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Chapter 8

Animators are nearly as ostracized as slicers, but because they are even less understood. How do we imbue stories from Lifebooks by touch? Why is it we have such a strong connection to the natural energies of paper? Normal avatars do not understand us, so they keep us on the fringes of society. I wonder if they know that we don't understand ourselves any better?

The rock wall was taunting her. It was only rock, unthinking and unmoving. She had a zapper; a tool that she saw the other avatars use to carve away the stone. The shredding rock should cower in fear instead of standing there like it would never fall. Sanya hated the rock. She hated the cave. And, above all, she hated Mathias. It was his fault she could barely fill one cart in a day.

Sanya was all about repetition for the last three days. The first night after the mines, she practiced with the paper until exhaustion took her. She woke with the sun the next morning and tried the paper again. The edges of one page curled up at the corners, but a knock broke her concentration, and the paper fell lifeless. She hid the paper in the desk's drawer and opened the door to find Rin's familiar blue hair. He greeted her with a bright smile and a bowl of steaming eggs. She kept her powers hidden, though she wanted to tell him. She had so many questions, but she kept thinking about the note. Rin walked her to the maglev station where she boarded the train. She rode to the mines, endured Mathias' glares and insults, filled a cart with ore, and came home just as sweaty and tired as the first day. In her room, she practiced with the paper again until she passed out on her bed. Repeat.

Last night, she made one singular page float into the air as golden energy streamed from her fingertips. The page fluttered like a bird, soaring towards the ceiling of her room, and then she fainted. Rin's knocking woke her the next morning, and she barely made it to the station on time.

Now, she stood staring at an unbelievably solid rock wall hundreds of feet underground, wondering what on Pocalypse made her black out. She hated feeling more time slip away from her. Just thinking about it made her remember the hospital and the nights of half conscious pain. She didn't want to lose more time. There wasn't much of her left. And there it was, the anger, always just below the surface. She hated it like she hated being unconscious. It didn't feel like her. It came out of nowhere most of the time, and she barely contained herself when it reared inside her. But maybe it was her. Maybe that was who she truly was.

She closed her eyes to keep from crying and slammed her gloved fist against the wall. It hurt a little. The glove took most of the impact, protecting her from the sharp lines of the stone. Opening her eyes, she studied the wall, tracing its edges and cavities from ceiling to floor. A vein of black ore sparkled at her out of the cavity she had been making. She had been breaking chunks off for the last day, but they were small. Small rocks did not fill a cart very fast. There was something wrong with her technique. She knew it, but Mathias was a closed book to her. Since she didn't dare ask another avatar and risk exposing herself, she was on her own.

The black amphorite continued to gleam in the semidarkness. She wondered what it felt like. The surrounding tunnel stood empty, as usual. Turning back to the ore, she pulled off her left glove and shoved it in her pocket. She hadn't touched the ore, or anything in the cave bare handed yet, too risky.

"Why, though?" she whispered. Left hands did not have book marks. Why wear both gloves all the time?

She reached out and slid her fingers over the ore. It was smooth but not cold, not really. The ore felt cool as her fingers passed over it, but the tips of her fingers grew warmer from the touch. She stopped and pressed her entire hand to the black vein. For a moment she imagined the rock liquifying and pouring over her hand as the mountain bled, spilling its ink into the cave. The thought vanished as she focused on her hand. It grew warmer the longer she held it against the ore. She felt something else, too, something vaguely familiar, like a story once read but now forgotten. She closed her eyes tight and concentrated. There, she felt a pulse against her palm. It happened again. And again. Curious, she slid her hand away from the ore and onto the lesser stone. The rhythm of the pulse morphed, shifting as she continued to slide her hand. Delighted, she traced her hand over the wall of the cave, wherever she could reach, sensing the beat of the mountain.