The Dome

by Camille Picott

  “We should have gone to your house first so you could change into gym clothes,” Taro says, watching me. A crown of perspiration sits on his forehead. His face is relaxed, the tension gone from his eyes and shoulders. “Sorry about that.”

  “I didn’t even know they issued gym clothes until I saw the adults with them.” I quit trying to clean myself up and flop onto my back. “Today sucked, but right now is good.”

  “Yeah.” Taro smiles at me. It’s a real smile, relaxed and warm. “Now is good.” He takes off his boots and socks, rubbing his feet against the grass. He pulls his ink pen out of his pocket and leans forward, drawing on his foot.

  I turn my gaze skyward, watching snow puff against the top of the Dome. A few Aircats soar in the distance.

  “There. What do you think?” Taro extends his bare foot in my direction. He’s drawn a collage of flowers across his skin.

  “Flowers?” I frown at him.

  “Everyone wants to celebrate me as a killer. I just need to remind myself that I can bring something into this world that doesn’t revolve around death.”

  “So you drew flowers on your foot? Why not an animal or something?”

  He arches an eyebrow at me. “You have a problem with a guy sporting flowers?”

  There’s a sly sparkle in his eye that tells me he’s teasing.

  I arch my brow in response. “Why don’t you draw a few hearts while you’re at it?”

  “Good idea.” He grins at me and adds a few hearts to the flower collage. There’s delicate shading in the heart, giving it a three-dimensionality. “What do you think?”

  I burst out laughing. It feels good. I can’t remember the last time I laughed.

  I jump as I feel Taro’s hand close around my foot.

  “Ick,” I say, trying to squirm from his grip. “I’m all sweaty and smelly.”

  “I’m always sweaty and smelly,” he replies. “A side effect of training seven days a week.”

  “Fine.” I lie back and stare at the snow outside the Dome. There’s something pleasant about the feel of his hand cupping my foot, of his pen pressing against my skin.

  “When did you start drawing?” I ask.

  He pauses to look up at me. “I don’t remember. It’s something I’ve always done. My mother bought art supplies for me when I was a toddler. Finger paints and crayons, stuff like that. Some of my earliest memories are of drawing and painting.”

  I think back to the photos Mom saved. There had been pictures of us painting and coloring together. I wish I remembered those times with her.

  “What do you think?” Taro leans back to study his drawing.

  I remain on my back, lifting my foot so I can see it. It’s framed by the backdrop of the snow-covered glass.

  Taro has drawn a cluster of grenades on the top of my foot. Along the front of my ankle is a machine gun.

  I grin at him. “I like it.”

  He grins back. “Mr. Winn wants to take the fight out of you, but he’ll never be able to do that. No matter how much we have to lie and pretend in the name of Global. We’re still ourselves.”

  My throat tightens. I wipe at the sudden tears in my eyes. The stress and frustration of the day threaten to rear up, but I willfully hold them at bay. This is my first moment of peace since arriving here. I’m going to cling to it as long as possible.

  “If things were different and we weren’t in the Dome, what would you want to be?” he asks.

  “A mercenary,” I reply.

  “Really?” He gazes at me.

  “Yes.” I nod. “I want to be able to defend myself.”

  “Being able to defend yourself doesn’t mean you have to make a living fighting. I mean, what do you like? If this was the pre-’Fault world, and you could go to college and study anything you wanted, what would it be?”

  I stare at him, stupefied. “I … I don’t know. Everyone’s always told me I’m meant to follow in my dad’s footsteps. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to be like my mom.”

  “Is that because you were angry about being told what to do, or do you really like fighting?” Taro is sincere as he asks this, not mocking.

  “I like being able to defend myself. To take care of myself.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not the same thing.”

  His words sink into me. I contemplate them like they’re an exotic piece of food. I’m not sure if I want to take a bite or not.

  If I could be anything—study anything—what would it be? If I didn’t live in a dangerous world, if education was a leisure, what would I study?

  “I don’t know,” I say at last. “I’ve never thought about it. Is that dumb?”

  “There’s nothing dumb about you, Sulan.”

  “What would you be? If your dad didn’t make you fight?”

