Serene Of The Sea

33. New

I stand, looking rather dumb as Aella saunters off through the crowd, yelling with authority, "Back to your post!"
Everyone around me moves away with the excitement over. Some with final glances over their shoulders.

The ones dressed in black, the weavers, approach with grim faces.
"Follow us," the man with the dreadlocks says. He's built like a giant. Though his limbs are thin, I can see he is very strong by the way his muscles are toned solid. His almost black eyes have speckles of grey in them, like a starry night. His age I could only guess was somewhere in his early thirties. He reminds me of a samurai, which was fairly fitting with the uncharacteristic katana on his back.

I step into line with them. The others don't talk as we head towards the endless lines of domes.
The ground here is rocky and unpolished, unlike the smooth stones of the city. I step carefully, my feet still readjusting to not wearing shoes. I knew my feet would have to harden quick against all the sharp edges.

This place seemed to be an endless line of identical buildings. The domes are a simple grey, no frills here.
Soildier's march by us in perfect unison, their tridents tied to their backs.

I search the faces of the people I pass. All I can see is tired and serious. I felt like I had stepped into the siren equivalent of a dictatorship.
Even those I now walked with were serious. I took in the rest of my small group.

There was a young girl of about seventeen. Waist length black hair hung around her heart shaped face, her dark purple eyes regarded me curiously, she smiled slightly at me, before remembering where she was and smothering it into a passive stare.

The other boy was only slightly older than me. He has a rebel attitude about him. His eyebrow seems to be permanently quizzical as he chews on something with a lazy disregard. His eyes are like a sunburst, an almost neon blue with bright yellow around the iris, the colour doesn't suit the attitude he wears.

The final weaver has most of his face covered with a black material, only his perfectly white eyes can be seen. Otherwise he is covered from head to toe. His mere presence was unnerving. Something inside me shuddered away from him.

I certainly stuck out in my dress. The colour in the darkness shone like a beacon, drawing the eye of those lesser trained who couldn't help but let their eye wander as their squadrons marched past. I only saw pity. They pitied me. It seemed clear in my mind that most had been forced to be here. This was both our prison and our training ground. And my journey was only just beginning.

"This is us. Number 72," Dreadlocks gestures for me to step inside. I notice that this dome does not have a curtain, but a set of bars. The message was well received had there ever been question.

I step into the small space. Just like any normal Seniman house, it is a round room. But here there are no carvings on the beams, no skylight. Just plain grey walls. Five small beds are set against them. It's so immaculate you'd have no idea anyone even lived here. At the foot of each bed is a small metal locker. Though I hadn't been allowed any personal items to place in it. In the centre is a simple wooden table and chairs. Nothing else. A repressed space for me to ponder on my inevitable demise.
I was beginning to feel very sorry for myself.

The mysterious four are standing at the doorway, watching me take in the space.
"So, which one should I use?" I gesture to the beds, keeping my face passive. I would not crumble here.
Dreadlocks immediately relaxes, a hippyish grin spreading on his face, "Thank god. For a moment there I thought you'd be a crier." He enters and pulls out one of the uncomfortable looking chairs, "I don't deal with criers."
The girl hops onto one of the beds, "Yours is next to mine," She points to the second bed in, on the right.
Everyone claims their own spaces within the small room.

"What's your name?" The girl asks, "I'm Elena. It's nice to have another girl in our group."
"Serena," I say quietly, noting how the group activity seems to be staring into space and idle conversation. I take my spot on the scratchy sheets of my small bed. Oh how I was going to miss the soft hug of my spacious bed.
Dreadlocks pipes up from his seat, "I'm Blake. That's Idris," he points to quizzical brow and then to hidden face, "and he doesn't talk, so we just call him Psy."

"Why Psy?" I ask, trying not to meet his scary white eyes across the room.
"Because his powers are the strongest. No one beats him. Ever," Idris pipes up with an uninterested mumble, almost to himself.

It was curious to me that they would talk about Psy while he was right there, listening. It was almost as though the space around him was a vacuum of silence, separated from us. I now knew what made me unnerved. It was the power I could feel pouring off of him.
Was he using his power right now?

I sent out mine, trying to see, but I hit a solid wall, so solid that my nose starts to drip crimson blood.
"Oh you don't use powers on him," Elena tells me like it's a simple fact. Almost as though I had just gone and stuck my finger in a candle, "You've ruined your pretty dress. You might as well use it to wipe your nose. You won't get to keep it anyway."

She hops off the bed and opens the locker at the foot of my bed, "They've already brought your uniform. I would change. You never know when they'll call us. And you don't want to be caught at training in that."

I pick up the clothes, "Where do I change?"
Blake snorts, "There's no modesty here. We're no better than dogs."
I pinch my lips together, "right," I say, trying to get it on under my dress, to retain whatever dignity I had left.
I managed it for the most part. Once I'm covered I pull my dress off and pull on the arms of my new identity.
It was a catsuit in comparison to the guards uniform, a full black catsuit with extra padding on the joints and chest for protection. Very light on my body though, this didn't restrict any movement. I would have preferred the other uniform. This one marks us for what we are. It almost felt like a target on my back.

"So, how many weavers are here?" I knew I had to ask.
Blake is picking dirt from under his nails using a knife, "there's only two squads. Us and 94. In total, an even number of ten."
"That's not many."
"Not many?" Idris shows emotion for the first time, anger, "Do you know what you're capable of? Ten is too many if you ask me."

Psy remains silent, I almost keep forgetting he's there. Almost.
I decide to look at him. Yet I find it such a hard task, and I know that he's doing it on purpose. I force my will to allow me to look at him, and he's staring back.

"You have a strong will," A voice whispers into my mind, "Why are you here?"
Im stunned by the consuming energy that comes with his message.
I send my power out, and find he's left a small gap for my consciousness to drift through.
I reach a mind that echoes with tension, "Same reason you're here. By force."
I catch a glimpse of something else in his eye. Was he hiding his true eye colour? What was really behind the mask?
"You could have run. You do it for them. But who are you?"
"What do you mean?" I'm confused by his questions as he continues to stare at me with blank eyes, hidden intentions.
"You don't have time to hesitate. Your time is running out."

Then I'm slammed out, once again struggling to even look at him.
What had just happened? What was he trying to tell me?