Fanfare

This is a Trap

 When she opens her eyes, it is bright. The rock beneath the shelf over her head is dull,words she does not wish to see veining its surface.

She blinks. Her mouth tastes sour. She licks her lips; they are dry and cracked. She brings her hand up to her head; her skin is hot and clammy. Her stomach clenches and she groans, rolling onto her side with her eyes closed, wrapping her arms around herself as she brings her knees up to her chest.

"Finally awake," someone says. She sits up so quickly her head spins. "Careful." Cool hands steady her, stopping her from tipping off the bed. She goes to shrug them off, fearful and weak. "Hey, hey. It's me."

Pierce. She stops struggling and meets his cold eyes, made colder by the pale light of the torch by his side. He lets her go and stands, takes something from the shelf over her head and sits on the edge of the bed, passing her a glass. "What happened?" she asks him, taking it suspiciously.

"Drink it. You'll feel better." She does it, because she knows he won't answer her til she does what he says. Also, her mouth tastes disgusting and her stomach is revolting inside of her, and she'll do anything to make the feeling stop. When she finishes, Pierce takes the glass from her and places it back on the shelf. The clear liquid rushes through her. She can feel it inside of her, moving through her body, calming her stomach and washing the taste from her mouth. "Did anyone come close to you in the market?" Pierce asks. She frowns, and he rolls his eyes. "Did someone touch you, brush past..."

"A woman," Trenna says, a hand to her head. "She touched my..." She looks down at her shoulder; there is a smudge of white powder across her shoulder. She frowns. "What is it?"

"We thought it had stopped. This is how the market people recruit. They perform... their own special type of magic, and mark the ones they use it on so they can follow them, to tell others who they want. It's sort of a mark of ownership."

Trenna swallows. "Wait, what do you mean, 'recruit'?"

"You've noticed how the people of the market have specific... qualities." "Pierce looks away from her, at the wall. His gun is on the ground by his feet, and he picks it up and slings it over his shoulder, gripping the strap with rigid fingers.

"Their eyes," Trenna says.

Pierce nods. And then he tells her about their eyes, about how the Outsiders like their food to taste a certain way, and so they conditioned the magic of the market people. It's like a virus. And they feel the need to spread it. She was their next mark. And the bucket by the bed is their poison, rejected by her body when they couldn't complete the change.

Trenna opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She can't piece together what he's saying. All the information is there, in her mind, but it won't link together.

"You still haven't answered my question," she says softly, finally. "What's an Outsider?"

Pierce's lip pulls up at the corner, a bitter twist. "Haven't you figured it out yet, Trenna?" he asks. He looks up at her, and his eyes pin her to the wall. She tries to press back against it, so much so that it begins to hurt, but she doesn't care; the pain is dull compared to her need to escape his gaze. "There's a world outside our city. This is a trap. And we're their food."