Entry Eleven

This is Rewel.

They put me in a cell, so constantly bright as if to blind me and ban sleep. Or perhaps I was already blind and stuck in an eternal light. I ache as though I have been beaten, but I look and see no wounds or bruises in visible spots. I am dressed the same as before. However, the clothes, my gloves, it’s spattered, stained with red. Fingers with caked blood that still feel the crushing of a nose.

Be gentle? Was I not gentle? Was I not the only one startled when Thief Riode crumpled to the ground?

There are footsteps outside the walls. The door is flesh and seamless, so I do not know where anyone will enter. I sit in the middle, legs crossed, hunched over my hands in my lap. The insides of the gloves are still white; there is no blood on my palms, yet I feel the dried stuff crack on my knuckles at the slightest movement.

Be gentle, he said. Could he have known what I would do? Is there more to this that he knows? I didn’t intend to kill him. I didn’t know that I would hit him that hard. I didn’t know I could hit that hard.

His face pale and bloody as he slid to the ground. Had I been satisfied to watch him fall? No, I was relieved, but not in his death. He stayed on the ground, I didn’t have to fight him any longer. I didn’t have to play these games. But still, he was dead. I didn’t mean to kill him, but I did and I could only pity the thief when he became the victim of circumstance.

Be gentle. The words echo against the walls, in the blinding light. Be gentle, but I still do not understand the words. 

Entry Ten

This is Rewel.



I didn't mean to kill him...



but I did.

Entry Nine

This is Rewel. Do we all walk through the mist of uncertainty or am I the only one left who questions where I am going?

The arena is a large, white room; there is a square ring at the bottom that has some padding as bleachers rise on all four sides with four aisles as exits in the corners of the square building. Matduke’s shins rest against my back as touch of possession rather than friendliness. Speakers are scattered throughout the arena all with their Thieves, touching them in some manner.

Speaker Lizardo runs her hands through Thief Silverbaine’s white hair as the thief lies with her head in the speaker’s lap, the corners of her mouth turned up. A glance across the room creates eye contact with Varien. Speaker Arion has his hand on Varien’s thigh and is nibbling on his ear. Varien’s face is kept precisely blank. Another glance and I see another Speaker kissing the neck of his Thief, her eyes closed and smiling. There are a few pairs that sit similar to Matduke and I but they are far between.

“Shall we begin?” Arion’s neuron waves resonate in the room. “Thief Andony, Thief Kosei.” The two thieves rose from the bleachers and walked down to the ring. Their white clothes grip tightly to their bodies, feet bare, weaponless, they step onto the padding. “Begin”

I do not know which is which. They grapple, arms locked with arms, hands curled like sleeping children and impact is a red dawn as a nose explodes crimson. Fingernails dig into shoulders and one is thrown to the floor, the padding becomes slowly painted. Hurtling forward they embrace on the floor, no sound but heavy breathing, the lulling thud of human force.

Matduke sighs and places a hand on my crown. I look up to see Speaker Arion with his hand fully up Varien’s short skirt and kissing his thighs; Varien keeps his face passive.

“Enough, Andon, Kosei.” The waves rumble, thick with Arion’s own desire. “Speaker Matduke, you have never sent Thief Rewel into the ring. You will do so today.”

It is true, Matduke never requested to see me fight. I notice him stiffen, his grip on my crown tighten. “Be gentle,” he whispers, the words clinging to the atmosphere. I nod, as usual, but of course, I do not understand.

Entry Eight

This is Rewel. The primary function of a Thief is to maintain the silence of the people; the secondary function is that of plaything to the Speakers.

Matduke sits across the table from me staring out the window. He has hardly touched the food in front of him, although it is not particularly appetizing. This is not the first dinner he’s shared with me and I doubt it will be the last. He sits still perfectly, even the prosthetic eye does not focus. The moon creeps barely above the horizon, bathing the city in its grey light. Matduke speaks moonlight. “Do you know what years are, Rewel?”

The word is familiar but I do not understand it; I shake my head.

Matduke stays silent for a few moments longer then turns to rest his good eye on me. The prosthetic one is off. “One year is the amount of time it takes the earth to orbit the sun completely. There are three hundred sixty-five days in one year. Do you understand?”

I nod. It seems like a great deal of time in one of these years.

He smirks slightly, the wires in his face moving with his muscles. “Would you believe me if I said you are twenty-five years old?”  I do not respond causing him to laugh. “Of course not. You wouldn’t believe anything I tell you.” He stares out the window again, the laughter falls out of his mouth and spills on the floor in beads escaping the confines of the white dining room. “You won’t believe that I am 253 years old…”

I say nothing as I know not what to say. Years seem distant and inconsequential and I do know not what the significance could be if I were twenty-five or 253. Again, Matduke speaks. “Do you know what stars are, Rewel?” His voice is far away between here and the moon.

