by K A Riley
“Like this,” Wisp illustrates. She slips three of the balls back into her bulky jacket pocket. With the other three, she launches into a blurry-handed vortex of motion with the mirrored balls flashing high into the air, slapping down into her palms, and then flying up again in a dizzying silver arc.
“See,” she beams, plopping one set of the three juggling balls into Sara’s hand and the other set into Roxane’s. “Nothing to it.”
Sara turns her eyes from Wisp’s and says, “No problem,” through clenched teeth.
Roxane stares down at the juggling balls in her palm like they’re venomous spiders that’ll bite her if she makes any sudden moves.
Now, I’m wishing I had selected myself for this challenge. Thanks to lessons from my weirdly coordinated mother—who also for some reason knows how to make balloon animals—I’ve known how to juggle since I was about five years old.
Of course, I didn’t know when I was assigning my fellow students to the various stations that Wisp was going to throw us such a deadly curve ball.
At Wisp’s instruction, Sara and Roxane take their positions at the starting point of each course.
Wisp taps a pad on the glass-topped podium, and a holo-display appears in the air with an indicator for each girl’s time and a red column for any penalty points they get slapped with.
Our two Cohorts are standing inside of the next set of glimmering pink holo-circles embedded in the floor as we start to cheer on our champions.
“Too bad we can’t bet on this thing,” Trax says to me out of the side of his mouth.
“Who says we can’t?” I whisper back across the few feet of space between our two viewing circles.
“Stakes?”
“If Sara wins, you stop hogging that good sonic-shower at the end of the row every morning.”
“But it’s the best one,” he whines. Then he huffs out an annoyed, “Fine. And if Roxane wins…”
“Yeah?”
“You go on a date with me.”
“A date?” I laugh. And then I realize, I’ve never been on an actual date before.
“A date,” he repeats.
“And where are we supposed to go, exactly? It’s not like we can just waltz out of the Academy.”
“Well…I don’t know how to waltz. But I think there are places we can go to find a little alone time. Maybe have a chat. Get to know each other outside of the daily routine of being trained as world-saving superheroes.”
“You’re pissing around.”
“I don’t know what that means. But no, I don’t think I am.”
I don’t know why he’s looking so smug. I’m not sure Roxane knows her own name. I do know, however, that Sara—despite being a total trouble-maker—is super coordinated, a quick-study, and wickedly skilled at stuff like this.
“Okay, you cheeky nutbar. I’ll have you on. It’s a bet.”
Trax gives me a wink and folds his arms across his chest as our two heroes—Sara and Roxane—take their positions at the starting line for their last round of instructions.
After going over the rules one more time, Wisp calls out, “Go!” and the two girls—juggling balls whirring in front of them—take off like a shot.
Apparently, Sara’s never juggled before, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her. She shimmies and skips along the winding matrix of elevated planks, juggling the three balls with circus-level expertise.
She pauses as the beam in front of her goes into a slow deathroll, and then she bolts across, leaping over the series of snapping blades in the section after that.
I take a break from cheering her on to turn to the side and stick my tongue out at Trax.
He smiles and redirects my attention back to the course where Sara is still straggling and stumbling along…but Roxane is…sprinting?
In a full-on wind sprint and somehow juggling all three balls in one hand, Roxane speeds across the beams. Her hand and the three juggling balls are a glittering blur of motion.
As if she knows which way each beam will spin and when the blades will strike, she glides over the obstacle course with cheetah speed and Billy goat dexterity.
Sara’s jaw drops, and she stops right in the middle of the course.
Meanwhile, Roxane slides to a stop at the end, catches all three balls in one hand, hits the red buzzer, and takes a mute mini-bow before hopping over to the cheers and back-slaps of her adoring Cohort.
What the hell?
Sara dashes her three juggling balls to the floor, leaps down from the beam she’s on, and grumbles her way over to our surprised, sulking Cohort.
