Marked: Chapter Sixteen

My nap is fitful and restless; for some unfathomable reason I don't see Naxylotriam. I nap, and wake, and nap a little longer, unable to stay asleep and unable to stay awake. I dream of tall, skinny bald men chasing me through a maze of junk, metal edges and rebar catching on my sleeves and pants legs. I don't stay asleep long enough to find out why I'm running or where I'm running to. But when I can finally keep my eyes open for longer than a few seconds, I find myself feeling marginally better than I did when I laid down.

The problem, of course, is that the nap doesn't help my main-- well, my immediate-- problem: I'm still in a magic hotel hiding from a junkyard white supremacist and the Empire cape he called in.

I get up from the bed, the room's cool air a sharp contrast to the warm, fluffy covers and soft mattress I'm getting up from. I look over to where my clothes are laid across a chair, and stifle a scream, before I remember that the ghost butlers are a thing. Two of them are standing, alert, and staring straight ahead, paying me no more attention than if I were part of the furniture instead of in my underwear wishing I'd used my clothier's closet to make myself some pajamas. But I can do that later; first, I need to get out of the junkyard and make my way back to the church.

I squirm my way into my clothes as quickly as I can manage, noting that apparently they were washed while I was asleep. My shoes, too. I stuff everything that I'm not wearing into my haversack; my eyes linger on that big, warm comforter, but I don't think it'll fit in my bag with all the clothes I've already stuffed in there. Besides, if I want I can just make it again the next time I do this.

The hallways feel unnaturally silent; a silly impression, really, given this whole place is almost by definition unnatural. The ghost butlers are mostly gathered in the foyer, the remainder standing about in the last places I gave them orders. I go into the kitchen, where all the food is still out. I find myself thinking I probably should have had the ghost butlers put everything in the massive fridges on the walls, as everything that was hot has gotten cold, and everything that was chilled is now room temperature. What an incredible waste-- although, none of it looks or smells bad. I grab a cold breadstick, nibbling it. Still good, if cold, instead of hot. My eyes stray to a ghost butler.

"Heat up a bowl of that soup, two of these bread sticks, and..." and what? "... and that's it, actually." I pause, before I find myself adding, "Thank you."

I know that these are some kind of mindless ghost things solely existing to do what I ask, but unlike my invisible minions, these actually look back at me like people, and I feel... wrong... not being polite about it. The ghost butler immediately dishes out a bowl's worth of the broccoli-cheese soup into a metal pot, setting it on the stove to start heating. The breadsticks are set on a high mounted rack over the next burner, turned every fifteen seconds, as near as I can tell. Within a few minutes, I've been given the soup in a bowl, and the breadsticks set on a plate next to it. I change the foyer to have a table and chair, so I can eat while looking out my front door.

It's good, but I'm distracted from it by the appearance of the junkyard in the setting sun. The already unnerving structure, or lack thereof, only serves to enhance the strange light and dark cast of it, where the sunset's blood reds tint the scrap surface of the piles and behind them, the contrasting shade is all but pitch black. I remember the camera being on a light pole but the more concerning part is the fact that it's a pole for lights, intended to illuminate the junkyard at night.

How long do I have to escape? I haven't a clue, but the camera pointed right at my front door suggests he'll know the moment I leave. Does he live on site? It's certainly possible. A lot of large land parcel jobs and businesses include living space somewhere for night caretakers, or to reduce costs on the business owner by letting them live on land they already own. So by that reasoning, he's probably not very far off. I have to plan for that.

I wish I could clearly remember the way to the building, but I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been, too focused on getting to try out my new power. I wasn't paying enough attention period. Not to my surroundings, not to what junkyard guy was doing, not enough attention to anything. I was too focused. Tunnel vision on my new power.

This is the first time in almost a week that I've woken up without getting something new. Is it finished? If it's not, then I wonder if it's because it wasn't a full day, or because I was inside this place. More experimentation needed. It's kind of frustrating that I only get a limited number of uses at a time; it makes figuring out little nuances a lot more difficult.

I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the distracting thoughts. Exploring my powers isn't really helping me with my immediate problem.

Or can it? Can my minions maybe take down the camera from here? Do I count as close enough to them even on the other side of this doorway? And what are they going to use for tools? They're not strong enough to just tear it down if they can't even carry more than a basket of clothes. Still, I have two uses left, so they're a resource. If they help me get out of here, without being seen... But then there's the barbed wire fence to deal with. And, I'm quite sure there will be other cameras to worry about too.

But I still have a use of Clothier's Closet, don't I? I can just make like, a bunch of terry cloth robes to throw over the barbed wire. Can rope be clothing? Can I make clothing that can be easily torn down into rope? Or clothing that has tools built into it?

