Book 1 Chapter 4: The World of Powers

Motley stared at her outstretched hand, then back at her face, which now held a warmth he hadn't seen before. The words were simple, but the gesture, the unexpected shift in her demeanour, left him utterly bewildered. He had heard her name, knew it from the strange voice in his head, but this... this was different.

Tash lowered her hand slowly, seeing his confusion. A soft, sympathetic smile touched her lips, a rare sight, she continued. “I own a place here in Dustfall, a cafe." Her gaze softened as she looked around her makeshift medical room, then beyond it, towards the front of her establishment. "It's called The Copper Cactus." She paused, a genuine fondness entering her voice. "I love it. I love being there when people start their day. There's something special about making someone's first coffee perfect, seeing the tired lines on their face smooth out, knowing you've helped them start their day right. It's a good feeling." Motley sat still, soaking in all her words.

She continued, her voice taking on a slightly more reflective tone. "I've always lived here in Dustfall. Born and raised." Her gaze drifted, as if seeing the city's familiar streets in her mind's eye. "Only child too, so it was always just me and my..." Tash's voice trailed off. Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and her eyes, though still fixed on Motley, lost their focus, becoming distant. She remembered the gnawing pain of loss, the years of trying to make sense of something incomprehensible. The words about her mother, the illness, the poison—they swelled in her throat, desperate to be released. But she bit them back. She barely knew this man. He was an enemy, or at least, he had been. She couldn't allow herself to unravel, to become vulnerable in front of a stranger, especially one with such a dangerous past. The need to protect herself, to maintain her stoic facade, was too deeply ingrained.

Tash shook her head, a subtle movement that seemed to physically release her from the grip of the past. Her gaze swept around the room, settling on the packed bookshelf behind Motley. "My practice," she began, a hint of pride entering her voice. "I'm self-taught, mostly. Learned everything I know from these." She gestured towards the collection of books, some rough-looking, others professionally printed. "I help injured people when I can. Falls, heatstroke, the common flu."

Her expression then turned sombre. "But then the Solarians attack. Twice a year, usually. When the dust settles... I make it a habit to go out after the battle and look for survivors, try to help whoever I can." She met Motley's gaze, her eyes now holding a grim seriousness. "I'm the only one who can help the soldiers with their extreme injuries. No one else has the... knack for it. Not like me."

Motley broke the silence. "Why are you," he began, his voice still a little raspy, "the only one who can heal those extreme injuries?"

Tash gave a slight, dismissive shrug. "I'm just that skilled," she replied, her tone flat, revealing nothing. She watched him closely, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face, his brows furrowing as he clearly weighed her words. For a single second, he held her gaze, a question in his eyes, before his expression softened into one of resignation. He wasn't going to press the issue.

Relief washed over Tash. She had navigated that expertly. Now to shift the spotlight. "Enough about me," she said, leaning forward slightly. "Tell me, Motley, what do you know about yourself?"

Motley seemed to collect his thoughts, his gaze distant. He took a slow sip from the mug he still held, the steam rising around his face. He swallowed, then looked at her, his expression serious. "My name is Motley." He paused, as if testing the words. "I'm a Solarian soldier."

As the word 'Solarian' left his lips, Tash braced herself, preparing for the discomfort of harbouring an enemy. But then Motley continued, his voice calm, utterly devoid of any pretence or fear. "And I have a power."

Tash froze. Power? The word hit her like a physical blow, a cold shock that rooted her to the spot. Her mind reeled. He was saying it so casually, so openly. She watched, stunned, as he continued to speak as if revealing such a critical, life-threatening fact was no more remarkable than mentioning the weather.

"I understand they're not too common," Motley added, almost as an afterthought, "I think." He frowned slightly, searching for certainty. "But I can see facts about people from my power. And… I can see their memories."

The last words slammed into Tash. He could see memories? He knew. The calm she'd just felt shattered into a thousand pieces. He knew about her memories. He knew her secret. The silver badge. Her mother's poison. The sick feeling in her gut intensified. He wasn't just a lost soldier; he was a walking, breathing threat to everything she had hidden.

