Ideworld Chronicles: The Art Mage

18th December (Thursday), in the afternoon

"I'll have to get going, Malik," I said after my call went unanswered again. "I have a friend—" the word still felt foreign and uncertain on my tongue "—who's been missing for quite some time."

"Another!?" Malik blurted, eyes wide.

"Apparently, that's a common pattern for people around me," I replied dryly, though my mind immediately drifted to Thomas Torque, missing once because of Akira, and now wanting to vanish again to escape Penrose. Seriously, what were the odds?

"Can I help?" Malik asked, already standing up from the floor where he'd been rolling around with Lio. My dragon let out a faint, disgruntled hiss, his tail whipping once against the floor.

"I honestly have no idea," I admitted, "but I can take you with me if you want. Just try not to break anything, alright?"

I didn't want him to feel left out, not after what we'd just talked about. Maybe that was my weakness, trying to keep those rare friends close, even when I shouldn't.

I reached out with my aura to pull us into my Domain, but the connection just wasn't there. Apparently, it was still impossible to establish links with anything that didn't carry my Authority or wasn't an art. Typical. I sighed and stepped closer, pressing a hand to Malik's arm.

He didn't ask any questions; he just smiled at me in that half-boyish, half-bold way that made me roll my eyes.

A heartbeat later, the world shifted. The three of us were standing in the heart of my Domain. The air here always felt alive, humming faintly with my essence, a reflection of my moods woven into color and motion, but also with a faint scent of salt as of recently.

"I'm going to put some makeup on," I announced, heading toward my station. "You two can play a little longer."

That was all the permission they needed. Malik immediately conjured echoes—shimmering afterimages that mimicked his movements—and Liora darted between them like a lightning-struck ribbon, twisting and weaving through the air with glee.

The laughter and scales filled the room as I faced the mirror and began reshaping my reflection, skin and attitude both shifting until Jess Hare looked back at me. Safer this way. Always safer to be someone else.

**********

"Is this… it?" Malik asked, echoing my own thought before I could even voice it.

We stood in what had once been Shiroi's house, the same one I'd painted ages ago as an anchor, the place where we'd built my suit and Peter's. But now… there was almost nothing left.

The entire structure had been gutted by what looked like an explosion. Charred concrete walls stood like blackened teeth jutting from the earth, their edges crumbling to ash in the wind. The air still smelled faintly of burnt wiring and melted plastic. Furniture was shredded beyond recognition; twisted metal and pulverized glass littered the floor in chaotic constellations.

"This is the right place, Malik," I said, though I almost didn't believe it myself. My voice sounded hollow against the stillness. I turned toward what used to be the perimeter fence. Police tape, sun-bleached and brittle, fluttered weakly in the breeze. Some of it already torn loose and snagged on the debris.

"It's just… a little messier than I remember."

Malik's boots crunched over debris as he moved toward a fallen support beam. "You think this mess is the reason he's not answering?" he asked, shoving aside a slab of concrete that must have weighed twice what he did. The casual strength in the movement reminded me that mages weren't quite human anymore, and I'd gotten too used to forgetting that.

"That'd be my guess," I murmured.

"You think he's dead?"

I exhaled through my nose. "That would be an accomplishment. Akira's hard to kill, but not impossible. If he was here when it happened, though…" I let the thought trail off.

"There's blood," Malik said quietly, kneeling near one of the blasted walls. "You think it's his?"

Anansi, I called inwardly. Would I remember the smell of Akira's blood?

[Only if you wore the mask. Your unaugmented senses wouldn't be enough. And even then, you'd need a fresh reference to match it.]

So, no way to tell.

"Blood is blood," I said aloud, crouching beside Malik. "Hard to tell whose. Let's not jump to conclusions yet."

"You have any?"

"No, not yet." I straightened and scanned what was left of the kitchen. Beneath the rubble, memory stirred. There had been a trapdoor here once, leading to a hidden basement. Akira sealed it weeks ago, after he learned to both recompose and decompose matter on molecular and metaphysical levels. He'd filled the shaft with solid concrete, something only he could unmake.

I found the spot soon enough. The floor here was thicker than the rest, almost untouched by the explosion. My pulse picked up.

Kneeling, I summoned my Spellbook and the toolbelt it was bound to, the familiar shimmer of shadowlight trailing from my chest. From the belt, I pulled out a black spray can. The same kind I used to cheat reality's concept of wholeness.

