Chapter 22: Empty Vessels

In hindsight, Jongdae should have thought it through: his maltreatment of the Adlet, K. 34 Prayer Tickets. Enough to feed the poor. K entered the system at a young age; a steadfast Society soldier to the core. 34 Prayer Tickets. Enough to play the role of Knight in Shining Armor. Ending world hunger or winning the part of brave Lancelot to a seductive Guinevere. It didn’t matter what K had a Johns for; Jongdae would make him hanker after it. 

“23:17.” K reported, toes tipping forward to look over eager rows of spectators. “Scylla’s track record is anything but outstanding.” Yet he ached after her, legs quivering to bring him higher. “The attraction lies in the suspense.”

Scylla, Nefaria Farland, Fay, the hypocritical woman who drops her pants for only the worthiest of men, decided to favor the number 18 this auspicious Dog Fight. Nice and even: the well-aimed fist smashing against her cheekbone. Standing with a posture oozing an aura of superiority, raising a nose to the scum clinging to the hull of her spotless life raft, she took hits for fifteen minutes straight. 

Beat me, she challenged the big-boned man with the shining cranium. But know you can never break me, she taunted with each noiseless gasp of pain. A thin line drawn into the sand at her port. Many a men gave up, surrendering to the wiles of the mighty sea, lacking the curiosity to wonder. Others like “baldy” — a term of endearment K cursed to heavens so high even the Angels of Haven needed to wait in line for the elevator — had spunk.

Spunk: a tiny voice in the back of a man’s head. It whispers sweet nothings in soprano. It tempts with the very things dreams are made of. It promises the grass is greener on the other side. Just cross. All you have to do is cross the line.

Let’s have fun, the words Jongdae read roll off his lips. Baldy’s definition was different from enjoying K’s bewilderment at a lost shower curtain or spending hours watching mold grow on his windowsill. Latching onto the base of her spine, he threw her to the ground. And he kicked. And kicked. And kicked. Cackling from above like a hyena with the flu all the while. 

Click. Click. Crack. A broken leg. A bolstered grin. An unnecessary saddling of his meaty legs on either side of her. 

Jongdae wanted to leap the fence in one bound. How dare a lowly knave attempt to mount the stunning Guinevere. The crowd of lions’ roars grew to a hush, anticipation building to a high with each gleeful squawk and every clink of belt against buckle. How strong the desire to taint rare beauty runs in the lowest of born. Jongdae watched to catch the instant a drop of black landed into the bucket of white.

Lavender. Vanilla. Pumpkin Spice. What smell invaded Baldy’s senses to so blindly drive his actions? Marmalade. Spruce. Apple Cinnamon. Nefaria Farland took grave offense to Baldy’s presumptuous impulse. 

She soaked up the black; her incandescent hue left unstained.

“24:17.” K prophesied, entranced by her following spectacle. 

Thighs flexing an almost inhuman strength, she flipped the tables in an instant. The predators in the stands proceeded to bet racks of lamb onto the Stray’s pile. Click. Click. Crack. Jaw unhinged, Baldy babbled beneath the great Scylla. She made not a sound with each click. Click. Crack. An eye popped from its socket. Blood flowed so heavily a mesh of red formed across his face; a few whispers wondered if she would skin him live. Click. Click. Clap. Clap. Clap. The other almost met the same fate.

Baldy tapped out: this new rule gave the challenger the option of calling it quits during any period of the allotted hour. A team of old women dressed in white came filing into the Stray's gilded cage to tend to the wounded knave; King Arthur would be proud, wherever he may be.

The Dog Fight Time Trail lasted 18 minutes — not a second more. Scylla, devourer of foolish and foolhardy men, returned to her jail cell; her numb leg dragged behind her, tracing a line in the bloodied dirt. Cross if you dare, she never once provoked Jongdae. Spunk: something he had too much of. 

To the curious K, he posed an ego-blowing question, “Can such a beast be tamed?”

Within the week, Scylla, Nefaria Farland, Fay joined the Black Coats at the low, low cost of 30 Prayer Tickets.

1:100. The percentage of female Black Coats to survive longer than 3 hours after birth. Those who did suffered from immunodeficiency, a multitude of disorders ranging from hemophilia to muscular dystrophy, or experienced multiple abnormal and sudden organ failures. None lived past the age of two. “The feminine form is a glass house smack-dab in the middle of a fault line,” Johnny said jokingly on the eve of Fay’s arrival to the Tower. A single error in a system made up of 100 billion nerve endings: a dead .

1:100.

Nefaria Farland was not born a Black Coat. She was made. From nape to hindquarters, a metal label scrawled with the name Scylla, a protruding slit of iron for each vertebrae, she was made into an eye socket popping beast. And the beast had an appetite. 

Seemingly unfazed by the desensitizing rations of the Dog Fights, she dug gratefully into the Society-supplied meal of meatloaf; a tangy glaze burning bright red against baked skin. The typical masculine chatter of the mess hall was reduced to but a set of tiny voices lacking spunk. All Jongdae could hear was her lips. Smack. Smack. Smacking with each tear her canines ripped into the tenderized pork. 

1:100.

Hun felt the palpable pressure. Posture straight from shoulder to shoulder. Chest a vast sea of black cotton. Gaze shining from the depths of sunken eyes. Hun claimed shotgun immediately, fearlessly volunteering to be tethered to stone next — happily willing to be devoured headfirst.

K appeared pleased with himself, as though the entire idea were his. Fingers picking apart today’s dinner “Treat,” raspberry crumble, he ate without a word. A tight-lipped Adlet was unheard of. Unspeakable, even. Used to a lead in, Jongdae could only wait for small talk that never came.

An anticlimactic end to his first meal with Fay in over half a year. No Minseok. No Underground. No goal in sight to sprint towards. She said but one sentence in response to Hun’s homeward call of “Tally’s Ho:” Asher’s Drop. 

Hun was colored impressed, a boy-like hue returning to his face accompanied by an upwards crook of chapped lips. Whether by her hometown or her voice that broke through dreams and pierced into reality, Jongdae was unsure. The only certainty came with what Hun related to him the next morning before Fay arrived, surrounding background noise as indistinct and insignificant as usual. 

“Scylla alighted at the 12th floor.”

The Tower.

13 floors. 4 residential. 4 industrial. 3 secretarial. 1 lobby. 1 miscellaneous.

Residential: 3rd, 6th, 9th, 11th. Industrial: 4th, 5th, 8th, 10th. Secretarial: 2nd, 7th, 13th. Lobby: 1st. Miscellaneous: only the heavenly father above knew what black drop occupied the 12th floor of this white bucket. Not a Prayer Ticket to his name, Cerberus undertook the task of asking for forgiveness first. 

“Good morning, John.” Johnny, god of the Haven in all but name, greeted with a smile.