The Other Side, while a reflection of the world we live in, isn’t exactly to scale, and making any kind of map is pretty much impossible. Structures that would serve as landmarks in the “real world” lack fixed locations on the Other Side, and even if a magical girl were to stumble upon one by accident, the structure might be so warped and twisted that the magical girl would have no idea what she’d just found. In general, the best way to find a specific place on the Other Side is to concentrate on its “real world” equivalent, make a clear picture of it in your head, and don’t let yourself get distracted — easier said than done when you’re in enemy territory. Still, as long as you stay focused on your destination and keep moving, you’ll reach it sooner or later, no matter what direction you walk in.
On the other hand, if you wander aimlessly with no destination in mind, you will inevitably reach the dark river that runs through the center of the Other Side. This river is the Other Side’s only constant; it’s been flowing even before the first Shade spawned around the year 1164, and even after all the centuries that have passed, it has remained unchanged. Its purpose, too, remains the same: it is the point from which every Shade spawns, and it heals their injuries as well…
Provided they make it there before they succumb to their wounds and dissolve into black smoke.
Eventually, though, their luck runs out. It’s a simple fact of their existence: inevitably, every Shade will dissolve and disappear without a trace. There are no exceptions. None are special, none are spared.
Pained groaning noises, followed by an abrupt splash, were what roused Conquian at a ridiculous hour. Really, time didn’t mean much on the Other Side; clocks brought there just stopped ticking, and the constantly black-and-purple sky didn’t exactly have a night-and-day cycle. Still, Conquian and the others had been on Pacific Daylight Time for six weeks now, so he could tell that he’d been woken up much too early, at least by that standard.
Well, whatever time it was, it was time to get up. Noises like those couldn’t be ignored.
Rising to a sitting position, Conquian turned to the left side of the bed. During the night, Pinochle had somehow moved all the way to the far edge. Reaching over, Conquian put a hand on his shoulder and shook him gently. “Wake up. Something’s going on by the river.”
Sleeping in and ignoring alarming noises weren’t luxuries available to any Shade; as such, Pinochle was awake within seconds, pushing off the blanket and heading for the window. Well, “window” wasn’t exactly the best word for it, since the glass had long since fallen out and now it was just a hole in the wall, but it still served as a good viewpoint, especially since Pinochle’s room was so high up.
Conquian followed Pinochle’s lead, but not before grabbing his glasses from the side table and putting them on. His vision was much too blurry without them, and besides, they offered another advantage — fitting, since he spawned wearing them. They were practically a part of him.
The moment he put the glasses on, the blurriness cleared, and the comforting values began to pop up in small white lettering:
[IDEALHOUSE Side Table with Storage, lightly worn — $65]
[Victrola VSC-750SB-CTR Revolution Go Portable Record Player, used — $80]
Once an item was bought and unpackaged, it immediately decreased in value. However, if an item was kept for long enough, it would become an “antique” and the value would go up again. Really, Conquian didn’t understand why anyone would pay so much for something old that probably wouldn’t work as well as something new would, but Pinochle certainly loved old things. Though Pinochle didn’t own much, some of his most prized possessions dated back to 1947, the year he spawned.
Conquian also noticed with a hint of pride that the values had instantly shown up in American dollars, without him having to will them to change. It’d taken him a while to shift his value detection from Chilean pesos, but it only made sense to use American currency for the time being, since San Francisco was the current focus.
Turning his attention back to the window, Conquian ignored the flurry of values that popped up, showing him the worth of the cracked bricks and concrete slabs that littered the gentle slope leading to the river, and instead focused on the boy standing several feet past the bank, black water coming up to his chin. Conquian could recognize Tarot from his light hair alone, but even if it hadn’t been visible, Conquian would’ve known there was nothing to fear; looking at a human would show him the value of their bodies (how much they’d generally make from manual labor or prostitution, and, upon closer inspection, how much their organs and such would sell for), as well as the clothes they were wearing, but looking at a fellow Shade would only show him the value of their clothes, and if they were transformed, then there would be no value at all.
When Tarot had learned about this, he’d laughed it off, saying that maybe it meant Shades were priceless. Conquian, however, knew it meant the exact opposite.
