22 – Capoeira

Being back in the Dread Wastes feels different after being imprisoned for so long. Rather than desolation, it offers freedom. The sky stretches endlessly above us, an expanse of deep blue that makes my chest feel lighter with each step. The wind picks up my hair and makes it dance, following the waves of the terrain like a living thing. Around us, sand and dust form intricate ripple patterns along the ground, nature’s own language written in the earth.

The thought of freedom brings back memories of Papa teaching me to walk again after I lost my legs. Back then, the world felt impossibly large and threatening. Now, with his genius inventions gliding me across the sand, even the vast Dread Wastes can’t contain me. I’m faster than the wind, stronger than I ever dreamed possible. Sometimes I wonder if losing my legs was actually a blessing in disguise – a thought I’d never dare share with Papa, who still wishes he were there to prevent the tragedy.

As we trudge along, the dunes shift constantly under our feet, reshaped by the scorching wind. The trek is tiresome – sweat pours down our backs and off our brows, carving paths through the layers of dirt on our skin. I divide my attention between scanning our surroundings for danger and watching the others for signs of heat exhaustion. Papa tries to hide his weariness, but I can see it in the way he carries himself, in the slight tremor of his hands when he wipes his brow. He’s getting older, though he’d never admit it. The years of working on proths in poor light have left fine lines around his eyes, but they’re mostly from smiling – Papa always found joy in his work, even in the worst of times.

We walk in silence for a long while, each of us reckoning with the realities of what has happened. Having been trapped inside cells and forced to kill has changed us all in ways we’re only beginning to understand. Freedom gives us the space to think about what we’ve done and what has been done to us – a blessing and a curse. I catch Braam sometimes staring at his hands, as if seeing the blood that’s no longer there. Even Isaiah, who projects such confidence, has moments where his eyes go distant, seeing something none of us can.

Papa pushes through his exhaustion without complaint, showing the quiet strength I’ve always admired. He’s been my anchor in this world since I was born, but especially after I lost my legs. I remember him staying up countless nights, tinkering with my proths, determined to give me back not just mobility, but freedom. Now, watching him trudge through the sand, I wish I could carry him as he once carried me.

Isaiah maintains a determined pace, his thoughts clearly fixed on his family waiting in Graven Pointe. There’s something admirable about his single-minded focus – everything he does is for them. In the arena, each fight was a step closer to returning home. The silence frustrates Braam, who tries to break it with tales of teyrelsk hunting and our victories in Arcmire’s arena. I suspect his constant chatter is his way of keeping the darker thoughts at bay.

“Remember the way that baldagaar hit the ground when it fell?” Braam says, shaking his head. His voice carries a forced cheerfulness that doesn’t quite mask the tremor underneath.

Isaiah barely acknowledges him with a grunt, focused on the path ahead.

“Are we there yet, or what?” Braam asks for what feels like the hundredth time. In these moments, he reminds me of the stories Papa used to tell about children in the old world, before the Shift changed everything.

“Not yet,” Isaiah responds tersely, not breaking stride.

Amari and I fall into step a few paces behind the others. The physical distance gives us privacy to talk, and I find myself curious about the mysterious healer who’s joined our group. There’s something both fragile and immensely strong about her – like a rozker flower, beautiful but capable of surviving in the harshest conditions.

“How long had you been living with… him?” I ask, avoiding the Fat Man’s name. The weight of leaving him to die in the wasteland hangs between us, unspoken but present. Part of me feels guilty for not feeling guilty about abandoning him.

“As long as I can remember,” she says, her voice soft against the wind. “My earliest clear memory is him giving me fruit – berries, figs, and pomegranate. Grapes sweeter than anything.” The way she speaks about food reminds me of Papa describing the old world – a mix of longing and wonder.

“I’ve never had a grape,” I tell her. Sometimes I forget how different our lives have been, despite both being prisoners in our own ways.

A small smile crosses what I can see of her face. “You should have told me. I would have gotten you as many as you wanted.”

“I didn’t know I could order food from you.”

“Well… if you’re ever captured again, I’ll bring you grapes.” Her attempt at humor carries an edge of sadness that makes my heart ache.

“I wasn’t the only one who was a captive,” I remind her gently, thinking about how captivity comes in many forms. Some cells have bars, others are built from obligation and twisted gratitude.

She nods. “I know. I’m glad to be away from Arcmire. That place was my whole life, but it was also a nightmare.” The niqab hides most of her expression, but her eyes tell stories her words don’t.

The conversation shifts to my fighting abilities, and I tell her about the forbidden book that taught me capoeira. As I describe how the ancient Brazilians disguised their combat training as dance, her eyes light up with understanding. It strikes me that we’re not so different from those ancient fighters – finding ways to survive under oppression, turning restrictions into strength.

The sun hangs low in the sky when Papa suggests making camp. Isaiah argues we’re close to Graven Pointe, insisting we push on. Their discussion is cut short by Braam’s sharp voice.

“What is that?” He points to a rising cloud of dust in the distance.

Isaiah produces a small spyglass – stolen from the Fat Man in the tunnels – and peers through it. His body tenses. “A man and boy running. Three riders pursuing them.”

The crack of a blunderbuss splits the air. Through the spyglass, Isaiah reports the man has fallen. The riders are closing in on them.

My mind flashes to my own encounter with raiders, to the terror and helplessness. I remember the helpless rage I felt when they killed my brother, when Solomon’s men came for Papa. Without a word, I surge forward, my mechanical legs carrying me faster than the wind itself. Behind me, I hear voices calling my name, but they fade quickly. I won’t stand by while another innocent suffers – not when I have the power to stop it. Perhaps this is why I survived everything – to protect others who can’t protect themselves.

The distance between me and the raiders shrinks rapidly. My proths respond perfectly to each command, and I silently thank Papa for his genius. The secret world of capoeira taught me to dance with death, but today, I’ll dance to save a life.