by Ana Mardoll
Christian looks up from where he squats on the floor, his hands moving quickly over one of my abandoned shoes while Justin stands nearby doing the same with the other. "We've got options, but nothing promising," Christian says, not looking up from his meticulous examination.
"Well, unlike Alpha, he hasn't got any tattoos." I look up to see Tony strolling over, watching me with his unreadable dark eyes. I'd already been mildly uncomfortable with the guys stripping me down, but now I'm suddenly very aware of how naked I am. I'm taking on faith that I'm easy on the eyes—at least as handsome as any of the other guys here—but standing here stripped bare in the torchlight would be easier if he'd smile or joke or something. Anything other than that cool steady gaze I can't get a solid read on.
"He hasn't," Reese agrees, appearing not to notice my discomfort. "And there's nothing in his hair, at least not that I can find." He pats over my head trying to be gentle, but his rough fingers catch in the tiny corkscrews that spill over my shoulders. I wince at the sudden tug and wish I hadn't when I see Lucas smirk.
I don't want to look weak, so I focus on Tony and the white cloth he's tied about his waist and which drops to just above his knee. I wonder if they'll let me dress soon, and if I'll have the same wrapped cloth as the others. I play with words in my mind, wishing I could determine where they came from. Shoes, pants, shirt, briefs; these are the things being taken from me. The words for what the other boys wear are different: skirt, wrap, cloth, towel, sarong, lavalava.
This last word rolls around my mind like a sweet special treat, something just for me and not for the others. How do I know these things? If I could just figure out the source—
"Oh, now here's something!" Reese's voice breaks through my thoughts, his hands patting at a leather cuff on my wrist. I hadn't noticed it before, but when he fumbles with the snap and takes it off, I feel the absence of it.
"No, I-I need to keep that," I tell him, reaching out for the thing I didn't even know I had until I'd lost it.
He doesn't hand it back, but his eyes soften. "Hey. We just need to look at it, okay? Only for a bit." I don't like being separated from it, but I can't think of a good reason to tell him no. I ball my fists into the sides of my legs and try to act cool as he hands it over for Matías to examine.
The cuff is soft brown leather, almost the exact color of my skin. The leather is smooth, and the tiny stitches along the side are so small I can barely see them under Matías' gently probing fingers. The brass snaps that held the cuff closed glitter warmly in the firelight, and I notice another snap along the center length of the cuff. This central snap holds in place a tiny rectangular flap of material which folds over the front of the cuff, forming a small pouch.
"Something inside?" Christian guesses, even as Matías carefully thumbs open the flap. He taps the cuff and a thin piece of metal slides out, the warm glimmering brass falling into his hand.
"Look!" Tony orders, but we're already staring at the tiny engraved words.
"What does it say?" Justin asks, craning his neck to see.
Matías takes it gingerly between his fingers, holding it up to catch the light. "'Life is a song; love is the lyrics,'" he reads. "And on the other side, one word: 'Keoki'."
"It's a pick," I breathe, almost trembling with the effort not to snatch it out of his hand. "You make music with it." I'm sure of this, though I can't quite work out how. Something to do with strings and fingers, with practice and skill and magic.
"Is that your name?" Reese asks, his voice hopeful. "Keoki?"
I blink at him; I'd been focusing on the pick, not the words. Is that my name? Keoki? I'm not sure. It's a name, but it doesn't instantly sound like my name. Surely a name should feel more certain than this, something you know in your heart. But what other options do I have?
"Uh. Yes," I agree, feeling a surge of relief when Matías hands back the cuff and pick. I nestle the pick back into the cuff and fasten it around my wrist, breathing easy again when it's secure.
"Well, better that than shoes," Christian says with a grin, nudging Justin with his elbow before stretching in a bored way. "Christian," he adds by way of introduction, fingering a little rectangle of white bone that hangs on a silver thread around his neck. I peer closer and see his name in letters going down the pendant, ending in an engraved cross that tugs vaguely at my blank memory.
"Reese," Reese repeats, handing over a thick cloth square and helping to wrap it around me. He lifts his wrist and I see he has a bracelet, too: shiny silver beads on a leather string, the letters of his name spelled out one bead at a time.