"For the life of Chronos, you must be lying," Tash swore, the words escaping her in a breathless gasp of utter shock, not anger. Her eyes, wide and disbelieving, were fixed on his face.

Motley met her gaze, his expression unreadable, a stony mask devoid of any nervousness or hint of deception. "No," he replied, his voice flat, resolute.

Tash held his gaze for a few long seconds, trying to decipher the impossible truth in his eyes. She took a slow, deliberate breath. "Prove it," she challenged, the demand barely a whisper.

Motley's composure wavered. His brow furrowed in uncertainty. "I... I've never used it on purpose yet," he admitted, his voice strained. He paused, thinking, his gaze distant. "But I'll try."

Tash watched him, her heart pounding. His face suddenly became a blank slate, his eyes unfocused, a moment of startling stillness that lasted for barely a second. Then, just as quickly, the awareness flooded back into his features, and he seemed to snap back to the present.

"Your name is Tash Everground," Motley stated, his voice clear, devoid of his usual raspy edge. "You are twenty-two years old and human. You have a power, but I don't know the name of your power, and I have memories of you that I can access."

Tash stood frozen, the silence in the room deafening. Her mind struggled to soak in the impossible reality she found herself in. Then, the words Motley had just spoken clicked into place. She stared at him, her thoughts a frantic, desperate scramble to connect the impossible dots. He hadn't left this room. No one else had been in here. It defied logic.

 "I have never told you my age," Tash managed, her voice barely a breath. "And I don't believe you have left this room yet and spoken to anyone who would have told you."

It defied every logic she knew, every truth she'd learned. But the genuine confusion in his wide eyes, the sheer bewilderment of his power, finally swayed her. It was too absurd to be a lie. She decided, for now, to believe.

"Alright," Tash said, the word a soft exhalation of disbelief and dawning comprehension. Her gaze, usually so guarded, now held a raw curiosity. "What memories? What did you... see? What can you access?"

Motley’s brow furrowed in concentration. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if sifting through unseen files in his mind. "Just one," he murmured, his voice strained with the effort. "Only one. It was when you walked back into this very room, holding my uniform." He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze, a flicker of that raw fear from her vision reflecting in his own. "You were terrified. Your skin prickled, and a cold shiver crawled up your spine. You thought I was a monster, ready to lash out." His voice dropped to a whisper, filled with a deep, unsettling understanding. "You thought if you took one more step, you were dead."

Tash stood frozen, the blood draining from her face. Every detail, every raw emotion Motley described, was precisely what she had felt in that harrowing moment. He hadn't just seen it; he had felt it, lived it. It was her own secret terror, laid bare before him. Her disbelief vanished, replaced by a chilling certainty. This power was real. This man was capable of an impossible intimacy, a theft of hidden moments.

"Are you... Are you certain that's the only one?" Tash asked, her voice barely audible, a desperate hope clinging to her words.

Motley nodded, his expression firm. "Yes. I only saw that. I have this feeling, this instinct that comes with the power, that I can only see memories that involve me. Memories where I was present."

Tash nodded, a wave of palpable relief washing over her face, easing the tension that had gripped her. His power had limitations; he didn't know all her secrets. He only saw what involved him.

Motley, almost hesitant, even shy, continued, "So, does your power relate to your healing? Which is why you can do things that no other doctor can?"

Tash was stunned by the question, caught off guard by his sudden insight. Her gaze darted to the closed door, then back to Motley, her face a mask of conflict. She chose to continue, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper, as if the very air around them could betray her. "Yes, it is. And that is all I will say on the matter."

Motley's brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes fixed on her. "You seem... nervous to talk about powers. Based on your whisper and the shock you had when I revealed I have one."

Tash sighed, a long, weary sound that carried the weight of years of fear. He wouldn't remember. How could he? His mind was a blank slate. She leaned closer, her voice still low, almost grim. "Motley, this city... this country... They call people with powers 'tainted.' It's considered a curse, something evil." She looked him directly in the eyes. "From the moment a child is born, they're tested. If there are signs they might develop a power, they're 'purged'—killed." The word was a flat, brutal statement.

