The Elementalist

12. A Pacifist & a Revolver

A Pacifist & a RevolverFollowing another long, wordless ride in Troy’s cab, Voi was surprised to be greeted not by Ms. Furlan but rather Mr. Callahan when she stepped inside the barn. Heart seizing in her chest, Voi choked back a violent cough.

“Hello, Miss Román,” he said, ambling towards her in his cool and confident way.

Voi fumbled behind her as she struggled to close the barn door, clearing her throat. “I was under the impression that Ms. Furlan would be here to resume my elementalism training.”

“Change of plan.”

Her breathing hastened, the earthy scents of the barn amplified, and she realized he wasn’t wearing his cologne again today. Eventually, Mr. Callahan turned away, and she sighed in relief.

Next to Mr. Callahan was a table spread with various items including a wireless set, if Voi’s eyes served. On the opposite side of the barn was some sort of target board in the shape of a human torso. Mr. Callahan glanced over his shoulder. “Not what you were expecting?”

Voi sniffed, fixing her attention on the table as she approached. Two revolvers and a box of ammunition were laid in plain sight. “So much for becoming an elementalist.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get to that soon enough.” He checked to see if the revolvers were loaded.

“And when will my piloting skills come into play?”

“When we need them to.”

Voi’s eyes darted between his tense face and the guns. She shifted on her feet, hugging her arms. “I… I don’t understand what this is.”

He looked up and came over to Voi, bringing one of the guns. “None of us can teach you how to become a better pilot, Miss Román. Flying is what you do; it’s why we want you. But when it comes to self-defense,” he cringed, “well, I’m pretty sure you’re lacking.”

“Oh?” she said, hips swaying to the side. “What makes you so sure about that, Mr. Calla—?” Before she could finish, he’d circled behind her and wrapped his arm around her neck. She clutched his arm then froze when she felt a cold, hard object press to her temple.

“Well, for one,” he said as the g*n clicked, “you’re a pacifist.”

She flinched.

“Specifically, one that doesn’t believe in self-defense.” He tightened his muscles on either side of her neck, causing her to claw at his arm in protest. “College rallies against hate crimes and racism towards Darmoilen immigrants, barnstorming fundraisers for peace missions overseas…”

The sound of his voice faded away as the shock of Voi’s smothering Initiation came back to her with a terrifying swiftness. Her vision blurred, and she grew disoriented.

“You have an interesting past, Miss Román.” Mr. Callahan released some of the pressure on Voi’s neck, still maintaining his hold on her.

Her eyes refocused; it took a moment for her to regain her bearings.

“Your claustrophobia—your fears of confinement and asphyxiation—served as a defense mechanism and trigger for your Initiation,” he said. “In theory, you should’ve been able to defend yourself with an elemental attack just now, like you did before.”

Voi’s breathing accelerated as she eyed the g*n still pointed at her head. Heeding his words, she closed her eyes in hopes of summoning the same elemental phenomenon that took place during her Initiation, only this time she felt no connection with her element. “I… I can’t,” she sobbed.

“That’s too bad, Voi.” The muzzle of the revolver sunk deeper into her temple, and she grunted. “How else do you plan on defending yourself?”

“It isn’t loaded!” she forced through clenched teeth.

“You sure about that?”

She said nothing.

A metallic click—

While her eyes were pinched painfully shut, Voi soon realized she was still alive. She peered through her eyelids momentarily as if to confirm this then let out her breath.

Finally, Mr. Callahan let go of her.

Voi scrambled to the table, touching her neck with a shaky hand. She steadied herself as she caught her breath, glowering at Mr. Callahan as he emptied the revolver of a single bullet. He rolled it in his hand before looking at her with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t you ever put your hands on me like that again,” she said, “or Maker help me, I swear I’ll—” She choked and started coughing.

Mr. Callahan shook his head, placing the revolver back on the table—closer to Voi than she thought was necessary. “Thought you’d appreciate a more straightforward approach after my last attempt to make a point at the café.”

Breathing easier now, Voi narrowed her eyes. “What good am I to you dead?”

“Did you seriously think I was going to kill you?” He jerked his head in the direction of the g*n. “I take it you’ve never used one of these before.”

