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occupationalhazards-series · 6 years

Text

Zero Hour: Track One (B Side)

[image: a drawing of a vinyl record with the text of “Zero Hour B Side” and “HEDY” and “I Looked Into The Abyss So I Could Hold It In My Hand” in the center.]

Content Warnings: depiction of an anxiety attack, referenced stalking, referenced long term harassment

The next day, not so far away, a woman is casually running through portals that bisect small amounts of space-time. Her dark skin glows a myriad of colors in the streetlights, and a fountain of micro-braids sways every time she lands particularly hard out of a portal run. The pure red ribbon holding her braids up always flutters a moment behind her.

She is quite tall, something a passerby would only have a split second to notice before she disappeared in another portal.

The person following her is more surprised about the tinted glasses she has on. It's nearly midnight.

The tail is even more shocked to realize that the woman is using such extravagant magic to go to... the twenty-four-hour apothecary?

It's near midnight, and Hedy Holiday knows damn well she's being followed.

She goes to the apothecary anyway. She didn't want them to see her here- that's just one more thing to show up in the "encouraging letters"- but her inhaler only had a few more days worth of doses in it.

No use inviting trouble.

There’s a chime on the door that sings as she meanders her way in. She lets herself drift for a hot minute, the extra mild incense and hum of the small decorative fountain a soothing constant of every visit. There’s no relaxing for long, but the stop is nice nonetheless. The chemist on shift tilts their head in her direction, but says nothing and makes no move to get up. It’s fine with Hedy; she kills time reading the updated practitioner schedules and the newest pamphlets on bruise balms and their interactions. It doesn’t take long before they finish reading the article in the medical journal at hand with their fingers and grab their cane to wander to the back to retrieve her prescription. They’re still feeling out the on-hold prescription bags for her name when they speak. “Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you Miss Holiday?” She shifts her weight, a tad sheepish. “Ahhh, yes. I guess you could say work has been running me ragged lately. I’ve definitely had to go farther than usual.”

“Work. Hmmm. I suppose the person outside is your companion from... “work”?” Hedy isn’t really surprised at Dee’s bluntness or their superb sensory abilities, but still takes a moment to respond carefully. “No, that person is here for... something else.” Hedy hears the sharp slam of a cabinet door and the patter of Dee’s cane and their steps. When they return with her prescription, their own braids jump with the force they use to close the back room door. “Something else like threatening a preferred courier of the Apothecary and Chemist’s Association?” Uh oh. “Haha, no need to jump to conclusions, Dee. It... only invites trouble.” The chemist looks unimpressed but takes the hint. “Miss Holiday, don’t insult me so. Just... take your medication and go through the back door. Do you need any information or medical support before you go?” Dee’s voice is still even as always, but their cane is held in a crushing grip that reddens the beige of their hands. Hedy just looks at them for a second. As the silence drags on, the incense snuffs out and the overhead selenium(?) lights sing in their brightness.

She gives up quickly, exhaling shakily as she grabs the inhaler and refill. She secures the items in the inner breast pocket of her coat; she leaves the packaging and nearly empty disk on the counter. She hesitates, turning back to Dee’s solemn off center stare. Reaching out gently, slowly enough to be stopped, she drags her right index finger down the center of their forehead. “Close that eye of yours, Dee. Its a bit late to be divining the truths of the world, don’t you think?” Hedy’s soft murmur and a quick clasp at their shoulder signal her exit.

For a moment, the only response is the lights overhead fading back to normal and the sounds of Dee lighting the incense again.

“Safe travels, Miss Holiday. May the shadows guide your journey well.”

A blessing much appreciated by its recipient.

From here, she can make a clever exit if she can move and cast efficiently enough. She takes a deep breath, one, then two. Closing her eyes, she thinks back and counts the number of steps she normally uses to walk in from the side entrance.

One more breath, one more thought, and a portal opens inside the dimly lit room, its opposite number opening just outside the side entrance. Instead of going through this set, she does the sensible thing and opens another.

Lord Dauphin may hire the very best to harass her so, but even the best mages haven’t been trained in stagecraft and sleight of hand.

