The light on the ceiling flashes.
He points at it. “Well, that’s us. I guess this is it for now. So say good-bye to this face, Nice guy, and I’ll see you out there, I suppose. And don’t feel bad about trying to win. I think that’s the only way we’ll make it through this with our sanity intact. Let’s give it our all and let her decide. That way she kills one of us, and neither of us has to feel guilty. Because I wouldn’t be able to cope if I had played any part in killing you, even if you wouldn’t feel bad about killing me. So do we have a deal? We’ll both give it everything we have? No regrets, no backing down, and no guilt when she makes her choice.”
I wish my brain worked like that, like I could just say no regrets or guilt and then not feel it. But I know myself, and I know the guilt will crush me if I win and he dies. Still, he wants to pretend it’s that simple, that our emotions can be contained by a spoken contract, and I’m willing to entertain him. Plus, if I’m being totally honest with myself, I want to keep pretending for as long as possible that I don’t care at all that he could die because of me.
So I accept his offer, and it feels like the contest has truly begun.
CHAPTER
THREE
I’m naked on a steel slab. I’m nothing more than a chunk of beef. Meat to be sliced and chopped and turned into something usable. All offcuts will be discarded.
My arms and legs are bound to the table, encircled by freezing stainless steel bands. The bands pinch at my wrists and ankles, pulling at the strands of hair they trapped when they snapped shut. Above me are two circles of white light. A man wearing a surgeon’s mask advances toward me holding a black marker. He places the tip of the pen right on my hairline, then scrapes it across my skin, all the way down to the middle of my eyebrows. I close my eyes slowly and lick my dry lips.
He tilts his head to the side, inspecting my face. He reaches forward and grabs my bangs. “We’ll change his hair. And his eyes. Get the needle.”
I strain my eyes to keep watching him. Like looking at him is going to stop him.
A nurse swings a boxlike metal contraption around so that it hangs above my face. It’s attached to a long metal arm that connects to a white machine that stands beside the table. I stare right into the pointy ends of two shiny silver needles. I exhale and try, unsuccessfully, to make my body stop shaking.
“How blue do you want?” asks the nurse.
The doctor peers into my right eye. Even though he’s wearing a surgeon’s mask, I can smell his breath, which reeks like the bottom of a garbage bin. He moves across and looks at my other eye.
“As blue as the ocean. I want her to think of water when she looks him in the eye.”
“What about his jaw?”
He moves his gloved hand up and grabs my chin. He yanks my head to the side, and his cold fingers run along my jawbone. His grip tightens and he slowly turns my head in the other direction, so that I’m looking at the wall with the door. It’s white and has no door handle, like every door in the LIC. His fingers jab in harder, like he’s trying to separate my jawbone from my skin.
The grip fades, and my head lulls back into position.
“It needs to be stronger.” He jabs the pen into the tip of my chin. “We’ll need to cleft this a little bit.”
“And his body?”
“I can hear you, you know,” I say. “And can I suggest something? I always wanted my ears to be level. They’re a bit lopsided, as you can probably tell. So maybe you could, you know, fix that?”
“Be quiet,” snaps the doctor. “Speak again and I’ll do everything without painkillers.”
I close my mouth, instantly regretting my decision to speak. What was I thinking? Nices don’t challenge authority. Ever. I’m nervous, so I hope he’ll let it slide, but I have to be better. Mistakes like that in the real world will get me killed.
He huffs, then places his hand on my chest and pinches some of the hair that’s growing there.
“This,” he says as he makes a fist, gripping a few small strands. His hand lifts up, and my chest rises up with him until my bonds stop me. He keeps pulling until the hair rips out. I drop back down, squirming in agony. “Needs to go.” He jabs me in the gut. My body bends forward, but the bonds catch me and snap me back into place. “Other than that, he’s in fine physical condition. His muscles are of adequate definition to create arousal.”
“What about his …” The nurse looks down at my crotch.
No no no.
