Firstlife

by Gena Showalter

  I'm bleeding, and I'm dying. I have to be dying. No one can survive this.

  Momentary...just a blip. But a single heartbeat might as well be a hundred years.

  Don't care. Stop. Have to make it stop.

  I'll do whatever he wants. I'll sign with Myriad.

  Stop, stop, stop.

  If I change my mind about my future later on, I can go to court. Bow mentioned the possibility for the coerced. Yes, yes. Too many lose, she'd said, but I'm willing to take the chance.

  Stop!

  "I--" My mind breaks, disconnected with me, disassociating with reality--a memory becoming my new truth. I'm seven years old. My dad is home, but he's pacing in his office, worried about money. How are we going to pay this, Grace? We're tapped out.

  My mom is painting in her studio, preparing to sell one of her pieces earlier rather than later, leaving me in Aunt Lina's care. She's come for a visit. We're alone in my bedroom, and she's twirling. She's Loony Lina today, the personality that is blind. Blind and yet, somehow she manages to avoid bumping into my furniture.

  "I'm sorry the poison hurt you so bad," she says in a little-girl voice, despite the fact that she's twenty-seven, like my dad. "But I'm glad the doctor died."

  "Poison?" I ask, confused. "Doctor?"

  "You escaped!"

  Loony Lina always says crazy things.

  Now I'm baffled. Ten years ago she mentioned poison and escape? But...but...back then, she couldn't have known this would happen. Right?

  Vans pinches my chin between his fingers, jerking me from my thoughts, forcing me to face him. I'm unable to focus, my vision too cloudy.

  "You know what to say to make the pain stop."

  Stop...stop...yes, that's exactly what I want. Will do anything! Panting breaths wheeze through my mouth as I try to tell him--

  What?

  My parents' dream...or mine?

  "No," I manage to croak.

  Rage contorts his features. He snaps his fingers in Nurse Ratched's direction. "Give her another injection."

  Another? No, no, no. I struggle to contain my whimpers of protest.

  "You kill her?" Nurse Ratched asks. "That is what happens next."

  "Give her another injection!"

  No! Bow, I try to scream. She said she would rescue me. She promised. I just... What do I have to do? Say the word--what word? Troika?

  Nurse Ratched hurries to the tray and, after rooting through the utensils scattered across the top, returns to my side. Another sting. Another wash of cold followed by intense heat. The terrible sensations in my head magnify a million degrees, and I release a bloodcurdling scream that springs from the depths of my soul.

  Over and over Vans tells me to sign with Myriad, and over and over I somehow find the strength to deny him. My dream...dream... He pokes and prods at me. He hits me with a closed fist, backhands me with an open palm. He slices at my arms and legs with a scalpel but through it all...dream, dream, dream... I resist.

  Finally he has two choices. Stop, or watch me die.

  "Let her down." His disgust is clear.

  Nurse Ratched adds slack to the chains until my feet touch the floor. My legs are the consistency of jelly, and I can't hold myself up. I sag, my head falling forward, my chin pressing in my sternum as my arms continue to bear the bulk of my weight. Then the fetters are removed, and I crash, knocking out what little air I managed to collect in my lungs.

  Vans is right about one thing. I really, really want to die.

  "You damaged her." An all-too-familiar voice slashes through the silence. A male voice with a slight Irish lilt.

  Killian is here?

  My relief is boundless. A savior! I don't even care that I'm a damsel in distress.

  I can't lift my head, but I find the strength to pry open my eyes. A cascade of blood obstructs my vision. All I see are two shadows standing face-to-face.

  "This is a restricted area," Vans barks. "Leave. Now."

  "Unfortunately for you, you aren't the one who pulls my strings," Killian says. "Do you know who you are? The bastard who used my actions against the girl. Oh yes, I heard about that."

  A third shadow appears. "Your services aren't necessary, Killian." Bow's voice! She's come for me, too. "You can leave. I've got this."

  A menacing growl from Killian. "I'm not going anywhere without Ten."

  "You'll get her over my dead body."

  "Agreed. But first I'm going to dispose of the trash."

  "Now wait just a--" Vans begins.

  "Don't kill--" Bow says.

  Both go silent.