Glancing out at the night sky, I shake my head. The moonlight beats on us as Matduke sighs. “You will know someday, Rewel. Someday you will leave.”

I nod again, but I do not understand.

Entry Seven

This is Rewel. Often I am plagued by a sense of familiarity, but often it dissipates and I stand facing reality.

Speaker Matduke stands in the infirmary with me as I silence a screaming child. He places the child back into the crib and points to a door at the back of the white room. I walk to it and hold it open. It is not an exit but a well-lit stairwell breathes us forth. “I must make rounds today. You will join me.” The words drift through my head with no certain force. He stares down the stairwell, contemplating. “Yes. Join me,” the neuron waves reverberate as he looks at me, the blue light of his prosthetic eye narrowing on me.

He bounds down the stairwell with a strange energy until he comes to the bottom where another door waits. He holds it open for me, but stops me with his arm. The wires of his arm are dull in the fluorescent lighting. “Do not speak in this room.” The underlying threat is reinforced with his influence in my mind.

We move quietly into a new white room and a vague recognition trails us. Large machines line the walls and weave fabric from threads on spools. Some of the people watch the equipment, maintaining that it functions properly. We continue to another part of the room, where spools are being made. “In our zone we manufacture fabrics.” He continues through the room, coming close to large heated vats of solution. The smell is overwhelming. “Everything is synthetic. Silk, cotton, meat, vegetables, water.”

Synthetic is not a word I comprehend. I continue to stare out over the factory. “It’s not real, Rewel. The resources are dwindling.”

Still, I cannot understand. He tries to explain again. “It’s all fake; there is nothing you consume that wasn’t made in another factory somewhere else in the city.”

I stare dumbly at the factory, the workers, the people. “Rewel, our city has been dead for years.”

Entry Six

This is Rewel. There are days stolen from me.

I walked with Speaker Matduke this morning to the infirmary, yet I do not recall how I got here. The garden that is in the middle of the tower would be lovely if the plants were real. White roses of soft silk sway and pitch in the breeze. The sound that would be rustling leaves of trees is only a brush of light fabric attached to the imitation bark of a birch. The garden is circular with several pathways leading in and out, but it is all surrounded by the tower. However, this is not the tower in which I reside.

I meander in and out of the paths, through the fabric garden. The only lights are those above the entrances and the steady glow of the moon. The silk petals catch the moonlight only to let it simmer and die. I am alone out here.

“Thief Rewel,” an offensively familiar neuron wave makes my blood run cold. “Speaker Matduke lied when he said he was unaware of your whereabouts in the tower.”

In the dim lighting I could see the silhouette of another several feet ahead. “Thief Varien.” The words scratch against my throat.

He steps into the pale moonlight; there have been numerous alterations since I last saw him. The skin on his face is pulled tight from the webbing wires underneath. He smiles and the moonlight catches the augmentation in his mouth, several teeth replaced with sharpened metal studs that no doubt held sensors and chips. The biggest change though, was that of his physicality.

“Shall I refer to you as ma’am now, Thief Varien?”

There was an audible snarl that accompanied the speech wave. “No, I am still sir. However much Speaker Arion prefers the female form, he has yet to emasculate me.”  Implications are not lost without sound.

He steps forward, the wires in his arms seeming to pulsate as the moonlight catches them. He stops only a few feet from me and I wonder, not for the first time, if he is more machine than human: a perfect example of a Thief’s role for the simple fact of a forced gender change. “Matduke’s been stealing your days from you.”

I say nothing. It does not surprise me in the least, but the accusation is odd to come from Varien. There is no love lost between us.

He takes my silence as an invitation to continue. “He withholds augmentation from you. You are allowed every augmentation he is. He suppresses you, Rewel.” He pauses but I still say nothing. “If you assist Arion you will be treated as you should be.”

“Assist?” I notice Varien flinch at my speech.

“Arion would like Matduke removed.”

I hesitate for a moment. “I will think on it.”

“Be sure you do, Thief Rewel.” Varien turns on his heal and leaves.

Again I am alone with the rustling fake petals and leaves. It is almost beautiful. Isolation is fleeting though, there are footsteps in the garden that do not belong to me. Too quickly is there a hand on my shoulder and a voice in my head, “Let us be gone, Rewel.” Speaker Matduke steers me out of the garden and into the streets.

Soon our own tower comes into immediate view and Speaker Matduke stops. He turns and looks at me, ghostly in the moonlight. I lower my eyes as it pains me to look on him for long. “What did Varien say, Rewel?”

