fugue_nothing
Anisa
10:15 AM.
Concord pulled over. John and Anisa exited, and hurried up the stairs to get out of the cold.
A man greeted them just inside. “Welcome, Madam. Down the hall, first door on the left.”
“Thank you,” said Anisa. She turned to John. “Acknowledge?”
John looked at his watch, arm only slightly bending at the elbow. “Acknowledged. Time is 10:16 AM.”
Agarma was fine. He was fine. And he thought she was beautiful. That wasn’t nothing.
Led out by three guards, Samantha was blindfolded and gagged. Her hands were tied behind her back, and her legs were tied together.
“We left her like that for an hour,” Claire helpfully explained. “His Highness wanted to see if she could magically untie herself.”
“Seems like an unnecessary step,” said John. “Why not kill her in her cell?”
Where she’d been disinterested, Claire now drank him in, eating him up and down, a faded blue cloak over a thick, puffy suit with large sleeves, unfitting for his serrated face and fired eyes. “I don’t believe I got your name,” said Claire, eyes boring eyes, “I should’ve introduced myself. Claire.” She extended her left hand. Anisa knew she was right-handed, but her right hand was metal.
John stared right back. He laughed, heartily, and shook the back of it with his right. “John Smith.”
Her fingers were crushed. She continued staring into his eyes. “Well, sir, he, we, thought Samsara deserved more spectacle.” It was a moderately sized amphitheater, indoors. There wasn’t much of an audience.
“Samsara?” said Anisa.
Claire broke her gaze on John and pulled her hand away. “Pardon, Madam, Samantha.”
Agarma entered. Black suit. Bouquet.
Agarma was irritated at Anisa’s chosen companion. “Don’t you usually use your dwarf for transcription?”
“John insisted.” She spoke slowly. “He has a good memory. Besides, it’s an opportunity for him to practice. If Bourrienne were to die, I’d like a substitute. Acknowledge?”
John barely twisted his left hand from his side. “Acknowledged, time is 10:18 AM.”
“10:19,” said Claire, looking at her own watch. “Can you see your watch from that angle?”
“Claire,” chided Agarma.
Samantha was screaming.
“You’ve certainly scared her,” said Anisa.
“Being scared is a choice. A wrong one, at that. Perhaps the only wrong one.”
Samantha was screaming.
“And this is necessary?” said Anisa.
“You already know the answer to that,” said Agarma. “You know what needs to be done.”
And she did know.
“That’s what’s so admirable about you,” said Agarma, turning. “You’re selfless. And brilliant. And beautiful. And you always choose what’s best for your people.”
Agarma was right. He always was. He gazed. Longing. Longing? She wasn’t beautiful. No. But, if he wanted something to be true, he would change the world for it to be.
This was a route.
And yet… nothing.
‘Nothing, nothing, nothing,’ pounded her heart.
Why? Why did she feel so much nothing?
Agarma knelt. “Anisa Day. I; we; Brune; needs you. Please, let’s work together. Just as you cleansed your city, we’ll cleanse the capital. Execute everyone standing in the way of peace, starting with Samantha.” He enunciated clearly, humorlessly, effortfully.
Anisa collapsed. She was caught by John, grabbing under her arms. She was a skeleton, hollowed out, yet sinking under the weight of her hollow bones.
John had just lost his clothing chest, nothing more. Samantha was dead. She was partnered with her half-brother Agarma, they killed Reimond. They worked with Calhoun to clean up Blisbane. Probably killed Calhoun himself. Quincy was gone again, good riddance, probably having actually killed himself this time, having nothing left to live for. They probably married, and had at least 3 children, maybe 2 sons and a daughter. After 30 more years, she died. Maybe she went to a good afterlife and faded away. The End.
“How can I say no?”
John frowned. He wiggled his arm, adjusting his grip. It was stiff, as if in a cast.
Agarma frowned. “You can do better than that,” he pleaded, yet nearly monotone.
“Sir?” asked Claire, concerned, yet disdainful, and hopeful, and all-around… not nothing…
“Claire, shut up!”
“Sir…”
“Anisa, shall we fix the world together?”
“Yes,” she said, her words weightless, and she ceased being aware.
Samantha screamed.
“Okay, that’s enough,” said John. “Perhaps we should delay the execution for when the princess is feeling better. It’s probably the bad weather, she probably had a cold.”
She had John. “Do as he says,” she muttered.
“That seems reasonable,” said Claire. “Same time tomorrow? Perhaps we could discuss over dinner—”
“Please,” said Agarma. “Anisa. Claire. Please.”
“Sir!” shouted a guard on the stage, “Massive influx of P₃ and P₁₀, a rotate space!”
And Samantha was gone. Nothing was there. Her scream echoed.
“What the fie?” said Agarma.
“We should leave,” said John, and he grabbed Anisa under the legs and under the neck, and ran out.