Little Deceits

It was reaching midnight in the suburbs of Wyndmere City when Safya Le Blanc tossed another coin in the wind that she earned from her little deceits. As she and her sister trudged under the rickety scaffolding bordering a decaying building, she peeled open the pouch that rested on her waist, dropping the golden specie inside.

Safya hummed at the satisfying clink of the coin. “Oh, do you hear that?” She pulled the pouch between their heads and shook it around. “If I were mistaken, this is the sound of possibility.”

“More like the sound of a single lunch,” Cleo pointed out. She pushed the pouch away, allowing it to dangle from the rope at Safya’s side. “So, what bloke did you scam this time?”

“His name was… It was…?” Safya halted, the heels of her boots making a cringing screech against the concrete ground. “Oops. I guess I forgot. But what I do know is that he is sensitive to his future, which I said was going to end in… About three days.”

“Shameful,” Cleo snapped.

Safya regarded her with a glaring side eye. She ran her fingertips over the metal of the scaffolding, her callouses nearly hard enough to scratch against the material. “I don’t care whether it is shameful or not. If anything, it puts money in our pockets and food in our stomachs. In this family, deception is what pays the bills.”

“Lies do.”

Safya ignored her. She observed their shadows stretching like spilled ink on the concrete path until they reached the end of the boulevard. Together, they spun on their heels to inspect what they left behind.

“It’s only been a week,” Cleo sighed, “and our home is already being butchered by robotics.”

Before them, silver-bodied drones buzzed in the air like fruit flies. Their legs carried a plethora of materials, such as screwdrivers, window panes, hammers, and other whatnots. To their right, a shingle roof was being suspended by four of them, and to their left, four others were installing a new one made of stale concrete. 

Safya curled her fingers over her sister’s shoulder. “When we have enough money, we could purchase a chateau in the hills.”

“And will you install an office to keep up with your clientele?” 

“By then, they would be behind me.” Safya led them as they stepped to the entrance of their apartment building. A drone slowly pulled the metal slab door open. 

To herself, she muttered, “And if not, they already are.”

***

Safya started the next morning with two painkillers swallowed, three bottles of water chugged, and a heating pad strapped against her back under her turtleneck. To some, this was a once-in-a-while occurrence, but for Safya and her ankle-level cot, this was her morning ritual. 

Her teeth grinded together as she finished tucking in her top under the waistband of her trousers. She hissed as she knelt down to tie the lacing of her boots. Her brain felt like it was whiplashed against the back of her skull as she pulled herself back up. After she awkwardly trodded to the kitchen, Cleo glanced up at her from a bright green slip of paper briefly.

“Is that paper?” Safya asked as she grabbed a banana from the center of the table. “I thought the President was retiring those.”

Cleo, being so absorbed in whatever she was reading, ignored her. Safya unpeeled the banana, took a monstrous bite, and launched forward to snatch the paper from her. With one hand, she angled it up to be lit by the sunbeams that spilled in from the window. 

In between mouthfuls, she mumbled, “What’s this?” 

“It’s an invitation.”

“An invitation, for what?”

Cleo rolled her eyes. “Can you not read?”

“I can when it’s not in cursive.”

Cleo snatched the paper back. She pushed her imaginary glasses higher on the strong bridge of her nose, cleared her throat, and presented, “Dear Safya Le Blanc, on behalf of the Wyndmere Republic and President Apollo Nistrand--”

To herself, Safya stuck her finger into her mouth to mimic a gag.

“--You are cordially invited to--” Cleo’s green eyes shot wide open, the paper plummeting to the floor like a falling feather. “You’re invited to be on the Rift.”

“The Rift?” Safya tossed her half-eaten banana in the compost bin. She plucked the paper back into her hands. “Why do they want me there?”

Cleo smirked. “I guess word broke out of your practice.”

“My…Oh.” If Safya’s heart was a rock, it would have plunged to her stomach. She squinted to decipher what the curly ink was telling her. The tip of her nose brushed the invitation as she read, “They want me there for the showing at nine. What time is it now?”

“Eight forty-two,” Cleo yawned.

“Well, that sucks.” Safya began to crumble the paper in her hands. It crunched pleasantly under the warmth of her palm. “Guess I won’t make it--”

“What? Absolutely not.” Cleo shot up from her seat and rounded the wooden table. “Let’s go. Now.” 

“It takes thirty minutes to walk there.”

Cleo wrapped her fingers around her sister’s wrist, guiding the both of them toward the door. “And it takes fifteen if we run.”

Before Safya could protest, she was already being thrusted into the abusing brightness of the morning sun.

***

Cleo was wrong. 

It didn’t take fifteen minutes, but sixteen. However, it would have most likely been less if Safya weren’t shuffling her feet in objection. 

Wyndmere City is as luminous a city could be. Towering skyscrapers create a glittering skyline, commercialized jumbotrons flash on the buildings, and drones suspend water bottles and snacks in the air for the citizens. Safya wrinkled her nose at the sight of one of the jumbotrons advertising the President in his elegant suit with bold lettering to his right quoting, “What’s better than a better tomorrow? A perfect today.” 