  Different sounds hit my awareness. Rustling clothes. The whoosh of air. Gurgling. A loud snap. A louder thump. A whisper.

  "Things will be better now, lass." A soft brush of fingertips through my hair as Killian's scent fills my nose.

  My whimper is barely audible.

  "Get your filthy hands off her," Bow demands.

  "Why don't you make me, Little Bow Peep Show?"

  More rustling clothing. When it ceases, I hear panting.

  "Vans should have been locked away," Bow shouts.

  "Do you truly believe he deserved a second chance?" Killian asks. "Or is your realm speaking for you?"

  "I happen to agree with my realm. You don't deserve a second chance, and yet you live."

  "I've never asked for a second chance. I am what I am. I like what I am. In this case, I'm the victor."

  Bow blows out a frustrated breath. "We need permission from Ten or someone in her familial line to intervene on her behalf--any more than we already have. Until then, our hands are tied."

  "Your hands are tied. Her mother gave her own ML permission to protect the girl from mortal harm. Permission that's been passed to me. I just protected Ten from mortal harm. Which I'll continue to do outside these walls."

  "You can't escape with her."

  "I can. Your laws aren't mine. You should have convinced her to leave days ago."

  "You want an Unsigned out there? She would have died sooner rather than later."

  Huff, puff. "With me, the level of danger doesn't matter," Killian retorts.

  A curse from Bow, then a curse from Killian. The two go silent. I hear...typing?

  Bow grunts and walks closer to me. I hear splashing. She crouches to do...something. Her hand is moving. She's writing? On what?

  "What are you doing?" Killian demands.

  "Her grandmother has requested I clear a path of escape. The girl will choose whether she stays or goes."

  She's delusional. My grandmother is dead. Both of my grandmothers are dead, in fact. One is in Troika, and one is in Myriad.

  "So much for keeping an Unsigned inside these walls, eh?" Killian's dry tone seems to suck any humidity out of the air. "Guess what? My new orders just came in. I'm supposed to stop you--put your claws away. I won't obey."

  "Thank--"

  "Don't thank me, Archer. I won't let her leave with you, either."

  Archer?

  "She'll leave with me," Killian continues. "If you get in my way, well, I'll happily kill you."

  "You can try."

  Footsteps. Muttered arguing. Then...nothing.

  I'm not sure how much time passes. I drift in and out of consciousness, but finally...finally I'm able to move. My fingers twitch. I roll my shoulder. I lift my arm, wipe my eyes to clear my vision and--

  Scramble backward.

  A few feet away from me, Vans is on his back, motionless, his dull eyes staring at nothing. His mouth is open, crimson dried at the corners of his lips. He's...dead? He must be. He's lying in a pool of blood. One of his hands has been removed, and it's cuddled up next to my ankle, like a puppy.

  Did Killian do this?

  If you get in my way, well, I'll happily kill you.

  I bolt to my feet, different parts of me threatening to revolt.

  Killian and Bow are gone. They saved me...then left me behind?

  Clear a path of escape...

  Frowning, I stumble to
the open door and peek into the hall. Two guards lie motionless on the floor.

  Bow's doing? Or Killian's?

  Does it matter? There's no better time to escape. Go, go!

  I rush through the room. The problem? My rush is actually slo-mo. I'm weaker than I realized, operating on empty. I manage to swipe up the lab coat Vans dropped and, despite the pain shooting through me, shove my arms inside the proper holes. The doctor's key card is attached to the lapel. Perfect. I stuff the scalpel in my pocket, grimace as I pick up the severed hand--the number 830543 is scripted across the top. A message from Bow?

  A composite number. A prime number. The prime factors are: 7, 59, 2011

  My brain wants to dissect each of the individual numbers, but there's no time. I drop the hand beside the scalpel and beat feet to the best of my ability, heading for Vans's office.

  The number of obstacles in my way: two, at the very least. Nurse Ratched will be nearby just in case Vans has need of--

  I trip, landing with a hard thud, losing my breath. I look over my shoulder and discover Nurse Ratched slumped against the wall, her neck at an odd angle.

  Ooo-kay. One obstacle. The lock on the office door.

  In the distance thunders a stampede of feet, the wild cheers of inmates, the thud of furniture being turned over. An alarm screeches to life.

