#4—Speak
He looks up from his book (he's always got his nose buried in one of the things) as I throw open the door, rush into the room and slam it behind me. I pause for a few seconds to catch my breath and then start gathering up the stuff I've left on the floor over the course of the past few years with one arm, still clutching the feathers in the other sweaty palm. I can feel his silver eyes on me, and I turn to address him when I stand, trying not to let anything drop.
"Don't just sit there, you should be packing too," I tell him. His brow creases in confusion and I explain the situation. "We're leaving. Y'know, running away, pulling a bunk, whatever. That kinda thing."
Silver's already huge eyes widen to an almost ridiculous size and, amazingly, he opens his mouth and says in a voice cracked with disuse:
"Are you serious?"
Everything I'm holding falls to the floor and my subconscious dimly registers that I just broke my favorite necklace.
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If I may say so myself, I'm pretty observant, and in my brief lifetime I've noticed a few useful little things about my world. Namely, the Mask of Ice's aversion to heat. In the hottest part of the summer every year, he spends half the time sitting in a tub full of ice water and complaining about the temperature, and on the hottest day he wouldn't notice if you slapped him with a fish. Sham tried that once—he didn't even say anything.
There's never been any question in my mind about escaping this place—I knew I would do it someday since the second day of my captivity. The only reason I've been here for these seven-and-a-half years is that I didn't know how I was going to go about doing it. I did research on it whenever the Mask of Ice was really out of it—"research" meaning snooping around wherever I wasn't allowed to go.
The most valuable thing I found out was how he controls those goddammed pokémon—the rainbow and silver feathers. If I just went and escaped with Silver, he'd be able to come after us with them, but stealing the feathers would mean he couldn't control them anymore. If I got lucky, they'd even kill him if he tried to get close, or something. Also, I've got this map I made of the building. Not the grounds, though—he's got guards stationed all around in case someone tries to get in or out. I still haven't figured out what to do about them, but I guess we'll have to make it up as we go along.
Today is the hottest day of the summer. I've stolen the feathers right out from under his nose, and we're going to run away, Silver and I. There's no turning back now that I've already done this. Because we've got to get out of this hell-hole.
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I really hate birthdays. I hate knowing that I'm a year older, because it means that I've spent another year in captivity and am another year closer to being dispatched on missions. Sure, I don't get yelled at as much for stealing cake than on other days, but I can't help the feeling of dread that comes with knowing that, just like all the others except Silver, I'm going to have to go out and risk my life for that awful man. The others are lucky—they don't know what their birthdays are anymore. I can't help but remember.
"Do you know how old I am today?" I ask Silver, leaning against the wall and watching him as he grooms his nyula, the one pokémon he's allowed to keep. He shakes his head.
"I'm twelve." Hearing the strain in my voice, and knowing what this means, he gives me a sympathetic look. Only two more years. Then his face shifts back to its usual lack of expression and he lets his nyula climb up onto his shoulder and burrow into his messy red hair.
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The calendar tacked to the wall, full of pictures of snowy landscapes, is open to the December page. All the days are crossed out in thick red pen except for the last one—the thirty-first. Tonight is New Year's Eve. Sham, Karts, Itsuki, Karin, Silver and I are all in Karin's room, but we aren't celebrating. Since she's forgotten when her birthday is, the Mask of Ice is treating the beginning of next year—tomorrow—as her fourteenth birthday. From then on she'll be old enough to be sent on missions and everything. We're gathered here out of sympathy.
Karin cries and cries and cries into her pillow, and Sham places a hand on her back, trying to reassure her, but it isn't working.
"C'mon, now, it really isn't that bad," says Sham.
"Yes it is!" wails Karin pitifully, squeezing the mass of feathers and fabric tighter.
"Well, maybe at first, it is," Sham admits, "but you get used to it after a while. Just like being here."
"You wouldn't know!" yells Karin, suddenly angry. She pulls her red, tearstained face from the pillow and glares wildly at the older girl. "You and Karts, you—you came here on your own! You weren't kidnapped like me!"
"Makes no difference either way," Sham replies. "After all, it isn't as if you have any choice in the matter."
