They Speak in Knives

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>We all keep secrets, right?

>Right?

>So, what if you had a secret?

>Like… a really huge secret?

>What about a secret you wear on your hands?

>A secret you almost always have an excuse for?

‘Oh these? These are so my fox doesn’t bite me.’

‘Getting used to wearing them so when I’m deployed it’s not such a jump.’

‘So I don’t get sick.’

‘Gardening. I… wear these for gardening.’

>But not today — there are no excuses

>It was the Bishop that brought the crowd to stillness

>With a single clap of his palms, the noise dies

>Neelan turns towards the crowd with his palms open, his thumb dotted with a just a small prick of blood, barely visible even up close

>”Please, if we could return to respectful silence,” he bellows. “These sorts of things do happen.”

>At that the din of the crowd weakens to a thin whisper, like spotlights fading down…

>…pointed at you, still alone, holding Echo

>Bishop Neelan motions for you to get off the raised platform via a set of stairs to his left

“Right, sorry,” you say as you move with a swiftness known only to gutless cowards, terrified rabbits, and the odd human with an anxiety condition

>As you pass by Neelan, he catches you on the shoulder with one bony hand

>His grip is not strong, rooting you in place

>A flood of white-hot anger radiates from him to you via his touch

>He leans in close — so close you can smell the scent of incense and fox fur clinging to him like a cologne

>He whispers against your ears in a hissed voice

>”Don’t try to leave Kiba tonight.”

>And with a friendly pat on the shoulder, he says something else

>Something that makes your heart burst with terror

>“I know what you are.”

>You spend much of your ‘celebration’ locked away in your old room, wearing your Foxer’s scarf, chuffing down cigarettes and smouldering with anxiety

>You’ve escaped the chaos and clutter of downstairs for two reasons:

>Fact one, there isn’t much of a celebration going on for your scarfing

>Tonight it’s just you and Natalie — who is downstairs with dinner on the stove

>And face two, your uncle Gregory isn’t home

>Greg probably won’t be home until late at tonight, slipping in like a shadow in the dark of midnight, his only tell the reek of spirits and cigarette smoke that cling to him like hungry dogs waiting for scraps

>He didn’t even go to your graduation ceremony. Why would he come back now for the after party?

>If you know uncle Greg — dad’s brother — you know he’s at work on the walls, drunk off the cigarette fumes and sips of liquor from his flask

>You can hear his voice now

>’Sorry Anon, work needed all-hands today. If the harvesters keep acting up like this, I won’t be home before midnight this week,’ he says in your mind’s eye, knocking the lid off a bottle of gin. ‘Congratulations,’ he takes a swig. ‘Your mom and dad would be proud.’

>Your fingers tighten into knuckles underneath your thin leather gloves

>You chunk your red dream journal in your hands right at the door like a leather bound missile

>It bounces off the solid wood door and lands in an ungraceful heap, open to the page you were studying

>First that dream last night — the one you can’t remember much of

“What’s the fucking use?” you sulk

>Now you’re in deep with the Bishop

Natalie’s sing-song voice downstairs flutters up to you like a dust moth, that girlish falsetto the only tether you have to reality

>Echo lifts his sleepy head in the waning sunlight that still bleeds through your mostly-sealed shutters

>Sullen, you address the source of your anguish

“Echo, you little rat,” you sulk, “Why’d you bite that old bastard? Why didn’t you bite me, or someone else?”

>His pale-blue eyes stare back at you, his language of gestures and expressions one you know well

>Echo rolls over in the slant of sunlight, exposing his pink belly

>’Don’t forget to feed me then,’ is how you interpret this behavior

“Anyone but the damned Headmaster of the whole damned Academy. Anyone but him,” you sigh as you retrieve your dream journal from off your bedroom floor

>The room stinks of nerves, cigarettes and body sweat; a miasma of teenage angst built up into a sensory roadblock

>You can’t think while you’re in here

>Wouldn’t kill ya to open up your window and let in some fresh air, would it?

>Instead, you pluck a cigarette from the pack on your nightstand and sit back down on the bed

>Your mind turns to the Bishop’s words as you pop the smoke between your lips

>You bring dad’s everflame lighter out and take your first few draws

>’Don’t try to leave Kiba tonight’

>For what feels like hours — but couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes — you smoke, and you sulk

>And when you need a break from thinking about the Bishop’s warning, you pen down thoughts into your journal

“It feels like my world is ending,” you mutter to yourself, trying to remember that dream from last night. “It feels like I’m in a nightmare I can’t wake up from.”

>The one where you were being helped by someone — a name and face you can no longer recall

>Before it all went wrong somehow, and-

>Echo fox lifts his head off the hardwood floor

“Echo?”

>Your service fox rises onto four feet and snaps his attention to your bedroom door

>No tired yawn, no gentle stretch

“C’mon Echo don’t fool around like this right now,” you say, voice quivering with anxiety

>You slap your dream journal shut

>Echo yips with excitement

>There’s the sound of a heavy, excited fist bouncing off the front door

>”Hold on, hold on!” Natalie roars, her song cut short. “Keep your pants on!”

