A Town Called Kingdom

“Why do I only hear my footsteps when I can’t hear anything else?” Mali asked as he followed Riddle down the long, dark stairway into the earth. She held an ovular black object out ahead of her, illuminating five or six steps around them in soft white light. The device made a subtle *tick* every minute or so as they walked.

“Maybe if you stepped a little quieter we’d be able to hear everything else,” Roland hissed from beneath Mali’s collar. The little soldier was tenser than the others had ever seen him, scowling so deeply it actually looked painful. Mali stopped talking. They walked on, descending down the endless steps into whatever awaited them at the bottom. Riddle came to abrupt halt.

“It stopped ticking,” she whispered.

“What stopped ticking?” asked Mali. “You flashlight?”

“It’s not a flashlight.” She shook the little device and flipped it upside down. “It stopped ticking. That means…” She trailed off and sat down on the cold staircase.

“Hey! Earth to Riddle!” Roland pulled himself up to lean against Mali’s neck. “What do you mean that’s not a flashlight, huh?”

Riddle flipped to a different pair of lenses on her goggles. The pair she’d been wearing flared out to each side, making room for the new. They glowed a dim green. She scanned the walls to each side, stood suddenly and climbed back up a several of the stairs. “I’m not climbing back up there right now,” Mali grunted. After several minutes Riddle rushed back to them and flopped down next to Mali.

“The cameras end up there!” she cried, pointing to the yawning chasm slanting up behind them.

“So what?” said Mali. “Maybe they didn’t want to waste resources on a stairway.”

Roland, however, sounded shocked. “Are you sure they don’t pick up again further down?”

Riddle shook her head emphatically, holding up the black oval device. “This thing detects security cameras. It’s a top-of-the-line prototype, not even in mass production in the U.S. until sometime next year. It clicks as long as a recording device is in range.”

“I had a feeling this was a bad place,” growled Roland. “The people of Kingdom opted for those cameras for a reason. If we’re out of range that means there’s something they don’t want him to know about.”

“Him?” Riddle leaned forward, goggles gleaming.

Footsteps interrupted Roland before he could speak. Someone was running up the steps toward them. “Get behind me!” Riddle cried, slipping a hand beneath her shirt. “Shit-shit!” Her agile hands flew about her pockets, searching for something and finally pulling out a thin hook from a compartment at the back of a pantleg. “Messy. Guess it’ll have to do,” she grumbled.

Riddle sprang at the figure as soon as she spotted it, arms splayed as she rocketed from higher ground. Mali barely could barely make out a grey hoodie, sleeves rolled up too cool down a panting, tired man. The man stepped to the side just in time to dodge Riddle’s hook, but the start she gave him sent him tumbling backward along with her. He struck her outstretched hand as they fell together, knocking the hook from her hand and sending it careening down into the dark. The sound of struggle and bodies thumping on unforgiving steps made Mali flinch.

The light from the device in Riddle’s had spun as she rolled downward, a strobe in slow motion. Then it went out entirely. Hands scrabbled in the shadows. “Stay still!” Roland hissed into Mali’s ear.

Brilliant white light filled the corridor. “Who-who are you people?” An unfamiliar voice demanded from behind the beam. A man’s voice. He sounded terrified. Mali and Roland covered their eyes against the hostile ray. “Who are you?” he demanded. The beam flicked downward toward Riddle, illuminating an indignant tangle of limbs and displaced knick-knacks spilling from her pockets. No one answered the man.

The beam grew brighter on Riddle’s face, bleaching her skin and glaring from her clockwork goggles. “Hey. I think I know you!” the man cried. The girl from the Shambles, right? You were there!“

Riddle’s head turned slowly to the side, brows furrowed against the light. “I was where?”

“The night they took the Bug Guy from his daughter. I saw you guys getting swarmed by red-shirts.”

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” Mali whispered to Roland. Roland hushed him.

“That means you aren’t one of them!” cried the man.

“Great thinking, genius,” Riddle croaked. “Now if you don’t stop shining that thing in my eyes I’m going throw something sharp right into yours.” The man turned the beam downward. He rubbed at his shins with a hand.

“I think maybe we shouldn’t try to kill each other just yet,” Mali suggested. “Maybe we can table that until we figure out what’s going on here?”

Riddle was already stuffing things back into her pockets. “Fine. You first, hoodie dude. Why on earth are you sneaking around on a dark staircase?”

He laughed. “Fair question, I suppose. I was there the night the angry mob swarmed through the Shambles. I was sleeping in this old empty house when it happened. I saw the fight go down, heard the man’s little girl screaming but… as soon as I saw what they were wearing I was afraid.” He pointed the light up, revealing a large yellowish bruise across his eyes. “They don’t like outsiders much.”

“I felt guilty after I saw what went down, but I had no idea how anything worked around here so I stayed out of sight. Why does everyone look like they came from a costume party?” The man paused. “I’ve been tracking the red shirts for weeks, and they all eventually wind up down here. They’re in and out of the big triangle church, but nobody seems to come this stairway unless they’re wearing red.”

“Again, I’m not following everything you’re saying, but I think you’re here to find Bug Man, too.” Mali ventured.

The man nodded. “He’s the only friendly face I’ve met since I got here. I can’t leave him alone.”

Riddle rose slowly to her feet, walked to the man and reached out a hand. “Nice to meet you…”

“Marvin. Marvin Blake. From Atlanta.”

She smiled. “Nice to meet you Marvin Marvin Blake from Atlanta!” Mali rolled his eyes.

“Hey Marvin?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“There’s one more thing I think you’re going to need to know about.” Mali reached back and plucked Roland from his collar, holding him out into the light. The sound of Marvin’s crumpling body echoed down the stairs once again.

—————————————-

When they finally reached the bottom of the staircase, Marvin led the group into a wide, roofed hallway lined on each side with a balcony. “I can’t walk any further,” Mali gasped, taking a seat right in the middle of the floor. The others joined him. Hotel-style doors made a uniform pattern on the damp concrete walls for as far as they could see. Riddle craned her neck, looking down the long row of skylights cut into the roof of the great hall.

“That’s the valley floor up there,” Marvin whispered. “All the way down here at the bottom of that god-awful crack they still see the sun for an hour or so.”

Riddle kept her eyes on the ceiling. “And the doors? Have you seen anyone coming from any of them?”

Marvin pointed into the distance. “Just one. Way down there is a huge double-door where the red-shirts go. Once a week they walk down all these steps and gather for a ceremony. There’s so much red in this hallway it’ll give you a headache. The rest of them I’ve looked in are either locked or empty.” He gestured toward a door marked with the number “31” in fading paint. “I’ve been sleeping in that room and no one has bothered me.”

“You have a bed or something in there?” Mali asked hopefully.

“Not exactly. I have a backpack of dirty clothes though if you want to lay down for a little while.” Mali was already headed for the door.

Riddle watched the boy walk down the hall and step into Room 31. As Marvin turned to follow she caught him by a sleeve. Her eyes burrowed into him, magnified behind heavy lenses. “What are you really doing down here?” she whispered.

The man’s face grew hot. “Looking for the Bug Man, same as you.”

She did not release his arm. “You’ve been down here for weeks searching and you still haven’t found him? Doesn’t sound like you’re searching too hard.” Her gaze crawled over him, boring into the contours of his skin, peeking around the folds of his clothing. “You don’t look hungry.”

He blinked. “Hungry?”

“Where would a lone, friendless man like yourself get something to eat down here?”

A vein throbbed in Marvin’s forehead. The corners of Riddle’s mouth turned slowly upwards, hand twisting the man’s sleeve and pulling him close. “Run and I’ll throw something long and sharp into your calves. We’re going to go back to your room now and you’re going to tell me what’s going on here.”

His muscles tensed for a moment as if he wanted to make a run for it, but then relaxed. He nodded miserably. “Fine.”

__________________________________

“I found Bug Man the second day after coming down here,” Marvin began. Roland, Mali, and Riddle stood inside Room 31 with their backs to the door, trapping the humiliated captive before them. He sat bound to a loose-legged chair, sweat dripping from his eyebrows and upper lip. “The red-shirts had beaten him up pretty bad. I hid out until they all went back up the stairs and I thought the coast was clear. I could hear him breathing before I got to the door.”

“Which door? One of the ones out here?” Mali asked.

“No. The end of this hall opens into a big antechamber with some rooms branching out of it. They use them for their prisoners.”

“What kind of prisoners?” Riddle ventured. “Outsiders, right? That’s what the red-shirts kept yammering about.”

Marvin nodded. “The red-shirts think that people coming into Kingdom from the outside threaten their survival. Their meetings are a bunch of people presenting the dangers they present: foreign disease, new religions, too many mouths to feed.”

