Page 18 of Shades of Silver City

I exhale a heavy sigh of relief, confident that the photo in the city’s system has been replaced with this fraudulent one. Similar enough to not raise red flags, but different enough to throw people off Fantasia’s tail.

I’m all for justice—even vengeance, under the right circumstances—but it wasn’t her who murdered the girl. Other than being born to a jackass scientist, she’s innocent in all of this.

At least I think she is.

She might be.

Either way, I’ll find out myself.

"After injecting the mRNA serum into myself, I’ve unlocked the capability to visually detect electromagnetic radiation surrounding humans, represented in color form. From my previous research in the Wilds, these colors appear to be reflective of one’s innermost energy—their soul.”

-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs

CHAPTER 5

FANTASIA

Itighten my grip on the bat, hissing at people to get out of my way. The lot of them move lazily, in slow motion, delayed to my warnings as I dart past.

At this hour, only tipsy barhoppers mill around Pub Path. The air is sticky, ripe. People stumble about the street, laughing and mingling in small groups. A few individuals scream into their cell phones or take videos, unbothered by the lack of privacy. Different tunes spill out into the street through open doors and windows, and I cringe at the hodgepodge of melodies.

Despite it being night, the city blazes with light. Pulsing colors pour out of various bars and clubs, making it hard to distinguish between the soul-shades wafting around the people as I search for the duo from the bar.

A dozen shades of blue. Various shades of green. Dusty pinks and royal purples. Some soul-shades are as bright as spitting flames, some as bland as a murky glass of Sharp Wing. And everything in between.

But no grey.

My eyes sweep over the congested street and overflowing bars, bouncing through the crowd. In the distance, a siren goes off. The aroma of fried food and sweat fills my nose, overpowering the stench of trash and musk.

An elbow jostles me out of the way, and I scowl. Then I spot them.

Just ahead, rounding into an alleyway between two towering, angular buildings, is the pair from the bar. Their grey auras are hazy and pale, as if their soul-shades are slowly fading away.

An image of my father’s face in his final moment pops into my head—the sadness, the guilt, the acceptance that shifted through his kind eyes before they went blank forever.

The day it happened, a knock on the door came, and he shouted frantically for me to hide. I dove into the closet but peeked through the louvered door in time to catch the men with palm prints on their chests storm our apartment. My mother screamed. My father shook his head in my direction.

I stayed quiet. Even as a stranger’s finger pulled a trigger, shattering my father’s skull.

Then they pulled the trigger once more, taking my mother, too.

Everything around me falls into a bleak silence.

My hands shake.

The bat starts to slip from my hand.

White-hot anger courses through my veins. My parents should still be alive.

Gripping tighter, I push thoughts of them aside.

I surge after the men, squeezing through the throng as I make my way to the alley. Slowing down, I step over a stack of soggy cardboard boxes, almost losing my balance in the process. My free hand meets rough brick as I use the wall for support to navigate the alley. Once I’m clear of the stacks of trash and a puddle of grease, I quicken my pace.

Within seconds, I catch up to the drunkards. But without the blazingly bright lights of the bars and clubs, the alleyway is a breeding ground for shadows, and I’m barely able to make out the dimming soul-shades of the men. About ten paces ahead, the two men stumble past a mountain of black trash bags. Before they can hang a right and go out of sight down another alleyway, I open my mouth to call out to them.

A leather-clad hand presses against my mouth, silencing me. I’m jerked to the side, held hostage behind an overflowing dumpster.

My chest tightens. Instinctively, I swing my bat backward, attempting to hit the asshole while I try to jerk out of his grip.

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