“We can’t remember which one we are.” I cringe just thinking of that feeling.
“Right. I never understood why you insisted on breaking Codex. I’m surprised your brain kept bouncing back after the box.”
“You remember the first Marcus then?”
She tilts her chin up, inhales. “No. But I knew I couldn’t be the only transfer.” For a moment she is silent, then continues. “Last month, when I got mixed up with you and Julius and your little ploy”—her tone drops—“they tried to amend my memories again. But they told me my brain was too fragile for more memory reconstruction—my brain couldn’t take that much meddling.” She turns to me. “I begged.”
Flicking a dismissive hand at the city, she steps a few paces off, and I understand Pru for the first time. Now it makes sense, her painstaking way of obeying Codex, of chiding those of us who didn’t.
“They had been right. My brain had been manipulated one too many times, it appeared. For two days, I was screaming in the corrective treatments ward, unable to assimilate the information they’d piped into my head. The Director himself had to come and fix me. He said the only way to do it was to upload my original memories—the ones they’d tried to erase for the four years I’d been at the Center—and reintroduce them to my brain. It was like reverting to an older version of a file, the version before the file had been corrupted. It worked, I suppose. The screaming stopped. I could remember who I was, but I had all the memories of growing up outside the Center that they had initially tried to bury. By that point, I was labeled unfit to continue working as an Order member. I was useless at that point.” She pulls at her tight-fitting shirt. “I can thank you for that.”
“Me?” My mouth hangs open as I try to find a response to what she just told me.
“Yes. It never would have happened otherwise. You may think you’ve won your freedom out here, but you’ll never be as safe or as happy as you were in the Center. Trust me, I’ve seen life on both sides. The Center was my salvation, and you took it from me.”
She clenches her tiny fists and turns to leave.
But before she does, she pauses, dropping her chin in my direction. “But, V, you gave me something I never would have had in that Center.” She inhales loudly, her fists loosening. “If you leave now, you risk”—her voice falters as she looks for the right words—“obtaining memories you wish you could erase.” Her fingers stretch and curl again. “But now, just like you wanted, we have to live with every memory we make.”
She storms off, leaving the rusty chair beside me vacant.
Another week passes. Another assignment from M. Another criminal behind bars. I still haven’t decided to walk out on M. After what Pru told me, with the pain in her eyes and friction in her tone, I can’t just leave. I don’t trust M or Ty or this city or my own mind as much as I trust the fear I heard in her voice. Something happened to her out here, something so bad she relished the way the Center tried to strip her of that memory, the way they tried to flush it out of her brain.
I cannot argue with that.
Entering my apartment one evening, I flop onto my couch, head low. From this angle, I can see a layer of dust collecting on the table by my couch. I swipe my finger through the dust. My lips pucker. Gross.
Ty may live like this, but I will not. I activate my phone’s t-screen and airtext a message to Ty on my palm.
Seconds later, someone knocks on my door, startling me.
Through the tiny hole in the door, I see Ty, looking pinched and stretched in funny places.
“I saw your text. Hate to break it to your Center-pampered self, but if you want that dust gone, you’ll have to clean it up yourself.” He props one hand against the doorframe, staring at me with his perpetual look of surprise at my ignorance. His arm muscles stand out more as he leans this way. I see why Pru is attracted to him.
“That’s revolting,” I say.
He laughs, which is more of a bark. “Still think you’re too good to do something like that?”
I cross my arms and frown. Leaving the Center has changed everything, including my own views of myself. But I can’t bring myself to admit this yet, especially to Ty.
He shakes his head, moves past me, and plunks down onto my couch. Oscar trails in behind him, migrating, as usual, directly to my kitchen where he discovers a box of cereal. He has a habit of doing this, of eating my food without asking. Julius is one thing. I’ve grown up with him. Oscar eats everything in sight. I move to a stool at my kitchen counter and perch, hoping Oscar sees my curled upper lip.
“Yeah, I bet in the Center you never had to clean. But in case you’ve missed it, you’re not in the Center anymore.”
