“Brought you some food.”
Her stomach recoiled, but she figured she ought to fake gratitude anyway. Pete might have employed some risky maneuvers on her part.
“Oh, um… great. Thanks.” She forced a smile.
Pete searched around in his pockets and fished out a worn, but rather large, baggie. He held up the prize.
“Care for some chocolate covered peanuts?”
Fran reached out to take the treat, but Pete snatched it back.
“Not so fast.” He scooted closer.
How could I forget?
Although in an awkward position, he managed nestle up next to Fran and exhale a chocolaty breath in her face. Fran turned her head to offer Pete his prize, but he didn’t lean in right away. Instead, he reached over and cupped the back of her head. Fran froze as he moved his thumb in easy circles at the base of her skull. He still reeked of the Agora—a mixture of fried foods and humanity. Fran sensed a layer of men’s cologne hidden within Pete’s bounty of smells and realized he must have gussied up for tonight’s event from a display counter. How sweet. Her heart kind-of mushed for his obvious puppy love.
She didn’t resist when he pulled her close. In a way, his nearness brought comfort, and her shoulders relaxed for the first time that day. His hot breath on her ear tickled as he whispered her name.
Not Wolf.
Not Fran.
But here real name…Sarah. The name she swore off during her schooling years when her sixth year teacher mortified her by proclaiming that Sarah meant “Princess.” Her classmates had giggled until her face burned. From then on, she had become Fran. But now, as the name floated from Pete’s lips, enveloped in a hot whisper, it transformed her. The darkness of the day vanished. A flicker of youth flashed through her soul. Their lips touched―just barely―with a sliver of a breath still between them. Somewhere in the moments between the peanut exchange and their merging breath, something changed. For a fraction of a moment, the clown turned into a hero. She pressed into Pete’s warm mouth. The cologne, the breath, and a warm sensation in her belly overwhelmed her senses.
His grip tightened on her head, and as he slipped a second arm around her back, her dreads tangled in his fingers, jerking her head back. Pete mumbled a quick, “sorry,” as Fran came to her senses and pulled away.
They both remained silent.
Finally, Pete cleared his throat. “Okay... Well... Um... Here you go.”
He thrust the bag in Fran’s direction. Just as her fingers curled around the plastic, he tugged it, along with Fran, toward him. She released the sack and pressed her spine into the cold metal of the pipe.
“Um, you should go, Pete.”
An uncomfortable silence hung between them.
“Hey, I was just kidding, you know.” He tossed the bag to Fran, and shimmied backwards. His loud voice amplified off the surrounding metal pipe. “I mean, this guy knows when to leave well enough alone.”
Fran heard a ‘thud’ and looked up to see Pete rubbing his head. He mumbled a few curses and moved outside of the glow from the Light Genie. His strained voice rang out from the darkness.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Fran allowed a tiny smile to inch across her face.
Chapter Nine
After giving Pete ample time to scatter, Fran tucked the reader into her jacket and headed to the Agora. The post-game, semi-deserted courts lacked the typical bustle. Outside of some leftover gaming wannabes who huddled around the small screens and a few service workers on litter patrol, a small stream of residents trickled around the periphery. Fran sashayed to a charging counter and did a quick shoulder check before pulling the reader from its confines and sliding it onto an energizing pad. She ticked off the seconds in her head and flicked her gaze between the power indicator on her reader and her surroundings. Her skin prickled as a Graphie hovered near one of the small gaming boards ID’ing each of the amateur gamers.
Fran remained on high alert. A nanosecond after the ping indicated a complete charge, she swiped the reader from the pad, and stowed it back into her jacket, while moving toward the nearest vent opening.
Once tucked into the darkness she let out a sigh, moved back to her niche, and before long, the glow of the reader again reflected from the walls of her comfortable cubby. She lay prone, propped on her elbows, with her chin resting on the back of balled fists.
Her stomach growled. Seriously? Already?