But Karin is right. Sham can't possibly understand our situation, can't understand what it was like to be pulled away against our wills from the families we loved so much to live in this cold, unfriendly place with no connection to the outside world. She doesn't feel the despair we feel every day, or the anger we feel at the Mask of Ice for doing this to us. And that makes all the difference.
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"Hey, Silvy?"
The redhead looks up, wearing a mildly irritated expression at my use of his nickname. He's mostly used to it now, though, since I call him that all the time. It's what sisters do, and we might as well be siblings, given our relationship.
"Do you remember your family at all?" I ask, propping my chin on my hands. He considers the question for a few moments, then makes a sort-of gesture with his hand.
"Oh. Were your parents nice?"
He nods, but looks as if he isn't really sure. I sigh and cross my legs, a little disappointed. Although I've gotten pretty good at understanding Silver by now, it's still difficult to communicate with him, since he doesn't talk at all. In fact, I haven't heard him speak a word in the whole time I've known him. I figure it's just the way he deals with our situation—everyone reacts in a different way. It makes me a little sad, though, knowing he'll have to go through life like that. I often wonder how he would talk if he could. Heck, he's read the dictionary all the way through about a thousand times, so he'd probably sound like a scholar or something. The thought makes me giggle, and he looks up again with a quizzical expression.
"Oh, it's nothing," I tell him, still smiling. He takes my word for it and goes back to reading his book.
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"No," I scream, "no! I won't do it! You can't make me!"
I back away from Itsuki and his green, long-beaked bird pokémon, panic swelling up into my throat, memories of the day of my kidnapping flooding past the barriers in my mind. That enormous bird pokémon, Ho-Oh, swooping out of the sky and snatching me up—its piercing screech, its sharp talons—watching everything I knew growing smaller in the distance as the wind whipped around me—
"Yes you will!" bellows the Mask of Ice, and he starts toward me, but I flatten myself against the wall, trying to sink into it or I don't know what. My breath comes in gasps and I can't think of any more words to make, or conjure the will to say them.
"You really shouldn't make her battle me, if she really doesn't—" starts Itsuki, but the masked man shoots him a glare, grabs my arm and pulls me back towards the ring. I don't run this time, shaking and crying until anger overtakes my phobia and I let my jigglypuff take it out on the frightful thing.
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A solitary black glove is sitting on the ground, a little dirty from the dust all over everything. I recognize it as the little boy's and pick it up, walk over to his room and open the door to his room. I hold up the glove so he can see it.
"Is this yours?" I ask him.
He nods and gets off the bed to walk over and take it from me. As he opens the end to put it back on, I notice a word on the inside, sewn on with glittery gray thread.
"'Silver,'" I read. "Is that your name?"
He looks at me and nods again, smiling a little. I smile back at him.
"That's a really nice name," I tell him, and watch as he attempts to put it back on. It's almost too small for him, and he has trouble getting it over his knuckles.
I say, "I don't think that fits you anymore." Then an idea pops into my head. "Say…why don't I make a new pair for you? Would you like that, Silver?"
Silver nods more quickly this time, grinning now. I decide it's worth it to make the gloves for him, just to see that smile on his sad little face. Maybe while I'm at it, I can make a pair for myself, too.
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The six of us are lined up next to each other, facing the tall man in the black cape and the scary mask who stole us away from our homes hours ago. As he stares down at us through the slanted eye holes in the white wood, the little boy next to me grips my shaking had. I squeeze it back, glad to have something to hang on to as he questions each of us.
"And what do you call yourself?" he asks me when it's my turn, voice sounding muffled (but no less frightening) through the mask.
"B-Blue," I manage to squeak. He studies me for a few moments before nodding, apparently satisfied, and turning to the little redhead boy.
"You are?" he asks. The boy makes no reply, and he tries again, but to no avail. Finally I speak up.
"Um…mister, he…" I start.
"What? Spit it out, child," he snaps. I swallow and finish my sentence:
"He…doesn't talk, mister."
The masked man sighs in exasperation, then beckons for us to follow. The oldest girl and boy go after without hesitation, and the rest of us look at each other, then follow them also.
"I guess I'll be showing you to your rooms now," the masked man is saying. "You might as well make yourselves comfortable, since you're going to be here for quite a while."
The reason I capitalized "Ho-Oh" and not "jigglypuff" is the same reason people capitalize "Bigfoot" and leave "dog" alone.