Elliot’s POV
“I am but a re mortal controlled by things I cannot see.”
––Elliot Starfall
The door slides open with that slow, theatrical groan that belongs in an old cowboy film—only here, the proportions are off. It’s as tall as , even a little taller, scraping at the air with that sense of forced civility while everyone behind breathes in the heat of this den. A gust rushes past us, and I feel the temperature of the big room shift, the warmth sucked out.
Inside, flas flicker inside a tall stone hearth. Not normal fire—blue, icy at the center, shading to cobalt at the edges where the wind hits it as we enter. I fix my gaze at it, the unnatural light washing over the walls, throwing harsh shadows across the floor. My skin prickles at the warmth it radiates despite its cold color. It’s refreshing, almost comforting, but only for a mont.
I take a step forward, trying to mimic a walk I rember from a ti ago that feels like ages. Aston’s walk. Precise, steady. It’s a different ti, different people, but I force myself to match his pace, match the slight roll of his shoulder, the asured arrogance he wore like a cloak. I try to beco him, even as everything about revolts at the thought.
Ahead, she waits. The woman with eyes cold as the flas, ice-blue and clear, unyielding. Her hair is blonde like mine, but lighter, smoother, better kept—an affectation of control she doesn’t bother to hide. She wears tight black trousers over a snow-white blouse cinched neatly at the waist. She’s in shape, lean and strong, every line of her body a calculated threat.
I keep walking. No one really watches . That’s the worst part. Two or three glance over, vaguely interested, before going back to their drinks. The rest ignore completely, as if I’m nothing more than a breeze disturbing their stale, smoky air.
Why am I even here? I ask myself, but the question vanishes as I stop in front of her.
My mouth opens. For a split second I nearly say the words Aston used to get past her once. One Avelorian scotch with a straw and extra liquor. I can’t even understand why I rember sothing so trivial.
I lampoon myself, forcing down the impulse, jaw tight as I glance back at Gene and Cham behind . They’re good at the act. Gene, especially, though it’s good no one’s paying us any attention. If they did, the wrong Blue might already have punched him, or vice versa.
It’s hard enough for to hold back. I hear a scream behind Gene to my right, but ignore it. My head is already turning, drawn by so gravity toward the backroom door. The one Aston used to get to the others, where I was incorporeal shortly after the hands dragged into the void.
Beyond that door, the second stage is lit in lurid purples. Won are naked, dancing with chanical, joyless motions. Marionettes with cut strings for souls. Their limbs move without grace, painted in bruises the color of night. So are broken—bent in ways that make my stomach knot. Reds like , but also a few Blues, though by far fewer. I see red lips, red nipples, red scars on pale skin.
Instead of Aston’s code, I speak sothing different:
“Three mojitos in Zentria style.”
Words slip out I shouldn’t even know about, but they co anyway, familiar in a way I hate. The woman’s expression doesn’t soften, but her lips twitch, not a smile—just a shift. Resigned, maybe. She raises her palm in demand.
Sighing, I glance at Gene, whose teeth are clenched so hard I think they might crack.
“1 Cont and 2 Celi, right?” My voice fills the lively room with that feigned confidence I hate, like I’m soone who belongs here. She nods once, turning to the man at her side. He starts mixing the drinks without a word.
I sneer inwardly, sohow knowing the prices of various things I’ve never seen or heard about before. Four Celi for one mojito, anywhere with a currency system, it gives inflation... Stop it, Elliot. I curse inwardly, the fact that I think about such trivial things bothering .
I guide Gene and Cham to a table near the flas. The closer we get, the more I feel the heat pressing against my face, making sweat trickle down my back, but all the other seats are either fully or half taken, not enough space for three.
I settle into the chair, exhaling shakily. A scream echoes again, but it fades before it even hits my ears.
Around us, other patrons drink like nothing matters. The flas crackle blue. It feels like a sauna, too hot for my disguise to last long.
I hear a snatch of conversation at the next table:
“These reds are lucky they’re not registered in the blood system.”
The speaker is fat, his gut spilling over the stained wood.
“The higher-ups are too dumb to get even a drop of these cockroaches,” says his seemingly friend, leaner but bigger than . “Just one drop and they’d be tracked for life.”
“Shh!” the fat man hushes dramatically, pressing a thick finger to his blue lips. “They might hear you.” He snickers as if knowing that Cham, Gene, and I, red-blooded in disguise under them, would eavesdrop on them.
Subsequently, my stomach turns, my tongue tasting sour fluid—vomit, which I gulp shortly after.
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