Gods Under The Dome

6.3

《Aliases》

¤

The knock at the door can't come fast enough. Izzer gives me one last look before he turns and opens it.

Seven. Izzer had been the 89th Council's Nol. My gaze drifts to the boy I know. How much alike were they? Did Izzer have a love of prescription pills? Did he joke, did he-- I gulp-- flirt with the previous Ten? If we graduated and became the 91st Council, would Nol's career end like Izzer's? With a noose around his neck and a forged death certificate?

"You brief them?" Della's brusque voice causes my thoughts to scatter. Both the commander and her second stand in the doorway, clothes piled to their chins in their arms.

Izzer nods.

"Good." Della tosses the clothes onto the space between us. Keran's all too happy to follow her commander's lead. "Grab whatever floats your fancy. Meet us in the main room when you're done."

Della turns to leave. "Leave your uniforms on the floor. Izzer will dispose of them when we're done."

Rima folds the bottom of her shirt over her hands. "Dispose of them how?"

"Burn them," Izzer replies, matter-of-factly.

Rima frowns.

"Don't take long," Keran says. "You dawdle, you get left behind."

Della claps Izzer on the shoulder. "And he hates company. Liable to burn you alongside those uniforms."

One by one, they file out of the room. The door clicks close behind them.

I kick at the pile of clothes. Jeans, ratty t-shirts, military jackets with missing pockets. There's even a pair of cracked sunglasses and a used container of sparkly, jelly lip balm.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marava hone in on that lip balm as though it were all she ever lived for. She smacks her lips, as though imagining herself already wearing the makeup. A desire to pluck that lip balm off the floor, get to it before Marava, and squeeze out its contents into the trash, sparks shivers of delight in my veins, but, not wanting my eyes gouged by Marava's nails, I won't make a move for it. Being Head Cockroach has made her tolerable. It hasn't smoothed back all her quills, but at least she's not throwing them at us every time she speaks.

Tujo grabs a pair of black, cargo pants, similar to the ones the Titav wore, and a gray t-shirt. Rima takes a pair of navy jeans, frowns as she stretches the fabric only to find out it has little give, and a dark blue, long-sleeve shirt with some kind of diamond pattern traveling down one sleeve.

Marava snatches up the lip balm, giving little attention to the actual clothes. She cradles the plastic container as if it's something precious. Her eyes grow wet. Her shoulders tremble. Quint notices and places an arm over her, smiling.

She smiles back. "I had one like this when I was little," she says. "My abuela got it for me."

Quint nods. "That's a nice memory, Mar-" he clears his throat."Karen."

Marava doesn't even bother to grimace at the mention of her alias. She just stares at the lip balm cradled in between her palm and her chest. I pretend not to have heard her, not to see her now, as a tear rolls down her cheek.

Mars' vulnerability is not for my eyes. It's a moment she's allowed Quint to share. No one else. The others feel this too, everyone except Tujo, who's gaping like a fish stranded on land. Rima has to swat his chest to get him to look away.

I pick up the clothes nearest to me - a crumpled purple t-shirt with a smattering of glitter stars across the front and a ripped pair of baggy denim.