The Tragic beginning of Mica North

My wheelchair squeaks down the hall, having been dismissed from the party. All I wanted was to watch the dance, but the North family doesn’t like their lab-made daughter to find pleasure in anything. I glare down at my twisted ankles. They hate me because of my legs, not strong enough to support my weight. And I will never be what they want: a whole, healthy, 10-year-old daughter who can stroll and curtsy and look elegant in a ball gown. I roll into my room, slamming the door, letting the sweet smell of the hay mattress roll over me. Tears leak down my face; I wipe them away, hating everything—the North’s, the world, myself. I heave my useless legs out of my chair and curl them next to me on my bed, still in my fancy dress, turning out the lights. Pulling the sheets over my shoulders, letting salty moisture drip into the pillow, I made myself stuffed with pine needles. I don’t know how long I cried, but sometime in there, a weight settles next to me on the bed, too light to be a grown-up. Warm fingers brush my tears away. Soft, wordless crooning, like a mother would to a restless infant, like wind through trees. Shh, shh, shh. Small fingers stroking my hair. I open my eyes and turn over. Two eyes gleaming in the moonlight. The right one, white; the other, blood-red. A demon sent from hell. It smiles, sharp teeth showing. Two seconds of pure shock. And I let loose with a scream that could wake the dead. The demon flinches, then stares at me for what seems an eternity as it reaches out to snatch me. The sound of feet fills the corridor. The demon flees out my open window. One of the security guards rounds on my room. What's happened? I gasp for air, finally remembering to breathe. After about the fifth time, I blubber out the words, He gets what I’m trying to say. “A demon was in here." He scoffs. It was a nightmare. Go back to sleep. But at my insistence, he still checks the window. You're on the third floor; no one can climb up here. He scoffs again. I got in my wheelchair and tried to warn other people, but they all called it a nightmare or said I was seeing things. When I try to tell Lady North, she says to stop making things up and instructs me to go to bed and stay there. So, I wheel myself back to my room. Shut the window. And find it. On my bed, there is a note, handwritten, with not very good penmanship, but the ink that must have come from my favorite red fountain pen glows ominously. Hello Mica, I'll come back for you soon. I hid the note in my shirt drawer. Proof the demon existed. In the morning. I pull on my pants and open my shirt drawer. On top of my favorite pink ruffled shirt lies a fine layer of ash, and no note. I pull on my favorite blue top instead. It matches my eyes. I look out the window and open it just far enough to see outside. Nothing but green trees, manicured gardens, and party lights. For a second, I think I see the demon's red eye in a tree, but when I look again, there is nothing. Nothing happens for several weeks, and I start to wonder if I imagined it. But I can still see its eyes in my dreams—sharp teeth, evil, with pure darkness flowing around its hideous face. At yet another party, this one a masquerade, I sit in a corner; no one wants me underfoot. A boy about my age, wearing a mask depicting a fox's face, beautifully painted with a mini, dark-red velvet top hat pinned on his head, tipped playfully to the side, moseys over and leans against a wall. Hey, Blue. I side-eye him. Hey. After a minute of tense silence, "Why do you come to these parties?" he asks. "I never found them any fun." I look up at him. I like watching the dances. He c***s his head. Why? It's interesting. "Do you want to dance?" His question leaves me stammering. Well, yes, but who would put up with a lame dance partner? Your line is more than anything.Gently, he pulls me up, supporting my entire weight, wrapping one arm around my waist and my arm over his shoulder.He takes my hand in his. And spins us around the room. It's not pretty, but it's dancing, and this is amazing. What's the trick? I look into the eye; I can see behind the mask, a lovely shade of violet. No one is nice to me just because. Are you going to leave me stranded in the middle of the ballroom, or throw me into the punch bowl? He looks at me solemnly. I will not do anything to purposely humiliate you tonight or ever. I implore you to relax and enjoy the dance, 'cause I don’t think I can hold you up much longer—then a couple of songs. And using long words like "humiliate" and old-sounding words like "implore" are taxing on the brain. I grin at him, and when his arms start to shake from the effort, we go back to my wheelchair, each drink a glass of punch. And talk all night. He makes me laugh. Things are great for a few hours, but all good things come to an end. Lady North appears, nose in the air. "Who are you?" The boy takes off his hat and makes a bow, adding a flourish of his hand. I am but a humble acquaintance of this lovely young lady. Are you her sister? I nearly choked on my punch. The boy keeps trying to end the conversation, but Lady North keeps coming up with new topics. Finally, something changes. "Where are your parents?" Lady North asks. If you refer to my black hats, Mia White killed them. Lady North recoils. You're one of the lost pawns. At your service. He bows again. With his head down, the mask slips enough that I can see his lips. Be quiet. He mouths. Then, he pulls his mask down again, bows to me, and presses the fox's nose to the back of my hand. "It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Miss Mica the Blue." He smiles at some thought the nickname provokes. "I hope to see you at the next gathering. It's time I take my leave." Lady North waves dismissively. It's past your bedtime, Mica. I nod like the subservient child I'm supposed to be. And roll to my bedroom. On the bed is the fox mask. Taped to the ear is a note. Your partner enjoyed dancing with you. You seemed to enjoy your days as a black hat's daughter as well. I groaned; the demon was watching. Now it has the boy. And what is a black hat, for crying out loud? I roll to my desk and pull out a sheet of paper. My red fountain pen scratches over the page. Give him back. I don’t know what your problem is, but… I pause and think through every conversation with the boy; he never said his name, so I end with... Release him and leave me alone. In the morning, the page is gone. And I'm called to a meeting with Lady and Lord North. I stand in their study. And leave with a few more bruises. In the shadows, a red eye slides back out of sight. Two days later, again in my room, I hear the lock click. Only someone on the inside can lock it. I turn to face the figure dressed