by Everly Frost
Please proceed to the Mirror Room.
The Mirror Room. It was supposed to be a myth. Most rooms were open arenas with public viewing booths and video drones everywhere to capture the action. But there were rumors about private rooms, places people went to fight when they didn’t want anyone watching. The Mirror Room was one of them.
Determination gleamed behind the strip of veil he wore across his eyes. “I’m taking you where nobody can hurt you. Not the Hazards. Not the Bashers, either.”
“But you’re one of them—”
“I am what I have to be. For now.”
To our right, there was a low grinding sound and a panel slid open, revealing another corridor beyond. I could run. I could fight him. But as much as I didn’t want to admit it, he’d just saved me from my first death—and saved me from a hunter drone.
He said he was taking me somewhere safe and for some reason, I believed him. I didn’t know why Aaron’s brother would tranq my parents and try to tranq me when the walls were crashing down around us and Bashers had infiltrated the Terminal, but I put aside my questions and raced inside with the Basher, slowing down when we made it through and the door closed.
The corridor stretched out in front of us, curving in the distance. Lights dotted the walls, up high, but other than that, it was a blank walkway. No decorations, no other doorways. No drones, either. It seemed so empty, so safe.
Around the curve of the corridor, there were more doors, maybe twenty of them all along one wall of the massive corridor, spaced apart so that I imagined a combat room behind each one. Some of the rooms were supposed to be high-tech constructions. In some of them, the combatants didn’t even fight people, but machines instead. Others were medieval, straight out of history, set up with thatched houses and muddy earth squelching underfoot.
Toward the end of the corridor, the Basher pulled me to a stop. He grabbed my wrists, making me wince, turning my hands up to the light so we could both see the damage: a cut on each, but only skin deep. One of the cuts oozed a little and I frowned at it, watching and waiting for it to heal.
Dismay filled me as I realized…I was a slow healer.
“Put your finger on it and press. It’ll stop soon.”
I did as he said, pushing away my humiliation and fear, avoiding his eyes. I’d deal with my new discovery if I made it out of the horror show I found myself in right then. I waited as he flicked his device toward the door. A flash of light caught my eye as the door clicked open and I put up my hand to block it. There was another flash, but I knew what it was this time, and I hesitated behind him.
It was the Mirror Room. Ceiling to floor, wall to wall, the reflections made even more dazzling by a silver ball turning on the ceiling. On one side of the room, the mirrors reflected rows of shiny weapons hanging from glass hooks. If there were video drones, I couldn’t see them.
The Basher said, “We just have to make it through another couple corridors, but don’t worry about the fighters. These rooms aren’t scheduled for combat tonight. Just stay close.”
I wanted to ask him again who he was, why he was doing this, especially when I was a slow healer. He had no reason to help me and every reason to leave me behind in the chaos, but he pushed the door open, filling the walkway with reflective light. As soon as he took a couple of steps, he ground to a halt, pushing me behind him, fixated on the other side of the room. Disappointment blossomed in the set of his shoulders and his sudden indrawn breath.
His indistinct whisper was garbled behind his voice modulator. “No. They promised.”
The other person had frozen at the sight of us, a shout revealing his surprise as he rose from a bench seat placed against the far wall.
It was Michael Bradley. He was dressed in black, but the dark material couldn’t hide the smears and rips, his skin perfectly healed beneath them.
He must be here for the graduation party and, despite what the Basher said about this room not being scheduled for combat, the surprise on Michael’s face at seeing us indicated he’d expected to face one of his classmates in this room instead.
“Basher,” Michael said, an angry curl to his lips. “Is that what all the commotion’s about? If you’re here for new recruits, you aren’t going to make any friends by blowing up the Terminal.” His eyes were on me and even at that distance, I could tell that a thousand thoughts went through his head.
The Basher suddenly grabbed me up against him, a knife at my throat. “You’ll let us leave.”
