WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM THE CARNIVAL?
Honestly? Flora.
Wow.
Everything on here looks true. He really does like the Easy. I hope there’s not someone like this gunning for Hazel—someone who actually likes her, or even loves her. I don’t know how I’d be able to compete with that.
Below his profile, there’s something I don’t recognize.
TINDER
15 mins ago: Hello, world!
See Earlier Adds.
USER 39629: He’s so cute!! Yes please!
USER 10203: A nice young man. Pref
USER 29033: loser
“What’s this?” I ask, poking the screen.
“That’s just an update,” Tinder says, as if we understand. Elektra looks up quickly. For once, she doesn’t know something. I guess moments like these are why she wants us to work together so badly.
“Explain,” she says.
“Oh, let me show you,” he says. He points to a plus sign below his personal information on the screen in front of me. When he presses it, he’s able to type something that appears on the screen—otherwise known as writing an update. “You use it to tell people what you’re doing, and it looks like people can add to our updates.”
“What’s a pref?” I ask. I point to a word used in one of the Adds.
“I know that,” Elektra says, wanting to redeem herself. She shows us the green arrow and the red arrow underneath Tinder’s picture. Next to each arrow is a number, and both numbers are slowly rising. “The green arrow is a pref, short for preference, and the red arrow is a pass. Everyone who goes on a profile can pref or pass it. The arrows tally how many people like us or don’t like us.”
Tinder already has 1,001 prefs and 923 passes. I give Tinder back his computer and check out what Elektra is doing on hers. Not to be outdone, she’s typing an update as fast as she can:
ELEKTRA
Just now: Wesley warms my heart <3
I should write one, too. My fingers hover over the letters for a little while before I can think of something to say. Got it.
“Hey Elektra,” I say. “You were wrong.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Some people do want to marry a murderer,” I say as I type out my update. I watch as the Adds appear one after another:
PHOENIX
Just now: i'd kill for you, hazel
See Earlier Adds.
USER 76400: my man wont even open a door for me
USER 00044: What would you do for me, Phoenix? ;)
USER 49203: Trying way too hard
I swipe my hand to the left and summon the next profile. Methodically, I flip through the next few to see what I’m up against. It’s easy to tell which prizes DZs are playing from their pictures, even though none of the prizes’ names are actually listed. Half of the girls are trying to show how maternal they are, and the other half is almost naked. Half of the boys look sweet, and the other half—my half—look like murderers.
Like Blaze. In his profile picture, he has another player in a headlock and grins satanically. With his shirt off, I can see just how much bigger he is than me. Muscles bulge from his biceps like rocks. His abs are cut into eight packets of muscle, flexed in exertion. I feel like he’s looking at me.
BLAZE
AGE: 18
FAITH: Undecided
HEIGHT: 6’3”
BODY: Big
DRINKING/DRUGS: Often
ABOUT ME:
My suitemate Match is writing this because I don’t know how. I’m better with my hands than with my head. My parents consented for me so they could have the power for themselves. From Dark DC. Left a brother Spark behind at home, and it’s only a matter of time before my parents exchange him, too.
HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN LOVE?
Never met anyone my speed.
WHAT ARE YOU GOOD AT?
Setting up camp. When I was ten, we got ambushed at night by a gang that beat my dad up and then robbed us blind. He made me learn about shelters after that, and then I became the guard. I made sure no one ever robbed us again.
WHAT CAN’T YOU LIVE WITHOUT?
More.
WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM THE CARNIVAL?
Hazel, you’re it.
BLAZE
Just now: All for you, Hazel ; ]
I gulp.
“That’s a good one,” Elektra says, peering over my shoulder.
Not what I want to hear. A sinking feeling settles into my stomach, as if something has dropped inside me. I imagine myself in that headlock—sputtering red-faced with flailing arms—but I don’t want to think about Blaze anymore. I swipe through the remaining profiles to take my mind off of him. There’s no use imagining my own defeat. I swipe faster and faster looking for Star’s picture. When I finally find it, my jaw drops.
