Nightfire Warriors (Remastered)

8.

The loft we will be staying at, called Nightfire Bunkers, is bigger than the Solano High School campus back home. There are seven bathrooms with built-in spas, showers, steam rooms, and a giant jacuzzi. Each master bedroom has its unique theme. One decorates with warriors who have been on the elite team in the past. Headshots of the current elite squad, such as Jason—and I know one of these warriors must be Ryan—cover the walls. It's an excellent room to feel inspired. Maybe someday, my headshot will hopefully be in a future rookie's bedroom, too.

There's another mundane bedroom. Just an aqua-blue wall with little decoration. It's not the most fun-themed bedroom in the house. Nothing draws attention to it except it's the only bedroom where someone can have one roommate. Everyone else will have three or four.

After claiming a bed, I put several things away. My roommate hasn't shown up yet. They must be partying with the others. Somebody had popped open a tequila bottle and poured shots for everyone. Living in a luxurious place they've only seen on TV might be the most exciting event that has ever happened to them. I can hear their footsteps break into a run down the hallways, and they're hollering at the top of their lungs.

As much as I don't party, I can't blame them and join the exploration. The kitchen is extraordinarily resourceful, and I can cook any meal I want with their provided ingredients. Fruits, vegetables, every brand of cereal ever known, fresh milk, vegetable oil, garlic and seasonings, poultry, flour, sugar, and all the chocolate syrup and ice cream I can eat is at my disposal whenever I'm hungry. It's the kind of kitchen where fifty chefs can cook simultaneously for a catering gig.

I return to my bedroom, open the door, and find out my roommate is a tall, slim boy with feathered brown hair. Something about him reminds me of a rock singer in the eighties. It's Keith. He's finishing putting a picture of his family on the nightstand. For a tiny instant, he assures me he's not messy to live with, but then we go off on a tangent about my dad.

Cat is out of the bag. I am Noah Devlin's son. In school here, they teach them about my father's involvement with the Orichalcum. It's made the history books. Besides reading and math, most of their instruction is the history of the galaxies. Somehow it all comes back to the Orichalcum at school.

It's not surprising I'm having trouble making friends here almost immediately. With countless thoughts struggling me for the rest of the day, I lie in my bed and stare vulnerably at the ceiling. This is it—my new home.

I decide to have breakfast alone in my room as the sun rises. How it works is you cook yourself a meal from the kitchen, and then eat wherever you please. Usually, we gather in the dining hall and sit at separate tables like a cafeteria. There's no way I'm showing my face to anyone now that everyone sees me as the "traitor's son." Besides, Frankie and Danny and their new friends are all getting along, spreading rumors together during meals and training. It feels like high school all over again, or I never left.

On my bed, I stare at my new breakfast plate of waffles with maple syrup and butter. I should eat, but nerves decrease my appetite. I am very skinny. My dad always talked to me about my metabolism and eating habits. How one day, it will catch up to me, so I better start eating healthy now.

After breakfast, hovercars pick us up, and we fly off to meet up with our stylists. Yes, we have costumes to wear. Abigail says we've already inspired the designers, and they've produced something for us. I'm preparing for the worst. How does my personality inspire someone to create fashion?

The door opens. My stylist—a woman with a short, bleached blonde and pixie haircut—walks into the salon and rolls in a clothing rack, her suitcases, and a mirror. Two assistants are pretending I'm not in the room as they're busy setting up. Whatever image she has planned for me, how she wants me to look for the universe to vision, is hanging in the zipped garment bag.