Now wasn’t the time to wax philosophical, however. Though Tarot was alone and healing, the fact remained that he’d been assigned the night watch, and he’d clearly found something. Judging by the initial pained noises he’d been making, whoever he’d encountered had hurt him badly, even if he was able to escape and make it back to the river.
Conquian’s clothes were still lying in a sloppy pile at the foot of the bed, and he wasted no time in putting them on as fast as he could.
“I didn’t detect anything out of the ordinary,” Conquian explained to Pinochle, who was still looking out the window, eyes narrowed just a bit. Pulling his shirt over his head, Conquian continued, “My guess is that whatever happened, it didn’t happen on the Other Side. Tarot probably just got into a fight and had to retreat when things went south. But why’d he abandon his post?”
Having finished getting dressed, Conquian turned to the doorway. The door was long gone, so Pinochle had hung a thick curtain from the frame to give himself a little privacy. Not that he really needed it, since he was the only inhabitant of this building, but it still somehow provided peace of mind.
“I’m gonna go ask Tarot what happened,” Conquian said, pushing aside the curtain. Pausing, he looked back at Pinochle. “Are you coming?”
Finally, Pinochle stepped away from the window and met Conquian’s eyes. He gave a slight nod, then, with zero warning, engulfed himself in stone.
Conquian looked away. Though he’d never say it out loud, he hated Pinochle’s transformation. Besides, he’d seen it enough times to know it by heart. First, Pinochle was encased in a tall hunk of black rock vaguely shaped like a human silhouette. Then, within a second, the rock cracked open like an egg, two perfect halves splitting, falling to the ground, and vanishing into nothing to reveal a slightly smaller rock, this one more dark brown than black and a bit more clearly human-shaped. The cycle repeated six more times, the rock casings splitting apart to give way to smaller, lighter, and more detailed forms, until the final one was essentially a marble statue of Pinochle in his transformed state, perfectly to scale.
That was the part Conquian hated to see. Pinochle as a statue, marble eyes wide open and completely blank, was disconcerting in a way he couldn’t put a name to. Perhaps it reminded him a little too much of a statue of a girl, mouth still open in a silent scream, like she knew the staff was coming down to shatter her. Or maybe it reminded him more of that statue of a young boy, the one that still remained. Conquian tried not to think about that one.
Therefore, instead of watching the whole disturbing spectacle, Conquian kept his head down and counted to seven under his breath. It usually only took seven seconds for Pinochle to complete his transformation, and sure enough, when Conquian finished counting and looked up again, Pinochle had just cast off that final, statue-like coating, and he now stood, flesh and blood once more, in full costume.
Pinochle held out his hand and formed his staff, then gave it a few practice swings. Conquian had held the staff a few times before, so he knew it was heavy as hell, and yet Pinochle could swing it around like it was nothing. Then again, it was nothing, wasn’t it? Even though the staff appeared to be made of pure marble, when Conquian looked at it, no value popped up. Just like any other magical weapon, it was worthless.
And, in this case, completely unnecessary.
Conquian pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just told you there’s no danger. You didn’t have to —”
“Better safe than sorry. Let’s go.”
Conquian repressed a sigh as he stepped out into the hallway. Pinochle didn’t talk much, but when he did, better safe than sorry and the like were common refrains. But, Conquian supposed, even if it seemed to border on overly cautious sometimes, Pinochle’s wary behavior was most likely what had allowed him to last for an astonishing seventy-six years. And on top of that, he wwas the only Shade to survive the ten-year period when the Angel had been active. Conquian probably shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss his caution.
The hallway was pretty much bare — no carpet or wallpaper, and any furniture had been removed years ago. Pinochle’s room was the first in the hall, closest to the stairs; beyond his curtained-off doorway, many more doorways littered the hall, leading to empty rooms. Conquian and Pinochle wasted no time in heading down the rickety spiral staircase until they reached what was probably supposed to be the building’s lobby. A few old chairs and couches remained down here; most likely, nobody had taken them because most were cracked, stuffing bursting out from the torn faux-leather.
Perhaps that was why a certain intruder had chosen to perch on the doorframe instead.
Conquian sighed. “What are you even doing up there?”
“Seeing how long I could sit up here before someone noticed,” Piquet said, not looking up from his book. The book’s value had popped up the moment Conquian spotted Piquet, but he ignored it. Though the edition and cover often changed, there was only one story Piquet ever wanted to read.
