by Lu, Marie
I reach down and shove two tins of meat right into my pockets. Then I grab the edge of one crate, pull back with all my might, and start dragging it along the ground. Several other soldiers have arrived to back up the original two; I try to work faster as they begin pushing people back from the scene. I clench my jaw and pull harder.
“Hey—get away from that!”
A soldier catches sight of me, grabs me by the collar of my shirt, and tosses me unceremoniously back against the throngs. My bad knee buckles—I cry out in pain and land in a weird position. The soldier grabs the crate I was dragging and shoots me a furious glare. “Damn baby street cons,” he spits at me. “Go back to your alley. Keep your hands off Republic property.”
That’s mine, I scream silently. That’s for Charlie. To my surprise, an urge to cry surges up from a deeper part of me. That’s for my family. For people I care about.
But there’s not much I can do now. I’m too late, I’m too small, and I’m too weak. The scene I’ve caused is useless to me now—enough soldiers have arrived that the people no longer have the guts to grab for the crates’ contents.
I scramble to my feet, then shove my way through the people as the soldiers gather to inspect the burst tire of their truck. At least I banged up one of their precious vehicles, I think darkly.
I make my way back to the pier where Charlie’s crew works. By the time I get there, my knee’s sore. I’m sweaty and exhausted. Charlie sees me from a distance, jumps down from the stack of crates she’s sitting on, and rushes over. “There you are,” she says. She seems to have composed herself since her earlier outburst. Her eyes run over my damp clothes. “Where’d you go?”
I just shrug. I pull the two tins of meat out of my pockets. “There was some sort of commotion down the street,” I reply, handing her the tins. “Truck overturned. I grabbed these. Sorry—they wouldn’t let us get any closer. How’s your dad?”
“He’s okay. He’s taken harder hits before.” Charlie gives me a wry smile of thanks, but hands the tins back to me. “You keep these. Two tins won’t do us much good.” She looks over her shoulder at the crew. Then she bends down, leans toward my ear, and whispers, “That was you, wasn’t it? You saw the whole thing this morning. You found some way to mess that truck up, didn’t you?”
I blink at her. “I—”
Charlie grins when she sees my guilty expression. “Yeah, we were out there too. Your little stunt let some of my dad’s crew get in there and grab a few of our crates back.”
The weight on my chest lifts a little. I look at her in surprise, and then break into a small smile. “You guys were there? You saw the truck?”
Charlie’s eyes study mine. For a moment, it’s as if she can see right into my heart. “You got a death wish or something?” she finally says. She reaches up to ruffle my hair. “I’ll hand it to you—you’ve got some nerves of steel, running off like that and messing up a city patrol’s truck.”
I blush, then look down at my feet. “Just got lucky,” I mutter. But deep down, I can’t help feeling a spark of pride. They’d gotten some of their supplies back. Maybe my stunt hadn’t been useless after all.
Charlie’s expression softens. Her hand lifts my chin so that I meet her stare. She leans down and gives me an affectionate peck on the lips. “Thank you,” she says. “You’re a good kid. I bet the Republic hasn’t seen the last of you.”
I sleep on the boat’s deck with the crew that night. But early the next morning, when dawn has barely reached the water’s edge and Charlie’s eyes are still closed, I get up and sneak quietly away. I take nothing with me except my few trinkets and tins of food. I don’t look at her one last time, and I don’t leave her any notes or say good-bye. The air is cool, nipping at my cheeks and lips, a reminder of the empty space around me. I keep my hands in my pockets and my head held high. My hair is loose.
I can’t stay here. If anything, yesterday’s events reminded me very clearly of why I wander the streets alone, why I don’t dare let myself get tangled up in relationships with anyone else out here in Lake. Soldiers had attacked Charlie’s dad just for falling short on a shipment—what would happen to them if the soldiers found out that they were harboring a boy who’d escaped from the Republic’s labs? A boy who’s supposed to be dead? Dad had always told me to move forward, never backward.
