by Jack Alden
I take deep breaths just to be sure I can, just to be sure I’m still alive. When I look down at my hands, fear slices through my gut. The gleaming metallic scales have settled into my skin, creating a dark uniform layer of chrome over every inch of my body. It somehow feels the same, smooth as the skin has always been. A thought enters the back of my mind like a whisper. I don’t actually think it. It simply appears there, as if the Viper is speaking to me, murmuring through the tiny chip embedded in my neck. You wanted to be indestructible. Now you are.
Indestructible. It must be some sort of shield. I’m not sure how it can protect me, but something tells me it will. Is this how the POINT assassins protected themselves? My mind reels with questions, but I know they’ll never be answered. There’s no one left to answer them. I’m on my own.
I turn my gaze back to the Captain. He’s still alive, but only just. His head droops to the side, eyes fixed to his left. I follow his gaze to my own reflection, staring back at me from the smooth metal of the Captain’s discarded gun. It’s a shocking sight, something out of a dream. I look exactly the same but different. My hair, my eyes, every feature. It’s all there, familiar, but my skin is something else. Something unreal. Robotic.
The Captain’s voice is hoarse, dying. Blood gurgles in his throat with each breath he takes. “What are you?”
I don’t know how to answer. I don’t know that there even is an answer. I look into his eyes as their light slowly fades. They become still, tear-stained panes of glass, open but lifeless. The gurgling stops. I wait for a feeling of relief or even joy, the satisfaction of justice, but it doesn’t come. What comes, instead, is the answer to the captain’s final question.
I am a killer.
***
I collapse to the floor. My knees won’t stop shaking, and I can’t stop staring at the Captain’s cold, dead eyes. Any minute now, the rest of the Squad will realize something’s wrong. Will they come running? Find their Captain lifeless on the floor, and me sitting in a pool of his blood with the weapon that killed him hanging loosely in my hand? What will happen then? They can’t shoot me. The bullets will only ricochet off my skin; at least, I think they will. I’m not exactly sure how this stuff is supposed to work. There is one thing I do know, though. If they can’t kill me, they’ll turn their guns on my family, and I can’t let that happen. I’ve already lost a father and a brother…two brothers.
One more minute. I’ll allow myself one more minute to sit here. A minute to breathe. A minute to grieve. I couldn’t save my brother, my wonderful, brave brother. He’s dead. Dead because of me. I drop my forehead into my hand and close my eyes. Great sobs become trapped in my throat, making it difficult to breathe. I want to let them free. I want to scream. I want my brother.
A groan sounds from somewhere behind me, the corner of the room. It’s soft, nearly inaudible, but like thunder inside my head. I jump to my feet so fast the room spins. A cry catches in my throat, so hard I nearly choke. There, coated in dust and half under the mattress he’d hastily thrown from its rails, lies Tempest. He’s little more than a heap on the floor, but I can see movement, lit by moonlight spilling through a fresh hole in the wall. My brother. He’s alive.
I stumble over my feet to get to him, toss the mattress off his back, and drop to my knees at his side. I can’t see his wounds. I know I need to assess them, but I’m afraid to turn him over. I’m afraid to touch him. I imagine a gaping hole in his chest or stomach, exposed intestines, shattered ribcage. Irreparable. The image in my head is enough to scare me away from any attempt to turn him over to see what is currently hidden from view. The expanding pool of blood beneath him makes me queasy. I’m scared. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my entire life. I should feel elated, just knowing he’s alive. Instead, I feel sick. Faint. Terror courses through my veins. How had he survived this? How much longer can he hold on? The thought that he was dead was torment enough. I can’t actually watch it happen. I won’t survive it.
Get it together, Dagger. If there’s any chance I can save him, I’ve got to try. I latch onto his boulder of a bicep and push as hard as I can. He isn’t dead, but he’s definitely dead weight. Completely limp. Heavy. I get him on his side and have to take a breath. He’s so weak he can’t even manage a scream, but his pain is clear, etched across his face, and I want to scream for him. His eyes flutter open and widen, as if stunned to realize we’re both still alive. Then I remember my reflection. The armor. I must look like something out of a nightmare. Only a wet gurgle escapes as he tries to speak, opening and closing his mouth. I’ve never seen him look so scared.