“Sounds like the rest of the world,” Riddle scoffed.

“They rally for two days at the end of each week and then resurface for their duties among the Penitant. I don’t think Jericho really knows what’s going on. Most of them work outside of the Church of M until their service. They hide and wear normal clothes to keep suspicions down, then put on the red shirts before performing their own missions.”

“Does the group have a name?” Roland called from Mali’s shoulder.

“The Terminant.”

“Terminant,” Riddle repeated. “So what do they want with Bug Man?”

Marvin set his jaw. He looked terrified. “I talked to him. I thought everyone was gone, so I went to his door. There’s a little window set in it near the top. I think he recognized me from the night we met. Just as I was about to speak up I heard someone coming. The door next to Bug Man’s was open, so squeezed inside and pulled it most of the way closed behind me.” Marvin hung his head, face a mask of disbelief and resentment. “The man who spoke to Bug Man just kept repeating the same phrase over and over again. I couldn't see him from where I was at, but every time he said it I heard splashing water and..."

"And what?" Roland demanded. "Splashing water and what?"

"Bug Man. Gasping for breath. I think he was shoving his head into some kind of bucket or something."

Roland went rigid on Mali's shoulder. "Marvin? What was the man saying?"

I rarely mention Eleanor’s eldest child, my stepbrother. The events leading to his early departure from home were, in contrast to the rest of us, far less dramatic. “I’m joining the church,” he announced at the dinner table one evening. My father was not home yet, and Eleanor had given each of us a different job preparing and meticulously placing the components of the night’s feast. Madison had prepared the entree- venison roast with garlic and potatoes- fully expecting her mother’s criticism after two or three bites. Eleanor was just opening her mouth for the expected jab at Madison’s cooking, but quickly closed it again at the news.

“Excuse me?” she said, turning on her son.

“I’m joining the church,” he repeated.

It’s been so long now it’s hard for me to remember my age at the time. Seven? Eight? Something like that. Roland was just budding into his teenage years. Igo must have been ten years older than me. At the time he was in his late teens, physically fit and incredibly obstinate. He seemed to be the only person around to disregard the threatening aura encircling Eleanor.

“You’re not going to do that.” Eleanor waved a dismissive hand at him. “You’re going to come work with us at the Dungeon. You won’t have time for extraneous activities.”

Igo took a few bites of his dinner and winked at Madison. Her little face turned bright red, but she remained silent. “Say what you want, mother. I just wanted to tell you ahead of time.”

Eleanor caught the wink and turned on Madison. “This meat is too tough. I told you a hundred times how to make it and you still didn’t listen to me.”

“I asked you how but you wouldn’t tell me!” she cried.

“You should have listened to me the last time. Finish what’s on your plate and then start cleaning the kitchen. I don’t want to hear another word from you until all of that is finished.” Across the table Madison looked down at her plate. Four spears of asparagus. She hadn't had a chance to take some of the main course for herself.

Eleanor took another bite of her meal and made a face. She wiped at her mouth and spread her napkin across the remaining food on her plate, pushing it from her. “While you live in my house you will do as we say.” She spoke to Igo without looking at him.

“I suspected.” Igo looked around the table. “That’s why I’m going to pack my things tonight. I’ll be gone by morning. Jericho has offered to let me stay in the Penitent Quarters if I take a position with them.”

Eleanor threw her meal- plate and all- into the garbage. “Clean this mess up,” she hissed at Madison. She walked to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. The rest of us sat in uncomfortable silence, still staring at our food.

Tears rolled from Madison’s face. “Don’t leave us here, Ig,” she whispered.

Igo took her plate and heaped a steaming helping of venison onto it, raising an eyebrow and keeping an eye on Eleanor’s door. A tiny peephole had been set in it, but he must have assumed she would not be peering out of it. Madison gulped the food down quickly, walked to the kitchen sink, and washed the juice from her plate. Roland swirled his mashed potatoes into a tiny tower. “Do you believe that stuff now?" he asked his older brother. That there’s something else out there?”

“I believe there’s something bigger than us out there, yeah. And I believe in concrete morality. What’s right is right, and what’s wrong is wrong.” Igo glanced at Eleanor’s closed door. “People should have to face the consequences when they do something wrong. Our laws aren’t enough. Fear of prison isn’t enough. There has to be something out there big and scary enough to put bad people in their place.” He stood and took over cleaning the kitchen for Madison, who stood on her tiptoes trying to wash the dishes. “I can do most of this, I’ll let you wash the last dish just in case she comes back and checks on you,” he whispered. She nodded.

Igo looked at me, eyes heavy with guilt. He nodded toward Eleanor’s door and mouthed “watch.” I nodded back. My little brother lay face-first in his potatoes, already snoring softly as his little callused hands dangled.

Igo stood in the kitchen until it was clean, hugging his siblings and helping wipe potatoes from my little brother’s face before sending him to bed. A plate of food sat alone at the head of the table. I kept my eyes on Igo as he managed and directed us, sending us one by one off to bed. His eyes whipped back to the closed bedroom door every minute or so as if he was guarding us. I started for my room. He stopped me with a hand on my arm.

“Eli,” he said firmly. It was the first time I remember him speaking to me alone. “I’ve been… distant.” It was an understatement. Unless Igo needed me to keep an eye out for Eleanor or run some errand for him he blatantly avoided me. “I know what we’ve done to you and your family by coming here. This place… Kingdom, this house, all of it… we should have left it in peace. Eli, listen to me. When I leave I’m not coming back. I’m going to get as far away from you as possible. Look after my siblings. Protect them from our mother as best you can.”

“You’re still going to visit us, right? We’ll see you again?”

“I’m not going to visit,” he replied sadly. “But I’m going to try to make Kingdom a better place. We can’t have just anyone wandering in here and grabbing the power for themselves. There’s a whole world out there that threatens this place’s very existence. The two should never be allowed to meet.”

I tried to process what he was saying, but couldn’t quite follow. He patted me on the shoulder. “Maybe one day we’ll meet again, Eli. Maybe you’ll be some higher up in some place I don’t even know about. I hope we’ll meet as friends.”

Moments whirled in Caracal’s head as she struggled to rise from the dark. “Time to pay for your crimes” a Privateer officer whispered as she tipped and wheeled. Eleanor’s daughter stepped into a metal suit, an insect titan of light bursting from the stage behind her, pincers raised and mandibles twitching. A dark woman in a green scarf stood behind Mamba with her brother. Caracal’s father throws one of Eleanor’s men to the ground, scarred hands falling- deep brown before rising red. Screaming. Fury. The faces of her conquered enemies rising and glaring in a spinning arc around her. A blind man kneeling with palms raised. The mask. The gleaming white mask, some spirit of the outside world. A needle of strength. Another of weakness. Eleanor’s sneer.

The visions crumbled as Caracal’s eyes snapped open. The featherfall touch of a hand on the doorknob outside her cell was enough. She was on her feet before it began to swing inward. Clean white light poured in around an average human frame, harsh on the woman’s still-adjusting eyes. “Sit,” said the figure, pointing to a small table with two opposing chairs at the other side of the room past Caracal’s bed. She wanted to fight. Instead, she sat.

The figure stepped into the cell and closed the door behind them. They pulled out the chair across from Caracal and, setting a thick book and a slim silver case on the tabletop, sat down. She didn’t want to blink the way she was blinking. She wanted to look fierce, strong, in charge. But seeing herself in the shining black lenses of Mercury’s mask left little doubt as to who held the power here.

Caracal clenched and unclenched her jaw in the tense, silent moments that followed. She shoved a scrap of paper across the table toward Mercury. Scrawled in neat, flowing ink were the words “It’s time.”

She dug her thumbs into her eyes. “You think you could have given me a little more warning ahead of time?” Mercury did not speak, just took the note in a glove and turned it several times.

“Hey! How about a little cooperation, huh? I’ve been locked up for days and you finally show up all stoic? How about a little mutual respect?” Still silent, Mercury pushed the book and silver case in her direction. She opened the case. Four shining needles stood in a uniform line like a box of crayons. She closed the case. Mercury nodded toward the book. The eyes of a furious predator glared hungrily from the cover. “The Caracal Cat,” she read aloud. Inside the front cover a message had been written in neat, heavy ink. She continued to read. "Some say the desert lynx- the Caracal cat- is the fiercest of all felines. It's ears hear all, its powerful legs allow it to jump to incredible heights. You are the Caracal cat. You will take it as your totem on the day you are named. You will train harder than your peers. When they leave for their beds you will be fighting. When they rise in the morning you will be fighting. You will stalk the training yard. In the dojo they will fear you. At celebrations they will forget you. When the time comes you will hunt down each who threatens you. You will bend them to your will. You will not see your father again until you rule his people. Then we will find you. Then we will help you wrest him from his cage."

