EREBOS (5) (Patreon)
Content
Noel’s stomach is in knots, for one reason and another. The two war inside his belly. He tells himself not to focus on Cyric, the thump of his traitorous heartbeat, or the memory of the way their gaze caught one another’s.
He tells himself it’s only Cyric’s scrutiny and nothing more — that he’s drawn the worst sort of suspicion from a foe he’d rather not have, and tries not to think of that night in the woods.
Or how damning it could be that an Erebos heir knows he was there.
—
The basic cable picks up only a few channels — mostly age-old children's cartoons and ongoing news deemed fit for humans.
Today is a broadcast day.
"Welcome, Class Seventeen, to SEN network. This morning's broadcast is mandatory for humans of the ages 18 through 35."
Unfortunately, that news is doctored and delivered by the Erebos clan. Noel considers himself smart, despite his foolish frolic in the Borderlands weeks ago. His mother comes from a time before SEN news.
Noel signs his name on the clipboard in front of him and passes it to the seat behind him.
"Please verify your attendance with your identification numbers on either your class or supervisors' sign-in sheets."
Name: Noel Sepúlveda
Age: 24
Identification number: 224987
Through SEN broadcasts, humans are given a chance to familiarize themselves with the Scelerati agendas, a chance to feel included in the goings-on around them.
But Noel's mother believes they intend to desensitize human youths to the Scelerati's inhuman qualities: their dark eyes and looming stature, the reverberation in their voice — and they aim to do it early.
Before they're old enough to become Scelerants.
"As September approaches, we are once again requesting participation from our human friends to assist in the betterment of Adeline."
The participation that they're asking for is for new humans to join The Running. To become Scelerants.
But a Scelerant’s job is unclear. The Running itself is unclear.
The only qualifications for humans are to be healthy and strong, and between the ages of 18 and 35. If these particular candidates apply, they’re likely to be chosen to participate.
Humans aren't sure what exactly Scelerant’s do — and still, they join the running each year as if it’s only friendly sport, regardless. The reason is evident. Family members of Scelerant’s are rewarded with meal cards, money for things that surpass necessity, and better homes.
Then the newly chosen Scelerant’s are relocated... and humans trust that it's to somewhere better.
Somewhere past the borderlands.
"The Running of the Scelerants is approaching," the newscaster boasts. She's spider-like, thin, and sharp. Her eyelashes case her black, Scelerati eyes, "all eligible and of-age humans must turn in their applications before the December deadline. Any improperly filled applications will be discarded. If chosen, you will receive a letter of acceptance with the Erebos clan insignia. Please keep a copy of your acceptance letter and ID badge for the arena."
Erebos.
Noel thinks of Cyric’s ring, of his sharp smile, of his vicious laugh. He wonders which Scelerant he’ll choose.
Noel opens his work pad, digging through his pencil case as the news switches to pan over an enormous arena — an arena that they use every year for The Running.
It's long, flattened from use, and travels straight through the borderland's woods.
Noel only can bear to watch because he has the privilege of never becoming a Scelerant. He never applies — and luckily, his mother never applies for him. There’s an unspoken rule to not live or desire for anything outside of their means and to stay as far from the Scelerati as possible.
"My mom sent in my application, " Evelyn Bodoloski speaks so suddenly that Noel nearly misses that the confession is directed towards him. She seems nervous, nails making small tears in the top corner of her homework. Noel recognizes her desire for comfort easily, but he turns his attention towards the television, "she said that if a Scelerati chooses me, we can pay off the debt my brother left behind when he tried to flee to Doveport — and that I could even see the borderlands, and it would be completely safe."
"... How could your mom do that to you," Noel feels stiff, gaze drifting to her before his eyes, again, shy away from the gloss on his friend's own. He’s discomforted by the idea of Evelyn trying to convince herself that she isn't afraid, that her mother’s motivations aren’t anything to do with personal greed, "no one is safe once they cross the borderlands.”
“We never have enough meal cards. Or enough heat. Mom is — she’s so hot in the summer.”
“So are we,” Noel stares at his hands. He watches his fingers — and in a time like this, he can’t stop thinking of Cyric. “My mom says it's better to be hungry, uncomfortable — or dirty... Than to be alone with a Scelerati."
“Do you really think so?” Noel’s attention drifts back towards his friend. When Evelyn swallows, it looks like she's trying to swallow her own heart. Her fingers fidget more; color drained from her face. She glances back, probably out of an old habit — a habit to make sure that the deceased Aurelio Cabrera isn't somehow still eavesdropping from his seat.
Noel can’t help but glance back where Aurelio was once seated as well, the fear of him listening in outweighing the rationality and finality of his death.
Noel inhales sharply.
"... My mom wouldn't send me if it weren't safe. I mean. Scelerant are honored. If they pick me — They’ll put me somewhere safer than Adeline.” She uncaps her pen to keep her hands from shaking, but they keep their voices quiet, “...Right?"
"Right?" Noel blinks, twisting his school tie between his fingers; it feels tight on his neck. He thinks of Cyric, his dream — his bloodied body.
"Anyway they... Are beautiful creatures, aren't they?" Evelyn whispers, but her eyes well with tears.
—
No.
Noel saw his first adult Scelerati, in person when he was six. Everyone likes to say that the adult Scelerati are only active at night, right after the sun has settled and taken its rays of light with it.
In their experience, maybe it reigns mostly true.
It was right after dusk, as most sightings are, and young Noel caught the Scelerati’s black eyes from across the dirt road. There was a soccer ball tucked under the man’s arm, Noel’s soccer ball, displaced from a kick that sent it too close to the borderlands.
It was fall; the heavily leaved trees were dim — colors deep red and autumn yellow.
Dusk made them seem darker, and the Scelerati appeared to drain the colors from his surroundings — eyes large and unblinking, and smile unsettlingly long across his face.
"Come here," he'd whispered, and it'd traveled through the wind in the grass like a hiss from a snake, "the flowers bloom larger in the borderlands."
Noel felt his heart skitter around in his rib cage, his body cold with sweat, long before they had the chance to teach him that there was nothing to be afraid of.
Before they tried to teach him that Scelerati was synonymous with safe.