“I shoot arrows for sport, Mr. Callahan, so I confess I’m at a loss when it comes to, to…” She eyed the revolver, thinking about the cold metal. It made her skin crawl, and she shivered.

“Great, so I can show you how to use one, then.”

Voi’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You have excellent hearing, Voi. I’m sure you heard me the first time.”

She frowned. “What good is a pistol going to do in an aeroplane?”

“Clearly, you’ve never been up against a sky raider before.” Mr. Callahan stared at her in consternation for a moment then leaned against the table, folding his arms. “You may be an initiate to elementalism now, but that doesn’t make you indestructible. Even with training. Say you’re flying over Darmoil—which you will be, soon—and you’re forced to make a crash landing. You live, but a group of hostile natives discovers you. They approach with scimitars longer than each of your arms.”

She looked down at herself, attempting to picture such a ghastly weapon.

“One by one, they brandish their blades, intent on taking you as their prize—to be sold into s*****y or p**********n, or maybe they just want you dead. You’ve got no idea, and given the situation, you don’t have the luxury of guessing. They outnumber you five-to-one and are much larger than you. How do you plan on defending yourself?”

“Couldn’t I just,” she half-shrugged, “use my abilities?”

“Even if you could…” Mr. Callahan tried suppressing a laugh—with minimal success.

Voi peered at him.

Sobering, he cleared his throat. “Even if you could use your abilities, that wouldn’t be the smartest move.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Miss Román,” he said deliberately, pushing himself away from the table, “elementalists who are caught by the Darmoilen government or locals are treated like rare game; you’d be better off if nobody there knew what you were.” He looked from side-to-side guardedly. “Now, this isn’t exactly public knowledge, but it is relevant to your mission. Some of this is classified information, so don’t go sharing it with your friends. Got it?”

She dipped her head, showing she understood.

Mr. Callahan exhaled audibly then began pacing, old hay crunching beneath his polished dress shoes. “The Darmoilen government has held a zero-tolerance policy towards elementalists for over six centuries. In the past, when they came across your kind, they were dealt with using assassins. Only recently has the Fyupei Dynasty switched to employing operatives or private contractors specifically trained to handle adepts—something to do with facing judgment from the emperor before a prison or death sentence is given, or some such reason. Anyway, this created a window of opportunity for the League.”

Voi jumped in. “You’re talking about bounty hunters, aren’t you?”

“There are bounty hunters, Voi, but not all of them are equipped or skilled enough to do this kind of work. Catch my drift?”

She slowly nodded. I don’t like where this conversation is going.

Mr. Callahan continued. “You heard about the story I’ve been working on, how I’m investigating the reasons why Darmoilen emigrants are leaving their countries to seek a better life in our neck of the woods; there’s a reason for this. Not all elementalists in Darmoil are terrorists, granted. Some are normal people just trying to survive. Some of them could even become potential agents. However, some could also be undercover Haran operatives—which means some of them could be here.”

Voi furrowed her brow, trying to wrap her head around the implications. “Wait, are you saying these people are running from their government to avoid execution?”

“In some cases, yes. Depends on their sentence.” When she gave him a horrified look, Mr. Callahan held up his palm. “Trust me, I know how this sounds. It’s part of the reason why the League has increased their presence in Darmoil over the past fifty years—including Milia’s missions overseas.

“You see, Milia isn’t just an envoy; she’s the flagship captain, I guess you could say, of the League’s first attempts at establishing a sort of,” he motioned vaguely with his hands, “foreign exchange program for Darmoilen elementalists, if you will. As a special envoy, Milia negotiates the release of captured elementalists then provides them with temporary work visas in one of the League’s territories, giving them a chance to prove their loyalty abroad. If, after being put through certain trials, the League and Emperor Fyupei are convinced they’re trustworthy, then their visas are extended and they’re given special assignments suited to their skill sets.”

Voi looked away, grim reality hitting her like a tidal wave. “So, this mission—it’s not just a means of spying on the enemy or my way out of the asylum; it’s also a test of my loyalty.”

“Sure, I guess you could look at it that way.” He was quiet for a moment. “Ultimately, the plan is to hand the loyal ones back over to the Darmoilen government after they’ve rejoined the League. So, to comply with our covenant, Emperor Fyupei has implemented more humane policies for dealing with what they call ‘daemons.’ The exchange program doesn’t always work out… but in most cases, it seems to be having some success.”

