My consideration is brusquely cut short when I notice Phoenix blatantly staring at me from across the table, even worse, seated next to him is Apollo Ailmar, his eyes also searing into my soul. Apollo is wearing a black suit and white tie and dress shirt.
His suit is perfectly tailored to his large frame. His build is much larger than almost all of the other men. A faint scar glides perfectly across the arch of his brow, and his dark hair appears perfectly and purposely disheveled, like when someone slips on ice, but recovers so gracefully it’s whimsical.
He leans back slightly in his chair. Phoenix has a smaller frame, but his muscular development is still substantial due to genetics, as are most men and women. The Creator’s procure these genetics for the City.
Phoenix appears charming and approachable. Apollo looks more akin to a warrior. Brutal. His visceral strength on display at the Ignis Messorem games, but, of course, that’s why he was chosen.
Phoenix looks away when he notices I’ve caught him staring, but Apollo doesn’t. Keeping his intentions vague, I struggle to read his face. Amusement? His expression leaves me bewildered. He frightens me.
All of the elated emotions I may have clung to earlier no longer exist, I tell myself. I feel nothing toward the guy I hopelessly wished would pair with me as a teenager, I tell myself again. I don’t want to like him because that would solidify further what he always gets: the attention of every woman. I don’t want to be another failure, another girl that Apollo couples with and never takes to the scanner.
I try to contain my displeasure, but my feelings get the best of me. My eyebrow rises slightly when his indigo eyes connect with mine again, and I take my time to look away. He tilts his head slightly in silent communication. What are you thinking? He seems to say through his expression. His face hardens as he brings his eyebrows lower and squints over those smoldering blue eyes. His striking appearance mangles my insides; they’ve become dough, kneading in all directions.
He doesn’t scare me, I lie to myself. December is watching me intently and raises an eyebrow. Her mouth opens to say something, but I smile immediately, a bit too tawdry and catch her off-guard. I don’t want to alarm her with this strange moment Apollo and I are having. Tilting my head back, I mouth something first.
“I’m tired.”
“Me, too,” she exaggerates in return.
Dinner is amazing. The flavor enhancers added to the food make everything taste a thousand times better than the grains, beans, and food bars that are stocked away at home. Later, people are standing, mingling, and saying their goodbyes. Those in service fields hosting the event begin administering coats, scarves, and hats.
They release weather warnings and announce the severity of the drop in temperature, urging us to go straight home. “The trains are equipped with alternative heat sources in case of emergency, but you are advised to get off at your stop—the first time,” a host announces.
Many people ride the train longer than necessary on pairing nights, to have a real opportunity to get to know their potential matches without breaking any rules. Everyone is chaperoned for violation and safety concerned with surveillance equipped all over the City. The Creators seem to always be watching to ensure rules are never broken.
A faux-fur hooded cloak is handed to me, fleece lined. “I thought they said tonight wouldn’t be a safety issue,” December says. “I think it’s just a precaution. It’s not supposed to be too bad,” I say, though not sure.
Someone helps spread the coat across my shoulders. “Thank you,” I say, turning to see Apollo towering over me. I can tell by his expression that he recognizes the change in my demeanor. His glimmering eyes scream garish with curiosity. He knows I’m actively displaying animosity. Good. It angers me that he might be showing interest only because he knows how his best friend feels about me.
He’s searching for an explanation for my attitude. The girly-flirtatious looks I displayed earlier in the evening have dissolved ever since he smugly discussed my career— and my appearance. Why is he showing me this much obvious attention? Every woman around us notice the way he’s looking at me, and it’s upsetting me even more. Go away, my eyes say.
I turn my back on him and lift my hood over my long, platinum hair and step out into the cold. Giant snowflakes fall from the polluted atmosphere. Darkness has taken over; its unrelenting depth causes the crowd to huddle close together as they board the Sky train. Phoenix tries to go unnoticed, and maneuvers through the crowd to stand behind me.