Stepping out of his own Cohort’s pink viewing circle, Trax slips up behind me and whispers in my ear. “For our little date, shall we say…tonight after everyone’s asleep?”
I’ve never wanted to punch someone this cute so hard in the face.
But a bet’s a bet.
Besides, tonight’s a long way away. And who knows what might happen between now and then?
Maybe luck will be on my side, and I’ll get killed in the final fight.
25
Station Four - Scars
“Station Four might be a bit trickier,” Wisp announces.
From the middle of her Cohort, Chace raises her hand. “Can you define ‘trickier’?”
“Sure,” Wisp smiles. “Deadlier.”
We all wait for Wisp to laugh and tell us she’s joking. But she doesn’t say a word through her amused grin.
Sara claps Arlo hard on the back. “Looks like you’re up, Mr. Reaper. Try not to get yourself killed.”
“You’re not being helpful,” Libra scowls.
“Good,” Sara growls. “I wasn’t trying to be.”
Wisp asks Granden to do the honors, and he obliges with a crisp, military-style salute.
“The last challenge with the juggling on the ‘killer beams’ tested your balance and coordination. This one will test your instincts, anticipation skills, and reflexes. And also, how much pain you can endure.”
From the center of Cohort B’s viewing circle, I hear Lucid say, “What did he just say?” followed by Reverie telling him not to worry.
Personally, though, based on what we’ve seen so far, I’d say a good dose of worry couldn’t hurt.
Granden calls out for Arlo and Lucid to step forward.
Lucid slides his hand out of his sister’s and makes his way to the starting line at the beginning of the course.
Arlo tugs his hood even farther up onto his head and ambles to his own starting line.
“As you can see,” Granden says, his hands directing our attention to the walls. “There are ports—small openings—in the two side walls, in the floor, and in the wall at the end.” He points off to the far wall, past the holes in the floor and the dozen spinning, corkscrew-shaped posts with the light glinting off of their razor-sharp edges. “This will be a straightforward, there-and-back race. You’ll notice a baton at the end of each course. Your job is simple: Get from the start of the course to the end, grab the baton, bring it back. First one who places the baton in my hand, wins.”
Mm-hmm. Why do I think there’s going to be waaaay more to it than that?
“And in case you’re wondering why it sounds so easy,” Granden announces, “it’s because it’s not. Behind those walls is an arsenal of darts, arrows, steel pellets, and other assorted projectiles. They’ll fire randomly at the two competitors along the way.”
Standing shoulder to shoulder with Granden, Wisp gives us the rest of the bleak news:
“Of course, our goal isn’t to kill Arlo and Lucid. But their best instincts and their Emergent abilities need to be challenged to make them as effective as possible.”
“So the darts and things won’t kill them?” Reverie asks, her lip in a twitchy quiver.
“Probably not,” Wisp shrugs.
“Probably not?”
Wisp and Granden exchange a look I can’t read, but it seems far too serious and scary considering this is just a little in-school
challenge to pass the time while our other teachers are out on their little field trip.
Libra grabs my arm. “Branwynne, maybe you should stop Arlo from competing in this one.”
“Are you suggesting you want to take his place?”
“Um. No.”
“Arlo? Are you up for it?”
Arlo gives me a half-turn and a “don’t-ask-me-dumb-questions” look of disdain.
“I think he’s going to go through with it,” I tell Libra.
“I think maybe I won’t look.”
Mattea and Ignacio agree, but Sara grins. “If you don’t look, you’ll miss all the carnage and fun.”
“I’ve got this,” Arlo says evenly, without turning around.
Great. We’ve got probably the quietest and most harmless member of our Cohort about to jump into a fun game of certain injury and probable death.
And I assigned it to him.
Good going, Branwynne. It’s not enough you almost get killed in class, yourself. Now you’ve gone and tossed this poor sot into Wisp and Granden’s sadistic line of fire.
