Page 82 of Retrograde

Blood. The air is so thick with it that just breathing tastes like eating a raw steak.

“What has he done ...” I gasp.

Post Rift Day, I thought I’d really seen it all. Still, apprehension ripples through me as I step through the door.

Inside, it’s way worse than in the corridor. The air is hot and solid, and it reeks of violence.

There’s a small pool in the centre of the sunroom. Its mosaic-tile edges smeared with crimson and filled to the brim with so much blood it looks more black than red.

“Oh my god.” She sways on her feet, but I’m so engrossed in what I’m seeing that I miss the opportunity to wrap a steadying arm around her shoulders.

Krasnik is crouching by the pool, carefully setting a thing onto the thick liquid surface before giving it a gentle push to make it float closer to other such things.

Foam floating devices with ... flesh and skin peels attached, arranged in such a way that they look like ...

“Lotuses!” Krasnik says with a manic smile and jumps to his feet.

He is young—early twenties—which makes him both impressive and scary. He’s as tall as me and boasts that casual nonchalance that never fails to irritate me: ruffled, overgrown hair, chiselled face, devilish grin, the clothes smeared with crimson flattering on his sculpted frame.

He’s athletic, his movements fast, but there’s an underlying predatory aggression to them. He’s like a ball of fire, intimidating without trying, sucking all the oxygen in the vicinity, commanding attention. He’s mesmerising.

Fuck I hate the guy.

Each time I see him, I could swear he’s high as a kite, if I didn’t know how hard it is to get drugs these days.

“What the fuck is this, Krasnik?” I demand, hating the unnerved edge in my voice.

“Well, it’s a ... uhhhmmm ...” He scratches his head theatrically—ever the fucking comedian. “It’s a tableau!”

“A tableau?” I repeat after him slowly.

“Yes!” he confirms triumphantly, beaming.

“Aron, honey, why did you make this ... tableau?” I could murder him for the simple fact that she calls him ‘honey’.

“I felt inspired,” he says plainly, shrugging before he explodes with laughter.

“You think this is funny?” I demand, aggression creeping up my neck in a heatwave. “You think it’s funny that you’re turning us into a fucking circus? Are we Reprobates now? How does this ... this ... monstrosity help our goals?”

“Yours? Not at all.” Like with the flick of a switch, all traces of humour are gone from his face, replaced by chilling solemnity. “But they’re doomed anyway. And it helps my goals.”

My heart rate skyrockets. “Your goals? And mine don’t matter since they’re doomed?” I repeat, struggling to breathe without screaming my head off.

“Aren’t they? The only reason we’re holding onto the Rifterland is that the Consuls aren’t that interested in it. For now.”

What he’s saying is essentially what I said earlier. But the way he says it—lightly, matter-of-factly—is like a slap in the face.

“So, you just give up. Is that it?”

“Never,” he assures me, fire flaring in his eyes. “I’d rather die. But I’m not dying just so that we can be barely a footnote in history. Resistance. Swiftly crushed. This shit”—He extends his arms towards the pool—“I do it often enough, people will talk about it. Soldiers will fear it.”

“You are not doing this again!” I finally snap, fury clawing up my throat. “You want this to be what we’re known for?”

“No. I want this to be what I am known for.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind, Krasnik!”

“Yes. And you’ll say that, loudly, anywhere you can. Krasnik, the rogue. Psychopathic and unpredictable. You will distance yourself from me just enough so you get none of the blame, but all the benefits.”