Champion: A Legend Novel

by Marie Lu

  I reach the downed soldier. I grab his gun. One bullet left.

  Below, Day picks up Eden, puts one hand protectively against the back of his brother’s head, and then starts staggering back toward the shelter as fast as his broken body will allow him. Commander Jameson takes aim again—I scream in my head and push myself to go faster. All of my adrenaline, every fiber of my attention and concentration, is now focused like an arrow on her. She fires. This time the bullet misses the brothers, but it sparks barely a foot away from Day. He doesn’t even bother to look up. He only clutches Eden tighter, then stumbles onward.

  I finally near the roof where she is. I leap onto it, landing on its flat concrete surface. From here, I can see both the roof I’m on and the street below. Three dozen yards ahead of me, partially obscured by chimneys and vents, Commander Jameson crouches with her back turned to me, her focus on the streets.

  She fires again. Down below, I hear a hoarse shriek of pain from a voice I know all too well. All my breath escapes me. I glance quickly to the street to see Day fall to his knees, dropping Eden for a moment. The sounds around me dull.

  He’s been shot.

  He shudders, then picks himself up again. Hoists Eden into his arms again. Staggers onward. Commander Jameson fires one more time. The bullet makes impact. I hoist the gun in my hands, then point it straight at her. I’m close enough now, close enough to see the ridges of her bulletproof vest lining her back. My hands shake. I have a perfect vantage, a straight shot right at Commander Jameson’s head. She’s getting ready to fire again.

  I aim.

  As if the world has suddenly slowed to a million frames a second, Commander Jameson spins around. She senses my presence. Her eyes narrow—and then she swivels her gun toward me, taking her focus off Day. Thoughts flash through my mind at the speed of light. I pull my gun’s trigger, firing my last bullet straight at her head.

  And I miss.

  I never miss.

  No time to dwell on this—Commander Jameson has her gun pointed at me, and as my bullet whizzes past her face, I see her smile and fire. I throw myself to the ground, then roll. Something sparks barely an inch from my arm. I dart behind a nearby chimney and press myself as tightly against the wall as I can. Somewhere behind me, the sound of heavy boots approaches. Breathe. Breathe. Our last confrontation flashes through my mind. Why can I face everything in the world except Commander Jameson?

  “Come out and play, Little Iparis,” she calls out. When I stay silent, she laughs. “Come out, so you can see your pretty boy bleeding to death on the street.”

  She knows exactly how to slice right into my heart. But I grit my teeth and force the image of a bleeding, dying Day out of my head. I don’t have time for this bullshit. What I need to do is disarm her—and at that thought, I look down at my useless gun. Time to play a game of pretend.

  She’s silent now. All I can hear is the soft tap of approaching boots, the steady nearing of my brother’s killer. My hands tighten on my gun.

  She’s close enough. I shut my eyes for an instant, mutter a quick whisper for good luck—and then whirl out from my hiding place. I point my gun up at Commander Jameson as if I’m about to fire. She does what I hope—she flinches to the side, but this time I’m ready, and I lunge straight for her. I jump, then kick her face as hard as I can. My boots make a satisfying sound on impact. Her head snaps backward. Her grip on her gun loosens, and I take the opportunity to kick it right out of her hands. She collapses onto the roof with a thud—her gun flies off to one side, then falls right off the roof and to the smoke-filled streets below.

  I don’t dare stop my momentum. While she’s still down, I swing my elbow at her face in an effort to knock her unconscious. My first blow hits—but my second one doesn’t. Commander Jameson grabs my elbow, snaps her other hand on my wrist like a shackle, and then twists. I flip with it. Pain shoots up my arm as it bends in her grasp. Before she can break it, I twist around and stomp on her arm with the sharp heel of my boot. She winces, but doesn’t let go. I stomp again, harder.

  Her grip loosens by a hair, and I finally manage to slip out of her grasp.

  She hops to her feet right as I put some distance between us and turn again to face her. We start to circle each other, both of us breathing heavily, my arm still screaming in pain and her face marred by a trickle of blood coming from her temple. I already know I can’t win against her in an all-out brawl. She’s taller and stronger, equipped with years of training that my talents can’t match. My only hope is to catch her by surprise again, to find a way to turn her own force against her. As I continue to circle, waiting and watching for an opening, the world around us fades away. I draw on all my anger, letting it replace my fear and give me strength.

