The Green Ones

Episode 3, Part 1

Taking the note from Olin, I squint at the tight, slanted script and read the words for the umpteenth time. I shade my eyes as the setting sun bursts beneath a thick blanket of cloud. “Even if this is from Centavo, it could have been written months ago.” The scrap of paper is old and crinkled, clearly reused for its current purpose. “There aren’t even any names.”

“Under the circumstances, I would think that prudent.” Olin crosses his legs and sits. 

“Prudent or convenient, I’m not sure which.” After sleeping on Centavo’s couch for the bulk of the day, I don’t feel like sitting, so I continue to pace. The two of us have been waiting on the roof terrace of the three-story, adobe building indicated in the note for nearly an hour. “I don’t understand how Neca can be so adamant the old man survived, immortal or not. I was there. The storm was five times bigger—” I catch myself mid-sentence, pretending to be distracted with something on the southern skyline of Worker City.

“Than what? My outbursts? Since they killed so many people, how could Centavo have survived this one?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Instantly I’m on the verge of tears, having been perched there every waking moment of the new worst day of my life. “I’m sorry, I should have thought—”

“Forget it. I’m the one who’s sorry. It’s axnohtic to pretend they didn’t happen. I’ve killed people,” Olin shrugs, “on accident and on purpose. Huatiani’s dead because I intentionally killed him.”

“Olintl—”

“I know, I know. I’m more than my abilities. But I’m certainly not less. You shouldn’t have to tiptoe around it. This is our life now.”

I chew the inside of my mouth, opening the old wound and wondering about my brother’s last comment. I’m too fragile to argue effectively. Since the incident with Huatiani that morning, we’ve debated what to do next a dozen times. Instinctively, I reach for my braid. Of course it’s not there. The hair on the back of my head is oily and uneven. I run my fingers across the bald spot dead center.

The choice ahead of me is easy: die in the wild or die in the Shadows. Neca had argued for the former during his brief time awake. We’ll see what he thinks after he recovers from his clash with Huatiani. To me, it doesn’t matter. And a choice that doesn’t matter is no choice at all.

If the general never identified us to anyone else, as Neca suspects, Olin could still register for the academy. He could live a long and powerful life as an ometeotl. If not for Olin’s potential, I certainly wouldn’t be wasting my time following the anonymous directions written by a dead man on an old note. Even so, I have my limits. “Come on, let’s wait inside.”

“But this is where the note said to wait. How do you know he won’t look for us from another vantage point?” Olin complains.

“That’s exactly the point.” I tug him to his feet. “Anyone could be watching from another vantage point. It’s too exposed up here.”

“No need to worry,” a voice startles me, “eyes don’t wander this close to the Shadows.”

I turn to face a wiry, old man with a salt and pepper braid coiled around his neck. “And you are?” The setting sun at his back casts his face in shadow. I still can’t believe it could be Centavo.

Olin rises to his feet. “It’s him. He’s got Centavo’s light.”

“Your sixth sense has developed. Good,” the man nods, “it will serve you in the academy.”

Olin attempts to correct him, “I’m not—”

“Tell me what you see.”

The man I’m assuming must be Centavo cups his hand and holds it out. I stare back and forth between Olin and the old man’s hand. Of course I don’t see anything, but Olin must. The longer I stare, the more irritated I become. After disappearing for a day and leaving us to deal with Huatiani on our own, this is how Centavo shows up? No apology, no explanation?