Conquian let out a snort. “In other words, hiding.”
Piquet waved his hand, nose still in his book. “Sure, whatever. But you guys didn’t realize I was there when you came in last night, so I’d say this is a pretty good spot.”
Conquian opened his mouth to speak, then realized something and jerked back. “So you were listening in on us the whole time?”
Though Piquet’s face was mostly obscured, it was quite apparent that he was rolling his eyes. “Calm down. Pinochle’s room is seven floors up from here. I couldn’t have heard you guys shagging even if I wanted to — and believe me, I don’t.”
Conquian was about to launch into a rant about privacy, property, and minding your own goddamn business when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning his head, he saw Pinochle giving him a stern look. Pinochle wasn’t prone to much expression, and his face usually didn’t show much emotion, but over the years, Conquian had learned to read what little was there — subtle glares, a slight crease on his forehead, maybe his lips twitching up a bit in amusement — and right now, Pinochle’s intent came through loud and clear: Let it go. We have more important things to worry about.
After giving Pinochle a nod of understanding, Conquian turned back to Piquet, who was fully absorbed in his book once more, and asked, “So, did you see what happened with Tarot?”
“Yep. I had my shadow stand guard outside once I saw that Tarot was gone, and it was still there when he returned. His whole right arm was gone, and he was leaking out pretty fast until he got to the river. Not sure exactly which one did that to him, though.”
“I’ll ask him myself,” Conquian replied, already heading for the exit. As always, Pinochle wasn’t far behind. Looking up at the doorframe as he passed under it, Conquian added, “Aren’t you coming?”
Piquet shook his head, not moving from his perch. “No. Tarot’s insufferable enough normally; he’ll be even worse when he’s injured and pissed off from losing. I’m staying right here.”
“In the time we’ve spent standing around and talking, Tarot probably already regenerated his arm,” Conquian said in lieu of a goodbye, not looking back as he stepped out through the doorway.
Piquet was biased, of course, but he had a point. Conquian wasn’t really looking forward to the upcoming conversation, but he’d wasted enough time already. He just had to get this over with, and then…
Well, there was no way he’d be going back to bed afterward, but perhaps he could at least relax a bit before things inevitably got stressful.
Sure enough, Tarot was in a foul mood by the time Conquian and Pinochle reached the riverbank. He was still submerged in the river up to his chin, his back to the others, but the agitated swirling and choppy waves around him made his feelings quite clear.
Really, the pitch-black liquid that made up the river wasn’t actually water, but all denizens of the Other Side referred to it as such anyway. What else could they call it? There wasn’t exactly a concise term for liquid worthlessness. Malice, hatred, spite, and all the less broad categories that made up everything humans wanted to push away…all the secret thoughts and desires they’d never say aloud…and everything they did to divide themselves, as well as the dark feelings that came about as a result — that was what ran through the river.
Still, for all intents and purposes, it behaved like water — just a bit thicker. It made noise as it flowed. At first, Conquian could only hear the splashing of the waves, but as always, the closer he got to the river, the voices became clearer.
There was a constant whispering within the sounds of the flowing not-water. Sometimes it was one voice, sometimes hundreds or thousands at once, all varying in intensity and accent. From what Conquian had heard, every Shade heard something different from the river, while most humans only heard unintelligible murmuring. Frankly, sometimes Conquian wished he couldn’t make out what the river was saying to him either, especially right now. The specifics varied day by day — sometimes he heard the clamor of a crowd haggling with currencies no longer in use, sometimes he heard a calculation of personal finances that would never add up, and one time, when he was near the Other Side of Wall Street, he swore he heard the internal monologue of a major stock trader losing everything in a failed gambit — but the message always amounted to the same thing.
Worthless. Worthless. Worthless.
Shaking his head to clear it, Conquian took a step back from the water’s edge. The whispering was really grating on him this morning. He was almost hoping that he’d wind up yelling at Tarot, just so he could drown out the constant whispers with noise of his own.
“What happened?” he finally asked, his voice a bit harsher than he’d originally intended.
“What’s it look like?” Tarot snapped, tilting his head back just enough to give Conquian a withering stare.
Conquian couldn’t help but take the bait. “It looks like you abandoned your post to pick a fight and then got your ass kicked. Piquet said you lost an arm.”
