“The mission comes first. If the need arises, I’ll die to fulfill my objective.”
“Good girl.” He held a mirror in front of my face to reveal dark-blonde hair and tired eyes. “Remember. We are an entity of fragments, traces of something on the verge of extinction. You hold the truth, Julie. You are the Vestige.”
Needle pricks race down my spine when the aerial bus lowers in front of the District. I follow protocol, exit the bus, and confront my target. Every nerve and cell within me tingles as if charged with electricity—I better move forward before I talk myself into turning back.
Purebloods with gelled hair and ironed suits pass me as I climb the familiar stone steps to the building’s entrance. They’ll die because of me, won’t they? Their families will cry over caskets and graves because I decided the lives of others were more important than theirs. Murder is wrong—there’s no way to justify it—but self-defense is survival. I’ll pay the price to keep my people alive, even if guilt rots my bones, even if I vanish into flames.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Each pulse ripples across my chest, gnaws at my living heart—it presses a figment knife to my throat and whispers over and over, “You will die today.”
I understand what scares me. I’ve explored it within the confines of my mind, but knowing a fear doesn’t remove it—it only makes the fear more rational.
The ticking vibrates my core with a bass-like sound. Someone will hear it if I’m not careful. I should hum. Yes—what’s a good song? I better be wise with my choice. Whichever composition I choose could be the last to leave my throat. “I’ll Be Seeing You” by Billie Holiday—that’s a good song to hum before going up in flames, right?
“Salutations.” I join a group of white-collar workers by the elevator and sweat. Pain, an intense sting, spreads up my back. I adjust the vest’s straps and pretend I’m wearing an uncomfortable bra. Dang, I forgot to put on nice underwear. Why can’t I die in lace, not drugstore panties?
The elevator doors part. An armed guard waits inside with a hand-scanner. He skims the palm of each boarding passenger and denies those without high-level security clearance.
Retreat. Abort.
I slide through the crowd and fast-walk to a translucent screen. Broadcasts flash across the panel, video footage and rolling text. Normal people read the news. No one will suspect I’m an enemy operative. Time—I have enough of it to inspect the atrium, the guards at the main entrance talking on their communication devices, the shifting security cameras overhead. They’ve created a cage. If I try to leave or reach the basement, they’ll catch me. If I make a scene, attempt to activate the bomb here and now, they’ll shoot me before I’ve unclipped the vest.
One option. One path. One fate. Better me than Jack. Better me than thousands of innocent people. I can do this. It’ll happen so fast, I won’t feel a thing. I’ll never feel anything again.
Jon and Sybil, I’ll be seeing you.
Light reflects from the tile floor and envelops me in warmth. I move to the bathroom in what seems like slow motion, through a sepia haze of seconds, faces, inhales, and exhales. I’ll be okay. The people I love will be okay. I can do this for them.
A weird kind of resolution—something I can’t pinpoint—settles within my muscles, warm and comforting like hot chocolate on a cold, rainy day. I lock myself in a stall, unzip my dress and remove the bomb. A single press of a button will activate the device. A single press will decide my fate, the fate of humanity. Can I do it? Am I brave enough to sacrifice my own life for the lives of others?
I press the activation button and wheeze as the timer begins its countdown. Five minutes until detonation. Five minutes until the end, the beginning. Five minutes until my life’s erased and the world is stripped of its deceptive layers. Five minutes.
Tears mix with sweat and stream my temples. I hug the bomb because the closer it is, the faster and more painless I’ll die. Jack—I didn’t get to tell him goodbye. What’ll he do when he finds out what happened to me? Who will he become, the wounded soldier who sleeps with a light on at night because his dreams kill him slow and steady, someone who tries to come back for me even though there’s nothing left for him to find?
“Jack,” I shout into our disconnected third-space. His name hurts me in a way I didn’t think was possible, a deep cut in a deep heart. “You probably can’t hear me, but I need you to … somehow … hear me. I’m going to die soon. We won’t see each other again on this Earth, which is why I need you to find me in your thoughts, open your ears and listen to my voice. Last words are cliché and overused so I won’t waste my time presenting a profound final lecture, but I do want closure, if not for me, then for you.”