  “A tattoo artist. I’d love to make art instead of death.” He grimaces. “My dad hates that about me. I think I remind him of his father. He was a poet. Dad was poor growing up. My grandfather was always dreaming of a fancy life, writing poetry and working odd jobs that barely paid the bills. His mother left them when Dad was six. When the Default happened … Grandpa didn’t last long. Dad was homeless on the streets with his older brother. They learned how to fight and make money in underground fighting rings.”

  “Where he met my mom.”

  “Yeah. Where he met your mom. You know, Hudanus isn’t even my real last name? Grandpa made it up.”

  “You have a made-up last name?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s your real one?”

  “Hernandez.”

  “Taro Hernandez.” I tilt my head at him. “It’s got a certain ring to it.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know why Dad kept Hudanus when he hates it so much.”

  “Mom hated fighting, but she still kept her merc uniform and a whole bunch of guns in the house. Maybe it’s hard to let go of some things.”

  “Maybe.” He stares across the park, watching the Normie kids as they play soccer.

  “For what it’s worth, I think you’d be a great tattoo artist. I’d let you tattoo me.”

  “Thanks.” A faint smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. He picks up my wrist, which sends an unexpected zing through me. “Can I draw on your arm? I have this idea I can’t get out of my head.”

  “You can’t get my arm out of your head?” I grin at him.

  To my surprise, a slight flush creeps up his neck.

  “I’m just teasing,” I say, realizing I had embarrassed him. “Of course you can draw on my arm. Global doesn’t have a say over what’s on my skin.” Yet.

  Taro scoots forward, drawing up his knees and tugging me upright. He positions my arm across his knee and runs his hand over my skin, brow dented in concentration.

  My stomach flutters. I do my best to ignore the fact that I like the feel of his hands on my skin. Taro and I are just friends. There’s no room in my life for a romantic relationship. Is there?

  His ink pen tickles my wrist. I watch, fascinated, as a picture starts to take shape. It’s a mountain range with tall peaks and a river sluicing through their midst. Tendrils of fog coil through the heights and dance across the top of the water. Delicate strokes of the pen add depth and texture, making the water churn with eddies and the fog roil with a life of its own.

  As we sit there, Riska starts to purr.

  “You’re amazing,” I breathe in awe. “You really should be a tattoo artist.”

  “In another time and place, maybe,” he replies, never taking his eyes from his work.

  We are both so engrossed we don’t notice the group of merc kids coming our way until it’s too late.

  15

  Confrontation

  THE BLACK SMUDGES moving in our direction are only one hundred feet away before my brain registers their approach. I blink, looking away from Taro’s drawing—and spot the unmistakable gleam of Jason Van Deer’s blond crew cut.

  I make an annoyed sound in the back of my t
hroat. Taro looks up, following my gaze.

  Our momentary peace is shattered. I watch Taro’s face transform. The light in his eyes, the small smile tugging at his mouth, the brow furrowed in thought and contemplation as he works—he wipes it all away in an instant. He replaces it with his customary blank, implacable expression. His game face, I realize.

  He jams the ink pen deep into his pocket, then takes my hand and pulls me to my feet.

  “Are we getting out of here?” I ask.

  “Can’t run from Van Deer,” he replies, voice clipped. “If he thinks we’re afraid, there’ll be no going back. We’ll face him on our feet.”

  I nod, understanding. I met bullies like this in the Cube.

  Van Deer is surrounded by a full dozen merc kids, all of them big and well-muscled. I’m acutely aware of my bare feet. Any of these boys could break the bones with a hard stomp. I stand a good six inches below the shortest in the group.

  “Hudanus.” Van Deer saunters to a stop when he’s ten feet away.

  “Van Deer.” Taro nods his head, voice neutral.

  Van Deer looks me up and down, making no effort to be subtle. I see him take in my damp shirt, mussed hair, and bare feet.

  “Congrats,” Van Deer says with a smirk. “It’s not every guy that can get a girl hot and bothered with her clothes on.”

  I stiffen, glaring at him. Riska hisses. Taro takes a few steps forward, attempting to plant himself in front of me, but I stalk forward and stay at his side. I don’t need him to shield me.

  “What do you want, Van Deer?” Taro asks.

