That’s the sound of every woman’s pain.
I know it well. Every woman does. All my life in the shithole that is Dross, I’ve never met a woman without this same soul-deep anger. We’re made from it, woven from the fury, until we’re pieced together in some semblance of womanhood.
This furyiswomanhood.
I stumble as the realization slams into me, and very nearly get taken out by her swinging cone because of it. I leap out of the way at the last second, thankful that I at least have a little extra agility in my stats than I had before I chose my Glitch.
Locke screams back at her, rushes forward, and slams his fist against her foot. The sound of cracking bones—his—echoes in the courtyard, and I wince.
“Fuck!” Locke snarls, but his shoulders flex and he seems to swell up more as his bones start to snap back into place. He hits her again, with the same outcome. It takes him two of those hits before he realizes the harsh truth.
His powers are useless here. The statue is a metal woman the size of the buildings around us. Hitting her does nothing.
Svetlana tickles my cheek.
“Any ideas?” I ask her as I move around the courtyard, trying my best to avoid the statue’s wrath.
Svetlana looks up at the statue. Those large eyes take her in, the black streaks, the fury, the pain, and then she looks back at me. “I will not behead her,” she says. “A woman in pain does not deserve to be knocked down even more.”
“We’re going to die because of that pain,” I say, darting between the statue’s feet and almost getting stomped on. She ends up clipping my shoulder with her heel and I go flying into a stack of suitcases, tumbling into them and knocking them over before I can catch myself. One of the suitcases springs open, revealing emptiness. Another one scatters a yellowed newspaper and a silver spoon. I stare at the contents with wide eyes, and then realization slams into me.
The hint.
I stare up at the statue as she chases Locke, as she swings that cone down and tries to smash him with it. As the cone passes, I notice it’s hollow in the top, open. It’s not a club or a hammer at all. It’s not even a weapon.
“‘Ask you to light the flame of my liberty,’” I repeat, staring at the cone. She screams again, that shrill, painful lament shredding my heart to pieces.
Not a cone. Not a weapon. Something else.
“Light the flame,” I repeat. “Svetlana, that’s it! It’s not a cone! It’s a fucking torch!”
Svetlana scoffs. “A torch?”
“Yes! We have to light the flame,” I shout excitedly. “We have to lightherflame!”
Svetlana hunkers down. “I do not like fire.”
“But how?” I pop open my inventory and look, but I don’t have anything that creates fire on me other than a small lighter. It’s too small for such a large flame, especially while moving. It would just flicker out the first chance we had to start it, if we could even get something lit. “Locke! Do you have something that makes fire in your inventory?”
“Not really!” he shouts back, grunting as the cone catches him and throws him against the wall. Anyone else would have been knocked out of breath with that hit. Not Locke. He immediately drops back to his feet and takes off again despite the human sized crack in the wall behind him. “Just a few matches.”
“Fuck,” I hiss, looking around, my eyes catching on the dozens of suitcases again. “Keep her busy!”
“What?” he snarls, before diving out of the way of her cone again. The violent scream that rips from her throat rocks the courtyard.
“Just do it! I think I’ve figured it out,” I tell him, before starting to open the suitcases closest to me.
“Well, hurry it up!” Locke growls. She almost stomps on him again and he goes flying when her sandaled toe catches his heel. He has exactly one second of being sprawled on the white floor before he has to leap up and rush away, avoiding her stomping feet again.
The next scream makes my head squeeze and I pause long enough to rub my temple and glance up at her.
“I’m working on it, Lady Liberty. I’m trying.”
I rush through the suitcases, opening one after the other, finding them either empty or with only a few useless items. Baby shoes rest inside one, pink and frilly. They’re clean, never worn. A child’s toy dog, so worn it almost doesn’t look like a dog anymore. A single pair of clothing, folded pristinely and proper, made of all cotton. Remnants of people that never made it to their destination, or items left behind when they had to leave in a hurry. The photographs are the worst. Families peering at cameras, families of all types. Some of them are smiling. Some of them just stare sternly at the camera. Some of them are regal with wealth. Some of them are happy in rags. All of them have one thing in common.
Their belongings are scattered around this courtyard, forgotten.
I try my best not to damage any of the items in my haste to find something that will help. My instincts are screaming at me that the suitcases are the answer. I just have to find the right one.
