| Dialetheia, Pt. 2 |

“Can something be true and false at the same time?”

Marsia held her head low as her mother berated her. Not even the professionally-graded breakfast before her could drown out the bad taste in her mouth—not while being scorned.

“No, mother.”

“Then how in the world am I supposed to take your word as truth?”

The other nobles sitting around the table glared bullets at her. Her own parents, embarrassing her in front of the most prestigious individuals in the X-Chain like some sickening publicity stunt.

Her father, wearing the chiseled scowl Marsia never saw him without, chimed in. “The video evidence clearly shows you somewhere you shouldn’t be. You are never to leave this estate without express permission from your higher-ups.”

“But I had that…” Marsia testified under her breath.

“Speak up, missy,” her mother grumbled. “Or I’ll take that television I know you love so much.”

“Nothing, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

“Good girl,” she said with a fake smile. Turning to her guests, she continued, “We of course know how valuable Marsia is, to us and to all of you. I’ll not let our precious treasure be destroyed by the world outside.”

Conversation continued around Marsia—dishes clanked, silverware scraped, and the elites all spoke in their poshy nasal voices about some important nothing. She looked to the cavernous ceiling for solace, for it could not abuse her.

“Did you all see the news?”

“What, the changes in traffic regulations? You can thank the Barons.”

“No, no. Though, thank you for that.”

“Oh, you two bickering as always, get to the point.”

A hearty laugh reverberated through the wine glasses, nearly shattering them. Marsia tried her best not to flinch.

“Four cops tragically passed today. Chief Bailey wound up dead.”

“Yes, I did see that. The work of Undersiders, I reckon.”

“A fair assertion. My butler spotted the warrant in the X2 Scripture on my way here and showed me. Neither culprit had a surname.”

“A trademark of their filthy hands. Quite illogical.”

Marsia slumped over her empty plate and held her head up with one arm. “Would any of you happen to remember those names?” she asked.

“Marsia, now. These are adult matters.” She imagined her mother’s pupils turning into slits, like a snake’s. She was the devil.

“So may I go to my room now?”

“No. You’re to stay right here until our lovely guests finish their meals.”

“You’ve given me nothing to do and no escape from it.”

“You’re wrong. I’ve given you something very important to do,” her mother retorted. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Sit there. Look pretty. Then perhaps one of these fine gentlemen would be willing to court you, and you could leave as you so desperately desire.”

Marsia fake-gagged—actually, almost genuinely gagged—and turned her sights back around to the round table. The men had yet to shelve the discussion of Underside’s rampant crime. She recalled the still horror on Arufa’s face as time had stopped, and the fact she’d tried to steal from her.

“Undersiders are so illogical. Their whole side of the city has collapsed and fallen to ruin, and all they do is vandalize it.”

“Hilarious, really. ‘Oh, a fresh coat of paint should do the trick!’ they say, meanwhile they toil in economic crisis.” Another obnoxious chuckle. She winced again.

And the morning continued similarly, as the nobles moved on to other matters, devoid of any sort of real emotion. That was the standard day in Marsia’s life—boring and repetitive. Everyone else enjoyed it. She couldn’t understand how.

When the final toast was made, she scurried up the stairwell and slipped into her room. There wasn’t much to do in her room but sit in silence—but even that was better than pointless bickering. She expected solitude but was met with a worried Locri, glued to the television.

“Hello?”

“…”

“Miss Lonestar?”

Hearing her last name, she snapped out of her trance. “Sorry. I meant to update you on a possible out, but…”

“What’s on? True crime?”

“I suppose you could say that…?”

Marsia peered at the screen. It was live footage of some sort of police chase—the kind of action Locri would be into, she reasoned.

“Did they catch them?” she asked, speaking in a baby voice.

“No, you idiot.”

“You know I’m teasing you. I don’t need your scathing remarks.”

“Not the time. This is… bad.”

Marsia raised an eyebrow and sat beside her, watching the chase. She could barely even make out what they were chasing—it only became clear they were going after two outlaws when the chief officer pulled into a loading dock and dismounted his bike. The camera was likely in his helmet, made sleek and inhuman to intimidate criminals.