Malik leaned over my shoulder, eyebrows raised. "You're paintin' a hole?"

"I am," I said, shaking the can until it hissed alive. "Akira sealed a secret room down there. I am just unsure if my hole can lead us that deep."

The rattling echo of the spray can filled the ruined silence as I traced the first line onto the cracked floor. The hiss of aerosol and the metallic rattle inside the can seemed to pulse with my heartbeat, each pass of the paint a quiet act of defiance against the destruction around us. By the time I finished the outline, the whole thing shimmered faintly with my authority, the blackness already drinking in my intent. I tucked the can back into my bag.

"What's in there?" Malik asked, leaning forward to inspect the dark circle.

"I don't know. I was never down there. Akira went once. Said he needed rare materials for the suit Peter used, but he told me to wait up here, and I did."

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"I bet there are deadly traps in there," Malik muttered, crouching beside me.

I smirked. "You scared?"

"I am never scared." He puffed his chest, but I could see his hand tighten slightly.

"I was joking," I said, shaking my head. "But I'm not going in blind either. First, I need to make sure it actually leads somewhere… and that it's not instant death."

I pulled two cards out, a light card and an eye-card. Shadowlight rippled through my fingers as I infused both and released them. They drifted downward through the hole, slipping out of sight. A heartbeat later, the eye-card flashed alive, showing me a dim, dust-choked space below. The light card landed beside it, illuminating a large room lined with scattered, overturned shelves. It looked like a storage area—warehouse-like—but whatever it once held was gone.

"I'll go first," I said. "It seems stable enough."

Before Malik could argue, I blinked downward, letting the tether of the light card pull me through. The cold air below wrapped around me immediately, thick with concrete dust and something faintly rotten. I appeared with light card already in hand and used it as a makeshift flashlight, sweeping the beam across the wreckage.

The basement was larger than I remembered the house itself being. Easily as wide, maybe deeper. The shelves had been thrown to the floor by the blast, their contents long gone. Tools, materials, research components, whatever Akira had stored here, he'd either moved them into his Domain when he regained his ability to move into Ideworld or they'd been obliterated. It was empty, but it didn't feel empty.

Then I heard it.

A whisper. Dry and cracked.

"...A… a… kira?"

I froze, head snapping toward the far end of the room. The voice was faint but unmistakably human. Malik dropped through the painted circle behind me with a dull thud, sending up a cloud of dust.

"Damn. This is another mess," he said, brushing off his clothes.

I turned sharply, pressing a finger to my lips. He stopped mid-breath.

"...Aki… ra?" The voice again, weaker now.

Malik leaned in to whisper, "Who's—"

I covered his mouth before he could finish. He stiffened, then nodded silently as I removed my hand.

I moved forward. Careful and quiet. Each step was a deliberate shift of balance, my shadowlight smoothing my motion across the debris. I passed overturned tables, splintered pipes, a melted lamp. The air stank of stale sweat and something sour.

And then I saw him.

In the far corner, half-swallowed by shadow, a man sat chained to the floor. A short length of steel connected a collar around his neck to a thick ring bolted into the concrete. Two buckets—one for water, one long since fouled—sat beside him. The stench was heavy enough to make Malik gag softly behind me.

The man's clothes had once been an expensive suit, now shredded and crusted with grime. His hair hung in uneven mats; his beard grew wild across a face that might once have been confident, even proud. Now it was hollow, greasy and utterly defeated.

He blinked at me with bloodshot eyes. "Who… who are… you?" he rasped, voice breaking. Every word seemed to scrape his throat raw.

I didn't answer immediately. My mind turned over the image of chains, confinement and filth. This wasn't Akira's way. He wasn't cruel, and he didn't waste time on vengeance. If he kept someone alive down here, it was for a reason.

Which made one question burn louder than all the rest.

Who was this man that Akira decided was worth keeping alive?

I stayed half-hidden in the shadow, one hand on Malik's arm to stop him from striding forward. The man's breathing rasped through the basement, shallow and uneven. Dust shimmered through the light of my spell, catching on the tremor in his shoulders.

"Why are you here?" I asked. My voice cut through the silence, calm but cold.

"I…" he began, but hesitation twisted his face. Then, "Madman holds me… here." He swallowed dryly, lips cracking. "Help… me, please."

"Should we?" Malik whispered against my ear. "I think we should."

"No." My tone left no room for debate. "Madman doesn't hold you here. Akira does. So cut the crap, or I'll leave you right where you are."