This time she doesn't need to think so hard. She just reaches out and focuses on the charged piece of amethyst she'd left near the edge of her casual magic use range, about two blocks away on the roof of a grocery store she delivers for. This portal is the one that will lead her to the proper path home.

Hedy pats the hidden breast pocket of her slim-fitting jacket- good, good, meds and refills were are where they need to be for this trick- and then saunters straight through the first portal that leads to right outside.

From the side entrance of the apothecary she walks to an alley a block over, making sure to not acknowledge her tail. She ducks just out of sight when she turns into the alley, and in a split second, she stretches her magic and opens up one more portal; this one leads straight back to the first set inside the back room. Now?

Now she runs.

Her journey home is a blur, the familiar trip a rush of adrenaline and magic. First the apothecary, then a tuck and roll into the storeroom. She stops just long enough to close the portals in the alleyway and by the side entrance safely, and then takes a running leap through the next set, landing with another somersault on the roof of the grocery store. It's a rush, but the trip from here should be much less taxing. The area is primarily residential- even the shops- so the buildings are of a similar height and width. The next click has a clear line of sight, between the buildings and the full moon, so the portals she throws up and takes down in quick succession come as naturally as her next breath.

The portals, the running, the hiding- they're all draining. The thing that makes her slow down, though, is the thump-THUNK thump-THUNK of her heart. She can feel it hitting a fever pitch. Her chest begins to sting, the wind feels still no matter how fast she moves. The air feels like a cold empty vacuum in her lungs.

Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calmStay calmStaycalmStaycalmStaycalmStaycalmStaycalmStaycalm

FOCUS!! There, the clock tower. Make it to the clock tower. It's 12:09, and she can make it to the clock tower. When she reaches the next building gap she chooses to fall off that building and into the next portal. There's no such thing as too careful- what if they catch me? What if they catch me? What if I fall and they make sure I don't catch myself? What if what ifwhatifwhatifwhatif-

She falls out of the next portal in a twist, but she still manages to to tuck into a safe roll as she lands on the building closest to the clock tower.

J u s t o n e m or e

Her breath is tight, and her vision is less focused, but she should have a straight shot now.

It's 12:13 and she can make it to the clock-tower.

Hedy barely has her feet on the roof of the clock tower when she takes out her inhaler. With shaky hands she clicks the device to the correct dosage. One puff, then two.

One breath, then two.

The inhaler gets put back into her pocket with still shaky hands.

Her breath rattles even as she reaches behind her head to pull out the vivid red ribbon holding her micro-braids behind her head. Without it, dark braids dangle around her face and brush the edges of her shoulder blades. Hedy collapses lowers herself and settles on the concrete to wait for the sedative to kick in properly. It helps faster than anything else for an anxiety attack, but it still takes a solid few minutes for it to kick in in full. In the meantime, she has only the moon and the pure red ribbon that crinkles in her steady, cautious grip.

For now-

For now, it will have to be enough.

Thank you for reading! Zero Hour has been brought to you by:

Ash Pana: Writing, Design, Pencils

Jessica Song: Design, Inks, Pencils

Sasha Reneau: Zine/Print Formatting

#zero hour #light novel #original series #black main character #occupational hazards

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occupationalhazards-series · 6 years

Text

Zero Hour: Track One (A Side)

[image- a drawing of a vinyl record with “Zero Hour A Side” and “Ciela, The Heir Not Quite Apparent” as the text in the center.]

Content Warnings: blood, self injury (in a non self-harm context), referenced child abuse and kidnapping, referenced abusive food restriction

In a stone lined room, a small girl lies in a bed. Her slick navy horns turn indigo in the first hints of sunlight, and the light casts a similar bright violet hue to her aubergine hair. Even the small disturbance of natural sunlight is enough to wake her, eerie mercury eyes snapping open even as her body stays stone still. Her breath pattern changes, but only barely.

She tenses minutely, and waits.

One breath, two, each nearly as silent as the last. Even with her vigilance, she hears no approaching guards and fails to sense the approaching magic of her attendant.