I snort. “Thanks for that observation. But I am a scientist. I used to spend all my time researching and pushing the boundaries of science.” Something pops inside me, like a violin string strung too tightly. I don’t do that anymore.
Over a mouthful of flakes, Oscar says, “Well, Scientist, get used to cleaning.”
Rolling my eyes, I look over at Ty. “Why did you really come here?”
Ty stands and swings an arm toward me. “I want to show you something.” He nods at Oscar. Oscar seems to understand what Ty means because he drops the box of cereal and swallows the flakes with a gulp.
“What is it now?” I say with a slight hint of fear in my tone. The boys do not respond. I grab my apartment key and follow them out. Ty is already knocking on Pru’s door.
“Something to persuade you not to run off. Pru said you were thinking about it.”
She told him? “Can Julius come, too?”
Ty waves a hand. “Fine. He can come, too. It’ll show you kids just what you’re up against in this city.”
As Pru and Julius join us in the breezeway, Oscar twirls around. “The more, the merrier!” Under his shirt, a gun is holstered to his belt.
Twenty-Four
Dusk has fallen as we all drop out onto the street from the apartment stairwell.
“Isn’t it too dark to be out?” I ask. One of the many rules.
Oscar pats his waist, indicating his gun. “You’re with me; it’ll be okay.”
I throw Julius a look that says I’m most definitely not with him. Julius covers a grin with his freckled fist.
“Where we’re going must be dangerous,” he says sarcastically to Oscar and Ty. “Gun check.”
Ty scans for traffic before stepping into the street. “Everywhere is dangerous. Especially for you two girls. Where we’re going, a gun won’t make you safe.”
Scowling, I step after him. “Then why take us there?”
“Because you need to see it. Sometimes, words aren’t quite accurate enough. There’s a lot your precious little library didn’t tell you about life out here.”
Oscar walks up to Ty, elbows him. “We gonna take them?” He tilts his head sideways.
To this enigmatic question, Ty just nods. Oscar hoots his approval.
I raise an eyebrow at Pru, who looks as confused as I feel.
We walk into the sea of tractor trailers that spreads out under the overpass in front of the apartments. Rat drones scurry from trash piles as we enter the maze. We’ve yet to come in here, but I’ve seen Ty walking from this direction sometimes as I leave my apartment. The air smells warmer today; the trailers and the concrete and the trash gathered heat all day, and now their individual smells mix in the cooling night air.
We snake around to a trailer that looks just like the others, but this one is padlocked.
Ty presses his finger to the lock and it clicks open. With a quick jerk of his arm, he shoves one handle up. “Now just step over there.”
Ty disappears inside the trailer. A few seconds later, the screech of metal on metal grates as the back panel starts to slide up, slowly at first, then all at once slamming into the roof. Inside the trailer, a glistening, blue car stares at me. I know nothing about this world, but I know that is the prettiest car I’ve ever seen. Oscar whistles.
Ty lowers
two ramps to the ground, hops in the car. The engine rumbles to life.
When the car rolls out beside us, Ty leans out the open window and mutters to Pru, “Get in.”
“And the rest of us?” Julius asks, creating a mental picture in my mind of all of us crammed in the tiny car.
Ty tosses his head back at Oscar, who has also disappeared into the neighboring trailer. Another engine roars to life, and two white eyes flash to life.
“Just let it go,” I whisper to Julius as Pru climbs in the blue car through the funny door and sinks into the bowl-like chair. As Ty drives away, Oscar rolls out beside us in a silver car, smoother, sleeker, less conspicuous than the blue one but still elegant. “Not bad,” I say, nodding at the car.
The only place for me to sit is in Julius’ lap. I have to jam my neck sideways.
“Comfortable?” Julius asks, sticking a finger in my ribs.
“Hey!” I stomp his foot.
“Cut it out,” Oscar says, hitting a button on a computer screen in front of us that instantly starts music so loud I can’t hear the engine purring.
“I like this car,” Julius admits, taking in all the gadgets and buttons. We rumble out of the trailer lot, then—roar! The car explodes into noise and speed.
