15. RAVEN

15

RAVEN

The dawn colors the sky a murky lavender color. The sun is still behind the island, but the world slowly emerges from the hazy darkness.

I'm at my alcove, and as always, the morning meditation is about what to do today, who to talk to, what shipments to track. What's next with Maddy…

Walking away from my alcove in the mornings is a thorny path from the serenity of my hideout to the mayhem that Zion is becoming every day. Recently, my thoughts have more often drifted toward the pretty girl who's now in my possession.

I walk down the trail among the rocks and step onto the beach when a kneeling figure in security uniform only a hundred feet away catches my attention.

It's that guard again. His lips silently move in a prayer, eyes closed.

I lean against the rocks and watch him.

I've seen this guard before, farther down the shore. He is not much older than me, probably early thirties, bronze skin, close-cut hair, and thick, dark, neat beard. It's the first time he's so close to my sanctuary though, and it makes me wonder how someone doing this type of work, in the current world scenario, has even an ounce of faith left.

While I face the ocean, because the water absorbs all my dark thoughts, this guy is facing away, toward some sacred place in a different country, thousands of miles away.

For a while, I watch him bowing in rhythmic patterns. Mostly out of curiosity. Also, because it somehow calms me. It looks peaceful. I would like someone to explain to me how they have the motivation to pray five times a day amidst the war going on. Five times—someone came up with that random number, and now I witness a mercenary who's probably killed more people than I ever talked to dedicatedly bringing his prayer mat to the beach at dawn so he can—what exactly? Ask for forgiveness? Pray for world peace? I want to know what's going on in his head.

He finally opens his eyes, catches me watching, and goes completely still, like a statue. He has the eyes of a killer. Not a cold one but a burdened one.

I push off the cliff, light a cigarette, and walk toward him.

Without hurry, he gets up, picks up his praying mat, and starts brushing the sand off, not looking at me.

The beach is definitely an odd place to pray. But it's quiet. It's early enough and completely empty. Maybe, he is trying to drown the voices in his head with the sounds of the ocean, just like me.

I stop several feet away and take a deep drag of my cigarette.

"Does it help?" I ask, the remnants of the smoke from my cigarette leaving my mouth and floating toward him.

He doesn't look at me but, with the same slowness, starts folding his prayer mat like it's the most precious piece of fabric he owns.

"Do you think your God will grant you absolution for what you've done?" I ask, not mocking but trying to coax him into talking.

I like to listen to people's stories. I like making them uneasy or angry—that's when they lose control over the words and let them spill out. Those are the best stories.

He throws me a scowl that his God wouldn't approve of, picks up his duty belt, and, tucking his prayer mat under his arm, starts walking away.

I watch his figure getting smaller and smaller until he finally disappears into the small building that holds one of the shore's security towers.

All guards have their stories. James, one of my trusted men, used to be a professional boxer. Nilanski used to be a triathlon champion. Skiba used to be a prison guard on the mainland for years. His record is not perfect, but he has a lot of experience in handling hostile situations and assessing danger in a room full of angry men. Hence, he is great when it comes to meetings with Butcher.

I mostly use him and several other guards when we go to Port Mrei. But lately, I take him to the Center where we sit with a surveillance team that handles the town's security and watch the cameras, trying to figure out what possible sabotage Butcher is planning next.

Skiba meets me by the beach, leaning against his motorcycle as he smokes. He is an early bird, just like me. Several years older, taller, and seemingly no care about life besides his job.

I tell him we are going to swing by the Southern mansions.

"Siena's?" he asks.

He is observant. He knows I visit Siena occasionally, though he doesn't know why. I keep my own business to myself. But when we park at her mansion, there's some strange unease about the way Skiba sharply lights a cigarette and looks away as I walk toward her door.

When I come back out ten minutes later, he studies me as if he's trying to figure out what happened behind closed doors.

I don't say anything, but he surprises me when he says, "So, I figured since you are after that pretty nurse, you'd be done here."

I see.

People always create their own version of reality about others when they don't know what's going on. Sometimes their ideas are fucked up. Most people think they have a vivid imagination, whereas most of the time, it's very cliche.

"What pretty nurse?" I ask, intrigued by the fact that Skiba is that perceptive.

"Maddy Wise," he says.

I mount my bike. "What is this about?"

Despite Skiba and other men being on my team for over a year, I share very little with them. I'm not interested in forming any type of bond with the men who work for me.

Before I rev up the engine, I lock eyes with him, waiting for him to talk.

He glances at the house, then looks around. "If you are into that pretty nurse, you don't care if I"—he tilts his head toward Siena's house—"make a move."

That's another surprise. There are no rules about guards fraternizing with Ayana residents. Most of them go to Port Mrei for entertainment. Occasionally, they hook up with some of the Elites. I get it. Many of the guards have that overbearing male energy and dangerous past that many women find attractive. I just never knew that Skiba was interested in Siena. I never saw them talk.

"Do you mind?" he asks. For permission, obviously.

"Not at all," I say and rev up the engine.

I'm not concerned about what story Skiba created in his head about me and Siena or what he wants from her. But my interactions with Maddy are already obvious, and that's something I should be more careful about.

"I'll meet you at the Center," I say.

The reason I want to get rid of Skiba for a minute is because I want to take the now-usual route past the medical center. It's barely a detour, but I hope the revving engine of my Yamaha reaches Maddy's ears now and then.

It's barely eight in the morning and cool outside. It's overcast, and though the air is muggy and it will most probably rain soon, at least there is no blinding sun that I hate so much.

