moves.”
I keep walking. I reach the outskirts of the fair. Lucian is in a dark corner, repairing a broken ride. I notice a Vorpal gauntlet among his tools. I should warn him about how dangerous they are. Instead, I ask my question: “What is magic?”
“A risk,” he says. “Like living with dragons, or eating something that fell on the floor six seconds ago. Or pissing with the door open.”
I keep walking, past the retired machinery, until Ireach the exit. My mother is waiting for me in the parking lot.
“What is magic?” I ask her.
“Don’t be so literal,” she says. “Just help me figure out where I parked.”
I wake up early on the morning of my interrogation . I have no idea how I’m supposed to explain why someone wrote my name in smoke and then let it loose like a moth to flutter around the Seneschal’s cave. I’m not sure I even want to know. I lie in bed for a few moments. The house is silent, except for the faint rustle of Derrick’s delicate snores. I throw on some clothes and leave as quietly as possible. Well-dressed people are running to catch the SkyTrain, while the street punks and their dogs slowly rouse themselves. I grab coffee and a planet-sized muffin at JJ Bean. The barista wears a name tag that says, HELLO, MY NAME IS PHOENIX . The four-barrel roaster in the middle of the café smells like a dream. I thank Phoenix and walk to the station, where people are crashing into one another like players on
Logan’s Run
. Luckily, being a long-term Vancouverite has taught me how to avoid the bite of umbrellas.
When I was a little girl, we used to spend our summers camping at Cultus Lake, in nearby Chilliwack. The cooler was always full of vegetables, pop, and deviled-egg sandwiches. My mother would sit in a folding chair,watching me as I leapt off the pier. She was convinced that you’d get cedar itch by swimming anywhere near Maple Bay, so we always went to Entrance, which was packed with sweating families. The sand was so hot that my toes felt like Tesla coils. I had no fear of older boys in swim trunks, although I did avoid the girls who were always whispering and eating ice cream. I trusted the water and the light that warmed it. I trusted that no matter how far out I swam, I would still remain beneath my mother’s gaze.
Now I trust almost nothing. The SkyTrain rocks from side to side, and I keep quiet within my skeptical core. I used to trust magic, but it mostly just fucks me over, so I’ve put it on probation. I’ve given it a time-out.
This is my life now. Wake up; take transit to a place where I no longer work, as if searching for the shadow of my former job. Get ignored or patronized, like a child wandering through a museum. Get told not to touch anything, especially the sculptures. Get attacked for no reason. Then I go to sleep and it starts again. Is this really the vacation I was looking for? If so, I’m an idiot.
I walk to the CORE building and check in at the security desk. The guard swipes my ID and frowns. She swipes it again.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Your chip isn’t working. Did you immerse the card in water?”
“No,” I lie.
“I’ll have to issue you a temporary card.” She reaches under the desk and withdraws a new blank ID chip, which she inserts into her computer. “What part of the building are you visiting?”
I start to say, “Forensic unit,” but then stop. The Forensic unit is a medium-security zone that any OSI can visit. My OSI-3 clearance gives me access to the entire unit and parts of the subbasement, but nothing below that.
“Inhuman Resources,” I say.
The office of Inhuman Resources is located in a restricted section of the subbasement. I’ve never been there, but people are always complaining about it. Just getting through the door requires a unit director’s clearance.
“Selena Ward is your supervisor, correct?”
“Yes.” My mouth is dry.
“And you’re a level three?”
“I’m due for a promotion
I keep walking. I reach the outskirts of the fair. Lucian is in a dark corner, repairing a broken ride. I notice a Vorpal gauntlet among his tools. I should warn him about how dangerous they are. Instead, I ask my question: “What is magic?”
“A risk,” he says. “Like living with dragons, or eating something that fell on the floor six seconds ago. Or pissing with the door open.”
I keep walking, past the retired machinery, until Ireach the exit. My mother is waiting for me in the parking lot.
“What is magic?” I ask her.
“Don’t be so literal,” she says. “Just help me figure out where I parked.”
I wake up early on the morning of my interrogation . I have no idea how I’m supposed to explain why someone wrote my name in smoke and then let it loose like a moth to flutter around the Seneschal’s cave. I’m not sure I even want to know. I lie in bed for a few moments. The house is silent, except for the faint rustle of Derrick’s delicate snores. I throw on some clothes and leave as quietly as possible. Well-dressed people are running to catch the SkyTrain, while the street punks and their dogs slowly rouse themselves. I grab coffee and a planet-sized muffin at JJ Bean. The barista wears a name tag that says, HELLO, MY NAME IS PHOENIX . The four-barrel roaster in the middle of the café smells like a dream. I thank Phoenix and walk to the station, where people are crashing into one another like players on
Logan’s Run
. Luckily, being a long-term Vancouverite has taught me how to avoid the bite of umbrellas.
When I was a little girl, we used to spend our summers camping at Cultus Lake, in nearby Chilliwack. The cooler was always full of vegetables, pop, and deviled-egg sandwiches. My mother would sit in a folding chair,watching me as I leapt off the pier. She was convinced that you’d get cedar itch by swimming anywhere near Maple Bay, so we always went to Entrance, which was packed with sweating families. The sand was so hot that my toes felt like Tesla coils. I had no fear of older boys in swim trunks, although I did avoid the girls who were always whispering and eating ice cream. I trusted the water and the light that warmed it. I trusted that no matter how far out I swam, I would still remain beneath my mother’s gaze.
Now I trust almost nothing. The SkyTrain rocks from side to side, and I keep quiet within my skeptical core. I used to trust magic, but it mostly just fucks me over, so I’ve put it on probation. I’ve given it a time-out.
This is my life now. Wake up; take transit to a place where I no longer work, as if searching for the shadow of my former job. Get ignored or patronized, like a child wandering through a museum. Get told not to touch anything, especially the sculptures. Get attacked for no reason. Then I go to sleep and it starts again. Is this really the vacation I was looking for? If so, I’m an idiot.
I walk to the CORE building and check in at the security desk. The guard swipes my ID and frowns. She swipes it again.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Your chip isn’t working. Did you immerse the card in water?”
“No,” I lie.
“I’ll have to issue you a temporary card.” She reaches under the desk and withdraws a new blank ID chip, which she inserts into her computer. “What part of the building are you visiting?”
I start to say, “Forensic unit,” but then stop. The Forensic unit is a medium-security zone that any OSI can visit. My OSI-3 clearance gives me access to the entire unit and parts of the subbasement, but nothing below that.
“Inhuman Resources,” I say.
The office of Inhuman Resources is located in a restricted section of the subbasement. I’ve never been there, but people are always complaining about it. Just getting through the door requires a unit director’s clearance.
“Selena Ward is your supervisor, correct?”
“Yes.” My mouth is dry.
“And you’re a level three?”
“I’m due for a promotion
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