by A. L. Davroe
My heart is pounding. I can barely breathe. I try to watch the conflict in the darkness, keep glancing at where I know my pack is. Blood trickles into my palms, yet I can’t feel the pain my restraints must be causing me.
A gunshot going off nearby stills me. I hear a muffled yelp, a body hitting the ground.
For a long moment, I lay paralyzed with fear at who might have fallen.
The shot came from the direction of where my assailant and his attacker were struggling.
Quentin and his attacker renew their efforts, fighting hard and dirty, sending up sprays of water that splash onto me. It seems like he might have the upper hand, but then someone comes running from where the body just went down and jumps into the fray. Two against one, and I don’t know if the odds are for or against Quentin.
“No!” I scream. “Stop! Stop it!”
A few more minutes of fighting, with me rolling about and ripping ravines into my skin to free myself as the three in the water thrash. I can hear the sound of fist meeting flesh, of muffled grunts of pain. The newcomer holds Quentin while the other pounds him.
“Stop it!” I howl. “You’re gonna kill him.” I begin a frenzy of tugging to free myself, rolling and thumping on the ground, sending rocks into the water. I knock my pack and my light-stick tumbles to the ground and flickers last bits of energy as it rolls toward the water then dies.
But it’s enough. It’s enough to see the bloody face of Quentin restrained. Enough to see his legs give out and his body sink to the water. All fight gone.
Yet they continue to kick and punch him.
Unable to breathe or find my voice, I turn away. Shaking comes. Desperate gasps that bring no air to lungs crushed in dread. I need to go to him, but I have no more strength.
Not again. I can’t do this again. I already lost him in Nexis. I can’t lose him in Real World, too.
Please don’t be dead.
Real World is for keeps.
Please don’t be dead.
I’ll fall apart.
I’ll break into a thousand pieces and never come back together.
I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to block out the sounds of his assailants beating him, even though he’s not fighting back anymore.
Blood. So much blood on his face.
Images of his blood on my hands and in my mouth play over and over again. Memories of his death in Nexis. Me turning. Me running from him. Leaving him to die when I should have stayed there with him. Died beside him as I should.
Hysterical, I find my voice again and start to yell for him. “No!” The one word cuts through the cave and echoes around like a siren. “Get up. Fight!”
No answer. I lift my head, trying to find him, dead or alive. There’s more light and the sound of more people behind me. Someone must have lit a light-stick behind me. His assailants are moving away. There’s a dark lump in the water. Unmoving. I squint at him. “Quent,” I squeak. “Quent, get up.” Nothing. I stare harder, willing him to do something. Anything.
I wriggle to get to him, to get closer, calling his name. “Quent. Quentin. Quentin Balthazar Cyr.” No answer. I get to the edge of the water, my face half submerged, see him facedown.
I stare at him expectantly, telling myself he’s just playing possum, that he’ll lift his head any moment. But then I realize that too much time has passed, that no one can hold their breath for so long, that people can’t breathe with their faces submerged in water. If they hadn’t beaten him to death, they’ve certainly drowned him.
“No,” I whimper.
The dismay suffocates me, makes me gag. I’ll drown like him. I have to. I can’t live without him.
The reality of it hits like a ton of foundation steel. Collapsing my ribs, making my spine curl inward and my bones brittle to snapping. Everything falls apart, my body and mind. The world.
I stare on, tears falling and gasps making bubbles as I struggle to free my hands and feet. I have to get to him, have to turn him over, make him breathe. Even though I know he’s dead. My body still battles to save him. Like reflex, a primal thing.
My screams slowly die to moans and sobs of despair.
Someone walks toward me. I hear the footsteps, see the growing circle of light from the light-stick he carries. He wades out, turns the body over. I can’t see what he sees, he’s standing between us. He stares for a long moment, whispering something. Prayer? Then pushes Quentin’s body away so that it drifts into the blackness. Rejecting him. The reality of what I already know seeps all the way in, and I close my eyes and collapse, all the fight now gone out of me.