  It’s just you and me now. This is the way it was always meant to be, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for since it all began. We’ll face each other at the very end with our bare hands.

  Commander Jameson strikes first. Her speed terrifies me. One second she’s before me, and the next she’s at my side, her fist flying toward my face. I don’t have time to dodge. All I manage to do is jerk my shoulder up at the last second, and her fist hits me instead as a glancing blow. Stars explode across my eyes. I stumble backward. I manage to dodge her next blow—barely. I roll away from her, fighting to clear my vision, and pop back onto my feet. When she lunges again, I jump up and kick at her head. It catches her, but she’s too fast for it to be head-on. I dart away again. This time I back up slowly toward the edge of the roof, my eyes terrified to leave her. Good, I remind myself. Look as frightened as you can. Finally, the back of my boot hits the roof’s ledge. I glance down, then back up at Commander Jameson. Despite a slight unsteadiness, she looks undaunted. It isn’t hard for me to fake the fear in my wide eyes.

  She stalks toward me like a predator. She doesn’t say a word, but she doesn’t need to—everything she’s ever wanted to tell me has already been said before. It runs through my head like a poison. Little Iparis, how much you remind me of myself at your age. Adorable. Someday, you’ll learn that life isn’t always what you want it to be. That you won’t always get what you want. And that there are forces out of your control that will shape you into who you are. Too bad your time ends here. It would’ve been fun to see what you grow up to become.

  Her eyes hypnotize me. In this moment, I can imagine no worse sight.

  She lunges forward.

  I have only one chance. I duck, grab her arm, and flip her right over my head. Her momentum sends her sailing over the edge of the roof.

  But her hand clamps down on my arm. I’m yanked halfway over the ledge—my left shoulder pops out of its socket. I scream. My heels dig in against the ledge, fighting to keep me from falling over. Commander Jameson flattens herself against the side of the building, grappling for footholds. Her nails dig so deep into my flesh that I can feel my skin ripping. Tears spring to my eyes. Down below, Republic soldiers are still herding evacuees, firing on enemy soldiers on other roofs, shouting orders into their mikes.

  I scream at them with everything I have left. “Shoot her!” I shout. “Shoot her! ”

  Two Republic soldiers snap their heads in my direction. They recognize me. As they lift their guns in my direction, Commander Jameson looks up into my eyes and grins. “I knew you couldn’t do it yourself.”

  Then the soldiers open fire, Commander Jameson’s body convulses, her grip suddenly loosens, and she plummets like a wounded bird to the street. I turn away so I don’t have to look, but I still hear the sickening sound of her body against pavement. She’s gone. Just like that. I’m left with her words and my own ringing through my ears.

  Shoot her. Shoot her.

  Metias’s words flash through my mind. Few people ever kill for the right reasons.

  I hurriedly wipe the tears from my face. What did I just do? Her blood stains my hands—I rub my good hand against my clothes, but I can’t get it off. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to. “This is the right re
ason,” I whisper repeatedly.

  Perhaps she destroyed herself, and I only helped. But even this thought seems hollow.

  The agony of my dislocated shoulder makes me light-headed. I lift my right arm, grip my wounded left arm, grit my teeth, and push hard. I scream again. The bone resists for an instant—and then I feel my shoulder pop back into place. Fresh tears course down my face. My hands tremble uncontrollably, and my ears ring, blocking out any sound around me except the beating of my heart.

  How long has it been? Hours? A few seconds?

  The pulsing light of logic seeps into my mind, cutting through the pain. As always, it saves me. Day needs your help, it whispers. Go to him.

  I search for Day. He has reached the other side of the street and the safer areas around the shelter, where Republic soldiers have set up their barricades . . . but even as I start rushing to the edge of the roof, I notice that others have pulled Eden’s unconscious form away from Day and are taking him to safety. A few hover over Day as he lies on the ground, momentarily obscuring him from my view. I scramble down the building as fast as I can, until I reach a fire escape and rush down the metal steps. Fear and adrenaline numb my injuries.

  Please, I beg silently. Please let him be okay.