  Riska growls deep in his throat. I rest one hand on his back, applying slight pressure to let him know I don’t want him to attack. The last thing I need is for him to spray Van Deer and his posse with venom. Not that I’d mind seeing them disfigured with acid, but Mr. Winn undoubtedly wouldn’t appreciate it.

  “We’re going to start a game of capture the flag,” Van Deer says. “Want to join us? Show Sulan what you’re made of?”

  “What he’s made of?” I demand. “I know exactly what he’s made of. I don’t need a stupid pre-’Fault sport to—”

  “Letting a Brain answer for you, Hudanus?” Van Deer cuts in. “Or are you afraid of her seeing you get pummeled on the field?”

  No matter what we say or do, Van Deer is going to twist it. It’s clear he wants a shot at Taro. He’d probably get in trouble if he openly challenged him, but in a game of capture the flag, it’d be easy to explain away a dirty punch or kick.

  “I don’t care what Taro wants,” I snap, my mind calculating the best way out of the situation. Van Deer wants to humiliate Taro—or attempt to, at any rate—and he wants me to watch. Taking myself out of the equation is the first step. “I have no interest in watching a bunch of muscle heads run around and beat on each other. I’m leaving. I’ve got better stuff to do.”

  Van Deer bursts out laughing. “A bit of a firecracker, aren’t you?” He gives me another measuring look. “You’re kind of sexy when you’re mad. You sure you want to push your lot in with Hudanus? You could do better.”

  Riska growls again. I squeeze his back, feeling my face heat with anger. Van Deer is jockeying, trying to steer things back in the direction he wants them to go. The boys arrayed behind him all smirk at me.

  “I can make you hot and bothered with your clothes off.” Van Deer gives me a wide grin.

  His jab hits home. Beside me, Taro coils like a snake. His arm swings back as he readies for a punch. Van Deer’s smile only widens as he adjusts his stance.

  I don’t know anything about the codes or rules that exist among teen mercs, but I’m guessing it would be to Van Deer’s benefit if Taro throws the first punch. This is exactly what he wants—an excuse to fight.

  I turn, lifting my arm to stop Taro, but Riska is faster. He vaults from my shoulder and smacks straight into Taro’s wrist. It’s the only thing that keeps his fist from connecting with Van Deer’s face.

  Riska mrows at the impact and somersaults in the air before righting himself. He cuts a sharp one-eighty and shoots back toward Taro. He throws his wings open and lands on Taro’s shoulder. Fur bristled, he bares his teeth at Van Deer and hisses. Acid sprays out of his mouth. Most of it falls short, but a few droplets hit the front of Van Deer’s uniform. Tendrils of smoke drift up from the fabric as the acid eats through the material.

  The merc boy retreats several steps, surprise on his face. He stares down at his uniform, lips parted in shock. I pray the acid won’t reach his skin.

  There’s a moment when I think Taro might be dumb enough to go after him again. He shifts onto the balls of his feet, muscles rippling.

  “Hom!” calls a familiar voice, cutting through the tension and drawing all eyes. “Hom! Where have you been? I can’t believe you’re out here carousing with merc boys when your friends from Virtual High need you!”

  16

  Daruuk

  DARUUK MALHOTRA, my classmate from VHS, marches across the grass in my direction. Alexi Ivanov, another classmate, trails in his wake.

  I’m ecstatic to see them. They’re the ones leading the VHS Underground movement to sneak back into Vex. Even more importantly, they’ve provided a way to diffuse the tension building between the merc boys.

  Taro takes advantage of Daruuk and Alexi’s arrival by backing down and taking several steps away from Van Deer. He makes the act look casual by scratching Riska on the head.

  At the same time, Van Deer and his merc gang bunch together, forming what looks like a defensive circle. The boys eye Riska warily.

  “Daruuk!” I wave to my friend, pretending the smoke still wafting from Van Deer’s uniform is normal and nothing to be rattled about.

  “So?” Daruuk demands, stomping through the merc kids like they’re not even there. He stops in front of me, hands on his hips. “Where have you been?”

  This is my first look at Daruuk in the real-world. Except for his dark hair being shaggier, he looks identical to his avatar. Alexi’s tall frame is even thinner in the real-world, but he, too, resembles his Vex avatar.