>Oh God

>You pray as you drag deeeeeeep on your cigarette

>You inhale as much smoke into your lungs as possible, baptizing them in ash, as you beg God for a break here

>Today was supposed to be a joyous, good day

>But they found you out after twelve years, one foot out the proverbial door

>It’s gotta be the Church downstairs — they said not to leave

>You glance towards the window

>You could run, with Echo, you know

>There’s tons of rogue or retired Foxers out there

>But you’re barely nineteen — not equipped for the criminal underground

>The sound of the door opening causes you to force your shutters up and window open

>You listen, heart pounding like a drum

>Silence, brief

>And then voices

>”You can’t come in,” Natalie says in a firm voice

>Oh FUCK you gotta go

>One foot is already out the window

>You look below, at your measly little side yard, and see something peculiar:

>A Foxer in the neighbor’s yard

>Huh

>That’s weird

>”NO!” Natalie shouts, “You’re not- you’re not sober. I don’t like you when you’re like this.”

>”I pay for this damned house; I can come and go as I please, and DO as I please!” a man’s voice replies

>Wait, you know that voice

>You hear footfalls approaching the stairs

>”Fine! but don’t expect dinner!”

>And then the sound of heavy work boots pounding off the stairs swells in your ears

>You pull yourself back from the window and onto your bed

>Like a sixth sense, Echo yips in excitement, right at the moment you hear knocking at your bedroom door

>”Anon!” your uncle Greg says exclaims, then bursting into the unlocked room

>His chest heaves from exhaustion

>He’s dressed in his work clothes still — a harness around his waist, spools of rope at his side, carabiners, gloves, climbing shoes, bags of chalk, and more — all for the walls of Enclave

>”There’s our little Foxer! There’s our little graduate!” he stumbles into the room with a self-aggrandizing laugh, nearly tripping over Echo in the process

>In his right hand is an unopened bottle of good whiskey, one that seems bound by an amber glow in the afternoon sunlight

>”Let me be the first to- no, wait, probably not… umm… well, let me congratulate you on becoming a fixer- I mean Foxer,” he says with a slurred laugh

“Thanks, uncle Greg,” you say with a sunken tone, taking a long drag on your smoke

>”Got this for ya,” he shoves the bottle of whiskey towards you

>You catch a whiff of his breath in the process and it’s…

>…rich with liquor

>Hot with it

>Enough to make you woozy just by the smell alone

>He’s… not a bad guy, you reason, as you grip the bottle

>Greg isn’t cruel, not the type of guy that speaks with his hands and fists when he’s drunk

>No, that’s not your uncle

>Greg does his… let’s call it his ‘best’

>And for God’s sake, he bankrolled most of your education (though you did have to work), and he pays for this house!

>But still

>He’s a drunk

>Every day after work, every night, and sometimes even at work on the walls

>Drunk

>So drunk, perhaps, that he didn’t even come to graduation for either you or Natalie

>A common theme has crystalized over the years spent living with Greg

>A single word that encapsulates his relationship with you, himself, and the amber crutch:

>Unreliable

>Since the age of thirteen you more or less raised Natalie, all while working through Academy to become a Foxer

>Food on the table was up to you and Nat, of course

>Greg just kept the Church from taking possession of the house

>Late bills will do that

>Your uncle is a thin man, so when he drops on the bed next to you, don’t feel it much

>”Mind if I borrow a smoke?” he says, as he plucks a cigarette out of the pack on your nightstand

>You scowl but say nothing, tightening up further into yourself, the bottle of liquor in your grasp like a lifeline to reality

>Greg lights up and puffs once or twice

>He watches Echo chase dust motes for a second, smiling like a dope

>”God, it feels good to get off those damn walls. Did I tell ya there were some harvesters that came by the other day? Scared the new bloods so bad that one of them almost quit on the spot,” he chuckles

>Greg turns to you and finds you drawn up into yourself, your sullen shell

>He frowns and cocks his head

>”What’s up kid? I don’t mean to assume nothing, but that gloomy look you’re wearing isn’t right for someone who just graduated.”

>You lift your head a bit

>Greg goes on

>”I mean, you just became a Foxer! You should be climbing the damn walls right now with excitement. You did it!”

>Greg digs into his pocket and pulls out some beef jerky in wrapped in wax paper

>Echo bounds over and sits in front of your uncle, obedient and penitent. Your uncle doles out some jerky leftover from lunch, which Echo snatches

>“Foxings an honorable profession, you know. Not like repairing the walls, like I do. Anyone can slap mortar onto holes,” he muses, exhaling a jet of acrid smoke out his nose. “Anyone.”

>”But not everyone can become a Foxer,” he gums around the cigarette. “No, Natalie couldn’t do it, and she’s smarter than Scribe, I swear.”

>You tighten your gloved hands around the bottle in frustration

>How do you broach this?

”I think,” you start, searching the threadbare walls of your old room for your next sentence

>Greg looks over you

“I think the Bishop knows something,” you say, voice low and wounded. “About the… gloves. About me.”