“Okay,” I say to Libra. “Maybe you’re right.” I wave my hand to get Wisp’s attention. “Maybe I should do this one?”
After all, if I concentrate hard enough and focus just right, I can channel Haida’s instincts and reflexes to get through the race without getting turned into a bloody, plug-ugly carcass.
“It’s your choice,” Wisp tells me.
But, whipping fully around this time, Arlo glares at me from under his hood. “You trusted me with this challenge. Take that trust back now, and maybe I won’t trust you next time.”
Ugh. He’s right. It’s hard enough being responsible for your own life. Being responsible for someone else’s is way worse. This is why being in charge is a piss-poor muck all.
“Okay,” I concede. “Just do me a favor and don’t get killed.”
Arlo smiles and tugs his hood up higher on his head. “Never.”
“All settled then?” Wisp asks.
I assure her we are.
“Okay,” she says, swinging around to face Arlo and Lucid, who are standing side by side at their marks. “Ready? Set? Go!”
Lucid sprints into the minefield, darting left, right, and doubling back as a hail of thorn-sized spikes blasts at him from the ports in the wall.
He’s lithe and quick, with almost predictive instincts about what’s coming and when.
The first volley misses, but a second one isn’t far behind.
He shrieks and drops to a knee as one of the sharp barbs pierces the side of his thigh.
Snatching it out, he rolls deftly to one side and ducks as another hail of darts whizzes over his head.
I hate to admit it, but his reflexes are really good. I’ve never seen him in action like this before. It’s impressive, but I can’t get distracted by the graceful ballet of evasive maneuvers he’s doing. I’ve got my own champion to root for.
Unlike Lucid, who’s pirouetting, weaving, backtracking, and then advancing his way through the course, Arlo walks in a straight line—past the posts of spinning blades, ignoring them like they’re not even there—and we all scream at him to look out.
But he doesn’t hear us, or else he isn’t listening.
One of the corkscrew blades shears angled gashes in his shoulder and down his arm. A swarm of darts lodges in his chest. A steel-tipped crossbow bolt pierces his calf. From just underneath him, a surge of electric-blue fire bursts up and consumes him.
Stepping through on the other side, he pats his hips and both shoulders to put out the bits of flame and embers still lingering as he walks on.
Seemingly oblivious to it all, Arlo reaches the end of the room, plucks the baton from its holder, and walks—casual as a weekend sightseer—back to the finish line.
Along the way, he gets shot, pelted, and scorched all over again as Lucid—scrambling around in the course next to him—shrieks and squeals and looks more and more like a singed, human pincushion.
Slapping the baton into Granden’s palm, Arlo joins us in our circle of pink light where we stand, stunned in open-mouthed shock.
“How—?” is all Libra can say, and I know we’re witnessing something truly special. And not just the fact that Arlo walked out of the course alive. The fact that he’s left Libra speechless…that’s the real miracle.
Still in the course, Lucid’s skill, stamina, or luck runs out.
A spray of silver pellets ripples the skin on his neck and arms. A finger-sized dart pierces his side just below the rib cage. He screams in agony and begs Wisp to end the game.
With a tap of a button on the glass-topped control stand, she does. And then she and Granden jog onto the shut-down course to lift Lucid up and drag him back to his Cohort where the two of them—apparently without a trace of panic or worry—pop open a med kit and begin tending to his wounds.
With everyone fussing over Lucid, I think I’m the only one who notices what’s happening to Arlo.
I catch a glimpse of his face under his hood.
His skin is an even worse patchwork of scars than it was before.
I put a hand on his shoulder, but he lurches away.
“Are you okay?”
“It doesn’t hurt,” he murmurs. “It never hurts.”
He sounds almost disappointed by that fact.
Looking over at us from next to Lucid where she’s applying an aerosol healing spray out of a small yellow can, Wisp snaps at us for staring, but Arlo says it’s okay.
“Are you sure?” Wisp asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to tell them?”
“No. I will.”
“Tell us what?”