Like a greedy child, it seemed the more her appetite received, the more it begged. She felt around for the crinkly bag Pete had left behind and then poked a hole through the plastic. After corralling a handful of morsels, she popped a single nut into her mouth and allowed it rest on her tongue, savoring the sensation of the sweet chocolate. Soon the coating melted, and the flavor of the salty nut nipped her tongue. She popped another into her mouth and continued reading.
It’s been two weeks. Two weeks since Ema exited through the portal and journeyed into the old world I had known as a child. And one week and six days since her two escorts returned.
Alone.
They say it was cold. That it rained an acid-like substance. They took cover in a nearby cave, and Ema insisted they stay the night. When they awoke, she was gone.
That’s what they said.
I insisted we send out a search team. I screamed at Marcus to let me find her, begged him to open the portal. I even threatened to share the secret with the entire city.
He said it was too late. Claimed they soldered it shut this time.
But I don’t believe him. He’s not the same man. An evil seed has sprouted in his soul. A wickedness. A greediness. A desire to rule and control. So what do I do? Where can I go?
She swiped the screen eager for the next entry, but an empty white glow emitted from the screen. She swiped again.
And again. The reader mocked her efforts with pale light and a soft hum.
That was it? The end? What about “and we all got out and lived happily ever after?” Or “and by the way, if you want to come for a visit, just click the button behind the empty locker in room fifty-five?”
Why would someone reach into her soul and yank out the newly-planted seed of hope before it had even had time to take root? She wanted to toss the reader down the shaft and into the black abyss before a modicum of reason resurfaced.
What good would that do? Besides, I can still play games and stuff with it.
Her hands shook, and her mind buzzed. Who was this guy? She wished Chan were here. They’d talk about it for hours, investigate every angle and possible scenario. Together, they would unfold the mystery. Does the exit even exist? Was it soldered shut and hidden away? Did Chan even try to find his way out, or did he fall to the decline before he had the opportunity?
On a sigh, she powered down the reader and nestled into her crinkly canvas blanket to think. Her fingers rubbed the surface, a habit leftover from childhood. The constant touching had worn the fabric, making it soft like old-fashioned cotton. That’s what Mom told her anyway.
In the darkness, her mind tracked through the long day. A hard nub bit into her hip, and she felt around under the canvas to locate the disturbance—a chocolate-covered peanut. Pete’s goofy smile flashed through her brain, and a shiver threatened her spine, stirring unexpected emotions. Was she ready for this?
Back in fifth grade, she had brought a pamphlet home from school describing what to expect during the Years of Awareness. Mom had sat down and talked to Fran about love and kissing and stuff. It had all been very mortifying. Even worse, after the embarrassing conversation with Mom, the next day at school, boys and girls were placed into separate classrooms and the discussion continued with a social worker specializing in the Years of Awareness. As a class, they watched a documentary-style video discussing each part of the lip, face, and the various other sensory mechanisms. Every girl had received an anatomically-correct, gender-appropriate plastic doll’s head, and for homework, they were encouraged to poke, prod, soothe and e
ven try out a kiss on their silicone friend. They received quizzes and tests, just like any other class. No big deal.
Fran had done fine with the academics even if the idea of kissing a real, live boy terrified her. However, it seemed along with this learning, the rest of her classmates had catapulted into their awareness and couldn’t wait to test the waters. She avoided this new wave of activity by staying away from unchaperoned parties and soon forgot about the whole matter―until the day at the Agora when Freddie Stevenson and his posse tracked her down.
They’d followed her around like a pack of pesky Graphies, making kissing sounds and snickering the whole way. The more she ignored the boisterous crew, the louder they became. When she heard freckled-face Freddie announce her as “Sally-Spinster” and “Doll-Lover” from the PA system on the stage in front of hundreds of strangers, however, Fran’s simmering temper rose to a boil.
With confidence, she marched up to Freddie and planted a smooch on his lips so intense his face turned bright red. He ran off stammering something about having to get to work. After that, no one tried to kiss Fran again.
