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.
"I'm so sorry. What was your name again?" I'm embarrassed to ask this.
"Laury," she answers kindly. "And if anyone's nervous, it's me. I know styling you is always tricky. And this might be a little too cutesy for your taste...too cutesy, huh?" She unzips the garment bag and pulls out my super-duper hero costume, all hanging by one wire.
It's not cutesy at all. My costume is a onesie, primarily black with a baby-blue underlayer. It looks heavy to wear with all the armor on it. There are kneepads, shin and arm guards, gauntlets, and a chest plate for extra protection underneath the stitching. No helmet, but there's a hoodie attached to the back. She pulls out a pair of combat boots to harmonize. I stare at the outfit and don't say anything for a long time.
"I think it's cool," I say. "It's just...I'm not used to dressing up like this."
"I know the outfits for these kinds of events is not what you would normally wear," Laury says. "Do you want to change it, then? Because I have something else—"
"No, it's okay," I say. "I like it."
She asks me if I want to make any changes to my hair. The question throws me off. I'm surprised what these men come up with. Dye it, shave it, put in special mixtures to let it grow three inches per drop. Being a warrior has style! She can't stop loving my curls and shows me pictures for inspiration. Then, my choice surprises her. I've never been bald before. This might turn out ugly, but it's too late now. Half of my curls are on the floor already.
We take it to the next level, and my eyeglasses become a thing in the past. You can opt to have your eyeglasses customized by adding a computer screen with a database on the lenses, and there's no worriment about them falling off during battle. Not sure how that works, but I'm not doing that. Laser eye surgery is an option, but that alternative frightens me. Preference three is contact lenses. I've never put even one in by myself before because my eyes are too sensitive. I grew out of that, or these lenses are unique, I don't know, but I plop them in within an instant.
For a while, she gazes at me worriedly. Then, without even moving my shoulders, she turns my head delicately to the right. "Did someone slash you during Bootcamp?" she gasps.
I snap my head back. "What is it?"
Laury holds up a handheld mirror, angling it with the other mirror so I can see the back of my neck. I'm presented with something pink and gushy above my clavicle. At first, I think it's a scrap of some kind, but then, as my fingers barely touch it, I realize it's a scar. Quite honestly, it appears as something surgical. There's something else. It's fresh like it happened just yesterday, still moist.
Fear shoots through me, but I keep still in the mirror. I don't know what kind of surgical incision this is. With the technology on these planets, it's chillingly unsurprising how this alleged incision happened unnoticed. And I'm guessing anyway. It could just be Laury's theory, but I don't know...
"I don't remember getting that," I confess.
"You need to be more careful," she warns. "Was it a knife? You could have bled to death."
I bite my lower lip. "I'm sure it's nothing."
Exactly one mirror is in the room, plus her handheld, so I have no idea how I appear. Laury works on me until late afternoon, turning my skin to glowing satin, covering any pimples or scars on my dry skin. She works on my bald scalp, cleaning any leftover hairs, and then washes it with hot water and conditioner. My butt hurts from sitting in that chair for five hours.
"Okay," she says. "Now I think we're ready for the suit. Let's try it on."
All I can think about is how I look right now. What did she do to me? Will I recognize myself? I place my legs into the pants, the fabric smooth as silk. The onesie stretches up, and my legs feel indestructible. I squeeze my arms inside the sleeves; Laury zips it up in the back and readjusts the hoodie. Then silence.
Laury exhales a sigh. "Oh," she whispers.
I turn around and stare at myself in the mirror. A cerulean color highlights my joints, reflective. My palms reinforce with the gauntlets, and it feels smoother to use my genetic abilities. And the haircut turned out better than I'd imagined.
I look like a real superhero.
"You look badass," Laury gleams. "Now, remember to be yourself. They love you already."
Be myself... Well, that first starts with taking my hoodie and pulling it down to my nose. I like it that way, hiding my face from others. Laury does know me. That's why she specifically designed this because having a secret identity isn't an option here.