"Those who slip through, who are suspected to have powers as adults, are outlawed from every country," Tash continued, her voice gaining a sombre cadence. "They become vagabonds, forced to wander, hunted. No home, no safety. It's why no one speaks of it. It's why I reacted the way I did. It's why you... You never tell anyone else about your power or mine."

Tash finished, her gaze fixed on Motley, watching for the fear, the shock, the anger she expected. But his expression remained a mask of confusion, as if she were speaking in riddles. There was no terror in his eyes, no dawning horror at the revelation of his condemned existence.

"You cannot be right," Motley said, his voice flat, a profound bewilderment etched onto his face. It wasn't a challenge or an accusation, just a simple, almost childlike declaration of disbelief. He looked utterly unconvinced by the grim reality she had just laid bare.

She has to be wrong. The words from the skull resonated in his mind, sharp and clear: Power is the natural progression... for those whose desires burn bright enough. He knew what he'd been told in the cabin. He knew his Chronos Eye had given him a flash of that truth, an instinctual understanding. But the cabin itself, the mocking voice of the skull, felt too deeply personal, too unsettlingly real to share with someone who barely knew him, and who now looked at him with a mix of fear and concern. He needed to understand it himself first, this bizarre internal world, before he could lay it bare to anyone else.

"No," Motley continued, his voice firmer now, "you're wrong. Powers... they're not a curse. They're a natural progression. They come from intense desire, from mastering a skill, or from life-or-death situations." He paused, meeting her stunned gaze. "It's like... It's like my power, the Chronos Eye, just knows this. It's... instinctive information. It just came with it."

Tash stared, her face a mask of disbelief. "No, that makes no sense," she finally managed, her voice flat, a profound bewilderment etched onto her face. "That's... that's not possible. It's the only truth anyone knows! My mother knew it. It's been the law in this society forever." Her voice rose, a desperate edge creeping in. "It protects us! It's the reason powers are controlled, Motley. It's to protect society against those who reach the apex and become too powerful, like the stories of old. They break everything, destroy lives, and collapse economies."

Motley shook his head, a stubborn defiance hardening his gaze. "But why? Why would I be born with a power that would only work after I lost my memories? It makes no sense. My Chronos Eye manifested for a reason, Tash. It's here to help me fix this. To find out who I am." He gestured vaguely at his bandaged head. "If it were a curse, why would it help me recover what's lost? Why would it give me this information?"

Tash faltered, the logic in his words creating a sudden, unexpected crack in her ingrained beliefs. She looked at him, then at the distant wall, her mind wrestling with the contradiction. "What we believe," she said slowly, her voice quieter now, "does not go against each other. So there's no reason they both cannot be true."

Motley's eyes narrowed. "But killing babies who are tested to have powers and outlawing those who do... that's just wrong, Tash."

Tash met his gaze, her own hazel eyes holding a deep, ancient sorrow, a sorrow that came from within her, from the power she harboured. She nodded, a subtle agreement, then let out a heavy sigh. "I know. But that's just the way of life here."

The room settled into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the distant hum of steam from the cafe. Motley, absorbing Tash’s grim words, felt a cold dread replace his confusion. This wasn't just about his amnesia anymore; it was about survival. He was not just an outsider; he was a potential target, a walking condemnation in a society that "purged" anyone like him. The gravity of his situation and the immense danger he now posed to Tash pressed down on him.

Tash, too, was lost in thought, her gaze distant. The memory of Zeb's cutting remark about ‘bringing the enemy into my walls’ echoed in her mind. Her decision to shelter Motley, a Solarian with powers, was an unimaginable risk. She had built her life, her cafe, her quiet reputation on meticulous discretion. Exposing Motley would unravel everything, including her own secret. The thought of being tested, exposed, and purged sent a shiver down her spine. Was saving him worth risking it all?

Motley broke the silence, his voice quiet, thoughtful. "Say, Tash."

Tash snapped out of her troubled thoughts, her eyes refocusing on him.