Caracal paused. Mercury had not moved. She picked up the silver case, turning it in her free hand. "You stopped sending these after the Tournament." Mercury's head dipped in acknowledgement. "Why? Didn't you want me to be strong? Aren't you the one who wanted me to rule in the first place?"

Mercury spoke for the first time. "You've done well. We were pleasantly surprised with your willingness to cooperate."

Caracal's eyes narrowed. "And now? Will you remain true to your promises or have I been caught in an elaborate deception?"

"Both, I suppose," mused Mercury. "But now comes the fun. Caracal, you're going to have to forget everything you know if you want to see your father again. The woman you were is dead and buried. People will look for her, yes, and they will be disappointed. Caracal is no more."

"I've only just been named Alpha! I am one of the most powerful human beings in Kingdom! Why would you have me spend years training for something only to rip it from my hands?" she fumed.

Mercury stood and walked to her, peering down from the voids where their eyes should have been. "That title is your ball and chain. Stay in place and watch the world crawl by. Wait for news of an old, scarred man passing away behind prison doors. Or, come with us. Allow us to elevate you. You think you know power? You think a couple of punches and beating your chest will ever allow you to shake the world?" Mercury bent to her level, placing their face so close she could hear soft, ragged breath behind the enameled mask. "If you are so powerful now make your move. Throw me down and rush out the door."

In spite of herself, Caracal was busy trying to see through the lenses in Mercury's mask. They were spotless, impossibly deep as if they had been forged from actual human pupils magnified a thousand times their original size. She pushed her chair from the table and stood. "Leave Phylla to Eleanor's kid and the rest of those back-stabbers," she sighed. "Let's go get my dad."

"We will," Mercury promised, opening the door and holding it for her, "but first I'd like to introduce you to your team."

"Hold on- what team?" she asked, scrambling after them. "Your going to send your people with me?"

"Not exactly," Mercury chuckled.

They walked down a long hall with sagging walls and half-melted paintings. Rooms branches off in either direction. The whole place smelled like new construction and wood rot. Between the peeling wallpaper, unlit bronze braziers, and bright, clean light the place gave her the distance impression of a wealthy person opting to move into a long-vacated home. A dark woman in glasses sat in a red chair staring at an enormous map outside of one of the rooms, not even glancing at them as they passed. "Who was that?" Caracal asked.

"Stop asking questions," Mercury replied. The hallway ended at two heavy wooden doors with thick iron handles in the shape of winged boots. A thin trickle of dirt fell from the ceiling as Mercury rapped on one of them. One popped from its place and Mercury pulled it open.

The room was small and dim, mostly an empty concrete pad with a pool table and a semi-circle of chairs. Several men stood in various places around the room or sat in the chairs speaking quietly to one another. Each of them was dressed in a drastically different outfit. Most of them sat in chairs. Caracal's eyes locked on the man in the center, a serious older gentleman sporting a Privateer Officer's uniform. His name was stitched into a front pocket: Berwald.

Caracal swore. "What is he doing here?" she cried. "Why on earth would you bring him into this?"

Berwald narrowed his eyes. "Are we going to do this every time I meet someone, now?"

A big young man dressed in a full suit of metal gave a condescending little laugh. "You think people are just going to forget about everything you've done because you tell them you quit?" He stood slowly to his feet and lumbered over to where Mercury and Caracal stood, reaching out a gauntlet in greeting. "I hear you're looking for your dad. Sounds like we're in the same boat. I'm Merrick, my friends and I were dragged in here on our way to... somewhere else. Mercury tells me they might even be holding our dads in the same place."

Caracal nodded but did not shake his hand. He looked like a child given muscles too early. "Nice to meet you, Merrick. I'm..." she flashed a look at Mercury. She struggled to think of a name. If she could no longer be Caracal, then who could she be? No animal names. "I'm..." her face grew hot. "Cara," she blurted.

"Miss Caracal!" cried a voice from the back of the room. A man wearing what appeared to be an enormous weevil came bustling out from a narrow doorway. "I didn't realize you were here already!"

"You flushed, didn't you?" boomed a giant of man who stood polishing an out-of-date Phylla light suit.

"I'd better double check," cried the Weevil-man. "Don't leave, Miss Caracal! I have questions!"

"So do I, sir," she sighed. "So do I."

When the Weevilsmith reappeared everyone had taken their seats in the half-circle of chairs. Merrick pulled a seat out for Caracal and she accepted without complaint. Mercury hushed the Weevilsmith before he could open his mouth.

"There will be time for questions later. First, I would like to welcome each of you to your new faction," Mercury began. Rhino grunted at the word. "Rhino. Weevilsmith. Merrick. Berwald. Each of you chose to leave your factions. You are defectors, and will be known as such. Take pride in those choices. You may hold the very keys to Kingdom in your hands. And leading the Defectors, we have the former Alpha: Caracal. That is the last time she will be called that. Caracal is dead to Kingdom's citizens, and will soon be forgotten."

"Didn't sound like Kestrel or Mako had forgotten her," said Berwald.

"Leave that little problem to me." Mercury seemed to smile beneath their mask. "You five will have enough to worry about. You will obey your leader, Enko, explicitly because she will be taking her directives from us."

Rhino raised his head sharply at the mention of the new name. "Enko?" his eyebrows lifted. "You don't mean..." he turned to look at the woman. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"No time for questions, my friend," Mercury continued. "Merrick and Enko- we will do everything we can to bring your fathers out of this safely. You need to understand, however, that your mission is bigger than that. You are the moving parts of a plan that has been in motion for decades. You must follow my directions or you may not see them out of this alive."

Rhino sat whispering below his breath. The Weevilsmith was attempting to ever-so-carefully hold a shining trading card in Enko's line of site but failing miserably. Berwald's arms were crossed over his chest, face unreadable. Both Merrick and Enko looked ravenous.

"There's something else I need all of you to understand," Mercury hesitated, turning toward Berwald. "The situation inside Eleanor's domain isn't just dangerous. It's going to stick with you. If what Berwald has told us is true, you'll need to prepare your minds for the worst."

Enko pulled a slim silver case from her pocket. She drew a needle from it and plunged it into her arm, hissing as she pushed the plunger. Merrick's eyes widened. Berwald watched without emotion. Enko placed the empty syringe back in its place and stood to face the Defectors. She turned to Mercury.

Junkheap Dojo is quiet this morning. Mantis sits with her head buried into her hands, palms pressed to her dark, burning eyes. Two men stand before her, hands clasped at their backs in respectful silence. The sound of cheerful birds only deepens her melancholy.

The days following Caracal’s apparent murder at the hands of the Privateers had not gone as Mercury had said they would. What was meant to spark enmity between Eleanor and the other factions had certainly succeeded, but they had all overlooked a crucial detail: the long-held distrust Phylla held for her children. Mantis had known this all along, but had trusted Mercury and the Watchman to look out for her in the aftermath. In that respect, they had failed her. Mantis had marched back to Junkheap Dojo believing that she would be leading a rebellion against her tyrant mother, only to be met with resentment and murder in the eyes of her new constituents.

“Our Alpha has been murdered at Eleanor’s hands!” she’d cried to the silent mob. “Phylla will not let this crime against us stand.” She’d raised her fist in the air, a signal of unity and defiance. It was in that moment that she realized who was being defied.

It was then that Kestrel and Mako had moved in like the predatory totems they emulated. Pulling on the accusatory glares of the crowd they had walked to the front of the Dojo where Mantis stood. “The day Mamba let you and your brother take our names was the day Phylla began to die,” Mako had said, jabbing a finger at Mantis. “We’ve been watching you slip away in the night. Where have you been going?”

Kestrel had spread his hands wide, then, and turned to the crowd. “Reporting to her mother! Reporting to Eleanor like the spy she is!” The fighters had roared in anger and confusion. Mako had shouted as if on signal, “We have no Alpha! We have no Alpha! Down with Eleanor! Down with her spies!”

Mantis met the men where they stood shouting, hands raised. The mob quieted but stood as if about to charge. Mako and Kestrel stood with crossed arms before her. “Everything I have done, I have done within the law.” Her voice was confident, even. “But I understand your fear.“ She paused, allowing the crowd to grow quiet. "I understand you fear! That very fear- the fear of being deceived. The fear of being unfairly ruled. The fear of becoming something you don’t want to become. That’s a fear every Privateer understands. That’s why my brother and I left, why we came to Phylla. That’s why we slipped out in the middle of the night and ran from Eleanor, not knowing whether you would even take us. It’s why we risked everything to throw ourselves at your leader’s feet. Some of you were kind to us and obeyed your Alpha’s wishes when she accepted us. Most of you were not. And now I stand before you- rightful leader by your own laws- pleading to your sense of reason. Where I go at night is my business, as is where you go yours, but I assure you I have not spoken with Eleanor since I fled from her.”