"Lucas, and you'd better remember, newbie," Lucas tosses off, holding up thin stamped steel tags that dangle from a dull metal chain around his neck.
"Justin," the younger kid mumbles without enthusiasm, his hands fumbling with a bit of torn cloth that I can't see well in the light; I catch a big red "J" alongside black and white lettering that seems strangely familiar to my eyes. The cloth is ragged at the edges, like a tag torn from a shirt. Or a shoe, I realize.
I look up at Tony, expecting him to join in the litany of names. "Tony to you," he says, his voice tinged with defiant pride. He reaches into the knot at his waist and pulls out a tiny rectangle of cloth, printed with fine letters.
I peer at it in the firelight, my lips moving with the words. Property of, written in a soft curving scroll and ending in a tiny colon; on the next line, in bold straight letters: Anthony Suen. Soft threads fray at the edges of the rectangle, as if it had been pulled away from a larger piece of cloth.
"Where did you—"
My question is cut away by the screech of grinding metal on stone, a sound that sets my teeth on edge and causes the boys to jump. Christian hastily kicks my clothes into a small pile, while Matías moves to stand between me and the sound. The group of us turns to face the far wall where a pair of doors—taller and wider than the little single doors dotted around the cavern, and so tightly wrapped in scrolling black iron that I can barely see the wood underneath—opens with a ponderous lack of rapidity.
"Good match. That was a good show for the crowd. Very well done." The voice is low and dull, and I hate him even before I see him. His manner is different from the way the other boys praised me, as if I weren't a person at all but just a piece of entertainment. Then he walks through the opened door and into the firelight and it's all I can do not to recoil. It's not his gray skin or even the cuts in his face and hands; scars don't bother me. It's the pattern of the strange swirls, the sickly fear emanating from him and the way he looks directly at us even though his eyes are tightly shut.
"We've collected his clothes for you, Handler," Matías says in a deferential tone.
"That's good," the intruder says, pushing forward a wheeled cart. He towers over it, taller than all of us by more than a head. On the cart are bowls filled with bread and spiced meat, tantalizing steam rising from the offerings. "That's very good, Teacher. That's why we keep you alive. Clothes on the cart."
Reese and Christian jump forward to pull bowls off the cart and hand them around while Matías picks up my clothes from the ground and deposits them as ordered. His knee doesn't allow him to bend, but Justin squats on the floor and hands up the articles to him, flinching whenever the gray man turns his way.
"The new one did well," Handler observes, swiveling his face to me. "The Master has decided to keep him; the crowd enjoyed his creativity. He needs a name for the betting cards, and we haven't used Granite in a while." He chuckles, a soft dry cough of a noise as emotionless as his empty voice. "Not that you boys care, but we have to call you something, don't we?"
Matías nods at him, his stiff outline scrupulously polite. "Thank you, Handler. Granite is pleased to have performed well. We are grateful for the warm meal."
"Good," the towering creature says flatly, not looking in his direction. "We like obedient boys. The hot food is reward for his performance, and a Prize will be sent to his room. Eat quickly; rooms by fourth bell and sleep at fifth bel
l." With that, he turns and pushes the cart out of the cavern, the giant doors scraping closed behind him.
I shiver once he's gone, despite the warmth of the torches. The other guys ignore me, scarfing down food as quickly as they can. Reese eventually looks up, nodding at the bowl he'd placed in my hands earlier. "Hey, you need to eat. Won't be any more food until first bell, and it won't be hot then."
None of this stuff about bells makes any sense to me, but I tear off a piece of bread and try to choke it down. It's good, hot and fluffy, but my stomach is still clenched from the fight earlier and from the invasive presence of that man just now. I chew the bread without any enthusiasm and chase it with a bite of meat.
"What do you look so glum for?" Lucas snaps at me, tearing into his own food with decidedly more verve. "You get a Prize. Some of us have to wait until Auction, you know."
