Chapter 6
Xeni
Phantom sensations shoot through my head. The blinding mid-morning sun is rising right where I’m trying to scout, and I’m convinced it’s trying to sear away my vision. My hand flies up to shield my face, but it takes a few seconds to clear the green bursts from my line of sight.
It doesn’t hurt, exactly. Eyeballs don’t have pain receptors, though I wouldn’t recommend losing one for the sake of scientific discovery.
The injury itself doesn’t actually feel anything; my brain simply hasn’t caught up with reality yet.
Every time it wants me to focus, it signals something that no longer exists.
The ensuing short circuit isn’t pleasant. Blurred vision and thumping headaches, along with dull pressure spread like Elas’s fingertips across my head.
That part hurts.
My fingers slip underneath the eyepatch and trace the sunken skin behind it, but I pull myself out of my head. I force the memories back into their box and squint at the wall again.
Years have passed since I was last here. I don’t know what’s changed, or what’s been reported about me. For all I know, the military believes I was killed in the attack at Ljómur.
It’s the best-case scenario.
My body wasn’t there, but the wreckage was absolute. Plenty of remains were buried under the rubble, and there’s no question some were destroyed beyond recognition.
It’s possible my family demanded answers, though I doubt they would’ve been bothered by the loss.
I can picture it.
Father would glance up from his papers long enough to absorb the news.
He’d scoff at the inconvenience, then return to work and pretend I never existed in the first place.
Mother would cry when the effects of her wine faded, but it would mostly be for show.
She’d fill another glass and drown those tiny drops of compassion left in her blood, and life would continue as it always has.
No, it’s safe to say no one is looking for me, and my world is better for it.
Now I just need to figure out the best plan to get inside the city. My fake ID has worked plenty of times in the past. Hells, unless I was on official business, I used it more often than my real one, but I’ve had no communication in months.
Things could’ve changed. IDs could’ve been updated or new databases implemented. With a military that hasn’t changed procedures in decades, those are low risks, but they’re still possibilities I have to consider.
My power could get me inside, but only as a last resort.
If the wrong person recognized what I was doing, it wouldn’t end well, and I need to be at full strength.
Influencing the biker drained me dry, and replenishing takes time.
Resting until tomorrow is another option, but I never did well with waiting.
Deception will have to do.
Less flashy, but safer.
Atlanta has been heavily militarized since the beginning. It’s split into four quadrants, with a bustling city center and a dense military presence. Each quadrant has its own unique challenges for someone trying to blend in, but the northeastern district is my safest bet.
It’s considered the rear of the city, mostly occupied by civilians, and has no roads running through the wall.
Foot traffic travels through a gate tended by lower-ranking guards, and that gate has been my sole focus for the past hour.
Most of the traffic has been soldiers on patrol, but there’s been no excitement.
My military leathers creak with every shift, even though the uniform isn’t new. My career was spent mostly inside labs and clinics, where this thicker material would have been overkill. Now it clings hot and restrictive against my skin, a claustrophobic squeeze pressing across my chest.
The smell hits harder. Polished hide and faint oil, mixed with memories of bourbon-coated breath from someone much larger than me.
Panic rises in a slow, familiar wave. I’ve learned some feelings are too big to contain, so this time I don’t shove them back down. I let the flood come, give it life, and allow it to swell and surge through me unchecked.
I take a moment to name each emotion as it crashes in, because things with names and faces aren’t as scary as the unknown.
There’s the dread of being discovered, the haze of not knowing what’s ahead... but underneath it all, the sharpest edge is fear.
Fear that I’m not enough for this.
That I’ll fall short—or worse, that I’ll somehow pull it off.
Fear that the fragile strands holding me intact will come undone and pull me apart with them.
It steals my breath, holding it hostage for as long as I allow it, but when it’s time to tuck it away, I reach for that hidden place inside me.
The one I’ve carved out over a lifetime.
A tomb for all the pieces of me that have ever been deemed wrong.
Too much, or not enough.
Both at once.
My shoulders square as I gather the fear and doubt, push them down deep, and close the lid. I turn the lock, seal it tight, and let the key slip away. The sharp edges dull, the ache loosens its grip, and the dread ebbs out of me, leaving only quiet in its wake.
This costume is a cage, but it fits like a second skin.