“Are you a child? Are you talking about his penis?”
She nods.
“Well,” he says. “It’s not very impressive as it is, is it?”
My flight instinct kicks in, and suddenly all I can think about is getting out of this fucking room. Ignoring the pain in my wrists, I pull as hard as I can, trying to free my hands. All I end up doing is flailing. What can I do? I can’t just lie here and let them do this to me. I start to buck and kick, hoping desperately that a miracle will happen and something will break and I’ll be free.
The doctor places his gloved hand on my chest and presses down hard, stilling me. My rabbitlike heartbeat thuds against his palm.
He leans in close. “That’s what you get for snark. Now, team, are you ready to begin?”
“Yes sir,” they answer in unison.
“Good. Then let’s start with his eyes.”
The doctor grabs the big white machine with both hands and pushes it into position above my right eye. Then, with his smile obvious in the pinch of his mask and the twinkle in his eyes, he places a mask over my nose and mouth.
Blackness swirls.
I splay my palms.
Kick my feet.
Finally, the black takes over.
* * *
I sit up, screaming. But there’s no pain. I raise my hands to my face and marvel at the freedom of my wrists. The room I’m in is like my old room, but the walls are plaster, not mirrors, and the bed is soft. A bunch of clothes are in a messy pile on the floor. I must’ve kicked them off mid-nightmare.
I lift up the fluffy blanket. I’m totally naked, and everything down there looks exactly the same as it used to. My manhood is still my manhood. I smile, then bite my lip. My chest looks funny. Every single hair is gone, leaving me feeling cold and slightly tingly. I run my hand along my chest. It feels slippery. My skin is also a few fractions darker than before, now a nice, even farm-boy tan, and the mole that used to sit on my hip is gone.
I slide out of bed and pull on a pair of blue boxers, then a pair of chinos. As I’m deciding between navy and green shirts, the door opens.
It’s Kaylee. She’s dressed in a red-and-black flannel shirt and tight white pants.
“Hi,” she says, pulling a white earbud from her ear. She covers her eyes until I pull a shirt, the green one, over my head. As I tug it down she drops her hand and takes a step forward. “Wow. Dude, you should look at yourself. They haven’t changed much, but seriously, what they did makes you look so much cooler. You’re stunning!” She looks behind her, checking to see if the coast is clear, then reaches into her pocket.
“We aren’t supposed to show you mirrors so soon after your operation, but this isn’t a mirror so it should be fine. Man, I love technicalities.”
She passes me a white iPhone. I stare at the dark reflection that appears on the screen.
The boy looking back at me isn’t me. His hair is golden blond, his eyes are vivid blue, and his nose is perfectly straight. Also, his chin is noticeably more pronounced. In fact, the first thing someone might notice would be his strong jaw. He’s an idealized version of myself, what I wished for whenever I felt ugly or unlovable. It’s myself through the lens of someone who loves me.
I practice my smile. Oh God. It’s now crooked—nice touch. I peer closer, turning my head to the side, paying particular attention to my cheeks. No freaking way. They’re faint, and only visible when I’m smiling, but this fact is unavoidable: they gave me dimples.
“Are you impressed?”
asks Kaylee.
I pass the phone back to her. “Yeah, I look great. They did an exceptional job.”
I mustn’t have put enough effort into my tone, as she crosses her arms. “You’re still recovering, so I’m going to let that one slide. Oh, and you’ve officially been given a name. It’s Caden, C-A-D-E-N. Get used to responding when people call you that.”
A name.
I have a freaking name.
Caden.
I think it over and over in my mind until it starts to sound odd.
My name is Caden.
“First things first. I’ve already set up your home and selected your outfits, so that’s all taken care of. I’m still working on your scripts, but I’ve printed out the first few and have them ready for you. All that’s left is one last meeting with Mr. Craike. Then we’ll take a plane to your new place. Isn’t this exciting? You’re finally getting out of here, Caden.” She claps her hands together, which makes her bracelets chime, then she pouts. “Aw, I’m kinda jealous. Now, do you have any last questions before you go? You can ask me anything—just remember that whatever you say from now on will be monitored.”