“Shh,” I say, trying to sound calm. My voice shakes anyway. “Stop. Don’t try to talk.”
His bare chest makes it easy to examine his wounds, except I don’t see any. His chest and stomach are fine. That can’t be. I swipe away the blood, searching, but find nothing. No holes. Not even a scratch. The blood is coming from beneath him.
“I have to get you on your back,” I tell him. He shakes his head, blood-soaked hair sticking to his cheeks. “Yes, I have to. I know it’s going to hurt, but I have to stop the bleeding.”
Before he can protest again, I give him one hard shove. There’s no time to be delicate. Blood spurts over his lip as he rolls, a wet groan jumping up from his throat, and, instantly, I wish I hadn’t moved him at all. I turn away just as my stomach clenches. Bile scorches up my throat, and I can’t choke it down. My eyes sting and water as I spill my stomach onto the floor.
It’s not that I can’t handle the sight of blood. I can. It’s just that this…it’s so much worse. The skin just below Tempest’s shoulder is ragged. Stripped muscle and tissue hangs, bloody and lifeless, and below that? There’s nothing. His right arm is gone, completely disconnected from his torso. I can see the bone, shattered at the edge of the bloody stump left behind, and I want to scream. Again and again and again.
“Okay,” I say. I have to be strong now. I have to be smart. I wipe my mouth on the back of my arm and swallow down the bitter taste of vomit. A sob jumps up my throat. I swallow it down too. “Okay, I can handle this. We can handle this. Okay?” I wipe the hair off Tempest’s face and hold his fluttering gaze. “We can do this.”
There has to be something in the room I can use as a tourniquet. I dart to the corner and grab the first bit of material I can get my hands on—a sheet from Beck’s makeshift bed—then back to Tempest. He lets out a heavy, wet breath. Tears streaks the dust and blood on his face. “You’re going to be okay,” I tell him. “Just keep breathing.” He nods and relief crashes over me like a wave. He’s still with me.
The sheet soaks through as soon as it touches the stump, but I can’t let that discourage me. I loop it around the stump, over and over, then tie it as tightly as I can manage. I never imagined I’d have to use my father’s lessons this way, not on my brother. The knot creates a good, tight hold, but it’s not going to be enough, not for long. Tempest needs medical attention soon or he’ll die.
“Hey,” I say, squeezing his hand. “You still with me?” His nod is barely a tick of motion, and it makes my stomach sink. He’s weak.
“S…S’over,” he chokes out.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. My gut roars in protest. “No. It’s not over. I’m going to figure a way out of this.”
“Dagger.” It’s a whisper, just a flutter of breath against my cheek. Tears spring into my eyes.
“No, stop it,” I snap. “Stop.”
I can’t look at him anymore, can’t face what I know might happen, no matter what I say to the contrary. I snatch the Viper from the floor and jump to my feet, look around. There has to be something I can do. There has to be a way out of this. The Captain’s body lies lifeless on the floor, sprawled and still, haunting. His glassy eyes stare up at the ceiling, empty. I did that. I took a man’s life. That’s it! Suddenly, I know what to do. I have a plan.
“Tempest, don’t you dare die,” I say as I latch onto the Captain’s boot and tug with
all my might. He’s heavy, but I manage to drag him toward the doorway and out onto the landing. Please, let this work.
The Captain’s head clunks against the stairs as I drag him down, step by step. Clunk-clunk. Clunk-clunk. Like a pair of heavy boots stomping their way down. It echoes, an eerie, intimidating sound in the otherwise silent house. Just before I reach the part of the stairs visible from the kitchen, I stop and steel myself. My entire body is electric with fear, but I can’t let that drive me. Instead, I imagine Tempest, helpless, dying. I picture the Captain’s triumphant, bloody smile. I hear the sound of my mother’s voice bouncing between my ears: I’ve done something terrible. The fear dissipates, and in its place, a cold kind of fury blossoms. It spreads until my veins feel like they’ve been hardened to ice. I set my jaw, tighten my grip on the Captain. This is my game now.
Two more steps down, and I’m flooded in the glow of the kitchen firelight. I drop the Captain’s boot so his body falls limp on the floor beside me. Nobody moves. It’s as if the room has been frozen in time. Every pair of eyes simply stares.
