Strange City Magic

1: Running

A person might have been forgiven, that night, for forgetting that the only sources of electricity in the City were hand-powered generators and scavenged batteries. They might especially deserve this forgiveness if they were new, as so many of the people in the club were, for it was positively alight with motion and sound. Repetitive beats shook the walls in time with blinding pulses of purple and yellow light. Drinks passed freely from hand to hand. Bathroom lines stretched out to the edge of the dance floor. It was a celebration. For what, it did not matter—another day alive was reason enough.

Some time later there would be screaming. Panicked, awful screaming. Then hundreds of people rushing to the door, oblivious or unbelieving of the harried protests of those who made it out before them. There's no way to stop a herd once it gets moving.

In the back, a young girl would clasp her fist around a man's wrist and never let go. "I'm sorry," she would say. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

*

Several miles away, in a small white living room with peeling wallpaper, a woman named Loren leaned back in her chair. She crossed her arms, and gazed out of the window. Oftentimes lately she caught herself thinking that the only advantage to living in the City was the bizarre and entertaining weather. Palm-sized snowflakes flurried past the glass, lit by a sweltering noonday sun whose heat forced her into a tank top and shorts. Minutes ago it had been clear skies.

Magic ruined everything. One day the world was normal, and the next came the infamous Nanna Olga. She was an elderly woman, out shopping in Brussels one morning when she detonated a storefront display with the sheer force of her lust for a sequined handbag, thereby announcing that the status quo had changed. Supernatural was now natural. The mind, heart, and body flattened onto one universal plane. Or so it seemed to some. Magic came unbidden, and the only consistency of it was that it never followed any rules.

Maybe history would have taken a different course if those gifted few, touched by magic, could have waved their hands and incanted some silly words to unleash their power. If they had the opportunity to be trained in rustic cottages by bearded elders in tottering hats. If only.

"It's your turn."

Loren returned her attention to the chess board. Something was different about the arrangement of pieces before her, but she couldn't place exactly what it was. She squinted, frowned, and moved her bishop.

Powerful tools gifted to man are always corrupted. Instead of incantations and pointed hats, there came the City. There came its winding streets and cramped rows of towering buildings nestled atop vague, hauntingly familiar landscapes. This is where the magically inclined and magically curious children of the world alike found themselves, dreaming in lieu of sleep—seeking excitement, chasing beauty, or simply hunting for a bit of honest spellwork.

Across the table, a series of emotions played out on Zira's wide face. Confusion, alarm, concentration. Her thin, steepled arms twitched. "I find," she observed, nudging a pawn forward, "that games of skill are best enjoyed when all participating parties are at the same level."

Loren swung her queen across the board. "Then it's good we're both garbage."

Zira's mouth broke into a broad smile, revealing yellowed teeth against pale pink gums. "Conversely, it's impossible to improve unless you practice against people who are better than you."

"Better than me?"

"You know what I mean."

A peculiar noise came from outside the window, like pebbles running down a mountainside. Like nails, scrabbling against brick. Loren turned in time to see a face pop into the frame. "Your roommate's home," Zira said, unfazed, capturing Loren's queen.