is free unless you fail and then I take your teeth so listen lad in 1776 america was born fuck philly’s bogus bell and bow to adam smith the wealth of nations’ invisible ineluctable hand that’s raised in benediction for the worthy and slapped you to that gutter you see my forefathers founded clapboard churches and god smiled and made it rain holy green so I earned mine fortune favors the faithful and the faithless writhe so I clasp these hallelujah hands and avoid the unclean which means I will not help or hit you my foot will do the work now grab your bootstraps boy and yank yourself respectable before I stamp your shame I’ll wear my cross and you’ll wear your caste in your shattered grimace dental care is for winners

ATHENA wasn’t lying. They were found, caught and issued to separate cells.

The last Tara ever saw of her sibling was a storm of rage and regret clouding Terrence’s eyes as he struggled against the guards.

“TARA, I’m sorry... I’LL get you OUT. I swear.” His strained voice echo down the hallway as they took him away.

I’m sorry too, Terry. She thought as the guards forced her in the opposite direction.

They nudged her all the way to a lonely basement, lined with huge glass tanks, each peppered with tiny holes. The only source of light came through a window in the corner, washing the glass panels in a frosty hue. Everything else was drowned in black.

One of her escorters reached for the nearest glass cell. Luminous, aquamarine keypads drifted into view and the guard typed a long string of characters. A tiny hiss escaped and one side of the box swung open.

It couldn’t be an eerier place to spend the night. Tara would’ve kicked and screamed if ATHENA hadn’t warned her.

You’re exactly where you must be. The girl recalled her words.

It was her last lifeline. Everything was staked on those simple words. It was what stopped Tara from fidgeting they set her in the box and sealed her away. She only stared at the guards sauntering off, muttering of “juvenile delinquents” under their breaths.

Tara was intruding the inhabitanting silence. But she didn’t like the way it rested in the room like an tyrant.

She whispered ATHENA’s words to evict the ghostly quietness.

“You’re exactly where you must be.”

Was she though?

It was too late to do anything anyway.

She pulled her green cotton jacket closer to guard her from the icy walls of her jail. When that didn’t work, the jacket became a blanket. Her choice of entertainment alternated between singing 2010s hits and poking her fingers through the huge pores in the glass.

Tara didn’t care if anyone wandered in to see her singing ‘Real Friends’ by Camila Cabello.

Or, her slipping two fingers out of the box, idly trying to make their tips touch.

Really, the girl cared for anything but sleep.

But she knew she was tired.

Her eyes were closing.

She was...caving.

The blue window morphed into Carlton’s cobalt blue eyes. A foreign quality of frigidity lingered in them.

“Rough day, huh.” Dream Carlton smirked. He scooted over to huddle next to her, outside the tank.

“Go away. You’re not real.” Tara muttered dismissively.

“But don’t you like me better?” He paused for her to consider.

“A hikikomori-free friend? The old me?”

Tara avoided the question. She missed Old Carlton. The one that pulled pranks, sassed and cheered people up with timely, idiotic jokes.

“Times changed, Carl. But not even Terrence has moved on. How could you?”

Dream Carlton’s smile sank into a tiny pout.

“Okay, I’ll go.” He sulked.

When this wasn’t met with any pity, Carlton whirled to look at Tara.

“Any last words?” He searched for some reason to stay.

She ignored him.

The boy faded out.

Tara opened her eyes feeling rotten. She reached for Terrence to hold his hand and squeeze it till the feeling subsided.

Then, she remembered.

They were separated...

The captive cleared her head of any illusions and returned to her singing and poking, awaiting Carlton’s return.

″I’m just looking for some real friends...All they ever do is let me down...”

It’s melancholy echoed the space.

A noise from somewhere echoes through the mysterious facility as I follow the kosya into my bunker. We are silent, and I see no reason to speak as I’ve not been able to piece together the exact specifics of this place other than I came here for a competition, and that it runs on one’s soul. Upon entering my quarters, I sit at the edge of my cot, while she takes a seat in a chair across me.

“Why would you be confined in your world,” the kosya shifts in her position a little, “What would you do while confined?”

“That...” I rest my chin on my palm, leaning forward as I try to sort out my answer. It is not a case of myself lacking an answer; if anything, it was more of trying to translate my thoughts in a way that is coherent into Common--or “English,” as this woman and the people I’ve encountered at the competition facility seemed to call it.