“Or what? You’ll kill her?” Michael scoffed and the tension radiating off my captor shuddered through me.
The Basher shoved me a step closer to Michael—and the door on the other side of the room—as the silver ball above us rotated and cast our reflections a thousand times around the room.
In answer, Michael moved to the left, just a bit, revealing the sword resting down by his side as if he didn’t think he’d have to use it.
Another step, and another. The Basher’s chest rose and fell behind me, as though he was breathing his soul in and out.
Michael’s hand tightened on his sword. There was blood on his fingers. He said, “Well, I thought I’d be fighting someone from the graduation party, but I guess you must be my last fight tonight.”
The Basher’s mouth was at my ear. “I’m sorry, Ava. I tried.”
He shoved me aside and leaped forward, snatching a weapon off the wall—another sword—and springing at Michael with the sword raised. Michael’s sword flashed to meet the Basher’s and deflect the blow, but the Basher pushed, and the two weapons grated down each other with a metallic shriek, coming apart just before they chopped each other’s hands off. The Basher sliced again, and again Michael deflected. Then again and again, so fast I could hardly keep track.
My feet had put down roots on the concrete floor. I huddled in a crouch, knowing I should move back to the wall, get out of the way, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t think.
The Basher whirled, slashed, his muscles pumped, his legs crouching, springing. Behind his tight facemask, the lines of his face were severe.
They were evenly matched, neither giving ground nor missing an attack or a defense. The duel moved over to the bench and the Basher dashed up onto it, leaping down with a forceful cut that would have cleaved Michael’s head from his shoulders. Michael dodged, crouched, and swung around to cut the other boy’s legs out from under him. The Basher must have anticipated the move because his sword angled at the last moment. It cut through the air, headed straight toward Michael’s eyes.
He dropped and flattened himself to the floor just in time, allowing the Basher to lunge over him. The Basher’s sword struck the floor a fraction away from Michael’s face with so much force that it twanged. He wrenched it out of the floor and Michael rolled to his feet.
Without hesitation, their weapons clashed, but something had changed. Michael wasn’t defending anymore. He was attacking. He beat the Basher across the room, where the Basher rallied and almost caught Michael on the shoulder, but Michael kept on, pushing him around as if he was beating at a moth.
Then the Basher cursed. His sword flew through the air and landed several feet away. He lost his footing, stumbled, and in an instant, Michael had the sword to his throat.
Without a second’s hesitation, Michael ripped off the Basher’s facemask.
I jumped to my feet and Michael stumbled backward. “What…?”
My brother’s pale face stared back at me.
“Josh!”
Josh looked right at me while I shook and trembled and tried to comprehend what was going on. He said, “Don’t let them break you, Ava.”
Michael lowered his sword, letting his weapon swing down by his side, letting Josh regain his balance, confusion swamping his face. He followed Josh’s stare to me, his eyes wide and wild.
Before I moved, Michael roared with pain. His attention leaped back to Josh, breaking the contact with me. I wasn’t sure if I shouted or screamed, only that some kind of sound came
out of my mouth because, while Michael was distracted, Josh had thrust a knife into his chest.
The knife handle protruded right where Michael’s heart would be. His face contorted, changing from shock to pain, and then to anger. He stumbled, his legs buckled, but he didn’t go down. He wobbled, reaching out into the air as if he was trying to steady himself on oxygen alone.
Relief flooded Josh’s face as Michael stumbled backward. Josh took a step toward me, ready to run, but his expression changed as he saw what Michael was doing.
Michael’s whole body tensed. His eyes scrunched to dark slits. His right hand stopped clawing air and curled around instead. He took hold of the knife and levered it outward, freeing the weapon as easily as a needle through silk.
Josh’s face took on the strangest expression I had ever seen—resignation, peace. He took a step back toward his sword, as though he was supposed to, but he seemed so slow about it. In an instant, Michael flipped the knife in his fist and plunged it into Josh’s heart. Then he pushed Josh backward.
