Storm Strider

Precognition or not, the moment the damselfly girl tried to fly away—‘Hana’, she’d called herself—Marisol immediately darted forward to grab her insectoid ankle.

Hana hissed down at her, but she dragged the girl down before either of them could be spotted by the descending Marauders. The sound of the damselflies’ beating wings were difficult to miss; Marisol had no doubt they’d be found instantly if Hana were allowed to fly to her fellow tribesmen’s rescue.

Naturally, it was a struggle keeping their voices down. Hana snapped and bit at her as she skated around in the blink of an eye, sweeping the girl off her feet while tearing off a piece of her cloak. In one swift motion, she bandaged Hana’s bleeding wing stump and secured it in place with a cord of rope she’d apparently stuffed into her cloak at some point. It took a while, but eventually Hana seemed to realise she was only trying to help—she was allowed to finish the knotting in peace, and then the damselfly zipped out from under her on pure footwork alone.

Now they stood on opposite ends of the giant fish skull once again, but Hana’s bared and gritted teeth didn’t seem so threatening anymore.

“... We can’t stay here or fight the Marauders,” Marisol whispered, keeping her hands raised in the air as she looked towards the giant white whale in the distance; its shadow was just looming over them, and in no time at all the Marauders would start tearing through the bone forest looking for them. “I’m… Marisol. I ain’t with them, but I know people who can help you get your friends back. If you follow me back to my people, I can at least keep you safe and hidden from the Marauders.”

Hana fixed her with a glare, silent for a long time. For a second Marisol worried her automatic translation wasn’t working again, but then Hana’s needle-row teeth seemingly turned sharper under dim sunlight—the girl glanced back at her bandaged wing, the fifty or so Marauders sliding down the anchor chains, and then back at Marisol.

“You, plagas en mar,” Hana said, pursing her lips. “But they also plagas en mar, and more dangerous. If follow you, you kill each other? Plagas kill plagas?”

Marisol clenched her jaw and nodded slowly. “Sure. Just… just follow me for now, alright? If they find us like this, we’ll be captured for sure, and then none of us will be free.”

“...”

After another second, Hana grinded her teeth together and nodded as well. Marisol didn’t let the opportunity slide.

She took one peek at the descending Marauders and charted out a path in her head; just like when she’d evaded the Blackclaw Marauders with Kuku guiding her, she’d stick to the paths less travelled and obvious to the human eye. Hana may be a native of these straits, but it didn’t seem as though she knew how to navigate through the bone forest. Here, boulders were giant skulls and trees were upside-down ribcages, sprouting from uneven fields of black soil and stone—Marisol felt like shivering every time she skated through a desiccated carcass, and Hana, similarly, looked uneasy following after her. The girl’s vertical green irises were shifty, darting every which way, and she was hugging herself with all four arms. It was evident the damselfly tribesmen weren’t ones to traipse through the bone forest with their free time.

“... How far from your people, plagas en mar?” Hana growled, her voice a hush as they paused behind a skull for a second; their hearts pounding in sync as they watched a group of Marauders comb through the forest, each wielding fourteen cutlasses.

“Not very far,” Marisol murmured, waiting until the Marauders passed until she beckoned Hana forward. “By the way, my name’s Marisol. ‘Mar’ of the far western seas, and ‘Sol’ of the far eastern sun. Your name’s Hana, right?”

She glanced around her to see Hana blinking in surprise.

“How you know Hana’s name?”

[Say you are with the Worm God, and tell her you are here to help. Most tribesmen should at least know his title.]

“I’m with the Worm God,” she replied curtly, ducking under a dangling fish fin as she did. “I’m a Hasharana, and I’m here to help–”

“Marisol with Worm God?”

Marisol paused. The change in tone was incredibly abrupt. One moment Hana was growling and shooting mean looks at her, and now the girl had zipped in front of her, eyes wide as a puppy’s. As Marisol returned a nervous smile and nodded, Hana squinted, rubbed her chin, and scratched the back of her head—then she leaned in close and stared, and it was only now that Marisol could see how blurry her irises actually were.

Could she even see anything out of those eyes?

“... If Marisol with Worm God, then why marred with no colour?” Hana asked, a genuine question as she backed off and gave Marisol some space, squatting with two fists on the ground. “Worm God, met grandma before. Grandma said Worm God good and bright white colour. Human saviour. Other bug-slayers… ‘Hasharana’? All Hasharana have bright colours, too, but you no colour. Can’t see your fate. You dangerous.”

Marisol angled her head to frown at Hana, but movement close behind them made her grab the girl and continue moving on; they couldn’t afford to just stand completely still and talk.

“And how is that possible?” she muttered, glancing back at the young girl—who couldn’t be older than fourteen, fifteen—as she made sure they walked low and slow. “You can see other people’s colours? What is that? What do you know about me–”

“Marisol knows someone who is large with child?” Hana interrupted, and Marisol’s eyes twitched.

“I… I do,” she breathed. “Catrina. She’s pregnant. But how’d you–”

“We damselflies fly and fly and fly, and never touch ground!” Hana said, her eyes glimmering as she walked abreast with Marisol. “All we do is fly! Fast! Strong! So fast, world around us slow! We see what happen to people before it happen, and Hana see traces of ‘white’ around Marisol, which means someone close to Marisol is large with child!”

“...”