“In Xaranya, the land I hail from, that would be a very dire situation.”

She seems intrigued by my answer, “A dire situation?”

“Yes,” I nod slowly, trying to convey the severity of the subject we are discussing, “No one in my home would discuss such a thing unless ...”

Grom’shiya, Common is such a hard language to express one’s emotions... I try to continue, “It is ... em, it would be like one speaking of a crime committed by someone who has taken the life of someone unfairly? Like those ‘news’ I see, talking about human tragedy -- it is very unusual to casually talk of confinement in this manner that is so ... ah, you say, ‘normal?’”

The kosya tilts her head at me, as if she, too, was struggling to understand, “Hm, are you meaning how we do not see it as something taboo? You know, something forbidden to speak of?”

“Yes, I think it is that. To be asking me of such a thing, I believe, is so unusual simply because this subject would barely be talked of. In the Kaiseevee tribe, there are many ... mantras, that are taught to us from child to adult; one of them I shall always remember because I was shown it in, ah, what you would call ‘primary school.’ The mantra goes, ‘Unite as one and Strength shall guide you. Succumb to selfishness and perish at the hands of the Devil.’”

“That’s quite a motto to teach a child.”

“But, it was and is necessary,” I explain, frowning just a little at how this kosya seemed to be focusing on the wrong aspect, “We were shown a frozen-over body, and the body was in such a state that it was clear how it lost its life--starvation and the harsh cold of the forest. When one chooses to be alone, to be isolated, it is death. The Arcana gave man a strength that flourishes in numbers, not isolation. It is why when someone commits treason on their tribemates, disrespects the natural order given by The Arcana, or disrespects their family, only then is one subjected to confinement and the throes of Xaranya. To speak of being alone is to speak of a severe, cruel death; it is the reason why I value company, regardless of the person, in any situation, I am placed in.”

“I’m sorry...” I draw a breath of composure, muttering a prayer of forgiveness to The Magician, “Please forgive me, it is the culture my heart knows of. I forget that those beyond Xaranya are not raised as such.”

“That is alright, Eridæus, this is about presenting yourself.”

After taking a few moments to re-gather myself, I continue, “So, if I were to be confined ... it would have happened if I recklessly continued to think about magic and using its properties to change the body I was born with. I would be sentenced to Xoenai, one of the many freezing northern forests in Xaranya, and left to lose my life, essentially. I would ... feel great shame. I do not wish to be so grim to say I would accept my fate--especially since Asra-miir has long taught me such thoughts are not taboo--but I would not do much to resist because I brought upon an action or actions telling my tribe that I disrespect them and wish to throw myself into the arms of The Devil. It is the punishment I receive for going against the life-force granted by The Arcana to help us survive Xaranya.”

She is silent again, and I grip onto the sheets a bit as I take a moment to face away from her--the feeling of “wrong” and dread is so overwhelming ... I know to her and many others it would seem “silly,” but the moment this is over, I intend to have a moment of repenting prayer to The Priestess. I may not be in the wrong, but it would not ease on my mind well if I did not do this.

“May I,” I steadily face her, “May I add some last words?”

“Of course, Eridæus, just remember your word count.”

Very slowly, I try to summarize my thoughts, “There are many things ‘the western world’ has shown me that are so unusual. There is the concept of a language using one’s gestures to communicate, or the concept of one’s first name not being held as sacred and is something one can casually say to a non-family person. But, from what I’ve seen of my temporary tribemates, I do not think I could understand this sense of ... ‘normal’ and even ‘glory’ that comes with talking about being alone and confined--how such subjects are not seen with such severity. How one sees death with pride ... it is something very concerning to me. That is all.”

She nods, standing up to leave, “Thank you for your answer, Eridæus. We will take the record of this interview along with those from your fellow contestants.”

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Author’s Note:

kosya is a formal honorific used to address a stranger when you do not know their name (derived from “kos” the honorific used when addressing a stranger whose name you know).

Grom’shiya is an expression that is the equivalent to “oh my God” or “seriously/really?” depending on the context. In this, the “oh my God,” context is the applicable one.

miir is an honorific to refer to a teacher or mentor, like sensei in Japanese.

Word count: 998