“We don’t want to kill you. Just come out with your hands up,” he said, angling his rifle at the ground.

The two runaways hid in the cover of shadow, and since she knew they must have been there, Marsia wondered what they were thinking. She drew the scenario in her mind; it was impossible to escape without capture. Hiding would do them no good, especially if they were from Underside.

“Locri, what’s so bad about this?”

And then, it happened so quickly Marsia barely even glimpsed it. Out of the shadows dashed a young girl in a silver jacket, rolling like an acrobat through a pile of machinery—she turned her body towards the camera, and then the signal cut, accompanied by a horrifying shatter.

The footage made it clear exactly what had occurred. The girl, frozen in time on the broadcast static, held a glowing nail gun towards the camera. Purple energy radiated from the bottom of the screen, right where the chief’s skull would have been. But despite having just witnessed a murder, Marsia was busy trying to wrap her head around two facts.

One. This girl was Arufa, clear as day. Her wild, frenzied hairstyle, her signature smirk, her radiant amber eyes—she could never mistake her for anyone else.

Two. Arufa had a very prevalent sigil over her chest, the very same one she’d freaked out over having herself. But she hadn’t remembered that experience at all until now. She had to say something.

“I… that’s–”

“Your friend from yesterday night, yes. This is why I always tell you to stay away from Underside. They treat life like a game—and you’ll never win against an expert.”

“No, I–”

“Stop right there, Miss Lilia. You’ve got to accept that sometimes people act illogically and emotionally. It’s really super interesting, but… another time. Arufa was never your friend.”

“Are they going to kill her now?”

“Probably.” Locri opened up the web browser on her wrist watch hologram and checked for the warrant. “Dead or alive… Arufa and Skyler—okay, that was their name… four policemen killed.”

Marsia, who had been pacing the room in frustration, stopped in her tracks. “Four?”

“Four.”

“Are you sure that the broadcast was live?” Static still meandered the useless screen.

“Positive.”

“Weird. Because the nobles this morning were talking about the exact same crime. But… it hadn’t happened yet,” Marsia noted.

Locri blinked. “They talked about this? Okay, wait. You actually listen to what they talk about?”

“Yes. And sometimes, if it’s interesting.”

“And you’re sure it’s this, and not some other thing that happened earlier this morning.”

“Two Undersiders murdered four police officers, including the chief. You can’t kill the chief twice.”

Locri pinched the bridge of her nose, a standard habit of hers whenever she was deep in thought. Her curly, olive green hair fell just barely over her eyes. “Unless they appointed a new chief. It takes only an hour or so to do that.”

“Don’t apply logic to something that doesn’t make any sense. My gut is telling me something’s wrong. Who was the chief who just died?”

“Chief Bailey.”

“So only if there are two Chief Baileys does this make any semblance of sense.”

“Then there must be! Things always line up somehow.”

“Explain the sigils, then!”

Locri stared at her, confused. “Sigils?”

“See? You forgot again! Everyone forgets! I forgot! I keep forgetting! It doesn’t make any sense!”

“What are you talking about…?”

“Just remember that word! The one I just… told you…?” Marsia clutched her head. “I forgot. I forgot what I was saying. And I know it must have been really important because I’m on the verge of tears.”

“Do we need to get you checked?”

“No!”

Marsia’s mind was an easel, privy to whatever she was experiencing at the moment and nothing else. She knew she had no memory problems—her physicians could attest to it. But things kept slipping away, and she wasn’t sure what or why.

She picked up the remote and shut off the TV, which only showed static. Recalling what they’d seen together was a difficult task, but one she accomplished; the mystery regarding the murders still plagued her thoughts.

“Locri.”

“Yes, Lady Marsia?”

“Can something be true and false at the same time?”

“Weird question. Why?”

“I know we just watched Arufa kill the chief. And that would make it her fault. But… somehow, I’m not sure it’s her fault it happened.”