Mako scoffed. “Not a spy, then, but a coward? We will follow neither.”

Mantis stood directly in front of the man, meeting his gaze with a challenge. “Then don’t.” She spat the words, wheeling on the rest of the crowd. “I will force no one to remain, but Phylla is mine to rule by right. Whoever respects the law is welcome to stay. Investigate me if you must, but you will not find what you hope to. Whoever does not respect the law may leave in peace today, but you will not return here. Make your choice, warriors! Whoever remains at sunrise will be my people. Whoever leaves us will be their own.”

Kestrel sneered, shifting on his feet. “We do not obey orders from traitors.”

Mantis curled her hands into fists. “Speak to your Alpha like that again and I will make an example of you.”

The people began to whisper amongst themselves. Mako grinned. “It seems the people are not in favor of your proposal. What’s to stop us from throwing you from your little throne?”

“I will,” a voice called from the crowd. A grizzled man dressed head-to-toe in a dark scaled body-suit stepped forward.

Mako turned to the voice, all hints of his smile fading as he stared down at the speaker. “Gharial,” he wrinkled his brows. “Old master, I did not expect you to challenge our ways.”

Gharial’s eyes narrowed as he walked forward to stand beside the fuming Mantis. “It is you who ignore Phylla’s ways! The two of you. The lot of you! You act on suspicion and ignorance. You bring us no proof of your accusations and worst of all- you disrespect your Alpha. She should tear you both apart for this.”

“I, too, stand with the Alpha!” cried a woman from the back of the dojo. Others picked up the cry. Mamba led her sons to stand beside Mantis. Proteus appeared, a band pulled tightly over his eyes. To everyone’s surprise he, too, took a place among them.

Mako’s face grew a deep red as he shouted, “We’ve had enough of this. Traitors, all of you! All who will not allow this to stand, to us. We will leave, yes. But we will hunt Eleanor’s colors wherever they’re flown. You will no longer sleep without hearing one of us outside your window.”

And they had left. Without a single blow, without a showdown, Phylla was rent in two. The majority of the Fish and Bird Houses had followed their shoguns from their homes that night under the wary eyes of those who stayed. Mamba, Proteus, Waterdog, and Gharial volunteered to oversee the exodus while Mantis retired to a hidden room at the back of Junkheap Dojo. The Mammal and Creeping Things Houses had remained surprisingly loyal, honor-bound more by their lawfulness than by a love for their new Alpha. Mantis wondered what was happening with Caracal that night. Was she afraid? Had she understood the part she was to play in all of this? Beneath the concern for Caracal’s well-being lurked the fear that she would escape and return to wreak vengeance on the apparent traitors of Phylla.

Owl had surprised Mantis that night, slipping quietly into the room, unflinching at the startled Mantis. Whispers of her hair floated at the sides Owl’s head as she blinked. “I have completed a registry of those who remain,” she said.

“And you brought it to me now? Tonight?”

“Yes.”

Mantis sighed and took the list over to a desk where an oil lamp burned low. Many of the names were familiar to her- the kind people who had accepted and trained her when she and Roland had arrived. Others were more surprising- miscreants and long-time friends of Caracal's that Mantis had assumed would jump at the chance to oppose her. At the bottom of a page a name was written in capital letters with a heavy question mark, circles several times. “Rhino?” she read the word aloud.

Owl dipped her head. “Er, yes. He was technically banished from Phylla several years ago, but he still has a few friends should we want to reach out to him.”

“Who is he?” Mantis wondered. “I think we have enough troublemakers here already. Is there something I need to know about him?”

“Too much, I fear,” Owl harrumphed. “But I feel he would be a valuable asset to us should we get on his good side. As a fighter he was unmatched, but he could not keep his battles on the battlefield.”

“I see,” she answered. In the very corner of the page Owl had drawn a tiny insect with a long snout. “And what of this? Doodling?”

The walnut in Merrick’s hand was crushed to dust before he realized what he’d done. He lifted the shattered pieces before his visor for a closer inspection before throwing them angrily to the ground, crunching the remains beneath a heavy boot. He stopped at the edge of a small clearing, squinting at the bright beam of direct sunlight boring down like some enormous laser pointer. His skin boiled beneath his heavy armor. Had it been a cooler day, however, Merrick would be boiling nevertheless.

The man approaching beneath the dazzling light set off alarms in Merrick’s head, moving his arm automatically to a heavy blunt object at his back. “The Weevil’s Head,” he’d named it. Mostly because it was, literally, the head of an enormous weevil. He didn’t wonder much about the science of that. He knew he wanted to hit things, and had been given just the weapon to do that with. Merrick’s fist curled instinctively, the other gripping hard at his weapon’s handle.

“I don’t want to fight you, son,” said the man as he passed from the light back into the forest shade. Cicadas cried out angrily from the trees. “I believe I know why you’re here, and I may be able to help you. But if you swing at me I promise it will not end well for you.”

Merrick did not move. “Berwald.“ He spat the name from his mouth. “Where is my father?”

Berwald eyed him coolly, hands clasped behind his back. “He is alive. Let’s talk somewhere more comfortable.”

“No. We’ll talk here,” Merrick snarled. Movement in the trees behind the defector Captain did little to ease the young man’s nerves. Rope ladders descended from high branches as men and women still wearing their uniforms climbed down to stand at attention behind their leader.

“We may no longer be Eleanor’s soldiers, boy, but that doesn’t make us your friends. You come here alone dressed for a fight and expect to leave with something? You’re at our mercy, not the other way around. You have no faction, you have no power. Come in. Sit down. Let’s talk.” Berwald stood relaxed and unarmed, eyes never leaving the dark space hiding Merrick’s eyes.

The armored boy’s face burned behind his helm. “Fine.”

Berwald motioned him forward, not bothering to step out of the way as Merrick approached and passed him. The defected Privateers parted as the pair passed through them toward a makeshift cabin beneath a towering tree trunk. A squat table had been arranged inside, two plates set with meat, garlic potatoes, and pints of water.

“I had a feeling you’d stop by,” said Berwald as he closed the door behind them. The two sat before the steaming plates. Merrick eyed his food suspiciously. He was starving and his skin crawled beneath pouring sweat. “I’m not going to poison you, son. And for God’s sake at least take your helmet off before you have a heat stroke.” The thought of hot food at this moment nearly made Merrick gag, but he was certainly hungry. He gave in and removed his helm, his hair now a soaking mess.

Berwald seated himself and took a long drink from his water. He considered Merrick for a long while before he spoke again. “Your father is alive,” he repeated. “Several of my people were escorting him to the Dungeon while your friend had me tied to a tree.”

“I don’t want to hear your story. I want to know how to get him back,” Merrick grunted. He shoveled a heap of potatoes into his mouth, holding them there for a moment as if checking for an unfamiliar flavor before swallowing them in a single gulp. “Where, exactly, is he and how, exactly, do I bring him out?”

The Captain clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. He pointed a slow finger at the armored boy. “You don’t get to make demands.”

The cabin door burst open and a middle-aged woman in a crisp grey uniform careened through it. “S-sir there’s trouble!”

Berwald was already on his feet, “Eleanor? The fanatics? Report, private!”

“N-neither, sir!” she stammered. “A mob is approaching through the trees to the East! Scouts said they saw Kestrel and Mako leading them.”

“Phylla?” Berwald puzzled. “I thought Mantis had them under control.”

“It seems you were wrong, sir.”

Berwald’s gaze bored into Merrick’s. “I’m going to trust you not to surprise me out there, son. Truthfully I don’t know what’s going on, but I would assume the boiling pot has finally tipped for Phylla. They never liked Mantis or any of Eleanor’s screwed-up family. I’ll give you a pass until you swing at me. You do that and you’ve made your choice. A stupid choice, but it’s yours to make.”

“Shut up, old man,” Merrick scoffed. “Let’s go hit some people.”

As they emerged from the makeshift cabin, Merrick surveyed the area closely for the first time. Above him, so high into the canopy he had to crane his neck, a network of rope bridges connected dozens of circular tree huts. Long rope ladders were being dropped from them left and right, making way for people in Privateer uniform to join them on the forest floor. Their feet hit the ground in a steady rhythm as the fell into formation behind their Captain. Berwald’s hands were clasped once again behind his back as he pulled his troops to him like a magnet to metal shavings.

