Citizens who live in these states have a leg up because they can also take advantage of the training. From birth, they train their entire lives until the day of Separation’s draft. Most families volunteer their children when they’re born to go off to Separation and prepare for the wars. Other families give up their children as babies to Separation because they may live in poverty and the government takes care of the families whose children leave. But those who must leave train by fighting, strength training, performing in the races, fighting in the rings, and doing what they believe will show they’re ready and willing to go.
Others dread the day, like Kennedy. A day they view as them being ripped from their birth parents and forced into a foreign lifestyle. A day where they lose their freedom and are required to dedicate their lives to our country.
“Hey Ky!” A slender hand grabs my forearm and gently tugs it.
I turn toward the voice. “Hi Pat.” Pat practically lives at The Center. She’s never missing in action. I’m convinced she sleeps in the basement, although I can’t prove it, and we should never make false accusations.
Pat sits beside me on the bench and pulls her kinky blonde curls into a ponytail. “What are you two up to?”
Kennedy’s slender shoulders shrug. “Nothing,” we respond.
Not many people are in here watching the meet. Boxing is the most popular event, and everyone’s at the rings. I hate seeing Luke get punched. He never gets hurt too badly, but I’d rather not watch.
“How are you girls taking Separation?” Pat asks. “Just another three months,” she cheers, knees bouncing and a smile pinching her cheeks.
Kennedy frowns. “It’s not something we are talking about.”
“Why not? It’s exciting. You and Luke are ready, I know,” she says to me, blonde eyebrows touching her hair line and smile lifting her high cheekbones.
“We are,” I answer, watching the swimmers. Luke and I don’t have a choice. It’s the reason they created us. Leaving for Separation affects us differently. We have nothing keeping us here. No one we will miss, and no one that will miss us. We only have each other, and we are leaving together.
We’re orphans to The America and created to fight for it.
“I don’t want to discuss Separation. I’m not leaving, but Howard is, and thinking about it makes me depressed.”
“You won’t go, Kennedy?” Pat continues.
“No,” Kennedy answers solemnly. “I will not be seventeen until next year, and because of my natural ability to care for others, they’re making me a Breeder.” She mutters a string of cuss words under her breath and kicks her foot across the stone tile. Kennedy’s a year short of the four-year draft.
Since 2041, the Trade requires that every four years, Separation takes the seventeen- and eighteen-year-old naturally born humans and Creations off to training before we go off to fight in the wars.
While the Normals have the opportunity to volunteer, Creations are obligated. Their deployment in Separation helps to give the American fighters a better chance at survival during the wars. It’s been said to be the best idea The America could have implemented for its people.
Creations are their brother’s keeper. The Normals drafted in Separation fight until they reach retirement age of sixty-five, if they survive, and fighting alongside Creations gives them a better chance at that survival. The other Creations, those who aren’t drafted, are put forth as order-maintainers and first responders, and they do not have to go to war, ever.
I’m looking forward to it. We’ll be extremely far away from our aunt and never have to see her again. What more could I want?
Pat clears her throat and shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “I couldn’t be more excited to learn some new things and meet the leading Creations. I hear they may even allow the naturally born humans an opportunity for a leading position this draft.”
“That’s doubtful,” Kennedy scoffs. “The Guidance wouldn’t have it. Not after they saw how effective Creations have become at leading over the past ten years.”
“She’s right,” I second her. “They trust Creations far more than they trust the Normals.”
Cheers echo through the room. Keylan won the meet, and the small crowd watching runs over to congratulate him. He stands, dragging a white towel down his face. Well-defined arms bulk with muscle as he rakes the towel over his tousled hair. Keylan is slim and has swum at The Center since before we started coming here, and that’s been over five years.
I leave Pat and Kennedy sitting by the pool and head to the rings to check on Luke to make sure he’s not hurt and in dire need of healing. Hoots echo down the hall, likely concluding another fight. When I pull the door open, it’s even louder and warmer than the other areas of The Center.