“Daemons?” asked Voi.

Mr. Callahan smiled. “Good, you caught that.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Elementalists in Darmoil are referred to as ‘daemons’: human vessels possessed by elemental entities. According to local belief systems, daemons either exist to provide divine aid or obstruction to humans.

“Nowadays, most foreigners are inclined to believe that more malevolent daemons exist than benevolent ones—no small thanks to government p********a over the years. It’s not uncommon to come across Darmoilen citizens who are liable to attack first and ask questions later, should they suspect they’ve come across a daemon—or worse, the adept is captured by cultists who t*****e then sacrifice their offerings to the gods.” He cringed. “Trust me, you don’t want to end up in that situation.”

Voi winced, sensing some personal experience on his part—a story he was, understandably, disinclined to share in any detail.

Instead, he shrugged a shoulder, adding, “Like I said, it’s all government p********a playing off of superstitious religious beliefs, though you can see now where we get our negative ideas about daemons from.”

Voi shook her head, lost in thought. Definitely not what she’d been taught in school. “Why are you telling me this?”

Mr. Callahan stopped pacing and stood in front of her. “Because my point, Miss Román, is that it’s always open season in Darmoil. Show your wild card, and you just might be considered fair game.”

She swallowed. Never mind that he was mixing his metaphors. This was serious stuff.

“Now,” he said, pacing again, “Emperor Fyupei has agreed to consider a pardon for any non-criminal elementalists claimed by Sector One if they’re caught by his bounty ministry, but that won’t protect you from suspicious locals or enemies of the state. So, when you learn how to control your abilities, you will strictly use them if and only if you must—that is, if you come across another elementalist with no other means to defend yourself.

“Your abilities should be your secret weapon, Miss Román, which is why you need to learn a less compromising form of self-defense. In your case, that’s going to be firearm training.”

“Hold on, Mr. Callahan.” Voi held up her hand; she could hardly hide her incredulity. “I’ve only just begun to discover what I am, and now you’re asking me to hide it?”

“I’m not asking you, Voi; I’m telling you: the first step to becoming a successful elementalist is making others believe you’re just an ordinary citizen.”

“Because that’s what we agreed would be best for me, right? An ordinary life.”

He gave her a tired look. “Nothing about this is ordinary, Voi.”

She sighed, eyeing the revolver on the table. “Well, it certainly doesn’t look very complicated, using a pistol.”

“Sure, but like anything you want to get good at, you gotta practice.”

“If you say so.”

“Let’s start with loading your pistol.”

“My pistol?”

“Yes, yours.” He smirked at her hesitation. “If you don’t like the one I picked out, then you can always buy yourself a prettier one later.”

“Funny.”

For the next few minutes, Mr. Callahan explained to Voi the parts of her revolver, what ‘double-action’ meant, the significance of a cylinder and a chamber, the caliber of ammunition she would use, how to load the cartridges—not bullets, he kept correcting her—and… well, it all began to sound quite boring and procedural. Honestly, Voi just wanted to get the damn lesson over with.

Once she had all five chambers loaded and the cylinder closed, Mr. Callahan walked to the other side of the barn then stood behind the man-target, placing his hands as if greeting an old friend with a warm pat on the shoulders. “Voi, meet Holes. Holes,” he looked down at the target, “meet Voi.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Holes, here, doesn’t quite live up to his name, so we’re going to fix that. I take that back: you’re going to fix that.” He returned, standing by Voi’s side with a scowl. “But first, we need to work on your stance then do something about that poor excuse-of-a-grip you’ve got there.”

“Huh?” She looked down. “What do you mean?”

Step-by-step, Mr. Callahan instructed Voi, gently guiding her into a proper stance then molding her hands around the revolver into a firm grip. Realizing she was paying more attention to his earthy scent and the smooth, rhythmic pattern of his breathing rather than the words coming out of his mouth, however, she closed her eyes momentarily to clear her thoughts, taking deep breaths.

“Are you listening?”

She opened her eyes. “Yes,” she snapped.