15
Star is playing Bing.
Her profile picture shows her topless with her skinny arms crossed across her chest. She’s standing in front of her room’s floor-length window and winking with New York City in the background. The picture ends below her bellybutton, where she’s written two words in black ink across her fair stomach: Bing me. I inhale sharply. The phrase isn’t in her handwriting, and I can only imagine which DZ was that close to her. Defiling her.
I can barely read the information below.
STAR
AGE: 16
FAITH: Spiritual
HEIGHT: 5’6”
BODY: Happy
DRINKING/DRUGS: Sometimes
ABOUT ME:
I was always pretty well taken care of in the Dark Zone. I had a lot of guy friends and they made sure I was never cold or lonely or hungry. I really like America so far. Everyone seems really friendly, and I feel really comfortable here. I thought I’d be rejected for being a DZ, but I’ve gotten a lot of good attention.
HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN LOVE?
Lots, but it’s never lasted long. I’m not sure if I’ve ever had real true love, but I’ve at least been pretty close, I think. And it felt really good.
WHAT ARE YOU GOOD AT?
I’m friendly. I make friends really easily, and my relationships tend to move pretty quickly. I just feel a lot at once, and I don’t think it’s good to hold those urges and desires inside…
WHAT CAN’T YOU LIVE WITHOUT?
Hmm. How about: pleasure.
WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM THE CARNIVAL?
Love. Absolutely everything feels better in love.
My blood is boiling. I ball my hands into fists, and the crimson cuts over my knuckles widen and sting. But I don’t care. Star is being ravaged right before my eyes—hell, worse than that. She’s being violated in front of the Easy world, and I can’t do a thing about it. As long as we need their power, I can’t show any kind of love for Star. Goddammit, I can’t defend her, and I have to let her play.
I look at her picture again, but this time I can only bear to look in her eyes. The only part of her that hasn’t been stripped. Those deep-blue eyes are the calm in the storm for me right now. In them, I see the DZ I still love. Star, my Starlight. My gaze drifts down to her thin and fragile shoulders, her delicate fair skin, and the weight of my own failure overtakes me. I should have sheltered her from this. I should have figured out a way to keep her clothes on. We’re going to get through this, I want to tell her. When this is over, we will find a way to be together. You will forget you ever took this picture. Just get through this week.
I scroll down to her update:
STAR
5 mins ago: Troublefield
See Earlier Adds.
USER 68210: Lucky bastard
USER 11002: Starrawr
USER 33021: Just where are the role models????
Star! She must have made that update for me. There are a thousand different things she could have said, but she chose to use my name. This is her telling me not to worry. Everything is changing around us, but we are still us. I am her Phoenix Troublefield, and she is my Star Windsong. I touch h
er cheek lightly on the screen and trace down to her chin. The screen is warm, like she would be. I haven’t touched her in so long.
All of our phones suddenly buzz once. We check the latest alert.
SCHEDULE
**ALERT: 15 Minute Warning before Next Event**
11:30 a.m.–02:30 p.m. MEDICAL TESTS.
Location: The Carnival Hospital on floor 11. Description: Basic health assessment.
We look at each other for a moment and then bolt our separate ways to get dressed. I throw on the first outfit I can find, which happens to be a long-sleeve black flannel shirt and dark jeans. It looks like something I might wear back home, except this outfit is stiff and brand new. I slide my phone into my back pocket and slip on a pair of brown boots. Dragging furniture screeches across the foyer, followed by the pitter-patter of Elektra’s fast feet.
“Come on!” she yells.
I run out the front door with Tinder as he tugs an ultrasoft beige sweater over his head. Elektra holds the elevator impatiently. We dash inside to meet her. The small space fills with Tinder’s quick breaths as he recovers from the sprint, and I watch the golden doors glide slowly shut. When the doors are just a few inches from closing, an unfamiliar pair of hands suddenly forces them apart.