  My best isn't good enough; I have to do better. I scramble up and lurch into motion, hobbling instead of running.

  "Ten! Ten!"

  The voice comes from behind me. I turn. Sloan is beating at the gate that separates the prisoners' wing from the offices. Her features are ablaze with a combination of excitement and strain, her fingers curled around the wire so tightly, her knuckles are bleached. Behind her, several kids are beating Colonel Anus and Ben Dover into pulp and powder. Fists are flying. Feet are kicking. Nails are raking and teeth are biting. The guards struggle...at first.

  "Get your ass over here!" Sloan demands.

  The kids responsible for beating--killing--Anus and Ben appear beside her, blood smeared on their faces, coating their hands.

  Do I attempt to rescue, despite my weakness? Or do I flee while I can?

  As if I don't already know the answer. I needed help, and Killian and Bow stepped up. These kids need me. I have to do my part.

  "Have you seen Killian or Bow?" I ask, limping over.

  "No." Sloan glances behind her. "Hurry!"

  I press the severed hand against the ID pad, swipe the card along the side, but...the door remains closed, exactly as I feared, as the screen asks for a code. What should I do?

  Frustrated, I beat Vans's hand against the pad. My gaze is drawn to the number. The number! Could it be the code? With a quivering finger, I jab at the keypad. Success! The lock disengages, and the kids are able to shoulder their way past me.

  I return the severed hand to its place and move down the hall.

  "Idiot!" Sloan shouts. "You're going the wrong way."

  "Have to find Killian and Bow," I call. Can't leave them here to clear the way for me, endangering themselves further, when my way no longer needs clearing.

  Kids, kids, are everywhere, fighting the guards and orderlies with equal fury; they are winning, but there's no sign of my helpers. I step over a motionless, bloody body--Comrade Douche has a baton stuffed down his throat.

  Someone slams into me from behind, pushed by someone else. I trip forward and knock into yet another person. An inmate. His gaze is wild as he swings around, his fist already cocked and loaded to issue punishment. A rush of adrenaline loosens my sore limbs and I duck, avoiding contact, then dart past him.

  I search every open cell, every corridor. Still no sign. Zero! Maybe they've already left?

  I brave the boys' ward with no luck and return to the gate. The crowd has thinned considerably, but D-bag and Titball have taken posts on either side. Both men wield a baton, beating on anyone who comes into striking range. Namely three girls and two boys desperate for freedom. So desperate, they continually throw themselves at the guards despite the fact that their bodies are already bloody and battered, their energy almost completely depleted.

  Dread floods me, and I grind to a stop. New obstacles in my way: two.

  A pair. The atomic number of helium. Once again my number of choices.

  Fight or flight?

  My trembling magnifies. I want out, and I won't leave the kids behind; I have to fight.

  Deep breath in...out... I square my shoulders, take stock. D-bag is holding one of the boys on the floor with one hand and beating him with the other. Titball has pinned the others in the corner, but his eyes are locked on me.

  Kill him.

  Killian's voice whispers through my mind. A hallucination, I know. And why not? I'm Nutter.

  Disarm him and move on.

  Now I hear the disembodied voice from Vans's office.

  My mind flashes back to every leer, push, punch and battle. Every time I was dragged down the halls. My calendar. Today's chains and poison.

  Obstacle. I'll kill! My wrists and shoulders scream in protest as I rush forward. Along the way, I grab the scalpel I stole from Vans. One second I'm twisting to avoid being grabbed by Titball, the next I'm stabbing him in the neck. Jab, jab, jab.

  He drops to the floor, his body twitching.

  I expect satisfaction. Instead I want to cry.

  I'm panting as the inmates move away from D-bag and me, peering at me as if I've done something both horrifying and amazing--as if I'm as bad as our enemy.

  "Stay here or follow me." I pull out the severed hand and key card. "Your choice."

  chapter seven

  "Fear keeps you alive. Fear reminds you that you are alive."

  --Myriad

  Alarm blasting.

  Blood soaking my hands.

  Kids babbling at my sides.

  Problems mounting one after another.

