Free Outlier: Rebellion by Daryl Banner Page B

person before. He’s heard it tastes salty and sweet and burns the chest from inside as it’s swallowed. After it’s in your system, however …
    An entirely different, thunderous voice disturbs the scene. “Rone Tinpassage! Victra Kingsword!”
    Wick spins, finds a bald middle-aged man with spotted lemony skin and wetted eyes standing at the top of the stair. His expression suggests he is less than happy with the scene he’s happened upon. The man is hunched over a cane, despite not likely being over forty or forty-five years old. A back injury maybe, or a disease of the spine … How could Wick tell, anyway? He’s no expert of the body; that’s his mom’s knowhow.
    “You just said—He just said my last name,” Victra complains to Rone, who’s now frantically pulling his pants up over his still-invited-to-the-party boner. “I … Didn’t I just say I didn’t want this Wicky knowing my things? Hey, he said your last name too!”
    “He’s a friend,” Rone explains, zipping himself up. “We … We … We grew up together, and—Listen, he’s not just some guy I pulled off the street—”
    “You two,” the man projects, his voice hard and loud. “Explain the meaning of this person, now.”
    “Recruit,” the sister offers quietly.
    Everyone turns, as though just now noticing she’s been in the room, still picking at her nails by the stair and not looking anywhere at them, her eyes glued to her fingers.
    “A recruit?” asks the man of Rone firmly. “This kid? You’re the recruiter now? Is that how this works? Are you making the decisions around here?”
    Rone holds a hand against the wall, realizes it’s the tapestry and not a wall, falls over. Getting clumsily back to his feet, he takes a few steps toward the man. “I didn’t tell him anything. I brought him here just like I was brought here once. Just like Sarra and Juston and the others. He doesn’t know anything. I … I left that to you.” Then he draws silent, rubbing his eyes.
    The man turns to Wick, appraising him vaguely. He then crosses the room, cane stabbing the floor with every step, and pulls out a chair. “Sit, kid.”
    Wick doesn’t argue. He drops into the chair by the large window, the only view in this room. He takes a glance outside. Below, there’s an alley where a pair of black cats fight as children watch, and above, the greasy-bricked buildings of the edge of the ninth ward squat just low enough to reveal the ominous shape of the Lifted City pressed dark against the haze of a starless night sky.
    The man takes a chair directly across from him, locking eyes with such intensity it makes Wick swallow hard. “Listen well, kid. My name’s Yellow, and my power allows me to make you forget that. In fact, I can make you forget how you got here, why you came here, or how to get home. It would be in your best interest to cooperate and I will not muddle you. Understand?”
    “Yes.”
    “What did your friend tell you that persuaded you to come? Tell me. What is it you were hoping to find?”
    Wick’s eyes wander to Rone and the woman, both whom clutch each other in an effort to stay standing as they witness this exchange. The woman, Victra, appears bored, more blue-powdered eyelid showing than actual eye. Rone’s sister waits at the other end of the vast and smudgy window now, still quietly studying her fingernails.
    The answer comes almost automatically. “A world without a screaming King, I guess.”
    Yellow leans forward, curious for a spell. Then he opens his thin lips and says, “Are you sure? What would our fine city of Atlas be without the Banshee King? You do realize that’s treason-talk, don’t you.”
    “Yes.” Wick nods, incensed. “I know.”
    “And still you say it? A world without a screaming King?”
    Wick’s eyes flit nervously to Rone. Is this a trap? He clears his throat and decides to offer a few more words. “What I know is, my mom and dad both work full-hour jobs, sometimes my dad works well