by RaeLynn Fry
“But you haven't even given me the tattoo yet!” I can’t believe this is happening.
“This here's how things work in the Black Market, sugar. Should've known what you were getting into before you came looking for me.”
My temper rises, but I keep a tight rein on my words. “How much more will it be?” This is my only option.
“Thirty.” He spits off to the side.
“Thir—are you insane?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Deal’s only good through the end of the night.”
“How am I supposed to get thirty more pieces before morning?”
“Not my problem. But this is the Black Market. I'm sure you'll…find a way.” His smile makes my skin burn. “You remember where the door is?” he asks, looking down and sorting through his pills.
“How do I know you're going to honor our deal when I come back with the rest of the money?”
The Artist's eyes widen as he does his best to imitate innocence. It’s a pitiful display. “Are you sayin’ I'm not a man of my word?” His lips curl into a smile. “Get out of my sight until you have the rest of my money.”
I turn on my heel and stomp out of the kitchen and down the hall, slamming the door closed behind me. His laughter follows me down the alley.
“Thirty more pieces,” I grumble to myself. “Where am I supposed to find thirty more pieces?”
I slump against the dirty brick wall and do my best not to cry.
I fail.
Eleven
It’s been an hour, and I still have no idea how I’m going to get the remaining money before the night ends. It took Papa and Déjà seventeen years to save up what I gave away in less than ten minutes.
A thousand different thoughts play through my mind, none of which is how to get the rest of what I need. Ajna is dying. The Corporation and the Inner City have what I need, yet they’re withholding it from us. The only chance I had at a life—a family—is wasting away in the Further because he dared try to make something more of himself. He had the audacity to dream he could be something bigger. These Marks on our arms dictate where we can go, what we can do, who we spend the rest of our lives with.
We no longer have identities, only a Mark declaring in bold sweeping lines to everyone who and what we are. Our worth, permanently inscribed on our skin. A reminder that we’re only so good. Only so important.
I try to imagine how it was in the old days before Marks or before the Corporation implanted microscopic computer chips into the back of citizen’s hands. I try to imagine a world where someone stood up to the Corporation.
No, we will not take your chips.
No, we will not believe the lies about better, fuller, more rewarding lives.
No, it’s not about identification, safety, or tracking.
It’s about reliance and oppression and control. About enslaving many for the betterment of a select few.
All my life, I’ve done as I was told. Never questioned, never fought. The Corporation has always done what’s in our best interest. What will help us survive, what will make us stronger. But I don't see it that way anymore. I don’t think it was ever really that way.
Sometimes I hate my Mark. Sometimes I love it. Either way, it’s a part of me, whether I like it or not. My Mark used to be my security, reassurance of who I was and my part in this life. In this world.
Used to be.
“You look very deep in thought,” a voice says.
I jump in surprise and jerk my head in the direction the voice came from—directly beside me. The red shirt is gone, but the stranger's face is still the same. His tousled blond hair, blue eyes, challenging smile. It's all there.
“I was.” I get up and start to walk, turning down a street. I no longer have an interest in capturing and turning him in, but neither am I up for his flippant mood. Besides, there’s an old saying: The enemy of my enemy is my friend? The Corporation wants him for something, and when they want you, it’s never for anything good.
“Thinking about what?” He keeps pace with me, matching my quick turn without effort.
I look at him from the corner of my eye. His gate is easy, more of a saunter than anything, with his hands behind his back. He begins to whistle a low tune.
“None of your business,” I say.
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
“You're following me now?” A bit of irritation lacing my words.
“Who, me? Nah.” He waves me away. “I often frequent the Black Market. It’s far more likely that you were following me. Again.”
His eyes shift in my direction, and I dart my gaze away. “I hate to break this to you, but you aren't the center of my universe.”
“Not yet, anyway.”
“Not ever.”
“That's a shame.”
“Look,” I sigh, “I'm kind of busy, is there something specific you want?” I try to speed up my pace but he doesn’t seem to be deterred.
“No, just out for a stroll.”
“In the middle of the night, past curfew, in the Black Market?” I look him over. He has a pack on his back with paper peeking out of pockets and zippers.
“I find it best to think when the Corporation says I shouldn't.”
I reach out and snatch one of the papers. “What's this?” I ask, taking it to a dim pool of light.
“Ah,” he says with a smile, following me. “A project.”
“It's the newsletter slipped under our door every morning!” I look at him, and he winks. I reach up and grab several more pieces of paper. They're identical, a new issue. “Of course it’d be you.” It’s hard not to let a cynical laugh pass my lips.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Just the way my luck's been running.”
“Don't sound so disappointed,” he says, but a proud smile is still lit in the center of his face.
“Surprised, is all. You know, you have quite the fan club in my sewing circle.” I allow myself this small distraction.
His eyes light. “Any of these ladies voluptuous and attractive?”
“Hardly, unless over sixty and arthritic is your thing.”
He frowns. “So you’re not in my fan club, then?”