This small assurance is all it takes for her to spring into action, shoving a light blanket and sheet to the foot of the bed. The plain night clothes she wears don’t change at all in the light of the rising sun, their muted cream color remaining dull and boring. Her skin, however, does, the soft bronze shining a bright, magical copper in these few minutes she has to herself.

She drops to her hands and knees just as quietly as she had woken up, and reaches out under the bed. In one smooth motion, she slices her left ring finger on the prepared razor blade and smears the bloody digit on the hidden compartment under the bed. She catches the journal when it falls from the compartment, and shimmies back onto the bed, crossing her legs and settling herself into her morning routine.

First she closes her eyes, recalling and reviewing. Judging by the angle of the sunshine coming through the window, her attendant shouldn’t arrive for at least an hour. It is day four of the week so far, which means... breakfast, then free archive time. After that comes etiquette review, and that precedes sword training.

Joy.

She lets out a sigh and resigns herself. This is the day’s routine, and knowing is far better than not.

Especially on weeks when Lord Prince is around. Her huff isn't even forceful enough to move the longest part of her bangs, but her eyes flash a bright platinum.

Onwards, then. She opens the precious journal far more delicately than necessary, unable to stop herself from feeling the all too important inscription on the inside cover as she reads it aloud.

"To Our Beloved And Adored Hatchling-

May your scales grow strong,

may your magic grow true,

may your stories be told.

We love you."

Her voice is airy, but not light. It has the soft tone of someone who has had cautiousness beaten into them, and the surety of one reading an absolute truth. At this moment, the very edge of night conceding to day, only the latter sentiment matters.

Her steady breath wavers, shaking as she remembers. She wishes she was older when she left (when she was taken)- there simply aren't enough days to recall no matter how far she reaches back into her memory.

Nine years just isn’t enough, especially for her kind. (Yet four years is far too many. Funny how that works.)

She has to steel herself- mentally, of course. The strict dietary regimen Lord Prince makes her keep leaves her far too underweight to brace herself with a full body of scales like her mother.

Every day is too much, and every memory is not enough. It's not a surprise- nothing that happens near daily can truly be labelled a surprise- but it cuts jut the same.

One breath, then another. Moving on, she flips to the back of the book, and then carefully flips forward by several pages. There isn't a single word on any of these pages- just hundreds of tallies, carefully, furiously scratched in. They total in the thousands, and each one represents one day away from home.

Ciela leans over the bed and nearly falls off in her rush to grab the last hidden item from underneath it- a slick and elegant metal dip pen.

She settles back into position, noting the time as she carefully presses one preternaturally sharp fang into her left palm, slowly pulling her palm away and letting the blood well in her hand.

There is no way in all the Courts she'd use something as easily manipulated and identifiable as ink.

The blood of any and every Drake is a powerful magical artifact in and of itself, but the actual substance of an individual Drake's blood is even more useful than that- any Drake could and frequently did hide their secrets with it. (Blood is home. family. secrets. love. self. ancestry. futurepastnow.)

Blood casting is an instinctual, near primitive form of magic, taught to the youngest of hatchlings. But it WORKS.

The simplicity rebounds into strength- there must be a Drake, of sound enough mind to channel magic, and something important enough to spill blood over. Will and blood.

They are all that saves her.

One breath, then another. Focus. She writes in her journal while she can.

Dearest Elders-

I have no good news. I’m not sure I have any news at all. My attendant continues to give me leniences and graces that are sure to get them in trouble. I don’t know why. They gave me a whole bunch of ambrosia berries yesterday. My magic feels bouncy and airy and like I could fly.

I want to unbind my win

Why can’t my magic feel like this all the ti

IM SORR

I am growing, but not enough. My wings are so small I’m worr

I am small even for a human my age. I know I won’t be as big as you, Mother, but you and Father are not small people. My fourteenth winter approaches, and yet the ten-summer children of the archivist are taller. As Dauphin never ceases to mention.

The ambrosia berries were good. I’ve never had something so sweet. They taste like ceremonial wine and frost lightning and honey (It’s no wonder Dauphin pays so much for their wine.)