Arlo opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything.
Libra whips around to Wisp. “What’s going on with him?”
“It’s not for me to say.”
Arlo gulps and clears his throat. “I’ve been working with Mayla.” He swallows hard and runs a finger along one of the many raised, crisscrossed red marks running across his face and down his neck. “This is part of my ability as an Emergent.”
I don’t see how getting covered with brutal looking scars counts as an “ability,” but I’m hardly about to say anything.
“I heal quickly,” Arlo explains. “Just not well.”
“And he doesn’t feel pain like the rest of you,” Granden adds.
“That’s not entirely true,” Arlo corrects him. “I feel pain. It just doesn’t last very long.” I catch a glimpse of his face under his hood before he disappears into its shadow. Walking over to make sure Lucid is okay, he tells us, his voice barely above a whisper, “My scars are all that lasts.”
26
Station Five - Riddles
With Arlo retreating to the back of our Cohort and with Lucid grimacing in pain but looking very happy to be alive, we all shuffle along to the next pair of pink viewing pads.
Wisp calls our attention to Station Five, which, thankfully, looks harmless enough. It’s just two tables with a gun-metal gray safe sitting in the middle of each one. Each safe is pretty plain except for the long, bright green input panel running along its front surface.
“For this challenge, the two champions will race to open the safe on the table. It requires an eleven-digit combination. You’ll need to decipher a series of puzzles and get the code to punch into the safe’s input panel.”
Mattea lets out a cocky chortle. “Puzzles?” she mutters. “No problem.”
“As long as the puzzles don’t involve you getting your body shredded to pieces,” I mutter back.
Wisp taps her bracelet, and a scrolling, yellow-framed holo-display appears in the air over the two tables behind her.
“There are six puzzles. The first player to solve them all and open the digital combination lock with the eleven-digit code wins.”
Mattea slides forward, her hand half-raised in the air. “I’m the rep for Cohort A,” she tells Wisp, who nods and directs her to go stand by h
er table.
“And I’ll be the champion for Cohort B,” Chace says without a hint of excitement or confidence.
“Pay attention, now,” Wisp instructs. “The riddles will come at you fast. You need to focus your energy and attention, calm your nerves, and solve each puzzle before moving on to the next.”
Ignacio thrusts his meaty arm into the air. “And what happens if they get a puzzle answer wrong?”
“Nothing,” Wisp assures him.
Ignacio’s eyebrows pinch together. “Really? Nothing?”
“Nothing,” Wisp repeats and then, after a dramatic pause, adds, “Just a mild shock.”
Even from fifteen feet away, I can see Chace’s eyes go wide as a blue whale’s bum.
“Shock?” she stammers.
“Yes,” Wisp sighs. “I’m sorry, but yes—you may experience a shock if you input an incorrect answer.”
“A mild shock?” Trax asks on behalf of his sister.
“Sure,” Wisp agrees. “Mild. It won’t kill the competitors if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“But it’ll hurt, right?”
“Naturally.”
“A lot?”
“Naturally.”
Mattea slaps her palms together and rubs her hands up and down with enough friction to start a fire. Figuratively speaking, of course.
Chace doesn’t look nearly as eager, but her brother nudges her forward as the rest of their Cohort cheers her on.
From his spot behind me, Ignacio gripes into my ear about how it won’t be fair.
“How do you figure? Mattea’s got a gift for this stuff. Why do you think I picked her for this assignment?”
“Sure. But have you talked to Chace lately?”
“No.”
“Of course you haven’t. That’s because she’s always got her face buried in her holo-pad. Reading and writing fast is her thing.”
“Don’t underestimate Mattea,” Arlo says.
From where she’s standing next to me, Sara gives the tiniest of nods. “Mattea is good.”
Wisp starts the contest with a tap on her bracelet and a wave of her hand. Blinking on and then off again, one at a time, seven riddles flash in a scrolling holo-text above the tables.