I grip the Viper as tightly as possible and lock gazes with each of the three soldiers holding my family at gunpoint, one by one. “I suggest you lower your weapons,” I say, voice cold.
As if woken from a stupor, the soldiers each scramble to turn their weapons on me. Their gazes dart back and forth between the body of their Captain on the floor and the gleaming dagger in my hand. I twirl the Viper between my fingers and shake my head, let out a cold laugh just for effect. It works. The other two soldiers waver, one of them lowering his gun the slightest bit.
“Prudence,” I hear my mother say, “what’s happened to you?”
The nerve. Even the sound of her voice makes my stomach turn. I don’t look at her. Beck either. I can’t. I can’t see their expressions. Fury is all that’s holding me together right now, and I know if I look, if I let myself wonder, my resolve will crumble.
“Drop it,” the soldier nearest me says.
I tilt my head and stare him down. “You first.”
“Drop your weapon, Citizen,” he commands, holding steady despite his comrades slowly lowering their own weapons. That’s a mistake.
It’s as simple as a flick of the wrist, fast like a flash of lightning. The Viper rips through the air in a wide arc. One of my favorite throws, though the execution can be difficult. Now, it feels effortless. In a blink, it’s over. The Viper completes its arc, landing back in my hand with a hard thump. The sound is echoed a moment later by the slump of a body, collapsing to the floor—the soldier farthest from me. His hands weakly press to the gaping stripe splitting his throat open, but it’s over in seconds. He falls limp, loose. Dead. Just another mess for my mother to lose her mind over.
Again, what I expect to feel never comes. No shame. No guilt. Instead, a ripple of power surges through me, that same conviction as before. The same feeling of invincibility.
I fix my gaze on the soldier nearest me again. “Like I said, you first.”
He lowers his gun slowly, one hand going in the air in a sign of surrender. The other soldier’s gun clatters to the floor. A burst of thrill shivers down my spine. It’s only tempered by a brief glance. Beck. I can’t help myself. I look at him, just to make sure he’s okay, and his face is as I imagined it would be—frozen wide in terror. He’s afraid, afraid of me. It stings, but I can’t blame him. I can’t explain either. Not now. Maybe not ever.
I turn away from him again and clear my throat.
“Now,” I say with as much authority as I can manage. “I want to talk to the president.”
***
My stomach clenches and flips as the zoomer rises into the air. I’ve never ridden in a vehicle before. Only seen them occasionally zipping overhead on their way to and from the Wastelands. The sensation must take time to get used to. I do my best to breathe through each bout of nausea and keep my eyes on Tempest.
They’ve strapped him to a stretcher in the back corner of the zoomer. He’s unconscious, but that doesn’t stop one of the Squad’s soldiers from keeping a gun trained on him. The other two are aimed at me, not that they could do any damage. Tempest is pale, too pale, and tinged a light yellow. His breathing is too shallow, but the subtle rise and fall of his chest comforts me. He’s alive. I want to talk to him, tell him everything that’s happened. That Beck is okay. Mom. More than anything, I want to tell him that he’s okay. He’s going to be okay. I’ve made sure of it.
There will be time for that, I tell myself, because it’s the only thing I can tell myself. The only thing I can almost bring myself to believe. There will be time. There will be possibilities. I will see my brother again.
My life isn’t over.
I repeat the words in my head over and over as we rise higher into the sky. When the zoomer lurches then shoots toward the capital, I close my eyes and imagine Beck’s face. I imagine Tempest’s laugh. I imagine Mom’s cooking. The cave. The Market. My home. Gone. All of it gone in the swift sigh of a quiet yes—the most defining, terrifying, important trade I’ve ever made. A life for a life. Mine for Tempest’s.
He gets to live, and me? I give up my freedom, my home, my choice. I become property of the president—a science project, an opportunity. Something to deconstruct and put back together. A toy. A tool. A key.
But my life isn’t over, I tell myself again as we shred blue sky toward the Dome, toward my new home, my new fate. There must be something worth holding on to. There must be a chance, a fraction of a chance…
My life isn’t over.
***
End of Book One