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Willy Tybur proposes a toast.
“Our hearts are heavy as we bid farewell to the good men and women who have bravely served our great nation for over a decade. We don't want to say goodbye but we know we must. So we will. It doesn't get any easier, though, does it?” Polite laughter rumbles through the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen, let us honor our warriors tonight by celebrating their ultimate sacrifice.”
Filling the banquet hall of the Tybur estate are the most powerful men and women in the world, from influential families to hardened war generals, cherry-picked by the Tyburs to commemorate the evening. Champagne flows, amber and sweet, as flutes are raised high in silent reverence. The band resumes its playing after a satisfied pause, and the guests whisper-talk until the music picks up. It's all saccharine. The alcohol and the ambience, but the people most of all. Like they're all so charmed by the warriors, whose names many of them are only just learning.
The holder of the Armored Titan, a redhead with stormy eyes, scoffs into her glass and wishes there was something stronger inside. It's difficult to appreciate the beauty of the evening, how crystals drip off the chandeliers and filigree flows into the furnishings. Even the candles, intricately carved just to melt away, look like they belong in an art gallery. One burns at the center of the table, raised on a metallic stand and contained in glass. Restrained. She and her colleagues already had their chance to bitch about their fates, to scream and cry behind closed doors. All week long, their superiors dragged them into meetings that boiled down to nothing, and all week long the dread burrowed deeper. She can't help but think this is like throwing a party for your dog before you put it down, only the dog has the privilege of not knowing it's going to die.
They don't get to use words like unfair. Every last ghoul at this party is only as rich and powerful as they are because the warriors destroyed anyone who got in their way. It’s only fitting they should see off their prized weapons.
How quick would a flame catch on this tablecloth? What is this, satin?
“Do you think it's too late to poison the punch bowl?” The Jaw downs the rest of his champagne with the grace of an avalanche. Liquid dribbles into his stubble, onto his collar.
The Armor can’t help but roll her eyes. Yeah, if only. The Female smiles politely, as though she missed what was said.
“I like how he said over a decade. Kinda glossed over the fact some of us are retiring early,” the Jaw says pointedly, eyeing the tall man sitting across from him.
“I'm sorry, was that you trying to be funny? That and your little punch bowl joke?” the Colossus sneers. “Let the wrong person hear you and see how your night ends.”
“So uptight. You'd think we weren't all dying tomorrow,” he enunciates fearlessly.
A couple passerby snap their heads at the sudden commotion, stealing excitable glances, but when the Colossus merely sucks his teeth in response, they get bored and find h'orderves to chew on. It wouldn't be the first time a couple of unhappy warriors got into a heated argument (or worse) on The Eve of Ascension. The night is tense enough as it is without an audience, especially when that audience includes the children who will be replacing them. But of course the fighting is accounted for. An untrained eye could easily glaze over the security detail. Men with watchful eyes, their gaits empowered by bulges in their expensive suits. If the organizers wanted to orchestrate a peaceful sendoff they could have, they would have. Including an open bar is somehow the least dubious decision they made for the occasion.
“Gentlemen, let’s not argue,” the Female, the unsung peacekeeper of their group, chimes in. “It's our last night together, let’s make the most of it.”
“She's right. Let's make nice,” the Colossus concedes. His smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
The Female beams so hard it must hurt and cries, “Excellent, you two!”
She reaches out with enviously manicured fingers and makes the men shake hands and apologize. In another life, she would have made for a great diplomat.
On the other side of the hall, the children appear docile, near comatose. Weren’t we, when we were them? the redhead thinks. They have barely looked at anything besides their own hands folded carefully on the tablecloth since they were corralled to their seats nearly an hour ago.
“I still don't know which one is which,” the Jaw whispers loudly. “Aren't two of them twins or something?”
“Brothers,” the Armor corrects. “One wasn't selected.”
“You know he'll never hear the end of it. Poor little bastard.”