I'm not sure how to respond; I don't know what kind of prize they're talking about, but it must be something good to make him so jealous. "Well, of course I get a prize," I tell him, taking a large bite of bread just to spite him. "I was awesome out there. I'm good enough to be rolling in prizes."
Christian chuckles. "Now there's an ambition," he says, nodding with solemn approval as his eyes dance.
I think of Tony then, how he helped me in the arena and how Lucas had taunted him, acting as if the kill hadn't been his. I remember how fiercely he'd asserted his usefulness. Why isn't he a getting a prize? I wonder. But I can fix that. I jerk my thumb at him, the gesture including us both. "And I'm gonna share my prizes with Tony," I tell Lucas, taking another bite of meat and looking him right in the eye.
Reese chokes at my declaration, coughing hard and needing to be pounded on his broad back by Matías. Shit, I think, realizing I've misspoke but with no idea how. Christian smirks and Lucas glowers at me, but Tony just watches with those dark eyes. Once again, I have absolutely no idea what he's thinking.
"Are we, uh, not allowed to share prizes?" I ask Reese, trying to sound nonchalant.
Matías opens his mouth, looking grave, but before he can speak the sound of a bell rings out through the cavern. The noise is deafeningly loud and I drop my bowl so I can clap both hands to my ears. The bell clangs four times in total before fading into blessed silence. None of the other boys seem surprised; they set down their food and drift off towards the smaller wooden doors set in the walls. Each of them moves towards a separate door and they all seem to know where they're going.
"Wait, what are we doing?" I ask, panic rising at the thought of being left alone.
Reese pulls me up by the elbow, his coughing fit having subsided. "Shit, we forgot the tour. Real quick, 'k? Big tunnel leads to the arena; that's the gate where you came in. Smaller tunnel there slopes up to a little cave over the gate; they put a slit in the rock so we could watch the fights. Doors are private rooms. You're here," he adds, directing me to a nearby door. "This was Alpha's old room, and yours now. That was fourth bell, so we gotta clear out of the cavern so Handler can clean it. Fifth bell will ring in a bit and you have to sleep then. We'll see you afterward, at first bell. Got all that?"
I nod, feeling a little frightened by all this but trying to be cool. "Uh, sure. Bells. But what about this prize thing?" I don't really care—there's nothing I want right now except to stay with these guys—but it had seemed important.
He shakes his head as he strides to a door just down the wall from mine. "You'll be fine, kid," Reese calls back over his shoulder. "Just, uh. Be nice to her?" Then he slips into his room, closing the heavy wooden door behind him, and I'm left alone.
Chapter 7
Aniyah
"Heather's right; we have to hurry." Hana brushes her hands on her gauze skirt as she stands. "Handler said he'd be back soon with third meal; that doesn't give us much time. Chloe, Imani, help me undress them. Sappho, Heather, you go through their clothes looking for words. Check the necks and sides—"
"We know the drill," Heather snaps. Despite her earlier indolence, she unfolds herself quickly from the ground. Hana thins her lips but hurries to our side of the table, her hands flying over my body in a complicated dance with Imani's own gentle movements as they begin to strip me. On my other side, I see Chloe helping a frozen Miyuki out of her shoes and skirt.
I ought to protest, fighting to keep my clothes as long as possible, yet I don't want to alienate the only friends I have. They'd spoken so casually about punishments, about the Master being willing to kill us for any infraction. Is that really a thing that happens? If so, how many other girls have stood here before me, stripped by these expert hands such that there's an established drill they follow? I don't know what to believe, except to hope these girls really do have my best interests at heart.
Our clothes are pulled away: shirts, shoes, and panties all stripped off and handed to Sappho and Heather. When we're stripped to the skin, Hana flashes an apologetic smile. "Stay here. We'll get you fresh clothes in a while, but we don't have much time to look through your old ones." With that, she hurries to the splash of sunlight where the others are sorting through the pile of our belongings.
"There's nothing new here," Sappho complains, peering at the inside collar of my shirt. "The same words as usual, but they still don't make sense; I'm sure navy is a blue color, not orange, and none of these are old or faded!" The other girls ignore her, digging deeper into the pile, but their expressions are grim.