“It’s so loud!” I shout. The speed feels uncomfortable, unsafe.
Oscar laughs. “That’s the point. Next thing we need to do is teach you how to drive this.” He glances at me. “Or maybe not this, but a car anyway.”
“I thought they all drove themselves.” I say, watching the city stream by in blips of light.
Oscar, hands on the steering wheel, nods. “They do. Just tell it where you want to go, and it’ll do the work.” He waves a hand at the computer in the dash. “But if you want to feel it, to really drive, you can turn that off and”—he punches a button and familiar words announce that self-drive has been disabled—“fly.” The car lurches forward with new speed, Oscar’s knuckles white on the wheel. He weaves in and out of traffic, wide smile fixed on his face.
“Where are we going?” Julius asks from just behind my ear. He keeps attempting to shift his weight, which just jostles me more.
Oscar’s arm, stretched out over the steering wheel, makes him look cavalier, a word I would never have thought could describe him.
“To a fight.”
“A fight? What kind of fight?”
“Blues versus Reds. A gang fight.”
My stomach cinches. “But you said Blues and Reds like to kill each other.”
“They do.”
The cars rumble into the parking lot, not unnoticed by the people standing around. Tall lights cast harsh distinctions between what is seen and what is hidden. We park under one of the lights.
When the engine shuts off, Oscar looks at us, something bright and sinister burning in his usually unconcerned eyes. His hand rests on the gear shift between us. My back aches, and I’m ready to get out.
“Now look,” Oscar says. “This place is the only place Reds and Blues can be around each other without everybody just whipping out their metal and laying bodies on the concrete. Gang fights—at least the ones here—are not like street fights. Street fights …” He shakes his head. “Let’s just hope you don’t see one of those.”
He pulls out his gun, releases the magazine and pops open the chamber to release the bullet there, then slips it back in the magazine. He taps something on the computer and a compartment opens in front of me. Oscar reaches over and places the magazine in the compartment, shuts it. The gun he stuffs back in his jeans.
“Why take it if it’s empty?” asks Julius.
“It’s expected. You don’t show up to one of these without your metal. But it better not be loaded or you’ll get busted, and then things usually turn into a street fight. Not good.”
I swallow. “Usually? Does this happen a lot?”
He grins. “Nah. People—most people, anyway—aren’t stupid enough to come here with loaded weapons. They just want to see the fights, and they usually follow the rules. And speaking of rules, listen up.” He leans closer, as if we can’t hear him already. “You’re a pretty girl, V, and you know it.” He leans around, looking at Julius, “You, not so much, Ging.” He smiles at what he considers a clever insult. “Stay right beside me, and don’t wander off.” His eyes are boring a hole in my face. He waits until I mumble an affirmative. “Okay then. If someone in here realizes you two are not from around here, things could get sticky. So, if anyone looks at you and says, ‘Hosta,’ just answer back, ‘Folla.’ And give them a dirty look. If anyone says, ‘Yubey,’ say, ‘Diggin,’ or ‘Frontin.’ Don’t tell no one you’re working for M. Just don’t mention M at all.”
I run through the words in my head. “What language is that?”
Oscar snickers. “Street language.” He unbuckles, places a hand on the door. “Act like you’ve been here before. Heck, act like you’re better than everyone here. Should be easy for you gen-engers. And try not to talk too much.”
As soon as we’re out of the car, someone hollers at us from across the lot. “Ooh-a!” Whatever that means. It’s that boy, Wade, we’ve seen before and a small mob of followers. He angles toward Ty and Pru, who are waiting for us behind the blue car.
The sun is gone; the air is cooling. I smell a trace of smoke on the breeze. Shouts can be heard from inside the building up ahead. The word “ymnasium” stands out above the door, the concrete wall stained with a phantom “G.”
“Ty-son! Glad you made it out, boy! And looky here!” He eyes Pru like she’s his next meal. He finds me and rakes me with his eyes. Julius steps a little closer.
Thanks. I stand rigid, nose up, ignoring Wade. Act like you’re better than they are.