“So he was spying on me,” Tarot muttered. “I knew that shadow wasn’t mine.” Shaking his head a bit, he turned back to the bank and began to wade out. “Either way, I’m fine now. See?”
The river only came up to Tarot’s chest now, so he raised his now completely regenerated arm and, with his other hand, pulled back the sleeve of his [Cotton White T-Shirt, Medium, used — $4] to show the only lasting damage: a small ring of raised, reddened skin around where his shoulder began. Whenever the river healed significant injuries, there was always a small scar that remained, like the river was trying to remind them not to be so reckless…or something. It was hard to tell the river’s intentions when it had so many conflicting voices. Still, it gave them all life, so it had to be alive…somewhat.
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“Looks like you got hit pretty hard, though,” Conquian replied. “Which one were you fighting?”
“You’re not gonna believe this,” Tarot began, stepping clear from the river. “I was standing guard for a while, and nothing seemed to be happening, so I figured I could do a reading, see how the night would go —”
“You mean you got bored and started playing with your deck.”
Tarot huffed. “Don’t interrupt me. Anyway, as I was saying, I tried doing a reading. First card was the Five of Wands, which was to be expected, given my proximity to certain stuck-up little shits, but then I drew for the present, and I got Death. It stands for a great change, the end of one phase and the beginning of another, whether you like it or not. That got my attention, and sure enough, before I could flip the last ca—”
“I don’t need a novel,” Conquian interrupted again, exasperated. “Just skip to the part where the girl blasted your arm off.”
“You won’t understand without the full context — something I’d be happy to provide you with if you’d just stop interrupting —”
“It was Clover,” Pinochle cut in, pointing at the ring of scars. “That’s a burn, see?”
Conquian started to laugh. Oh, this was too good.
“Isn’t this the second time you’ve lost to Clover? You’re losing your touch!”
“You’re also the only one who’s lost to Clover,” Piquet chimed in. “This might be hard for someone like you, but maybe you should stop deliberately pissing her off? Just a suggestion.”
Conquian, Tarot, and Pinochle immediately whipped around to find Piquet standing atop a pole of twisted metal vaguely resembling a streetlight, looking bored. Just how long had he been up there? Since the conversation had turned against Tarot, or earlier? Come to think of it, had he ever recalled his shadow in the first place?
Tarot was the first to speak. “An angry opponent is a distracted opponent.”
“You always say that, but I’m not so sure it’s actually working out in your favor.”
“This time was different. I was the one who got distracted, because I wasn’t just fighting Clover — there was a new girl there. A new Spade.”
Without a sound, the river’s waters began to still.
Out of all the excuses Conquian had expected Tarot to make, that was… Well, it wasn’t quite the least expected one, but he hadn’t exactly thought it likely, either. Either way, standing around gaping wouldn’t help anyone, so Conquian decided to ask the most obvious question. “So Siloé Etienne really is dead, then?”
Tarot shrugged. “Hell if I know. But one thing I can say is that she definitely didn’t retire. The new Spade wasn’t recruited the normal way.” Giving Conquian the side-eye, he continued, “I’ll explain everything, but you’re gonna have to let me talk, okay? No interruptions — just shut up and listen.”
Usually, when it came to interacting with Tarot, quietly listening was just about the worst strategy someone could have, but in this case, Conquian was willing to do it. After all, this was important information for all of them, and Tarot had no reason to lie. Probably.
Once everyone had quieted down, Tarot went back to telling his story. “Before I could flip the last card, I thought I heard something from above, so I looked up, and I saw a girl falling from the sky. Our sky.
“Now, before you ask, no, I didn’t see how she got there. By the time I noticed, she was already falling. I started running toward her, but when I got to where I thought she might have landed, she was nowhere to be seen. But there was glass on the ground, shards everywhere, so I figured she landed on them and got thrown back to the normal world. I didn’t know which shard she would’ve touched first and gone through, so I started peering through them one by one, and they all seemed to lead to places within the same general area, so I just headed out through a random one and started walking around.