Once inside, I notice Apollo is already onboard, scanning the seats. I see him look toward the large orbs hanging neatly throughout the train. Leaning in, he says something to Phoenix, and they disappear toward the back of the train. I don’t see them again tonight.
3
I wake up abruptly. The familiar sensations of anxiety flow through my back and shoulders. Breathing rapidly, I walk into the bathroom and switch on the light. Fumbling with my pills, I manage to swallow one before feeling much of the morning nervousness. Today is the first day of training, and I can’t be late. The uneasiness I’m experiencing is slightly more elevated than usual. I can’t control the unknown.
We were informed to wear the choker-grey uniform. Although we are going over classified information today, everyone looks ready for combat. The Sky train brings me to building 151, where I enter large glass doors and get into a long line of mostly men. A man enters the hallway. “Good morning, trainees. I’m the MSI Officer; military strategy and intelligence. This building is restricted,” he says.
“Each of you was chosen because of your genetic capabilities. Congratulations. The first room is the authorization room. You will be taken one by one to add a clearance chip to your identification bracelet after approval from biometrics.”
When it’s my turn to enter the room, a woman is seated at a desk, inputting data onto a screen. She motions to me to sit down. “Place your hand on the ovate biometrics processer after taking a seat,” she recites robotically. I sit down in what I soon realize is the most uncomfortable chair in the history of uncomfortable chairs. Bringing my hand up cautiously, I place it gently on the only oval device available.
The device hums and the woman’s screen begins making melodic beeping sounds. “Perfect,” she says flatly. “Now place your wrist with your identification into the slot on the left side of your chair.”
I glance down and notice a curved slot carved out of the inside of the chair. The inside is lit up blue with all sorts of lights and scanners. Placing my arm inside the slot, I wait. After a moment and more noise, a computer voice states, “Thank you, Freya Skarsgard.”
“Your identification has been updated with Security Clearance Level 1.” The woman says, without looking up from her screen. Her hair is pulled so tight it looks painful, veins protrude from her forehead. I slowly remove my arm but the woman makes a strange hissing noise and signals for me to stop. I leave my arm where it is.
A few moments later, three melodic beeps sound from the chair and the blue-lit activity on the left side seems to power down. The woman finally looks at me. “Ok, Miss Skarsgard, you are free to go.”
As I leave the room, I notice my bracelet displaying information on my wrist. It seems to be scanning through endless documentation, loading it all onto the device. It’s granting a clearance level 1, highest in the City. My bracelet is still cycling through documents, endless Intel, which I’ll be expected to learn quickly.
I step into the hall. As I scan through my download, I notice documents about the pills I am taking and something about a condition called Hyperreflexia Type B. Then my eye catches more.
Freya Skarsgard is diagnosed with Type B Hyperreflexia, also known as Enhanced Reflexes, a side effect of scientific manipulation through the genetic engineering of pairing and breeding practices.
I wave my hand twice over the display, so it slows down. Anxiety and occasional insomnia are the only side-effects of Trepadone, the medication for type B Hyperreflexia.
&nbs
p; I’m stunned. I never knew what my medication was for, but this is it. I slide down the wall in the hallway until I’m in a seated position. Waiting for an instructor to collect us for the next class, I frantically read through as much as I can.
Type B Enhanced Reflexes. Patients have manifestly, unnaturally superior reaction speed. Reaction speed is unmatched by natural and genetically modified human-beings. For the protection of society, subjects are medicated at an early age to guard others from possible abuse of their perfection. Patients diagnosed with hyperreflexia Type B, are carefully monitored by trusted members with the same or similar diagnosis, to ensure they maintain normal lives until needed.
There’s the kneading in my stomach again. Who’s monitoring me? That’s the only information on the subject. How is there not more?
What?
Did my Father know?
Did he have it, too? Hyperreflexia. I read it again and again. What does this mean? Fast reflexes. My identity blurs in a matter of seconds. The memories of my childhood, all those doctor’s visits suddenly have new meaning.
