks retorted, recalling her dignity. “Can you paint?”

“Can I what?” Ethan demanded.

“Can you paint?” Tricks repeated, impatiently. “Draw? Create an image on a surface?”

Ethan nodded. “More or less.”

“Good. Come on! We have something to do.”

Fuya looked up towards the looming palace and swore loudly. There was a banner hanging from a window. Everybody knew that system, though it was supposed to be secret. A banner from the window was a message to the soldiers: destroy the attackers.