I want to taste some properly grown by sky fae one day. I’ll share some with you too, I promise. I haven’t grown into a selfish person without you. Not yet

I’m trying so hard , please believe me

I suppose I did have something to tell you today. I’m sorry it wasn’t important. I have to have faith that you still care about unimportant things

me my day.

I love you

-Ciela

She doesn’t cry. There is no one to trust with her tears.

Nothing to do but hide her secrets once more. She cleans her dip pen with the pitiful flames she can muster from her lungs she slips it back in its makeshift hiding place along with the journal. One more drop of blood and a burst of wild magic makes the whole thing disappear to the senses. Her hand twitches, spasming into a fist.

She can’t get rid of her rabbit pulse heartbeat.

So she takes a deep breath, and as she slowly releases it her eyes widen. Her primary, secondary, and tertiary eyelids open, and her irises glow a brilliant platinum.

The world comes into preternaturally sharp focus. Every color, every detail, stands out in sharp relief. It’s not just enhanced vision- truesight reveals magic, hidden or unhidden, wild or controlled.

Ciela takes four careful turns. Nothing can be suspect. Nothing is.

She had to be sure. She nods, satisfied, and changes the flow of excess magic to heal the small abrasions on her hand. It only takes a few seconds- they were no more severe than a papercut.

Pacing and preparations done, she heads over to the window. A hop and a scrunch and she’s settled into the rim of the bay window. She tries to look at the sky, tries to feel the clouds and calls of her own from within her cage. They don’t come to her, and it’s no surprise. She has been looking and reaching for one thousand four hundred and thirty eight days, and the closest she’s come is feeling the faint echoes of a Wyvern Call.

Either the wards are that strong, or the closest of her kin was over a hundred clicks away.

Whatever. At least she can see the sky in this room placement.

She’s too tired to glare, but the look on her face as she stares at the sky she hasn’t felt in years is withering none the less. Ciela sits near perfectly still in the closest thing she gets to tranquility for twenty eight minutes before she heads back to her bed. The stone floor is cold, and she pretends not to feel it.

A soft “pat pat pat” marks her elegant trudge back to bed. Her attendant will be in soon.

She doesn’t sigh as she pulls up the covers. Tears don’t escape without permission. Her mattress isn’t stiff, her blankets aren’t too thin, her skin doesn’t feel frail.

She thinks she’s pretty good at lying these days.

She nods off before long.

When its time for the attendant to come by, Ciela is still dozing. She wakes up just as the attendant reaches out to touch her shoulder. This is no surprise to the attendant- they have been stationed over Ciela for nearly two years, and are well aware she is a light sleeper. “Your schedule has likely been moved around, but your meal is still first on the agenda.”

Ciela nods and walks over to the closet to grab her formal day attire, assigned by the Dauphin’s attellier. She grabs an undershirt and bloomers first, one each out of the twelve identical garments in the wardrobe. Next comes the loose floor length trousers. A dull navy, they match the dark grey hip length wrap blouse’s accent and ties.

“Why? My schedule was just revised.” They turn towards the opposite wall while the young girl dresses. Their voice is low and smoky and androgynous . It seems to echo and gain volume and clarity the closer they get to the shadowy corners of the room.

"Why else? Prince is in a mood today”, they murmur. “He’s always in a mood. My lessons don’t usually get changed because of it.” They sigh, and the shadows around their cloak seem to ruffle. "Mmmm. True. It will hit the public announcements later today-the Crafter's Guild has decreed that all Ranked Crafters are prohibited from engaging in business with the Prince family. Apparently, they’re concerned about the implications of Lord Prince’s recent land acquisitions."

This warrants a pause from the younger of the two- “Really?”

“Mmm. Well, nearly every consultant Lord Prince has warned him against it.”

“ I remember overhearing something about it. Didn’t Lord Prince bid rather aggressively for an old manor that was seceded to the Fair Folk territory nearly three centuries ago?”