I attend my next line of classes. We do basic training exercises, and the instructors administered a fit test. My run time is behind two students, but I come in first, not unexpectedly, in all weapons exercises. As my files continue to load, I skim as much info as time will allow after cleaning my weapons.
Freya has been selected for Ursa, the only elite defense team with security clearance high enough to leave the City. These selections were determined based on the subject’s genetic level of excellence due to heredity from pairing and a diagnosis of the perfection hyperreflexia B. Training begins immediately. A trusted trainer with a genetic perfection will be assigned to oversee her progress ASAP.
4
The skytrain takes me home, and I purposefully avoid my Father. We’re not particularly close, and I don’t feel confident enough to question him about the information I acquired. Plus, it would break my security clearance. So here I am, swallowing my secret like I do my pill every morning.
“Freya, can you come in here, please,” my Father’s voice rumbles from the dining room. Defeated, I walk in.
“Yes?” I sit down.
My Father looks statuesque; I can’t read his expression. “Your brother is MIA. No one can tell me what happened or where he went. I don’t know if it was disciplinary action or if he did something stupid,” he pauses. “This will most likely cause negativity toward our family. We have to remain calm and make sure that they know this isn’t a reflection of who the Skarsgards are.”
Panic sweeps over me. I feel an ache in my chest. My Father is more concerned with how Maryn’s disappearance will affect him than actually mourning that his son is gone! But I’m not surprised. Fighting hard, I remain silent.
Did the Creators kill my brother…or exile him? My Father said he is MIA. Why would Maryn leave the City? Where would he go?. He wouldn’t leave me.
“Banished? Is he alive?” I mumble through escaped tears.
“I don’t know!” my Father loses his apathetic composure and gets up from his chair. My mouth closes and I remain silent while he stomps around angrily, slamming cupboards out of frustration, searching for freedom from his distress inside the kitchen drawers.
I turn and walk out of the room, ignoring my father and his temper. It’s wise for me to leave him be. Throwing myself on my bed, I allow myself to cry. A small alert sounds from my body. The built-in calendar illuminates on my wrist. Oh, no. Reading the message, I soon realize…coupling with Phoenix tonight, and the Ignis Messorem match!
I’m sure he’d understand if I canceled, but I realize Father saw my Calendar. I don’t want to blow off a potential match, be even more of a stain on the family or witness another explosion of Father’s temper. I get dressed.
The pain in not knowing where Maryn is consumes me. He’s the strongest person I know, but I can’t imagine him leaving of his own free-will. My Father is a distressing fog, this indifferent creature who simply supervised our growth.
It fills me with palpable melancholy that lingers like an unsolicited ghost. The automatic doors close behind me as I step onto the patio, a reminder that everything functions without human intervention. “Get out, if you know what’s good for you,” the doors seem to say.
The florescent yet lifeless sky is already fading into darkness, a withering dusk so deep, exasperated from years and years of pollution and war. My brother is probably fine, I repeat to myself; he’s always been capable of handling himself. Out in the darkness, commotion erupts. Massive fire spheres explode, shooting up into the maddening twilight from the packed arena in the distance.
People are already gathered for Ignis Messorem, the celebratory opening show entertains the crowds. My hair is twisted into a thick braid, the blond locks so abundant they fight free from the ties, flowing down to the small of my back. I decided on white—opposing the night— a faux fur coat, boots, pants and matching V-neck. The air still lingers in a polluted freeze, the dust and snowflakes combine to dance over our City.
The skytrain arrives right on time. Stepping inside, I see couples and groups of friends throughout the train, everyone mostly under twenty-five. Tonight’s makeup and temporary tattoos are outrageous in accordance with our City’s fashion.
An attractive man, wearing a tight, long-sleeve black shirt, with the words “Imperium” scrawled across it, stands up. I realize it’s Phoenix. He looks different since the gathering somehow, more unkempt, possibly emulating Apollo and the harshness we’re expecting.
“Hello,” he says, voice like molasses. I smile. “Hello.”
“You look…I mean, I’m sure you know, but—wow,” he says disorderly, but somehow smooth. “Thanks,” I smile again. “The gathering is so formal. I like it better this way.” “Agreed,” he says through his charming smile.
