Dead like the rot

They don’t bother burying the bodies of the enforcers. Koal insists on dumping them in the open, where they’ll be in plain view for all to see. For the rest of the enforcers to see.

The sun burns dully behind layers upon layers of clouds. Koal fashions a headstone out of corrugated scrap metal, then places it into the ground. “Wherever you are, I hope you manage to write your perfect poem,” they say. Then they rest one of Petri’s keyboards against the headstone, scrub at their eyes with their sleeves, and head back towards the wagon.

Iris watches from the window. The shock of Petri’s death has ebbed away now, leaving only a dull ache in her heart where something glorious had once resided. “They shot her,” she’d said, more to herself than anyone else. “They took her life, just like that. They didn’t even stop to think about it.”

Koal had said nothing. The Blumen had grumbled and also said nothing. Even now, they refuse to speak at length about the brutality of Petri’s death, or anything regarding her death at all. Their hands do not shake when they start the engine. The wagon only rumbles; the scenery only passes. Petri’s grave slowly turns from dot, then to speck, until at last it vanishes entirely from view, too far for the human eye to perceive.

Everything is wrong. The world should be at a standstill, not trotting along. It shouldn’t be just another dreary afternoon in New England. The word ‘just’ even feels foreign in her mind; it’s like she’s struggling to pronounce words from a dead language. ‘Just’ implies something smaller. ‘Just’ implies that Petri isn’t dead. When she closes her eyes, everything feels like it might just stop.

She blinks slowly, but the wagon rattles on.

Even as night falls and cold sweeps over the landscape, they say nothing. But in the throes of midnight, Iris hears the shuffle of cloth on cloth, and when she looks over at Koal's bedroll she sees their body shuddering under the blankets. She cannot tell whether they are afraid or crying.

—

In the morning the dew sticks to the windows and the interior is so cold that it seems to shiver along with Iris. Koal only drives and speaks in single word sentences. Lunch is two cuts of toast topped with butter. Thankfully, Koal only serves water instead of tea, but Iris doubts that the driver knows of her true predicament.

It is also around lunch when Iris spots the entrance to the tunnels, though she does not recall entering through this method—the gates are stained black, and there are eyes painted on either side of them. She regrets breaking their impromptu vow of silence, but her curiosity gets the better of her.

“Where are we?” she asks.

“We call it the Sclera,” Koal answers. "Only Tongues know of this gate. We should be safe entering the tunnels through here."

Sure enough, they pass through without much fanfare. The gate opens up to reveal a dingy garage filled with other wagons. Koal parks their particular wagon in an isolated corner, far from the others.

Then they sit and bury their head in their arms.

"I don't know how we're supposed to get you through the tunnels," they admit. Something in their voice breaks; it sounds like someone's driven a sledgehammer through a pane of glass. "The streets are probably crawling with them now. Like fucking ants on candy."

Iris has never seen Koal so distraught. "I'm… I'm sorry about Petri. If I hadn't been here… if you hadn't sheltered me—"

"Yeah." Koal grips the wheel until the whites of their knuckles show. "I know. If this, and what if that, and what-not. I still have to drag you through the tunnels." They shoot up suddenly. "But we're not going to get anywhere sitting around. Pull that cloak over your head. And if anyone, anyone harrasses you to take it off, nudge me. I'll be close. Don't use that arm of yours unless we have to."

"But what can you do?"

Koal weaves the trigger of something that resembles a firearm between their fingers. Iris doesn't have to ask any more questions.

Leaving the garage proves easy enough; the streets surrounding the exit are empty for the most part, save for the odd settler strolling by here and there. They stop to greet Koal and only give Iris a passing glance before they continue on their way. If they'd noticed, they made no mention of it.

But safety lasts for only so long. Eventually the odd pedestrian leads into a crowd, and soon the two arrive once again in the hustle and bustle of the tunnels. Iris is careful not to let her Blumen brush past anyone, lest they identify her by the feel of her arm.