“What does it matter?” the Colossus scoffs. “I don't know what Magath was thinking, choosing kids as young as that.”
“I don't think it was entirely his choice,” the Armor murmurs, watching hot wax spill down the candle like teardrops.
She catches her female companion staring at the children, trapped in a daze of silence. A far cry from her initial reaction to their successors; when she first saw them, she would not shut up about how cute they were.
A modest wave of excitement electrifies the hall as servers march in from the kitchen with silver trays. They circle the tables—some fully occupied, most not—and set down platters in unison, as though controlled by a puppeteer. Rare meats perfume the air. Small plates copiously adorned with colorful garnishes made to look like nine-pointed stars. Half of the party guests are not present for the reveal, instead engrossed in conversation with what’s-his-face and so-and-so, assured dinner will be there waiting should they wander back.
A meal would have been a pleasant distraction for the old warriors had they been served, their table seemingly forgotten.
“I knew they were going to do something weird,” the Jaw laments behind the blur of his empty glass.
Their host cuts in before the Jaw’s distress becomes infectious. “Fret not, my friends,” Willy soothes. “The chef needed a little extra time to prepare your meals. They will be out shortly.”
The children, at least, have not suffered the same inconvenience, jolted to life by a lamb roast laid to rest in a bed of mint and garlic. As the night unravels, the music is no longer discernible from the rest of the noise, flowing into the eating and drinking and, somewhere, someone has lit a cigar and started to tell a story under the veranda.
Unveiling a flask from an inner breast pocket, the Jaw asks, “Do you think they're friends?”
“I'd hope not. I sure as hell don't like any of you.” The Colossus frowns at the bottom of his wine glass. He tries to wave over a server, but they all seem to have more important people to attend to.
The Armor empties her glass into his. “Mine, the blond one, the boy, I think he wants very badly to be liked.”
“You think?” The Female leans in with interest.
“I met his mother the other day—not by choice—and that's the impression I got.”
“I get the feeling that mine's very clever. Being the only girl, she has to be.”
“Mine's the leader,” the Jaw butts in.
“Leader? Not if he's as careless as you,” the Colossus snarks.
“Yeah? Well, yours looks like a weakling.”
“Why don't we find out?”
The Colossus stands.
“And you were worried I’d make a scene? You’re a hypocrite to the very end, Alex. I’ll toast to that.” The Jaw drinks by himself, unabashedly.
“Coming?”
The Armor springs out of her seat when no one else does.
“I’d better watch”—the Female glances at the drinking man—“the table. Our food will be arriving shortly.” Of course. One of them needs to be responsible.
With their arms loosely linked, the pair move in simpatico, evading dense clouds of smoke and tipsy women in high heels. A tumor of testosterone draped in tailored suits throws them off. The head of the tumor, a stout man with badges lining his flabby breast, recognizes them—but the Colossus in particular. There he is, the tallest man in the world! The rest of the men swarm him like flies on shit, and they are just as persistent, holding him hostage with disturbing anecdotes about a conflict in Saroll that he’s expected to laugh about. After the third or fourth horror story, the Armor zones out.
Her tolerance has limits though. With death fresh on her mind, she yanks her companion forward, tired of petty pleasantries.
The first child to spot them is the blonde girl. She jabs her elbow into the tall brunette's side, setting a domino effect into motion. In a moment of panic, the poor things fumble with their silverware and knock over a glass of sparkling water in the process. (What they deserve is a little wine, but the brass is awfully funny about what they will allow the kids to stick inside their mouths.)
The blond boy pales when he looks at the Armor. He starts to say something, but the short brunette beats him to it, leaping to his feet.
“It’s an honor. I’m—”
“Yes, we know who you are. My colleague and I are eager to talk to someone from your group.”
She might as well have said she wanted to eat one of them. Funny, considering. It occurs to her that this is mean, what they’re doing to these kids, that they’re mean people.