So I keep my toes pointed away from the pier and inland toward the slums. Best to be alone out here. I’m a floating soul, a phantom . . . I belong nowhere. Charlie’s words echo in my mind.
I bet the Republic hasn’t seen the last of you.
I smile. No, I sincerely hope that they haven’t.
My feet feel heavy, but they don’t make a sound.
EPISODE TWO
JUNE
THREE YEARS BEFORE THE EVENTS OF
LEGEND
Author’s Note: In Legend, we meet June just as she’s receiving yet another disciplinary warning from her school, Drake University. The following short story is a peek at June’s very first day at Drake, and why she finds herself incapable of staying out of trouble.
“WHAT’S WITH ALL THIS TRAFFIC?” I ASK MY BROTHER.
Metias leans forward in the driver’s seat and cranes his neck. He’s in his full captain’s uniform, but from the backseat I can see his hair is tussled, the result of spending most of the morning raking his hands through it. He sighs, gives me an apologetic glance. “Sorry, Junebug. I shouldn’t have taken the shortcut through Lake. Let me get a report,” he says, then mumbles something into his mike.
I cross my arms and count the military jeeps around us to pass the time. (There are exactly nine vehicles in each of the three lanes on the street, as far as I can see.) I try to estimate how much farther we have to go before we’ll reach Drake University. At this rate, it’ll take us at least thirty minutes. Chances are high that I’ll be late for my orientation. Twelve-year-old prodigy officially inducted today at Drake University. That’s what the JumboTrons have been broadcasting. I can still remember the way my heart thumped from accepting my Drake uniform earlier in the week. Today I start school at the university, the only twelve-year-old who will be wandering the campus grounds. The thought sends a pulse of anxiety and excitement through me. What will the other students think? Will I make any friends?
Metias finishes his conversation and looks back at me with a weary frown. “Sounds like the streets throughout north Lake are all jammed—apparently we had to deliver a new truck to some of our guys at a nearby police station.”
“Really? What happened?”
“They busted a tire, right in the middle of a busy street. There’s a huge mess of food crates spilled across a main intersection and a crowd of people fighting over it all.”
I wrinkle my nose at the thought of people clawing over canned food, and Metias catches me. “June. Don’t judge like that.”
I erase my expression, feeling guilty. “Do you think we’ll be late for my orientation, then?”
“I’m afraid so. I’ve left a message for Drake’s officials already. Let’s hope it’s not a big deal.”
I smile. As we inch along through the slums, I focus on the churning water wheels along the shoreline. The morning sun paints a sheet of gold across the lake’s surface. “After today,” I say, “you’ll have to call me Cadet Iparis.”
Metias can’t help laughing at that. “The whole city’s patrols are murmuring about you, Cadet Iparis—I still can’t believe my baby sister’s officially a Drake University student. How about that?” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Now, this doesn’t mean that anything changes. You don’t get any extra privileges. You come home on time. You tell me if you need to stay late for any homework. You definitely are not allowed to hang out with any of your older classmates after school unless it’s something related to class—”
I roll my eyes and stick out my tongue at him. “Y
eah, yeah.”
“I’m serious, June. You call me if you need anything. Understand? Don’t make me worry about you more than I already do.”
We travel in silence for a moment. “Do you think Mom and Dad would’ve been proud of me?” I say after a while.
Metias looks at me again through the mirror. Even though we’re twelve years, four months, and twenty-three days apart, there’s no doubt that we’re related. We have the same eyes, dark brown with hints of gold, the same dark hair and tanned skin. “Mom and Dad would’ve loved to see you inducted into Drake,” he says quietly. “The whole country is proud of you. I’m proud of you. Very, very proud.”
His approval fills my heart with warmth. I tuck my knees up to my chin and smile. “Love you,” I say.
Metias smiles back at me. “Love you too. Keep at it, Junebug—someday, you’ll shake the Republic to its very core. You’ll be absolutely unforgettable. I know it.”