In contrast to the synchronized bootfalls of the ex-Privateers came the soft, uneven pounding of running feet. Flashes of light tunics slid between the distant trees. The mob moved like a flood- some charging directly forward while others crept along at the fringes of Merrick’s vision. Two men easily outdistanced the rest of the fighters, one shooting forward so fast and light it seemed his legs weren’t even hitting the ground, the other shoving powerfully toward them in a loose, curving line.

"Darts at the ready!” called Berwald. “Only release on my word!” The two men leading the charge- Merrick assumed they were Mako and Kestrel- stopped abruptly at the edge of the clearing in the same space Merrick had been standing less than an hour before. Berwald’s hands remained firmly at his back as he took three steps toward them.

“I am not thrilled with a mob rushing our base without warning. Speak your business if you want to settle this civilly.” The Phylla fighters began filling the edges of the clearing like oil on water. Berwald’s squad stood in smart formation behind him, arms confidently at their tranquilizers.

One of the men lowered his head and flashed a deep grin, revealing narrow gaps between each tooth. Merrick knew it was Mako before he spoke. “Who wants to be civil?” asked Mako. Beside him his companion sifted through the soldiers, meeting each gaze in turn as if evaluating them for weakness. “You’ll remember it was your people who stabbed Caracal and whisked her body mysteriously away before anyone could actually see it. But please,” he stretched the word out along his tongue, “tell me more about Privateer civility.”

“We are no longer under Eleanor. We defected soon after the events at the King’s Council.” Berwald’s face grew uncharacteristically red.

“I see. So it wasn’t YOU and your people that shot all the Council members during the confusion? And it certainly couldn’t have been you at the front of a Privateer squad shouting 'for the Warden!' that day, could it?"

"Mako," Berwald cut in, "you have to listen to me now. The people you see are not your enemies until you make them so. We have decided to resist the Warden, and that makes us allies."

"You should have thought of that before declaring war on a hornet's nest like Phylla." smiled Mako.

Kestrel spoke for the first time. "And what, exactly, are you, little knight?" he called to Merrick, who had been standing at the head of the defector army just behind the Captain.

Merrick pulled Weevil's Head from its strap and bounced it in a hand. "I'm the man who's going to give you a real headache if you don't let me get back to what I was doing."

Kestrel took a long look at Merrick's weapon and began to laugh. "Is that- are you carrying one of HIS weapons? That disgraceful dropout couldn't do something right if he knew how!"

Merrick raised his eyebrows, remembering all of the items he had broken with Weevil's Head as he trekked through Kingdom. He had to disagree with the mocking Kestrel. It would do the job just fine. He glanced at Berwald and gave him a nod. The man returned a slight, sad smile.

"Captain Berwald," boomed Mako loud enough for both of the gathered crowds to hear, "seeing as there is no acting Council, Phylla stands accusing you of crimes against our leader and our people. We have determined you and all who wear the Privateer colors to be guilty and our enemies. Drop your weapons and come peacefully, or we will use be forced to resort to unpleasant means."

Berwald raised a fist in the air. Tranquilizers raised in unison. "You have no power to judge me and no right to attack my soldiers. Where is your acting Alpha? Where is Mantis?"

Mako and Kestrel exchanged a sly glance. Kestrel spoke. "As of this morning the Six Houses no longer recognize Mantis, defected Privateers, or any of Eleanor's compatriots as our own. They have been found guilty of conspiring against our Alpha and have made themselves our enemies."

"And such is the way of every war," sighed Berwald, "the commoner dies at the whim of the ignorant bastard."

"Lay down your weapons and come peacefully," demanded Kestrel, hands cupped over his mouth like a megaphone. Berwald rolled his eyes, drew his tranquilizer from his back and fired two shots directly into Mako and Kestrel in a single practiced motion.

Bug Man’s dining room was packed to the brim with anxious, confused people. Mali, after being locked in a bedroom for nearly an hour, sat sulking in a chair at the back of the room. After Mantis had finished berating Riddle for pinning her brother to the dining room wall, she had turned her wrath onto her brother.

“I didn’t know where you went!” she cried. “I was sure someone had hauled you back to the Dungeon. I searched all of your spots- I went to Town Square and all the way to the gates. I was going to march straight back to the Dungeon to search for you before I got it in my head to kick the Phylla hornet’s nest and this whole ordeal with Eleanor panned out.”

Roland had crossed his tiny arms, glancing down at the holes now riddling his fatigues. “You knew I’d be alright, Madi. You know I always make it out alright.”

Mantis grabbed him by his collar and lifted him immediately in front of her face. “So far, Roland Washington. But it’s only going to take a single slip for you to end up dead.”

Mali interrupted the squabble. “Ms. Mantis? Your cousin told me to show you this.”

Still dangling her older brother by his nape, she rounded on the delivery boy. He held the scrap of paper out for her inspection. “Find Bug Man. Well that’s helpful.” She shook her head. “I heard a few whispers around Junkheap Dojo, I think I might know where they’re hiding him.”

Riddle nearly toppled out of her seat. “I’m going with them!”

“Absolutely not,” said Mantis. “Cecilia and Friday need you here, and I’m afraid you might hurt someone.”

Riddle tucked her legs beneath her on the chair and set her goggles on her head. “Unless you’re going to lock me inside this house, I don’t think you’re in a position to stop me.”

Mantis shifted uneasily. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you are the acting leader for a faction that is trying to tear itself apart. Everyone wants to know what happened to Caracal and you’ve let the whole thing fester until you can’t even sleep over there anymore. Half of your houses want you replaced and the other half is wondering why you haven’t banded everybody together for a war against Eleanor. They’re demanding a body.”

Mantis’s pupils widened until her eyes shone black. “How do you know all of this?”

Riddle smirked. “Just a hunch, I guess. And what were you going to do? Send your shrunken brother off on a dangerous mission with a ten-year-old boy? That sounds like a disaster to me.”

The scrap of paper floated lazily down from Mantis’s hand. She sighed and set Roland down, then stuck her thumbs into her eyes and rubbed. “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” she grumbled.

Riddle was already standing. “I can’t believe you still think you have a choice.”

… … … … …

It took them most of the day to reach the new spot Mantis had marked on Mali’s map. They passed through fields of corn and soybeans, occasionally stopping for Riddle to inspect the numerous scarecrows and windmills. Roland rode once again on Mali’s shoulder, nodding sympathetically as the boy muttered and glared at their companion.

When she wasn’t stopping to peer at something Riddle peppered the two of them with questions. Where had they come from? How did Kingdom’s economy work? What kinds of wildlife populated their forests? What was really killing the people who tried to leave?

The questions eventually brought Mali out of his sulk. He still walked a good distance away from her, but never far enough to avoid her voice. “Alright, I think it’s my turn to ask you some questions now.”

Riddle was beside Mali so fast he jumped, sending Roland careening into the air for a moment before landing face-first on an unforgiving shoulder. The little soldier climbed up and buried his legs indignantly beneath Mali’s shirt, cringing as he leaned back against the boy’s sweaty neck and grabbed his collar with both hands for safety.

“Anything,” she exclaimed. “Well… almost anything. What do you want to know?”

Mali thought for a moment. “Why aren’t you scared of anything? I think you could see a giant dinosaur climb out of the ground and you’d just say ‘Wow, that’s so interesting!’”

Riddle’s eyes shone beneath her goggles. “That definitely sounds like me!” she laughed. “I guess when you believe in the possibility of everything you become a hard person to surprise." She stopped. "What do you see when you look at me?“ she asked Mali.

He rubbed his chin and looked her up and down. “You’re short. And your clothes look like you made them yourself. I feel like you have a lot of secret pockets in there. You’d probably be really pretty if you took a shower.” On his shoulder Roland stifled a choke of laughter.

Riddle smiled a little. “And you think being pretty is something good?”

Mali scratched his head. “Of course I do. Then everyone would like you more.”

Her eyes fell at that. "I believed that, too, Mali. I thought that the better I looked the happier I would be. I just don’t believe that anymore.” The transformation that came over Riddle spooked her companions and they went silent once again. “When I look at me I don’t see what most people see. I see a bazillion tiny molecules holding on to each other to make my skin. I see what I could be, what I have been, what I wish I wasn’t. Maybe I see everything except for the girl in front of me. There are discoveries hiding behind my eyes, mysteries hovering on the tip of my tongue, and monsters! Monsters sleeping in my hands. I see myself paired in turn with everyone I know. I see myself saving them and killing them and kissing them. Nothing is just a thing to me, no person just a person.”

“Hey Riddle?” Mali whispered. “You know I’m only ten, right?”

Riddle blinked. “Oh! Yes, I do. I didn’t mean you anyway.”