Luke’s name is at the top of the boards. His next fight is against someone named Marc, who I’m unfamiliar with. Everyone within our town has lived here from birth; it’s the way they designed the structure. Though it’s permitted, it’s rare anyone moves between the states, so it’s unlikely there may be someone I’ve not yet crossed paths with this late in my life. From age ten to seventeen, it’s possible for a Creation to be shipped out to different states for their required job or placement training, so I guess I shouldn’t write it off.
“Ky,” Luke smacks my shoulder. “After this fight, we’re going.”
“Who’s Marc?”
“Not sure.” He shrugs. “I do not care to know either.”
“You fight him next,” I state, gesturing to the board.
He follows my gesture. “I see. We’ll find out when I fight him.” He’s full of energy and drenched in sweat. “Are you hungry?” He jumps from side to side on his toes, shaking out his arms. His adrenaline has yet to subside, and he’s ready for a new opponent.
I slap his arm away when he tries to wipe it on my shoulder. “I can eat,” I say, noticing the boy entering the ring. He’s… different.
Luke hits my arm. “Where do you want to get some food?” he asks for the second time.
I rub my arm, gaze fixed on the new face. This Marc’s build is strong. Defined muscles in his arms ripple as he stretches them across his chest. Dark collar-length hair sways as he moves, crossing the ring to the far corner. Low-trimmed sideburns spread around the lower half of his cheeks, forming a light beard that almost connects with his mustache. Sweat moistens his neck. He rubs his hand around it and turns his back to the growing crowd.
This boy steals my senses.
A hush falls over The Center as the scent of sweat ceases to burn my nose. My tongue numbs, and my body buzzes with a sensation I’ve never experienced.
“Ky!”
It all rushes back, the growing thunder of the rowdy crowd and heaviness of my existence on the world. “Huh?” I force myself to face Luke, startled by his call.
“What’s your problem? You are behaving oddly, like the other day. Distracted.”
I’m not sure. I reevaluate myself, discreetly checking my pulse by wrapping my hand around my wrist. It’s going insane. In my chest, it raps harder and harder the more frequently I lift my gaze to meet the cause of my diversion. “Nothing,” I lie.
The bell chimes, calling the boxers to the ring. “We’re leaving for food after I murder the new guy. I’ll be back.” Luke jumps in the ring. My eyes search for the new face. I locate him in a corner talking to another man I haven’t seen around here before.
“Alright! Next up, Luke and Marc,” Christian, The Center’s host announces. “You two get ready. Five minutes until the ding.” He jumps over the ropes, out of the ring, landing on his feet. The power of his drive makes me envious. The ring is five feet off the ground, and the ropes add another four. I’ve tried for years to make that jump like Christian. He does it after every announcement, and I’ve yet to accomplish such a flawless landing as his. I only have three months to learn to clear those ropes, and I’ll be able to scratch that off my bucket list.
Aaron joins Luke in the ring, giving his pre-
fight pep talk. Aaron’s a coach at The Center. He’s in his mid-twenties and was born for breeding. Breeders make the best coaches as their primary responsibility is to raise new entries. Their levels of patience are higher than mine; Aaron’s ability to put up with Luke’s cocky attitude for the past ten years is admirable.
I inch closer to the stage. I should leave. But I stay, watching Marc as the man standing near him also gives him a pep talk.
Marc looks at Luke, nods, and looks around the room all while the man aggressively delivers his message with a shaking fist near Marc’s shoulder. There are no credits on the line or a sweet reward. But here, ranking, your name, being on top, being the best is everything and worth giving even the lightest tasks your all. Marc’s shadowed eyes sweep the area, never resting on anything or anyone. I glance around the room to see what he might be examining. Groups are gathered near the ring talking or laughing. Nothing seems to captivate his attention too much.
I turn back, and those shadowed eyes, hooded by thick, dark eyebrows, capture mine.
My cheeks burn, and I immediately look away. A second passes before I look back. He’s looked away, and an uneasy feeling drops in my stomach.
