Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

I must apologize for the beginning of that last chapter. My goal is to write a completely frivolous book, for if I actually say anything important, I run the risk of making people worship or respect me even more. Therefore, I should ask that you will do me a favor. Get out some scissors, and cut out the next few paragraphs in this chapter. Paste them over the beginning of the last chapter, hiding it away so that you never have to read its pretentious editorializing again.

Ready? Go.

Once there was a bunny. This bunny had a birthday party. It was the bestest birthday party ever. Because that was the day the bunny got a bazooka.

The bunny loved his bazooka. He blew up all sorts of things on the farm. He blew up the stable of Henrietta the Horse. He blew up the pen of Pugsly the Pig. He blew up the coop of Chuck the Chicken.

“I have the bestest bazooka ever,” the bunny said. Then the farm friends proceeded to beat him senseless and steal his bazooka. It was the happiest day of his life.

The end.

Epilogue: Pugsly the Pig, now without a pen, was quite annoyed. When none of the others were looking, he stole the bazooka. He tied a bandana on his head and swore vengeance for what had been done to him.

“From this day on,” he whispered, raising the bazooka, “I shall be known as Hambo.”

There. I feel much better. Now we can return to the story, refreshed and confident that you’re reading the right kind of book.

I cringed, tense, looking down at my foot on the tripwire. “So,” I said, glancing at Bastille, “is it going to do any—

“Gak!”

At that moment, panels on the ceiling fell away, dumping what seemed like a thousand buckets full of dark, sticky sludge on us. I tried to move out of the way, but I was far too slow. Even Bastille, with her enhanced Crystin speed, couldn’t dodge fast enough.

It hit, covering us in a tarry substance. I tried to yell, but the sound came out in a gurgle as the thick, black material got into my mouth. It had a rather unpleasant flavor. Kind of like a cross between bananas and tar, heavy on the tar.

I struggled and was frustrated to feel the goop suddenly harden. I was frozen in place, one eye open, the other closed, my mouth filled with hard tar, my nose—fortunately—unplugged.

“Great,” Bastille said. I could barely see her, covered in hardened sludge a short distance away, stuck in a running posture. She’d had the sense to shade her face, so her eyes and mouth were uncovered—but her arm was glued to her forehead. “Kaz, you stuck too?”

“Yeah,” said a muffled voice. “I tried to lose myself, but it didn’t work. We were already lost.”

“Alcatraz?” Bastille asked.

I made a grumbling noise through my nose.

“He looks all right,” Kaz said. “He isn’t going to be waxing eloquent anytime soon, though.”

“As if he ever does,” Bastille said, struggling.

Enough of this, I thought in annoyance, releasing my Talent into the goop. Nothing happened. There are, unfortunately, plenty of things that are resistant to Smedry Talents.

Several Curators glided across the floor to us, looking quite pleased with themselves. “We can provide a book for you that will explain how to get out,” one said.

“You will find it very interesting,” said another.

“Shatter yourselves,” Bastille snapped, grunting again as she tried to get free. Nothing moved but her chin.

“What kind of offer is that?” Kaz demanded. “We wouldn’t be able to read the book like this!”

“We’d be happy to read it to you,” one of the others said. “So that you would understand how to escape in the moments before your soul was taken.”

“Plus,” another whispered, “you would have all of eternity to study. Surely that must appeal to you, a scholar. An eternity with the knowledge of the library. All at your fingertips.”

“Never able to leave,” Kaz said. “Trapped forever in this pit, forced to entice others into the trap.”

“Your brother thought the trade worthwhile,” one of them whispered.

What! I thought. Father!

“You lie,” Kaz said. “Attica would never fall for one of your tricks!”

“We didn’t have to trick him,” another whispered, floating close to me. “He came quite willingly. All for a book. A single, special book.”

“What book?” Bastille asked.

The Curators fell silent, skull heads smiling. “Will you trade your soul for that knowledge?”

Bastille began to swear, struggling harder. The Curators moved around her, speaking in a language that my Lenses told me was classical Greek.

If only I could get to my Windstormer’s Lenses, I thought. Perhaps I could blow some of this goop away.

I couldn’t even wiggle my fingers, though, let alone reach into my jacket.

If only my Talent would work! I focused, drawing forth all of the power I could, and released it into the goop. Yet it refused to break or yield.

Something occurred to me. The goop was resistant, but what about the floor beneath me? I gathered my Talent again, then released it downward.