Mali’s eyebrows lowered in concentration. “Not that. You just say a lot of confusing things. Sometimes I wonder if you’re talking to me or yourself.”

“Hate to interrupt you Philosophists but I think we’re getting close!” Roland called up from beneath Mali’s collar. “Mali, stop walking!” Roland jumped to his feet and pulled hard at the boy’s collar. He stopped, looked down, and jumped back in surprise.

The earth fell inward just yards away from Mali’s feet. The flat, grassy land gave no indication of the yawning chasm below. No fences or warning signs signaled the deep scar in the earth, nor was anyone around to save the unlikely trio should they be swallowed by it. Mali scrambled back from the edge and landed on his butt at Riddle’s feet. She smiled down at him, one eyebrow raised. “How interesting!” she jabbed.

She walked to the edge of the ravine, staring down into the dark. “I feel like you shouldn’t be here,” she told it. “What are you doing here in the fields, anyway?” Mali and Roland exchanged a quick glance. Roland shrugged.

The three of them walked along the edge of the dropoff, following the crude path Mantis had drawn on Mali’s map. It looked like something giant had stabbed the earth and dragged, ripping the ground into open space. Riddle began sketching the stratified layers of dirt and rock in a tiny notebook she produced from a hidden pocket.

The little black “x” Mantis had marked on the map turned out to be a single wooden room sprouting up from the field beside the ravine. Someone had painted the word “SHED” on the side with sloppy, running primer. It reminded Mali of an outhouse one might come across in a state park. A padlock hung from a latch on its door.

“Weird,” said Roland. He shaded his eyes and looked back toward where the farmers were still toiling with the crops. “I wonder if they can even see this thing. Seems pretty out of the way.” He directed Mali to the latch and hopped agilely down his arm onto it. “Owowow that’s hot!” he cried, immediately leaping back onto the delivery boy’s outstretched hand.

Riddle brushed past them. “I can take care of this,” she mumbled, two long black pieces of metal glinting in her hand. She put herself between her companions and the door, blocking their view of her work. It took a moment and some cursing before Riddle turned back to them. The door was still closed.

Mali raised an eyebrow. “You can’t unlock it?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” she beamed, casually nudging the bottom of the door with her foot. It swung inward.

Roland pumped a fist. “Nice work, tinker girl!”

“Does everyone have a nickname around here?” she asked.

“Yes.”

As Riddle had suspected, the “shed” turned out to be something else entirely. The open door revealed a steep staircase descending into the depths of the earth. She gasped as she stared down into its dark recesses. “Liminal space!” she breathed. She turned to her companions, eyes full of wonder. “Liminal space if I’ve ever seen one!”

Mali narrowed his eyes. “Can you say something normal for once?” Roland strained forward for a better view, holding tight to the boy’s collar. Mali shuffled forward, peering down into the void. “This doesn’t feel right.”

Riddle made finger guns and closed an eye. “Exactly, kiddo! Let me tell you why! This weird thing right here is a liminal space. Its ONLY purpose is to connect one thing we know to another thing we know. It has no context by itself. It’s like a waiting room or your bedroom before you meant to wake up or a rest stop or… or…”

“Sherwood Road?” Roland ventured.

“Yes! Just like Sherwood Road! Our brains like things to exist for a reason besides just to be passed through. This thing?” she pointed to the little building, “this thing should have the words ‘liminal space’ plastered all over it!”

Roland gave a slow clap of appreciation. “Good talk, weirdo. Now are we climbing into the depths of hell or what?”

Mali scratched his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know, guys. Mantis and Fashi never mentioned anything about a giant gap in the ground or a fake shed. Are we sure this is the place?”

There are things you just don’t know until you’ve been shrunk down to the size of a quarter, like how many more things have the potential to kill you. To be fair, there are some that are no longer a threat- automobile accidents, for example. Or getting kicked in the head by a horse. But the sheer amount of objects falling from the sky and sliding terribly toward you across the earth makes staying alive rather difficult.

The latest addition to Roland’s menagerie of life-threatening objects is a needle, once a tool for decorating Roland’s skin, now a terrible stabbing rapier just asking to be misused. He should have been terrified when the odd young woman in enormous mechanical goggles grabbed him from where he hid behind Mali’s left ear. He should have been angry as Mali shouted from behind a locked bedroom door somewhere in the house. But he wasn’t.

He hangs uncomfortably on the wall, several pins shoved into his uniform, glaring petulantly at a pair of enormous eyeballs. They gleam and roam across him, looking down occasionally at a notebook full of illegible scratchings. He wishes he could cross his arms.

“You’re telling me that you see a shrunken person and you want to talk about my job? Not ‘how did you get so small?’ Not ‘are your lungs still compatible with the same sized oxygen molecules?’”

The woman blinks. “Why would I ask about that?”

Roland chews on his lip. “Because most people don’t think it’s even possible, even in a place as weird as Kingdom. The man with the 3D printer is literally the only person to ever figure this out. I was taller than you and now you could just drop your wallet and squash me. Wouldn’t you rather ask me questions about that?”

She deadpans, eyes narrowing to blocky rectangles. “No.” She flips through her notes to the front of the pad. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Where do the Snatchers-”

“Privateers!”

“Don’t make me poke you, little man.”

“Fine. 'Where do the Snatchers’ what?”

The woman beams and holds up a map of Tennessee. “Where do they take people from? I’ve heard people blame them for disappearances all over the world! Sorry, what I mean to ask is how far can you travel outside of Kingdom before you die? Do you go out in every direction and look for people? Are there any other towns you can reach? And just what ARE you snatching people for, anyway? It’s for food, isn’t it? I bet it’s for food.”

Roland’s eyes grow wider with every question. “No!” he finally interjects. “Look lady, we aren’t cannibals! Ok, well, I’VE never eaten anyone. I’ve heard stories, but all of that was a very long time ago. I came here from Ooltewah and I’ve never, ever eaten a person. We only take vehicles from people who are beyond saving.”

The woman shakes her head. “Bullshit. Snatchers tried to take me and my friends after our van wrecked and we were all fine.”

Roland squirms uneasily. “Alright, well that’s how it’s supposed to work. And that’s how it worked for a long time before…”

“Before your mom killed your stepdad and started demanding more bodies?”

Roland’s head snaps up. “How do you know that?”

She removes her goggles and rubs her eyes. “Lucky guess. I’ve heard a few things since I’ve been here.”

“I see… well I’d like to help set that record straight,” says Roland gloomily, staring off into empty space. “I didn’t know the Privateers were taking people who hadn’t committed a crime until recently. Eleanor never sent me on those missions. She told us that there was an outbreak of crime and we were the only people standing between order and chaos. She’d call us all together and tell us how bad everything was out here, how desperately we needed reform, how the crops were all dying and we had to start bringing more supplies into Kingdom. She made us feel like we were the only people doing the right thing.”

“But you know your mother- from what I’ve heard she’s a bit of a terrible person, isn’t she?” asks Riddle. Mali bangs half-heartedly at the locked bedroom door down the hall. They ignore him.

“I knew she was strict, yeah, and I knew she had a bad temper. But I didn’t realize how bad things were getting until too late. Until I’d done something I didn’t want to. You asked how far we can go from Kingdom- the truth is that Sherwood Road is the only connection we had to the outside world. Every time we go out there we risk our lives hoping that we can add something to new to this town. We have so many brilliant minds here, but we are totally dependent on the world around us for materials. That's what makes it so easy for people to work for Eleanor- she's importing things faster than anyone ever has before. They're willing to overlook the dark side of things because they like what they're getting out of it."

"Now you sound like the rest of us," says Riddle.

"Hey what are you so interested in us for, anyway?" Roland asks.

"I'm looking for someone." Riddle barely finishes speaking when the front door opens and a fierce-looking woman in a flowing green scarf storms in. Mantis stops mid-march and stares at the scene before her. Riddle sits on the edge of a wooden chair, face leaned in close to a tiny human figure pinned to the the wall by its fatigues. Her mouth opens in shock, brows furrowing and hands curling slowly into fists.

The sun is bright as Mali steps out from the shade of the Grandfather Tree. Town Square is only just waking, a few bleary-eyes citizens meander the plaza behind Mali in search of coffee that they don’t have to brew themselves. The boy is used to early mornings. Spending the night beneath one of Fashi’s tables, however, has left his neck stiff despite the enormous mound of pillows that had constituted his bed. As far as he is concerned, Fashi was one of the best customers he could ask for. She is simple to please- find something illustrated and make your request. She doesn't bother with haggling or comparative value.

