Page 19 of Fable for the End of the World

I sit back on my knees and let out a breath. The tracker hums and pulses in my throat. It’s not quite hope I feel—not yet, maybe not ever again. But Luka is beside me, his body radiating a steady warmth, and I know that when the cameras turn on and the Gauntlet begins, at least I won’t be alone. And with this, with Luka, there’s the slimmest, farthest-flung hope that I might survive.

Six

Melinoë

The live stream is hosted on the Gauntlet portal’s landing page,with a moderated chat room for users so that anyone who watches can leave their comments and reactions in real time. Caerus automatically saves the transcript of the live chat after the stream is over, so I can go back and read the chats from my past Gauntlets.

Azrael uses the transcripts to teach us lessons, because with millions of people tuned in, nothing will escape some eagle-eyed viewer’s attention. The transcripts are the reason for some of the Gauntlet’s unofficial rules.

Most of the uglier comments are censored by the moderators, but occasionally some slip through.

It’s three hours before my Gauntlet, and I’m in the holding room in front of a huge, lighted vanity. A Mask leans over me, dabbing concealer onto my face. Their touch isn’t gentle, and I flinch when they start covering up the circles under my eyes. They’re deep and purple, and there isn’t enough makeup in the world to hide them completely.

I steal glances at myself in the mirror while the Mask works. They’ve layered on the palest shade of foundation and have moved on to contouring my cheekbones. I got my new lash extensions last night and lip injections four days ago, long enough for the swelling and tenderness to subside. My eyeliner is tattooed on and permanent.

“I’ve recommended a brow lift,” the Mask says in their hollow, robotic voice. “Azrael says for next time.”

That the Angels have to be beautiful is one of the Gauntlet’s unofficial rules. And if we’re not beautiful when we enter the program, Azrael fixes that right away. Lethe was twelve when she got her nose job.

I used to try to keep track of the changes made to my face and body, as if there were some clean delineation between real and fake, natural and unnatural. But there have been too many now, and I’ve lost count. My cheekbones, high and prominent, are real—at least, I think they are. My nose is my own—or is it? The memory of a rhinoplasty could’ve been Wiped away and I’d never know it. My breasts are my own, but for how much longer? I stayed at Keres’s bedside after her implants were put in. Helped change herbandages, trying not to see the bruises patterned all up and down her chest and rib cage. I held back her hair when she vomited, nauseous from the anesthesia.

We Angels were made to fulfill Azrael’s archetypes: Keres was the maternal one—beautiful, of course, but with softer edges. Kinder eyes. They sent her on all the Gauntlets with young children. Lethe is the fiery one, with her red hair and quick temper. I’m supposed to be the deadliest one, unflinching and emotionless, armored in coldness. The audience likes us better if we fit into boxes.

“There,” the Mask says, after dusting highlighter onto the tip of my nose. “Look.”

I turn toward the mirror. Melinoë stares back at me. Long, white-blond hair pulled back into a high ponytail, no strands escaping. I asked Azrael if I could cut it once, but he said the viewers would hate it. He’s probably right. My real eye is so dark, it’s almost black, which makes the prosthetic seem not quite so aberrant in comparison. Wide-set, slightly overlarge; a few years ago, there was a running joke in the chat that I looked like a praying mantis. The comments made me avoid mirrors for weeks.

“It’s perfect,” I say, averting my gaze.

The Mask gives the slightest nod in return. Then they leave without a word, the door to the holding room sealing shut after them.

I only have a few minutes alone before the door slides open again. I expect it to be Azrael; he’s one of the only people who has clearance to come into the holding room.

But it’s not Azrael. It’s Keres.

I lurch up from my seat, sending it toppling to the ground. I can’t understand what emotion overtakes me in that moment, but it’s so strong that my hands start shaking and my stomach goes slick.

“Keres?” I whisper.

The eyepatch has been removed, and a new, more natural-looking prosthetic has replaced the old one. It doesn’t quite match her real eye, though. The shade of blue is wrong, icier and too pale. But the blank, wondering gaze is gone. Keres stares back, and this time, she knows me. She remembers.

“Mel?”

Her voice is so quiet, hesitant, like she’s not quite sure how to use it. A lump invades my throat. “How did you get in here?”

“I don’t know.”

The only thing I can think is that Azrael didn’t erase her biometrics from the fingerprint reader outside the door. It doesn’t seem like the kind of careless mistake he would make, but it’s hard to focus on anything else right now except for Keres. I take a careful step toward her.

She just stands there, mouth hanging open slightly. Her black hair is loose around her shoulders, shorter and more untidy than when she was an Angel.

“Keres,” I say again. “What happened—why—”

---