"What?" Malik hissed, confusion edging toward protest. I turned my head just enough for him to see the look I gave. The one that said don't test me right now. He grimaced and fell quiet.

"I…" the prisoner tried again, but the word hung limp in the air.

"Just spill it," I said. "No one else is coming for you. I'm pretty sure only me and Akira even know you're down here. So whatever you're hiding, this is your one shot."

He shifted, the chain scraping across the floor in a slow metallic grind. For several seconds, he said nothing. Just stared, breathing hard, a glint of fear crawling into his eyes.

"Suit yourself," I said finally, turning on my heel and tugging Malik along. "We're leaving."

"No… please." His whisper cracked, almost too weak to hear. "He… left… me… here to… die."

I exhaled through my nose. "Didn't I tell you to cut the crap?" I turned back toward him, folding my arms. "I know Akira. If he wanted you dead, you'd be gone before you could say the word don't. So you're here because he wanted something from you and you didn't give it. And considering you haven't even had the decency to introduce yourself, that tracks."

I flicked my wrist, and the light card spun from my fingers, embedding into the cracked wall behind him. The glow spread, painting his filthy face in amber light and casting a long, thin shadow across the concrete.

"I have enough to deal with already," I said, voice low but sharp. "So unless you start talking, I'm perfectly fine letting you rot right where you are."

"Does that mean Akira is dead?" the man asked, and that was enough for me to lose what little patience I had left.

"Last chance, pal."

"I'm… Bruce… Bruce Reddington…" His voice trembled, the syllables dragging over a raw throat.

"And you're here because?"

"I… don't know!" he cried, panic cracking through the weakness of his voice.

"Where do you work?"

"I… am a businessman."

"I'll repeat," I said, each word cutting sharper. "Where. Do. You. Work?"

"I own… a shoe boutique."

One glance at his ruined but formerly expensive suit, and at the rough hands with calloused knuckles, told me all I needed to know. A lie.

"What's your yearly turnover?"

"What?"

He didn't even flinch convincingly. He wasn't a businessman, at least not the kind that cared about balance sheets. This was someone who traded in influence, not invoices.

"How much do you get from it?" I pressed.

"I… don't know… three million?"

Three million was way overshot. Sure. I'd heard better stories from drunks in back alleys. Whatever he was, he was still dangerous. The kind of man who survived on deceit long enough to think it might still work down here in the dark.

"I gave you so many chances, Mr. John Doe," I said finally, turning from him. "And you threw them all away. Good luck."

A ripple of shadowlight surrounded me as I caught Malik, and in the next instant, we were back in Lebens' training hall.

He blinked, disoriented, then rounded on me. "You're seriously leaving that man in there?"

"Yes," I said, meeting his gaze without flinching. "That man was lying through his teeth, and Akira chose to keep him alive instead of killing him. Which means there's a reason and I'm not about to ruin that by playing hero. If Akira comes back and finds him gone, it'll blow back on him first and on me right after. I'm not risking it."

"That's cruel," Malik said, his jaw tightening, eyes filled with something halfway between defiance and disbelief.

"I gave him a chance, kiddo," I replied evenly. "He threw it away."

"How do you know he lied?"

I sighed, lowering my tone. "From experience. I've been dealing with men like him since I was sixteen."

Malik said nothing after that, but the look on his face told me enough, he still didn't understand. And maybe, for his sake, that was a good thing.

I grabbed my phone and sent a quick text to Peter, dropping Akira's address and a simple request: Check what happened there, if you can. Maybe run it through your new FBI friends.

"What are you going to do now?" Malik asked after a moment, his voice calmer but still heavy with unease.

"I asked Peter to look into this mess, while I'm going to do something purely for myself for a change," I said, sliding the phone back into my pocket. "Thanks for the company, Malik."

"You're leavin' now?"

"Yes. I'll let you know how it plays out, okay?"

"Just… let me know if I can help," he said. "Also, I really think we shouldn't leave that guy in there."

"I know," I answered, softening my tone. "You're a good kid. I'll think about it."

"Please do." He hesitated, scratching at the back of his neck. "Also… one more thing."

"Yes?"

"Can you, like… not call me kid?"

That one hit home a little harder than I expected. I'd forgotten how quickly pride grows at his age.

"Yes," I said with a faint smile. "Take care, Malik."

And with that, I let my authority move the world around me, taking me into the stillness of my own room.