A hulking figure waits with three other DZs, and I realize they are from the suite next door. As they file into the elevator, I duck down immediately into the corner. The newcomers are each dressed differently, and it’s instantly clear who is playing Flora, Bing, Wesley, or Hazel. The boy who forced the elevator open is ripped, shirtless, and wearing a red bandana around his forehead—definitely playing Hazel.
I wait tensely as the elevator drops. The floors pass by slowly.
“What are you looking at?” the bandana boy asks Tinder.
“Your chest hair,” Tinder says honestly.
Come on, Tinder. Not now. Only five more floors to go.
“Cut it out,” the bandana boy says.
“Okeydokey,” Tinder says.
Here! The doors open, and bandana boy strides forward to exit first. Thank God. I should be proving how tough I am, but I have to be careful: The more attention I get, the more I risk getting recognized by Blaze. No, I can’t be reckless. If there’s one thing I’m learning from Elektra, it’s to be strategic.
Crouching in the corner, I watch everyone exchange once-overs as they leave. Tinder and a sweet DZ in a pink bowtie watch each other warily, each of them clearly gauging who has a better chance with Flora. As they trudge out, I notice Elektra left waiting across from me. Her hair is swept into a low bun, and she wears a pale-green sweater dress. Everything about her carefully crafted look is soft and maternal except her face. Right now, she glares at me with disapproval. Reaching forward, she lifts me up by the ear and pulls me toward her. I cringe in pain. She’s stronger than she looks.
“Baby, don’t act so soft,” she whispers. “You’re playing Hazel.”
She kisses me on the ear. I wipe the residue off on my shoulder and ignore her threat for now because I want to take my bearings. We’ve landed on a strange floor. A dozen gray partitions protrude from one wall, and DZs gather by suite in between them. On the front of each divider is a large white number from one to fifteen. Each section seems to be a different station. I scan the room quickly for Star, but she’s nowhere to be seen.
Elektra leads our suite to an unoccupied area between two panels. The sterile space is wide and bare except for a middle-aged Easy standing tall in the center. He wears an all-white lab coat and matching pants. As we enter, he lowers the tablet raised in his hands, revealing a swath of his chest where I spot the letters TC.
My eyes bulge.
“Your suite will rotate through the stations,” the Easy explains monotonously. He sounds bored, going through a standardized routine, but I’m rapt. I gape at the thick red stitching, the familiar TC woven elaborately above the name Philip Armstrong. This is the same kind of jacket I saw in the Dark Zone. The Easies who crashed through the Frontier wore coats like these, and I can’t tear my eyes away. “This station is simple. The only question I will ask is, have you touched any Americans since you arrived?”
“No,” Elektra says.
“Now wave your left hand over this tablet, and it will register your ring with your answer,” Mr. Armstrong says. “Next.”
“No,” Tinder says.
I’m not really listening. Their words float in and out of my mind, but I’m not processing them at all. Instead, I take a good look at the man beneath the coat. I can’t help but see similarities between him and the runaways: His face is faintly wrinkled, there’s a puff of fat in his cheeks, and his gray-white hair is neatly cut. Letting my gaze drift down, I fixate again on the TC. The Carnival. TC could stand for The Carnival. As soon as I think it, my jaw drops, bewildered.
I remember when I met the runaways. The image of their titanic black truck careening through the gate returns to me. The same type of truck drove me to the United States, and now I know that wasn’t a coincidence. I haven’t seen a car like that since I got here. Not when I arrived at The New York, and not in the streets I glimpse through windows. No, those vehicles are strictly for the Carnival. Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Harris drove one—dressed in their embroidered coats—because they worked here.
Mr. Armstrong snaps his fingers twice in my face, and I startle back to reality. The interruption feels uncomfortably sudden, and I blink as I try to focus on him. “Have you or have you not touched any Americans since you arrived?” he asks, clearly irritated. His voice sounds impatient, as if he’s asked me this question before.
“No, Mr. Armstrong,” I say.