“I found her soon enough, wandering around aimlessly in blood-soaked clothes. She was still in civilian form, and she was looking around, all confused, like she had no idea what was going on. I tailed her for a bit, just in case she went somewhere of interest, but she was pretty much walking in circles, and eventually she noticed that I was following her, so I —”
“So you jumped her before she could transform, right?” Conquian interrupted, despite knowing that the answer was definitely no. Sure, he knew he shouldn’t keep butting in, but he knew where this story was going, and he couldn’t help but rebuke Tarot for it. One way or another, Tarot needed to learn that his self-claimed “persuasion” of magical girls wasn’t going to cut it, not after what’d happened with Heart.
“No, Con, I didn’t. See, I actually thought for more than a second before rushing in, and I figured it’d be good to learn how she wound up falling from our sky. So I approached her, and we talked, and I did a reading for her, and as I did, she started explaining what she knew — which wasn’t much. The last thing she remembered was getting into a car crash, and she thought someone must’ve saved her, because otherwise she would have bled out and died. Her mother and sister also died in the crash, and get this — that happened all the way in Dhaka. Don’t ask me how she got all the way over here, I have no idea. But one thing that was obvious was that she had the Spade Trump Card and was bonded with it, even if she didn’t know it yet. I could feel it holding her body together while the healing magic finished its work.”
Conquian started abruptly. “Healing magic? You think it was Heart?”
Tarot shrugged. “Who knows? I don’t really understand why Aiko would do something like that, but I don’t have any other leads.”
“Why’s that so much of a stretch?” Piquet called out from his high perch. Abruptly, he hopped off the metal pole, plummeting ten feet or so before he stopped to hover slightly above the ground like the little show-off he was. “Maybe she got sick of messing around on her own and decided to find a new partner. Maybe this new Spade got into that accident right after bonding with the card, before she could really learn the ropes, and then Heart rescued her and healed her while she was unconscious. Or something, I don’t know. It’s still really odd that she’d send her to San Francisco by dropping her from our sky. But one magical girl helping another isn’t exactly out of character, is it?”
“Oh, it gets weirder.” Tarot paused for a moment to pull his discarded [Men’s Bomber Jacket, Lightweight, Used — $20] back on and brush off the dust, then continued, his expression turning into a glare as he spoke. “The reason she didn’t know she had the Spade Trump Card? It was in her. Embedded in the middle of her chest, under her skin. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
Tarot stopped talking, instead leaning back against a mostly-crumbled wall of nearly worthless old bricks, likely to watch his words sink in. He’d always enjoyed playing the part of a storyteller, especially if he had something shocking or divisive to tell. Conquian remembered how, soon after Piquet had spawned, Tarot took it upon himself to tell Piquet the whole tale of the Angel like it was a ghost story, from the circumstances of her birth through all those years she was active, not sparing a single grisly detail as he spoke of every single Shade she slaughtered, as well as the cathartic-yet-gory conclusion detailing her fall. He’d even taken care to mention the superstition that if a Shade were to say the Angel’s real name, it would alert her somehow, and she would be able to watch and overhear the rest of the conversation from wherever the hell she’d gone to. Conquian had scoffed, because he and Tarot had long agreed that the superstition was a load of bullshit, likely something someone had made up to justify the taboo against calling the Angel by her name. Not that either one of them would break the taboo. Some things didn’t need to be justified.
But Tarot had spouted out that bullshit anyway, and it was plain to see that he was drinking in Piquet’s barely concealed fear. Conquian hadn’t said anything, but it’d irritated him enough that instead of going to Tarot’s place that night like they’d planned, like he was doing often back then, he’d stayed in, and then…
Well. The point was, Conquian knew Tarot would say almost anything to get a reaction, even if he didn’t believe it himself; he enjoyed seeing the little flashes of emotion or even conflict. And today, Conquian wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. So, as Piquet and Tarot both stared at Pinochle, Conquian kept his expression as stone cold as he could manage and stared straight forward at nothing. He suppressed his urge to speak, to fill the judgmental silence. If Tarot wanted a strong reaction, he’d have to try a little harder.
Tarot moved away from the crumbling wall and took a few steps toward Pinochle. “So? Aren’t you gonna say something?”
“Such as?” Pinochle asked softly. Conquian kept his eyes fixed forward, but he could tell Pinochle was shrugging.
“Come on, this is way too similar to be a coincidence,” Tarot pressed. “Do you seriously think Aiko, or whoever it was, came up with the same idea on her own?”
“Not exactly the same,” Pinochle said, and Conquian could hear his stress in the terseness of his speech. “Mine was just an idea. An add-on. To balance things out. I didn’t expect it to actually be done.”
