• The Fake Kingdom

    “I hate you.”

    “The feeling’s mutual.”

    “You make me feel…disgusting. Vulgar. Impure. Sullied. Filthy.”

    “You make me feel alive. Do you know how much worse that is?”


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    Krea didn’t know much about dragons. She knew of the fantasy ones, and had a basic idea of how the fakes had come into creation; test tubes, gene tweaking, computer chip implants…but all of that was common knowledge. She knew about the bonding process, the walk through fire, but had never actually heard about such an event taking place. She had only seen a dragon seven times. Once there had been one in captivity, though it barely resembled the fantastic beast it had once been. Twice they had simply flown over the city, and three times was when she was up on her ship, lightning chasing. The final time had been a miracle—she had wandered too far from the ship, and had nearly collided with the dragon, blinded by the storm. For a second, she could only stare in something like wonder, before she remembered to run.

    And it was that dragon—that same one from the storm, that she was seeing now.

    It shot down out of the sky, mammoth wings catching himself at the last possible second, and uncurled into the alley. It was a good thing the air was so thick with glamour, and that no one was in the Labyrinth.

    “Brat,” Vinewing cursed by way of greeting.

    D'Roy bowed jerkily, not looking too happy about the action, “Vinewing,” he began coolly, “I need you to fly us.”

    “Fly yourself, and I’m not taking that b***h anywhere,” Vinewing snarled, fangs out, forked tongue flicking, “I’m not your ******** chariot, boy.”

    Krea mused that D'Roy didn’t seem to have much power over his dragon. It was hard to believe that he’d been paired with such a powerful one in the first place.

    D'Roy had set his jaw while he thought, magma eyes spitting flames, “She’s half your master now,” he hissed quietly, words part serpentine, “She’s taken it upon herself to bind us.”

    He was standing too far away from her. An uncomfortable tug rooted somewhere in her chest urged her to step nearer. She set her feet, knees, jaw, and stuffed gloved hands into shabby pockets. She would not bend.

    Vinewing flicked lazy, terrifying emerald eyes towards her, sharp pupils cutting her into ribbons.

    “This isn’t politics, b***h. You can’t get everywhere just by ********.”

    “My name,” her hands came out and balled at her sides, “Is Krea. Not ‘b***h.’ And I don’t need you to fly.”

    She couldn’t quite turn her back on him, and so settled for backing away, until the great wings once again unfolded, too big for the cramped space, and he took back the sky. D'Roy watched her go, expression unreadable.

    God, it hurt.

    By the time she had moved perhaps fifty feet from him, her knees were shaking. When she finally reached the corner and turned, so that he was out of her sight, she really thought she might be sick. The stress of what had happened in the maze wasn’t helping, and so she leaned back against the decorated walls of an empty street, wondering how the graffiti had gotten there in the first place.

    She tried moving another step away, and her legs gave out. She sank, freefall, cracked head throbbing—bang bang bang, blood on fire beneath her fragile, bruisedcrackedhurt skin. The Queen of the Rats shuddered and shook in her Fake Kingdom of cracked emeralds and remnants of flame.

    D'Roy’s hand was like a wind-bite—it nearly steamed as it closed around her wrist, and pulled her up towards him, crushing her, chill seeping from his shivering skin. She held on desperately, shaking enough to rattle his bones, and felt him shiver with her.

    “Don’t do that again,” D'Roy gritted out, hard cheek bone grinding into her hair. Krea didn’t know if he had felt her nod, they were trembling so badly, but the subject was dropped.

    She kept holding on, even when she had cooled down and he had warmed up. It felt right. It made the ache go away.

    “Is this what it’s going to be like?” she asked quietly, wondering if she was allowed to cry. The muscles in D'Roy’s arms tightened.

    “You probably should have considered that,” he pointed out coldly, “I might not be able to hurt you without sharing the pain, but you will never be allowed to lie with another, until the day I die.”

    Krea tensed, “I’m not sleeping with you.”

    D'Roy dragged himself away from her, eyes flashing star-cold, “How long do you think you’ll last?!” He spat, “The distance we’re allowed apart will shrink with time, unless we do it. This spell was made for lovers. What I call you—Ami—that’s the old language for love.”

