Chapter 16:
City of Flowers
Even in the outskirts, the Ancestry Hall is visible. It towers above the walls like a spectating giant, and though Iris does not know who or what organisation designed the Hall she is still thankful for its looming presence. It’s a reminder that Fontanelle will follow her like a lost child everywhere she goes. Even if she is far from home.
Even if she’ll never get to be home.
“Haven’t been in Fontanelle’s uplands since, well…” Koal shields their eyes from the glaring sun as they observe the Hall. “Since they kicked me out.”
“I guess that makes you both wanted criminals,” Petri puts in.
“The difference between me and Iris is that my misdemeanour was years ago.” The driver motions to their face at Iris. “I didn’t cause a massive scientific commotion. I’m not shaking up the very foundations of New England just by existing. They’re not going to remember me.”
Iris searches Koal’s face. She sees downcast pupils, a slight tug at the corners of their lips—regret.
She asks them, “What did you do?”
The smile does not come off their face. “I’m just a deserter.”
“Deserter?” Iris cocks her head to the side. “Oh, deserter? Like a soldier?”
“Something like that.”
Iris frowns. “I didn’t think people were still being conscripted. I thought we were done with war.”
Behind Koal, Petri crosses her hands over each other to form an ‘X’ and shakes her head multiple times. Even the Blumen in Iris’ head growls and says, If they’ve proven to be trustworthy and they’re trying to help you, don’t try to fucking poke holes in their story. There’s something they don’t want to say—fine by me. They’re doing a terrible job of lying, though.
But Koal only smiles gently. “A one way trip or two way to the Ancestry Hall, Iris?”
She presses her lips together; the conversation is gone, like a leaf in the breeze. “I’ll decide when we get back,” she mutters.
A flicker of emotion shoots through her head, but the Blumen remains quiet.
“I will be going home,” whispers Iris. Her voice is lost in the rumble of the wagon’s engine, and even the roar of the stove seems to speak louder than her.
Silence befalls the wagon once again. The scenery crawls by slowly, and Iris drinks it all in, though she grows more restless by the second. She sees new sights—a sidewalk peppered with white paint, the side of a wall crawling with both moss and bullet holes alike. The Blumen remains quiet. A bit later Petri offers her a mug of hot tea and boiled potatoes, to which Iris does not decline in order to seem polite.
She stares into the mug’s murky waters, and again does revulsion assault her senses, so she begins by biting into the soft skin of a potato instead. A twitch of nausea pangs in her stomach, but she fights it until she has completely finished eating. The mug has stopped steaming—the tea sits cold against the windowsill.
“Why’re you so afraid of eating plants if you used to be human?” she asks.
Why're you afraid of seeing corpses if you know you're not dead?
She presses her lips together. "But you used to be human. Flesh and skin and all that. You weren't born with leaves for fingers."
I wasn't. But this is who I am now, who I've been for a hundred years counting. And it's a tough habit to break.
The leaves in her tea swirl. She tosses its contents out of the window and hears water splatter against concrete.
Then she says, “Back in the cave, you showed me a vision.” She wipes her starchy hand off the hem of her cloak, leaving white specks along its stitches. “You showed me a lab, and two people.”
I did. His tone is almost defensive, as if he’s been wounded simply by her question. What about it?
“Who was the woman?”
Nobody. A liar.
“What about her name?”
His voice becomes nothing more than a growl. Not only do I have to listen to the fucking thoughts in your head, but now I have to endure your questions as well.
She shuts her eyes. She wonders if the connection works both ways—if he can send her his thoughts, then surely she too could open up his head, read his history like a book in a library.
He senses her intent before she has a chance to even try. Fine, I’ll spare you the visions and tell you myself. I didn’t know her name.
“Oh. That’s helpful.”
I don’t think the scientists were permitted to give us their names. But she told us to call her Dr. Gold on some days, then Ms. Harvest on others. I’d thought it was dark humour, but in hindsight it seemed more like she was trying to relay a message in secret. Didn’t do a very good job of it, though, ‘cause it’s been a hundred years and I still don’t know what the fuck she was talking about.
Iris chews on the insides of her cheeks. “So… these scientists, they were trying to change your body so you could fight better. They called you a soldier, and then used your code name to refer to you, so there was clearly some kind of war involved.”
Aye.