Until Pete.
What was it about Pete’s nearness last night that had unnerved her? He really did annoy her, right? Never serious, always joking. And what about those crazy eyebrows? She inhaled, remembering the scent of his cheesy cologne. The corners of her mouth twitched with amusement, and that weird feeling returned to her gut. Time to shut down the brain. She sighed and closed her eyes.
Hours later, the need to use the bathroom woke her. She rolled onto her side and lifted up into crawl-mode to make a beeline to the Agora. An angry bladder spurred her on, and she scuttled through the vent in record time. She punched in the code, scurried out the opening, and scampered toward the public restrooms. Because a few cafes remained open, the smell of fresh roasted coffee beans filled the air. The light pedestrian traffic proved to be a good thing for efficiency but not such a good thing for the risk of exposure.
After she relieved her bloated bladder, Fran stopped to do what any civilized human being would do. She waved a hand under the spigot and enjoyed the feel of warm water on cold, achy fingers. A moment later, bubbly soap entered the stream, and Fran scrubbed at the dirt layered onto her skin from the sooty ventilation systems. Did she dare peek in the mirror? Her face might need a good scouring as well.
Fran lifted her eyes, and a Wolf stared back. She moved one hand out of the stream of sudsy water and touched her matted hair. She knew the ends had wrapped together into the ancient style of dreadlocks, but she hadn’t realized her once springy curls had all but disappeared into a ragged pile of mange. Soot covered her dirty face, and shifty, blue eyes tracked her movements. In place of her once plump apple cheeks were sharp angles and deep recesses. Her upturned nose now pointed forward, and her neck and jaw appeared more streamlined. In a way, she saw the illusion of her own mother—the way Fran always remembered her before she declined.
Weird.
She scoured the soot from her face, ran her fingers through her hair and tried, without success, to break up the dreads before shrugging skinny shoulders and departing.
As she meandered through the Agora, Fran amused herself with the reflection she had just witnessed and laughed at her own double standards. After all, Pete didn’t look bad with his thick, wavy hair and deep brown eyes. Actually, the only thing about Pete she found even a tiny bit unattractive were his slightly-bony shoulders.
And he’d kissed her face last night? More power to ya, Pete.
In an instant, her brain retreated back to the old sleeping niche, to the glow of the Light Genie on Pete’s easygoing eyes. The feel of his breath. His strong hand on her ratty head. Fran’s heart rate picked up a few extra beats as she wandered and reminisced.
Lost in her thoughts, she missed the heavy static in the air.
And tingle down her spine.
Temporary paralysis struck like rude lightening, yanking her out of her sweet reverie. She kept her gaze to the floor, yet only a single pair of ratty boots to contemplate meant only a single set of eyes to scan. No time for the paralysis to wear off. No time to find a place to hide.
“In the name of the Impervious Authorities, I request Accountability,” the mechanized voice demanded.
For some reason, in the heat of the moment, Fran considered the weirdest thing. I wonder whose voice they used to create the Graphie commands. It didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t she be freaking? Shouldn’t she be struggling against the paralysis? Shouldn’t she at least be damning the Council in her Rebel head? Yet, instead, this odd thought popped into her mind? Maybe she’d lost it after all. Or maybe she knew.
Her time was up.
Fran lifted her chin and opened her eyes. A red beam flashed in her vision.
“You have been found Unaccountable. By the authority of the Council, you are under arrest….”
She felt Pete’s thumb rubbing circles on the back of her head and his breath as he whispered her name. She smelled cheesy cologne and tasted chocolate peanuts. Then her world went dark.
Chapter Ten
“How do you feel?”
Fran lay still, eyes closed, with a throbbing skull. A headache couldn’t encompass the sensation—too small of a word for too big of a pain. She didn’t know who spoke but also didn’t care.
“Shoot me in the head.”
It took great effort to get the words to push up her raspy throat and past sticky lips.