  Because I worked the locks, I'm the last to make it through the secret door that's hidden behind the fireplace in Vans's office. I race down a long narrow hallway, the walls and floor made of concrete. I pass another open door and enter...hell on ice. Zero! The thin lab coat and even thinner uniform offer little protection from the harsh winterscape now surrounding me. I'm on a mountain. There's snow at my feet, in the trees and dancing in the wind.

  A loud boom suddenly assaults my ears. As a bolt of lightning cuts through the sky, the land below me vibrates. The realms are still fighting?

  My eyes tear from the cold--the tears instantly freeze. With only a single breath, my nose, throat and lungs burn as if they've been scalded by acid. Goose bumps rise from my head to my toes, and I shudder. Kids I've ignored and fought, liked and disliked, are running in every direction, but they aren't running fast. Hypothermia is already setting up camp, their blood turning into sludge.

  How long can we survive out here? A few hours...perhaps an entire day if we're hearty?

  We're not hearty. Me most of all.

  Whatever. Have to try. Can't go back.

  I motor forward.

  Boom! The noise doesn't come from the sky but the ground. A few yards away, an inmate--just--explodes, bits and pieces of...of...human flying in every direction. I flail for purchase, but the ground is too slick. I skid while swallowing bile as those bits and pieces plop all over the ground.

  Screams of fear erupt. Chaos reigns.

  Another battle between the realms, or maybe land mines? To my knowledge, a realm battle has never ripped a person into a thousand pieces. "Be still," I shout, but no one hears me. We have to take a minute, figure this out, search for other bombs.

  I scan the area and manage to find the ignition site. Smoke curls toward a sky that's set ablaze by a dipping sun. Oh...my... Daylight! For a moment, I forget where I am, forget the horror of what just happened and the trials I've endured. The colors--gold, pink, blue--are mesmerizing.

  Is Troika like this?

  Warmth strokes over me, seeping through my skin and dancing over my bones, seeming t
o strengthen me. Pinpricks of gold and blue dot the sky. Stars so bright you can see them during the day? I stretch out my arm, ghosting my fingertip through a brilliant ray of light. Dust motes twirl through the air, somersaulting just out of reach.

  When I see the blood on my hand, I snap back into focus. The asylum. Escape. Bombs.

  "Guards!" someone shouts.

  And now we're being hunted. Wonderful. I dart forward, constantly examining the ground for any sign of another bomb. I pass a charred sandal with a severed foot still strapped inside and gag.

  There are one, five, ten, eighteen kids ahead of me, running, running. Eight others have stopped to catch their breath and figure out the safest course of action. Bad news, gang. Both choices suck. We can keep going, even though we're without proper clothing and provisions, or we can allow the guards to return us to the hornet's nest.

  Am I being chased? I glance over my shoulder, my eyes going round with shock, my jaw dropping. The institution is massive, both tall and sprawling, with thirteen stories made entirely of gray stone, the front of the structure protruding from the mountainside, the rest hidden deep in the rock face.

  There's more to the place than I ever realized.

  None of the guards have focused on me, at least.

  Movement at the corner of my eye. Is that--

  Yes! Bow! She races toward me, a backpack bouncing over her shoulder. She isn't slow like the others, but swift and sure. I shout her name. Our gazes lock.

  Boom!

  There's a seismic shift as a white-hot blast of air throws me backward. For a moment, I'm warm, and it's nice. Until I land and my lungs empty. When I'm able to breathe, the air is heavy with smoke. I cough as debris rains. I don't have to do an in-depth study to know another kid just bit the dust. Don't be Bow. Please, please don't be Bow.

  She clears the smoke and comes up beside me, grabs my arm without slowing and yanks me to my feet.

  Thank the Firstking! "Careful," I tell her as we shoot forward.

  "Careful will get you caught." She runs faster. "Come on!"

  I return to scanning the ground for anything out of whack. A stone, a frozen branch. The glint of metal--there. "Bomb," I shout, jerking her around it.

  "Thanks," she mutters.

  Step, step, step...stone...branch...metal! A pattern. A numerical rhythm my mind instinctively captures. One step, two, three, stone. One step, two, three, four, five, branch. One step, two, three, four, metal. They aren't laid in a straight line, of course, but staggered. Which also presents a pattern. Left, left, right. Right, right, left.