Stillness. Emptiness. Darkness.
It’s all over. No point in living anymore.
When I’m shaken, I open my eyes. It’s the man with the light-stick. He bares sharpened teeth at me.
Cannibal.
I understand what he is instantly, but it doesn’t seem to bother me.
He’s going to eat me.
That’s okay. I’d give him some spices and salt, make my bitter flesh more palatable. I want him to do it fast, make the pain stop. Death would be better than being alive… Without him.
When I don’t shy away or flinch, when I don’t even blink, the cannibal’s lips close over his teeth and he frowns at me as if he’s disappointed I’m not playing into his scare tactic. Why should I? Quent’s dead, again. This time in real life. There’s no point in anything at all.
The cannibal drags me to my feet, cuts the bonds around my legs. I don’t try to escape. There’s no longer anyone to chase me. I fall back to the floor, no will left in my shaking limbs. I can’t stand.
The cannibal narrows his eyes at me as if confused. I can’t stop looking at where Quent’s body is slowly drifting off into the hollow darkness.
Don’t leave me. Not again.
The cannibal hauls me back to my feet and shoves me. “Get moving.”
Blinking, I turn away from the empty black of where his body disappeared and I look at the cannibal. Then, I look around, lethargic and half nightmare-dreaming. I take a step, drag my damaged leg after me. As I limp, I see the body of a Disfavored rebel on the ground. I can tell by his uniform and his face—I’d seen it in the complex but never met him. He must have been the one who tried to save me. I turn away, saddened though I didn’t know him.
I realize Aaron or Faulk or maybe both must have gone back to the complex, brought reinforcements and possibly a search team. But they must all be dead or caught now because this cannibal is collecting me and the fight is over. There’s a grouping of light-sticks up ahead. Most likely there are more cannibals there. Maybe they’re going to flay me and eat me right now.
A stronger need to survive, despite feeling like half of my mind and body floated away with Quent, kick-starts my brain and makes me start looking for options to escape.
My captor suddenly tugs on my bonds and lets out a strangled ooph, then there’s a sickening crack and his hand slides away. I stand there, eyes closed for a long moment, but nothing else happens. I open my eyes, blink. It’s so quiet.
Someone touches my bloody wrist.
I can’t help the sudden joy that overwhelms me, but it’s salted with dread.
“You’re a ghost,” I whimper.
“Shhh,” he whispers. I feel the cold metal of a knife slip between my wrists and the plastic cords that are now buried in my skin.
“I saw you die.” My whisper voice is frantic and airy. I’m just imagining this.
The cord snaps and my hands fall to either side of me.
“It takes more than that to kill someone like me, Elle. You’ll figure that out one day.” He grabs my arm and tugs me backward. “Come on, they’ll notice us any moment.”
Avoiding looking, because I don’t want this charade to end when I realize he’s not real, I turn to follow. I stumble over the body of the dead cannibal. As Quent catches and rights me, I try not to focus on the body, to know that Quent killed him. I stare at the ground as I hobble after Quent.
Even t
hough I can’t see anything, Quent apparently can. He executes a flawless retreat, circumventing the water and leading me into one of the smaller tunnels off of this cave. I can tell it’s a tunnel by the way my breath and scraping footsteps seem to echo back at me on all sides. Time passes and we move farther and farther away.
Away from the hands of the cannibals. I can’t help wondering if that last cannibal was leading me toward where the Aristocrats were being held captive, if we’re walking away from them now. Trying to find strength, I touch Quent’s back. His fingers gently squeeze on my arm, though I feel him starting to shake.
Is he scared? I rub away goose bumps at the thought. “I’m glad you’re alive.” I don’t ask how. Not yet, anyway. Not sure if I want to know. I don’t think I care. Even if he’s a hallucination brought on by severe trauma, I don’t want to pry. I’m just happy he’s here. “Where are we going?”
“Out,” Quent mutters.
After taking a deep breath, I let it out. “Do you think the others were back there?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“We have to save them.”