Christian jumps back in the ring. “Okay, fighters ready! We have our undefeated champion in our left corner, Luke!” He throws his left arm out, pointing at Luke and then gestures to his right, saying, “And in our right corner, straight out of the chains, making a name for himself, Marc!” He steps back from the ring’s center. “Greet… and draw blood.”
Luke and Marc meet in the middle of the ring and bump fists. Most fighters would use protective wear to guard their hands and shield their heads, but Marc and Luke are without any protection. This is normal for Luke, but it says something about Marc. If someone does start bleeding, they can tap out, but no one will. Once it looks like a fighter cannot take it anymore, Christian goes in and calls it off. The person still standing wins.
The bell rings twice.
The crowd watching goes wild as Luke delivers the first blow. Marc is unaffected. He retaliates with a punch to Luke’s stomach. Luke’s quick enough to block it.
They go back and forth trying to hit each other, but they’re fast, blocking each other’s attacks with ease. No one has ever been able to keep up with my brother and the crowd’s taken notice. Luke’s a great fighter, it’s not often someone can last a round with him. But this new face, not even touched, stands in the corner opposite Luke, smiling roguishly as his coach riles him up.
The bell rings for the second round.
They meet in the middle, fists raised. Another round passes without either of them getting a hit. The crowd quiets, realizing what I’ve acknowledged during the first round.
The bell rings for the third round. This time, Marc clips Luke in the jaw. Everyone, including me, gasps in shock. Luke is surprised too. He immediately strikes back, hitting Marc in his ribs. As Luke’s fist makes contact, Marc’s body crunches inward. He shoves Luke away from him.
Only taking a step back, Luke punches Marc in the arm he’s using to block his face. His arm bends awkwardly, but Marc shows no sign of pain. It doesn’t appear to be broken.
Again, he shoves Luke, harder this time. Luke stumbles backward, and Marc rushes him, arm drawn back, ready to deliver a crushing blow. Luke moves just in time to avoid it, but Marc hits him in the shoulder. It pops.
Luke’s jaw clenches. I step closer, doing my best to keep calm. My brother is in pain, and although he won’t show it, it’s clear it hurts badly. His face reddens, fighting the pain.
Marc takes advantage of Luke’s falter and jabs him in the mouth. Luke’s only able to block him with one arm, and Marc’s getting in some good punches. My brother’s head gets pounded by Marc’s fist and anger boils in me. He draws back and upon contact crushes Luke’s cheek with his punch.
I close the remaining distance between me and the ring.
“You can’t do that, Ky.” Robert, the ref, stops me from jumping in. He’s an older man who spends most of his time keeping us from enjoying the little things than encouraging us to do what we were created for. Aside from refereeing, I don’t know what his purpose here is. I think he just got lucky and slid past Separation.
Uncaring, I shove him aside and slam my hand on the mat, causing a resounding slap. “Luke,” I yell. “Get control of this.”
I draw a lot of attention, even from Marc. Luke punches Marc so hard he falls to the floor, catching himself with his arms and knees.
Luke moves off the rope and pops his shoulder back in place. It hurt. I know it did. But Luke doesn’t let it show. A vessel has popped in his right eye, and it’s obvious his cheekbone is broken by the way it’s hanging off the right side of his face.
“Get it under control,” I tell him. He can win this. He nods, slowly rolling his injured arm. “If you get hit again, I’m jumping in.”
He acknowledges me, pointing his bruised fist in my direction.
They don’t allow people to help, and no one else can get in the ring, but I will not watch my brother be hit again. I know he will get his stuff together because he doesn’t want me to embarrass him and ruin his image by getting involved.
Marc’s up from the floor. His back muscles tighten as he balls and un-balls his fists. The crowd chatters. All of us are taken aback by this fight and this Marc.
My hands are shaking. Marc’s taking too long to fall, and I want to get in. This is why I don’t watch Luke fight. I shouldn’t have come in here. This is only happening because I’m in here.
