echo le roux | district one | fin

Shadow Cat doesn't tell her when she's given 11, 12, and 13 up like three prized pigs for the slaughter. No words of warmth or even a glance in her direction. She sent one of her men to deliver the news, his raspy voice pulling 13 out of her thoughts as she pulls an earbud from her ear. 12 shrugs. 11 grimaces, looking ready for a fight. She was always ready for a fight. It's not like she had expected much from the woman anyway—they'd been sold before and 13 could barely remember it. Just a series of images, scents, and feelings.

But this time, the word wasn't sale. It was adoption. And she supposes that's supposed to be better, but maybe it isn't. It's still ownership.

She wasn’t always 13. Before that she was Jennie, but that name has been smacked out of her head by too many fists to her temples and now she can’t think of who Jennie was, if she’s still Jennie or if Jennie’s long dead.

Jennie has to be dead. Because she’s 13 now.

She can still hear in her memories the sound of gold coins tinkling against each other. She remembers the smell of feces, sweat, and blood. Of mud and dirt and the constant drip of water. And then she remembers cowering into 12’s side (she used to call him Jason) and she can't remember anything else. He's older than her by about five minutes and hasn’t ever let her forget that.

Hasn't ever let her forget the fear in her eyes as her mother walked away from her for the last time, how 13 had torn her throat raw with screaming. Their mother had left them alone before, but this was different. This was final. It felt final, even to an eight-year-old. 

And then it became the three of them. Three children, more wraiths than kids, left to grow up in the bowels of the district, so far-flung from the wealth that the elite carried in their looks, their clothes, their wallets.  They fought for each scrap of bread in those first few months. They begged for clothing and were rewarded with rags. They slept with rats and it was always wet. Always cold.

Shadow Cat wasn't their mother and they only had themselves and they grew together, learning how to hurt, how to fight, how to kill. 

12 and 13. Always a pair, never far apart from each other. He was her other half, part of her soul and she knew him, knew her brother better than she knew herself.

11 beats them by a year, but she doesn’t count. She’d always been her own person.

They protect each other the way a wolf protects her pack. The way a shark protects his turf.

She'd kill for 12. And she has, countless times. She’d kill for 11 too. It’s what family does.

But that's getting ahead of things, isn't it?

12, it seems, had bit his tongue bloody during the exchange when they were eight years old. Probably because 13 was doing enough screaming and sobbing for the two of them. He swallowed his tears like he no doubt swallowed his tongue.

He doesn't speak now—and she's used to it. She doesn’t know how her brother’s voice would sound. Would it be coarse or like honey like their mothers? Would he whisper words from the paperback that he clutches to his chest? Would it crack and break like the knuckles of his hands?  

She interprets it all in glances. Eye rolls usually. Smirks when he's feeling annoyed or someone is getting on his last nerve and his hand itches to grab the nearest knife. A touch to his wrist usually stills him, even if he sends her a death glare. 

12 is silence and shadows.

13 is, well, she's loud.

A look passes between them, less of a glare and more of a come on, 13, and 13 lowers the volume on the ancient walkman she has clipped to her jeans, the worn headphones around her neck. She was always too loud, too demonstrative, taking up too much space because 12 always sunk into the shadows. 

She's sharpening the twin blades, spitting on the rags until they shine. 11 watches her from her perch on the threadbare armchair, more holes in the fabric than anything from errant stabbings. They called 13 the dimachaerus because of the twin swords she chose to fight with. They had other words for her, but she had silenced them with her fists whenever they were uttered. 

11 moves like a dancer when she fights, graceful and agile. 12 was a shadow and you could never quite figure him out. But 13—13 moved like a knife. She was efficient, simple and straight. And deadly. She didn't have time for artistry like 11. She cut straight and sharp. She cut to the bone. 

She doesn't see Eurydice Le Roux watching her from the stands when she drops Mac on his ass with a kick to the groin and a punch at his carotid. She finishes him off with a nicely placed stab to the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. He falls in an arc of blood. It's almost beautiful, the way the red shines in the lights. 

13 flicks the sweat-slicked bangs from her eyes with a devious grin, her arms spread wide and her palms up as she struts around the dirty cage that was the only home she had known for the past nine years. 

The dirty cage where she'd bled, sweat, cried, and puked her guts out after one too many fights, one too many punches, one too many kicks to the ribs. 

She spits blood now and winks at 12, who stands silently. Always silently. They'd eat well tonight. Well, better than most nights. 

But no, tonight's different. Food isn't waiting for them. Shadow Cat is. And there's a gleam in her eyes that 13 has never seen before. 

She isn't sure where she's being lead until the footsteps fall dead. 13 feels her hands shake underneath the brass knuckles she always wore, a curse tearing through her lips because there was no way in hell that the fucking mayor who drank champagne and ate oysters and walked on the crushed bones of her sons and daughters would ever set foot in this place. 

Would ever adopt 11 and 12 and 13. But paperwork exchanges hands and the ink is barely dry and that's when she sees it. 

Le Roux. Finally, a last name. 

And not any last name.

The last name. 

"You’ll do," the mayor says to them. When no one steps forward, not even 11, she sighs, curling one finger towards them and striding out of the room.

Later, much later, when they're in the mansion, the mayor's fucking mansion and all the eyes have been on her for hours, Eurydice calls 13 into her study and asks her what her name is.

“What’s my name?” 13 repeats, not sure that she’s heard the woman right.

“Is there an echo? Yes, stupid girl, your name.”

“Echo,” she answers, standing with her back straight, her palms clenched. “My name is Echo.”

Eurydice dismisses her with a scoff after that, but there’s a gleam in her eyes that Echo knows pleases her.

She’s given a room that already feels lived-in and she’s sure that she doesn’t belong here, just like 11 and 12 don’t belong here. They’ve never had anything other than the clothes on their back and the things that they've treasured and stolen. 

One of them, a tall blonde girl, comes into the room and smokes a cigarette slowly, glaring at Echo as she sits on the bed, her boots dirtying the duvet. 

"You'll never replace her, so don't even try."

Well, Echo was never meant to be a replacement. She's meant to be better. 

♛