“From us,” Sparks repeated, barely believing it.
“Yep.”
“And how often do we have to… give them power.” Sparks shuddered at the thought of going back to that machine and its black wires.
Bruise scratched his chin. “Depends. Each of us gets a turn once every couple days. They like to use the ones who last longer.”
“Last longer?”
“Sure. There’s only so much you can take before your body shuts down and deactivates itself. Then they have to put someone else on.”
“So the power cuts in the city, they happen when—”
Bruise nodded. “Happens when someone’s had too much and passes out. If you’re really lucky, it kills you.”
“I’ve never been a fan of luck.” Sparks examined the steel bars. They weren’t the usual rusted metal that was common in Legacy. These were new. Recently wielded. He would have to be activated to bend them enough to slip out. “I don’t suppose you have a genius plan of escape?”
Bruise laughed. “I’ve been stuck here three years, never had even the slightest chance to getting out.”
Sparks looked over Bruise’s withered skin and gaunt limbs, wondering if that’s what he would look like after three years here. He didn’t want to find out. “It can’t be impossible. Candle did it.”
“Candle? You mean that guy who the scientist released? He had help, so it doesn’t count. Believe me, kid, no one’s coming to get us. We’re stuck here ‘til we die. I just hope you killed as much of those fuckers as you could before you got caught. That’s what I did.”
“I don’t plan on dying here.” Sparks moved to the bars and looked down the hallway. A militia patrolled between the cells. He was young, probably just a little older than Sparks, with blond hair. “Okay,” Sparks said to Bruise. “I’m going to taunt the shit out of this guy. When he comes over, I’ll grab him and pull him against the bars, and then—”
“Won’t work. Nothing works.”
“Well you’re no help at all.”
Sparks stuck his face between and bars and shouted, “Hey cocksucker. Yeah, you with the potato nose. You wanna know how many of your friends I killed today? I’ll—”
The militia turned and walked away. He’d barely even glanced at Sparks.
Sparks’ shoulders slumped. He moved back to the wall, rubbing his hands up and down over his shins, trying to keep warm. “It might work on a different guard,” he said, not believing it.
Bruise shook his head. “Juliette trained them. They never talk to us. Or look us in the eye. A couple years back, there was this guy, he threw his own shit at them. After that, they sent him to the metal bitch three times a day. He never tried it again.”
Sparks couldn’t stop himself from shivering. “I can’t do this. I just can’t.”
“But you will.” Bruise spat a wad of phlegm into the corner of the cell. “You ain’t got a choice in the matter.”
“I’ll get out. I’m the best fighter in the city.”
“That don’t mean shit down here.”
“But—”
“Get used to it, kid. You’re trapped here like the rest of us.”
Sparks hid his face behind his knees. He didn’t want Bruise to see him, not right now. He thought back to Burrstone, and how he had killed himself before Roman could bring him to the Ministry. Burrstone had it right: better to die than to live here.
“So, what’s your name?” Bruise asked.
“Sparks.”
“Well, welcome to my cell, Sparks. There’s a shit bucket in the corner, and we get fed twice a—”
“Shut up.” Sparks’ voice came out as little more than a whimper. “Just… shut up, please?”
Bruise did, disappearing back into the shadows, and leaving Sparks alone, cowering against the wall, doing his best not to cry.
Roman marched down the centre of the street, jaw set, shoulders pushed back, spine straight. Ahead, the towers of the Ministries rose in front of the rising sun. He felt an odd sense of calm. Like this was all inevitable. After all, he had always wanted to kill Juliette, and now he had a fucking good reason to.
The streets were quiet but got busier as they neared Reformation Square. Roman, Ruby, Caleb, and Candle had stopped at the first merchant selling clothes. Roman waited while the other three each chose hooded cloaks – just a precaution, in case Juliette had sent militia searching for them. When the vendor had tried to haggle the price, Roman pulled open his own coat to reveal his pistol.
“I’m an honest man. You can’t just threaten me,” the vendor said hotly, folding his arms. “I’ll call the militia. Let’s see how you react when—”
“I’ll do you a favour and call them for you.” Roman snarled. “We just happen to be on our way to pay them a visit. Understand?”
The merchant opened his mouth to retort, but Candle stepped forward and pushed back his hair to expose his tattooed neck. That had put the vendor in a more charitable mood.
As the crowds grew denser Roman moved to the edge of the street, keeping his hood up and his head down. His team did the same. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the suspicious glances people gave them, but those people just shuffled their feet and turned away, looking anxious to be anywhere else. Anyone Caleb’s size tended to inspire that response from people.
Roman’s sense of calm began to fade when they were just a block away, and completely disappeared as they turned into the street which ended at Reformation Square. His fingers fidgeted in his pocket, itching for his gun. When they were just a hundred yards from the Square, Roman ducked into one of the few towers that didn’t have a guard outside.
It was a cobbler’s shop. A handful of wooden tables lined the walls, covered in leather shoes. Good quality ones, by the looks of it. The shop’s owner — an older man, bald, with a well-trimmed moustache — sat behind a desk, working on a shoe. He held a tiny hammer in one hand, an awl in the other. He squinted up at Roman. “How can I help you today, sir?”
“You can’t, but your roof can. I’m sure there’s a beautiful view from up there. I’d love to see it.”
“The upper levels aren’t safe. It’s not—” The cobbler’s brow furrowed as Ruby, Candle, and Caleb stepped inside. His gaze lingered on Ruby’s bow. “I’m under the ministries protection. You can’t just—”
“We can.” Roman turned to Caleb. “I have the suspicion our friend here is considering slacking off from his sacred work. Do you mind watching over him and making sure he stays put and dutifully earns his paycheck?”
Caleb closed the door and planted himself in front of it, arms folded. The cobbler paled, but went back to work, muttering darkly under his breath.
Past the second floor, where the cobbler obviously lived, the building was empty. After a dozen flights of stairs, Roman, Ruby, and Candle came to the roof. They avoided the cracks as they moved to the edge and looked down on Reformation Square.
“Well, shit-fuck,” Ruby muttered.
Roman nodded in agreement. “She knew we would come for her.”
Juliette hadn’t wasted any time in hiring more mercenaries. The square was crawling with men — some of them in the black amour of militia, but many more wore civilian clothes and wielded makeshift weapons. There were at least fifty down there, and no doubt more waited inside the Security Ministry.
“I’m a good fighter,” Candle said, “but that may be too many for me.”
“Agreed. We’re not getting past them like that.” Roman turned to Ruby. “We need a distraction. Someone to lead them away.”