Chapter 2: Antimonic
Mornings in the outskirts of the city broke like glass—sudden, sharp, and loud.
Horns screamed
down narrow streets,
voices barked from
behind food stalls,
and the sun rose into a
sky already choked
with smog and motion.
The blanket clung to Siah
like a second skin,
warm and stubborn.
Outside the shuttered
window, morning light
spilled in weakly—just enough
to remind him that the day had
begun. He groaned and pulled
the sheet over his head.
“Siah!”
his mother’s voice rang
through the wooden walls,
firm and familiar.
“Don’t make me come in there.”
The door creaked open.
“It’s sunrise and you’re still in bed? You’ll be late. Up, now.”
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“It’s still early,” Siah mumbled from beneath the covers.
Yanking the blanket off him in one swift motion. A blast of cold air rushed over his skin.
“Ahh! Okay, okay! I’m up,”
he hissed,
shielding his eyes
from the sunlight now
flooding the room.
His mother rolled her eyes,
already halfway back down the hallway.
“Five minutes.
If I see you still dragging your feet,
I’ll drag them for you.”
“Accommodation’s scarce in the Capital when crew selection comes around.”
---
The low hum
of the vehissell
echoed down the
narrow dirt road,
growing louder as it
floated to a halt outside their home.
Its matte-gray shell
shimmered faintly
in the early light,
steam hissing softly
from its underside.
Siah stood on the porch,
backpack slung over one shoulder,
collar crooked, and sleep still clinging faintly to his eyes.
His mother adjusted his coat,
smoothing the fabric with worn fingers.
“Work hard,”
she said, voice softer now.
“Don’t cause trouble. And choose your friends wisely.
You hear me?”
Siah nodded, but didn’t speak.
“Pray to the Acme Santis for mercy. For protection,”
she added, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
“Say the words, even if you don’t believe them. It still matters.”
He looked at her for a long moment, expression unreadable,
gaze distant as though
he were already somewhere
far beyond the coming day.
Then he smiled—a quiet, practiced thing—and kissed her on the cheek.
“I’ll be fine, Ma,”
he said gently.
“But listen… if he comes back—if he shows up—don’t welcome him.
Not for a second. Call the crew service. Have him hauled off if he so much as raises his voice.”
Her face hardened. “Siah…”
“I mean it.”
His voice dropped, calm but steely.
“You don’t owe him anything.”
The vehissell’s side panel opened with a pneumatic hiss. Inside, the driver glanced out, indifferent.
Siah stepped back, offered his mother one last smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and turned to board.
---
The vehissell hovered low through the outskirts, inches above the uneven cobble-road.
The streets were dense
with morning traffic
and throngs of people
weaving between merchant
stalls that spilled onto the road.
Honking, yelling, sizzling food,
and drifting incense turned the ride into a gauntlet of overstimulation.
Siah sat near the rear,
one leg bouncing lazily,
forehead leaning against the cool glass.
His mind drifted—half on his mother’s words, half on nothing at all.
A blur of motion in the alley.
A barefoot youngman, shirtless,
with tattered pants barely clinging
to his hips, came sprinting out between two buildings like a startled animal.
Behind him, an older man with a meat cleaver in hand, roared curses that made heads turn.
The youngman crashed
into the side of the vehissell,
palms slapping against the window right beside Siah.
“Friend! Help me!”
he screamed,
eyes wide with a mix of desperation
and glee.
“What the hell—?”
Siah flinched backward in reflex,
staring at the boy whose face he didn’t even recognize.
The driver slammed the brakes.
“YOU!”
he snapped, swiveling in his seat,
eyes locking on Siah in the rearview.
“This your friend? He just dented my panel!”
“What? No!”
Siah said, startled, pointing at the window.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life!”
