MACHINE AND MAGIC

1 THE MEETING

Chunks of twisted, hot metal dug into Aurin's back as he found himself lying on the ground of the Trial Circle, A testing ground of sorts for young people like himself to let loose on other trainees. It had been surrounded by seats that rose in several tiers, all the way up to a mezzanine that was two stories high.

Aurin turned his head feebly to look, and a rock formed instantly in his throat. The seats were occupied by ashen husks: the flash-fried bodies of his classmates, their hands covering their faces from the unimaginable heat and light that took their lives in a fraction of a second.

Ground zero.

"No," Aurin choked, and closed his eyes. Hot tears stung his eyelids.

"It's okay," Lia whispered close by. "This isn't your fault."

"It is my fault," Aurin sobbed. "This is my fault."

"No, Aurin," she whispered again, her voice fading into a death rattle. "We are... what we are."

Aurin turned his head to look at her, his body impossibly heavy. His arms and legs felt like they were glued to the floor, which was steaming.

Lia smiled, with tears of pain in her eyes. Her entire lower half was burnt away, revealing charred bones and cauterized

"Butch!"

Aurin "The Butcher" Alcoleiz awoke from a light slumber to the dark interior of a moving car, the mesmerizing hum of the hover engine gently vibrating his seat.

"Mmm." Aurin wiped the drool from his lip. "'Sup."

Gramps shifted uncomfortably in the driver seat, as he gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. He glanced over at Aurin, his eyes wide with nervous terror. "Donno how ye can sleep at a time like this. These snaggletooth Khaggy bastards give me the willies."

"They don't scare me," Aurin said, and rubbed his eyes. He took a misshapen pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket, slid one out, and hissed when it tore asunder over his knuckle. He paused, briefly remembering something buried deep in his psyche; something buried so deep he couldn't make out its malignant form, but knew it was in there festering. He discarded the broken cigarette into one of the door handles and pulled out a whole cigarette. "Not like they used to."

The cigarette crackled in Aurin's hand, and Gramps glanced away from the road as Aurin lit the tip of the cigarette without the use of a lighter.

"How the hell do ye do 'at, man?" Gramps whispered, awed, his pale face marred with acne scars. He was wearing a brown blazer over a light blue button-up shirt and slacks colored similar to his blazer. Underneath his cabbie hat was a massive bald spot; this extremely premature case of balding lent Gregori his nickname, Gramps. "Y'gotta tell me."

"You seen me kill a man with a bucket of water," Aurin said, suppressing a smirk from around his cigarette. "And you wanna know how I light my squares?"

"All of it man, it's jus' so... fascinatin'."

"You wouldn't get it," Aurin said dismissively, staring out at the darkness outside his passenger window. They were way out in the boonies now, but he could see the sprawl of the metropolis out there, the massive spires of industry and commerce stretching into the heavens and smothering the stars in a blanket of light pollution. But Khagilos, she always shone brightest of all.

"What, ye think I'm a fool or somethin'?"

"No." Aurin took another drag, the smoke filling up his lungs with a sweet, sickly burn. He exhaled.