“There is one thing that’s always bugged me,” I say. “I’d like to know why the LIC is so focused on pairing us in high school. Like, wouldn’t it be better to send us in when we’re a bit older? No one finds the love of their life while they’re a teenager.”
“You haven’t read any YA novels recently, have you?”
I shake my head. “I prefer sci-fi. Why? What does that have to do with anything?”
She looks up at the camera that’s attached to the ceiling and shrugs.
I want to ask her why she’s acting so weird, but the door opens and Craike appears so I clamp my mouth shut. The shoes he’s wearing are so polished they shine, reflecting the harsh white light.
“Kaylee,” he says, offering a wide smile. “What a pleasure it is to see you.”
“The pleasure is mine, sir. But don’t scare my boy too much, okay? I need him in fighting condition. He’s going to meet Juliet later on today.”
“I won’t,” Craike says. “I promise.”
He winks at me and I tense, because if his tone didn’t give away that he was lying, the wink definitely did. Which means whatever he’s about to show me could be absolutely horrific.
CHAPTER
FOUR
Kaylee waves at me, then walks out of the room. When the door closes behind her, Mr. Craike steps forward and touches the table. Blue light erupts from the surface.
“Caden,” he says, his tone flat. “You look much better.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He taps the screen and a grainy hologram appears. The video is dark and kind of blurry, and the brightness ratio is skewed. Night vision, I presume. He presses pause, then walks around the desk to stand behind me. His hands slide upward, then clamp down on my shoulders. His icy cologne fills my nostrils. I want to shrug him off, to get his awful, cold hands off me, but I keep my shoulders slack.
He pushes me forward and I stumble closer to the projection. My eyes focus, and I realize I’m looking at a quiet alley.
“The thing about actors, Caden, is that they can never be trusted. So let me be very clear—I don’t trust you. I was once a seventeen-year-old boy, and I can recall the fire you have in your chest, the drive that pushes you to defy authority. So know that those feelings aren’t even remotely original, and that fighting against me, no, against us, is a losing battle.”
He taps the screen and the hologram unfreezes. A man, handsome, with a slender body and glasses, runs down the alleyway. He reaches a door and slaps his hand against it once, twice, three times before he gives up, turns around, and raises his hands above his head. I guess he’s a Nice, because he’s wearing a bulky knitted sweater and he just gives off that kind of vibe.
“Don’t worry,” whispers Craike. “His rival was chosen. He was going to be killed anyway. We decided his passing could serve, well, demonstrative purposes. We were kind to him in that way. His death has saved many lives.”
“Please,” cries the man. “Let me try again with another girl. I’m so much better now; I know I’ll win if you give me the chance. Please. Please!”
A hulking, all-black figure walks past the camera and advances toward him. The guy’s expression turns terrified—he’s realized that he’s been trapped by a Stalker. The man screams, then the figure moves impossibly fast—a dark blur—and grabs him by the throat. The Nice’s eyes go wide, then wider still, so they’re bulging from their sockets.
I need to watch this, even though I know how it’s going to end. It’s awful, and it’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life, but I can’t look away. And that’s not just because Craike is here and I can’t disobey him. I need to watch so that I know, precisely, what will happen to me if I’m not convincing enough as a Nice. This is why, I think. This is why I’ve worked so hard, to make sure that what is happening to this Nice will never happen to me.
I blink and keep watching.
The Stalker’s hand grips tighter. The skin of the man’s neck flows out and covers the hand. The Nice coughs and gags, choking. His body is still fighting for life, even though he must know he’s done for. Blood spurts as the fingers sink right through the skin. The Nice’s eyes roll back into his skull. The monster’s fingers and thumb touch, crushing the spine. And that’s it: the Nice’s body crumples and lands on the ground in front of the sleek black feet. His head remains in place, gushing blood, supported only by the cold metal hand.