With blow after blow, Luke brings Marc to his knees then takes a step back to kick him in the face. Marc hits the mat with a hard slap.
The bell chimes, and Robert jumps in the ring. He calls it: Luke’s the winner.
I relax and wave for Luke to come on. He climbs out of the ring saying, “Sorry.”
“I don’t want that to happen again,” I tell him. “He almost got the best of you. That would’ve destroyed your ranking.”
“No one can ever get the best of me.”
I latch our hands and place the other on his face, aligning my palm with his broken cheekbone. “He’s pretty good, seeing he was able to go three rounds with you.” His bone reforms under my hand. “And crack your face. And your arm.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asks, face contorting in aversion.
“Nothing,” I move to his shoulder. “I’m only saying that’s never happened before.”
He rolls his shoulder. “Thanks.”
“You want me to fix your eye?” It’s bloodshot red.
His brows knit tightly, pinching the skin in their middle. “My eye too?”
I place my palm over his eye. His left eye looks down, blinking rapidly. When I remove my hand, his right eye has cleared up.
Luke’s black irises blend in with his black pupils, and his gaze shifts around the room. “I see the difference,” he says, walking around me. “Come on, I’m hungry.”
I look back to the ring, and a boy who looks like Marc is healing him.
He is a Creation?
Like Luke and me?
I should’ve expected it. With his level of combat, I should have known something was up. “Ky, come on,” Luke calls from behind me. He’s already near the door, clearly embarrassed, trying to beat the crowd.
I turn back to Marc, accidentally meeting his eyes. I turn away before our gazes can lock, cheeks burning. I rush to catch up with my brother. “Why are you in such a hurry?”
“Were you staring at that guy?”
“No, not staring.” I can’t tell him I was staring. “Only acknowledging he’s a Creation.”
“How do you know that?”
“His twin was healing him in the ring.”
“Then you were staring at him.” Luke shakes his head. “I don’t have to tell you how bad of an idea that is.”
I watch my feet as we stroll to Luke’s car. “I know, so no, you don’t have to tell me.”
“What do you
want to eat?”
“A burger,” I reply as we get in. “What happened to you back there?”
“I don’t know. It’s like you said.” He shrugs once. “He’s good.”
I pull on my seatbelt. “Just not good enough.”
“Just not good enough,” he nods and starts the engine.
Chapter Four
“What’s up?” Danny greets, taking a seat at our table. “How long have you two been here?”
“A couple of hours,” Luke answers before taking a gulp of his water. When our aunt kicks us out of the house early, Luke and I often hang out at the Diner and wait for two o’clock in the afternoon. She’s gone by then, off to work until after midnight.
“I need somewhere to lay my head for a few hours. Can I come by?”
Danny is homeless. We’ve known him since we were children, and we often let him come by until the witch gets home. After that, he moves on to the next place. Danny could be a Wauler, but he says he’s better than that. Better than someone who attacks for no reason or takes what other people have worked for.
“Sure. We’ll leave in an hour or so.” Luke pushes his basket of fries over to Danny. “I bet you can’t wait until we leave for Separation.”
“I can’t.” Danny grabs a fry, tossing it in his mouth. “I’ll always have a bed, clothes, and a roof over my head. And food.” I give him the other half of my burger. “Thanks.”
“You’ll also have pain and death.” Pfeifer takes a seat next to me. “Hey, everyone.”
“Hey,” I reply.
Danny goes on, “I may have to fight and come close to dying, but I do that every day anyway. People here test you just to prove themselves. The small amount I do own, I have to nearly die to keep. So far, I’ve been stronger and more knowledgeable than the idiots who come at me.”
“He has a point,” I say. “It will be better there than it is here. There, we know what to expect. Here, it’s a good thing if he wakes up and hasn’t been beaten up in the night.”
“Living on the street is a game of chance, we all know that,” Luke follows.
The Separation Trilogy Box Set: Books 1 -3 Page 3