A woman clops into the bathroom and occupies the neighboring stall. Her skirt creates a fabric puddle beneath the divider.
“You have to stay. I have to go. No one is going to see the truth unless we make them. No one is going to fight for our world unless we inspire them. You and me … we are the Vestige.”
Two minutes until detonation.
“Oh, gosh. Time’s almost out. Hear me. I love you. I love you.”
Memories flicker through my head like slides in an old projector. I’m a kid playing on the beach with Sybil, burying our dad in the sand—I am scaling the staircase in my taffeta gown to meet Jon in the foyer—I am dancing in the kitchen, singing at the top of my lungs while I bake cookies with Mom.
Jack and I lie in the green space between Randolph Hall and Porter’s Lodge, staring up at the sky’s grand Etch A Sketch. His hand finds mine and immediately, my heartbeat is everywhere. It beats in the tips of my fingers, the back of my neck, everywhere. I look at him. He looks at me.
“There you are,” I whisper aloud. A smile burns my cheeks. “Goodbye, Jack.”
Seconds left. I squeeze the bomb and take one last breath, but as the timer crests a half-minute, the stall door flies open, and a Scav in full-body armor yanks me into the center of the bathroom where soldiers wait with rifles ready. No, I won’t let this happen. My mission cannot end in failure.
I lunge at the smallest Scav and manage to slide past him, the barricade of armored muscle, and escape into the lobby. I sprint to the atrium’s center and then dig my fingers into the bomb’s bundle of wires and tear them apart. The aliens destroyed my world, but they will not destroy me. I fight back. I give everything to save everything.
“Come on. Work.” I slam the explosives against the tile floor.
The bomb deactivates.
“What? No!”
Scavs rip me to my feet and take the bomb’s shattered remains. They contort my arms behind my back, cuff my wrists. No. Wait. I’m supposed to be dead. Humanity is supposed to be safe. I couldn’t have failed. Failure isn’t an option.
****
“They’ll torture you first,” Jon’s figment voice echoes through my mind as I watch the City melt into the distance. “You have the information they want.” He’s right—the secrets in my head will be the aliens’ final weapon. “You know what has to be done, Julie.”
Skyscrapers glisten with magenta hues and then shrink into once human-owned businesses, now pieces in the Purebloods’ dollhouse illusion. Turbulence rattles the hover car—instability causes a rift between what is and what could be. I press my heels into the floorboard’s thin carpet, scoot into the middle seat, and slam my handcuffs against the console.
“Quiet down back there.” The Scav taps a Taser against the dashboard and then resumes his conversation with the shiny-haired chauffeur.
Now is my chance to give Jack time to locate the dome’s generator, protect the Vestige’s voice and raise their odds by lowering my own. The war will end when I leave this vehicle.
I won’t be a failure.
A glass bottle of distilled water glistens in the side door’s groove. If I act fast, it won’t hurt as bad, right? More pain than the bomb, but not as severe as the gunshot wound. Two motions—that’s all it will take to tie a loose end and then cut t
he strands all together.
Glass slices my bare ankles when I dislodge the bottle with my feet and slam it against the middle console, shattering, spilling. Water and blood drip down my legs. Weird—why am I not in pain?
Shiny-haired chauffeur slams the brakes. The Scav twists in his seat and attempts to stop me.
Too late.
I grab the largest chunk of glass and with a quick, stinging motion, I slice open my wrists. Blood pours from me—obscure DNA and overworked hemoglobin. I let out a brief cry and then smile because pain is evidence of my victory. Death will save my world and end theirs.
“You failed.” I slump against the backseat with blood pooling around me and stare at the Scav’s masked face. “You can’t have my home. It’s not yours to take.” Pain ripples through my nervous system, makes me arch my back and writhe. “The Vestige will ruin you. Once people know the truth, your pretty set-up will unravel and … you’ll be killed by the people you sought to destroy. We won.”