The Colossus curls his finger in a come-hither motion to his successor. “You. Yes, you. Come.”
The tall boy looks desperately to his friends for help.
“I just want to talk. Don't worry, I won't bite. She'll tell you.”
There is not a maternal bone in her body, but the Armor puts on the most reassuring face she can muster. In reality, she may appear manic, but the boy is either convinced or terrified enough to follow them to a quiet corner.
The Colossus kneels down to the boy's level.
“Smoke?” He flashes a cigarette.
The boy pales and declines with a rapid head shake.
“Good boy. Now, let me get a good look at you.” The Colossus lights up, pauses considerately. “No, you're not a weakling at all. Case closed.”
“How can you tell?” the boy chirps like a frightened dove.
“Easy. You're fucked up. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don't be. You'll live longer if you never let yourself feel sorry for it. For any of it.”
“Are you and your friends angry with us?”
That’s cute—that he thinks they’re friends. The tallest man in the world takes a long drag.
“Tomorrow—in a few hours, really—I’m due for a bath. It'll be a nice long bath—under strict supervision, of course—but they'll let me shave if I want to. Hell, they might even let me smoke. Then I’ll get dressed and drink something to calm my nerves. At the same time, you’re going to get ready—” He stops suddenly, his eyes liquid. It must be the smoke. “What happens next will happen very fast, so listen. You're going to blink, and you'll be taller than any building you've ever seen in your life. People won’t look like people to you anymore. You’ll hear you’re doing the right thing. You’re going to let yourself believe that. I bet thirteen years sounds like a long time to you, but it’ll go fast, so do yourself a favor and keep your eyes open. If you get to where I am, you’ll know the answer to that question.”
He rustles the kid's hair.
“Now beat it.”
To the child’s credit, he does not run. The other children swarm him upon his return, like worshippers hopeful for a message from a higher power. She wonders what he’ll tell them.
She and Colossus rejoin their party. In their absence, their companions have managed to both secure and polish off a bottle of red wine.
“Oh, you’re back. Question for you: How fucked would it be if, like, a week into their inheritance the kids aren’t cut out for it and the brass decide to replace them with people our age? Do you think that would invoke moral outrage from the community and inspire real change?” the Jaw drones.
The redhead clears her throat. “They might skip the masturbatory dinner party.”
“Friends,” a voice exclaims. Willy reappears like some apparition or waking nightmare, flanked by four severs.
A practiced smile bisects his face as dishes are set before each warrior. Four little yellow birds, completely plucked, their twiggy legs poking into the air and their wings sealed to their fat bodies, a snapshot of a marching soldier.
“As you can see, this dish was prepared special for you all. The head chef and I spoke extensively, and we agreed something light would be most appropriate.”
“Lovely, Willy. Thank you.” The Female smiles back at him graciously.
“Yes. You see, what makes this dish so special is the preparation. The bird, a small songbird, is blinded and gorged on seed until it's nice and plump. Then, it's drowned and roasted in brandy. The nature of its preparation is considered a sin and so, traditionally, diners cover their faces with a napkin to hide from their god. Please, my friends”—he gestures widely—“do enjoy.”
The warriors share a look of hesitation, waiting for someone to take the leap.
“I have nothing to hide from,” the Armor jumps in, decisively folding her napkin into her lap.
“Yes, after all we’ve done, we shouldn't have to hide,” the Female echoes, almost dreamily, a spark of pride in her eyes. She places her hands upon the table, offering them to the Colossus on her left and the Jaw on her right. The men join hands with her, then the Armor. The warriors hold onto each other until grief crashes into their bodies like a current, impossible to swim against.
The birds are weightless in their hands. The Armor delicately pinches her bird between her fingers, presenting it to its dead flock, her dead flock, a subtle protest she hopes her cells remember when they are living on in a different body. “To tradition,” she declares to their host’s paralyzed smile. “And to breaking it.”