She had painted him a small map on a slip of flexible canvas in return for the heavy graphic novel he had brought her. He’d known from the moment he saw that beaming blonde guy on the cover that she would be impressed. Maybe some items were more valuable to her after all. He tucked the knowledge away for a future deal. The map had a small black square in the center labeled “T.S.” for Town Square. Notable locations were marked with heavy black dots- the Dungeon and the Church of M to the Northwest, the Shambles and Klava Besto to the Northeast. A little heart at the bottom right marked the Fire Tower. Mali’s path was marked in a thin dotted line, leading slightly Northeast out of Town Square a ways and stopping with a question mark in the middle of the flatlands.

“I would stop in at Bug Man’s house before marching yourself into Phylla. Things are pretty tense over there at the moment,” Fashi had told him.

“Thanks for the tip,” he’d replied, knowing he would probably pay them a visit anyway. He replays the night in his mind as he walks, smiling a little as she laughs in his head. The sun is unusually warm this morning, as if taking advantage of the cloudless sky to beat back the proliferation of nature. In the distance farmers wipe their brows and turn dirt. Are they harvesting? What season is it, anyway? The well-beaten dirt path leading out of the Square is empty, stretching endlessly out in the distance. The small pack Mali carries makes his back sweat wherever it touches. Gross.

Boredom creeps up on him as he knew it would. How far away was Bug Man’s house again? He shades his eyes and peers down at the map. He walks for a long time without taking his eyes off of it, mind wandering across the various delivery routes he’s taken in the past. Unmarked are the hidden deer trails through the forest, the back streets and alleys, and the man-made tunnels beneath the Shambles where most of its inhabitants actually live.

Mali’s foot lodges in a dip, sending him sprawling face-first from the side of the road. He has just enough time to throw an arm out in front of him, skidding painfully across the rocks and grass below. The map flies from his hand. As he falls he hears a high shriek to his left, some indignant insect scurrying for its life. Fury roils up from Mali’s raw arm and out his mouth. He pounds his other fist on the hot grass in frustration. Another shriek. He sets his jaw. “Shut up, bug, I think my arm is broken!” He yells it in that tone children use when they’re trying to convince someone that something is serious, despite not really believing it themselves.

The critter shrieks his words back at him, mimicking his inflections. An unintended laugh of pain crawls out of Mali’s throat, half-groan half-disbelief. He laughs again, a humorless, gasping breath to release the tension in his lungs. He rolls onto his back and stares at the bright blue sky, trying to shift his mind from his pulsing arm. “Where are you, little bug?” he sighs. A fleck of white hovers at the edge of Mali’s vision. He bats at it with his good hand. A little scream of outrage comes from the grass beside his ear.

“Huh?” Mali turns his head to find a tiny scrap of paper floating just a few feet above his head. A long translucent string, thin as a strand of hair trails down from it like a spider web. He traces the little string to a brown object in the grass, a cicada shell. Mali reaches over and picks up the shell. It rocks and buzzes in his hand. Something rolls over inside. Mali brings the little shell close, peering through the clear, dead lenses. A hand bursts through the back of the husk, followed by a scrambling, terrified body. Mali screams and fumbles with the shell, nearly dropping it but manages a quick save with his sore hand. His eyes widen in disbelief.

What appears to be a teenaged boy is unmussing his shirt in Mali’s hand. He crosses his arms defiantly and stamps his little foot. Then he jabs a finger at Mali’s face. “What’s wrong you, eh? You trying to kill a guy? Huh? You TRYING to kill me?”

Mali doesn’t blink. His jaw hangs on its hinges as he stares with disbelief at the boy. “N-no. No, sir, I- What ARE you?”

“I’m dead meat, that’s what I am! What in the blazes are you doing around here at this hour, anyway?” The boy paces back and forth in Mali’s hand, head low as he thinks aloud. “You were not supposed to be here. ‘Fly your kite away from the house’ they said. 'Better yet- throw that thing out and help us watch the door!’”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand most of what you’re saying,” said Mali. “Why, um. Why are you small?”

The boy stopped and turned his head slowly to face Mali. “Who are you, kid?”

“Mali. I’m a delivery boy. I was just on my way to visit Bug Man’s house.”

“Bug Man… I think I know who Bug Man is. Comes by the house sometimes and tries to spray us with poison!”

Exasperated, Mali tries a different approach. “What were doing out here? Is this thing your kite?”

The boy smirks. “That’s right. I’m a regular origami master. I can make anything! Ships or monsters, I even made a dragon once.”

Mali pushes himself off the ground with his good arm, grunting as he tries to avoid dropping his new acquaintance. “Whooooa, not so fast!” says the kite boy. He falls to his hands and knees, grasping at Mali’s skin for stability. It tickles a little.

“Are there more of you?” Mali asks, poking a finger at the boy.

The boy slaps Mali’s finger away. “Ain’t tellin’!”

“Alright. Well, do you want to come help me find Bug Man?”

The kite boy looks across the grass toward a squat house in the distance. “Yeah, sure, alright. Can you, um, can you take me over to that house first? I’ll need some supplies.”

Mali follows a narrow, recently overgrown trail back to the house. “That’s far enough!” yells the kite boy. “Drop me right here and wait until I come back.” Mali grudgingly obeys and sets the boy down in the grass. He sits down and stares after the boy as he treks toward the barely-open front door and disappears inside.

A battered envelope lays half-buried in the lawn beside Mali, paper looking like it’s been wet and dried several times. The corners curl in from the edges, horns reaching toward the sun. Mali peels it from the dirt. Smudged letters run behind the clinging mud on the front of the envelope. Something tugs at the bottom of his pant leg. He peers down into the grass.

A uniformed man about the height of a quarter with a short, smart haircut stands at ease by Mali’s feet, hands clasped to his forehead to shade his eyes. Ten similarly uniformed men sit atop various beetles behind him. Mali wonders if he might still be asleep beneath one of Fashi’s tables. It certainly seemed like a dream he’d have there. “Hi,” he manages.

“How you doing, kid? Mind if I come up a little closer? Gentle with me, now, I’m squishable.”

Mali laughs and gingerly lifts the man up onto his shoulder. The dirty envelope lays on his leg. “Wha- hold on! Hey! Kid! Where’d you get that envelope from?” the little soldier calls as he’s lifted. Mali perches him gently on a shoulder and picks up the envelope.

“I just found it in the grass right here. Looks kinda gross.”

The soldier hops out into space, rolling and running down Mali’s arm and skidding to a muddy halt on top of the envelope. He rights himself and walks across the letters thoughtfully, hands behind his back. “So she never came by. First the man walks out on us, next I find out Madison never even got her letter.”

Mali squints at the letters. “I don’t think this is for Madison. It says ’M-A-N-T-’… I can’t read the other letters. Mantis? Is this a letter for Mantis?”

The soldier crosses his arms. “You know her?”

“Of course! Well, not exactly. I know her cousin.”

The little man spreads his arms in disbelief, then begins laughing so hard he has to hold himself up on a knee. “You met… sorry! You know old Fashi? I’m sorry!” He says between fits of laughter. Finally he clears his throat and wipes his eyes. “Sorry. Whew. It’s just that Fashi didn’t really get along with children last I knew.”

Mali shrugs. “We get along just fine. I bring her comics and she tells me stuff.” He almost mentions the tea, but decides to keep that to himself.

“That’s her, alright. Man! I wonder how old girl is doing these days. She hasn’t exactly been around much.”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like little soldiers."

“Can’t blame her for that," says the man. "Now tell me, kid. Why are you trying to kidnap our delinquents?”

“You mean the kite kid I found in a cicada shell? I don’t know, I guess I didn’t really think he had friends.”

The soldier flashes a sad little smile. “That part’s close to the truth. But he does have people who care about him. He tells me you’re off to look for somebody.”

“Fashi’s cousin, at the moment. I’m on my way to find Mantis.”

The man looks uneasily back at his fellow soldiers. He scratches his chin, considering. Then he cups his hands together and calls down to them. “Hey guys, its been a pleasure but I think I’m going to have to bail on you again. Take care of yourselves, alright?”

The other soldiers begin to protest, but the little man scrambles back up onto Mali’s shoulder. “Grab the envelope, kid, I’m coming with you.”

“What, why? What about the other guy?”

“He’ll be fine. I need you to take me to my sister. Now.”

“Who’s your sister?” asks Mali, puzzled at the sudden urgency in the soldier’s voice.

The little man jumps and crawls into the shallow shelf at the bottom of Mali’s ear. He pries open the hole and sticks his head in. “You got a brain in here?” he laughs. “Mantis. Madison. Little Miss Washington! The lady in the green scarf!”

Mali is already moving leaving the indignant beatle-men behind in three long strides. “Ohhh! Well why didn’t you say so?”