Smooth expression and smirking lips.
Spine straight but not stiff.
Hips loose and gait relaxed.
Confidence, cockiness, and arrogance in bounds.
It’s all part of the uniform.
Two unfamiliar guards stand watch at the gate, and both appear bored. I saunter forward with swagger, fingers tracing the edges of my fake ID in my pocket.
“Mornin’,” I say, channeling Cameron’s twang and throwing a thick accent into my greeting.
The Dreven guard’s head lifts before his spine straightens. His tail is draped over his shoulder in the laid-back way most of his kind prefer, though it flicks with interest.
“Soldier,” he says in return. “ID?”
“One step ahead of you, darlin’,” I tease as I hand it over. His muted red cheeks darken to crimson as my fingers brush his in an openly flirtatious touch. He barely glances at my ID card aside from noting the name printed across the top.
“Mikhail… don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts.”
“You saying you would’ve remembered me?” I tease with a wink.
He flushes deeper as he hands my ID back, completely thrown off his game. “That’s… I just… thought you…”
I chuckle as I tuck the card into my pocket. “I haven’t visited in several years.”
“Are you, uh, staying for long?”
“I could be convinced.” I wink, gesturing at the metal gate. “Does a sweet thing like you come here often?”
He chokes on a laugh as the other guard huffs in a sound that’s openly irritated. “Most days, yeah.”
“Well,” I drawl as I straighten his collar, “if I find myself with some free time, maybe I’ll swing by again.”
“Yeah, that'd be good,” he says as he swallows hard.
His fingers curl tight around his tail like he’s trying to hide how the tip flicks. A quick, nervous scratch at his jaw follows before he forces a nod.
“I’ll see you around…” I trail off expectantly, and I should probably feel guilty at how flustered he is.
“Ankir.”
Our shoulders brush as I move to walk past him, and I speak low in his ear. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again, Ankir.”
Flirting is first-class camouflage, and I won’t be convinced otherwise. People assume you’re too flashy to be hiding anything, and half the time they’re too busy picturing you with your pants around your ankles to pay attention.
I glance behind me, and Ankir’s eyes go wide at being caught staring.
Case in point.
I flutter my fingers at him before disappearing into the crowd. It’s busier than the last time I was here, and my senses prickle from all the bodies so close. Everyone is brushing arms, bumping shoulders, and breathing the same air, crammed tighter than I’m used to anymore.
Skin tones of every color and shade blend into the masses. Monsters of every shape and size create a bustle, and a few humans are sprinkled into the mix. They mostly keep to themselves, though no one bats an eye at them.
Aside from the military, there is no segregation in the city apart from self-inflicted divides. Humans tend to stick to shops and restaurants run by other humans, and monsters gravitate toward their own kind as well. Advertising never mentions these things outright, but the signs are there.
‘Extra-large seating available’ is more of a draw for a Bhotan or Nu’vak than any human.
Uniforms are plentiful. Black leather stands out as much as it blends in, with soldiers on patrol and others out to grab a bite to eat between shifts.
No one pays attention to anyone else, and the anonymity is freeing, even if liberty inside these walls is its own kind of illusion.
After a few blocks, the sweet scent of baked goods floats in my direction.
Butter and sugar with a hint of cinnamon make my stomach growl, and I follow my nose to a street market.
Shadows cover many of the stands, cast from the tall buildings that frame the streets, but they don’t take away from the color here.
Pink banners and blue-striped canopies, handwritten signs for wares that dot the stalls in rainbows. A few advertise sandwiches or wraps, and another sells meat pies with flaking crusts, but it’s the steaming platter of rum-soaked donuts that catches my eye.
I shouldn’t waste my coin on something as frivolous as a snack, though the gurgling growl of my stomach disagrees.
Ronan’s bread and Reyes’s muffins are good, but they’re still made with whatever ingredients we have on hand.
Here in the city, bakeries have access to delicacies I haven’t tasted in years, and as another waft of sweetness blows my direction, I change course.
Impulsivity has often been my weakness, and I approach the stall before I can reconsider. The vendor is short with a mess of silvery-white hair, and when she faces me, I’m surprised to realize she’s human.
Wrinkles crease her kind eyes as she smiles at me. “Something catch your eye?”