kajsa ㅇㅅㅇ

Type Nova

My spray can sputters, trying and failing to dazzle the rough concrete wall before me with bright blue. I shake it furiously and try again, but to no avail. Ugh.

It’s cold outside. So cold for the summer, in fact, that the stars have hidden under a blanket of thick black clouds. Instead, lighted windows like artificial stars gleam and shape the skyline of Wyvern, the capital Astilae. 

Glass skyscrapers, the homes of Common Reions, shine against the night, almost like turrets protecting the Silfier Tower, a sort of palace for all Noble Reions, like me. The Tower is, well… towering, to say the least, made from pure marble and gold. They say it took over a hundred years to complete from start to end. 

Each Noble family gets a floor or “District” to themselves. These floors contain a kitchen, a living area, a dining room, two to three bathrooms, and five bedrooms. The higher up you are in the tower, the higher your status. The Sevyn District–my family’s District–is floor 87 of 500. And at the top of the tower lives Annora Kramer, our supreme leader. Symbolic, isn’t it?

The buildings get shorter and stouter as they approach the river, most made of metal instead of glass. That’s where the Markis live. The buildings are organized into blocks, then flats, then apartments. Usually two or three families share a flat, and everyone ages thirteen and up get their own room or “apartment”. The kids under thirteen all share a larger room that sits underneath the smaller apartments. 

And then, practically built on top of the river, is where the Type Cs live. Their houses are small and bleak, made of concrete and shaped like bricks. That, too, is symbolic, because Type Cs provide our agricultural and economic stability–they’re our working race. Usually five families of four or less can squeeze into a single bungalow.

A freezing wind chills my body, scraping icicle claws against my skin. I don’t have a jacket.

Shifting my focus to the wall in the parking garage, I take a step back to study the paint damage, shaking away my shivers. Maybe I can leave it like this if the paint isn’t too noticeable. I might be able to make it look old and weathered. But if I can’t… I’ll have to finish the job with whatever’s left in the bottom of my cans or scrub it off. I can’t mess tonight up. The signal has to be clear.

The wall in front of me has a sad amount of paint on it, just a few splatters of bright blue, orange, and yellow, all of which are paints that have failed to do their jobs. You can easily see it, even in the night. If I’d had my BlackOut, I could have left it here, taped it to the wall, made it hide my mistake, and tried again tomorrow. 

But I don’t have it.

I’m cold, weaponless, and in plain sight of the cameras I know must be here. 

This is not going very well. I may as well just go home, even if that means Kramer gets a small victory. Even if that means I put myself in danger. 

Sighing and reaching down to throw away my spray cans, I keep my fake black hair curtained around my face as much as I can. As soon as I’m finished, I hurry to the transport station farther downtown, avoiding the automated ticket booth and swinging up into one of the hoverbusses. 

Sighing heavily, dejected, exhausted and hungry, I take one of the fifty or so empty seats in the transport. Nobody else is out this late. At least not anyone sane.

A stirring noise is coming from the seat ahead of me, and I press my face against the window beside me, trying to get a glimpse of the person without being too conspicuous or rude. I can make out blonde hair, brownish-green eyes, and lots of freckles. It’s a boy, definitely younger than I am–but taller. 

His eyes are closed and I think he’s asleep. It’s dangerous for him to be sleeping in a transport, past curfew, especially as a Type C. I can tell his race by his light hair but dark eyes. They usually have more freckles and tan more easily than Reions or Markis, and they don’t ever burn. 

Centuries of forced labor in the Wyvern fields allowed for their skin to become more protected against the sun–a mutation, almost like a superpower, if you will.