The Witch of Jakarta

Chapter 11: Progeny (Part 2)

    With scarce air in his lungs, he took a deep breath, realizing he was breathing ash and dust once more. He looked around the large warehouse—seemingly endless concrete floor spread across metal walls that looked as if it were stretched farther than the sea. Mountain high tin roofs, and endless space of stock, shielding them from the light pattering from the rain outside. Time moved differently, seconds traveling much faster from the outside world.

    Yet the rain trickled down just fine from the sounds echoing in his ears. The heart in his chest thumped faster, ever more strained by the sudden change in time and momentum. He could feel his nerves and cells vibrating faster inside him, his very being rushed to adapt to the new beat of impulse. Yet once the drive settles, it had only become second nature; seamless transition in what he hoped was temporary.

    The soft pitter-patter of the raindrops was just enough to distract him from the new piles of dead workers strewn around in front of him, though he truly hated how much he’d gotten used to it in a day’s span. Still, he wasn’t about to let his inexperience hinder what sent they came for. His eyes roamed around the room; the rest of his psyche focused on convincing him that they were anything but bodies. It worked, only for a few seconds, he’d let himself clutch unto Inca’s skirt.

    However, there was something odd about how they died, something even his frenzied mind couldn’t miss. His eyes went further, noting that everybody on the floor seemingly without much struggle; in spite of how brutal some of their bodies were. No blood splatters nor trail, not even a half-torn limb or cuts of flesh splattered any further than right next to their bodies.

    His sense of time faded into obscurity, knowing what was happening outside counted on them to clear and track down whoever brought down the serpent’s highest producers. Yet something of this room felt as if it were a far-off island, unaware of the tides clamoring on the other side of the ocean. Or more likely too distracted by its own fire to recognize the others.

    High shelves and higher-grade potions broken and scattered across the floor—the persistent smell of burnt metals and potions enough to make him gag. Only its former silhouette remained, its curved roofs like an aircraft and corrugated thin walls hosting dead lamps; there was something about these roofs he couldn’t quite place.

    He hopped across the broken tarmac, his long uniform pants nearly caught on a scrap metal—nothing of value empty except for a shredded forklift. His eyes pried further, any semblance of resources and order that the serpent had prided herself on, burnt and torn. Yet, an odd feeling of relief still settled in his core, knowing there was no one alive but them.

    ‘Is this still Jakarta?’

    ‘Well, we didn’t exactly teleport,’ She hummed, ‘but no, this is hardly Jakarta.’

    Vincent took out his phone again, his curiosity overriding his fear as he took a picture of some of the bodies. He was and is a spy and a charm caster first, such he must take care to do his job first. He took out his phone, not having any other medium less he wants to use his shoes. 60% was enough, and just an abundantly enough bodies to gather evidence. His mind cascaded back to the red sky, a bit of himself wondering how they’d survived the last few centuries without such advanced structure. Still, he wasted no more time, whispering his spell unto his phone.

    ‘Ado,’ He said, the words slowly leaving a bitter metallic taste on his tongue.

    The camera lens and screen of his phone glowed a brilliant emerald, the corners of his vision steadily following suit. There was nothing else in his mind but a single word, ‘fatal wound’. Everything else faded to into obscurity, the metal walls and endless trickling raindrops leaving the edges of his consciousness. Steady breaths, firm hand—he continued to let the phone’s camera glance at the dead man’s figure, letting the subtle emerald glow glaze through each inch of exposed skin.

    It had almost felt more sci-fi than magic he had to admit—the foreign flow and taste of magic emitting within him sending mixed signals through his nerves and instinct. However, as long as he could see what the dead body had looked like inside and out, he was not one to cast out petty labels. The man’s inner workings—flesh, brain, and bones reflected transparently in a subtle emerald shade on the screen of his phone. Consciously, his other hand pulled the collar of his shirt up, the smell overwhelming him once more.

    It was a viewfinder of some sort, something he’d recently learned to be quite useful in terms of using proxies. Proxies, another foreign word to describe something simply put as a 3rd party to help someone to use magic. And as he learned he was no master, and the flickering emerald light in his phone suddenly turned black again.