The Scav removes a pen-like device from his belt and stabs it into my thigh. I wince as the sharp pinch grows into an acid-like sting, and then settles into a hot numbness. My eyelids grow heavy—dammit, he drugged me. I roll onto my side and scrape my slit wrists until flesh peels away and blood coats my body like a blanket. If I sleep, the Scav will keep me alive. No. I have to die.
Sacrifice—I used to think the term meant quitter. I don’t anymore. When done for the right reasons, for the right people, sacrifice is an act of war. It requires bravery—a will to fight and never relent. It requires someone to love life so much they’re willing to give it to preserve it. I’m not a quitter. I demanded the truth and now, I set it free.
No more layers.
No more deceit.
Gravel crunches somewhere beneath me. I lift the bricks that used to be my eyelids and cringe when streetlamps saturate my pupils with golden rays. Pain—still there, not faded by death. Shadows—they fill the front seats. Trees surround the hover car instead of clouds.
“No, no.” I lurch into an upright position and examine my wrists. Gauze binds the cuts in thick strips. Handcuffs merge my hands into a skin and fabric ball. How were they able to fix me? I mangled my wrists beyond repair, well, what I thought was beyond repair.
Death would’ve saved Jack. Now he’s in danger. Everyone is at death’s door because I couldn’t manage to work a bomb or sharp object. Geez, am I totally and completely incompetent?
An old mansion, ablaze with lights, comes into view. The main façade is formal, made of stone and stucco, surrounded by terraced gardens and topiaries. Cars clog the cobblestone driveway. Purebloods flock to the immaculate entryway, draped in expensive garments, furs, and jewelry.
What is this place? Why am I here? Are the aliens going to torture me with their outdated dialect and fancy attire? Out of all the locations to commit a murder, why’d they choose a soirée?
I curl into a protective ball when the car rolls to a stop in front of the servants’ entrance. A Scav opens the nearest door. His gloved hand clamps onto my right shoulder and pulls me from the warm interior, out into air colder than ice. I shiver and bang my wrists against the car’s trunk because of the slim chance I might get a clot and drop dead.
“Misbehavior is not permitted within the President’s home.” He lifts his visor, revealing a handsome face and sharp, green eyes. “Acting impolitely will result in immediate punishment.”
“What will you do? Kill me?”
He tightens his grip on my shoulder and drags me into the house.
Servants, carrying platters of gourmet appetizers, create a traffic jam within the stark, narrow corridors. My guard shoves through the chaos, into a culinary kitchen. Steam clouds the space with rich aromas—my mouth waters, and a new ache fills my belly. Cooks hover over wood-burning stoves. A butler discusses dinner wine with a server.
“Move.” The Scav knocks a platter of silverware from a waiter’s hands. Forks and knives bounce on the tile, clatter, and flash their sharp edges. I could grab one and end this nightmare for good. Even as incompetent as I am, I should be able to silence myself with a steak knife.
“Pondering another suicide attempt is futile. You shall not succeed.” He whisks me up a steep flight of service stairs to the mansion’s main level. His chest bumps against my back as we move. His stale breath drips down my neck and makes me cringe.
Ornate wallpaper parts in sporadic gaps to showcase Monet and Da Vinci. Michelangelo sculptures adorn the lavish indoor sunroom. Human art. Human history. None of it is the Purebloods’ to claim. How can they absorb our identities when they killed us because they hated who we became? Sick—that’s what they all are, sick in the heads.
I bite my bottom lip and focus on the tap-tap of my feet against the marble floor, the glittering chandeliers overhead, not Jack and Tally, everyone who will die because of me. But how can I not think about Jack? How do I prevent Tally’s boil-covered neck from popping into my thoughts? I love them. I love each and every person fighting this fight. Traitor—I’ll become like Charlie when the Purebloods pump me with truth serum, and betraying my family is a fate worse than death.
We cross the loggia and enter a salon. Sheer, white curtains blow inward from the windows. Pink roses clutter the countertops. A lean woman in her early thirties stands amidst the Parisian furniture. Her steel-gray eyes are like knives embedded in her face, pointed in my direction.