“My name’s Roland, kid. I’m going to ride around on your shoulder for a while, hope that’s cool.”

“Alright, Roland,” says Mali. “I think we’re close to my stop.” He pulls the painted canvas from a pocket and points to the question mark. “I’m going right here.”

“Bug Man’s house?”

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“Good question. I think someone told me he lived nearby,” said Roland.

They stop talking for a while, Roland taking shade in the various pockets and crevices in Mali’s backpack and shoulders. He moves every few minutes in search of a cooler, more comfortable hideout. Mali smells like old sweat already.

By the time they reach Bug Man’s manicured lawn, they are beyond parched. Mali walks past the school-bus schoolhouse without a second glance, eyes set on the doorway ahead. He raises a hand to knock, but his fist swings into empty air as the door opens for him.

A young woman in a curious pair of mechanical goggles greets them, eyeballs magnified to ridiculous proportions. “Mali!” she cries, pulling him through the doorway and giving his wet body a hug. Mali blushes deeply.

“I don’t-”

“I know you don’t,” interrupts the woman. “My name is Riddle. Mantis told me you were coming by.”

“I see,” he says uneasily. “I’ve had a pretty strange day. Would you mind if I just sat down a while and drank some water?”

“No problem at all, my delivery boy friend. Just one quick question for you.” She cocks her head to the side, looking for all the world like an owl or a cat about to pounce.

Mali shrugs, “Go ahead.”

I had not even been in the Tower for a week when my mind broke. The smell of the previous Watchman- so recently the indication of life, now the steady spector of decay- permeated every corner of the open room. I left his sheets standing in the wash water for days, sleeping beneath his old, thick blanket. A single crate of food was dropped through the ceiling trapped door the day after I was imprisoned, but I did not see who brought it. I lay as if dreaming on the mattress, fighting down paranoia and nausea as day and night passed unnoticed outside the thick glass windows.

It was hunger that finally dragged me from my stupor. I’d spent three days between the mattress and the toilet, occasionally sticking my face beneath the sink faucet for a drink. Old sweat and the stink of the same clothes I still wore made my stomach turn as I pried off the wooden lid of the crate. Dried meat and vegetables had been neatly arranged inside. I would soon learn that this would be my new diet- dried produce and meat, sometimes nuts. They would not be sending anything fresh for fear of rot in the Tower. I would not be brought down if I was sick; no one would set my bones to heal if they broke. Whoever was sending my meals would simply wait until I died and replace me with another Watchman. This, at least, was common knowledge.

As I ate my first meal my attention went to the room for the first time. I had been so focused on my fear, so absorbed in my own head that the physical space and objects had been nearly invisible to me. I saw them, then. The remnants of the Watchmen’s collective madness. Deep gouges lined the floor around the toilet and stories drawn in pictograph had been etched into the ceiling. Nearly every available surface was lined with them- the tales and observations of my predecessors. Some looked like cave paintings or hieroglyphic murals. It appeared that one Watchman had claimed a single floorboard and carved his story into it in tiny flowing script. Other, more stable Watchmen had recorded their thoughts in one of the hundreds of notebooks stacked beneath a desk. It was a black plastic object, however, that ultimately drew me back to reality.

A blocky tape recorder sat on the counter next to the old Watchman’s spoiling sheets, an artifact like any other technology brought in from the outside world. I’d seen one once before during a delivery visit to the Philosophist sector of the Church of M. Worshippers had crowded around the device then, fielding an endless stream of questions off of each other. What does it do? How does it work? Who did it come from? They’d found a way to power the device and pressed its many buttons until sounds began to emerge from its fuzzy speaker. Music filled the triangular room that day, and everyone grew quiet, reverently listening to “Overkill”- some rock n’ roll band from the outside world.

I assumed that I would again hear rock music when I pressed a button on my own tape recorder. I heard a click and the button flung back into place. I pressed a different button, one with a backwards arrow, and watched as the black ribbon of the tape wound itself onto its other wheel. I pressed play again. A man’s terrified voice exploded from the speaker, startling me so hard I nearly fell to the ground. I had not yet learned the value or purpose of the volume switch. Instead, I sat back on my bed and gnawed at my beef jerky, allowing the man’s words to wash over me.

“This is Stuart Wells, the Watchman,” the tape began after a long fit of coughing. “I am recording this because I don’t know where else to turn. I believe that someone is coming to kill me.” The man’s voice rose an octave and cracked several times like a boy going through puberty, though the body I’d seen had been around my father’s age. He cleared his throat again and tried to calm himself. “There is an armed man coming toward the Fire Tower as I speak. I know this man. He is carrying a Privateer tranquilizer gun and a small bottle of something on his belt. He is large and strong with steel gray hair and deep lines in his face. I would fear naming him, but at this point it may no longer matter. He is at the base of the Tower. No one should be at the base of the Tower in the middle of the night. No one should be climbing the ladder unless they are bringing my supplies. If these are my last words, let them serve as a warning to the one that follows me: find a way out. Don’t let Kingdom raise you up just to cut you down. Break down the walls if you can. Destroy the evil we have created. Don’t die alone in this wretched Tower!“

Stuart’s voice stopped abruptly. A light tapping came from somewhere in the distance. The trapped door creaked on its hinges.

“I don’t suppose it matters now if you speak to me, does it?” the Watchman shouted, probably more for the benefit of his recording than for the person listening.

Another man answered him, his voice low and cold, “This isn’t personal, Stuart. All these years climbing this same ladder, I wish we could have spoken before. I never wanted it to be this way.”

“And yet you turn the wheel,” Stuart sighed. “What are you going to do? Knock me out and put something down my throat? Claim I got sick up here and passed on? Then what, oh mighty Warden? What’s your big plan?”

The man’s voice didn’t change. "You probably saw me putting everything together before I began my walk over here. We can cut the debate. In another life I’d let you write down some last words, but you understand that I can’t.”

“In another life you wouldn’t have let that woman poison our land,” Stuart scoffed.

“Kingdom has always been poison. There is no happiness here.” The Warden sounded mournful, apologetic.

“That’s not what I’ve seen,” challenged Stuart. “You think because you’re life has gone to shit that everyone else’s happiness is irrelevant? You think that every laughing kid and every land-loving farmer feels the way you do?”

“It doesn’t matter how they feel, I have to do this. It’s the only way. I need… I need to replace you.”

The men were silent for a few moments. One began to sob quietly. Stuart finally found his voice. “And you think you can put someone in here without the Council’s permission? You think you can just blow right by the choosing ceremony and throw whoever you please in here?”

“The Council will do as I say,” the Warden bristled. “I’ve spent years guiding them toward this. No one will say a word about it.”

Stuart paused as if considering. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say to stop you.”

“No, Watchman, I don’t suppose there is.”

Something clicked. Furniture crashed to the floor. An object hissed through the air and Stuart cried out. “It was Monroe!” he screamed. “Warden Robert Monroe murdered me! He murdered me!” The Watchman’s voice slowed, quieted, and finally stopped. Metal clanged. Something heavy landing on the floor. Footsteps and then a horrible, muffled choking.

“Hello, Eli,” said my father, speaking to me through the tape. "I have to say I didn’t expect things to work this way, but I did what had to be done. Things are getting bad with Eleanor, worse than you will ever know. I’m not a good man, son. I’m a terrible father, I know that. But I want you to live. I want you to understand this place, and if there’s anyone alive who can reverse this downward spiral, it’s you. Kingdom must survive, but first we have to break it. We’ve become backwards, comfortable in our ignorance. Our culture teeters on the verge of the abyss and we blissfully dance along it. I don’t know how events will play out in the weeks to come. I don’t know when or if you will listen to this, it may be the last time you hear my voice.”

Emotion choked my father’s voice for a moment and passed as if it had never been. “I am leaving you two gifts, son. After I leave you here it will be your responsibility to live, and to decide what to do with what I’ve left you. You will find the first sitting on the uppermost shelf in the cabinet. It is notebook with a list of all of Kingdom’s leaders and their spheres of influence, their attitudes toward each other as best I know. I’ve filled the rest with every detail I could think to write about our town. With a little luck you can join my knowledge with the documented information passed down by previous Watchmen.”

“My second gift is highly illegal and must be used with caution. Look at your bed. With your eyes trace a straight line from where you would lay your head to the wall beyond. I am installing a speakerbox there. I am leaving you a gift no Watchman has ever been given before- the gift of communication. I’ve arranged things so that no one will visit the room after I leave, this should be fairly easy to get away with. The box will only reach one person in Kingdom, son. It is up to you and that person to decide how you will proceed. Do not try to contact us. Do not try to contact your siblings. The person has been given strict orders to ignore such liabilities.”