Chapter 3: Trapped

  Bix turned as a large, fluttering, grimacing creature—in another shade of you guessed it green—appeared out of nowhere, growling at her.

  In the strangest way, this was almost comforting.

  At least Bix knew how to handle a beast; they’d made their way through Detritus often enough, their furs, especially those of interesting color, always traded to the cities for high-valued goods.

  The beasts were nasty, dangerous, and would attack anything with a pulse.

  The one was eyeing her, scratching its claws along the ground, looking to prove the trend correct.

  Bix, though, right then, thought a fight sounded amazing.

  Bix drew her launcher, cocking it as she did.

  The beast bared grungy, orange teeth at her.

  The beast ran at her, and Bix rolled out of the way, scrambled to her feet, standing, taking in a deep breath, steadying herself. Bix aimed as the beast turned, ready to start running at her again. Her true shot was interrupted when the beast yelped. Some thick, purple substance started billowing up like smoke. It easily surrounded the creature. It tried to run but didn't get far, teetering, tipping, and crashing to the ground.

  Bix quickly swirled in the direction of the new threat.

  She narrowed her eyes through the purple that was less smoke like as it thinned around the man that came into view. Men, she corrected, as another appeared in a blink behind the one who seemed to command the purple smoke.

  She hadn’t heard any signs of their approach.

  Their clothing was as strange as everything else. Too flowy and too much there to be functional.

  The one in control of the purple smoke was the more intricately dressed in shades of inky black and accenting purples.

  His features suited the image: his hair was as dark as night, with eyes that were a shimmering shade of deep, dark purple.

  She guessed the other man was a tad functional; he at least seemed to be carrying supplies. Though he was weighed down by furs that billowed. At a closer look, she didn't think he was wearing the furs as much as carrying them.

  He was probably tasked with handling beasts... Maybe. Though his eyes, cutting through the scentless smoke, seemed almost beast-like in their own right. His hair was a similar shade of green to the beast lying on the ground, she thought with annoyance.

  At least his teeth weren't orange.

  The man with the green hair also wore a few emblems of purple, almost as if the color tied the two together.

  When the dark-haired man noticed her, they started exchanging words she didn't understand.

  Bix started moving back, always at the ready, but no longer so enthusiastic about a fight. Especially with someone who controlled deadly smoke.

  “We pass,” she called in the common tongue, making her tone fierce, hoping she was half as threatening as they were.

  The command was one well known throughout all the sections of Detritus, and hopefully it was obvious enough for an outsider to understand.

  They would go their way, and she would go hers.

  They could keep the hunt; she wouldn't fight them for the valuable fur, and they wouldn’t attempt to steal her pack—both sides would survive for longer.

  The dark-haired man stepped toward her retreat.

  Bix expertly shifted back into an aggressive stance and pointed her weapon once again.

  The green-haired man caught the dark-haired man's arm, pulling him back. Seeming to have the right idea not to engage. The two fell into a swirl of a disagreement. The dark-haired man shrugged off the green-haired man and continued in his stubborn pursuit forward.

  Bix didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, releasing the round, sharpened disk that flew off her launcher, cutting cleanly through the air.

  The fool of a man waved his hand in an intricate swirl in what might be an odd little dance? Looking as if he was sure the movement would stop the projectile in its place.

  Obviously, it didn’t.

  Bix swore. When she fell earlier, something must have gotten knocked out of place because her shot released—not at a perfect straight glide, but slightly off. So instead of cutting through the man’s neck, it only nicked his cheek.

  The man's eyes widened, touching the wound as if shocked that the projectile that had been aimed right at him hit.

  The green-haired one stepped toward the dark-haired one, while the dark-haired one's gaze was pointed toward her launcher. Talking to the green-haired one, motioning around, toward it, tone and lips and limbs moving emphatically.

  Bix wasn't about to stick around to figure out what he was thinking.

  Bix turned and bolted, finicking with her launcher as she went, cursing the parts that bent out of shape. She’d have to find a material that would hold up a bit better in the future.

  If she even fucking survived this.

  Bix skidded to a halt as the deadly purple smoke built up in front of her.

  She whipped around and shot again.

  It would have hit exactly as she wanted if the man in front of her hadn’t disappeared into the fucking air.

  He reappeared a few feet from her.

  She tucked her launcher away, flipping out a small blade that she morphed through her needs. She ran at him, directing all her strength into the tiny blade.

  The man easily guided her into stumbling, speaking in a rise and fall of his strange tongue. Melodic and sharp. He then plucked her blade from her hold.

  She was going to die.

  Her heart hammered in her chest, searching for another attack.

  It would be like she never existed.

  The man lifted her and tossed her over his shoulder, like she might be a particularly good haul. She dropped her own haul in her effort to fight.

  The man kept speaking words to her that she didn’t understand, and she continued attempting to at least land one good blow on him.

  If Bix was going to die, she would at the very least hurt him in the process.