>You turn your head up at your uncle as you feel something tighten in your throat, some condensation of weakness now choking you like a noose

>Vulnerability is scary, but you have to tell someone

>And Greg is probably the only person you can tell

>Aside from Natalie, maybe

>Not that mom or dad are in the picture

>Any more

>Uncle Greg’s cigarette dangles between his cracked lips as he stares at you, his addled mind at work

>You squeeze your eyes shut and brace for the slurred lecture on being more careful

>To his credit, Greg does not react like you expect. No crack of the whip, no lessons and platitudes about fairness and the Church

>He stubs out his smoke on a nearby ashtray

>”What happened? When did this happen? When I was at work?” he says, voice low with concern

>You nod, that lump in your throat bringing frightened tears to your eyes

>”What do you mean ‘knows something’?” Greg parrots. “You didn’t tell him you’re a dream wal-”

“Of course not!” you nearly shout, red in the face

>More from terror than anything else — fear of that word

>You curl up back into yourself, bringing your knees against your chest

“It was my gloves. Echo bit the Headmaster during my scarfing, and the Bishop noticed my gloves.”

>”Anon…”

“The Bishop told me something.”

>”Anon…’

“He said, ‘I know what you are,’ and then he told me-”

>”Anon!” Greg says, gripping you by the shoulder

>Your uncle draws in close, his breath heavy with nicotine and spirits

“What?”

>”He let you go home?”

>You nod, unsure of Greg’s point

>Greg sits back down next to you on the bed

>Echo jumps onto Greg’s lap and tries to lick his face clean

>”I tell ya, Anon, you’re worried about nothing,” he says, retrieving another cigarette from your nightstand pack

>He also withdraws a flask from his breast pocket — a small silver slip of metal that could fit against his gray uniform

>He knocks off the lid to the flask and tips it back

>Whatever he’s got in there, it smells like pine

>”So you got a little careless today at graduation. It was bound to happen,” he coughs, “but the way I see it, if he let you come home, you’re in the clear. If they didn’t make you sign some oath, they don’t suspect a thing about you. Trust me, you’re in the clear.”

>’Trust me’?

>You ‘trust’ Greg not to get fired, most of the time

>Everything after that is a definite ‘maybe’

“How in Purgatory would you know?” you say as you try to contain your frustration, your anger

>If you’re angry, your uncle can’t tell. His expression goes distant, vacant

>“I just know,” he says

>He points his eyes ahead, at your shut bedroom door, and lapses into a small bout of silence — one that lasts for maybe ten seconds

>”Listen — there’s something I should tell you and your sister. Maybe I’ll stay for dinner, and we can talk about it.”

>He turns to you, smiles, his green eyes bloodshot from the smoke

>”Everything is gonna be alright. And nothing,” Greg continues, “makes me happier than the fact that my nephew is a board-certified Foxer.”

>A weak smile turns up on your lips

“By God you’re gonna be outside the walls bringing the fight right to those damned heretics, charting safe passage for the rest of us. It’s an honor to have a Foxer in the family,” he grins

>”I got to tell my buddies at work today that my nephew I’m lookin’ after is studying to be a Foxer. They had a lot of questions that I didn’t know how to answer,” Greg chuckles. “When you get some miles under your shoes, I want you to come talk to the guys at work for me, alright? Bring Echo. He’d be a hit.”

>You can’t help but chuckle — just a little — at Greg’s playfulness in the light ofo something so serious

>Maybe he does have a faint point

>No oaths

>No Zealots at your house when you got home

>Fuck, you could turn tail and run now

>Maybe you are in the clear

“If I can get the time off in between deployments I’ll swing by,” you say, with a glance down at your bottle of whiskey

>The clear bottle sloshes in your grip, full to the brim with amber liquor

>Remarkably, the bottle is unopened

>Greg must see your curious, renewed eyes grazing the graduation present he gave you

>”That’s good stuff,” he muses, side-eyeing you. “Cost half a week’s pay, but it was worth every bit if it’s for my nephew’s graduation.”

>You pry the cork off the bottle, the bottle releasing with a hollow thunk

>Greg’s eyes light up, like a hungry vagrant seeing an outstretched hand

>“I could help you with polishing that off-” he begins

>And then

>He does something you do not expect from your uncle:

>He stops mid-sentence, and says, “Forget it, you drink it when you want to. It’s yours, after all.”

>You, on the other hand, are giving in to the idea that you’re going to be alright

“We should at least toast, right?” you say as you offer him the bottle. “To my graduation?”

>Greg’s eyes brighten with a slurred type of joy

>And he’s about to open his mouth to agree, to take the bottle for a swig, go dancing with the bottle, when Natalie’s voice passes under the door

>An explosive voice — like a tortured songbird

>”Dinner!”

>Greg looks at you, distraught; a man deprived of a chance to drink in peace with his nephew

>”Sounds like we better get down there. One quick wash before dinner,” he says as he stands. He turns his attention down to you. “You do what you like with that. I’ll join you two at the table soon.”

>At that, Greg stumbles out of your bedroom with drunken grace, and finds his own room

>The door to his room slams shut, echoing throughout the small house

>And as you walk down the stairs and turn the hall towards the kitchen, you can hear uncle Greg retching in the bathroom

>You enter the kitchen, the smell of butter and garlic rich in the air

>Like a pleasant smoke you can’t see, from cigarettes you can’t buy

>A huge bowl of sauced noodles sits on the old wooden table for serving, tendrils of steam whispering off the dish

>Natalie sits in her place on the left side of the table, sipping on a glass of water and reading Scripture

>Long, messy tangles of raven-black hair cascade down one side of her face, as pale as the winter’s chill

>Natalie turns her head up towards you when she hears the floorboards squeal at your touch

>”Well well well, mister Foxer,” she coos, slapping her Scripture shut. “Come to spend time with your plebeian little sister, the poor, dumb Zealot?”