    ‘Damn it…’

    Another try would do it, he assured himself the countless time, the fine emerald light in his eyes flickering brighter. He waved his phone again, finally getting a clear image of the body—he couldn’t help but feel sick at the sight. Be that as it may, he refuses to waver, a colossal red-brick hue blooming on the man’s chest. He held his breath tighter, the phantom of raw flesh and blood paralyzing his thoughts. It was an inner wound, right at his heart and spreading across his upper torso. The slick membrane torn up with savage accuracy and spread across the poor man, haphazardly intertwining with his costal cartilage and manubrium.

    Vincent was no expert in the medical field, let alone high school biology. It took his eyes too long to start aching, racking his brain to what the hell was destroyed that caused the poor man to lay his life—until he’d finally figured out that the odd-shaped piece of flesh was his heart. His hands turned pale, the tremor in his fingers nearly dropping the phone. He stepped back, the dark cylinder frame he’d build up to isolate the rest of the world torn away. A clanking sound from his peripheral shot through him as if it had been the loudest thing he’d ever hear; reminding him he wasn’t alone in the warehouse.

    He cursed himself, whispering the spell again. The little monkey in his brain jotting down every possible spell that could’ve done this to a body, let alone a body that had their blood coursing through it. His mind went back to Amo, how he wished she was here; she’d know what this was without a shadow of a doubt. The thought leads him to wonder how much she’d been hurt, where she was with the others.

    He ignored the cold sweat dripping from his brow, the corner of his eyes glowing to the fine emerald hue once more. He scanned through the body again, no other damages except that heart, the deep obsidian hue seemingly larger the 2nd time he’d seen it. His hands grew cold, white clamoring knuckles barely holding together as he opened the man’s shirt. It was then that he’d realize the blood had only been present from the mouth, which meant there was no entry or exit wound. The dead man’s skin laid bare against the emerald light, no outside forces were visible.

    He knew what it was, in fact, it was something so common it could be passed down as common knowledge to humans that don’t carry the gold blood. It was black magic, santet in their language. But it isn’t a spell, it isn’t even a weapon, it was a ritual that could take days to months of completion. A single thought raced through his mind and his feet rushed through the next nearest body. Everything else faded into obscurity, the pitch-black cylinder frame that kept his mind focused hiding everything else under its cloak. This one was burnt, yet the deep obsidian hue spread across the screen of his phone didn’t change the slightest. Another body, a woman with torn jaws—still, the dark obsidian hue on his phone stayed at the woman’s heart.

    ‘Found anything?’ A voice echoed, just outside of the dark frame of vision.

    ‘Found…Something.’

    He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, shaky hands slowly scrunching the bridge of his nose. The same cause of deaths, different wounds, all died in action. There was only one possible conclusion, yet he couldn’t think of how it was achievable with even a group of witches. Had they bastardized the ritual so much it turned to a spell? But even so, doing this in combat in a single room? Vincent felt the knot in his throat tighten, his eyes begging him to look away from the bodies.

    Of course, he was well aware that he’s not as well equipped as Sarah or Holy, in terms of concentration nor theory. Be that as it may, no one else was as informed as he was about the new breed of this “technological magic”. It seemed to be the next step after the age of dust and packaged magic that no longer used raw ingredients, which seemed to be less stable. Yet again, his screen flickered to black, and the sudden impending rush of time running out hit him like whiplash.

    ‘What does that spell do?’ The rogue asked half-way picking through a wound on one of the bodies.

    ‘Helps me search for anything word I put my mind to,’ He answers, waving his phone at another corpse. ‘I need to concentrate.’

    ‘Well, might want to tell Ralph to find another place then,’ She said, going back to poking at that one corpse.

    ‘You know him?’

    ‘Wha-Oh, yeah I did,’ The rogue replied. ‘He was the one my mom sent to stop me, one of Yogyakarta’s district.’

    He paused for a moment, realizing what he was watching. Her hands weren’t merely prodding and splashing at the wound, she was holding his hand as if he was still alive as she checked his wounds. His wits twisted at the contrast, the story he had heard from her last visit—how the man attacked, how she fought back, how she spared him. The blacked-out lights seemingly dimming, even more, mourning with the rogue haired girl. It was such twisted compassion that drew him in, the emerald light in the corner of his eyes fading away; devoid of concentration.

