Sleep was hard to come by in the week following Marroo’s escape from the adept. Sleep scared him. For days after hiding in the market place Marroo kept his spirit veiled in his own flesh constantly, to the point that his spirit ached with the unfamiliar exercise. The only time he dropped the veil was in the tower where he would find himself expanding his third eye on reflex to look for the corrupted aura that circled the Iblanie territory like the wolves he’d read about circling fires in the wilderness beyond the dregs. His inability to hold the veil while he was asleep felt like betrayal, not of himself, but of the girl who slept beside him and the implicit responsibility, on his part, to keep her safe.

He tried, when he could, to take small flights through the city at night, periodically dropping his veil in order to confuse the adept if he was thinking about making any incursion deep enough in Iblanie territory to strike at Marroo while he was asleep. It wouldn’t have been difficult, a quick aircab ride in and out, no more than fifteen minutes in the air, but even at night, Marroo only ever felt the corruption lurking near the outskirts, miles from his home or the tower that marked the center of Iblanie power.

In Marroo’s exhaustion, the dreams returned.

He woke, four nights after showing Dhret his fledgling book, from dreams of a small boy with silver eyes striking at him with a practice sword. Dreamt of striking the sword away and hitting him hard enough to leave a bruise.

“How will you survive without strength?”

The words ripped at his throat and rasped in his own ears.

“You’re weak, and the weak are worthless.” He raised his sword and his eyes snapped open while his spirit roiled around him in the darkness.

No blades manifested themselves around Marroo’s bed and no drifting scraps of paper marked where they’d flown around him while he slept. Dhret still breathed evenly by his side, a warm presence against the cold memories that lingered while he stared up at the ceiling. He should have gotten up to make a circuit of the city, but when he looked, the corrupted adept was a distant aura of rotting trash drifting lazily across his spiritual horizon. When he closed his eyes and tried to let his weariness take him back down into sleep, it was the lingering memories that kept him awake this time, instead of the fear of this new adept.

Eventually he opened his eyes and rolled over to hide from the memories in the warmth of Dhret’s skin. When his touch woke her, she helped him, and they lay together pressed to one another in afterwards.

In the silence he could hear the gentle breathing of a hundred other sleeping renters in neighboring apartments like an echo to the gentle breathing of the girl beneath him.

“Marroo?” She asked after their sweat cooled and they’d lain together for a while.

He pulled back to look at her, eyes bright where they caught what little of the city’s nighttime lights filtered through their tattered curtains. She reached up and touched his cheek with one hand.

“I…” She looked away and chewed on her lip for a moment before finding his eyes with hers again. “Are you serious about us?” She asked. “About our relationship? Our future?”

Marroo leaned down to kiss her. “Of course.” He looked at her. “I love you.”

She didn’t look away this time, just stroked his cheek and seemed to study him from the rumpled sheets. “I’m going to get pregnant if we keep fooling around like this.” She said quietly.

He looked away, not to the apartment around them but to the memories that weren’t his of a boy who’d grown up.

“We can’t raise a baby in an apartment.” She said. “Like this.”

Her hand on his cheek was an irritation now, but he didn’t push it away. He closed his eyes, pressed her hand between his cheek and his shoulder and tried to return to the present, a present where an adept waited at the outskirts of his life to kill him.

“I thought we should talk about, getting ready, if it happened. Getting married.” She ran her hand up his cheek to stroke her thumb through his hair. “I…”

He opened his eyes. Found her chewing on her lip again. When he didn’t say anything she pushed him off of her and rolled over to reach for the water she kept near their bed. “I won’t be able to work if it happens.” She added, then pulled the covers up to try and go back to sleep.

Marroo laid next to her and stared at the ceiling. He listened to her breathing slow, felt her little lick of breath pulse in sympathy, and watched the distant aura of poison fade with distance as the other adept retreated to his nightly haunt.

In the morning he pedaled to the address advertised on the tournament flier to register. The process was absurdly easy.

“Name?” The man who appeared at the door asked when Marroo knocked.

“Marroo Bolle.” Marroo replied. “B.O.L.L.E. not B.O.L.A.Y.”

“Bolle, got it.” The man scanned over Marroo’s courier “uniform” until he saw the Iblanie pin and nodded. “Anyone else your organization wants to sign up?” He asked.

Marroo shook his head and the man raised an eyebrow. “Plains recruiters are involved.” He said. “Could be a lot of money. Big deal, even for an organization like yours.”

“No sir.” Marroo replied.

The registrar shrugged and flicked his familiar back into its clip. “Alright.” He said. “Only a day long event anyways. Some kind of rush. Your masters need any additional information?”

Marroo shook his head and the man nodded.

“Alright then. Wish your Bolle good luck, and we’ll see him at the tournament.”

Marroo kept his veil tight as he flew the rest of his routes that day, enduring the ache in order to lose himself to fears that belonged in other places than the present.

“Have you visited Podmandu yet?” Betmo asked when Marroo returned to the lounge and joined a game of cards he barely paid any attention to.