>Her blue eyes brighten, and she cracks a playful smile

“Your words, not mine, Nat,” you say as you make your way through the kitchen towards the table. “But I guess if I have to spend time with you I’ll have dinner too,” you offer, wearing a playful smirk

>”Well don’t get too excited,” Natalie says, sarcastically as she glances around the table, “It’s not much of a feast for your graduation — at least not like mine was. But it’ll do, right?”

“It’ll do, Nat,” you say as you pull out a chair. “You really didn’t have to go through all the trouble.”

>”Trouble? Pffft, this was hardly trouble-”

>Tiny, clawed feet scamper on the hardwoods alongside you, distracting Natalie

>”Echo!” Natalie squeals as he rises from her chair. “Echo you cute little rat, you caused soooooo much trouble today. I thought Anon was gonna end up exiled or something!”

>She crouches down to Echo’s level, still wearing her floral print dress from your scarfing ceremony

>“C’mere, baby,” she says with all the love of a mother seeing her child for the first time in weeks

>Echo leaps into Natalie’s arm with a single bound

>You watch and wonder why Echo is so drawn to your sister

>Sure, he’s great with you — most of the time — but Echo and Natalie always shared something special

“He likes you a lot,” you offer, “more than me. At least based on today.”

>”You have no idea how glad I am that he lives here now,” she says

“For now. Only until I’m called to service in a few weeks. The same goes for you.”

>”I know, but it’s still so nice that he’s here,” Natalie coos, stroking Echo’s gray and white fur back. “I’m a little jealous that you get to spend so much time with this little rascal.”

>In response, you plant the bottle that Greg gave you on the table like a hunting trophy

>Natalie’s attention shifts from Echo to the bottle with a quick, bitter flick of her blue eyes

>”Greg gave you that, huh?” she offers a stiff nod towards the bottle, like it was alive

>You turn to her as you fill your plate with noodles and sauce

“As a matter of fact, he did,” you say. You pour a small snort of whiskey in your empty water glass. “I thought I’d celebrate my new position in the Church with a drink. I think I’ve more than earned it, right?”

>”I seem to remember you almost giving up more than once.”

>You hold the glass up to the weak everflame light

“First drink is to God; for luck, grace, and good aim,” you declare

>”Do you even know how many much is in a shot of that stuff?” Natalie squeaks, nerves mounting

>You knock back your first shot — ever

>And it nearly knocks you on your ass

>You slap the table. The whiskey goes down like liquid fire as it scorches a trail down the back of your throat

>Despite the pleasant warmth blossoming within you, you retch and gasp for air

>Natalie scowls, a poor attempt to conceal her distaste. “Just don’t- don’t go overboard, okay? I can barely handle it when Greg’s on one. I don’t need you on one, too.”

>Echo leaps out of her grasp and scampers across the table towards you

>With your eyes shut tight, you feel his wet nose against your cheek

>Your service fox sniffs you over as you gather yourself internally, if only to confirm that you’re not in actual pain

>You remove your glove and stroke Echo’s head as you cough out the last of the whiskey from your burning lungs

“You know me,” you say as you force down another cough, “they called me ‘mister self control’ at Academy.”

>Your ‘joke’ does not land, and Natalie does not look amused as you prepare another shot

>”Smells good in here,” Greg says as he steps into the kitchen.

>He’s a pale man, with dark hair like a raven’s feathers; the remnants of his attempt at shaving cling to his patchy face, too

>He REEKS of liquor, and radiates a type of exhaustion that makes even you feel tired

>You are an idiot, however, and you try to carry on while sipping your whiskey

>Feeling… peculiar… you raise your glass to your uncle

”Second drink of the night goes to you, Greg, for making Natalie’s and I’s education mostly possible,” you say with a light misplaced jab

>Seeing that the spirits are flowing as free as water, much to Natalie’s chagrin, Greg claims his usual spot at the table

>”It wasn’t always… easy…” Greg says as he unscrews the lid to his flask in solidarity, “but I’d do anything for you kids.”

>He raises the flask at you, taps the lid to your glass, and knocks back a quick, exhausted shot

>You drain your glass, eager to keep u-

>GAH

>It burns more the second time!

