The Hero Is Unchained, But Not Free

By: Fox Under Fire

Chapter 1

Well, Ivy, it’s official.

You’ve hit rock bottom.

“Rent’s due at the end of the month,” My landlady declared, managing to cover half of her smoker’s cough. “Enjoy your new place.” She shut the door, laughter trailing behind her as she started down the stairs. I imagined her patting her pocket where the money I’d just given her was stashed—and then, to make myself feel better, I imagined one of the thugs in this rundown area of town picking her pocket.

My hands shook as I gingerly set my bag on the floor, mindful that the things contained in it were the only possessions I had left. Gathering my courage, I took a good look at my new apartment.

The apartment consisted of a single room with only one window, the pane set into the space beside the metal door. There were signs of dampness across the yellowed walls, and the air smelled faintly of mildew. Stepping over the board that had been placed on the floor to keep me from falling into the apartment below, I was greeted by a family of roaches as I turned on the kitchenette’s sink to unleash a stream of questionably-colored water.

Somehow, I managed not to break down crying at the sights.

Nothing was like my old home in the Second Sector. Here, there was no shiny technology, no skyline view, no towering skyscrapers where you felt as though you were on top of the world. The only upside about this apartment was that it came fully furnished, and the tiny bed, at least, appeared to be halfway decent (thank God).

I felt like the protagonist in one of my romance novels—a rags to riches story. Only the riches seemed to be nowhere in sight...and I didn’t see any handsome saviors waltzing through my door, either.

“Chin up, Ivy. You don’t need a savior bringing you coffee in the morning, or a tropey romance storyline,” I tried to convince myself, hobbling over to the window on legs that suddenly felt weak. “This is different, but still livable. At least you’re not out on the street corner, waiting for a villain to show up and attack you.”

The thought of being attacked was terrifying, but there was a certain allure to it.

After all, if I were attacked by a villain, I would end up on the Uni Update. Then someone would remember I existed...though the people I wanted to care would probably never see it, unless the villain was a popular one. And of course I didn’t have that kind of luck.

You can’t fix this with wishes, Ivy—especially dangerous ones.

I looked out my dirty window, half covered by threadbare curtains, and I felt the tears I had been trying to banish spill out to run down my cheeks. Outside lurked a haze of a town, old and filled with brick, cloaked beneath twilight and mist, and I hated the sight of it.

It wasn’t home.

But this has to be home, at least for now.

You can’t go back to your real home.

Not until you prove yourself.

Suddenly, I wanted to throw something, to unleash all the anger and sadness I felt. But my parent’s rules of etiquette were instilled in me even now, so I turned from the window and sank to the ground beside my duffle bag, adjusting the folds of my green sweater-dress as I debated unpacking. Not that there was much to unpack.

This bag was my entire life now, its cute bikini print the only cheery thing about my new space. I fumbled with the bag’s dolphin zipper before I pulled out my most prized possession: my laptop.

A wave of homesickness settled over me as I looked over the multitude of stickers littering the top. I lifted up the edge of one and fingered the hidden sticker beneath, one my grandmother had presented me, a symbol from the old world: a little plant with three heart-shaped leaves. I thought of her as I traced it, and in my mind, I could hear her voice.

“You can’t just quit, Ivy. When the world throws you down, you’d best find a way to stand again—and stand stronger.”

And I would.

I hoped I would.

I just had to find a way to do so.

It starts with a story, Ivy. It always does.

Bestseller or not, you’re still an author.

I opened my laptop to access my files, and was greeted with a list of familiar names—stories that had never been finished. Despite my desire to move forward, I couldn’t find connection with any of them, and I had no new ideas to speak of. And what was worse: the idea of writing didn’t sound appealing at all. In fact, it was the last thing I wanted to do, even if it might earn me my family back.

I dashed a stray tear from my face and closed my laptop. “Crying won’t solve anything. You’ll just have to do the best you can—or you’ll be kicked out. Get some sleep, get up early, and find a new story tomorrow.”

Or at least a new job.

That thought was terrifying, though, because writing was all I had ever done. All I had ever had to do. But if it meant eating, I would work a second job while I finished a writing project if I had to. I would even do some freelance if need be. Anything to get me back to where I was supposed to be.

I put my laptop away and pulled out a blanket, laying it over the bed. After changing into my pajamas, I brushed my teeth, praying the off-colored water wouldn’t kill me. Settling in to sleep, my lids grew heavy from hours of plane travel and stress. The sounds of nightlife reached my ears through the thin walls, but I was used to the chatter of a busy city.

I was not used to the sound of breaking glass, however.

I bolted upright, heart racing as a shout sounded from next door, cold and angry. I told myself to go back to sleep, to not pay attention to (and therefore entangle myself in) any trouble, but my naturally curious writer’s mind wouldn’t hear of it—what if there was something going on that I could use as inspiration for a scene?