“Hmmm?” Marroo looked up to find Betmo looking at him over a trick Marroo could have won if he’d played his cards with any kind of presence of mind.

“I asked if you’d visited Pod yet.” Betmo repeated. “He’s been on the medical floors for a couple of weeks now with his leg up. He’d be out by now, but the medics said he’s got some other issues they want to resolve.”

Imlay snorted from the chair next to Marroo. “They’d have let him out by now if he didn’t look like a plague victim.”

Betmo ignored him and looked down at his cards. “Anyways, I was down there a few days ago and he mentioned you hadn’t come down to see him. I thought I’d say something.”

Marroo nodded, watched Tetha scoop the trick, then flicked out another card when it was his turn.

“Did he say, anything else?” Marroo asked. “About what happened?”

Betmo flicked his own card into the pile then scooped it for himself and considered his hand as he answered. “Not really, just that he’s still having trouble sleeping.” He spun the adept of hands onto the table and the rest of the players followed suit.

“Nothing new there.” Tetha said as he put his nine on top of the pile for Betmo to collect.

“Still.” Betmo glanced up at Marroo. “Might do him some good. Talk to someone went through it too. Might do you both some good.”

-

Marroo did his best not to spend time on or near the medical floors of the Iblanie tower. He’d been called there once before to deliver a message for one of the Red Squad leaders racked onto a bed with a hole in his stomach that weeped digestive fluids, but he’d been called to the desk farms a level below more than a dozen times and each time the stench of antiseptics, medicine, and cleaning solutions had been incapable of hiding the pervasive smell of gore from senses heightened by his cultivation.

Landing on the balcony that connected to those floors and walking into them did not feel like entering just another floor of the Iblanie operation. It felt like walking into a labyrinth of his own darkest memories. He’d treated Podmandu’s admission onto those floors as just one more reason to avoid them.

Podmandu didn’t have his own room. The Iblanie tower was not like the Rose Tower where Marroo watched his father die. With only five floors dedicated to medical treatments, and two of them taken up by operating rooms packed with machinery or the rooms reserved for more prestigious members of the family’s hierarchy and their relatives, the rest of the organization’s sick and wounded were crammed into cots lined up side by side in the remaining three floors, with little more than a couple of feet to either side for the machinery and medicines keeping some of them alive.

Pod’s bed sat near the middle of the room, far from the wall length windows that occupied three of the floor’s four walls and surrounded by cots filled by men who chatted about women or battle, or played cards with their neighbors, or dozed while their wounds recovered. One man a few beds down from Podmandu lay with his arms strapped around his chest and bright red bandages wrapped around his entire body. He stared up at the ceiling without blinking while Marroo felt the little flame of breath inside of him writhe and twist like a candle flame in a storm and he heard the man grind his teeth and groan each time it twisted.

Podmandu’s smile when he saw Marroo coming made him feel ashamed for avoiding the other courier for so long.

“Marroo.” Pod greeted him as Marroo arrived at his bedside. “Started to feel like you were avoiding me.”

Marroo set the gift he’d brought on the floor next to the bed and pulled a chair around from one of the other cots to sit down with his arms over the back while he faced Podmandu. “It’s your smell.” He replied with a half smile. “Couldn’t stand it.” He could, actually. Podmandu smelled like he’d been bathing regularly for the first time in his life. The intense aura of body odor that usually permeated the air around him was entirely missing, and the tangled puff of hair he usually wore high around his head had been shaved down to his scalp. He looked like he’d been eating too.

“Jerk.” Podmandu said. He grinned. When Marroo lifted the box of Bzza he’d brought for Pod, the boy’s grin only broadened.

Marroo felt eyes turn towards them as Podmandu snapped open one of the cans with a hiss.

“Hey now brother, you gonna drink all those yerself?” The man in the cot opposite Podmandu asked as Pod finished his first sip.

Marroo stood up to close the curtain around Podmandu’s bed, but Podmandu pulled out one of the cans after a brief hesitation and tossed it to the man before Marroo finished encircling them. “Share it around.” He said. “Rest are mine.”

Marroo closed the curtain as the men around him began to argue about the drug infused alcohol then sat back down in what little space remained to them while Podmandu drank from his can with a satisfied smile.

“How’s your leg?” Marroo asked.

Pod shrugged. “Sore.” He looked at the can flicked the tab he’d used to open it so that it pinged musically. “Nothing really. I’m growing roots sitting in here. I’d be fine to fly if they’d just let me out.”

“What’s keeping them?”

Podmandu shrugged and took another drink. “Something with my heart.” He said as he wiped his lip with a fringe of the disposable robes he wore beneath his blanket. “I guess I had something going anyways, and then, when… when…” His face turned a little green and he stared at the can in his hand before giving a little cough and looking at Marroo. “Something to do with the shock, anyways. Supposed to have, made it worse. They’re giving me some medicine to see if it will help. Making me eat too when I take it. I feel bloated all the time.”

Marroo looked at his friend, and felt the boy’s spirit flicker deep within his chest.

“Do you think they’re trying to make you too fat for your bike?” He asked.