“Hey, I see how it is.” Wade starts to back up, slaps a hand on Ty’s shoulder. “Oscar.” He points at Oscar, then he and his friends trickle away.
“Ignore him.” Ty says. He grabs Pru’s hand and, to my surprise, she doesn’t pull away. I feel like grabbing Julius’ hand, just to let him know I feel his pain, but it wouldn’t do any good. I walk after Ty and Pru and Oscar. Julius drags along in the rear.
Inside, a wave of hot air washes over us, bringing with it the stench of sweat and mildew. A sparsely populated entryway with a few missing ceiling tiles leads into a large room up ahead. Bodies are packed closely together and shouts fill the air. No armbands here, even though they said this was a gang fight.
As we approach the crowd, a monster of a man steps up to Ty and Oscar, chest puffed out, eyes angry. “Your metal.”
Instead of reaching for his gun, Oscar raises his arms. Ty does the same, his shirt inching up to reveal a small pistol hidden at the base of his spine. The huge man pats Ty around the waist, finds the gun, then checks it for ammo. Without a word, the man grips the barrel and hands the gun back to Ty, does the same to Oscar.
Then Oscar grabs my hand.
“Hey!”
He leans in. “Just chill out. And don’t let go.” He tosses his chin up at Julius. “Ginger, don’t get lost.”
Into the fray! Shoulders bump me. The sticky skin of strangers touches me and their stench fills the air. As arms wave in a chorus of cheers, armpits fly too close to my face. I can’t see what they’re watching. As we shove our way toward a rising set of seats, a few girls coo at Ty and Oscar, dragging their long-fingernailed hands down the boys’ arms. Some of them ignore me. A few of them harpoon me with their eyes.
Someone grabs my arm above the elbow. A strong hand.
“Hey there.” A man, bearded, tall, and thick, bears down on me while he maintains his iron grip.
Oscar’s hand starts to pull away as he keeps moving. I think about calling out, but he finally notices.
“Back off,” he spits at the man.
“Oscar your boy?” The bearded man looks at me.
In response to my stillness, Oscar’s arm wraps around my waist. I nearly burst out laughing, but he yanks me along, pushing me up in front of him so that I�
�m right behind Pru. Sweat sprouts all over my body. I grab Pru’s free hand, and she tugs me along—the beefy man looking forlorn—till we finally find a place to stand on the elevated wooden rows lining the walls. Now I can see the fight.
In the center of the gym, an opening in the crowd shows two shirtless men circling one another. Even from here I can see the blood. One of them is much bloodier than the other—it’s streaming from his nose, his eyebrow, and his knuckles. I cringe.
“Who’s winning? Red or Blue?” Julius asks, leaning out over me to talk to Ty.
Ty frowns. “They are. And don’t mention the colors here.”
Just then, the bloodier one lands a punch to his opponent’s midsection. Ty tenses beside Pru and lets out a shout.
“That’s Dig. He and I grew up together. We got caught up in a bad street fight once … still don’t really know how they knew we’d be there.” He shakes his head but keeps his eyes on the fight. “I got out pretty quick. Just flat out ran. Like a coward! Dig … he didn’t. He shot someone. Never did any time for it. Now he comes here every chance he gets, like he’s trying to punish himself.”
“That sounds awful,” I mutter. The library in the Center hadn’t told me anything about gangs or street fights or homeless people. What is this place I’m living in?
Dig loses pretty quickly after the other fighter lands another solid blow to his temple. Two boys drag him off; another comes up with a rag to wipe away the blood and sweat from the floor.
“That’s brutal!”
“It’s fair, though,” Oscar says from beside me, arms crossed. “Dig’ll be all right. Fool does this to himself. Never really was a great fighter.” He shifts his weight, uncrosses his arms. “At least it wasn’t a death round.”
“A death round?”
Oscar swallows before answering. “Figure that one out yourself.”
A beat goes by. I take in the sounds and the heat and the faces around us. After a minute of watching the victor parade around the fighting ring, pumping his fists in the air, Pru asks Ty, “What does the winner get?”
The Veritas Project Page 19