The air left Josh’s lungs with an audible oomph as he thudded against the floor, half on his back, half on his side.
Michael closed his eyes and stood still. So still, I thought he’d really died.
I trembled all over, but I made myself move. I had to get the knife out of Josh and get him out of there right away. I’d never seen someone stabbed in the chest before, but if Michael could recover that quickly, then Josh could too. I’d drag him out of there if I had to. We’d get away and then I’d make him explain to me what was going on, why he was dressed as a Basher, and why he was taking me away.
I raced to him and crashed to his side. “Josh!” But there was something wrong with his face. When people regenerated, their bodies became flushed, glowing, circulating blood really fast. Regenerating. Josh’s lips were pale, trembling, and his face was white.
I took hold of the knife, but it was slippery and when I pulled, my hands came up empty. I turned to Michael. He’d pulled the knife out of his own heart. He knew what to do. “Help me!”
Michael blinked at me and his eyes looked weird, all dilated as if he was in a dark, dark room. Not in this silvery place anymore. His voice was a whispered growl. “Give him a minute. He’ll come back.”
I tried to hold on to my thoughts as I turned back to Josh, to the pale stillness and the gray tinge spreading across his skin like a violent sea claiming every part of him. I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. Maybe this is what happened with hearts, maybe they reacted differently. But Michael hadn’t reacted like this. He’d pulled out the knife and he was okay.
Josh would be okay too.
He opened his eyes and I breathed relief. He was back. Now he’d pull out the knife and get to his feet and we could find a place to answer the thousand questions racing through my head.
He didn’t move. He gasped, breath gurgling in and out. He met my eyes. “Little sister.” My arm stung as he gripped it, fingers pressing, pushing me, as though he wanted me to get away from him, as though he wanted me to run away.
I shook my head at him. “Josh…what…”
His eyes closed and his hand dropped away. I waited for him to speak again, to move like he should. I shook his shoulders, but he didn’t respond. Confusion threatened to overwhelm me.
I needed to help him, but I couldn’t do it alone. I searched the room for some kind of emergency alert system. There’d been a big deal about it when they opened. It was all over the news. The Terminal was totally safe, they’d said.
I found the emergency intercom on the far wall, a black rectangle in the center of a pink-tinged mirror, and I ran to it and hit the button. “Hello? We need a recovery dome! Now!” No clinical voice came out of it, telling me to stay put, that help was on the way. “Hello? I need help! Oh…”
The button wasn’t glowing. I ran desperate eyes over the box, wondering if it was switched off, but the only button was the one I’d struck. I screamed into the plastic grill. “Answer me!”
The silence was horrifying. When I turned back to Josh, Michael leaned over him. I ran over, meaning to push him away, but he stepped back before I had the chance and shook his head.
“Ava. He’s…I’ve never seen anything like this before. I think he’s…”
Dead.
“This isn’t possible. It’s not possible.” I shoved at Michael, glaring into his eyes, the eyes of a monster. “You killed him!”
He put his hands up, but didn’t touch me, backing away.
As I watched him, all the panic in my body slid away. The fear and horror were gone, and I knew that this time, when I bent over Josh, I’d be able to pull the knife out; his heart would let it go.
The knife slid out and I willed Josh’s chest to rise and fall, to breathe, but it was too late. I clambered to my feet and stabbed at Michael with all my strength. He stood there, letting the knife fall. And fall again.
The slash across his face healed in an instant. The gashes I left on his chest and arms turned pink with new skin and faded. I raised the knife again as tears slid down my cheeks. He reached out and pushed my arm away. Really gently. His guarded face and stern mouth blurred as my vision turned to water. I pressed my eyes shut and clutched the knife so hard I was in danger of cutting myself, but I didn’t care. What would it matter?
His hand covered mine, tugging at the knife, trying to make me let go, but I heaved at him, pushing as hard as I could. “Get away from me!”