Podmandu snorted and looked at him. “You know, you act all quiet and serious, but you can be funny when you want to.”

Marroo felt his face flush the way Podmandu’s dark skin never could and he looked away. Podmandu pointed at him with his Bzza and laughed.

“I heard Betmo came down to see you.” Marroo said as Pod took another drink.

“Just about everyones come down at least once.” Pod said. “A few haven’t I guess. Ajap came down once a day for the first few weeks. I haven’t seen him in a couple of days now though.” He looked at his can. “My Da even comes down to wheel me up for lunch most days.”

They sat in silence for a moment while the man with the writhing spirit moaned a few beds down behind their curtain.

“You didn’t…” Marroo began, and Pod just looked at him until Marroo finished. “You didn’t tell, anyone.” He said. He looked at the ground. “I wanted to thank you.”

Podmandu flicked at his can again and contemplated it for a moment. “Man, I don’t even know what I would have told them.” He looked at Marroo. “I thought I was going to die, man, I thought…” He put a hand to his forehead, then wiped at the tears half formed at the corners of his eyes and snorted. “Man, when he pointed,” he made a pistol of his hand and pointed it down the bed at his feet, “I thought, man, I looked through that lens and thought, man, I thought, that was it, you know? Lights out. Tits up. Scopes down and the bottom coming to meet me.”

He snorted again and wiped his nose. “Then, next thing I know, you’re dragging me through the place, and everythings on fire, and something... “ He looked at Marroo, “Something…” He shook his head, looked to his can. “I thought, maybe I’d finally taken a break from reality, stepped sideways, you know. I didn’t even realize I’d been shot till I woke up in the hospital. I thought it was all some mad hallucination after he didn’t shoot me. Like my mind had just rejected it all or something. I didn’t tell anyone because, man, I thought they’d think I was crazy or something.” He looked at Marroo.

“I wasn’t crazy, was I?”

Marroo looked at the floor, then looked at Podmandu and heard the man with the can of Bzza beyond the curtain arguing with his neighbor over how much of the can he should drink before passing it on. He reached out and took the bottom of Podmandu’s can then, with a flex of his spirit, pulled the bottom away.

Podmandu’s eyes were already wide at the retelling of his story, so they didn’t get any wider when Marro held it in front of him, but he did look between the remnant in his hand and the aluminum cup Marroo now held in front of him. Pod’s free hand went up to straighten the hair that was no longer on top of his head.

“Man…” He carressed the short cropped fuzz he still possessed and stared at Marroo. “What are you?” He asked.

Marroo offered the bottom of the can to Podmandu who took it and looked into the alcohol still brimming in the bottom of his can as though it was some kind of crystal ball.

“I’m a courier.” Marroo said. “Like you.”

Pod glared at him, and Marroo waved the half a can he still held until Pod took it from him. “That’s, so not what I’m looking for.” Podmandu told him with a glare. “I was there with you. You saved me, you owe me something.”

Marroo shrugged as he settled his hands back onto the back of the chair in front of him and leaned his head on them. “It’s nothing special,” he said without meeting Podmandu’s eyes, “It was my father’s idea. I never wanted it.”

“Never wanted it…” Pod said.

Marroo shrugged again. “It’s just, something he forced me to learn.” He met Pod’s eyes and looked away again. “I hoped I’d never need it, as a courier.”

“Brown pants for real.” Pod muttered as he sipped from the edge of the half can in his hand. “My Da wants me to learn accounting.” He said. “I’ve heard stories about the adept the family kept around, but I never thought…”

“I’m not him.” Marroo snapped. He glared at Pod who cringed and looked around the curtained off space.

“Sorry.” Podmandu said.

“I’m just a courier.” Marroo found himself glaring at Podmandu and turned away. “I don’t want to be anything more.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“Well.” Podmandu said to break the silence. “I… Thank you… for getting me…”

“Don’t mention it.” Marroo found himself flushing again and glared at the floor. “I only came down here to thank you for not telling anyone, and… and to make sure you were okay.”

Podmandu nodded and gave him a thumbs up with a half smile. “Doing right as rain.”

Marroo hesitated in the awkward silence that followed, then stood to go, but paused with his hand on the curtain. “Those stories you heard.” He said without looking at Podmandu. “Those were- that was, my father.” He looked up and frowned at Podmandu. “I never wanted to be, what he made me.”

Podmandu nodded and his gaze grew distant. “Sometimes, I think it was my Da made the masters keep me here.” He said. “He comes down and takes me up to the up’n’ups lounge for lunches, and seems to think that, after this, everything is going to go the way he wants, as though, I’ll see sense and want an office like he’s got and special privileges. Seems to think, his paying attention to me now, makes up for dropping ma in the pipes when she wouldn’t clean up.” He gave Marroo a weak smile. “I get it man. I really do.” He raised his half a can to Marroo in a salute. “It’s why we fly.”

Marroo snorted and looked away. “Being an accountant won’t get you killed.”

“Without my bike?” Pod shook his head and downed what was left of his drink. “I don’t see how it would be any different.”