    He couldn’t decide what comes next, his legs padlocked in place and his mouth gripped shut, not knowing anything to say other than the regular orotund them the public would always say. He didn’t want to be the broken record, least of all make her feel she should grief faster with the way the sky was spreading outside. Still, the image of her bowed figure clutching on the man’s hands remained persistent at whipping his social instincts blank. Didn’t the man have kids? A family?

    ‘I’m sorry.’

    ‘He wasn’t a good man,’ She replied, ‘though he kept the cards he was dealt.’

    Vincent nodded, realizing he’d been standing closer to her now. Quickly, shaky hands texted his findings, and a picture of one of the bodies to Ralph; hoping for all of their sakes that the serpent’s vast knowledge could answer this one. Once the wave begins to calm, his body moved out of instinct and he was now sitting down, settling closer to the rogue haired girl as her slender hands closed the man’s eyes. Strangely, his body stayed still, the nerves in his arms and neck turning cold as he watched the man’s pale skin and still chest become just that.

    He was gone, all memories and suffering that had taken him into the serpent’s shop now thin as air; a mere memory that will be forgotten by those who still had a lick of who he was. It was because he knew the man, somewhat—Vincent had managed to rationalize that much in his head, though it didn’t take him much to start begging for it to be veracious.

    Be that as it may, that same dark voice in the back of his head had already started counting the seconds they’d missed. Precious time wasted, or so it screamed; so, he forced his feet up, his grip on the floor light and cold. He reached his hand out, ignoring the obstinate feeling that she wouldn’t take it. He stepped back, letting the rogue haired girl get up on her own. She was quick on her feet, most likely just as eager to not have this conversation with him, but he’s owed her just that. He griped at her hand, just hard enough to get her not to leave, hopefully not enough to start conflict early.

    ‘You didn’t deserve that,’ He started, ‘I just wanted this over with.’

    ‘Right, red sky and all.’

    ‘You know that’s not what I mean.’

    ‘You don’t need to be him, not right away at least.’

    A beat of pause, the fear of saying the wrong thing wiping away whatever daring conclusion about the bodies he’d just prepared himself to tell her. He couldn’t help but look at her, feeling so distant despite having the crystal view of her ferocious eyes. He knows her too well to decipher every thought she had of him, even if she’d decided to not say it. Still, he was a slave to his own emotions—and emotions he has, bustling and racing against his head this very minute as he waited for her to continue.

    ‘Tell me, Vincent,’ She asked, ‘was today your first time seeing that sky?’

    He felt himself shrink. ‘Yes.’

    ‘And you felt responsible?’ She asked again. ‘You feel as if you the only speed caster to replace Andrew, should have been able to prevent this?’

    ‘How long have you known this?’

    ‘Since you decided to retrieve the footage of his death, alone.’

    The smell of dead bodies faded from his senses, overwhelmed by what was happening. It was those rare moments where he’d realize those eyes of hers weren’t angry, nor pitying as it reflected the tips of his messy hair. She was one step ahead, yet as the cloudy sky silhouetted her fiery hair, he’d realize she’s done nothing either way. He dismissed the thought as it arrived, gliding his eyes down to the tips of his shoes. He’d have to buy new ones if he were still going to school tomorrow. However, that feeling Inca had been so desperately tried to point at had already rooted itself in him—plunging deep inside the depts he hadn’t known existed since the fall of Yogyakarta. He feigned a cough, whisking away what thoughts of explaining to a more hopeful future.

    ‘You know why we’ve survived this far, Inca,’ He said. ‘We’re just too important to die, so mine as well play our part.’

    ‘And this is your way of doing it?’

    ‘What are you implying?’

    ‘You don’t need to be a martyr, Vincent.’

    He couldn’t help but chuckle, simple words tangling into obscurity behind all the polity and provisions. ‘I’d assume you’d know, given who your mother is.’

    ‘Don’t you dare bring her up.’

    ‘What? Still don’t trust her because of your abandonment issues?’ He jeered, watching her face churn to an emotion he long recognized. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed since we went here last time.’