“But it was.”
Pinochle did not reply. Conquian finally allowed himself to give him a brief glance, and, as expected, saw that he was standing stock-still, jaw ever-so-slightly clenched. Great, Tarot had made him clam up completely. It’d be a surprise if he said a single word the rest of the day.
Okay, staying nonreactive wasn’t working. It was time for Conquian to switch to a different tactic: shifting the blame. Luckily, he knew just who to throw under the bus. “Tarot, whatever you’re insinuating, quit it. Pinochle was just trying to get something productive out of someone’s screw-up.”
“Right, yes, now that you mention it,” Tarot said, shooting Conquian a knowing grin, then turning to Piquet, “the new Spade was basically a normal girl in the beginning. She had no idea what was going on, or, rather, what she was getting into. Now she has no chance of escape. As long as that card’s in her chest, she can’t go back to living a normal life, but it’s not like she can rip herself apart, so in it stays. Put plainly, she’s screwed by someone else’s actions. She’ll probably be dead before long. That remind you of anything, Piquet?”
To his credit, Piquet didn’t fly away, though he bobbed up in down in place as if he was considering it. He’d been staring at the ground while Tarot spoke, but once Tarot finished, he glared up at him. “What do you want me to say?”
Tarot tapped his chin playfully. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of ideas. Where would you like to begin? Maybe you could start by telling everyone just how much of a whore you really are.”
“I thought you were telling us about the new Spade. If you don’t have anything else important to say, I’m leaving,” Piquet snapped, and as if to make good on his threat, he turned and began to rise into the air.
“Come on, don’t you at least want a description, so you can know when you see her?” Tarot called out.
Piquet kept his back turned, but stopped moving, staying in a hover instead. “Fine.”
“Her name’s Suravi Rahman,” Tarot said, then began to quickly recite his other observations. “Short, maybe just a little over five feet — so that’d be like a hundred and fifty-three centimeters for you guys. Straight black hair down to her upper back, and bangs covering her forehead. Odd-looking gray eyes. Small ears, but they protrude a little. Thin lips, short neck. Chest’s a little bit on the flatter side, but not in a bad way. Speaks English well, but she’s got a heavy accent. Actually, she looks kinda like you, Piquet.”
Piquet turned around to glare at Tarot, then sighed. “Just say she’s desi. We don’t all look the same.”
“Okay, desi, whatever. Anyway, she’s probably gonna find some new clothes soon, because her current ones were covered in blood from the crash when I saw her, but she was also wearing a pair of white sandals, and those weren’t stained. That’s just about all I can remember off the top of my head,” Tarot finished, looking deep in thought. “Any questions, gentlemen?”
To Conquian’s great surprise, Pinochle spoke, asking, “Why’d you say her eyes were odd?”
Tarot shrugged. “I don’t really know. They just looked out of place, somehow. I mean, I know gray eyes are a thing, I’ve seen humans with them before, but hers looked kinda…off, in a way I don’t know how to describe. Too bright, maybe. Or too silvery, I don’t know. And they didn’t change at all when she transformed.”
“What was she like as Lucky Spade?” Conquian asked.
“Well, I was fighting Clover at first. She intercepted me while I was talking to Suravi, and then her fairy put Suravi under a shield as we fought. I was winning up until Suravi intervened and transformed for the first time. She had an inkbrush as her item, but she didn’t really know how to use it; she spent most of the fight dodging instead. I eventually managed to land a good hit, but then Clover hit me with her finisher from behind, and, well…” Tarot trailed off, waving his regenerated arm a bit. “That’s why I wound up fleeing to the river. Point is, this new Spade’s inexperienced. I don’t think she’s much of a threat; it’s the method of her arrival and recruitment that we should be concerned about. Either way, we definitely have to report all of it.”
Right, yes. From the moment Tarot mentioned a new Spade, Conquian had known they’d have to report it, but as he stared downriver, looking at the silhouette of the odd building — the Camera Obscura — that’d been constructed over the river’s source over two centuries ago, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of dread. It was as if reporting this new development would make it truly real, and Conquian had no idea what the consequences would be.
Piquet wasn’t bobbing in place — in fact, he was eerily still — but he definitely shared Conquian’s dread, if not for the exact same reasons. In a low monotone, he said, “He probably already knows.”