“Yes.”
“Will Mac and the others help?”
More silence. “It would be risky for them. They’d need a really good reason to stick their necks out that far. Just about as good of a reason as the Disfavored would have needed to feed the Aristocrats. We’ll think of something. But first, we have to regroup, figure out a plan.”
I think of the filed teeth of the man he just killed. “Those were cannibals, Quent. The longer we take to get everyone back, the more likely there will be fewer of them when we return for them.”
His fingers flinch on my skin. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t trust my judgment?”
“I want to.” I think of Nexis, and how Nadine and the others pointed out that I always backed him, even when his plans were self-centered or led to chaos. “But sometimes trusting you—supporting you—has led to regretful things. I’ve learned to question you.”
“That’s probably wise. I can’t blame you.”
We don’t talk after that. We just keep walking as the distance between us and the others grows and I can’t help but worry. “Where do you think they’re being taken?”
“I’m not certain. I don’t know any more about the cannibals than you do. Zane tried learning more when he was doing his documentary, but the Disfavored don’t know much, either. Just that they come at night in strange automobiles, steal people from their beds, and disappear into The Waste.”
“No one has ever fought them?”
“The Disfavored keep a night guard and do try to fight them. They had a wall, but they had to break it down to use for new homes as the city expanded. They used these tunnels to hide, but I guess the cannibals know about them now. Anyway, it’s not as though they just roll over and let it happen, the Disfavored do their best.”
“And no one has ever tried to follow the cannibals? Get the people they kidnap back?”
“The Waste is not a forgiving place. There are very few vehicles in Kairos, most owned by Mac and none equipped for fighting against the likes of what the cannibals drive. And from what I understand, there are a lot of cannibals out there. Any rescue mission would be outnumbered, outgunned, and outmaneuvered.”
“What about something covert?”
“That would require intel on the cannibals, and no one has ever returned from their encampment.”
As we walk my adrenaline fades and exhaustion and pain seep into my bones. My head pounds, radiating out through the side of my face where I was struck. My ribs and stomach ache, making it hard to breathe and sending a shooting knife of pain up my side every time I take a step. My hands are throbbing and I feel like someone has taken a saw to both my wrists.
If I hurt this bad, how must Quent feel? He’d been beaten unconscious, left face down in the water for at least ten minutes. “How are you still alive and walking?”
He’s quiet before he says, “I’m glad I got to see how you reacted to learning that Gus is a cyborg. It gives me a lot more confidence now that I have to talk about what I am. But knowing how you feel about some things, I’m still terrified to tell you.”
I stop short. “What does that mean?”
I hear him turn toward me, feel the heat of him as he steps close and takes both my hands in his. “I know you’ve come to hate the Aristocracy and everything it represents. You frown on Mods and Alts and Customization.”
I swallow, uncertain where he’s going.
A breath escapes him, washes over me. He still smells like mint. How does his breath still smell like mint when he’s this far from the dome? When the nanites should be dead because his G-chip doesn’t work. “I’m a monster. Just like Gus, but in different ways. Do you understand what I mean?”
I shake my head.
He lowers our joined hands between us and he starts to light up. Starting at the tips of his fingers, all his fiber-optic inlays begin to illuminate as if we were still standing under a fully operating dome. I gasp as the rainbow of luminescence travels up his arms, glowing under the fabric of his clothing and then his face. It breaks here and there, spreading around dark patches—places where he was struck, where there is bruising. Until it’s like his whole body shows an intricate pattern of fiery veins. And then his Argence follows, making the skin glisten something different around the veins. His hair relights and begins to wave despite the still air, eyes explode to life, like two mirrorballs catching a thousand nonexistent LED bulbs.
His face is swelling in places, bleeding in others. I can see spots where the lines of his inlays have snapped, creating darkness and imperfection on an otherwise perfectly symmetrical work of art. His skin is torn and still bloodied from where he’s been beaten, but even now it’s healing, leaving fresh pink patches, the last remnants of a Modification insert underneath his quickly knitting flesh. Plastic and metal grafted onto the skull underneath.