“Rebel, your season of unaccountability has ended. You have been entered back into the system.”
Graphie or real man? The voice sounded real enough without the audible reverberations of a Graphie, so she placed her bet on the latter. She wanted to peek—just to see—so she peeled heavy lids from her sticky eyeballs and tried to focus on the face. She felt cross-eyed. The room spun. She moaned and closed her eyes.
“It won’t take long. Give it another hour or so, and you should feel like your old self.”
Old self? Which self? She didn’t even want to go there. Especially since her head would soon explode. All over the room. And this strange half-life would be over. She kept her eyes clamped and drifted away.
Before long, a small recognition of sound filtered into her unconscious mind, followed by the glimmer of awareness of her body, which eased into full cognizance of her location. And situation. She opened her eyes. Her headache had ceased. As a matter of fact, unlike waking in the niche, where her eyes would shoot open and a small panic would fill her chest, Fran experienced the feeling of gradual awareness.
To a white ceiling.
And white walls.
Mummified in white sheets, all sanitary and smelling like soap. Fran wriggled an arm out from her freshly laundered confines. A spotless hand boasted neatly trimmed nails. What? How long had she been out? She lifted the manicured fingers to her head, unsure what to expect. Soft hair tickled her fingers, and a fine curl brushed over her wrist.
How did they? She touched a ringlet and enjoyed the light tugging sensation as she combed through the stray lock. But her fingers slipped through to the ends way too soon.
After the third grade, when Mom had taken her to the butcher who had chopped her hair into a babyish bob, Fran had vowed never to cut her hair again. And other than dusting some frayed ends now and then, she hadn’t wavered from her pledge. Her hair, although ratty and untamed on last inspection, had touched the center of her spine. But now? Now, as she tried to pull her strands into a low pony, the short curls sprang loose. Her heart thumped as she yanked her left arm free from the sheets. A metal bangle encircled her wrist. Fran swallowed hard to rid the lump forming in her throat.
In spite of the wave of nausea reeling through her body, Fran rose from the bed and moved to a reflective panel on the sliding door. Loose ringlets framed her face like a white puffy cloud. They dangled over her ears and brushed along her jawline. Maybe one or two touched the collar of her gown, but not one reached her shoulder.
The bangle glinted with
a sarcastic wink, and Fran realized the device to be a locator. Which meant security would be aware of her every move.
She huffed and her jaw tightened. Her blue eyes held the cold stare of an animal. This fight had just begun.
.~.
A few hours later, after signing on to official Accountable status and re-pledging the Impervious Oath, Fran was released from Holding to her own care, although the bracelet ensured she was never quite alone. So concerned with her well-being after all of the scrubbing and snipping, the Council imparted her with a few credits for clothing and restored her food allowance. Fran licked her lips, eager to do something she hadn’t done in a very, very long time.
Although super self-conscious in the skirt they had given her to wear, she felt a strange liberation. Maybe this new status would allow her to sleuth with greater ease. She could even visit the Ranch via elevator. Maybe Accountability could work in her favor. Of course, one small sticking point remained. Fran gazed down at the metal bracelet encircling her wrist and then shrugged. She’d figure something out.
She headed to the hub of the city, moseyed into line at The Lunch Hut, and scanned the menu as it scrolled across a floating screen. Sandwiches with a hundred different combos, salads, pasta, pastries, gelato, lattes…
Before Fran could wrap her brain around all of the choices, a female Graphie appeared by her side, smiling like they always did.
“Hi there! What do you have a taste for today?”
Everything. Fran knew that wouldn’t fly, as voice-rec accepted specific menu items only. No chitchat. Instead, she began to recite a list:
“Turkey sandwich on a bun with mayo. No. Make that two… two turkey sandwiches on buns with mayo. A large mac’n’cheese. Chocolate milkshake…”
She squinted as the menu scrolled, moving faster than she could process.
“Is that all, Sarah Monde?”
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