“But nowhere in the history books does it say anything about any war in the last hundred—”
You seriously still don't believe that New England horseshit, do you? The Blumen snaps. There was a war, it happened. I was there. I’m a talking plant that’s been grafted onto your arm because of that war.
Iris purses her lips and looks down. “They told us wars were a thing of the past, relics we left behind in the Age of Metal. We’re civilised now, and we would never fight amongst ourselves. And if you tried to ask otherwise…the teachers wouldn’t give you the chance to ask otherwise.”
Pfft. Civilised my ass. Look around—look at all of those starving children on the streets in the tunnels, all of those men in shiny prosthetics with blood seeped into their joints, and tell me war isn’t already brewing. Hell, look at the people who tried to take you. Everyone’s already fighting, and you can’t see even that.
“Wars are battles fought over years between two countries,” Iris says, her cheeks growing hot.
No. Ask anyone who was conscripted with me, and they probably wouldn’t even remember who they were fighting against. Even I don’t remember who we fought against. But we fought a war, I can tell you that. I know what wars look like.
The vines on the buildings begin to recede, like frost drying in the unbearable sun. “Almost there, Iris,” says Koal.
“Wait.” Petri rushes up to the window and slides her goggles over her eyes. “Are those the same dogs we told to fuck off earlier?”
“Persistent.” Koal snorts. “Like wolves.”
“No,” says Petri. “Something’s… off. There’s more of them…some are wearing purple. Openly armed too. And—they’ve got barricades set up.”
“The outskirts is Tongue territory, the fuck do they want from a bunch of art hippies?” Koal grits their teeth.
Iris watches the dogs on the horizon. She and the Blumen come to the same conclusion at the same time: “They don’t want you. They’re after me.”
“Shit.” Koal strides over the centre of the room and kicks open a hatch. “Get in, then.”
Nausea settles in her stomach. She clutches her Blumen arm and pleads with him to be silent as she enters the hatch and shuts the door behind her.
Several minutes pass in the darkness. Everytime she catches her breath quickening she stamps it down, counts to ten and back to zero in her head. Sometimes in the corner of her eyes she’ll see the remnants of a stark white laboratory, and her nose will sting with the taste of chlorophyll. But she manages to keep the revulsion at bay. For a moment, her head is the most silent it's ever been in her life.
Then, footsteps. Lots of footsteps. Enough to shake the ceiling. Koal is shouting something, but Iris can’t tell what—it isn’t until the hatch is prised open that she hears what they’re saying.
“Iris! Iris! Run!”
Through the gap in the hatch, she sees the unmistakable white garb of the dogs. They’ve entered the wagon, gotten past Koal and Petri—her heart leaps into her throat as she eyes the faintest glimmer of a gunbaton strapped against one of the dogs’ belts.
The hatch flings open. There are many enforcers. So, so many. Her vision swims with blinding white cloaks and glittering firearms—they reflect off the wagon’s metallic walls, a white sunrise against an ocean of grey.
It’s over.
Iris shuts her eyes.
It’s all over.
No. It’s not.
Her Blumen friend twitches, then shoots forward like a rocket. He wraps himself around the neck of one enforcer only to throw him against another. Something cracks as they land against the wall. They don’t get back up.
Iris, get out of the hatch.
“They’ll shoot me!” she cries.
No, they won’t. I won’t let them.
Hesitantly, she clamours out of the hatch. Her Blumen arm flings around the room, sprouting thorns that stab into eyes, roses that release specks of yellow dust into the air and cause men to topple over, leaving their eyes blank and unmoving. Someone tries to grab Iris, but the Blumen snatches them away before she can even begin to struggle against them. Bullets fly and embed themselves into the vines. It stings a little. But only a little.
In the middle of all of this, Koal has made it back to their rightful place in the driver’s seat. They struggle to force the engines to ignite—their hands are shaking too much, and they’re having trouble getting the ignition to admit its key—but eventually the wagon begins to roar, and Koal slams a heel into the pedal. The remaining enforcers clamour at the windows and stumble after them. In the end, they stop giving chase.
Not because they can’t keep up, Iris realises, but because they’re afraid. Of her. A smile begins to twitch across her lips until she realises that Koal is hunched up against the wheel, their shoulders bunched together like a knot.
And Petri is nowhere to be seen.
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