>You clamp your lips shut and force down the urge to cough, eyes blurring with pained tears

>Natalie looks on with silent disapproval at your behavior

>Despite the commotion, Echo settles in your sister’s lap as you all eat

>Natalie’s not happy Greg is drunk again

>And at dinner

>And that you’re drinking now, too

>But she’s overruled

>The night wears on; the sun slips behind the walls; Greg’s forgotten about his ‘work buddies’ and sits in the living room with you for the evening

>A fire snaps in the hearth as you all sit around, dedicating swigs out of your whiskey bottle to friends, co-workers, God, family, this, that, and the other (Echo)

>Your ears burn with warmth, and your face is flush, rich with color and cheer

>The room spins beneath you, a pleasant auger gracefully carrying you along with it

>Not too fast, not too slow

>A warmth unlike anything you’ve ever felt pulses in your veins, as rich as your very blood

>To keep himself busy, Echo scampers up an old couch and makes the leap from the arm of the couch onto a nearby empty shelf drilled into the wall

>In fact, the room is lined with empty shelves — meant to mimic an ‘agility room’ for foxes back at Academy

>You and Greg built them for Echo when you moved back home

>Foxes need places to run around and be active, else they get a little mischievous

>Especially Echo, whose grace continues to shock you — even now

>The fox moves in silence, and with ease, from shelf to shelf, climbing high above the wooden floors

>Echo is like a gray liquid when he moves, sometimes

>Natalie, on the other hand, is more like a solid

>She sits rigid in her chair, listening to the conversation, knitting away

>Greg puffs away on another of your cigarettes and jabbers on about shit he doesn’t understand

>”Got an old work buddy that spent time as a Zealot. Said that the crows are slipperier than wet fox shit. The ravens — big and proud — love to be heard, make noise, all that. They make dumb mistakes in the name of honor or glory or other such crockery. But not the crows. Noooo. Thems clever birds,” he says, punctuating his point with a long pull on his flask

>“We learned all about the heretics in Academy,” Natalie says in a drifting voice. “Corvid, they’re called.”

>Greg points his flask towards her, “You just learned to kill the birds. I bet Anon learned more about the heretics than either you or I will ever have permission from the Church to know,” he adds with drunken laughter

>He turns to you, away from Natalie who simmers in her chair

>”Isn’t that right?” he says to you, leaning, expectant

>You look at Natalie, who glares daggers at the both of you

>You nod to her in a way that you hope Greg isn’t able to process

>’Let me try to handle him’

“I learned how to fight, too. But I’m not really supposed to fight, not like Zealots at least,” you shift in your chair, mind wrestling with your drunken tongue. “They put nature journals and maps in my hands before they taught me to fire a chemical rifle, if that tells you anything.”

>Greg jumps in his seat, excited and drunk, which causes Natalie to flinch

>”Which is what makes you dangerous to them, kid!” He exclaims. “I am a strong believer in the idea that you should know your enemy. You should know how he thinks; how he makes a living; read his great works; see his point of view on this whole mess. Then, when his back is turned… BAM!” Greg slaps his knee; the concussive sound of his palm striking off his thigh is louder than gunshot

>You wince at the sound

>Greg settles back in his chair and takes a few contemplative puffs on his cigarette

>You feel your scarf through your gloves. The fabric is heavy, and coarse, but well-made

>One stripe

>First rank

>”If I was a Foxer,” Greg gestures with his cigarette, “Or a Zealot,” he nods towards Natalie, who does not nod back, “I’d find just a few people I could trust, and stick with em out there. Someone to watch my back from…” he draws deep on his cigarette; smokes it down to the nub and ashes it

>”Well, the Church for one,” he says at last with a giant cloud of dirty smoke plooming out of him, “and the heretics second.”

>Natalie’s jaw unclenches at last

>”Your niece and nephew both just graduated into the arms of the Church, Greg. What the fuck is wrong with you? You can’t just turn up on a whim, stinking drunk, spouting heresy.”

>Natalie rises from her chair. “I won’t hear of it — not on my brother’s graduation day. Not from you.”

>She starts towards the kitchen

>Echo leaps down off a nearby shelf and stalks behind her, pacing after her shawdow

>Greg stands up in his chair

>”Nat, wait,” Greg calls, his voice dark and heavy

>That’s…

>Not anger…

>Natalie pauses for a second, her back turned to the both of you

>“There’s a reason I’m saying all this. There’s something important I need to tell you — what I’ve been trying to tell the both of you tonight,” Greg says his voice a sad, sobering whisper.

>Natalie’s slender fists tighten and go white with rage

>”I’m tired, and there are dishes to do,” she says with a turn; her rich blue eyes flashing bright with frustration

>”So just say what you have to say.”

>Greg, once again, doesn’t notice the fire in his niece’s eyes, so he gathers himself with another one of your smokes and a snort of his flask

>Natalie spins and starts walking to the kitchen ”If you’re just going to drink and smok-” she starts

>Gregs cuts in, good and liquored up, prepared for the moment

>”This is about you and your brother. More specifically about your brother.”

>You lean forward, your anxious heart kicking itself in your chest like an old forgotten clock

>“When I said you need someone to look out for you — even inside the walls — I wasn’t kidding. Something happened at work today. Something that made me think of you, Anon, and what we talked about,” he turns his head up at you

>He… he looks sober, but you know he’s not

>Still, you’ve never seen the mask drop like this; never seen it fall to the floor and shatter

>Maybe it’s the drink

>Maybe it’s the nicotine buzz from the smokes

>But you… don’t like the energy you feel, coming off of Greg like, a bad odor you can’t escape

“What is it? What happened?” you ask after a hesitant pause

>Greg draws another deep breath and begins

>”I was out-walling today — you know, dangling outside the walls on the ropes — and blind-dog Kevin comes whizzing down right next to me. I think ‘he’s here to tell me something about my shift.’ Only he doesn’t stop to talk on his way down. To the bottom.”