“The human is in disrepair,” she says to my guard. “You cannot expect her to meet with the President in such an atrocious condition. President Duchene requested the girl be brought uninjured.”
“She attempted suicide on our journey here. I have already attended to her wounds.”
“How was she able to cause herself harm? Were you not ordered to watch her keenly?” The woman sighs and redirects her attention to me. “Your appearance must be corrected.” She whispers into her communication device and then pins the hair from my face with one of her jeweled barrettes.
“What, does my blood offend you?” I conjure the snarkiest expression possible, which means I cross my arms and raise my eyebrows. Snarky has never been my strong suit. “Why clean me up if you’re going to kill me? Makeup on a dead girl doesn’t make her any less dead … or any prettier.”
“No harm shall come to you here.”
“Yeah, right. I believe you.” Snarky isn’t my strong suit, but I don’t suck at sarcasm.
A maid scurries into the room with a pair of satin gloves and a tea-length gown covered in pedal-like frills. She drapes the pieces over my shoulder as if I’m a store window mannequin.
“Would you please change your attire? I apologize for the inconvenience, but it is necessary for you to blend with the guests downstairs.” Knife-Eyes motions for the Scav to unlock my handcuffs. She musters a smile, well, more of a dog-like sneer. “Please. The sight of a lovely girl covered in blood would cause an awful disruption, and I would prefer the party to continue without such a problem.”
“Her request is a formality. You do not have a choice,” the Scav says.
“I figured as much. Most of what you people say is a formality.” I peel off my dress and slip into the borrowed frock. If I wasn’t hyped on adrenaline, I’d squirm in their violating stare, turn red from the moment of nakedness. But I am hyped on adrenaline, determination and a type of anger that makes my hair stand on end. They want me to be afraid and submissive, but by playing dress up, they’ve revealed they need me for something more than information.
To be needed is to have power.
She dabs the smeared mascara from my face. Her angled bob swishes back and forth as she strides to an embossed door. “You may now meet the President.”
Bile shoots into my mouth when the threshold becomes an empty void, a threatening invitation. I swallow the stomach acid—where else could I put it? Pain melts down my esophagus like molten lava.
How do I confront the person responsible for ruining my life? How do I look him in the eyes and not wa
nt to rip his throat apart with my bare hands? I’ve been stripped of all that once held me together, forced to stand alone in a cast of my own making. What if I can’t hold up in front of him? I’ve already failed my mission. I can’t stigmatize the Vestige as crybabies, too.
Jon checked me out of school the day Andrea Murphy wrote pigs belong in the zoo on my locker. He was silent as we walked to the Land Rover, didn’t say a word until we were a mile down the road. I asked him how I could show my face there again, and he told me to give them something to look at, hold my head high, and be the girl who takes punches and throws them back.
That’s who I have to be now, the girl who takes punches and throws them back.
I clasp my hands together to conceal their shaking and amble into a grand, old-fashioned library. Bookshelves climb two floors to the cathedral-like ceiling. Flames crackles in the fireplace, overshadowed by a portrait of Queen Elizabeth I.
“Rhys and Mariah have had their way with you, I see.” A woman rises from the presidential desk. She smiles, framing perfect teeth between plump, red lips. “You look ravishing, my dear. The gentlemen downstairs would fall over each other to make your acquaintance.” Her slender figure sashays toward me, dressed in a backless gown.
Heat slashes through my body when I look into her ginormous, baby-doll eyes. They’re dark like chocolate, the same shade as her glossy curls. Why isn’t she monstrous, cold, and easy to hate? Why couldn’t she be a white-haired man in a crisp suit who reeks of cologne and rot?
“I am President Gemma Duchene.” She cradles my hand in hers and giggles—yes, she giggles—as if I’m a cute puppy on display at the pet store. “It is a delight to meet you.”
“You’re young to be president.”
“Not as young as you might think. I have been blessed with a youthful face.” She caresses my cheek with her warm index finger. “I see now why no one recognized what you are. You either bear a close resemblance to us or … we bear an awfully wonderful resemblance to you.”
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