xenoscience

“Anastasia Yver!” Prince Edmond shouted, the string ensemble coming to a halt on cue. “Your cruel deeds have gone too far!”

At the calling of my name, I turned to face the prince—and Eleanor, there at his side—wearing my best contemptuous glare. For most girls in my position, this would be the moment the grand farce came to an end. My own farce was far from over, but the first act, at least, was almost done.

The Ball of Denunciation was a tradition that dated back centuries. Some long-ago prince, the story went, had enlisted the aid of Green-Eyed Vahav, Goddess of Love and Jealousy, in winning the heart of the girl he longed for. The girl finally returned his affections, but in his self-centered arrogance, he neglected to deliver whatever it was he’d promised Vahav in return. The Goddess herself came in mortal guise to attend his wedding, and with a suggestive glance here and a honeyed word there, she sent the proceedings into blood-soaked chaos. That wasn’t the end of it, of course. The Gods are well-known for their long-held grudges, and none more so than the Green-Eyed Lady. And so, in every generation from then on, when the crown prince came of age, a ritual was held to appease the Goddess—a sort of romantic drama, but with the lives of real people as the parts to be played.

I wasn’t sure how the structure of the ritual had been arrived at, and frankly, I’d always found it a little puzzling; a small child might be content to be told the same bedtime story night after night, but surely the Goddess of Love and Jealousy ought to want a little more variety? Then again, maybe all love was simply love if you looked only at the broadest strokes of the thing, and it was in the fine details that infinite variety emerged, like the patterns of snowflakes. Our kingdom had seen Prince Ivan break off his engagement with Esmeralda Verne to marry her half-sister Isolde; had seen Princess Julienne break off her engagement with Duke Este’s son to marry her own guardian knight, when there was no prince to perform the Denunciation; had even seen Prince Alphonse denounce both the Villainess and the Heroine for their treatment of another girl altogether, and marry her instead—to the chagrin of all the families involved, but presumably to the great amusement of the Green-Eyed Lady. Story after story, all alike in outline, each unique in its particulars; perhaps that sufficed. In any case, far be it from me to question the whims of a Goddess, especially one who was certainly having a great laugh at my expense already.

As I finish revising my latest draft and close my word processor with an almost satisfied sigh, I turn to glance at the wall clock in my brightly lit office. Just about five in the morning. Well, my editor knows I keep odd hours, and she doesn’t question it. She’ll see my email later, whatever time normal people wake up.

I shrug on the jacket hanging off the back of my chair, fish around in the pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and step out onto the balcony in my slippers. The sun won’t be up for another hour or two, but the sky’s already started to brighten. I blow smoke into the chill spring air and stare down at the city below us—streetlights flickering off, shuttered storefronts, a car passing by here and there.

Eventually, I stub out my cigarette in the ashtray and step back inside. I drape the jacket over the chair, turn off the lights, and head to the kitchen to whip up breakfast. Before I get started, I pull out the little voice recorder from my pants pocket, set it on the counter, and hit the red button. While I cook, I talk to you about how my day went, how my work’s going, how much I love you.

I set a plastic-wrapped plate of food down on the table—scrambled eggs and home fries, just the way you like them—and then step back to the counter to pick up the recorder. My finger moves to stop the recording, but…no. Not quite yet.

Tara lay on the track, pleading with her body to move, even just a little. She got lightheaded like this once in a while, but never in such a bad place, at such a bad time. She could see the five strangers on the other track—drunk college students, maybe?—lying passed out, unmoving. And getting closer and closer, an oncoming trolley, accompanied by the frantic squeal of failing brakes.

There, past the tracks—a familiar figure walking by, wearing the same uniform as Tara. The passerby froze as she took in the scene, cold dread filling her face. She was shouting something Tara couldn’t hear over the noise of the trolley. Next to her was the lever that controlled the junction—that controlled who the runaway trolley would hit. It was heading toward the college students, right? But the girl—the lever—she could save them—in exchange for—

Tara tried to imagine the terrible logic playing out in the other girl’s head, the impossible choice facing her. What would Tara do in her position? She had no idea.

Whatever you choose…it’s all right. I… I understand.

Tara shut her eyes tight.

Tara stood at the crossing, waiting for the trolley to pass and the gates to lift. Her eyes were screwed shut, just like they’d been the moment it happened, but the noises were still echoing in her head even now.

“…ra?” A concerned voice cut through the memories. “Tara?”

Tara’s eyes slowly opened to meet Lauren’s—tinged with worry and with something else hard to place, glimmering in those inky depths.

“What’s wrong, Tara?”

Alice takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. This is it. Her first battle. The sky overhead is the color of a raw, bleeding bruise, and the violin screeching of the Sin echoes between the buildings. It’s huge. How is it so big? Couldn’t she start with something smaller?

She takes another breath. Ready or not, she’s going to do this. No—she is ready. She’s got to be. There’s no one else.

<chessmaster12> Okay, this is maybe more of an interpersonal question
<chessmaster12> But this chat is full of clever people, and I'd really love any advice anyone's got
<spare_throne> Not sure I'll be much help, but go for it.
<_cantarella> whats up chess?
<keikaku> give us the drama :3

“Kyra?”

Kyra sets her coffee and croissant down on the table and looks up toward the slightly tired voice calling out to her. “Oh— Luce, hi! Uh…”

“Didn’t expect to run into you out here. It’s good to see you!”

This is a lot farther from Lucille’s apartment than Kyra’s seen her go in a while. She’s wearing sweatpants and a baggy hoodie, but they look like they’ve been washed recently, at least. She’s doing better, maybe, but—

“Good to see you too, Luce. Um, just, now’s not really—”

Kyra stops as she sees Lucille’s eyes widen in terror. She turns to see Ivy standing behind her, carrying over a drink and pastry of her own, face slowly hardening into a glare. Kyra turns back, trying to come up with something to say to deescalate things, but Lucille immediately bolts before Kyra can get another word out. The bell on the cafe door jingles, and Lucille disappears down the street.

When you wake up, you spend a long while just staring into the mirror.

You feel like there’s someone standing right behind your reflection, but you can’t see anything. You’re always in the way.

She comes in and finds you staring again. She grabs your shoulder, steps in front of you, tells you to brush your teeth and come eat breakfast. So you do.

She’s made waffles. She’s trying. She knows you like them. But if you ever tell her why you like them, she’ll probably never make them again.