“Nope.”
“Not what you imagined?”
“I expected someone…” I look him up and down, “...taller.”
“Just me, I'm afraid. Sorry to thwart any of those girlish fantasies you may have concocted. You were probably hoping for a strapping young lad—which I am—that would come to your home early one morning and sweep you away. Most girls do; don't feel foolish.”
“Don’t you ever take anything seriously? Is everything a joke to you?”
“I take quite a lot of things serious, actually.” His mood has changed. But in a flash, the one I’m used to is back. “But I also know when it’s okay to have fun. The question is, do you? I'm Ethan, by the way.” He holds out his hand for me to shake.
I ignore his hand and his comment. “I was not hoping you’d come and sweep me away.”
“Oh?” He sounds interested and a little let down at the same time. “What then?”
“Actually, I was hoping the newsletters would stop. They spread lies and plant false hope.”
“And the news the Corp dishes out through CAS is the truth?”
“It carries more truth than this.” I push the wad of papers into his chest as I walk past.
“Why? Because I doubt and challenge what the Corporation says? Because I don't believe they're as strong as they want us to think?”
“How do you know what you're printing is the truth?”
“Oh, I know what I'm writing is the truth.”
“How?” I challenge. I've stopped walking and turn around in a small circle. I haven't been paying attention to where I’ve been going. I think I'm lost.
“You're going to have to trust me.” He puts all of the papers but one back in his bag. Pulling out a marker, he scribbles something on the newsletter as he talks to me.
“Did you know there are cities far from the Corp's reach?”
“In the Further? Yeah right.”
“Just another sliver of truth they hide from citizens to keep us more under control. What's your name, by the way? I've given you mine but you haven't told me yours.”
“That was intentional. Why would the Corporation lie about that?” I start to retrace my steps.
“Think about it. Who's the most powerful person in both cities?”
“Akin Hughes,” I say, not missing a beat. I'm pretty sure I turned left here, so I make a right.
“And why is he the most powerful person?”
“Look, I don’t have time for guessing games, so why don't you just tell me what you’re trying to get at?” I’m losing time, and I’m not any closer to what I came here to do.” I look up at the moon. It’s almost straight overhead.
“Because he has two cities to control. Otherwise he'd be a normal man.”
“I don't think Akin Hughes could ever be a normal man.”
“And that's what gives him his power.” He pauses. “Are you lost?”
I hear the smile behind his question. “You've been distracting me,” I accuse. “If you weren't here, I'd know exactly where I was.”
“Here,” he says, handing me the newsletter he'd been writing on.
Keep fighting for the truth.
“Is this supposed to be a joke?” I say, suddenly furious at him.
“Everyone needs hope,” he says with a shrug.
“If that’s what you were offering. But these newsletters of yours do nothing but generate false hope to a city and its citizens that don’t need any more.”
“Who are you to decide what each man can enjoy?”
How can one person infuriate me so much so quickly? “They’re looking for you, you know that?” I snap.
“They?”
“The Corporation.” I look around at my surroundings. I think this area looks familiar. Maybe.
“Really?” Ethan stops walking for a second before hurrying to catch back up to me.
I take the next street on my right. This looks familiar. Sort of.
“Good price?” he asks.
I shrug, trying to recognize one dilapidated building from the next, but they’re identical. I’m lost. “I was planning on turning you in and finding out.”
“But not anymore?”
“I think you can help me better if you’re free.”
“And alive.”
I look at him sideways, arms akimbo. “That’s generally how it works.”
“It must be serious.”
I’m distracted. “What?”
“This help you need from me; it must be serious.” He leans up against a wall.
I stop and face him. “Get that look off your face.” I cross my arms. “I don’t need you as much as you’re hoping I do.”
“It's past curfew. You're lurking in the alleys at the Black Market looking for something. Your eyes look like two overstuffed radishes you’ve been crying so much, and you’re a tad cranky.”
“I’m not cranky!” My hands fly to my face, tenderly poking at the puffy tissue beneath my eyes. He’s right. I must look horrible.
He holds up his hand at my protest, like he’s displaying me to the world. “Thank you for proving my point. Since you’re sulking around an unfavorable part of the Neech—”
“—every part is unfavorable—”
“—that's up for debate, but as I was saying—putting the pieces together, I've concluded you're looking for an Artist to get a Black Market Mark in order to sneak into the Inner City to save your dying brother.” He waits for me to be impressed.
I can’t help that my eyes go as wide as they do. I take a step back. “Where did you stumble across that ridiculous idea?” I stammer.
“Devna’s the biggest gossip in both cities. I overheard her talking about some poor girl, saw you, and put two and two together.”
“Is there anyone in the city who hasn't heard what Devna has to say?"
“Probably not. Which is why I offer my condolences and my help.”
I slump against the brick wall and slide down; sitting in the dirty street I bury my face in my hands. “He’s not dying,” I say. It's the only thing I can manage in the sea of emotions I'm drowning in. I don't want to cry in front of Ethan. I don’t know why I feel strongly about that, but I’m determined to keep my eyes dry.