Paranoia feasts on Iris like a parasite. By the time they've made it into the commercial district, she's already buried her fingers into the hem of Koal's cloak and turned stone cold from fear. Whenever she sees what she thinks could be a white coat, she can feel her breath catch in her throat. She can feel herself choking on thin air.

"Easy now," Koal says. "They haven't recognised you, and we're almost through the worst of it."

The reassurance doesn't work. There's a quiver in Koal's voice that's just small enough to unsettle Iris. Something is wrong, very wrong.

"We haven't seen a single mercenary," Iris says.

"I know," Koal whispers back.

Her eyes latch onto something; a sliver of dull silver, its surface foggy with dirt and rust. Her Blumen arm reacts before she can. He coils around the blade and jerks it to the side, sending a woman toppling through the crowd. Koal looks up, alarmed. Their hand hovers over their firearm, their muscles tensing to the point where they look like they might snap back like a rubber band.

Green chlorophyll oozes down her arm and into her cardigan. When the woman comes rushing back with her knife in front of her, Koal sends a bullet through her head. She topples over for good.

Iris takes a brief moment to observe the woman's lack of uniform. Her enemies are hiding in plain sight.

"They're aiming for me and your Blumen arm, not you," Koal says, breathless. "Fuck. Taking shots at us in plain sight, and in this crowd, too… the cowards."

Iris. Duck!

A split second later, and Iris finds herself on the ground. When she looks upwards she sees a large, curved blade, arcing off a man’s prosthetic arm like a stroke of moonlight. He swings again, into her, and something in the air shivers. Her Blumen arm throws Iris back, sending her stumbling into several other pedestrians. Everything happens too fast; Koal can only watch on, frozen in place.

The Blumen stretches forward, too fast for the eye to see. Petals scatter from its roses. The man with the prosthetic arm lunges again, his other armblade singing through the air. Iris throws up her human hand in front of her face out of instinct.

The impact never comes.

When Iris looks back up, she sees the man frozen in place, his eyes just as wide as hers. Her Blumen only retracts his arm again as her attacker keels over, dead.

We’ve got to go, he says. As if in response, Koal grabs Iris and turns to run, but soon they flinch and stop too—Iris realises that there’s more attackers behind them, each with their own, glinting weaponry.

Surrounded. Like flowers in a thicket of weeds.

One of the men—a tall, muscled soldier with his eyes covered by a visor—begins to speak. “Stand down, Iris Gui Hua. This is your last warning. No further blood needs to be spilled today.”

They will not let you go gently, the Blumen spits. Fight, fight, until the bitter end.

The soldiers close in. Koal attempts to fire into the crowd, but they are grabbed before they can get a shot off. Arms reach around Iris like tendrils, but the Blumen stretches and shoots through them. Blood splatters across her forehead, but all Iris can think about is getting away from here.

And then something peculiar happens.

Cirsium steel careens across the sky, like a rocket. The hands holding Iris go slack, and she shakes them off with ease. A headless body falls before her, and she stares at it, shellshocked—then someone’s hand covers her eyes. She flails, afraid.

“Shh. Shh.” The voice is familiar and feminine, like sugared tea in the early morning. “Don’t look. I’m here to save you.”

“Who—?”

The girl’s hands are already gone. Iris hears the sound of screaming men and women, but she dares not open her eyes. Then someone grabs her by the hand—her real hand—and runs.

“Is that you?” Iris asks.

“Keep your eyes shut. Don’t look until I say you can.”

She hears more shouting men, Koal’s heaving breaths, the pitter patter of shoe against concrete. “This way!” Koal shouts at some point. Then they turn and turn, until Iris can’t keep track of where they are in the tunnels anymore. More soldiers shout—more soldiers fall.

After what seems to be an eon, the voice finally says, “You can open your eyes now, Iris.”

And Iris’ suspicions, unsurprisingly, are confirmed.