“Yes, and he won, too. All of his other bids have been close to Ley Lines, or near enough to another Court’s sacred territory to be just this side of politically... impolite. No one knows what he’s up to, but it doesn’t matter in the short term. This embargo will be a major blow to the business deals his family and the Court of Graves have that are in negotiations.”

Ciela makes an intrigued noise as she pulls on the blouse to tie it. "Wait. I thought that guilds couldn’t declare grievance against specific families without violating Court Law?"

The attendant hums and counters "Service embargoes technically aren't, but they tend to be risky enough anyway. I'd be surprised they had the temerity, but this isn’t a standard case. Can you tell me why?"

Ciela opened her mouth to respond, but remembered to stop and think it out first. Her brow furrowed as she carefully detangled her hair from her horns. Tight, unrelaxed curls at the scalp of her horns always tangled with the wayward stretched waves. "Because... they didn't declare a formal grievance? No, as a guild they couldn't anyway. Not against a whole family... although some might argue that the rule doesn’t apply if there’s only one person left in the family line."

"True, although any of the leading members of the guild could, and that would have it’s own implications." They said this mildly, patient enough to let the kid reach her own conclusions.

She sits down to tie the blouse and mull over her answer.

“Oh! I got it I got it! Because the Crafter’s Guild only forbid their ranking members from collaborating with the Prince family directly, and not every guild member or a specific person.”

She’s finished getting ready, but flexes her hands so she can focus to get a more complete answer. “Prince has been very aggressive in his politics lately. Is it possible the Crafter’s Guild was looking for any way they could find to keep their most skilled members from a contract with Lord Prince? Formal service contracts are supposed to be voluntary; each individual trades-person could choose to interpret such an embargo as ‘the head of the Prince line and all of his close associates.’ That leave most of the Society of Magisters leaders and management without access to some of the most reputable trades-people around.”

The shadows deepen with her attendant’s pleasure at her analysis. Encouraged, she goes on. “ I’m not sure why ethical disputes over land purchases was the thing that made them take such drastic action? If they really wanted to avoid dealing with our guild couldn’t they have publicly taken issue with... most anything Prince has done in our name for the last few years?” Her consternation isn’t all over her face, but is in the increased speed of her hand flexing, her lightly furrowed brow, and the rigidity of her shoulders.

Her attendant sits down with her, warning that they have to leave soon before explaining. “The Crafter’s Guild is one of few guilds that is politically friendly with, but not a subset of, any particular court. They are also one of the most diverse guilds, with members of many Courts, backgrounds, and specialties. The land disputes were probably picked because they would be the most plausible reason on paper. It is well known in certain circles that the heads of the Crafter’s Guild have a grudge against key Grave Court leaders-any other stunt they pull with less legal merit could be construed as as a personal vendetta using a community platform.” Ciela nods, her twitching hands slowing down. “Since they have so many specialists, they can easily claim that associating with the our leader could threaten the livelihoods of the crafters within their own guild by consequence or association.”

Ciela gets up to prepare her school supplies for the day. Some in her bag, for using in the classroom after first meal, the rest laid out on the pitiful desk adjacent to the window. “That sounds like a lot of ‘maybe’. Is there another reason this happened?”

The shadows fluttering around the attendant’s floor length coat seem to languish with their amusement as they too head towards the door. “One of the leaders of the guild flat out hates Lord Dauphin, and the other is loyal enough to her and dislikes our Lord enough to back her up.”

Ciela almost smiles before she steps out the door. Lord Prince hates that nickname. She never has the courage to say it out loud.

It doesn’t last for even a second after she crosses the doorway’s cold vacuous energy. The child’s head dips, her back straightens. They both quiet, and prepare to play their roles.

Both of them know that this fleeting moment of peace is the closest she’ll get to happy for the day.

Both of them will take it. For now.

Thank you for reading this debut! Zero Hour is brought to you by:

Ash Pana (Writing, Design, Pencils)

Jessica Song (Design, Inks, Tones)

Sasha Reneau (Zine/Print Formatting)

#zero hour #light novel #occupational hazards #fantasy #original series #black main character

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