“This is so stupid,” Safya cursed as they hauled themselves through a growing crowd. “Can we turn back? It’s one minute past nine, they won’t accept us--”

“Would you just shut up, already?” Cleo snarled. “Look, Alexander Adela is literally right there.” 

Sure enough, he was. Alexander Adela was the showpony of society. He was the founder of the socialite show, The Rift, where he warped breaking news into contorted gossip. It aired every morning in the heart of Wyndmere City, surrounded by miles and miles of ogling taxpayers.  

Cleo mumbled something into Safya’s ear and pushed her forward. Safya turned back, confusion striking her face before Cleo’s figure was fully submerged into the audience. She tugged at the neckline of her shirt. Already, she regretted wearing the clingy cotton as it was already sticking to her sweaty flesh. 

“If it isn’t the scheming hag.”

Safya whipped around. Her body stumbled back as she came face to face with a youthful woman. She wore a bright red ensemble, her blonde hair falling in crimps around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry?” Safya asked.

“You said my husband was having an affair,” she hissed, spit spewing onto Safya’s cheeks. “He wasn’t--and I divorced him for no reason.”

Oh. Realization struck Safya. This must have been one of her clients. Everyday, she seemed to forget about them more and more. 

Safya stepped back. Even in the open air, this woman had her cornered. “Well, not everything I say may be true.”

“I want my coin back.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” It wasn’t like Safya was lying, for she used that coin to purchase last night’s supper. She began to shuffle her way through the crowd once more. The lady’s voice released a string of curses behind her as Safya managed to loosen the tether between them. 

Finally, she reached the sidelines of the show. On a platform, two individuals sat behind a desk, one with a vividly purple suit, the other with a bland lab coat.

“--death with dignity,” the male in the lab coat said. “And that is why these elixirs are a threat, and we must find who is at the head of their production immediately.”

The purple-suited man, who Safya recognized as Alexander Adela, gestured to the crowd. “So, you are saying that anybody in these crowds can get ahold of these elixirs and…Die with dignity?”

“That is correct.”

“And all it takes is a single drop?” Alexander Adela pressed.

The doctor sat upright, adjusting the round-rimmed glasses that sat on his nose. “Their potency will cause death regardless of how significant the quantity is.”

As their chatter continued, somebody hooked their hand around Safya’s bicep. Over her shoulder stood a lanky man with a horseshoe mustache and brows so fluffy she couldn’t even detect his eyes. 

He adjusted the headphones over his ears. “You must be Safya Le Blanc.”

“That I a--”

“You go up in one minute,” he interjected. He shoved her to the stairs that lead to the platform, her having to catch herself on the thin railing.

“Well, thank you for sharing this with us, Doctor Rembrandt,” Alexander Adela adjourned. To the crowd, he added, “If anyone you know has apprehended this elixr, it’s important you report them to the officials immediately. Now, let us welcome Safya Le Blanc to the Rift.”

Applause exploded into the air as Safya finished rising onto the platform. She swiped her palms on her thighs as the khaki material darkened to brown from the perspiration. Her heart started into a gallop as her legs whispered for her to break into a run the opposite way.

However, she still found herself seated beside the host.

Alexander Adela straightened the stack of papers by hitting the butt of it against the table. When he plopped it back down, Safya noticed they were all blank. He clasped his hands together. “Hello, Safya, how are you doing?”

Safya fidgeted awkwardly under the scrutiny of the audience. She trained her attention on her interrogator. “I am doing good. How are you?” Inside, her bones cringed at the newness of this polite side of her.

“I could do better, honestly,” Alexander frowned. “This news of the elixir is just…Heartbreaking.”

Safya nodded, despite not knowing a damn thing about whatever this elixir gossip was. The water in the mug rippled temptingly enough for her to lift the rim to her lips. The liquid seemed to tame the butterflies in her stomach that were scorched by the flames of her anxiety.

“You could probably detect if anybody were to use it, though. That is what psychics are for, isn’t it?”

She jerked her chin up, forcing a laugh. “I don’t see why not.”

“How long have you been practicing?”

“Six years,” Safya lied.

Alexander Adela leaned forward, his bright eyes boring holes into her. “So, we can keep this between you and me.”

Safya glanced at the audience. “Um…”

“Can you read me?” he implored.

“Right now?”

He nodded.

In the crowd, she located Cleo, who threw her a toothy smile and thumbs up. Right beside her was the woman she encountered just moments before, steam practically escaping her ears as she glowered. 

She turned her attention back on Alexander Adela. Her head throbbed at how intensely she stared at him to mimic any sense of reality for the deception she was going to pull. She then goes, “I can tell you have a secret. One that can be lethal to your career, and even to your…life? Yeah, I see that. And I also see that--” Out of the corner of her eyes, the Doctor folded his arms-- “You are tempted by the elixir.”

Gasps suspended around the crowd. Alexander Adela leaned back, a smug smirk plastered onto his touched-up face. He seemed unfazed by Safya’s performance. “Well, there you have it, everybody. The psychic of the Wyndmere Republic, Safya Le Blanc.”