  I don’t let the merc kids know how happy I am to see my friends. “I’ve been tied up,” I reply, shrugging.

  “I need your help. Quantitative Genetics class is killing me.” Daruuk makes a face.

  I suppress a snort, certain Quantitative Genetics is the last thing Daruuk wants to talk about. His specialty is engineering and electronics; he’s never even set foot in a genetics class. No, he wants to talk about the Vex modem he’s building.

  “Sure, I can help you. I was just leaving anyway.” I’m not sure if he’s purposely trying to diffuse the merc showdown, or if this is all a coincidence. It doesn’t matter. It’s an opportunity I can’t waste. “Taro, want to come with me or are you going with them?” I jerk my chin at the merc kids, acting like it makes no difference to me.

  Daruuk blinks, as if only now seeing the hulking teenagers in merc jumpsuits, all them taller and thicker than him and looking ready for a brawl.

  I grab my boots and fall in beside Daruuk and Alexi, further dispersing the tension.

  Van Deer saunters back into the fold of his posse. “Catch you later, Hudanus,” he calls over his shoulder. The promise in his tone is unmistakable.

  Taro grabs his boots and joins my friends.

  “Taro,” I say, “these are my friends from Virtual High, Daruuk and Alexi. Daruuk and Alexi, this is my friend, Taro.”

  “The Muscle boy,” Daruuk grunts.

  “Nice to meet you,” Alexi says, his English laden with a heavy Russian accent.

  Taro nods at the other boys in return. Riska gives him one more hiss before flying back to my shoulder.

  “Sorry to hear about your mom,” Alexi says.

  “She was a noble warrior,” Daruuk says. “I’m building a new wing on my palace in Andala. I shall name it after her.”

  I nod, acknowledging their comments in silence. Though I appreciate their kindness, I’m not ready to talk about Mom to
anyone besides Taro.

  The four of us troop out of the park and onto the road. The gravel bites the bottom of my feet. I want to stop and put my boots back on, but the gravel doesn’t seem to bother Taro. I resolve to tough it out.

  “Barely two days in the Dome and already making enemies, huh, Hom?” Daruuk scowls at me. “Don’t you have better things to do? And what is that thing on your shoulder? How did you get one?”

  “So you did see what was going on,” I say, ignoring his questions about Riska. “I wasn’t sure if you just had good timing or if you were helping us on purpose.”

  “That Muscle was itching for a fight.” Daruuk glances at Taro, who stares at the ground in a brooding silence. “What’s your deal, Muscle boy? You got away clean.”

  “My deal?” Taro’s chin jerks up. Anger sparks in his dark eyes. “Did you hear what he said to her?” He gestures at me.

  “That had nothing to do with me,” I say. “He was trying to provoke you into throwing the first punch. Besides, I don’t need you to stick up for me. I can stand up to Van Deer.”

  “He’s dangerous, Sulan.”

  “To you. And only if you’re stupid enough to buy into his insults. He doesn’t want to fight me.” I poke him in the arm. “So stop buying into it.”

  Taro’s opens his mouth to argue with me. Then the anger in his face melts away. “You’re right,” he says, shaking his head. “Just promise me you’ll be careful around him, okay? You don’t want to be on his bad side.”

  “He has a good side?”

  Taro grimaces. “Point taken.”

  “In Van Deer’s eyes, I’m a means to an end. Anything he says to me is an attempt to provoke you. I just need to make sure he knows he can’t push me around. He’ll smell the blood if I don’t stick up for myself.”

  “You’ve got guts,” Taro says. “I’ve never seen a girl—not even a merc girl—square off with him before.”

  The compliment catches me by surprise. I smile up at him, and he smiles back. A warm flush creeps up my neck.

  “If you two are finished gazing into each other’s eyes, we’ve got more important things to discuss.” Daruuk plants himself in front of us, hands on his hips again. “I’ve got a Vex modem and Vex set to build. From scratch. And when Global moved up the timeline and pulled all of us into the Dome early, components were forgotten, lost, or broken. Hopefully you won’t let me down, Hom. Did you get the ultra-capacitor?”