This is going to be the greatest last score of all time.
Seven
KYRKARTA CITY IS MUCH MORE beautiful at night and from a distance. The darkness hides all the people, though many of them are still out and about, seeking their poison of choice. If only you really could dance, screw, or drink the last ten years since the spellplague away, I would be right there with them every night. As it is, I only join in on the really bad nights.
Most nights I keep to watching from my rooftop perch. If it wasn’t near the highest spot in the city, my vantage point atop the Cliffs would be useless. Our building is less than half the height of the steel spires that make up the downtown business district.
As it is, I have elevation on my side, and the city sprawls out before me, each section divided by invisible but firm borders. Rich assholes pretending nothing bad ever happened, next to gentrifying assholes who consider themselves saviors, next to oblivious assholes who just want a big house. Shopping, shopping, shopping! Trendy cafés full of well-paid young MMC employees. Shiny bland newness constructed after the spellplague. Nightlife with drugs, bordered by nightlife with moderately less drugs. Strip clubs and by-the-hour motels. Abandoned “memorial” neighborhoods overtaken by maz-mad squirrels. Bad places to be in an earthquake. Bad places to park your car. Bad places to be alone.
Much of it glows with neon, with maz, with money and desperate forward-looking optimism. The parts that don’t aren’t parts you want to visit anyway.
I never look to my left or rear from our roof. The Cliffs are on the southeastern edge of town, part of the orphan district. No one who doesn’t live here calls it that out loud, but they might as well. The neighborhood is roughly divided into thirds: the Cliffs (plague orphans who try hard), the Caves (orphans who don’t care), and the Badlands (orphans who really lean hard into the whole FML vibe).
We never go near the Badlands.
We cut stop number two of our grand farewell tour short in light of the job tomorrow morning. We went to Barret Tower, the tallest building in the city and the ultimate tourist destination, inasmuch as there is such a thing in post-plague Kyrkarta. Only Ania had been there before, so she insisted on dragging the rest of us “before the family broke up,” as she put it.
Admittedly, the view was spectacular. Possibly better than my own favorite spot. It put us that much closer to the stars. We spent most of the evening pointing out constellations, rattling off schemes to get selected for the lunar living program, imagining ourselves as movie heroes who get to steal spaceships and gallivant across the stars, far away from this place. It was a gorgeously clear night, worthy of basking. We left early (for us, at least, meaning before midnight) so we could get some sleep.
Well, so the others could sleep. Sleep and I aren’t on speaking terms.
A notification pops up in my vision, the green border around Davon’s photo melding with the lights of the business district on the horizon. I open the message, and the words spill across my lenses.
Davon: Will you talk to me now?
I close my eyes, cutting off the retinal projection while I take a moment to become a human capable of holding a conversation again. I’ve avoided him since receiving his gift and telling the others about the MMC job offer. Telling my friends is one thing. If I talk to him about it, I’ll end up telling him I plan to take it. Telling him is effectively accepting the job offer for real, since he’ll practically be my boss. That is a whole other thing that my brain shies away from like a stray dog from loud noise.
I’m a terrible cousin. Davon’s known me longer than anyone else still alive in Kyrkarta, but the thought of having to look him in the eye, even over video, makes my palms sweat.
You: Can’t vid right now. Everyone’s asleep. Text ok?
Davon: Fine by me.
I was worried when I didn’t hear from you after the quake.
You: Sorry. I was really focused on getting home. The wards on the cliffs failed.
Davon: I figured. I heard wards were failing all over the city. I’m sure your datemate had it under control, though.
You: They’re not my datemate.
Davon: They would be, if you’d let them. You know that, right?
They’re leaving. What would be the point? Time for a strategic subject change.
You: Hell of an aftershock this evening. Shook me right out of my bed.
Davon: Dizzy . . .
I almost wish I had a physical deck and screen under my hands instead of using finger tracking on a virtual keyboard with my lenses. It would feel so very satisfying to chuck the thing over the edge of the rooftop, sending Davon’s words flying away with it.
You: They’re not and never will be. I don’t date.
Davon is typing. . . .
I very nearly go stealth mode to duck what I know is coming next. Davon is persistent, though. Best to get it over with. I start typing my reply before he even sends the message.
Davon: Fine, have it your way, as always. Have you had a chance to think about my offer?
You: Just give me one more day. I need to get through a big thing tomorrow, then I promise I’ll tell you my decision.
Davon: Big thing? Everything okay? You’ve been kind of mysterious lately. Hell, for the last few years. I just assumed it was you growing up, but is there something else?
You: Everything’s fine. I just need to tie up some loose ends and see how a few things fall before I commit.
Davon: They won’t hold the job forever, Diz.
You: I know. I’m not asking for forever. I’m asking for one more day. Can you live with that?
Davon starts typing, then stops, then starts again. I catch myself clenching my teeth and force my jaw to relax. Come on, please, don’t force the issue right now. Is one more day so much to ask?
Finally he replies.
Davon: Yeah. I can live with that.
Not that I have a choice, you brat. :P
You: Hey! You don’t get to talk to me that way!
Davon: Please, I changed your diapers, held your hair when you got drunk the first time, and bought you tissues and pizza when the girl whose name we do not speak broke up with you.
You: I never cried!
Davon: The tissues were a gesture. The point is, I’ve earned the right to tease you.
You: Whatever you say, Annoying Helicopter McWorryface
Davon: Just let me know. Tomorrow night, okay?
You: Tomorrow night.
And thanks for the gift. It was
. . . a lot
Davon: You’re welcome. Always.
I make my messaging status “unavailable” before he can start in again. He’s right, he’s been there for me forever, has known me longer than even Remi and Jaesin. He held my hand at the pickup zone for school when I was in my first year and terrified and he was already in fifth grade. He knew my parents, before the plague. He took apart decks with me and taught me to hack video games.
And he’s all I’ll have, come next week.
Behind me, the roof access hatch clicks, and I internally sigh. If it’s one of those jerks from the fifth floor up here to smoke and throw stuff off the roof, I swear I’ll . . .
But it isn’t. It’s Remi.
My heart rate picks up as I look them over, checking for any signs of distress. Symptoms keeping them awake again? They smile, though, as they slide down beside me with their back against the building’s cooling unit, a single gossamer strand of maz dangling between their fingers. They stick their bare feet straight out in front of them and keep their gaze on the maz, spinning that one thread into a more robust string that folds and twines in around itself. The golden glow of it—some of our stolen sunnaz mixed with something else—illuminates the pillow creases on their face and the dark circles under their eyes.