"All the people you treat," he continued, his brow furrowed, "how do they not suspect that you have a power?"

Tash instantly stiffened, her expression closing off. Her answer was quick, almost dismissive. "No more power talk for today." She shifted, trying to steer the conversation away from the treacherous ground. "So, let’s talk about living arrangements for the time you are here while recovering"

Motley opened his mouth to protest, to voice his fears about putting her in danger, but Tash didn't wait. "What else could you do, Motley?" she challenged softly, her hazel eyes holding his. "Walk out into the desert, amnesiac and half-healed? You wouldn't last a day."

He looked around the small, sterile room, then back at her, his broad shoulders slumping. She was right. He had no memories, no allies, no resources. He was utterly dependent. "There's... there's no other choice, is there?" he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "But I want to pay you back. For saving my life. For letting me recover here."

A thoughtful expression crossed Tash's face as she considered his offer. Her gaze drifted to the cafe beyond the trauma room, then back to his imposing, yet currently vulnerable, frame. "Alright," she decided, her voice gaining a new practicality. "You can help me in the cafe. There's always work to be done." She nodded, a plan already forming. "It'll give you something to do, keep your mind busy. And," she added, a faint, almost imperceptible softening in her eyes, "it'll let you interact with the regulars. See more of Dustfall. Get a clearer idea of this city."

Motley nodded, a subtle relief washing over him. He hadn't expressed it, but the endless hours spent confined to the bed, staring at the same walls, had been a torment. It felt like weeks of stagnant helplessness, though he was certain only three or four days had truly passed.

Tash, already in motion, began listing his new duties. "We can start with cleaning. I'm sure that will be straightforward, even for you." A faint, dry humour touched her words. "Then, once you've proven you can handle a mop without falling over, we can train you up on the coffee machine."

Motley interrupted, a sudden, practical concern furrowing his brow. "Wait. Wouldn't it be suspicious? For you to suddenly have a new worker, beaten up as much as I am, right after a conflict like that? And a person no one has seen before?"

Tash thought for a few seconds, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. "Well, who said that you're not a local? Sure, a lot of people know each other, but about 40,000 people are living here. I'm sure even Zeb doesn't know everyone." Her gaze swept over Motley's injuries, a professional assessment. "We could say that you hurt yourself at your past job, came to me, I fixed you up, and decided to give you a job here, which is safer than your last." She shrugged, a hint of genuine truth in her voice. "Honestly, before the fear of the war really set in, I was very busy. I was thinking about seeking out a helper anyway."

Tash then gathered the empty mug from Motley. "I have a few errands to run around town. Get some rest, and we can brainstorm a better backstory for you tonight." She turned to leave the room.

"Umm..." Motley began, his voice hesitant. "While you're gone, would it be okay if I wandered around your house? I'm not feeling tired, especially after the coffee, and I do want some time out of this room."

Tash paused, considering him. A newfound trust, hard-earned but present, settled in her hazel eyes. "Yeah, sure," she replied, a genuine softness in her tone. "But the room at the very end of this corridor, that's my room. No going in there, okay?"

A wide smile spread across Motley's face, a rare, unburdened expression. "Thank you," he said, the words sincere.

Motley watched the doorway as Tash disappeared, the soft click of the latch echoing in the sudden silence. As soon as she was gone, his face sank. He let out a deep sigh, the sound heavy in the quiet room, and buried his face in his hands. He did not like this.

He thought over Tash's plan again, meticulously replaying her words in his mind. A new identity. A safe job. Blend in. The idea felt brittle, fragile. A knot of unease tightened in his chest, a cold certainty that this wouldn't work. He'd been looking forward to seeing new faces, to learning the rhythms of Dustfall, to gleaning some truth from the interactions. But from the way Zeb spoke, from the Captain's piercing questions and his obvious, long-standing history with Tash, Motley knew the man would suspect something was off right away. Zeb wasn't the kind of person who missed details, and Motley's very presence, his blank past, was a glaring detail.

Motley pulled his hands from his face, his eyes scanning the sterile room as if searching for an answer in its plain walls. He had to come up with something new. And fast.