Ethan crouches in front of me. Fingers brushing under my chin, he tilts my head up. His face is soft, eyes turned down at the corners.
Just like the first time we met, he sweeps back a strand of hair that's fallen into my eyes. His stare is so intense, so urgent. His joking manner has finally fallen aside. His eyes harden and the lines around his mouth deepen.
“If that’s true—if your brother isn’t dying—then why are you here? Why are you at the Black Market? Why were you coming out of an Artist's studio?” He gives the weariest sigh I’ve ever heard and drops his head. “Go home,” he says softly. “The Corp’s not going to waste Morrow on your brother. Spend whatever time is left, with him—where you should be. Don’t sacrifice your life for a lost cause. You aren't cut out for this.”
I shoot up, knocking him back on his hands. He scrambles to stand and match me, a full four inches taller.
“You know nothing about me,” I spit out.
He grabs my wrist, flipping it over so my Mark is exposed. “I know everything I need to know. You're a tradesman, lower level. You’ve been Paired and are destined for a mediocre life. Hopefully. You’ll never have enough to eat. People you love will die. You’ll have children, and they’ll be destined for the same empty life as yours. As all of ours.”
“And I know everything I need to know about you. But I don't have to look at your Mark to see it.” I stalk past, bumping into his shoulder as hard as I can. I jerk my arm back and push down my sleeve before he can say anything else.
He grabs my wrist again and yanks me back, pulling me close to his side. Fire ignites in his eyes, but I'm not scared. “Getting a Black Market tattoo won't just change your Mark. It’ll change who you are,” he says in a low voice. I can see he’s trying to control a tide of frustration.
“My Mark doesn't define me, it limits me.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when I say this. “Those are the most beautiful words I've heard in a long, long time.” He loosens his grip.
“Why do you care?” But inside, I'm starting to realize he’s going to be my best ally. He seems to know more about what I’m getting myself into than I do.
“Because I like you,” Ethan says.
“Like me? You don't even know me.”
“But what I do know of you, I like.”
I roll my eyes.
“You know there's an Artist out there giving faulty tattoos? On purpose, right?”
I throw my hands into the air. “Why does everyone keep bringing that up?”
“Oh, I don't know. Probably because it should be a pretty important factor in your decision making process.”
“It isn't.”
“If you’re not going to listen to me, then let me help you,” he says a little softer; almost pleading.
“Do you have some Morrow mixed in with your newsletters? Or how about thirty pieces lying about?” He doesn’t say anything. “Didn’t think so. Look—I appreciate your willingness to help a complete stranger, but I can do this myself. I have a solid plan, and I need to stick to it.”
“If it’s a solid plan, why is your Mark unchanged?”
“A minor setback. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Since you won’t take my help, at least let me give you some advice…” He trails off, one of his eyebrows arched.
I sigh. “It’s Karis.”
“Well, Karis...” I like the way he says my name. Soft and firm at the same time. “Fight for what you want. Until your dying breath, fight. Don’t let the Corporation tell you no. You do whatever you have to do to stick it to th
em and save your brother. Nothing is black and white with them. Rules always bend and lines are constantly shifting. Everything is always up for negotiation.” He gives me that smile of his again.
“Good night, Karis. And good luck.” He starts to back away. “I have a feeling we’ll run into each other again.”
Twelve
The moon is a little more than halfway past its zenith, which means I still have a few hours before I have to head back home. I knock on the scarred wood and wait.
The Artist’s lined face and bloodshot eyes appear behind the wooden window when he slides the guard back. “Eh. You again.” He closes the slot and opens the door.
This time I don't hesitate as I cross the threshold. I stalk down the hall and straight into the kitchen. Throwing my duster over the chair and my mask on the table, I take a seat and drop my arm on the surface.
The Artist saunters into the room and leans in the doorway. “Didn't think you'd come back.”
“Yeah, well, you were wrong.” I'm tired and worn out. I want to get this done and over with. I want to go back home.
“You got the rest of my money?” He brings a cigarette up to his mouth. He lets it dangle from his bottom lip while he lights it with a match, taking a long drag before looking up at me again.
“Smoking’s bad for your health,” I say.
“So are Black Market tattoos. You got my money or not?”
“No.”
He balks at me, anger changing his features. “No?”
“No,” I repeat, stealing my nerves.
“Then ya shouldn’ta come back.” He slams his palms down on the table.
I refuse to get scared. “I have one goal and that’s to screw the Corporation for screwing us. The only way I can do that is with a Black Market tattoo, and as you so thoughtfully pointed out earlier, you’re my only shot.” He looks at me with a thoughtful scowl. “I’m sure you’d like to see the Corporation suffer as much as I would, you’ll get that by helping me.”
His brow furrows. “I’m not much for livin’ vicariously. Prefer to cause my own havoc.”
“Then give me the chance to create my own.”