    ‘She’s bargaining with the enemy!’

    ‘She did what any of us would do to find out what the hell killed Andrew!’ His voice overlapped with hers, muddying the cold air.

    ‘I just…don’t know why you push yourself so suddenly,’ She continued, ‘Amo has the gift.’

    ‘Yet I still have his title.’

    A hearty laugh escaped her lips, and her hand was no longer holding his. ‘And you think the generation that mixes phones with magic is gonna hold tightly to tradition?’

    ‘She is not a speed caster, you know that.’

    ‘So, you’re worried about her now?’

    ‘She’s my friend too!’

    A beat of silence reverberated between the nagging, impeeding feeling of picking wounds suddenly resurfacing. He wouldn’t dare say anything more, knowing he’d royally f****d up last he opened his mouth. A bubble of air clogged his throat, the prickly feeling just beneath his skin merely telling him what he already knew. He had nearly laughed at himself for being so pathetic, feeling the instinct to run rushing into his clamoring nerves. His eyes met hers again, regrettably—an emotion he’d never seen spread across her face.

    Her mouth seemed to quiver under the dark light, that sharp tongue of hers suddenly reluctant to speak. Her eyes, a bitter hue spread across her once jet-black iris. Only he could know what was under that red mane of hers, and he would be lying if it had made him feel any better. A handheld his, cold skin brushing against his flushed veins. He knew better than to let go this time, the wits in him churning faster as he watched his friend open her mouth again. He felt himself spreading thinner, the fleeting feeling of calm sinking down his chest. A mere façade that only held up when his ears were busy listening to the raindrops; holding on to two things that only seemed to desire him

    ‘I shouldn’t have yelled.’

    ‘I never said she wasn’t your friend,’ She finally said. ‘But we have enough deaths on our side.’

    ‘Then what will I be, Inca?’

    ‘I know…The pressure seemed like it gonna kill you pretty soon but,’ Her words trailed off.

    ‘He wasn’t supposed to die.’

    ‘No one was, and neither should you.’

    Vincent said nothing back. He’d expected her to give a grand speech of why he shouldn’t do what he was doing, whatever it was that he was doing. He huffs a cold breath, watching her contemplate whether or not she should just leave him where he was. He knew quite well that the twisting feeling under his ribcage threatens no harm, yet he felt dying nonetheless. Clammed hands scrunched the sides of his long trousers, he felt his skin grow cold—the tensing against the shaking of white-knuckled limbs proven useless but utterly unstoppable, instinctive, raw. Be that as it may, when her words finally reached the cold air, and he knew better than to try to suppress for a few more moments what was inevitable.

    ‘Don’t risk it all in one day.’

    He let out a deep breath, feeling the rest of his body melt. ‘I just feel like I’ve done nothing.’

    ‘Yet you know that’s just you talking.’

    ‘…Yeah.’

    The rogue lamented. ‘You realize your emotions yet you let them control you nonetheless, why?’

    ‘Same reason anyone does, really,’ He answered, hoping the rain would never stop. ‘Because it feels like I’m doing the right thing.’

    A soft giggle escaped her, quickly turning to laughter through pained and gritted teeth. ‘Well, aren’t we two peas in a pod?’

    The words slithered within like a cool summer breeze, snapping him out of what horrible thoughts had been pooling above his neck. It took off his jagged edges, and hers too he hoped. It wasn’t like them to fight, but one death had changed too much. Desperation was it? Still, the storm ebbed nothing but pained hearts, one meld to the other as a pitiful attempt to fix the hole underneath. The air felt hot as it entered, silence pure as the white smoke overlapping their wicked city.

    ‘Let’s just go, this is…way too sentimental,’ She uttered.

    ‘Must you ruin the moment?’ He jested back.

    She quickly patted him on the back, mumbling something about checking for survivors, though he knew well enough that there was no other living human other than them. He lets her leave, making sure she doesn’t stray too far in the endless isles and rubbles. The reticence hangs more comfortably between them, not of venom, grief, or resentment but rather of content. It was an odd feeling, yet it etched itself firmly into the gold blood flowing in his veins.