“Turn around, Caden.”
I spin and stare right into a muscular black chest. It’s smooth and nearly featureless, missing both nipples and a belly button, like a child’s doll. Little rivers of pulsing white light ripple through the skin, shimmering almost like starlight. My blood chills, and I tilt my head up. A still, black metal head is glaring at me. I gaze into the flat panes where the eyes should be and it seems that something is looking at me.
“Now,” says Craike.
The Stalker’s hand shoots out and grabs me by the neck. The fingers are freezing cold. My face starts to burn. I kick my feet and dig my fingernails into the smooth metal, but its grip holds firm.
Craike grins. His bottom teeth are yellow and crowded, all the little teeth at odd angles mashed up against one another. “This is a Stalker. It’s the most advanced robot ever created, the perfect killing machine. If you ever stray from the script or try to run, we will send him after you. And he will rip you apart.”
The flat black panes glare at me.
“Enough,” says Craike.
The Stalker releases me and takes a step backward. Little pulses of light run from the tips of its fingers all the way to the middle of its chest, where a cluster of light glows.
“We are not releasing you. We are sending you out for a purpose, and you will always be ours. Even if you win the contest you’ll work for us, giving us all the information about your Chosen that we require. Is that very clear?”
How could he be clearer? He might as well have told me the rest of my life will be awful no matter what. Death by incineration is a thing of nightmares, but life for a successful Love Interest isn’t exactly a happily ever after. After winning, the Love Interest needs to be a perfect partner to prevent his Chosen from ever moving on.
Also, he must betray a person who loves him every single day. I force the thought down, trying to keep it from showing in my eyes.
“Crystal.”
“All right. Now, sit. There is one last thing we must discuss now that I know I can trust you.”
Rubbing my burning neck, I sit down. The hologram fades away.
Craike sits too. “I want you to tell me what you think the LIC trains Love Interests for. I’m sure a smart boy like you has some theories. Answer truthfully or you’ll be punished.”
My first instinct is to ignore his threat and lie anyway, to make him think I haven’t thought about this as much as I have. But he’s already sho
wn that he has an excellent bullshit detector, so I have to tell the truth.
“I think this is all about surveillance,” I say. “Only superimportant people are assigned Love Interests, right? I think you want our Chosen to fall for one of us so that she’ll tell us all her secrets. And then we’ll tell those secrets to you.”
He smiles, but his eyes remain cold. “You know more than most. Do you have any questions about our motives? Most do, and we have nothing to hide here. An informed Love Interest is an effective Love Interest.”
I’m shocked, but I don’t let it show. I’ve spent a huge portion of my life trying to figure out what the LIC is training me for. I’ve known for a long time that they’re teaching me to be some sort of spy—that’s obvious from some of the classes they make us take—but I’ve never known why. I sort of figured I’d always be kept in the dark about most of the ins and outs of their operations. That’s just the way they are.
“The only thing I don’t understand,” I say, “is why the LIC values secrets so highly. I mean, you’ve gone to all this effort”—I gesture to the Stalker—“to create this place and train Love Interests, just to spy?”
Craike places his hands on the table. “Let me put it this way: how much do you think people are willing to pay for a piece of information that could end a presidency or destroy a rival company?”
“A lot?”
“A lot is correct. Love Interests acquire information for us, and then we sell that knowledge for more money than most people earn their entire lives. You were incorrect, though, in assuming we deal in secrets, because we don’t. We didn’t train you to tell us gossip.” He spits the word out like it’s dirty. “We deal in information. The right piece of information can be truly devastating if it’s precisely aimed. You’ll be surprised by how willing people are to hand over information that could ruin them to the people they love. The LIC has been profiting from people’s affection for centuries.”
“Centuries?” I ask. I’d guessed because the LIC is so high-tech that it was a fairly new organization.
The Love Interest Page 3