Ynk drags his bag behind him as he walks, hanging his head. It's recreation hour; the crowd threatening to trample him on its way to wherever it is it's going. He goes with the flow, though he doesn't bother to perfect his posture or hold his head high to show he has a purpose. Or no, that's not it—he doesn't bother because his purpose forces him not to care about things like that.
The crowd pulls him down to Belle's Square, and Ynk decides to wiggle his way to the sidewalk. He stumbles as he manages to escape the mass of bodies, bag still clenched in his fists.
Alright, he thinks, let's get this show on the road.
A familiar spark of anxiety wells in his chest, but Ynk does nothing to stop it from growing; allowing it to consume him as he reaches up to remove his Face.
The world is restored the moment he frees himself of it. His heart calms down in his chest, and the shaking in his fingers—a common occurrence now—lessens. His mind, trying to catch up with the rest of him, is still caught up in the mess Ynk's made for the world to witness.
This is stupid, one part of him says. We're gonna get in trouble, and this isn't worth getting in trouble over. Just go home—play your part and act like nothing's wrong.
But another part, a louder voice that speaks more often than not, silences the weaker side of him that wants to curl up and hide. It's going to be fine. This has to work—it has to.
Steeling himself, the boy lets out a breath he hadn't realized he's been holding before he throws the Face into the crowd, watching it crack and break beneath their feet.
The sound of it smashing to pieces is far more liberating than the moments he takes it off, the highly decorated, carefully crafted mask shattering into itty bitty pieces under dozens of marching feet. Like soldiers, Ynk thinks, remembering an old comparison he once used to determine what the rush hour was like.
And he smiles at the thought, because if the crowd really is like an army, then they're doing their job.
The sound is enough cause for people to come to a halt. Confusion takes its hold as some in the crowd look around for the source of the noise, which causes more and more to stop and search as well.
They're slow to uncover the porcelain, and Ynk waits patiently as he watches the silence slowly crush them as the pieces are discovered.
Someone close to him gasps when they lift a piece of his shattered mask in their hands. "Oh no..." he hears them murmur, and more join them, people picking up the pieces of the broken mask. The mask they'd destroyed—and as all law-abiding citizens are aware, breaking another person's Face is against the law.
He can feel the panic begin to surge through the crowd as they realize their crime. Good, he thinks. I got their attention.
Slowly, the boy pulls his bag out in front of him, opening it up. Inside rests the books his father let him borrow, along with papers, fliers, and even his drawings. Anything he felt would serve him well for what he plans to do.
He pulls one of the drawings out and holds it out to look at it, catching the gaze of a few gathering people as he does so. They've pinpointed him as the owner of the Face, and are probably readying an assault of apologies that he knows they don't mean. But that's fine; he can work with that.
As a middle-aged man begins to speak, Ynk holds up a hand to stop him. He smiles, an action that startles the group standing in front of him. They must think I'm crazy, behaving like this, he thinks. ...Oh, well—let them think that.
YOU ARE READING
FACELESS
General Fiction[Originally written in 2017 for an assignment; expanded and reworked overtime, though eventually I decided this was as far as I was going to go with it. Hope you like it!] As is customary when one reaches twelve years of age, the Order has manufactu...