I'm getting ideas, now, and I feel a thrill of excitement despite myself. But I don't get to take it back if I use an ability and it fizzles, so I have to be careful of my resources here. So what do I have left? I've used up my hideaway hotel-- the others seem to lend themselves to alliteration, so why not this one?-- for the day, and I don't know how long it lasts, but even if it's only six hours like the rest, that still gives me... checking my phone, I have another hour and a half at least. I've used up my energy restoration for the day. I still have two minions. Manifest Minions, ha! One clothier's closet. Two, uh... fabricate food? That sounds good. Two Fabricate Foods. And water. Nuts. That naming could use some work, and I'll worry about it later.

... Spawn Sustenance? Ahhh, FOCUS Taylor!

My dragonmark resources left: two Manifest Minions, two Spawn Sustenance, one Clothier's Closet. My material resources left: a haversack full of clothes, two books, my duffelbag, more clothes, two jugs of water, an empty bowl with a lid, and my basic toiletries. What can I do with all that?

My eyes fall on the random bits of junk outside my front door. And what could I do with all that?

I look at the nearest of the ghost butlers. Can they go outside? The shadows have gotten really dark. With the sun still setting and those deep shadows, now is probably the best time to check. They're mostly transparent, after all, so they should be hard to see. "Go out the door and bring in that piece of rebar."

The ghost butler walks crisply to the door, walks out-- and promptly vanishes.

Okay, I guess that answers that. I make use of Manifest Minion; I can feel its presence immediately. "Go out the doorway, pick up that piece of rebar, and bring it back here."

It goes out the door. For a heart stopping moment I wonder if it's going to vanish too, but the rebar lifts off the ground and drifts to the doorway. Then stays there.

Oh, right. The minion can come inside.

As soon as I decide this, the minion carries the rebar in with it. I take the piece of metal from mid air, feeling its heft, and nod with satisfaction. So it can cross the doorway and bring things back.

Now for the next idea. I use Clothier's Closet; I imagine a sort of bandolier with dangling pouches.

My hand is still charged. Right. I need a door of some kind. I turn and envision a door on the wall. It appears, obediently, and I open it, feeling the power discharge into it. Perfect. And the bandoliers I imagined are hanging in neat rows.

Now to see if the last part of my idea will work. When I was eleven, Dad brought home a gift from one of his workers, a Hawaiian man who I remember being friendly and loud. It was a food called poi, and I remember it being slightly sour and just about it as sticky as the paste glue they give kindergartners. But most importantly, it was a dark gray that blocked out any light that would pass through it.

Summon Sustenance. Ohhh, I like that!

And suddenly my bowl is full of something that seems almost exactly like that poi Dad brought home. I direct my attention to my minion. "Sequence: blackout. First, fill all the pouches on this bandolier with this gray substance. Then, carry the bandolier outside. Next, climb that pole-" I point at the light pole, "-and smear the contents of one pouch over each glass facing of the objects at the top of the pole. Then, return."  I take a deep breath. "Execute blackout."

As my minion fills the pouches and carries the bandolier outside, I begin retrieving robes, baggy pants, gloves, boots, and jackets. It's cold out, which helps, because I'm going to need a few layers to shed if the barbed wire gets through the robes I throw over the top of the fence so I can climb out. Plus, with all the rusted metal about, I'd prefer a bruise on my shins than a cut and possibly tetanus if I whack my leg on any of it, so layers are my friend.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see the floating bandolier return through the doorway. Past it, the junkyard is almost pitch black. It's now or never; I hustle out of the doorway.

The first thing that hits me as I return to the junkyard is the smell; not just the smell of dirt and metal but the underlying accent of the nearby ocean that I hadn't even noticed was gone until it came back. I wrinkle my nose, and look around.

I don't see my doorway. I imagine it there, though, and the portal appears, glowing visibly. I hide it again, as quickly as I can. Nobody can pass through it. The mental locking is reassuring, because I hate the idea of a bunch of neo Nazis wandering around in my hidden hotel, maybe tearing up the rooms I imagined, or dirtying my jacuzzi, or stealing my furniture.

A look towards the light pole tells me that my minion was wildly successful. The lights are doused quite effectively, although I don't know for how long. It's ample motivation to move my carcass, though, and I make my way through the dark and my adjusting eyesight.

There's two other light poles, though. A squint and hands blocking the lamps suggests that there may be cameras on those poles too. I point to the nearest one, pulling out the mostly full bowl and taking off the lid. "Execute blackout,” I whisper. My minion cooperates, and a couple minutes later the whole junkyard is in darkness save for starlight. I can barely make out shapes but it's enough to go by.

I've barely managed to navigate two turns when up ahead I see a flashlight beam stabbing the darkness. I curse to myself, wishing I'd thought to come up with some type of camoflage; the ambient light from the beam is enough for my dark adjusted eyes to see quite clearly, and my frantic looking around for somewhere to hide draws my eyes to a half open fridge.