[The Damselflies Oracles are far from the only people in the world who are rumoured to possess traces of precognition,] the Archive explained, as Marisol continued dragging Hana through the bone forest. [There have been many Hasharana with speed-type insect classes who have reported being able to ‘see’ movements before they happen, and we believe it is not as simple as mere prediction. Those people have senses so keen and perceptive that they can unconsciously calculate the exact trajectory of certain events and movements. They feel the fluctuations of light frequencies in the air, they smell the burning acids of imminent muscle contraction, and they see decisions being made in their enemies’ eyes—the ‘future’ they see is almost as certain as gravity acts down on the world.]

Marisol narrowed her eyes at the little water bug on her shoulder. So… it ain’t actually precognition, then. They’re just really, really good at guessing based on all the environmental cues–

[They inhabit the same space as you, but they are living in different times. Have you ever wondered how slow the world around you would appear if you were a hundred times faster than everyone else?]

…

[Some Hasharana can control their perception of time and continue living normally for the most part, but for the Damselfly Oracles who know no such tricks, they are permanently living ahead of the world. They are fast twenty-four hours a day, eleven days a week, three weeks a month, ten months a year for the entirety of their lives. They perceive everything about people slower than them, and thus, they are able to divine those people’s futures by seeing what they call the ‘colours of fate’,] the Archive said. [You are correct. It is not ‘magical’ precognition. But if you are slower than them and they say they can see the colours of your fate, then it might as well be cemented in stone.]

…

And then it clicked in Marisol’s head.

“... I don’t have any colours in your eyes because I can be faster than you,” she whispered, turning to look at Hana. “I ain’t a plagas en mar, and I ain’t a Marauder. I’m just someone with the Worm God whose fate you can’t see because I’m fast as well.”

Hana’s eyes lit up. “Really? Marisol fast, too?”

“What do you mean by that? I literally just ran you damselflies through the wringer,” was what she wanted to say, but she held her tongue and smiled softly instead. “Yes. I’m a water strider. I’m just good at skating on water and stuff, and all I’m trying to do is get to the Whirlpool City with my people. We’re not dangerous to you–”

“No, Hana isn’t wrong. Marisol still dangerous. Something bad will still happen if Hana and family let Marisol go!”

Marisol tried her best not to grit her teeth. “And why are you guys trying to stop us? I have to get to the Whirlpool City–”

“Worm God hired us, twenty years ago! Told us to protect islands and eat people with no colours or black colours from reaching Whirlpool City! If we do our job, Worm God let us live here undisturbed!” Hana said. Marisol gave the Archive a pointed look, but the little water strider shook its head as though to say it had no idea what the girl was talking about.

[I have no records of the Worm God ever making contact with the Damselfly Oracles. However, it is possible he met and made a contract with them without the Archives’ acknowledgement. It may even be redacted information a normal Archive is not supposed to be able to access–]

“Marisol have no colours. Can’t see Marisol fate, so Marisol maybe dangerous to Whirlpool City, so we have to eat!” Hana continued, sounding proud of herself as she said that. “Whale people chasing us, black colours. Colours of death! We have to eat them, too! Protect Whirlpool City!”

“... So, the only reason you guys tried to attack me was because you couldn’t see my colours, and you thought I’d be a danger to the Whirlpool City?”

Hana nodded fervently. “Yes! Worm God say if see black or no colours, eat! If any other colours, can’t eat! All to protect Whirlpool City!”

“So if I bring you back to my people and you see all of them—who are slower than me—have colours other than black or nothing, you’ll let us pass?”

“Hm… Yes! Okay!” Hana bared her teeth, giving Marisol a toothy grin. “If Marisol people good colours, we let Marisol pass! But Hana still call others to eat the whale people and rescue family!”

Marisol sighed a breath of relief. At least she’d made a tentative agreement with the Damselfly Oracles now.

[I could see why the Worm God could have made a contract with them, too,] the Archive mumbled. [The Dead Island Straits are one of only three sea routes towards the Whirlpool City, which means a lot of people will choose to pass through here in order to reach the city. If the Damselflies Oracles can determine which ships and vessels may be Marauders in disguise by seeing their ‘colours’, that is one sea route completely defended by these tribesmen, sparing more Harbour Guards and Imperators to defend the other two sea routes.]

And… how many of these damselflies are there?

[... I wonder.]

[The Dead Island Straits are composed of seventy-one separate islands, so if there are a dozen tribesmen assigned to guard each one on average, then it is likely there are at least seven hundred Damselfly Oracles living here.]

[If that is the case, the Whitewhale Marauders do not really stand a chance—eventually, the rest of the Damselfly Oracles will notice their presence and tear them to shreds.]

The thought wasn’t much comforting, and that was because she had no idea if the tribesmen could distinguish between Marauders and slaves being masqueraded as Marauders. She’d have to convince Hana and the rest of the ‘family’ from working with the Harbour Guards to properly rescue the slaves.

Still, a question nagged at her mind as she guided Hana through the last stretch of the bone forest; they’d snuck past the majority of the Whitewhale Marauders and were about to emerge onto the cliff of the chasm where the warship was docked.

… Hey, Archive.

[What is it?]

If going too fast means you can see weird things and ‘divine the future’, then what about that ghost I’ve been seeing?

What about those nightmares I’ve been having of me sinking into the abyss right before reaching the city?

Are... are those nightmares going to–

[Focus, Marisol.]

[You are this close to the Whirlpool City.]

[Do not let talks of ‘fate’ break your resolve now.]

…

She knew that, of course.

But still she couldn’t stop a nervous beat from taking her heart as the two of them peered down the ledge to the wall of foliage, where the grotto and the warship was hidden behind.

Just the fact that Hana knew Catrina was pregnant despite having never met her made Marisol believe—even if she didn’t want to—that at some point in the near future, she was going to fall.

And she wasn’t going to surface again.