Sparks’ arm twitched. His fingers curled into fists. It had been a long time since anyone had called him a mutie — a slang term normally used for deformed animals — to his face.
Caleb placed one over-sized hand on Sparks’ shoulder. “Certainly. I can find my own way upstairs.”
“Of course, sir.” The old man’s voice was unnaturally proper, his diction too crisp. “Follow me, SX37.”
Sparks pushed Caleb’s hand away. “My name’s Sparks,” he said.
“Of course, SX37.”
“And your name is History.” Sparks fell in step behind him. “You know, on account of you being so old.”
They walked through a doorway and down a circular flight of stone steps, lit by small fluorescent bulbs which lined the bottom of the walls. Sparks ran his hand across a handrail made of marble, the smooth texture cold against his skin. People live in houses like this? Posh assholes probably even sleep on cushions.
If he were here, Roman would probably be ranting about what the Ancients had made such a mansion for. Sparks wouldn’t have listened. The Ancients were dead. Gone. Departed. If they even had existed at all.
Roman believed a lot of shit though. He said they had been other cities just like Legacy, that men had been able to talk through cables underground, that guns had been common enough for everyone to own one, even though the entire city was filled with people. Impossible.
How could a civilization with that many guns be wiped out?
How would you feed that many people?
Utter bullshit.
The door at the bottom of the stairs was reinforced with steel plates. Three thick bolt locks ran across its edge. With a tired groan, the old man pulled back the bolts and pushed the door open.
“You’ll wait here.” He didn’t even look at Sparks as he spoke. “I will return for you when it is time for your fight.”
“Come on History, sure you don’t want to stay and enjoy my company?” Sparks grinned. “You could tell me all about the Days of Fire.”
History frowned, irritated. “The Days of Fire were a hundred years ago.”
“So how old were you back then? Twenty? It’ll be a nostalgic experience for you.”
“I’m forty-two.”
“Ah well, say hello to your granddaughter from me.”
The thick door shut with a weighty groan. Sparks counted the three clicks as the locks slid into place. He was left in a bare stone cellar, lit by a single flickering bulb. The air was stuffy and smelt of mould and dirt. Nobody had bothered to clean the floor here, nor the walls. Or anything else.
Three boys sat in the corner, all roughly Sparks’ age. They watched him with keen interest. He knew exactly what they were thinking about: one of them would be pitted against him in the fight, so they wanted to judge how dangerous he was.
Sparks strolled over and sat with them. “I like what they’ve done with the place,” he said, gesturing theatrically at the room around them. “The lack of furniture adds volumes to the sense of being in a dungeon.”
On the street above, Sparks’ ragged leather boots, ripped trousers and woollen vest had felt like beggars’ garments, but contrasted against these boys, Sparks was embarrassingly well-dressed. He felt a little guilty for the clean clothes Caleb had brought him.
“So,” he clapped his hands together. “Who do I have the pleasure of beating up today?”
The largest of the three grinned. “Bold words. I reckon I might have to start the fight by breaking your jaw. That’ll shut you up real good.”
Sparks sized him up. He approved of what he saw. The boy was a solid foot taller than Sparks, and the criss-cross of scars running up his toned arms testified to his experience. His nose was bent to one side — like it had once been broken and healed wrong — and his smile revealed he was missing over half his teeth.
“I’d still be the prettier fighter,” Sparks replied.
The boy laughed. “Feisty. I like it. This will a fight to remember.” He extended a hand to Sparks. “My name’s Mole.”
Mole’s grip was firm, uncomfortably strong. “I’m Sparks.”
One of the other two — the smallest, who also looked near-starved to death — gave Sparks a confused glance. But if he recognized Sparks’ name, he didn’t say anything.
“Who’s your owner?” Sparks asked Mole.
“Mark Gilligan.”
Sparks recognized the name. While he had been at the Haven, he had met several Adrenalites who fought for Gilligan. “Ah, that fucker. Tell me, does he still feed you only chicken before a fight, because he thinks it’s good luck?”
“You know it.”
They bantered about nothing in particular for the next ten minutes, joking about fights and past owners. Sparks realized how long it had been since he had spoken with other Adrenalites, unless he counted his brief exchange with Burrstone. He had missed this. Caleb was alright, but he didn’t understand what life was like for an Adrenalite. He couldn’t know Sparks like these boys could.
At the first lull in the conversation, Sparks decided to try his luck at getting information. “You guys heard about Candle?”
The two smaller boys shook their heads, but Mole nodded enthusiastically. “Of course I have,” he said. “Death to the Captain. Death to the Ministries. Death before defeat. Right?”
“Death before defeat,” Sparks repeated with a smile. “How do you know about him?”
Mole shrugged. “Word gets around. You don’t escape the wind farms without making a name for yourself.”
“That’s bullshit,” said one of the other boys. The middle-sized one. “I heard there’s over a hundred militia guarding the wind farms. No one escapes.”
“Candle did,” Mole said smugly. “I heard he used a rock to cut his own chest open. The shock gave him such an adrenaline rush that it activated him — he didn’t need an injection. Then he fought his way out with his bare hands.”
Sparks’ excitement dampened. Mole sounded like he was trying to impress them with exaggerated lies, but Sparks needed something factual to report back to Roman. “Do you know where I could find him?”
Mole laughed. “You idiot. You think he’d still be alive if he anyone knew where he was hiding?”
“But someone has to know, right?”
The smallest boy turned to Sparks. “Why are you looking for him?”
“I…” Sparks hesitated. “I want to join him.”
“You want to go rogue?”
“Of course I do. Those ministry idiots deserve to—”
The boy’s fist slammed into his cheek and Sparks reeled backwards. He tasted blood in his mouth. Instinctively, he rolled away and leapt to his feet. “What the fuck was that for?”
“I knew I recognized your name.” The kid was now also on his feet, one finger pointed at Sparks. “You work for that bounty hunter. You kill rogues.”
Sparks’ groaned, taking two steps back as the other boys also stood. Now that he was standing, Mole’s height advantage over Sparks was a lot more obvious. He crossed his arms, snarling. “Is that true?” he asked. It was more of a threat than a question.
“I…” Sparks hesitated. Should he lie? No. That felt like the cowards way out. “Yeah, a bounty hunter brought me. So I fight rogues. And I beat them too.”
Mole spat at Sparks’ feet. “You’re a fucking traitor.”
“I’m not a traitor! I’m…” Sparks paused, suddenly unsure what he was. He had helped Roman capture Burrstone. But that didn’t mean anything. It’s not as though he worked for the ministry. “Roman’s my owner, I have to do what says.”