    He turns back to the dead man, no longer trembling under his skin. Crouching down, Vincent held the man’s hand, grieving for a moment he thought he’d never get. Though once the silence within faded away, he’d noticed the blue tint spreading across the man’s knuckles—died with a fight, though not much resistance. There it was, another thing to jot up in the numerous possibilities of what’d happened. He kept repeating that though he had when he first saw the scan, modified santet that seemed to reach so fast and so easily, it had to be fantasy surely.

    He held his breath, hoping he’d sense any other witches besides Inca—yet the cold air tells him just as much as he already knows. He hoped it had only been his dull senses, wishing for the first time that it was only the Pink Taffy talking. His hands quickly took a picture of the body, sending it to Ralph who had hopefully found a better way to escape the city.

    Ralph: Missed call at 7.20

    Vincent: Warehouse not clear

    Ralph: Found somewhere safe, you go to us

    Vincent: ??

    Ralph: Loc later

    Vincent: Everyone ok?

    Ralph: Amo critical

    He couldn’t help but grip at his phone, the tension in his nerves building up as if it were wildfire. His free hand rummaged through the nape of his neck, rubbing and scratching as a pitiful attempt to hide the look on his face. He’d known what was to come yet still the moment disappoints further, the foul feeling in his gut taking more than he could ever recover from. He knew then that Inca was looking over his shoulder, curious and worry surely drawn across her face much like the rising of her breath quickens. He types some more, the worst of his fears begging and prying in the midst of his frenzied thoughts.

    Vincent: Gonna explain Mandy?

    Ralph: Don’t start

    Vincent: Need body report?

    Ralph: Anyone yet?

    Vincent: No survivors

    The sentiment felt odd, thus he made a good effort not to dwell on it. Be that as it may, that sharp monotonous tongue of his work as a double-edged paddle for his own conscience. Rogue hair brushed the corners of his vision, his friend quickly gesturing that there was indeed no one else alive. He waved at his phone, knowing she’d come a bit closer to see. It was on 45%, something to worry about later. 

    ‘He won’t tell me where they are.’

    ‘I take it we’re still stuck here then,’ The rogue sighed.

    ‘I’ll ask him if he could send Sarah or Holy.’

    ‘I will, but I have a feeling he wouldn’t’

    ‘It’s strange,’ Inca said, pulling Vincent back to earth. ‘He died fighting but-’

    ‘Died in one blow?’

    ‘How’d you know?’

    His hand gestured towards the three bodies near him, then wider towards the entire warehouse. Inca’s eyes scanned through the room, the pattern suddenly becoming crystal. They were all the same, wherein two theories came to his mind—santet be damned. First, they all died from the same spell done simultaneously by a group of people; likely execution though unlikely escape with the sirens roaming near a red sky. Second, they died from the same spell done by the same person over and over; unlikely execution, very likely escaped if such power does exist within one person. It need not be said that the trembling speed caster did not like those odds.

    He’d wonder if the rogue had reached the same conclusions yet, though he wouldn’t like to have such a conversation. He checked his phone again, the magic in him jolting against the thin and elastic membranes of his veins. Still, there was nothing, and the time displayed on his screen still showed the ever so slowly progressing world outside. Had the message even traveled with how slow the outside compared to this place, he’d just have to wait for it.

    So, he did, letting the rogue haired girl roam around the room as a means to avoid him. He busied himself on carrying the bodies near the exit, lining them up under the guise of respect. Though that’s not a mistake he didn’t have such a thing for them, though as of now the only thing on his mind is that nagging feeling in his nerve. He watched the hanging lights sway above him, the absence of wind sending chills down his spine.

    His hands pulled on the top of his shirt, covering his nose from the scent of burnt and raw meat. The repugnant scent had climbed to a limit he couldn’t bear, the mere waft of its particles enough to make his sharp eyes water. He mumbled a quick response at one of Inca’s question, finding it harder to keep his eyes from watering from the many after-tastes the burnt drugs had flooded across the rooms. He quickly forced his eyes to look another way, disgusted by the still vibrant gold blood.

    ‘Wait…’

    Inca hummed. ‘Did you say something?’

    ‘No wait, Inca the bodies are still fresh,’ He quickly said.

    Her eyes went wide. ‘How fresh?’