I turn into the wider cobblestone street that goes past the medical center when the familiar little figure up ahead draws my attention—Sonny "Little." As I approach, he almost jumps in front of me and waves his hands, so I pull over.

The Port Mrei Mowgli is like chewing gum stuck to my shoe sole. He still eagerly waves his raised hand in the air in a greeting as he approaches.

"Going to work?" he asks.

I swear, the kid knows my schedule.

"Snooping around so early?" I ask.

He snorts with laughter, pushes his long hair out of his face, then sticks his hands in the pockets of his summer shorts and studies me. "Cool motorcycle," he says.

It's a Yamaha, nothing special but does the job here on the island. I don't need a fancy half-a-million-dollar toy like Archer has.

"Yamaha," I say.

His eyes narrow. "Ya-ma?—"

I point at the brand logo.

His cheerfulness deflates a bit as he looks at it then back at me. "I don' know letters," he says with a hint of regret.

He doesn't know how to read. His speech is screwed up, too. He should be in school, but instead, he roams the resort from morning until night.

"Did you ever go to school?" I ask cautiously.

He nods quickly. "For like a year. Then they stop'. Say' somethin' was happenin'. Like we have vacation. Then my mom didn' come home. Then someone else move in. Some men. They told me to go."

"Didn't you have relatives that you could stay with?"

He shrugs.

There is no hurt in his eyes. Instead, he tells me all this with eagerness. He seems happy to share himself. He is a talker, too. I vaguely know what happened in Port Mrei when the world erupted into a war—a lot of chaos, looting, and all sorts of lawless dealings. Shit happens even in paradise.

The kid looks up at me again. "Wanna get burgers?"

At eight in the morning?

"No," I say.

His face falls so drastically it's impossible to miss. "'S all right," he says and squints at the parrots in the palm tree.

You know what hurts more than a stab? Seeing your younger self and knowing how you got your scars. What rejection is like. The sound of the footsteps of the people you want so badly to be close walking away. Being alone. Wanting friends when others look past you like you are invisible.

Something hurtful probes inside me at how he reacted to my no and looked around disheartened. I already see what's happening. Rejection grows on you slowly, year by year, until you become insensitive. You learn to wear a cold mask. A hardened heart. Thick skin. And a whole lot of bitterness that saturates your blood.

"Okay, listen," I say, and his eyes instantly latch on to me with anticipation. "First burgers, then I need your help at the Center."

After all, I do need his help. He will get his burgers and whatever else he wants. In exchange, he might help me figure out the blind spots in Port Mrei's security.

His eyes light up like Christmas lights.

"But we are making a deal," I say right away so he doesn't think I will give him everything on a golden platter like many others in Ayana do.

He wrinkles his nose and narrows his eyes at me in suspicion. "An'?"

"You're going to try very hard to talk like other people around here."

A grin splits his face. "Like Amélie?"

I guess he made friends with the yoga instructor. "Amélie is French. No, not like her. But everyone else says words properly."

"Wha' you mean?"

"They don't swallow them. ‘What do you mean. " I repeat his words with an emphasis on the "t". "Do you hear the difference?"

He scrunches up his nose a bit, looking at me confused.

"You say, ‘wha' you mean.' Instead of, ‘what do you mean.' Yeah?"

"Bu' faster is better, nah?"

"Nah," I mimic him, annoyed. "I need you to try to talk like everyone else. Not swallowing words. Not saying them faster. Say them properly."

"Bu' why?"

"But why," I say. "Repeat it."

"Bu-tt," he says with purpose, then giggles.

I roll my eyes and shake my head.

"But-t?" He widens his eyes. "But-t." He frowns. "But-t," he says in a low adult voice then breaks out in laughter. "Like tha'?"

"Like that," I correct him.

He puffs his chest. "Like tha-t," he mimics me with fake seriousness.

I don't laugh anymore, and when he notices, he goes quiet.

"You angry?" he says almost in a whisper.

"No."

I'm angry at the fucked-up world that leaves so many behind. Especially children. It makes me think of Emily, who didn't have a good life. Who had to endure a filthy animal who stole her childhood. Who succumbed to the guilt that killed her at the end. It makes me want to take the Swiss Army knife and jam it in my thigh.

It's not the nukes and chemicals or even viruses that destroy humanity. It's people with fucked-up priorities and a twisted addiction to violence. The Change taught us that when we have an opportunity, we fuck up as many humans as we can. We support slavery. We look past human trafficking. And the worst—we leave the kids behind. We raise a careless generation that is taught to do pretty much anything to survive. "Me against the world" has become a mantra. "Me versus they" could be a world anthem by now.

"Wha' your ring means?" the kid asks, staring at my left hand.

Good thing he didn't ask about the missing phalanges on my left pinkie and ring fingers, because I can't exactly tell him a story of being "punished" by the street dealers for making a deal with competitors.

The ring was a present from Emily, just several wires twisted together. That was the only thing I owned when I got out of juvie. After I found out what happened to Emily, I had the wires melted together into a ring.

"A souvenir," I say.

He doesn't ask about my fingers though it's impossible not to notice them.

The door of the medical center in the distance slams, and the kid turns his head, then starts frantically waving his arms above his head, drawing someone's attention.

I see a familiar silhouette that makes my body instantly tense.

It's Maddy.

I'm pretty sure that no Carnage fight, arms deals, or a meeting with the Secretary of Defense two years ago made me as alert and aware of myself as the girl dressed in medical scrubs, disguising her body that was so openly on display for me the other night.

I've made some great deals in my life.

But the sweetest one is walking up to me right now.