>”What?” Natalie says, leaning forward

“No way-”

>”See, I realized a little too late he was in free fall,” Greg says with a placid stare into the everflame hearth, the tongues of orange fire dancing in his eyes

>”I mean, I blinked, and he was halfway on his way to the ground floor of Purgatory. And we all saw him fall. All of us. My foreman, my crew, the Zealots on the walls, even some guys who were on break.”

“What happened? Did he jump?” you say, heart pounding in your skull

>Sounds a little like a drum if you listen closely

>Greg shakes his head again

>”The new blood who was supposed to tie off Kev’s rope at the top hadn’t done a good enough job. Kev clips in, thinking his lead is tied off, steps off the walls and…”

>Greg makes a whistling sound, which drops in pitch, to illustrate falling

>”Now he’s the crazy part though, and the part that I want to talk to you both about,” Greg says, taking a drag on his smoke

>”Kevin lived.”

>”Bullshit,” Natalie sounds close to shouting. “Unless there was some kind of miracle-”

>Greg silences her with a serious look before he returns to the story.

>”A miracle ain’t out of the question,” he says, voice tinged with nerves. “In a situation like this, it certainly is possible God interceded and saved his life.”

>”How- how’d he survive the fall then?” Natalie bites, as impatient as ever

>Greg flashes a wild grin, a look that tells you not even your old uncle believes what he saw

>”God, I sound crazy saying this, but it shouldn’t shock someone like me,” he says

>Greg looks over at you for a split second and then turns to address both you and Natalie

>”You might not believe me, but about ten feet before Kevin becomes a human pancake, he… blind-dog Kev just… stops falling and dangles… right there, in the air. Like a fish on a hook being lifted out of the water…”

>With that same, unbelieving grin, Greg stares directly at you…

>”…suspended by nothing.”

>…For a good reason

>You have an idea of where this story is going

>Greg presses on

>“I mean, he’s got his damned belay rope coiled beneath him — nothing’s holding him up!” So despite God and gravity, Kev just… hovers there for a moment or two, I guess. Then he sees us all lookin’ and floats down to the ground real quick, like a damn feather on the wind.”

>”He shouts for a line back up like he can’t fly, but we still pull him. He climbs back over the walls like a man being pulled into a boat after treading water for hours

>”Then we asked Kev — who is almost totally blind, mind you — how in God’s name he didn’t end up harvester as food? What the fuck did we just witness?”

>There’s a pause as your uncle takes a short swig

>He points his eyes down, towards the carpet in front of the fireplace where Echo dozes

>”’I got lucky’ was all he would say. ‘Lucky.’”

>Greg looks over to you

>Exhaustion tempers the corners of his eyes red

>”And that was his story — until the Church showed up.”

>Silence fills the room, the snap of everflame in the hearth punctuating the gap in conversation as you all soak Greg’s story

>Echo stands up and stretches

>The gray fox leaps onto your lap, his body pleasantly warm from his place in front of the fireplace

>”Turns out some Zealots on the wall saw Kevin stop himself in mid-air, so they call in other Zealots, who call in some bigshots,” Greg sighs. “Eventually this lady from the Church comes by with a group of fancy looking guards. She looked like a Scribe, or an Inquisitor, I don’t know which.”

>”This lady — real pretty blonde; named ‘Mueller’ I think — came and interviewed all of us one-by-one. At first, all she talked about was Kev,” Greg says

“What did she want to know about Kevin?” You ask, heart speeding

>You have that sinking feeling in your chest again, like you’ve swallowed stones

>”She… asked us what his job was; our relationship to him; whether or not we knew of his status as an ‘abomination,’”

>Greg turns his attention to you

>He jaws for words

>“I told that lady I had no idea that Kevin was a mutant. I said he kept it hush-hush if he was one, and I got no problem with it. I guess it helped explain the blindness at such an early age; suppose how she goes sometimes, right?”

>Your uncle pauses for a second

>The cigarette smolders between his two fingers as he stares at you

>”Then she starts asking me if I know of any mutants. Says more than my job is on the line,” Greg says, shifting nervously in his seat.

>Your eyes practically bulge out of your skull

>Oh no….

>”They made us all take an oath in front of the guards; my comrades at work, my foreman, everyone-” Greg says as he takes a nervous drag on his smoke at last

>Your sister’s jaw drop like it weighed fifty tons

>”Uncle Greg, you didn’t,” Natalie seethes, starting forward. “Greg you didn’t! You did NOT sell out this family-”

>”Course not!” Uncle Greg shouts back with a puff of smoke and an accompanying fit of coughs. “I- I- Goddamnit! I lied to the Church and on those documents they made us sign! When she asked me, I looked that Church lady in the face and I said, ‘No I don’t know of any abominations or mutants; no I’m not related to anyone who fits the ‘criteria’ for abomination; no, I am not a mutant myself, under penance, penalty, or pain of death.’”

>He throws his hands up, spilling a little of his flask on the hardwood

>Natalie’s jaw screws back up tight, like a vise

>”See? I lied, alright? I lied to the Church! And if they find out I lied, I’ll be on the wrong side of the walls with a donkey to ride and some well-wishes, that’s for fuckin’ sure. So listen to what I’m saying, and listen good!”

