Alternate Realities

Who's Game?

After Kings Cage, a little encounter of Mare and Cal.

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Whether due to surprise or etiquette, Cal shot up from his relaxed slump when we entered the room. Farley blocked my view for just a moment, but I knew he didn't see me because his head snapped between Farley and a man on his right with only a small hint of confusion and a whole heap of annoyance. Then, intending to land back on Farley, he instead looked directly at me and morphed like an ember being extinguished in a muddy puddle. The indifference that I hoped for looked horribly like pain. Betrayed by his expression, and visibly struggling to recover his composure, Cal turned to consult with the squat man with greying temples. His colors: House Jacos. Clearly, neither of us expected the other to be there.

I was told that Command thought I could have input on the Guard's strategy. I had assumed my relationship with Cal and my time with Maven formed their theory that I could add prophetic assumptions on how the impending silver war would play. I told Farley it was foolish, but she stayed true to Command's orders and I placated with no intention of being useful. She, and Command, wondered at my loyalty too loud for me not to notice. I know they anticipated my relationship to be a complication and perhaps that's the true reason why they intended to keep me close, controlled, and too busy to consider alternatives.

In truth, in the two weeks since Cal took up the call of his people, since he abandoned our cause, since he abandoned me, my interest in the war games people played along any lines had waned. My interest in anything but anger and suspicion especially dissipated. The open questions about my loyalty didn't bring me to the practice field with my fellow electricons. Letting out the hostility, anger, and disappointment did.

It's only because he couldn't control his eyes–always finding my face, examining the angle of my shoulder turned towards him, lingering on the table and my hands in front of me–that I considered what I must have looked like to him. I had an accident in training, or I guess it's easier to describe it as an unbridled blow up, and in keeping with the rules, I wore the bandages and the pain with the rest of the day still left for suffering, assuming I could find a healer to help me end the hurt.

So I knew why his eyes keep flicking to the cream wrap around my burnt hand. The salves they gave me helped quench the initial pain into something bearable, but if I moved wrong, I couldn't keep the grimace off my face. When I slid it of the table and under, I miscalculated, and a soft groan shifted out of my throat on contact with the table. Cal shifted forward and into the table between us, a physical reminder of the distance his choice put between us. And the hand of the squat man on his arm pulled him back to live in his decision.

Cal exploded. Flames flickered and heat exuded throughout the tiny room. The man retracted, moving an arms length away. Cal blanched hot, eyes lit up. I saw suspicion crease the corners of his eyes and angle his head, chin up in defiance.

"Who's games are you playing, Mare?" His echoing snarl snapped in half when the heavy door slammed shut behind him.

I heard a scoff, though it wasn't from Farley, and the entitlement I heard in it boiled my skin. Farley turned to me, eyes set on rectifying the situation, but I didn't have time or patience or enough calm left in me to give her the satisfaction of explaining.

"Who's game? I'll tell you. No one's game." I hated to shake, but shaking was safer than pulling the lights down into me. The lights flickered without my intention to do so and I had to leave.