It doesn’t make sense.
I have too many questions and hardly enough answers. And as much as Luc wants me to stay in the coliseum, make a life for myself, stay alive so I can save Galilei, I have my own life to live while I’m in here. I’m a citizen now. And I’m not confident enough in Plan A—saving Luc’s father.
So I’m making sure there’s a Plan B and Plan C.
Luc can’t stop me. He’s not really going to strip me of my citizenship if I exit without a hall pass from him. I didn’t enter another world simply to be controlled and tamed by its Emperor, no matter how much we can help each other.
I wander down the Macella Quarter—the market quarter as Crixus explained—looking for the exit gate. I’ll walk the whole circumference of this place if I have to. The more my feet walk the stone slab streets and my eyes take in rough wood tied together to form stalls and canvas blowing in a wind gust, the easier it is to see this place as real.
The citizens seem to have embraced the ancient Roman attitude. They dress the part, know the words like macella and taberna, and sell goods to add to the world. Plush cushions for lounging on at a meal, leather goods like sandals, bracers, and belts. Nothing is colorful though. It all kind of blends in with the muted tone of this place.
A few stalls sell uncut cloth with some pre-sewn tunics, which reminds me of my Romanesque clothes waiting for me. My noxior clothing attracts plenty of stares and a few whispers of Icarus.
It’s hard to imagine people giving up their way of life in the Real World, but as I look at the tunics, I realize they likely can’t make much else in this Nightmare without the use of a sewing machine.
Hex Galilei must not have been fond of electricity since he sent us all back into ancient times. But at least we don’t have to eat ancient food. The food stalls smell and look incredible, and people swarm them with their coin purses. Do they not realize that this food doesn’t benefit them? No calories, no energy . . . just useless flavor that is nothing more than a trick to the brain.
Yet they pay for it. They eat it.
Isn’t that every dieter’s dream? Eat whatever you want with no consequences? It’s not like people in the Real World used to eat solely out of necessity—it was more of a culture and an addiction than anything else.
I pass a booth with weapons, some smoking with nightmist and others with shining metal. There are several kris daggers—though they’re not double bladed with metal and nightmist—labeled “Icarus’s Spore Dagger.”
Wait, my dagger? They’ve already made duplicates of what I used to kill the Spore girl?
As I stare, someone actually buys one. Another person points at me and whispers. I don’t like being watched, so I detour to the taberna stall and pick up my Roman clothes. I snort as I look them over and almost hand them back to the stall tender. Impractical sandals with leather straps that tie around my ankles and partway up my calves. There’s a sleeveless, knee-length tunic with a belt and then a long draping robe to wear over it if I really want to look stupid.
I pull on the tunic and tuck the noxior garb into a satchel that slings across my shoulder in case I want to fill it with other imaginary items.
Once I look the part, I breathe easier at the lack of stares. I pass a physician’s stall, where several people sit outside on benches, cradling a wounded limb or propping up a cut foot. Interesting. We can be injured in the Nightmare but also healed? How does that translate to our physical bodies?
A small stall tucked back in the shadows pulls me up short. Counseling. I roll my eyes. People really would do anything to make a buck here. What sort of counseling can help anyone trapped in Tenebra? We all know we’re going to die once our physical bodies run out of food.
Perhaps I stand staring too long because a woman steps quietly from the tent. “Want to come in for a rest?” She wears a long plain dress that brushes against the dirt, belted at the waist with a thick piece of cloth. Her hair is platinum white, shaved on one side and swept behind her ear on the other.
The air from inside the tent smells heavily of incense and something a little more foul. “I can sit on the ground just as well for free.” I’m not about to waste my time with some person who preys on people’s heightened despair emotions.
“We don’t charge you to sit and have a breather.”
“And I don’t believe you’re only offering me a breather.”
She shrugs and pours water from a pitcher into a cup, then holds it out to me.
“What’s the use?” I ask. “It’s not like it’ll actually quench my thirst.”
“It will lessen the thirst you feel while you’re here in the Nightmare.”
She’s the first person I’ve talked to who doesn’t immediately call this place Tenebra. I take the cup and down the liquid, enjoying the sensation of quenching my thirst, even if it is a lie.
Only then do I realize how quiet the Macella has become—one of those odd moments where you feel like everyone has just heard your conversation. I turn to see if there’s a cause. Though nothing seems off, a few people begin murmuring, and everyone’s eyes seem to be searching.
Then a brief whiff of hot tar reaches my nose. I’ve smelled it twice before. In the cart from the Tunnel and in the Arena.
A Spore is here.
The people know it. Almost everyone has stilled. Almost. Two forms move, inch by inch. One is covered head to toe in a thick brown robe. A female, judging by her height and build. She grips the hand of a small girl with braided hair wearing noxior attire.
The little girl I saved from the snake.
Her head is ducked, and she follows close to the hooded figure. As they get closer, the smell gets stronger.
A Spore is trying to kidnap this child . . . right under our noses.
“There!” someone yells, pointing.
The hooded woman breaks into a sprint, dragging the girl behind her. The crowd acts as one with a burst of fury. One lady from a pastry stall throws a braided cord with a weight on the end. It tangles around the Spore’s feet, and she falls. She’s back up in a moment and gives a shrill whistle, yanking her hood farther down.
A bird’s echoing cry pierces the air. Does every Spore have a giant pet phoenix?
It swoops over the coliseum wall and into the Macella. Several people scream and duck, but the phoenix glides right past them and grabs the little girl in one claw and the Spore woman in another. As it flaps to gain height, a vendor grabs onto the Spore’s ankle and rips her out of the phoenix’s grip.
She crumbles to the dirt, and it’s like throwing raw meat into the den of a starved lion. Vendors and shoppers alike converge on her, kicking and screaming and stomping. One wields a club. Another a dagger.
They’re going to kill her.
Even though I was guilty of that myself in the Arena, I can’t watch it happen again. So I turn away. But that feels wrong. The phoenix keeps flying, taking the little girl with it.
No one can save her now. She’s phoenix food.