“I didn’t see any cameras,” Tarot responded. “Did you?”
“There are always cameras.”
“Okay, sure, but even if he knows, even if he’s watching right now, it’d still be seen as disrespectful not to talk to him about it. Maybe he has a better idea of what’s going on,” Tarot explained. “And I’m sure he’ll want to discuss it with all of us.”
“He’s right. We’ll all go,” Conquian said. Shooting Piquet a glare, he added, “No flying off at the last minute, and no hiding in other people’s property. If he’s mad at you, it’s your own fault. Be a man and get it over with.”
Piquet glared at the river below him, arms crossed tightly. “Fine, but don’t tell me to ‘be a man’ when we’re the only four boys in current existence lucky enough to never have to become them.”
Conquian snorted. “I wouldn’t exactly count us as lucky.”
“Right, right, I forgot you were actually sad at not being able to degenerate into a worthless adult,” Piquet said mockingly, rolling his eyes. “Go ahead, stew in your misery. I’ll meet you at the Camera Obscura and get it over with like a boy.”
As if Conquian could degenerate any further, when he was already completely worthless to begin with…
Though he was pretty sure Piquet hadn’t used the word worthless with the intention of messing with his head, that knowledge wasn’t enough to stop his irritated mood from turning into something much more foul as he walked, following Piquet and Tarot along the riverbank. It showed in the way the river shuddered whenever he took a step too close to the water. God, he hated that river. The whispers were growing louder, almost drowning out his thoughts in their cacophony.
Worthless. Worthless. Worthless.
Conquian clenched his hands into fists. He wanted to punch a wall, kick a rock, scream at anyone who got in his way. He wanted to transform, take out his crossbow, and shoot someone in the head, preferably a magical girl. Actually, he probably wouldn’t just shoot a magical girl in the head; ideally, he’d put as many bolts through her as possible.
Worthless. Worthless. Worthless.
Those girls, those holier-than-thou bitches who, no matter what, would always be worth more than himself…
Those girls pissed him off. Oh, they could try and deny their true natures, try and act all saintly and pure, but they were humans, and, as evidenced by the hugeness of the river, humans could never be pure. They could, however, try and shunt away their impurities; they were very good at that. Perhaps that was why those girls took their nonexistent virtues and turned them into weapons. In a more naive time of his life, he’d thought those virtues were genuine, and that perhaps he might one day be able to cast off his nature and gain worth. But no more.
Pinochle nudged him from behind, granting him a new focus to escape from his spiralling. Following Pinochle’s lead, Conquian gradually slowed his steps until the two of them were walking well behind Tarot and Piquet — well out of earshot.
“Sometime soon,” Pinochle whispered, “we’ll go and investigate the new Spade. There’s something I want to check.”
“What would you check?”
Pinochle’s eyes darted around, as if he were afraid someone, or something, was watching. “I have a theory.”
“What’s the theory?” Conquian asked, but he didn’t expect a reply, and he didn’t get one. Pinochle had clammed up again, jaw clenched, blankly staring forward. This time for sure, he’d definitely stay silent the rest of the day. The theory might very well end up becoming one of the many things that Pinochle would never tell him about in full.
In the end, though, Conquian didn’t mind too much. He was itching for a fight, and he’d take any excuse to get one. Pinochle never said the new Spade had to be alive in order to investigate her, did he? And maybe, with a little luck, he could kill Clover as well.
Over the cacophonic whispers of the river, Conquian internally prayed to nothing and no one, wishing for the power and luck that’d give him a chance to kill the magical girls, mangling their bodies with crossbow bolts until they were just as worthless as he was.
I’ve heard the saying, “there are two sides to every story,” more often than I can count. I dislike that saying. Stories are never so evenly split.
There’s another saying, one that goes, “There are three sides to every story: your side, my side, and the truth.” This is a little more accurate, though still too simple for my liking. Then again, I suppose it wouldn’t be much of a saying if it were a long, detailed analysis, right?
A black river flows through the Other Side, while a glowing white river flows through the celestial realm of the fairies. The “real world” lies in between the two, much larger than both of them combined. This is the gray between the extremes of black and white, composed of countless shades and hues.
Can anyone say with absolute certainty that, among all of these shades of gray, they can accurately pinpoint the truth?