“It’s Dr. Armstrong,” he corrects me, raising the tablet toward me like a platter. I wave my hand smoothly over its black surface. Before I finish, Elektra leaves impatiently for the next station, and Tinder follows close behind. Dr. Armstrong nods for me to join them. I take one last look at his coat before I walk slowly away.
Around the next partition, two doctors stand with their backs to us. They wear the white jackets and hover over a silver table lined with syringes. One of them turns around, and suddenly I am confronted with Dr. Fletcher holding a syringe in each hand. I met this Easy in the Dark Zone, I’m sure of it. And now he’s here. In the light. When he sees me, his eyes flash with recognition, and he drops both syringes to the floor. Elektra sidesteps the flying glass and looks intently between Dr. Fletcher and me, trying to figure out what’s going on.
Dr. Fletcher recovers himself expertly.
“I’m so sorry,” he says.
“Were those shots for us?” Tinder asks fearfully.
The second doctor exits promptly. I’m left standing in a line with Tinder and Elektra facing the lone Dr. Fletcher. I gulp. In front of him now, I can see him—really see him—under the ambient glow. He has thick eyebrows, a big nose, and a kind expression preserved in wrinkles. Altogether, he gives an impression of being…nice. I can hardly believe it, but it’s true. He turns back toward the table and taps his fingers faintly on the metal top. I’ve never thought of an Easy like this, but I sense that he means well.
The other doctor returns with fresh syringes, followed by two members of a cleaning crew. As they sweep up the mess, I scratch my head and doubt my own judgment. Dr. Fletcher can’t be nice. He lives in America, for God’s sake. He works for the Carnival. Still, in spite of that, there’s something about him that makes me feel like I can trust him. Yes, he’s an American, but he’s stepped foot in the Dark Zone. He’s done more damage to the Frontier than anyone I know and he lied to Frontmen. The more I think about it, the more I accept that Dr. Fletcher is not your typical Easy. He might be…good.
“I’ll take my shots,” I say.
I roll up my right sleeve and hold my bare forearm out in his direction. Dr. Fletcher turns around and takes my hand gently, as if he means no harm. His surgical glove feels cool against my knuckles. In his other hand, he holds the poised syringe. I look into his old and soft br
own eyes, and I do trust him. I let him pierce me with the needle.
“I want to know what the shots are for,” Tinder says.
“They’re vaccines,” Dr. Fletcher says.
The second doctor grabs Elektra and starts to administer her treatment. She barely bats an eye as the needles slip in and out of her skin. Tinder, babbling about his concerns, incidentally turns his back to me and Dr. Fletcher.
In this brief moment of cover, Dr. Fletcher sidesteps toward the counter beyond the syringes. He grabs a pen and scrawls fast across a small pad of neon paper. His blue scribbles look like numbers, but I can’t really tell what he’s writing. Tinder continues on while Dr. Fletcher unsticks the note from its square stack and shoves it in my hand. We pause, still touching. The way he stares at me, so intense and trusting, I can tell that this message is meant only for me. I nod to show I understand.
“Well, can you tell me what measles is?” Tinder asks. He turns toward us with his arms crossed in distress. Apparently, the other doctor has stopped answering questions. Before I can panic—before Tinder glimpses our private moment—Dr. Fletcher withdraws his hand smoothly from mine and sinks a needle into my arm.
“Measles is a highly contagious disease,” Dr. Fletcher says. He presses a white cotton ball to the pink pinprick after he extracts my shot. He gestures Tinder toward him and grabs another syringe. “And it is entirely preventable. You can come closer now, it’s your turn. I’ll answer every question you have.”
I take one step back from the action and hide both of my hands behind me. The note is still crumpled in my fist. Dr. Fletcher only wrote a quick line, but I let myself dream as to what it could be. Maybe it’s an explanation of what really happened the day we met. Why he gave himself up so soon and lied to the guards. Why he crashed through the Frontier in the first place. Or where Dr. Harris is now. As I feel the paper against my palm, my anticipation builds. But I won’t open it until I’m alone.
Blackout (Darkness Trilogy) Page 12