When I opened my eyes, he was gone. The mirror-plated walls reflected only hundreds of me, back and forth, around and around, standing alone with the weapon in my hand, each drop making a larger puddle next to my black heels. A puddle that threatened to slide across Josh’s Basher uniform.
I had to get it off him. If anyone found him like this, they’d know what he was. They’d hold him responsible for the explosion at the ceremony and all that property damage. In the last year, I’d heard of only one other Basher being caught. He was tried for hate crimes against slow healers and sentenced to life in prison. If Josh lived…No, not if. When he came back to life, they’d lock him in solitary for the rest of his life for being a member of the gangs. He may as well be buried under rubble.
I snatched at the brown suit, using the knife to rip it at the seams, not caring whether he had other clothes underneath, but he did: his collared shirt and tie, black for Implosion, hiding the blood pooling across his heart. I ripped and tore the Basher uniform from his arms and legs and rolled it into a ball, running to the door and throwing it down the corridor.
Back inside the room, I slipped and buckled. Once kneeling on the splattered floor, I couldn’t get up again. I put my head into my hands, curled over my knees, and closed my eyes. I didn’t feel anything. Not the wet tiles, not my wild hair, not my empty, useless hands. I didn’t try to reach for the emergency intercom again. The lights in it were dead like my brother. Out of order. Like me.
I hated Josh.
I hated him for leaving me in his dust. I hated him for calling me a freak. Most of all, I hated him for being a Basher, for dragging me in there, for getting himself killed.
But he was my brother. And death was not a possibility. Not here. Not now. Not until we were hundreds of years old.
It must be a mistake. I glanced at him, thinking that any second now his arms and legs would start trembling—enter the pre-healing phase—like they should have already.
Running footsteps brought me to my feet, and a man I didn’t recognize raced into the room with a large pack slung across his back.
Relief surged through me. He’d brought the recovery dome. Now he’d bring Josh back.
Chapter Three
“OUT OF the way, girl.” The man skidded to a stop beside Josh, dropping to the ground and swinging the giant pack off his back.
An oxygen mask came out, followed by an enormous needle filled with dark fluid that the man thumped into Josh’s chest and compressed. He spoke into his mouthpiece, calling for a full recovery
transport. “We need it now.”
He shoved at Josh, half rolling him over, and ripped at the material across Josh’s right shoulder. Beneath his shirt, there was a section of puckered skin, white and warped, about an inch in diameter. The man paused and cursed at it. He cursed again, shaking his head.
Then he whipped into action, opening out his pack and throwing it upward so that it snapped mid-air into a rigid dome shape. It reminded me of one of those clear umbrellas that stockbrokers in suits always seemed to carry, except without a handle. He pulled it down to the ground so that it encircled Josh’s whole body. He tapped the console and the dome sealed itself to the floor.
“Stand back,” he said, and I obeyed.
Only then, I realized that Michael stood at the door. He hadn’t run after all. I’d expected him to be far away by then, but he’d come back with the medic.
He leaned against the archway as if he was waiting at a bus stop. Bored, uncaring, ignoring the gore adorning his chest and neck—a tattoo of death. I wondered, if I looked closer, whether I’d see signs of strain around his eyes, maybe a tight jaw, frozen shoulders, fear, and uncertainty hidden well.
The recovery dome flashed, spilling bolts of organic energy into Josh’s body, and I waited for him to respond. Any second now, my brother would gasp, the blood would stop flowing from his chest, and he’d come back to himself.
The dome was alive with electricity, jolting Josh’s body. The energy inside the dome reached out beyond the umbrella cover, making my skin prickle. I didn’t look at Michael again or watch the medic. The only important thing was Josh’s face. I waited for his eyelids to flutter, his mouth to draw in oxygen.
The man stood up. He lifted the microphone toward his mouth. He stopped, started to speak, and stopped again. Another curse left his lips and hung in the air. He ran his hand over his eyes and shut them for a moment.