  By the time I reach him, a crowd has formed. I can hear one of them shouting, “Move it! Get back, give us some room! Tell them to hurry up!” A lump in my throat chokes me, leaving me short of breath. My boots pound against the ground, keeping rhythm with my heart. I shove people aside and drop to my knees at Day’s side. The person shouting was Pascao. He gives me a frantic look.

  “Stay with him,” he tells me. “I’m going for the medics.” I nod once, and he dashes off.

  I barely notice all the people crowded around us in a ring. All I can do is look down at Day. He’s trembling from head to toe, his eyes wide open in shock, his hair clinging to his face. When I look closer at his body, I notice two wounds spilling dark blood across his shirt, one wound in his chest and the other near his hip. A strangled cry comes from someone. Maybe it’s from me. As if in a dream, I bend over him and touch his face.

  “Day, it’s me. It’s June. I’m right here.”

  He looks at me. “June?” he manages to gasp out. He tries to lift a hand to my face, but he’s shaking so hard that he can’t. I reach out and cradle his face with both of my hands. His eyes are full of tears. “I—I think—I’ve been shot—” Two people from the crowd place their hands over his wounds, pressing down hard enough to force a painful sob from his mouth. He tries to look down at them, but has no strength to lift his head.

  “Medics are on their way,” I tell him firmly, leaning close enough to press my lips against his cheek. “Hang on. Okay? Stay with me. Keep looking at me. You’ll be okay.”

  “I don’t—think so,” Day stammers. He blinks rapidly, spilling tears down the sides of his face. They wet the tips of my fingers. “Eden—is he safe—?”

  “He’s safe,” I whisper. “Your brother is safe and sound and you’ll get to see him very soon.”

  Day starts to reply, but can’t. His skin looks so ashen. Please, no. I refuse to let myself think the worst, but it hangs over us like a black shadow. I feel the heaviness of death looming over my shoulder, his sightless eyes staring down into Day’s soul, waiting patiently to overwhelm his light.

  “I don’t want—to go—” Day finally manages to say. “I don’t want—to leave you—Eden—”

  I shush him by touching my lips to his trembling ones. “Nothing bad will ever happen to Eden,” I reply gently, desperate to keep him with me. “Stay focused, Day. You’re going to the hospital. They’re coming back for you; it won’t be long now.”

  It won’t be long now.

  Day just smiles at me, an expression so sad that it breaks through my numbness, and I begin to cry. Those bright blue eyes. Before me is the boy who has bandaged my wounds on the streets of Lake, who has guarded his family with every bone in his body, who has stayed by my side in spite of everything, the boy of light and laughter and life, of grief and fury and passion, the boy whose fate is intertwined with mine, forever and always.

  “I love you,” he whispers. “Can you stay awhile?” He says something else, but his voice trails off so quietly that I can’t make out what it is. No. No. You can’t. His breathing grows shallower. I can tell that he is fighting to stay conscious, that with every passing second, his eyes have more and more trouble focusing on me. For a moment, Day tries to look at something behind me, but when I glance over my shoulder, there’s nothing there but open sky. I kiss him again and then lean my head against his.

  “I love you,” I whisper over and over again. “Don’t go.” I close my eyes. My tears fall on his cheeks.

  As I crouch there against him, feeling his life slowly ebb away, I’m consumed with grief and rage. I have never been a religious person. But right now, as I see medics in the distance hurrying toward us, I send a desperate prayer to some higher power. To what, I don’t know. But I hope that Someone, Anyone, hears me. That It’ll lift us both into Its arms and take pity on us. I throw this prayer into the sky with every shred of strength I have left.

  Let him live.

  Please don’t take him away from this world. Please don’t let him die here in my arms, not after everything we’ve been through together, not after You’ve taken so many others. Please, I beg You, let him live. I am willing to sacrifice anything to make this happen—I’m willing to do anything You ask. Maybe You’ll laugh at me for such a naïve promise, but I mean it in earnest, and I don’t care if it makes no sense or seems impossible. Let him live. Please. I can’t bear this a second time.

  I look desperately around us, my vision blurred with tears, and everything is a smear of blood and smoke, light and ash, and all I can hear is screaming and gunfire and hatred, and I am so tired of the fighting, so frustrated, angry, helpless.