>He aims his cigarette at the both of you like a professor giving a lecture

>”What I’m trying to tell the both of you is that you need to look after one another outside — and inside — Enclave. The Church is looking for people like Anon. I don’t know what for, or why, but they- they took Kevin away somewhere and I doubt I’ll ever see him ever again,” he says with the finality of a hammer’s stroke

>There’s another moment of silence; but it’s the type of silence that reminds you of the first time you threw a chemical bomb down range at academy

>You missed the target — the window of a prop-shack — and had to run for cover with your Den Master

>The explosion went off on the ground beneath the window; a blast so loud and absolute that if you close your eyes and listen you SWEAR you can hear ringing produced in the aftermath

>You turn your attention to the situation at hand

>The drums-

>No, not the drums in your skull

>Greg putting his life on the line for you

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” you start, an attempt at a thought drowned in whiskey churns in your mind

>You look at Greg, but he stares hard at his shoes as smoke coils upwards from the cigarette still glowing red between his fingers

>What do you say to a man like Greg?

>A troubled, yet kind man?

>A man who took an incredible personal risk to protect you and your identity

>Silence fills the room…

>A pained, awkward silence,

>Through the whiskey haze, through the great miasma of smoke that churns around the living room

>Through flesh

>Through

>Through bone

>You arrive at the conclusion you should have always known was the end:

“Thank you,” you say at last, “Thank you for sticking your neck out for me like that. I’m sorry I put you in this position.”

>Natalie’s anger towards Greg smolders down to embers

>She opens her mouth, jawing for words, chasing after your apology

>”Yeah, thank you, Uncle Greg,” Natalie squeaks, her voice small. “That was very kind of you to do. I’m sorry for being so… angry.”

>You stand up; Echo jumps off your lap and skitters onto the hardwood floor

>Greg’s facade breaks with a hurt smile. He says, “C’mon, I practically raised you brats. I’m not gonna let Charlie down — especially not on his son’s graduation day. Family doesn’t do that to family.”

>Echo, to your surprise, doesn’t follow your sister to lick the plates and dishes clean in the kitchen

>Instead, you watch your gray’s tail stand up straight, like a warning flag

>And then he takes

>Slow

>Delicate steps

>Towards

>The

>Front

>Door

“Echo?” You say as you see him curiously approach the front door

>You start towards him, but only get a few steps before a sound interrupts your progress

>A heavy fist beats on the door three times

>”Anton, E. Mouse,” a deep, authoritative voice commands, “Under the rightful judgement of the Church’s fathers, we order you to open this door and submit — either to us, or to God. You have five seconds to comply with these orders or we will use force.”

>What?

>WHAT?

>Wait

>HOLD ON

>”FIVE!”

>You scramble for the door, bare feet slipping off the wooden floors-

>”FOUR!”

“Wait, wait, just a second!” you scream, as you throw the deadbolt aside

>Echo yips and growls at the door, taking apprehensive steps backwards

>”THREE!”

>The latch catches

>”TWO”

“Sorry, one second! I swear I’m trying-”

>You throw the latch

>”ONE!”

>You hurl the door open

>A bright flash of everflame lamp hits your retinas, and the world shifts from the dark to light, like God as he spun the sun into being from flecks of starlight

>You raise your hand defensively to the lamp, one eye shut

>”Grab the mutant! GO!”

>A group of Zealots descend upon you like wolves killing a helpless fawn

>Your eyes open right as rough gauntlets force your body to the ground, face down on your front porch

>Another pair of hands applies handcuffs to your wrists

>Echo lets out a pained squeal, and you watch as they throw a choke-chain around his neck

>”Hold still and this won’t hurt as much, freak,” the Zealot who has his knee pressed into your back says

>You can’t see, but you can hear voices

>”There’s two more in the house, doctor, do we-”

>A woman’s voice, stern and cold, cuts him off

>”The Bishop wants Anton,” she says

>The pressure on your wrists ratchets up as you’re lifted off the cement and onto your feet

>A woman in a lab coat stands in front of you — a woman with blonde hair like spools of golden thread

>Her eyes look down on you — brown eyes with green flecks that remind you of good soil and growing things

>Her jaw is set in a thin, hard line

>“Which one are you?” she wonders aloud, “Gregory? Certainly not Natalie, unless I missed something important. But if you were Anton, where’s your fox?”

>She does a quick appraisal of you by pacing around you, her studious gaze lingering on your gloves

>”Maybe they already took Echo away then. And, just based off my research, and the fact that you’ve still got those gloves, on tells me that people don’t call you ‘Anton’ normally, do they?” she says, completing her pass

>Facing you, she then extends her hand out, as if asking for a handshake from a man handcuffed

>You stare at her outstretched hand for a moment

>She stares at you

>A meeting of the minds

>After an embarrassing few seconds she retracts the offer, forgetting that you can’t move your arms

>Still, her expression softens; and in the garden of her eyes you see something blossom from seeds to roots and then grass:

>Curiosity’s flower

>”My name is doctor Anna Mueller — but most people just call me doctor,” she says politely. “I don’t know how much they teach people in Academy about Inquisitors, but I’m in charge of the Office of Inquiry for all of Kiba. Tell me, was I right about your name? Are you Anonymous?”