I blanch. The words are not directly input into my brain as neuron waves but fill my ears and taste like fresh rain water. I have never heard Speaker Matduke speak before. “Arion would like to remove you, sir.”

“I figured as much.” He places a hand on my shoulder again, forcing me to look at him. “You should not carry that paper around any longer. Leave it in your room. It will be safe.” His prosthetic eye is dark indicating he turned off his primary augments. He nods once and is off at swift pace again, the Speaker who steals my days and gives me paper.

Entry Five

This is Rewel. They call me thief, but I have yet to steal anything. I wonder if I will ever steal or if it’s a truth that lies. To steal would require that I keep what I take.

Every tenth day, after a trip to the infirmary, I take myself to the basement of the tower. I stand outside patiently, as I am a guest so to speak. The large white door is only signified by seams in the wall, as though to pretend the basement does not exist, I assume. I only wait a moment before it opens soundlessly; the door is heavy enough that it creates a formidable gust of wind as it opens. It is an assistant that stands at the door waving me in. His mouth is sewn shut, hair shaved off; his bald head bulges with scars and wires of augmentation. He looks at me through dead eyes, possibly not even seeing me. I will never know his transgression to be sentenced as an assistant and lab rat.

The room is large, open. There are five men and women at various work stations throughout the room, each with several assistants that help them. Mechanical arms attached to computers hover nearby the stations, ready for use; some look terrifying, with tiny drills and welding attachments, but others are just arms with fingers for a better grip on whatever the Researchers happen to be working on. The assistant ushers me past the Researchers and beyond a door at the end of the room.

Through the door waits a Scientist. He stands behind an operating table, where an assortment of materials for the operation lay, clean and ready. Other than the moveable light, operating table and extra mechanical arm, there are only two chairs in the room. There are other doors behind the Scientist, but I know not where they lead.

“Thief Rewel, please sit.” The Scientist has smooth words and a pleasant voice from speaking often with his Researchers. I sit immediately in the chair opposite of him at the operating table. I place my hands on the table, palms up. “Ah, your gloves, Rewel.”

I gingerly slip the gloves off. The wires set under my skin catch the light and gleam. They run from my thumb, forefinger and middle finger on both hands, disappearing into me at the write. At the tips of those six appendages are small metal pads. I touch my thumb and forefinger together and hear the soft tap of metal, watching the wires move under the skin. Again, I place my hands on the table, palms up.

The Scientist begins work immediately, injecting a local anesthetic at my wrists. Soon, my arms are numb from the elbow down. The Scientist starts on my left hand first, cutting it open along each of the wires. Underneath the skin, muscle and bone stand out in contrast to the silver metal that runs along the top. He begins to cut out pieces of the metal and I stiffen. This is not what he is supposed to be doing.

“I was told to replace your wires with thinner ones today. This is only an aesthetic change.” The Scientist continues working, reattaching the pad in my fingertips to the chip at my wrist with a much thinner wire. I watch his hands work for a moment. He is not augmented.

“By whom?” Words may always feel foreign in my mouth, but I ask him nonetheless.

He says nothing and continues to work. He finishes quickly and is soon cauterizing the skin over the wires. He moves to the other hand and works as quickly as before.

I stare at my hands when he finishes. Once bulging with wires, now they are barely visible, hardly pushing at the skin wanting to escape, or worse, split open.

The Scientist slips my hands back into the fingerless gloves. “You must still wear these. No one should know. I will see you in ten days.” He pauses, helping me to stand. My hands and arms feel heavier. “Thief Varien was here looking for you earlier. I don’t advise you seek him out.” He opened the door and nodded at me.

I left the basement with eyes on the floor and no feeling in my hands. 

Entry Four

This is Rewel.  As I cradle the infant in my arm, my thumb and middle finger gently resting on her temples, she coos. It is a sweet sound, a soft sound, and soon the room is silent.

Mornings are painful. One child in the zone is born every day and every child must be silenced. Speaker Matduke goes with me, the same that points, his neuron waves are most frequent; his prosthetic eye focusing silently on my form. It is like this every day: a walk across the street to the infirmary, I am handed an infant, some children wail and Speaker Matduke shuts down his auditory sensors and at times he will grimace, a glint of wire in his teeth, his gums. I silence the child and we walk back. He sends no language through me and I say no words to him. Most days I believe him to be filled only with a series of circuits.

I don’t remember the time before, I don’t know that there was one. The city has always been a white blister spread out under this tower. I do remember their faces, the people. The look of terror, anger, the screeching so quickly switched the vacant stares, the silence. I remember the woman who cried, hot tears on the palms of my hands as she begged: “Don’t, sir, I need to speak, I need to see.” I remember the man who called me son.

The air smells of the stagnant.  