Hey, I know what you’re thinking. But I never said writers were sane creatures—just creative...and maybe a little too willing to sacrifice for their art.

I threw my blanket back and stumbled to the window, keeping my steps as light as I could. I approached the dirty glass from the side, peeking out from beneath the too-short curtain.

A streetlamp’s illumination cut sharply across the bars of the railing outside, creating eerie shadows over the stairs and open hallway. My breath caught as the silhouette of a man slithered forward from the shadows, melting out of the darkness to stand amidst the glass of my neighbor’s broken window. A hood obscured his face, but there was something about his coiled, rigid posture that radiated malice.

He thrust a gloved hand through the broken windowpane, grabbing for something—no, for someone. But before he could make purchase, he was forced backwards, his spine hitting the railing, shaking it.

I caught glimpse of the shadow’s silent, open-mouthed scream before my next-door neighbor’s door flew open, and a second figure appeared. I couldn’t see this one clearly, either, thanks to the griminess of the window and the lack of light, but from the outline, I assumed it was another man.

My neighbor was tall and thin, unlike his assailant, but that was about all I could tell. Pale hands fisted at his sides as he walked up to the other man and stopped, standing his ground.

“Tell the Conscious I’ve had enough,” his words were like a blizzard, the rage beneath them barely contained—and yet they had a melody, the sounding coaxing you with invisible fingers.

My neighbor’s eyes flashed an icy white as an electric charge pulsed through the air, bringing a buzz of feeling to my fingertips. And suddenly I knew exactly what I was witnessing.

Uni!

My heart hammered as I thought the word, sucking in panicked breaths through my teeth.

Two Uni were fighting right outside my door. Not with blows or abilities—not yet—but if it came to that, there was a good possibility I would be caught in the crossfire. Even if a hero showed up to save the day, there was no way I could protect myself until they arrived. I was as good as halfway dead already.

Now it was terror, not curiosity—well, maybe a bit of deadly curiosity—that kept me rooted in place. My body began to shake as my mind reeled, but I couldn’t turn away, couldn’t stop watching this scene unfold.

“You’ve had enough?” The hooded figure antagonizing my neighbor laughed, and I flinched at the sound. “Don’t you know by now? The Conscious will never stop.” A sneer tugged at his barely visible mouth. “Play a Typpe all you want, Searcher, but you’ll never be free.”

The words struck hard, even though I wasn’t the person they were directed at.

The villain spread his hands into a welcoming gesture as his sneer became a grin, but I noticed that his posture was still bent with pain from being forced against the railing. “Don’t you want to quit running? To be a part of something again? Aren’t you bored, surrounded by them? Don’t you think it’s time to—”

“You talk too much.” My neighbor’s arm shot out, graceful as a dancer and as precise as a viper, to grasp his assailant’s throat.

The man with the hood reeled, a strangled cry piercing through the glass from which I watched, before suddenly his body burst into a cloud of shadowy vapor. That vapor swirled up and over the railing before it flew off, escaping into the night.

The vaporous shadow’s clothing dropped to the floor, discarded, and my next door neighbor lowered his arm. I released a shaky breath, and his head cocked sharply towards me, as if he had heard it.

In one fluid movement he was looking at me, icy white eyes luminous and sharp even through the window grime.

He did hear me.

The moment our gazes met, I felt as if a string inside of me was pulled taut, before it abruptly snapped back into place.

I stumbled backwards, tripping over my own feet to hit the ground. I lay there, stunned, unable to move as fear seized control over my body.

I waited with bated breath for the Uni who was my neighbor to break down my door, but all I heard was the sound of him retreating to his own abode. Still, I couldn’t move, afraid he would decide that I had seen too much—or maybe that that shadow Uni would return and break my window, too.

I remained on the floor for hours, shaking and wide-eyed. I played the scene with the Uni over again in my mind, wondering how on Earth one had managed to become my neighbor. This city, like most lower-level cities, was supposedly ripe with Uni activity, but they still wren’t allowed to live next to us, the Typpe—the normal citizens.

“Play a Typpe all you want, Searcher, but you’ll never be free.”

The shadow Uni’s words haunted me, hinting at something impossible.

At something interesting.

But it wasn’t really my business, was it? I couldn’t get involved in a Uni fight. All I wanted was to write a good story, beg one of my prior publishers to take it, and regain my bestseller status and my life. I had no room for Uni who weren’t where they were supposed to be.

No, a Typpe like me had no right to get involved. All I could do was beg my landlady to give me an apartment elsewhere, or make enough money to move next month—and keep my head down and my mouth shut until I could do so.

Despite all my fear and panic, I succumbed to sleep from sheer exhaustion. As my consciousness floated towards the land of dreams, my neighbor’s icy-white eyes flashed through my mind.

And, for the first time in a long time, I thought: I want to write.