in camo, with a fox mask. Blue, I need to talk to you. He's shaking. Okay, sit down, take a breath. He takes the edge of my bed, and I roll to face him. "Don't go to the party tonight," he blurts. "A mutual friend caught wind of a plan, and I'm here to warn you. Pawns are going to start going missing, and some think you will be a queen." He babbles on, but I can't understand what he's saying. I grab his arms. Slow down what is happening. Your black hats entered you in the games. What are black hats? The people posing as parents: They take kids for their games. Some call them aristocrats. I’ve heard of the games which stage. They entered you into stage 3. Stage 3 is what most call the brute games. It’s a bloodbath, and the only reason anyone would enter a child with disabilities is if they are done with the child and want him or her dead. I look him in the eyes. The right, blue; the left, violet. I need some time to process. He nods and strolls to the window. Facing it, he whispers, "I don’t want you dead, blue." I don’t want to die. He turns. You could come with me. No more North's, no more games. Just you and me, free and safe. I can’t wrap my head around that. My brain struggles to keep up, so I say what’s been ingrained in me since birth: "My place is here; I cannot leave. I must stay with the North's." He smiles sadly at me. Alright, let me know if you change your mind. He slides the window open. Be careful with that. I used to think that way, and my story didn’t go so well. Then he leaps. I race to the window, expecting to see his lifeless body on the ground. Instead, about halfway down, he salutes me and drops the last few feet. He can climb the wall; the i***t should have just used the door. And in my panic, I had completely forgotten what he had said about not going to the party. As normal, I sit closer to the edge and sip the punch, hoping to see Fox again and ask what his name is. The music suddenly goes dead, and a low female voice breaks through the clamor, seeming to come from all around. Ladies and gentlemen, murderers and murderesses, welcome to tonight's entertainment. Tonight, we have four very special guests: the ones you call pawns. Joe Savage, Ronar South, Keon Steele, and Alejandro Alvarez. Four boys between the ages of 10 and 15 looked up when they were called. "You have all been entered in Stage 3 Brute Games. What do you have to say to that?" The boys move to the center of the room. Victory or death, they intone. I shudder; this isn’t right on so many levels. Though the hall is in a shadowed corner, my eyes find red and white. The demon once again. And in its pale fist a microphone. The hellish eyes widen. Mouth opens, showing sharp teeth. And from every speaker in the room, the voice yells. Move blue, get out of the way. I rolled back in surprise. the sound of a g*n discharging three times. And blinding pain erupts from my torso, Seconds pass with people screaming. Before I feel warm arms scooping me up, and a familiar voice—it is Fox's voice—as he runs with me from the party. You i***t, I told you not to come tonight. I look up into the demon's face. Fox and demon, one and the same. Flecks of blood on her cheeks. But Fox was the liar. She wore a boy's outfit and cut her dark hair short. With the mask, you couldn’t tell the difference. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I thought you weren’t here. If I’d known, I would have stopped him." My eyelids slip. No Blue… Mica, keep your eyes open. I need you to stay awake. We stop, and pain flares again as she works desperately to stop the bleeding. Hang on, Blue, don’t die on me now. The growl of a quiet motorcycle fills my ears. The girl wraps my arms around her waist and ties them in place. Around there, I fade into the blackness. I open my eyes. Colors swirling on what seems to be the other side of a glass pane. The girl stands, her red eye the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Hello, Mica, my name is Wren. You are safe now. She presses her hand against the glass. Is this heaven? My voice comes out with a metallic ring. She laughs—not quite, but for kids like us, this is the closest we'll ever get. Aren't I dead? Wren pulls something over. It's a large box with a clear lid. Inside is me. My face, my brown hair, my body, covered in tubes and wires. You went into a coma; I made you a digital avatar. So, while your physical body heals, your mind can be alert and active. She looks at me through her eyelashes. Are you mad at me? If you want, I can shut this down, and you could be unconscious until your body is ready. This is my fault, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you wanted to have nothing to do with me. I press my hand against the glass, against hers. No, this is so much better. Is there a way for me to talk to people on this side of the screen? She smiles and slips a helmet on. She lies down on a cot. And beside me, her avatar swirls into existence. I hope you like your avatar. I didn’t know what you liked. If you don’t like it, you can change it. Voice command makes it easy. I don’t understand this well enough to instruct you, so your guide AI is Pixie. Pixie, how do we shift to third person? A tiny fairy pops up. Blink twice, and your viewing options should appear. Click on option three. I do as I'm told and study myself. Leggings and a crocheted turtleneck, long flowing sleeves, the hem falling halfway down my legs, olive skin, blue hair, big intuitive eyes spiraling into code. Back in first person, I look at Wren and smile. I love it, blue through and through. Would you like a code name? Mica probably brings back bad memories. It's not a hard question. Yes, I don't want to be called Mica anymore. I search for a name I like and settle on one that will always remind me of these days where I'm finally free of the North family. Pixel, I think I want my name to be Pixel. For the next three days, I'll learn all there is to know about this cyber world. Wren learns with me. She has taken my physical body to a small island she calls Haven she is building outside all the time and has installed screens everywhere so I can view anywhere. And on the third night, when Wren comes to join me, I have a dance floor ready, music playing, pixelated characters chatting and happy, and I dance because I finally can, while Wren watches and claps and even dances with me a little. This is my story, and I love the ending. My physical body may never wake up, but I’m happy because I have a good home. I can go anywhere I want and have Wren. I know she will have to leave for days at a time, but she will come back 'cause she is Wren. I am Pixel, and she is my friend. She gives me a hug. They can’t get to you here, Pixel. Here you are safe. I hug her back. I know.