After a full forty-one minutes, we finally get through the traffic in Lake and speed off through Batalla sector toward the university. Metias hurries me along through the campus grounds. We can hear the music of the morning pledge blaring out across the university, and I know orientation is already under way. I’d read somewhere that Drake takes tardiness very seriously—and if that’s the case, I’m already in trouble on my first day.
All the other students have gathered on the main campus quad for the ceremony, and Metias and I have no choice but to make a bit of an entrance. As the university’s president continues his speech on stage, my brother ushers me toward my seat as quietly as he can, but the irritated looks from professors are obvious. I know what they’re thinking: Maybe the Republic should’ve assigned June and Metias an official guardian instead of letting the older brother raise his sister. Maybe he just can’t handle it.
Metias returns their looks with an apologetic expression. I hold my breath, fighting back a desire to defend my brother. It’s not easy to single-handedly raise a baby sister when Metias is only twenty-four and the captain of a Los Angeles patrol. And it’s even harder to raise a girl like me. But I keep my head down and take a seat near the back. Once Metias sees me properly settled down, he taps his soldier’s cap once in a good-bye salute. “Have a good time,” he whispers to me. “Keep your chin up, don’t be intimidated. And stick up for yourself, like how I taught you. Understand?”
“Don’t worry,” I reply with a smile, even though butterflies are starting to flutter in my stomach.
Metias smiles briefly in return, and then hurries off to the rest of his duties. I’m left to face the university alone.
The orientation is, as expected, boring. I look around and study my new classmates while the speakers drone on. Will any of them want to be friends with me? A familiar sense of hope hits me. The first year I’d skipped was second grade, and since then, I’d skipped three other grades. Each time, I’d hoped that skipping a grade and forcing myself into a class full of new students might give me another chance at making friends. Now I’m in a new school again, and the probability of bonding with some students early in the year should be high. Many of the freshmen must be from outside Los Angeles; they’ll need friends too. I have a shot.
By the time we’ve finished sitting through all of the speeches, it’s nine minutes before 1100 hours, and my stomach has started growling. Beside me, the other students (all at least a year ahead of me, judging from the colors of their uniforms’ stripes, which means I’ve seated myself with the sophomores instead of the freshmen) look unbothered. Maybe older students don’t get hungry so early in the day. I feel a little embarrassed, then try to forget about food. A couple of the students cast smirks and raised eyebrows in my direction, emphasizing the fact that I don’t look like I belong. I stay in my seat, my back straight, and try to remind myself of what Metias said. Keep your chin up, don’t be intimidated.
Orientation finally ends and we all start heading off to our first class of the day. I stay toward the back of a group of students and let my earpiece tune into the campus’s map. The place is huge—at least ten times the size of my high school—and I quickly make note of which buildings the students in my grade level are clustering around. If I get lost on campus today, at least I’ll know which buildings will probably have my classes.
Suddenly, someone shoves me from behind. I stumble forward and barely catch myself before hitting the pavement, but in the process I knock over another student. We both tumble down. “I’m sorry,” I gasp out, scrambling back onto my feet and reaching a hand out to the other girl. She takes it gratefully. But when she sees who pushed us, she just shifts her eyes away and leaves me behind. I frown. When I turn around, I see a boy (sophomore level, judging by the gold stripes running along his uniform’s sleeves, which means he’s at least seventeen years old) with his head thrown back, laughing at the expression on my face. He keeps walking with a group of his friends. “Sorry,” he says as he brushes past me, his shoulder purposely knocking me off balance. “Didn’t see you.”