That's crazy. Except, if it's crazy and it works, it's not that crazy. As quietly as I can I creep over to the fridge and test the door with a finger. It looks fairly recent, which makes sense since it's sort of on the surface of all the debris. Moving the door slightly doesn't give much in the way of resistance, nor, thankfully, make a sound. I check the inside, and feel a sinking sensation as I realize the shelves are still in it. I have no idea how I'm going to move them silently. But the flashlight beam is getting closer and I'm right on the verge of panic so I carefully slide the shelves to the back and wriggle my way in. The interior isn't much bigger than my old school locker, and the shelves clunk slightly in a way that makes my heart jackhammer in my chest. From the partially open door I peek, watching the beam of light passing from side to side, then up, and I realize that through either idiocy or chance, the fridge is only a dozen feet at most from the base of the light pole. I can see the man's shape in the darkness as he looks up, muttering something too softly for me to understand him, as he aims the flashlight up at the lights. Silence reigns for a few seconds, before he curses and pulls out a phone.

"... Yeah, it's Jimmy at the scrapyard. Think the cape girl's back, or something she prepared is going down, send me some people fast." Pause. "Cause the cameras and lights in the yard have all been covered up with something." Pause. "I dunno, mud or glue or something. Get some guys down here, I don't wanna get robbed blind by some cape bitch." Pause. "Fuck if I know, but she must want SOMETHING here!  She said something about hearing she could get cheap parts. Maybe she's a tinker. Stupid bitch came without a mask so we can find her and beat whatever she stole out of her."

CRAP. They have it all wrong! And... does that mean they're NOT working for Dad? Maybe if I tried to explain... No, wait. These guys are Empire Eighty-Eight. If logic and reason worked on them, they wouldn't be racists.

And it's now that I notice that my minion is still following me, and still carrying the bandolier.

"Put the bandolier down," I whisper.

It does. The bandolier lands on the dirt with a thump.

"Wait, I just heard something." I see him fumble with his phone, the flashlight, and then I can just barely make him out holding the flashlight in that weird reverse grip that police use over the barrel of a handgun.

I feel like being sick as I shake, and my bladder is threatening to let go. He turns in my general direction, shining the flashlight around, and somehow misses shining it on the fridge I'm hiding in. The beam of light passes over, then centers on, the bandolier of bags. "What the fuck is this?" he mutters, heedless to the voice on his phone that's close enough for me to hear, from where his phone is wedged against his ear by his shoulder.

He walks even closer, only a few feet away, and pokes the bandolier with his shoe. This close, the reflected light makes his puzzled face visible, and I grip the bowl I've been carrying tightly. It's hard to think clearly and I want to run, and it's now that my terror shaken limbs betray me, because my next shiver rattles the fridge shelf behind me a little.

His head snaps up, and I don't think, just act, shoving the fridge door open and slamming the open, mostly full bowl of not-poi in his startled face with the weirdly satisfying splat as it catches him full in the face with sticky goo. He gives a muffled yell, and drops his flashlight, and I throw myself to the ground, skittering away on hands and knees. The bandolier tangles on my foot as I stand up. I kick wildly, trying to dislodge it, and start running. I hear the bowl hit the ground, and a lot of cursing, but I run, not looking back and turning the first corner I can in the desperate hope that he can't bring the gun to bear on me.

Then I see the barbed wire top of the chain link fence and I tear off my top robe, throwing it over the top of the barbed wire and scrambling up the links and feel a sharp pain in my left hand as I climb but I don't stop, awkwardly throwing a leg over the top. My shoelace catches on a barb, and I fall almost face first to the sidewalk, only barely getting my arm in front of my face in time. The pain in my hand is suddenly massively overshadowed by an agonized stabbing feeling in my upper arm, but I still manage to stagger to my feet and start running.

I make it a few blocks before I have to slow to a dazed walk as I turn into an alley, cradling my left arm which is alternately aching and screaming pain. My hand doesn't want to work, but I pull off my second robe, stuffing it into my haversack, leaving me in a jacket and the long sweatpants. Those come off clumsily, and I stuff them beneath a pair of trash bags. I ache all over, my legs feel like jelly, and I remember that there's probably a bunch of skinheads looking for me. So I pull off my wig, stuff it into the haversack as well. Being mistaken for a skinhead sucks, but right now it just might keep me alive.

I shrug the haversack back on, leaving my head uncovered in the cold air. It sucks, but when I return to the street, I've barely walked half a block when a car rolls up slowly. I hazard a glance in their direction; Junkyard Jimmy with his grey gunk streaked face is leaning out the backseat window, and shines a flashlight on me. I shield my eyes, but I hear him snarl, "Nope, not her," and the car accelerates away.

I'm going to need an entirely new wig, now. Dammit. I liked that wig.

I make my way, step by aching, jarring step, back towards St. Bosco's, hoping that I just sprained something in my fall. And hoping likewise that someone's still at the church when I get there.