A soft touch on my arm causes me to jump; I spin on my heel to find myself face-to-face with Miyuki, her hand outstretched toward me.
"Sorry," she says, "I didn't mean to startle you. But you have— Does it hurt?"
I stare at her, frowning in confusion. "Does what hurt?"
Miyuki hesitates, biting her lip. "You have a scar. Here, let me?"
She reaches out and takes me by the shoulders, turning me around until I'm facing away from her. "Here," she says, and I feel her finger touch my back, just below my right shoulder blade. There's a small rut there; I can feel it, the way her finger dips into a tiny valley of skin. Then she traces down and around my side, her finger traveling over uneven bumps as she follows the track of the scar. She ends facing me again as the cut stops at my hip, just under the curve of my belly.
"There are words here," she says suddenly, bending to study my hip.
I lift my arm out of the way, craning my neck to look with her. "There are? What do they say?"
It's a vulnerable feeling, having my own body described to me by a stranger. Yet with the others occupied as they are, we're wrapped in a sort of privacy. Again I wonder who this girl was to me before our minds were blanked. Has she done this before, seen me up close like this? Or is this the first time she's read the words inked into my skin?
"'Bent not broken'," she reads aloud. "Written in cursive, all lowercase." Her finger lightly touches my skin, following the trail of tiny letters underlined by the last few inches of the long scar. She looks up at me, brushing the hair from her eyes. "What do you think that means?" she asks. "A scar like this had to be something serious, right?"
I close my eyes, wishing I could disappear inside myself to emerge with the answers. My body feels like my body: there's a heaviness in my lower back; a tightness in my neck and shoulders; a dullness along my side where the scar tissue cuts a path from front to back. There was pain before, when I twisted to see Handler as he entered, and I had struggled to sit up straight when Hana woke me. But I have no frame of reference for whether any of that is normal or not, no reason to believe I'm bent or broken in any way.
"Aniyah?" she whispers, reaching her hand out to touch my arm.
I open my eyes, offering a smile in place of the words I can't find. With her arm outstretched, I see her chains glint dully in the shadows and I notice something else: writing on her skin, though not the deep ink of a tattoo. The words are smudged, as if water and a determined finger could swipe them away. "What's that?" I ask, craning my neck to see.
She looks with me, her gaze dropping to her arm, her f
ingers reaching tentatively to hover over the words. Four little columns of two rows, grouped together: she, xie; her, xer; hers, xers; herself, xerself. Next to them is a tiny flower in black ink. Something about the words tugs at the vacuum where my memory should be; I can't place them, but have the feeling that they're important.
"What do you think they mean?" I ask, but before she can answer me, voices are raised behind us.
Heather stands next to the pile of our clothes, her bare feet set in a stubborn stance as she and Hana angrily stare each other down. Imani and Sappho kneel on the ground, folding our clothes and wearing expressions of quiet disappointment. Chloe is missing, and it takes me a moment to find her in the shadows near the waterfall where she gathers up stacks of flimsy cloth in her arms from a wall niche. New clothes, I realize, my heart sinking at the reminder that our old ones are soon to be taken.
"I said, I'm going," Heather states loudly, with the air of someone repeating herself.
Hana's dark eyes flash with determination. "You are not. Handler said the fighter is new, and you know I have dibs on the new ones."
"You had the last one," the blond girl counters hotly. "We agreed to take turns. Now it's my turn."
"You said we would take turns," Hana corrects her. "I didn't agree then and I'm not agreeing now. I get all the new ones, and that's just how it is."
Imani stands, wiping her hands on her skirt. "Handler will be back soon," she says quietly. "If he hears you two arguing, he may take the choice away entirely. No one wants that."
"Then I guess Hana needs to see reason," Heather snaps, her eyes narrowing.
Hana steps closer to her, staring up at the taller girl without fear. "Heather. I am not going to argue about this with you," she says, her voice low and firm. "If you want to do it the hard way, I will choke you unconscious and tell Handler you're taking a nap. Is that what you want?" Stillness ripples through the cavern in the wake of her threat and Sappho tucks her knees under her chin, looking away from the fight.