***

“Holy cow, that was epic!” Cleo exclaimed when they got back to their apartment. “Did you see the look on his face? He bought every single word you said.”

Safya frowned, yanking the turtleneck off of her body. When the cold air hit her bare flesh, she sighed against the feeling. “That was embarrassing, but I don’t care, because now it’s over.”

“Oh, it’s far more than over.” Cleo strided to the refrigerator and extracted a milk carton. “Think about how much we’ll make off of that.” 

Safya froze. “I thought you were against the whole scamming thing?”

Cleo shrugged, swiping the back of her hand to clear her milk mustache. “I was, but that was because I knew you couldn’t do it forever. Now--”

“I’m still not going to do it forever.” 

Whatever Cleo was preparing to say died on her lips when a drone barreled through the door. It held a glass device in it’s hand--a tablet--and thrusted it toward Safya. 

“What is this?” Safya asked, even though the drone wouldn’t provide an answer. She pinched the tablet between her fingers. Now, she could read these words clearly-- and they were so clear that a drift floated down her spine, freezing her fingertips over as they released the tablet to the ground. The glass shattered into hundreds of dazzling pieces as time seemed to slow.

Cleo raised her brow, cautiously asking, “Safya, what’s the matter?”

To Safya, the words were blended into a muted muffle. Her vision got spotty. Her knees buckled. Her head felt…Brainless. For leverage, she grasped onto the drone, which moaned under her weight.

The headline of the article was still illuminated in one piece at her feet. She fought the urge to drive her heel over it to silence the bolded letters on it.

Safya liked to be right, but it wasn’t the main purpose of her…Craft. Whether she was right or wrong, she always got paid, and that was all that mattered. But now…

Cleo stood beside the startled Safya. Her jaw dropped.

Witchy Psychic Proven Right: Alexander Adela, 30, Dies with Dignity.

***

So much for Safya hating her cot. For the next few days passed, all she had done was lay with her arms and legs splayed out like a star while she watched the fan whir at the same speed of her thoughts. 

She was right about Alexander Adela. But that didn’t mean she was psychic.

Everybody could have done what Alexander Adela did--and everybody did. What made him so special? His status? His good looks? His stupid, purple suit?

With a groan, Safya rolled over, sandwiching her head between the mattress and her pillow. Perhaps she should hire a publicity agent. No. A lawyer. If anything, she would be to blame for his death.

She was a suspect.

There were three soft knocks at the front door. Safya allowed them to pass, waiting for Cleo to plunge into the apartment pretending to be the police after her weekly market hunt. But when the knocks grew from raps to fists, to bodies flying through the door and sending splinters scattering around the apartment--

Safya jerked herself up as a horde of men stalked into her apartment to a rhythmic beat. She counted ten, twelve, twenty of them. She hasn’t even had the chance to invite one man into her apartment, so why should there be a handful of them filing in now?

“Safya Le Blanc,” the one at the front called. When she doesn’t answer, they repeated, “Safya Le--”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.” She lifted herself to her feet, cracked her neck, rolled her shoulders, adjusted her jaw…Anything to not approach these men.

“Step forward, please.”

Damn it. And she did, because this was it. She knew it. 

She lifted both of her wrists into the air. All of them knotted their brows in confusion.

“Arrest me, already,” she sighed. “I didn’t do it. I don’t even know what these damned elixir’s are, but--”

The words halted at the tip of her tongue when the sea of men parted, another one stepping through the seam. This one, however, wasn’t dressed in the typical navy uniform of the republic. He wore a fine-pressed cream suit-- so fine that there wasn’t a single crease in the fabric where it should be.

Safya’s heart quickened.

Now this was going to be the arrest of the century.

“We present President Apollo Nistrand,” the officer announced. “The seventh president of the republic.”

The President peeled off the aviators that concealed his eyes. Safya bristled. If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t have to be a coin scavenger in the first place.

If it weren’t for him, none of this would have ever happened.

“You’ve come to arrest me, haven’t you?” Safya noted, squeezing her eyes shut tight enough she could count the stars splitting beneath her eyelids. “Just do it already, I--”

He dropped his gaze to her wrists. With his gloved hand, he pushed them away from his face. Her eyes fluttered open.

“I am not here to arrest you,” he said in a firm voice. “I’m here to ask for your assistance.”

Safya shook her head, already twisting away back to her room. She threw them a little wave. “I am not reading anybody else. Goodbye, Mr. Pres.”

“Stop walking,” he demanded.

She did. And she didn’t know why.

The President swiped his sunglasses against his sleeve to clear it of any specks of dust. “I want to hire you.”

Safya turned halfway. “For what?”

“This elixir dilemma… It’s an issue.” He fixed the frames back onto his face. “And with your--what did they call it? Witchy psychic powers? Anyways, I think you could help us solve it. With that being said, will you?”

Now, the President is the one extending his palm to her. Safya stiffened.

If she were really a psychic, she should have seen this coming miles away. But she’s a fraud.

A fraud being asked to fill the shoes of somebody she never was in the first place.