The Wrong Devices

“How could she do that?” The senator’s heavy fist slammed onto the coffee table, rocking the wooden legs. “Doesn’t she understand what she’s doing? The country will be thrown into chaos! Is she trying to destroy the country? He was pointing to the television on the other side of the room. It sat in its glass case, showing images of the Veret’s limo cruising down the highway to the Capital Temple.

“Dad, calm down,” Titan said softly from the other side of the room. Though his father was a big, brutish man, Titan had never even witnessed such a fit of rage. His father may have been as big as a tank, but he wouldn’t have ever hurt a fly.

Sighing, his father stood. “I’m sorry, Titan, I didn’t mean to yell.”

Titan made a step towards the door. “Where’s mom?” he asked.

“She’s out with your sister,” he grunted, picking up a cigarette and sticking it between his lips. “They’re visiting your grandmother in Pulse.”

Titan nodded, turning away from his father. “I’m going over to Ian’s, I’ll be back later.”

“Tell Mrs. Kidder I said ‘hi’.”

“I will,” Titan said and closed the door behind him. Outside, it was still frigid. People were back to their normal lives as it was: walking down the road, driving on the right sides, and shopping willfully. The Young family lived in a duplex right outside of the city, squeezed between a long line of apartment buildings housing rich and poor alike. Titan’s best friend, Ian Kidder, lived just a few houses down the road. He hopped down the stairs, onto the sidewalk, and he made his way up the street.

On the way, Titan came to a group of people in an ellipse around someone. A street show, Titan thought, but when he got closer the show intrigued him. Past the heads and shoulders of the onlookers, he saw what everyone was watching: a Herra. He could tell by the markings on the man’s skin that he wasn’t just an ordinary man. A Herra is born with the ability to use magic, and the Herra are all identified by a birthmark of sorts on their skin. It was like a dark-colored tattoo, stretching across his skin in vectors. It made a swirl on his cheek, went back down his neck over his collarbone, and even farther to his chest, hidden by his shirt. There was no mistake, this man was a Herra.

“What’s going to happen to us?” a woman asked from the crowd. Titan stopped outside the circle, watching inattentively despite his coldness.

“I—I don’t know,” the Herra said. He was a young man, hardly older than Titan. He had slick, blonde, crew-cut hair and deep blue irises. He wore fingerless gloves, revealing the vicious scars marring the skin on his hands from using magic.

“Well, you’re a Herra aren’t you? You should know!”

The man tried to move away from the group, but was pushed back into the middle of everyone. “I don’t know anything!” he shouted to everyone, stepping back. The blue in his eyes shimmered as he shot the whole crowd a menacing look.

“Bullshit,” one of the bystanders said.

“I swear to you! The council has barely discussed the situation!”

There were some whispers amongst the crowd, some threats that had been better left unspoken. Then, an older man stepped out of the mass of people to face the Herra himself. He was short but buff, with brown hair and eyes. He wore a jacket, but you could see the bulges of his muscles against the cloth.

“Alright,” the man said. “If you want to play this game, I’d be glad to beat the truth out of you.”

The Herra backed up. “I don’t know why you people think there’s something going on here—I know as much as you people do!”

Out of nowhere, the short man punched at the other. The Herra had to step to the side to avoid the jab, and quickly retaliated to the assailant. He brought his foot forward into his opponent’s stomach, pushing him back.

“I see you know how to fight,” the man said. He stripped off his jacket, wearing a t-shirt, and dove back into the brawl. He punched at the young Herra, but the skillful magician was much faster. He dodged with speed and always countered with a heavy strike. The short man ducked down and jumped up, upper-cutting the Herra in the chin. This was met with great approval from the crowd, who cheered and begged for the fight to go on.

Wiping the blood from his lip, the Herra stripped his gloves off. In the center of each of his palms were the points where his Mark began: large circles seemingly painted onto his skin. Stripping off his trench coat, he revealed that the vectors stretched from the black holes, up his forearms and bicep, to his shoulder where they stretched across his collarbone, down his chest and up his neck to arch around his eye.

Then, the arrows began to glow. It was faint at first, but the blue glow persisted until it was clear to everyone what was happening: magic. Titan was amazed by the supernatural display before him. He, like everyone else, thought this would be the ultimate display of Herra power. Every on-looker thought that the Herra would use his God-given ability and make the man into an Otro—a servant of the Herra.

The Herra rushed at the man. He slammed his glowing fist into the human’s jaw, grabbed his head in both hands, and there was a bright flash of light. When the glow faded, the Herra stood tall with the man unconscious on the cold cement, and everyone’s expectations were banished. The man was not an Otro, the Herra had relented.

“Well,” he said, pulling on his trench coat. “I hope we’re done here.”

“Yes, sir,” the crowd said in unison and half-bowed. After that, everyone scattered, leaving Titan and the Herra alone.

Titan sighed to himself, wishing he could have been born a Herra—wishing he could wield magic—and continued on down the street. But, the Herra, magic was not a gift. It was not a blessing. It was a plague, a curse.