Entry Three

This is Rewel. I fear that if the people could speak they would say, “The Speakers are God,” and it would be truth; as words are truth, even the lies.

None turn to look at me as I step into the room. They look out the large bay windows or stare into their glasses. The room is silent, except the soft rustle of fabric when one of them moves. Still staring out the window, one points towards the end of the room. His hand and finger peaks through the sleeve of his tunic: a spider hand, with long fingers, the faint grey of augmentation visible through translucent skin. The grey, the wires under his skin, cause small bulges in his skin. I cannot look for too long, so I turn to where he points.

The room is empty, save the white plush couches on which they lounge and the small bar where they can replenish their drinks. Everything is well illuminated except the back corner where a finger is directing my attention. I step into the back towards the darkness and I hear them follow. There is a man back here, ankles and wrists bound to the wall. His head hangs in the darkness, but his chest moves: he is not dead.

“He uses words.” I feel the neuron wave pulse through my cerebellum. I turn towards them, the Speakers. There are ten here today, all with hollow faces, grey wires of augmentation tracing underneath skin. I would ask of their humanity, but they would say how they are as human as the people of the city. I gaze at the one who pointed. I’ve seen him many times. His dark hair shades his grey eye, the other eye a prosthetic giving off a blue glow that zooms in and out on my form. “We would have you steal from him,” his neuron wave pulses through me again. “We would have him be of the people.” I nod and turn away. The tightness on his face, the wires that could be pulsing veins, the translucency of his person… I turn away.

“Be warned, Thief Rewel, he may speak.” There is a long moment of silence. I step towards the man. His head shoots up and he begins howling in my presence. I hear the Speakers take several steps back. “Our auditory sensors have been disabled until you have dealt with him, Rewel.”  They cannot bear the sound of voice, any voice, but nothing is more disturbing than the howling of a man who knows what he will lose.

The man locks his eyes on me. His eyes are brown as is his hair, his olive skin shows no signs of augmenting.  “Will you do this thing?” His voice is raspy, as though he spent long years hiding it. It is unpracticed, a sandpaper voice. I only nod. I raise my hands and place my index fingers on his temples. He looks at my hands, sees the white fingerless gloves, grunts, “Wait.”

I wait. For a long moment he says nothing, staring at my gloves. He knows what lies beneath: the skin of someone augmented. He sees how I hide it. “Do you trust them?” his sandpaper words rub my focus raw. My hands go lax and I stare at the man who has spoken. Only for a second.

My voice is a similar sheet of sandpaper: “No.” And then he would speak no more. 

Entry Two

This is Rewel. My hand aches from yesterday’s writing. This scribble is unpracticed and messy, but the safest things are only pen and paper. Speakers cannot read.

The city stretches as far as the eye can see, out to the horizon, with an occasional white tower stabbing the sky. There is one of us per tower: a room at the very top. There are few windows, big enough to show more white city, but too small to fit through. Perhaps that is why the people only have one story buildings. There is furniture made of hard plastic, a bed that is soft with white linens, and a desk with a computer. The computer is a transmitter serving only to communicate my needs, which may or may not be responded to. The paper was not here before, nor was the pen.

I assume someone came in to put them here, so I carry both pen and paper with me everywhere. If someone put it here, surely they want to know what I would write. The paper is starting to crumple as I leave often and wander the empty echoes of the city. I would show someone down there the paper, if I knew they wouldn’t fear it, but the people fear everything. So I meander in their hollow footsteps and wait until my services are required. It has only been a day since the rain and I already miss the sound. The sound…

The transmitter runs a neuron pulse through Wernicke’s area: “Thief Rewel, your services are required.” 

Entry One

This is Rewel. I am not particularly fond of writing, but words are power, particularly written ones. Yet, I find myself in need of these words, in need of language.

There is rain this day. It splatters unconsciously across the white cement as the people move under the covered walkways. Rain will not stop business until we are made of sugar. There is no hustle or bustle, just the steady movement of a leisurely urgency.

The streets have not seen cars for some time now: another absence. The white stones of small buildings glitter from the soft glow of fluorescent lighting dancing off the streaks of rain. The city, or village, or town, or… there are too many words. The buildings are low and sprawl for miles -white cement buildings, stores and houses, outwardly they bear no difference. No windows face the streets, only the courtyards and gardens between buildings. There is a lack of growth in the gardens as most topsoil has been dead for years, but there are some who like to pretend, with a timeless ficus dotting the occasional garden. Apart from that, the world is white. Not blindingly so, but bright enough to illuminate any trace of darkness.

The people come and go, dressed in white. White dresses, white trousers and skirts and loafers and pumps. They do not see each other as they brush by; they do not hear each other’s footfalls. Through the rain you can only hear the people breathing.