  Finally, she landed a cracking, weighted kick with her boot, and he sucked in a thin breath. His pain in that moment churned a bitter satisfaction.

  It didn’t pause him for long, though his steady thrum of words stopped for the moment. He scooped up her pack and started forward.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Dread and fear, anger and violence, coursed through her. The green-haired one popped into view out of thin air as well.

  That was now something people could do.

  His voice came out in quick, rapid words, while the dark-haired man offered short, to-the-point answers. There might have been another voice that called something as well, but Bix was just so focused on trying to escape.

  Bix heard a creak and saw a metal-covered step before she was dropped onto some sort of shelf. A soft-covered shelf that was another shade of green, the same green seemed to be everywhere in this small area. Except for the few exceptions of a deep shiny surface that she couldn’t quite decide was Purple or brown.

  Bix wanted to cry.

  The men were once again arguing.

  Well, she thought it was an argument. The green-haired man seemed to be arguing, with big, eyerolling movement and sharp, snappy words. The dark-haired one's face twinged every so often, but for the most part looked as though whatever the green-haired man was saying meant nothing to him. When he did speak his lips turned up, and his nose flared, which would then lead the green-haired one in even more hysterics.

  She thought maybe they had forgotten about her, but no hand jabbed at her, clearly still aware of her presence. Each time, she pulled farther back.

  Bix felt a jolt. She thought she saw lights from out the windows as the dark-haired one brushed back the green fabric that hung over them before letting it drop, waving his hand, and light filled the area. From… Stones?

  When in the world did stones glow?

  Bix took in a breath and released it, trying to calm enough to figure out her next move.

  At some point, the green-haired man pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed something out, looking right at Bix. The dark-haired one turned and looked her over, his eyes widening and he nodded.

  This time, when he motioned to her, it felt more pointed. Bix felt a shiver run through her spine. The green-haired man shifted toward her. He lifted his hands and slowly reached one out toward her face.

  Bix bit him.

  He pulled his hand back, only offering the faintest of a wince.

  Looking over his hand, they were covered in scars, so maybe he was used to being bitten.

  The green-haired man whipped around and glared the dark-haired one down.

  “You see, I told you that she was scared, and that giving her a moment would help. But no, you can’t ever just take a single moment to think things through. No, that’s far too much to ask of a man responsible for one of the most dangerous areas," He hissed, almost to a growl. After a few beats, he added a gruff, "Sir.”

  Bix gripped her head as the unfamiliar words disconcertingly shifted to an echoing meaning.

  Bix's gaze whipped to the hand that patted her head. She glared at the dark-haired one, who didn't seem to be in the least fazed by her ire.

  “You are fine. You are safe. I promise I will ensure that no one hurts you,” A gentle thrumming voice assured her.

  She glared back at him, not believing it for a second. She bared her teeth at him.

  The fool continued to smile at her.

  Bix shifted away, scrunching herself in a corner, and he let her go, dropping his hand.

  Alright, so maybe they weren’t killing her… yet.

  Bix tried to think of any other reason to bother with her, and none of them were good.

  “What’s your name?” He asked her.

  Again, Bix glared at him, then her eyes skittered to her bag, which he left unguarded.

  She lunged forward, snatched it up, and swung the door open.

  Her head swirled as they were above the cascade of green; her vision swirled as she took in the treacherous drop.

  An arm wrapped around her, pulling her stumbling back, thwacking the door closed.

  “Careful now,” the dark-haired man breathed, his tone tipping with concern.

  “Sir, maybe we should stop and talk this through on land,” the green-haired man offered. Bix fell back into the seat, her breathing now erratic.

  “Deverie, it’s only a bit toward home,” the dark-haired man sent over his shoulder.

  “Sir, with all due respect, she seems to be terrified, and you don’t seem to be helping,” Deverie offered.

  “Helfin said he wouldn’t stop just to start again until we were home, and he’s had a break equal in length to the time we dragged him all around.” The dark-haired one seemed to remind Deverie. Deverie just glared at him.

  Deverie… Deverie. It wasn’t a recognizable name to her. No city was called Dev or Dever. There was a Kever. But ie would never be an identification, and Erie was not an identification she knew.

  So, he was from a city?

  It was the only answer that, at that moment, she could let her mind fully consider. Yet the doubt churned in her gut. Bix yanked back into the corner, curling up once again, pointing her launcher out, ready to shoot either one of them if they tried to get near her.

  Neither man looked angry—or even really concerned—so she stayed there and waited.

  “I am Cirillo Hendrix,” the dark-haired one offered, turning to her with a smile as his words echoed in her mind, achingly between understood and strange.

  It was another name that didn’t fit the rules she knew.

  He caught her gaze, holding it for an uncomfortable length of time.

  “Would you give me the pleasure of your name?” he asked. Pleasure? What pleasure was there in names? Names were to tell things apart for a period of time before they became irrelevant.