“I’m actually really excited. I haven’t been to Ignis Messorem in over a year.” He laughs, “What? I go at least twice a month.” “That’s amazing.” I glance out at the ashen buildings whirling outside the window.
“My older brother used to take me. I was happy to go with him, without an assigned chaperone…you know, before I was old enough for pairing.”
“What took you so long to go to the gathering,” he says, a sly smile spreads across his face, “Personal question, I know, but I’m genuinely curious? Most girls can’t wait and show up— their first birthday.” He talks with his hands, “The day they turn nineteen.” “I guess I wasn’t focused on it at the time. And it’s intimidating.” I laugh when I hear it said out loud.
“And your career isn’t?” he says and laughs softly. “Strange enough— no.
I knew both were inevitable—eh— but I was excited for sniper school. The scanner feels like a prison to me.” I notice his expression tighten, “Sorry, I know it sounds terrible…but what if I make a choice and then fail the scan? My father went through that. It was terrible because he said he was in love. Or worse, what if I can’t find a match and get assigned?”
“I guess I try not to think about it. Call me an optimist,” he says, but sounds a little unsure now. “Everyone has those concerns. It’s normal, but we shouldn’t worry about it until it actually happens. It might work out. I know lots of success stories,” he smiles and we both stare for a moment before falling silent.
The chemistry between us is obvious. His eyes gaze at my mouth and linger there. I finally turn my head as the arena comes into view.
The pregame show doesn’t disappoint. Globes of fire explode in the air, framed by fireworks in every color. Ignus. Fire—the name of the game.
The stands are overflowing with spectators, swarming in frenzied excitement. We find our seats. Phoenix is entertained by my child-like happiness. I can tell because he’s watching my expressions with more enthusiasm than the explosions. I can’t help but tilt my head toward the sky and smile, big. Nostalgia fills my soul, but soon stings my heart. Maryn. He loved Ignus Messorem. He’d watch matches over and
over on his viewing screen and talk about his favorite hits.
“Is—everybody—ready—for—Ignus Messorem!” Booms the announcer. “Tonight—home team, Immperriummm!” His voice draws out. “And visitors… Praedo!” The crowd is going crazy. Music starts and surrounds us. Almost deafening, the base shakes the stands.
One by one, each of the player’s names are called, their stats displayed on a large viewing screen spread before the audience. Imperium is black with florescent orange accents tonight, Praedo black with florescent blue.
The music is used to introduce the players with tempo, remaining repetitive—until Apollo is announced. A guitar slide breaks the endless chorus and the music grows louder. A women’s choir can be heard, belting obscure euphony over the instruments. Goosebumps crawl across my skin.
“And now the reapers!” the announcer’s low voice follows the music’s breakdown, the crowd is growing wild.
“For Imperium…” his voice drops even lower, “A—pollo Ail—mar!” Apollo emerges from a cave-like structure in the far corner. His muscles are discernible even from here, but the viewing screen gives us a close-up.
He wears a full mask with a skull frosted on the front. Tilting his ghoulish head back, he spreads his arms like a soaring eagle. Fire emerges from the ends of his sleeves as he slams his arms closed. The flame he produces is huge cylinder of combustion, staggering to the ceiling before it evaporates through the ventilation. People are hysterical in the stands. Women scream, “I love you.”
I can feel Phoenix’s eyes on me, studying my expression after Apollo is announced. I try to look unenthused, but it’s not a secret that he’s incredible. He turns back to the game
“And for team Praedo…Ro—man Qu—inn.” Roman Quinn is Castor’s brother. He emerges from the visitor’s corner and strikes his own pose, exposing his muscles, and shoots fire toward the crowd.
Their masks have neon claw marks across the front, everything fireproof. Roman lets out a cinematic growl as the fire halts for a moment before spreading out slowly. It hits the force field around the arena, smoke and flames filter up, departing just like Apollo’s cloud of fire.
MATCH CITY Page 3