I bite my lip as snickers rise from those nearby. Only a few actually look at me sympathetically, and when I do meet their eyes, they dart away. Just like the girl I’d helped up. I grit my teeth. It isn’t as if I’m new to teasing, but throughout grade and high school, I knew to let the taunts slide and keep a low profile in order to survive. I became an expert at evasion, and it worked . . . back then. But this isn’t high school—this is Drake University. I already know that I can’t go through Drake’s training by keeping my temper down and taking the punishment. I am officially a soldier-in-training; I’m going to fight for the Republic someday. And even though this boy is easily the same height as my brother, I can’t let him push me around on day one and then expect Drake to see me as a potential officer—especially not with all of these students looking on. I have to start earning my respect today.
Metias’s words come back to me. Stick up for yourself, like how I taught you. He’d started training me early, after I came home one day with a black eye and a gash on my arm.
So instead of letting the boy who pushed me walk right on past, I hurl an insult back at him. “Get some glasses, then. A blind person could’ve seen me walking there.”
The boy looks at me, his eyebrows raised in surprise, the conversation with his friends paused in midair. I swallow hard. Suddenly I wonder if I made the right choice—but it’s too late now.
“You’re that twelve-year-old, aren’t you? June Iparis?” he finally says, his hands in his pockets. The tight smile on his lips reminds me of twisted wire. When I hesitate, he tilts his chin at me. “Well, speak up. Why so shy now?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I reply.
“They did say you were a cocky one, thinking you’re a big shot now that you’ve made it into Drake on account of your family’s money.”
A small crowd of curious students have gathered around us, and the boy’s gang of friends are making some sort of joke at my expense. I wish my uniform fit better—Drake had hurriedly ordered a uniform tailored to fit me, but it’s still not quite right, and the sleeves bunch loosely around my wrists. I hope it isn’t too noticeable.
“I’m on scholarship,” I say, careful to keep my voice calm, just like how Metias taught me.
“Oh, is that so?” The boy opens his mouth in an expression of mock admiration. “Congratulations, little girl—did they take pity on you because of what happened to your parents? Well, we all know how you really got in. If your last name wasn’t Iparis and your brother didn’t slip a wad of cash to the admin officials, and if they didn’t fake your talents for some sensationalist news, I bet you’d still be sitting in your little grade school chair.”
They’ll say things to provoke you, Metias told me. But don’t let yourself be the first to throw a punch. Don’t let them get the best of you. Not that I’m actually strong enough to take anyone down, of course, but Metias’s words help keep my tempe
r from bubbling over. I take a deep breath. “It doesn’t sound too different from how you must have gotten in,” I say, looking him up and down. His smile wavers—the crowd shifts uneasily, and several laugh at the idea of a twelve-year-old talking back to a six-foot-tall sophomore. “Your hands look too soft to have handled enough weapons over the years, and your buzz cut is too long. That would never pass in an inspection. In order for you to have received your ranking today with such a lazy haircut, I bet your parents paid off some admins.”
The boy’s mouth quivers in irritation. He takes a step toward me and raises a hand. At first it looks like he might hit me, but he probably realizes that would look bad. So instead he tries to push me over. I see his hand coming long before he can do it, and I dodge him effortlessly. It throws him off balance; he stumbles forward a step. I can’t help smiling a little—what a slow soldier. Maybe everything I said was correct; maybe he did bribe his way into the university after all.
He whirls on me. This time, the irritation in his eyes gives way to rage. He lunges for me again—his fist flies toward me. I dance out of the way again. More and more spectators have rushed over to watch (I wonder if this sophomore is known on campus for pushing others around), and as they look on with wide eyes, I dodge a third strike from the boy. This time I whirl around behind his back, and when he flinches, thinking I’m going to strike, he trips over his own feet. He falls onto the pavement and scrapes up one of his cheeks. His friends have stopped laughing, but giggles do come from several of the other onlookers.
The boy hops to his feet and tries again—this time in earnest, his eyes intense with concentration. I duck and roll, then dart to the side, then spin in a circle—all of his intended blows breeze right past me. My confidence starts to rise as some in the crowd watch me with fascination. This isn’t so hard, I think as I tease the boy, hiding behind his back on light feet. If this is all I have to worry about on campus, then—