Her Name Was

She really should be used to it by now, the faint metallic clink. It had been with her longer than she had been without it. How could she complain, it was the best they could afford, technology had become too advanced to be in the price range of any but the affluent and no one dealt in real hearts anymore. It was hard to even notice the two chains that held it in place, one around her neck and one around her chest. They had rested in place long enough that her nerve endings no longer bothered to alert to their existence. Nights like this, when all she could hear was the repetitive clink, she would wonder about its maker. Whoever created it must have managed to live several lifetimes. Its design was practically ancient, a locket was the aesthetic, but it did the job of her faulty heart that died when she was too young to remember. Designs similar had been popular before her parents were around, when the blood plagues started, and hearts were hard to come by, she was told. Now the plagues were mostly contained to those who could not afford to pay for the mutations. One tiny syringe could save generations of a bloodline, but the cost was high. For the wealthy, it was simply money, but for everyone else, the cost was the trade of a single healthy child. Most chose the cost of health and freedom, even without the comfort of knowing what would become of that progeny. Her parents did not have the luxury of a healthy child to trade as it was only her and that faulty heart. They would, also, never have the money so resigned themselves to the shorter lifespan of those susceptible to plague.

Everyone just called her Emory now, after the patch on her worn out jumpsuit. She never met the person who owned the name, so really it was available for re-use like so much in this scavenger world. Her real name was safely etched on the second line on the back of her locket heart. It followed the name of the first owner, and there were lines left below for all those that would come later. Would the metallic clink continue forever or would hers be the last hand that muffled the sound when it became deafening? Not that anyone would ever notice the sound, the Camps had always been far too loud to hear anything less than a strong clear voice. The last time her name, her real name, was said that way was the final goodbye of her mother. She was being taken to the Plague Cellars, so used her final strength to say the only thing that ever mattered, Emory's name. Thinking back, she could have sworn she felt a rattle under her feet when the word left her mother's mouth, but she was young, and you can't trust those memories. The memories of the young tend to tell you what you want to feel and not what occurred, it is a kindness of aging. Her father had been taken much before that, where and why were the concerns of those with idle time and disposable income. Her mother said he would not return, and she only spoke in truths. There were so many things Emory managed not to know.

The Camps were louder than normal tonight, so Emory chose the only escape, the long walk out to the Ruins. It was never quiet there either, teetering between howling wind and the moaning wails of the Plague Cellars. If lucky enough to get a wind day, it allowed a brain to wander and a clink to go unnoticed, the alternative was a long walk back with no relief and a haunting reminder of what had been lost to the plagues. Emory was willing to take that chance on a day such as this. The walk would give her time to wonder what would help her escape the cycle of days where everything slowly decayed around her. To hope had costs and she had no resources. Was the ground shaking? Perhaps it was the wind just rattling the gravel, as she had been lucky to get a wind day. Why did it sound so much like voices, the Cellars were still too far away? Why was a shaking feeling climbing up her legs? It began to sound like something she understood but could barely recall. Suddenly, the sound of her locket heart seemed far too loud. Dropping to the ground, Emory closed her eyes, and a bubble of hope escaped her clinking heart regardless of cost.

He said to call him The Maker, as names did not fit his purpose. He had come looking for the locket heart he had made for the one before her. It was time for the passing to the next empty line on the back. The locket was meant to cover a growing strength with a false weakness, and that task was complete. Her heart was never in danger, but her life had been. The Maker explained that every time the world needed it, a balancing power would return. That power would start small like a spark and would need to be hidden until it could grow. The proof he offered was the knowledge of two etched names, and a rattling of gravel when the second was said aloud. They were not so much names, as power words used to unlock an energy. It was something deep inside of her that caused that ground to quiver. It will be much stronger once the locket is removed, he explained.

As the clink moved further away, she felt something swell around her. She had been left with no instructions; The Maker was vague at best. The whole disastrous plague-ridden world was waiting on an orphan in a pilfered jumpsuit, who once had a locket heart. There was only one thing to do. Best to start with a whisper, as great change often does. With a slow steady exhale, she breathed a single word into the air.

"Kira"

It all went silent, every natural and unnatural sound. The absence was breathtaking. The empty air felt like a hope without the weight of cost. Imagine what comes next.

"KIRA"