I feel my jaw drop. I can’t help staring at him.
I can see him as if he were standing in a spotlight, except he is the spotlight, throwing glitter and rainbows all around us. It’s beautiful. And horrible. “How,” I say, but my voice cracks and I have to clear my throat and try again. “How is this possible?”
He directs his gaze down at our hands, dimming the light around us. “I’m not normal.”
I scoff. “No shit.”
A chuckle escapes him, obviously pleased that I’ve learned one of his phrases. He shakes his head. “You’re not backing away screaming. That’s a good sign.”
Taking a step closer, I duck and meet his downturned eyes. “Why would I?”
He shrugs.
“I’m not like that.”
Gnawing at his lip, he looks off into a corner. “I suppose because I hate it about myself, I don’t expect anyone else to think any different.”
Tentative, I reach up and gently touch his cheek. The lines are split here and it’s swelling. He’s so warm. I wonder if it’s a fever or if it’s from the strike or maybe it’s all those nanos working furiously to fix him. “I saw them beating you.”
“My Mods,” he explains, touching his chest, “aren’t just to make me look perfect. They’re meant to make me better, too. Protect me, make me strong. My bones, my muscles, even my skin…it’s not like normal. And the nanites that live in my body, they’re not normal, either.”
I run my hand down the side of his face, his neck, tracing the lines to the collar of his uniform. And then, because I have to see, I grasp the pull on his zipper and draw it down past his navel. Quentin doesn’t stop me, he just watches me study him as his skin is revealed. I tug the Disfavored uniform away from his shoulders, let it slide over his arms. It pools at his wrists, around his waist.
Despite already having seen Quentin without a shirt, it’s different close up and with all his Mods and Alts lit up.
“I used to tell Delia you looked like an angel,” I whisper.
&
nbsp; He blinks at me. “What?”
Smirking, I lift my hand and press it against his chest. “I used to have a crush on you, couldn’t you tell?”
His Argence flushes pink across his cheeks and he looks away from me. “I couldn’t.”
“I presented myself before you. To dance. The night I died. You turned me away and Gus broke my holo-mask.”
Avoiding my eyes, he tucks his chin. “I couldn’t dance with you.”
“Why?”
Lifting his chin, he meets my eyes again. The diamond Alterations in his eyes dim until they’re the amber I’ve come to associate with him. “Because you weren’t for me, and I wasn’t for you. You were going to marry Zane, and I had to marry Carsai.”
Taking a deep breath, I trace my fingers along the cut planes of his stomach. “Not now, though. Now you could dance with me if you wanted to.” Not even hours ago, someone had pummeled this stomach until I was certain every rib was broken. I wonder what’s under this skin. What did his father put in him to make it so that he could withstand a beating?
His hand comes up, closes over mine, stilling it against his chest. “I don’t want to dance with you.”
Confused, I look up at him.
As he meets my gaze, his other hand brushes my face, knuckles smoothing against my jawbone. He leans closer, whispers, “I want to kiss you.”
I curl my hand under his, grasping his fingers, step closer. “So kiss me.”
Quent leans in, takes my mouth with his. Firm and supple, demanding yet gentle. The hand on my jaw slides backward into my hair, cupping my neck. The other tugs my hand down, pulling it back toward his spine, drawing me tighter to him still. I grasp his shoulder with my free hand, tracing his inlays with my fingers. Memorizing the pattern and heat they emit.
My fingers find the medical tape of the bandage he’s wearing and I pull away. How is it that he had the stuffing beaten out of him yet he’s been battling an infection for days? I start picking at the edges of the tape.
He turns his head into my hair, watching me, and his voice is amused and deep so close to my ear. “What are you doing?”
“I want to see.” I pull up the tape, draw away the bandage. Underneath, there is no longer a wound. The skin is smooth and flawless, not even scarred. I touch it because I can’t seem to believe it. “I don’t understand how you work.”