  Tell me there is still good in the world. Tell me there is still hope for all of us.

  Through an underwater veil, I feel hands on my arms pull me away from Day. I struggle stubbornly against them. Pain lances up my injured shoulder. Medics bend down over his body. His eyes are closed now, and I can’t see him breathing. Images of Metias’s body flash back to me. When the medics try again to pull me from Day, I shove them roughly away and scream. I scream for everything that has gone wrong. I scream for everything broken in our lives.

  I THINK JUNE IS LEANING OVER ME, BUT I HAVE TROUBLE making out the details of her face. When I try too hard, the edges of my vision filter out into blinding white. The pain, at first excruciating, is nothing now. Memories fade in and out—memories of my first days frightened and alone on the streets, with my bleeding knee and hollow stomach; of young Tess, and then of John when he first learned that I was still alive; of my mother’s home, my father’s smile, of Eden as a baby. I remember the first time I met June on the streets. Her defiant stance, her fierce eyes. Then, gradually, I have trouble remembering anything.

  I always knew, on some level, that I wouldn’t live long. It’s simply not written in my stars.

  Something bright hovering behind June’s shoulder catches my attention. I turn my head as much as I can to see it. At first it looks like some glowing orb of light. As I keep staring, though, I realize that it’s my mother.

  Mom, I whisper. I stand and take a step toward her. My feet feel so light.

  My mother smiles at me. She looks young and healthy and whole, her hands no longer wrapped in bandages, her hair the color of wheat and snow. When I reach her, she gently cups my face between her smooth, uninjured palms. My heart stops beating; it fills with warmth and light and I want to stay here forever, locked in this moment. I falter in my steps. Mom catches me before I can fall, and we kneel there, together again. “My little lost boy,” she murmurs.

  My voice comes out as a broken whisper. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Hush, my baby.” I bow my head as she kneels over me. She kisses my forehead, and I a
m a child again, helpless and hopeful, bursting with love. Past the blurry, golden line of her arm, I can look down at my pale, broken body lying on the ground. There’s a girl crouched over me, her hands on my face, her long dark hair draped over her shoulder. She’s crying.

  “Are John and Dad . . . ?” I begin to say.

  Mom just smiles. Her eyes are so incredibly blue, like I can see the entire world inside them—the sky and the clouds and everything beyond.

  “Don’t worry,” she replies. “They are well, and they love you very much.”

  I feel an overwhelming need to follow my mother wherever she’s going, wherever that might take us. “I miss you guys,” I finally say to her. “It hurts every day, the absence of someone who was once there.”

  Mom combs a gentle hand through my hair, the way she used to when I was little. “My darling, there’s no need to miss us. We never left.” She lifts her head and nods at the street, past the crowds of people who have gathered around my body. Now a team of medics is lifting me onto a stretcher. “Go back to Eden. He’s waiting for you.”

  “I know,” I whisper. I crane my neck to see if I can catch a glimpse of my brother in the crowds, but I don’t see him there.

  Mom rises; her hands leave my face, and I find myself struggling to breathe. No. Please don’t leave me. I reach out a hand to her, but some invisible barrier stops it. The light grows brighter. “Where are you going? Can I come with you?”

  Mom smiles, but shakes her head. “You still belong on the other side of the looking glass. Someday, when you’re ready to take the step over to our side, I’ll come see you again. Live well, Daniel. Make that final step count.”

  FOR THE FIRST THREE WEEKS THAT DAY IS IN THE HOSPITAL, I never leave. The same people come and go—Tess, of course, who’s in the waiting room as much as I am, waiting for Day to come out of his coma; Eden, who stays as long as Lucy allows him to; the other remaining Patriots, especially Pascao; an endless assortment of doctors and medics who I begin to recognize and know by name after the first week; and Anden, who has returned from the warfront with his own scars. Hordes of people continue to stay camped out around the hospital, but Anden doesn’t have the heart to tell them to disperse, even when they continue to stake out the grounds for weeks and then months. Many of them have the familiar scarlet streaks painted into their hair. For the most part, they stay silent. Sometimes they chant. I’ve grown used to their presence now, to the point where it’s comforting. They remind me that Day is still alive. Still fighting.