  Then she rationalized that, if he was of the cities, he could be trying to tell how to treat her by knowing her name. If he learned that she was from Detritus, then there was a high chance that this man would punish her for being outside her confines. Then again, this seemed like it was nothing like a city. He did not seem anything like those she knew from the cities.

  So maybe…

  Maybe whoever this was, if she was honest, would help her get back to Detritus.

  Bix shot out her wrist, showing her identifying brand, and waited.

  Cirillo looked over her wrist, his brows pulling into confusion. Then he turned to Deverie.

  “Deverie, do you recognize these markings?” his tone was soft, considering. Deverie leaned over and looked over her markings as well.

  “No, sir,” Deverie admitted, his tone twisting with bafflement as her entire being twisted with dread. Dread that was compounded when, through the thunder of half-understood words, there was one word she knew well. “Sir… I don’t think she is one of the Iselvic. With the higher activity of the Faerie portals,” he started, and her mind blanked.

  Faerie.

  The pieces of her heart crumbled with the recognition of the word.

  The story behind the Faerie fruit of Detritus meant that, though Bix's understanding of the word “portal” was either the arches that led to the cities or the glass slates that transferred information, it didn’t take much for her to realize what they were insinuating.

  The Faerie of Detritus appeared through the air without understanding of anything around them. Those of Detritus had to teach the Faerie their ways, and the Faerie's tears summoned the fruits of Detritus, which gave future generations substance that wasn't dependent on the ever-changing whims of the city.

  Like the bringer of the Faerie Fruit, here she was, cast through a portal with no way to go home.

  At least the Faerie had never found a way home.

  The man, Cirillo, shifted into her vision again. He was a man old enough to be considered one of the Olders, and yet he didn’t have the same tiredness behind his eyes or the tilted smiles of the City dwellers, who would offer her things to touch her hair, cut a piece, to take it with them. She’d even been offered to be removed from Detritus if she offered herself completely to one of the City dwellers.

  The smiles had always felt like danger.

  So, no matter how small, no matter how life-changing, she’d always refused.

  Tears hovered in Bix’s eyes.

  She’d chosen, for so long, to stand by Detritus to be a moving part in the future that would allow her people to be a thought, to be remembered.

  How long would it take them to give up on her? To forget her? Would they right away move forward and name a new Bix.

  Maybe at least those whom she’d told the stories, of those who held their names before, might do the same for the next Bix.

  But also, maybe all her work would swirl down the drain.

  Bix hugged her pack.

  Her book of thoughts was always with her, but in her pod there was the books of purpose—the finished drawings of all who were lost and the plans for the future. But it was incomplete. She had so much she hadn’t added to it yet.

  Bix was so absorbed by the chilling pain in her chest that she barely noticed the man, Cirillo, asking her questions.

  “Could you tell me what this means?”

  Bix blinked out of her despair to stare blankly at him.

  Did he truly think that his understanding meant anything to her? Still, as she always did with the patrol and those of the city, she answered simply out of habit.

  “It’s my branding, my identification,” she murmured. The two men frowned, but she didn’t care to break down their emotions when her own were almost too much for her to bear. “It translates to Eldrabix. Eldra is my location, and Bix is me,” she murmured.

  “Bix is me,” She repeated, not able to keep her voice from cracking.

  Against her will, her mind fell to the times she'd been scolded for asking about the previous Bix. Wanting to know anything and everything about the past of her name.

  “A brand,” Cirillo breathed, still frowning.

  This time, Bix was pulled out of her emotions by creeping anxiety.

  Bix had experienced more than one person who saw a brand as an excuse to treat them poorly. She couldn’t read the man who watched her face. He reached out, and she shifted back, watching his every movement.

  He dropped his hand.

  “Do you like your name?” Cirillo asked.

  Bix frowned at another strange question, shrugging, not able to decipher a meaning in it. He looked her over, and his face started softening. He nodded.

  “Croia,” He breathed. Bix waited for the strange translation, but the word had no meaning. “May I call you Croia?” He asked her.

  “Sir-” Deverie whipped toward him, hissing in a hushed tone as if she wouldn't hear it from the short distance between them.

  Cirillo looked baffled by Deverie's objection.

  Bix looked between them and shrugged.

  What did it matter to her what either a fleeting interaction or her end cared to call her?

  She didn’t need to know or care about this man’s thoughts if only…

  If only what?

  She could get back to Detritus. Bix swallowed.

  “The Faerie Portals, is there a way to get back?" She asked, and before she even finished, the man Deverie’s face softened into a recognizable pity that answered her question without his explanation.

  “No. The Faerie portals are always shifting, and even if you could find it again, it might not lead to the same place,” he stated gently.

  She couldn’t help the shudder that ran through her.

  She was stuck here.

  It was confirmed.

  Bix sheaved her blaster and covered her ears, not able to listen anymore.

  And at least this time, they left her be.