Satisfied with her stance, Mr. Callahan backed away. “Alright, now just make sure you keep that grip tight, firm in the arms… good. Only put your finger on the trigger if you’re prepared to shoot your target. When you’re ready, just aim down your sights, take a breath then pull. Try aiming for the torso.”

She gave him an alarmed look.

“What?”

Voi shook her head, mentally preparing herself to fire. However, the target board seemed to develop a head with a pitiful set of eyes, and she hesitated.

“Whenever you’re ready, Voi.”

She just stood there.

Mr. Callahan sighed. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything, this.” She lowered her weapon. “I can’t do it.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“I don’t care if he isn’t real; the principle’s just the same. I won’t shoot another human being!”

“And what if one decides to shoot you?”

“Things won’t come to that.”

“You don’t know that.”

Decidedly, she handed the revolver back to him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Callahan, but I’ve made up my mind.”

He stared at her for a moment before taking the g*n and setting it on the table. He remained there afterwards with his back to her.

“Why aren’t we training with other spies?” asked Voi, snuffing the uncomfortable silence.

“Non-emelesiacs don’t tend to play well with mentalists and elementalists,” he said over his shoulder. “We don’t exactly exist in their world, remember?”

“Well, I suppose I’d forgotten about that part.” Deflated, she sighed. “Am I going to learn telegraphy codes, then, like they use in the Rogue Spy novels?”

Mr. Callahan stifled a laugh, turning around. “I think you read too much fiction.”

Voi bit her lip, averting her eyes.

The agent considered her then slapped the table. “You know what? I think we’re done here.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“If you aren’t going to learn how to use a g*n, then you won’t learn anything else from us.” He shrugged. “Simple as that.”

Voi thought about this then folded her arms. “Fine!”

“Clearly, you’re not interested in taking this free-ticket-out-of-the-asylum thing seriously, Miss Román, so why don’t you come back to me when that’s changed?”

Too flustered to summon a comeback, Voi harrumphed then charged towards the door. She paused and looked back, hoping he’d try to stop her.

All he did was arch an eyebrow.

Damn thug, she thought before shoving the barn door open and strutting out to the cab. She flung the back door open. “I want to go home now, Troy.”

The driver leaned back in his seat. “I take it your session went swimmingly this time!”

Just what I need, another damn Secily. Voi slammed the door before turning to glare at Troy in his mirror.

“Very well, then.” He promptly resumed a stoic, unconcerned demeanor as he shifted gears. “Blithe Street it is.”

* * *

Agent Callahan was leaning against a brick wall—hidden in an obscure alley between an abandoned gymnasium and an old warehouse—when a slim, feminine silhouette strode around the corner. The staccato of her pumps echoed as she looked over her shoulder, clearly paranoid that someone might be following.

“Should I write you a rain check?” he asked as he chewed on a toothpick he’d taken from the café on Lime and Sixth Street.

“That won’t be necessary.” Milia’s curt, posh accent cut through the dark like a blade, confirming her identity long before he could see her face. Her hands were stuffed in the pockets of her trench coat as she stumbled to a halt, shivering from the cold. A puff of her breath billowed visibly in the air, and she checked for followers again.

He glanced beyond her. “You sure about that?”

“Just make it quick,” she said, returning her attention to him. “Status report?”

“She’s dragging her feet.”

Milia cursed. “Saints, I don’t have time for this.” She started prowling back and forth.

“Look,” Callahan flicked his toothpick away, “I don’t know what you were expecting from me, but I don’t do the whole ‘seduction’ thing anymore. Not my style.”

“I don’t care what your style is, Callahan, so long as it gets results.” Milia stopped, resting her hands on her hips. “What will it take?”

“You can’t be too hard on her. She’s not like us.”

Milia frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean she’s sensitive, idealistic. She wants to make a difference in the world. She thinks this will help her accomplish that.”

The diplomat looked to the sky with a huff. “I thought you said she could be trained.”

“She can. Just give her some time. She’ll come around.”

“I swear, if I don’t start seeing some results—”

“Patience, tiger.”

Milia stared him down. “Get her back on track, Callahan, or else I’ll be taking matters into my own hands.” She charged back up the alley.

Yes, sir, he thought, shaking his head.