>You can hear Uncle Greg’s voice tremble with rage — louder than you’ve ever heard him

>”Don’t touch me you fucking bastards!”

>Godamnit

>They’re gonna get themselves skewered at this rate

>Gotta start talking — for your family

“M-my name is Anton, but most people call me An-” you begin with a weak stammer

>Anna cuts in, unable to control herself

>”Anon, Anonymous- it’s a cute nickname. I know all about that. I studied your file as much as I could before we came over here,” she says, a faint smile gracing her lips. “It’s practically obligatory. You’re a mutant and a Foxer! That’s an actual miracle.”

>Oh God

>That word

>’Mutant’

>You don’t like that word

>You chance a look behind you, at your house

“I- I don’t know what’s going on right now. Did I do something wrong?”

>Your front door is flung open, warm everflame light bleeding out into the street

>Your house teems with armored bodies; Zealots searching and ransacking, no doubt wrestling against Greg or your sister

>”All your questions answered soon, Anon,” she says politely, turning away from you

>She seems to wait for something

>And then, on cue, someone in the house screams

>A high girlish falsetto

>Your stomach twists in knots, like you’ve a grenade

>Natalie

>Anna hums in thought, mind searching for a name

>”That must be-”

“My sister” You offer. “Natalie.”

>”Right, your younger sister. I remember now. Quite unremarkable academy performance based on her records.”

“Yeah…” you hang your head. “That sounds about right.”

>Seconds later, two Zealots march Natalie out of the house, her arms shackled behind her back

>She moves with a stiff gait, as if one of her legs is bruised — or worse

>Still, underneath the panic; beneath the flowered dress she wore to your graduation today and still wears now; beneath sweat-slickened pale skin; beneath dense bone and corded muscle, honed from years in Academy…

>It’s still your sister

>Your stubborn little sister

>Natalie points her chin up high and squeezes her eyes shut; either proud of being seen by all the neighbors, marched out like a criminal…

>…or scared shitless of what’s about to happen…

>…and walks with what little dignity she has left

>When your eyes meet hers, she breaks character to give you an affirmative nod

>’I’ll be okay.’

>The Zealots leading Natalie push her into a nearby carriage — one of the more elegant ones on the street:

>Slick black with orange-gold leafing and closed curtains, making the single-horse drawn carriage seem faster than it probably is

>Anna plucks a cigarette out of her breast pocket and lights up

>She takes a few long drags and then turns her gaze down at you

>”You know what’s funny?”

>…

“I don’t know — I don’t think anything about this is funny-”

>”No, you’ll get a kick out of this, my friend. Your uncle Greg and have already met. Today, actually.”

>Your mind hurtles backwards towards the story that Greg told you

>About his co-worker

“He told me about you. And about his co-worker, Kevin.”

>At the mention of that name, Anna visibly deflates; her shoulders rolling forward, her posture slackening

>She sighs with an annoyed grunt

>”He wasn’t supposed to tell you any of that. Goddamnit Greg!”

>You just shrug

“Can you blame him? I mean…”

>The doctor ignores you and takes another experimental puff on her smoke

>She eyes the cigarette, letting it smoulder against the everflame street lamps, vying for space against the moonlight

>”Your uncle… is a special administrative task; one that I’m not going to pretend to have the energy for tonight. We have a lot to do after this. A lot.”

>Finally, Greg emerges from the house, his arms bound behind him like yours and Natalie’s

>A pair of armed Zealots march him down the walk towards the street, where there’s another carriage waiting

>Greg doesn’t look as proud or as composed as Natalie did

>The gin and whiskey are still thick in his veins, so he stumbles as he walks forward

>A few of the Zealots laugh as he’s hoisted back into composure

“Greg-” you say in a bid for his attention

>Your scared shitless uncle looks over at you, pale-faced

>A rivulet of blood trickles out of his nose and threads down onto his work shirt

>Greg doesn’t stop to talk; not that he’s given much of a chance.

>He’s lead as he’s lead to a much larger, more industrial-looking carriage; this one drawn by two surly draft horses, no doubt the same one all the Zealots arrived in

>And above all: his bloodshot eyes stay fixed on his feet

>Anna lets out an exhausted sigh, as if finished with something unpleasant

>”Your turn,” she says with a smile

>And it’s a genuine smile

>“Do try not to fight so much. You won’t win.”

>Before you can respond, a Zealot appears behind you and yanks you onto your feet

>From there, you’re prodded forward towards the smaller carriage, like cattle at the behest of your master’s whip

>Anna follows behind you, her steps an echo of your own

>She pays particular attention to your hands — especially your gloves — as you walk

>When you’re led to the same carriage that Natalie went into Anna steps ahead of you

>She opens the door to the smaller carriage on your behalf

>”After you,” she says, again with a polite smile

>Two hands from behind give you a healthy shove

>You tumble inside

>You end up almost upside down, smashed against Natalie

>And as you right yourself

>As your eyes adjust to the dimness of the interior

>A familiar voice greets you from the seat across

>A voice in the dark

>A voice like a puzzle piece, falling into place

>”I really thought you’d try to run,” Bishop Neelan says