January 14

The Magicians: Part 1

All she was ever told was that science and magic should never mix.

Sitting with her arm on a rock and her head in the clouds, she dug the bullet out of her arm.

Of course, she had no idea what she was doing—she didn’t even think it was necessary. Her arm wasn’t even real, she wouldn’t be able to properly seal up the hole anyway.

Being a fugitive was fun.

Six years ago today the magic officers had barged into her house and killed her parents, leaving her orphaned and afraid.

It’s not that she asked to be one of them, the universe just hates her.

Grunting, with a final pull she dislodged the metal pain-pellet and fell back.

She absolutely hated magic.

Glaring at the trees, she muttered, “how am I supposed to fix this?”

The trees said nothing, like always.

She looked at the metal plating that she substituted for an arm, looked at the gaping hole and the scratch marks that surrounded it. She just had to be magical, didn’t she?

She looked at the pink sky and sighed. There was no way she was going to sleep tonight.

Not that she ever slept anyway.

Slumping on a very craggy rock, she found herself daydreaming as the sun set, humming a familiar tune that she could no longer recall the words to.

And slowly, as if in a trance, she rocked herself to sleep.

But then her dreams rudely broke her peaceful slumber.

She was standing in the middle of the same very forest, blackness clouding her vision. She squinted her eyes, searching for a light that wasn’t there, urging for it to come forth and offer her the security that no one was trying to kill her.

And it came, but there was no security in it.

Her hands—at least that’s what she hoped they were still her hands—were glowing. The real and the robotic. A luminescent blue, it shimmered, lighting up the forest and revealing it for what it ought to be—a forest.

But she could hardly focus on that.

Screaming, she threw herself into the ground. Throwing her hands anywhere they would go. She smashed her hands against rocks, on the ground, in the river beside her, tossed them underneath her, ignoring the blood that gushed from them. She didn’t care, all she wanted was for the glowing to stop.

She remember what they’d said, science and magic should never mix.

Suddenly, her metal hands burst, and she was encased in a pot of darkness.

She looked around, seeing nothing.

The glowing in her hands had stopped, but she was not soothed.

Suddenly, a voice.

Freak, it whispered.

She snapped her head around, “who’s there?” she said through her quickening pulse.

Abnormal. The same voice said again.

She jerked her head around to the other side.

Suddenly, hundreds of eyes were staring at her.

Freak they whispered. Abnormal, strange, horrid.

She spun around, closing her eyes. Make it stop, make it stop…

The more she pleaded the louder the voices got. Strange, horrid, freak.

She covered her ears with her hands—which she noticed were now glowing once more—crouching, tears stinging her eyes. Her heartbeat banging in her chest like a thousand drums. Her steel hand dug into her ear, clogging it with blood. But she couldn’t stop the voices, no matter how hard she pressed her fingers to her head.

Abruptly, every voices stopped.

Magic, a single one said.

She screamed.

Her eyes snapped open, a small yelp escaping her lips. She was panting, and covered in sweat from head to toe. She looked down at her fingers, her palms, they were the same pale and silver color that they’d always been—that they were supposed to be.

Her moment of relief was cut off by a pair of hands clamping over her mouth.

And another roughly grabbing her shoulders. She fell limp under the pressure of the squeeze. She was too weak to fight.

The rock was just backdrop behind her as the hands dragged her away.