After I'm finished with Laury, the hovercar picks me up and takes me to the amphitheater, where I'll meet up with the rest of the competitors. It's a short ten-minute flight. At the theater, I meet up with the rest of the finalists at the elevators.
The sixteen of us look great together. From afar, we appear as fans for a comic convention. Each warrior has their own stylist because everybody looks so differently dressed in assorted colors. We're all wearing onesies, but the resemblance stops there. Kitty sticks out like a sore thumb, striking, wrapped in two colors and equipping a whip. She wears a patent black-leathered suit, and her bleached blond hair is in a long ponytail. Her face brightens with a layer of makeup; substantial bright blue eyes, red lips full of attitude, and lashes that throw bits of glitter when she blinks.
We pack ourselves in a giant elevator, start moving down, and find ourselves outside the arena. For a few minutes, we wait in the fields for further instructions. Based on the volume the crowd is roaring at, I suspect it's another sold-out show. Whichever way we're entering the arena, it won't be through the front gates. Our entrance will be more dramatic.
Sixteen identical flying creatures with saddles and ropes to steer are waiting for us. They look like giant, beige horses with wings. Like Pegasi. Earth thinks Pegasus is an elegant mythical creature. I didn't imagine for them to look so ugly. I've mounted a horse before when I was nine. An adult was steering for me by a rope, and we traveled in a small circle. They think we're wise enough to move these beasts on our own. Everybody mounts their Pegasi easily. Justin swings his leg over, confidently gives the ropes a quick whip, and takes off within seconds. I'm able to swing my leg over, but beyond that, I can't figure out how to fly.
"Give it a gentle kick," Tyrone instructs.
My heels tap against the Pegasus' legs, and the wings start flapping. Slowly at first, then faster as we rise above the ground. I try to imitate what Justin does and wiggle the ropes gently. The Pegasus starts flying farther, higher, and to my surprise, it's easier to steer than I anticipated.
We make an impactful and memorable entrance. I hear the audience at total volume as I fly into the arena. Giant screens show three-dimensional headshots of us sixteen warriors, one by one like a slideshow. Not only are we flying in, but some warriors have the nerve to put on a show for everyone. Frankie twirls his Pegasus through the air. Sometimes jumping off it with hands and feet entirely in midair and then landing back on it unharmed. Someone else throws fireworks into the sky like it's the 4th of July, pumping the crowd up.
"Sag, look! Look! Look!" Tyrone exclaims. "We're on the big screens!" He points, and his three-dimensional figure mirrors across all the giant screens. He cheers for himself— "Wahoo—" as if it's been his dream to see his face like that since he was a little kid.
Then my three-dimensional figure shows up. I remember posing for this from the clothes I'm wearing. It was my reaction during the interview when they were asking uncomfortable questions about my dad. The expression behind my eyes looks like a nervous wreck.
Justin is presented next. His headshot looks bold, powerful, and confident—the opposite of mine. I can tell which warriors the audience favors most based on how loud they cheer for each headshot. They're drooling for Justin. I think he's the superstar out of all of us.
We land our Pegasi center of the arena and jump off. I must stand with Keith, Justin, and Tyrone because we're all under the same mentor.
Frankie and Danny have different mentors. I only recognize one of the three other warriors standing with Danny —I'm bad with names, but I think his is Nick—and he was argumentative with Abigail during tryouts. They must be training with Amanda.
I'm familiar with every single warrior in Frankie's group, all mentored by Abigail. Cody included, who is more rigid than all of them put together. The pros of having her as a mentor almost outweigh the reasons why I don't want her. When the final two happen, there will be no vote. Abigail decides the warrior for her team all by herself. A decision entirely up to her without other authorities to tell her no. If one of her pupils becomes a finalist, like as not, they will be the winner.
We wait for the show to start. I'm the opening act, the first one to go. Many great warriors who go after me may be more memorable than me. Sixteen battles are a lot. In four groups of four, we parade onto the stage. A large balcony, just between the battleground and first floor, is reserved for the judges. Whoever sits right behind them must have paid great money for tickets because they have excellent seats. I'm surprised they can come that close.