    Krea’s head was spinning, and she wanted very much to touch him again. She was suddenly struck by the enormity of her actions. How was she supposed to live like that—to always be near someone who hated her, and never near someone who’d love her?

    “You can feel it,” D'Roy accused, his eyes narrowed shrewdly. His face was the kind of perfect carved from marble, and looked just as pitiless. She thought he could have passed for a vampire—maybe he was.

    “Feel what?” She asked, numb. Maybe she would have been off dying.

    “The…pull,” he made a vague gesture between the two of them, “Just get it over with. It’s not that big of a deal.”

    “It is,” she muttered quietly, and wondered what had become of trashy, dog-eared romance novels, where the only problem was choosing which man to sleep with.

    “What,” his face twisted viciously, “Are you a virgin?”

    She gave him a flat look, “I was in the PLF, starting when I was six, for four years.” It was difficult to say the last part, “I was raped three times.”

    D'Roy looked surprised, “That’s less than I guessed. You stand out.”

    “You’re a monster,” Krea whispered quietly, arms crossing protectively over her chest, mentally severing the link.

    D'Roy laughed, low and dark and bitter, “Have it your way.”

    He led her out of the alley, back to civilization where you bought your personality and sold your soul if you had one. His wings disappeared again, and the two slipped past sin deals, stepped over the people lying on the sidewalks, and dodged the quick fingered clingers.

    “Your city is sick,” D'Roy said suddenly, faint undertones of disgust creeping into his voice. Krea didn’t bother to argue.

    They passed the nightclub they had been in earlier, monochrome strobe lights and spider-webbed disco balls pumping out mainstream scrap, letting streeties get a taste of everything they could never have.

    “Krea,” D'Roy’s icy hand lashed out and gripped her wrist suddenly, “Hurry up.”

    She sent him an irate glance, before understanding. His eyes were a little lazy, mouth more relaxed. He looked less like a convict and more like a dying person. ‘It’s the metal,’ Krea realized, ‘the city’s full of it. He’s been hanging around here too long.’

    “Right,” she nodded shortly, killer-traction shoes pushing her into a controlled run, “We’ll go underground.”

    The subway had been abandoned decades ago for air-gear. Going down there was technically forbidden, but was obviously unsupervised. No one cared if a mooch went down there to die. It was expected, even, that they would have the decency to do so down there and out of sight, rather that on a public street.

    Going down into the subways meant free housing, regardless of how smelly. But at the same time, it was where hard-core criminals tended to hide. Most people were criminals for something, but the ones underground leaned more towards psychotic sociopath, rather than minor offenders.

    They passed at least a dozen racer deals, hardcore wasties and newbies alike. Krea didn’t make eye contact, and no one particularly wanted to mess with the slitter at her side. Heads down, they jumped into the tunnel. D'Roy seemed to relax a little when he had earth under his feet again, though he didn’t say anything.

    “Don’t touch the third rail,” Krea sang to herself, and kicked it recklessly. The smooth, still greased metal slipped under her grippers. There hadn’t been a spark of electricity running the lines for years.

    “Do you live down here?” D'Roy asked mockingly. Krea sent him a reaper stare.

    “Of course not, Bakan.” She hissed defensively, and tried not to think about her rail-hopping preteens, “I have a place.”

    “Whorehouse?” D'Roy shot cruelly, walking with tight, controlled steps. Krea pressed her lips together, and listened to the trash under her feet crumble.

    “You’re getting you’re gear, right?” D'Roy asked after a second, “To fly?”

    Krea raised an eyebrow, “Yeah.”

    She couldn’t see D'Roy anymore, the tunnel was too dark, but she imagined he had nodded, “I think we should take a detour.”

    “Why?”

    He held her neck again, cold fingertips resting over her pulse. She couldn’t bring herself to push him off.

    “Because there’s a wraith up ahead, and it wants to soul-suck you.”

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    Glossary:

    PLF—Public Labor Force, AKA, slave labor

    Scrap—Screamo-rap, hybrid of the two music generas

    Clinger—Beggars, thieves

    Mooch—A hobo, bum

    Racer—Slang for a cheap, extremely addictive drug similar to Crystal Meth

    Wasties—drug addicts, people who’ve become wreaks because of their addictions

    Bakan—Taken from ‘baka’ which is Japanese for ‘stupid,’ and was largely mispronounced until it became common slang