Evin Durmot bounces smack center in the arena. The spotlight shines on him, and everybody goes nuts. He introduces the tournament, how it's the first mission of the season, and how exciting it is. Then he talks to the judges about what the expectations are.
We gather at the VIP section. It's a separate room, backstage, where we can see what's happening inside the arena on the monitors and watch the other competitors perform.
Traditionally, solo missions happen at the beginning of tournaments so the judges can see how well we stand on our own. Then in weeks, we will have the opportunity to collaborate with other competitors as a team. But of course, there can only be one winner.
The mission can be anything from timed races, fighting holograms, or saving an innocent life. The possibilities are endless. However, what they all have in common is they're designed to kill you. Abigail has already boasted about how experienced we are to survive them. The arena has turned into an outdoor basketball court, but there aren't any hoops. Instead, guns attach to the walls like security cameras, with their muzzles looking like pointed fingers. They don't appear as regular pistols but lasers.
Before I know it, Evin announces my name, and I enter the arena. The crowd chants my name. A very bright spotlight shines down on me, and I'm the center of everyone's attention. From afar, like a mirage, I see Palmer, Amanda, Kendall, and Abigail sitting on the balcony, observing me meticulously.
The rules to the first mission are straightforward. I must reach the acquired mark in the arena while dodging any obstacles thrown at me—actual machine guns, real lasers, real explosions. Easier than I anticipate. With my genetic abilities, blasting the incoming silver bullets will create an excellent defense for me. If I time it right, the ammunition will obliterate into ash, halfway through its one-second journey to pierce me. Time starts when I make my first movement. Time stops when I reach the finish line, whenever I'm ready.
The suit Laury has made for me is incredible. My armor can withstand these bullets but only to a certain degree. I can dive against rigid structures without feeling pain. As predicted, moments of the miraculous victory happen when aftershocks from my blasts reinforce from my gauntlets. I finally reach the mark in forty-five seconds and the crowd cheers. What a rush! The crew immediately rushes to my aid. As easy it was, I'm petrified of what I have just done. I carried myself to victory all because of my genetic ability. Now I understand what Danny meant when he said I was privileged.
On my way back to the VIP section, I see Virgo warming up in the wings. He doesn't have the most aggressive genetic ability, but he looks confident. He's using the battle-ax—long, heavy, and made of funky metal—covering with bloodstains. Holograms bleed, but they don't leave a trail behind once they're destroyed—so it's a weapon he's used in the past, maybe his entire life.
Virgo's mission begins by the time I return to the VIP section. With him missing from the picture, the fifteen of us—adding the bartenders and security—pack in the luxurious room.
Frankie, Danny, and their new friends are on their third glass of vodka. This doesn't surprise me. Warriors often try to find ways to lower their inhibitions to become more savage in the arena. I hate to admit it, but they do fight better when drunk. I don't need to remind myself what Frankie was like at Katherine's party. Kendall doesn't recommend it. One time, she said Chris Stevenson—another warrior from the Nightfire elite team—was so drunk on a mission once he lacked coordination in his flying and was utterly useless. He'd almost blacked out, and an innocent life died that day. Abigail suspended him for a month.
Wouldn't it be great if Frankie got so drunk that he screws up enough to get eliminated? My smile from thinking about the scenario quickly vanishes when a piece of paper hits me in the eye. I turn to see where it came from. Frankie looks away, pretending he had nothing to do with it but grimaces at me a second later.
Wow. There will be a day when I will flick my fingers at him, and he'll blow up and die. Then I'll dump his shredded body into a black hole. I haven't snapped to that level yet. If he keeps this up, I will get there eventually. I'm already starting to think like this, so we have a problem. I wonder what Danny thinks of his behavior, but he doesn't say anything. He hasn't said one word to me since Bootcamp.
I need to escape his toxic energy, so I choose to explore the amphitheater.