Endgame Novella #1

by James Frey

  The jaguar closest to her—too close—lets out a low growl.

  She breathes. She thinks. She does not panic. She is Chiyoko, the fated champion of the Mu line. She is trained for all contingencies; she is in control regardless of circumstance. She can do this.

  Somehow.

  She has studied the world’s most dangerous creatures. Jaguars, she knows, can run at nearly 100 km/hour over short distances. Their powerful jaws can bite down with more strength than nearly any animal on earth. Skull-crushing force, literally. They live and hunt alone—except during mating season. Now.

  Just her luck.

  Chiyoko never acts until she’s certain of success. The jaguar, on the other hand, has no doubts.

  It pounces. One hundred ten kilograms of muscle and teeth fly at her, jagged claws extended, fierce jaw open wide.

  Chiyoko vaults backward, flips across the spring, lands sure-footed, and readies herself to fight—when a shot echoes through the trees, and the beast drops to the ground.

  Two more shots, and the other two jaguars are dead side by side.

  Chiyoko spots a muzzle poking out through the leaves. And there, steady behind the scope, is Akina Nori.

  I deserve this, Chiyoko thinks as she prepares herself for a final shot and the darkness to follow. She knew the ambush was coming and somehow fell into it anyway. Unforgivable. My people deserve better.

  But the shot never sounds. Instead there is a soft thump as Akina drops to the ground. Chiyoko assumes a fight position. Surely the girl doesn’t imagine she can best Chiyoko in hand-to-hand combat?

  “Chill out,” Akina says, lowering the weapon. “I’m Akina Nori, remember me? Satoshi’s daughter? They sent me in as reinforcements, said you’d probably need some help with the whole survival thing.”

  Chiyoko purses her lips, trying to figure out why Akina would go to the trouble of lying. Why not just shoot when she had the chance? True, guns are inelegant, an amateur’s weapon, and something Chiyoko would never stoop to herself. But surely Akina has no such standards, not when the stakes are so high.

  Akina misunderstands, or pretends to. “Oh, don’t get all sulky about it. You think I want to be here? I’m supposed to be front row center at a concert tonight, not in the middle of nowhere eating DIY sushi with a stick. And no offense, but it’s pretty obvious you could use the help.”

  This makes no sense. Akina must have some kind of plan, but it’s incomprehensible.

  “I don’t know if you noticed, but I did just save your life,” Akina says. “You could at least say thank you.” She catches herself then, and makes a face Chiyoko has seen too many times: simultaneously embarrassed, afraid of offending, irritated at the need to be afraid. “Uh, I mean, you could be thankful. Or whatever.”

  Chiyoko presses her hands together and offers Akina a shallow bow. The girl is right: she did save Chiyoko’s life. Which puts Chiyoko in her debt.

  This is not good.

  Nothing is more dangerous than surprise and confusion. If understanding the enemy is the key to victory, then misunderstanding the enemy—or mistaking an act of mercy for aggression, and vice versa—is the harbinger of defeat.

  For the first time, Chiyoko wonders whether she has underestimated her opponent.

  For the first time, she is afraid.

  Akina keeps up a steady stream of chatter as she follows Chiyoko back to her camp. “You must get stuck doing this crap all the time, huh? Weird that you’re not better at it. Did they bring you over in the same kind of boat? Can we discuss the bathroom situation there? Or maybe, better yet, let’s never discuss. I mean, I get the whole wild-girl-in-nature thing, but is a boat nature? I don’t think so. Would it be so much to ask for a hair dryer? Or, I don’t know, how about some moisturizer?”

  Chiyoko barely listens, which isn’t hard. Could the plans have changed? she wonders. Could Akina really be here to help? But she knows Satoshi Nori too well for that, and she saw him swear an oath with her uncle. There is no question: Akina is here to kill her, and it’s Chiyoko’s job to kill Akina first.

  She could do it now.

  She could do it easily.

  Strike the girl from behind. Spear the blade into her neck, sever her spinal column.

  It would be over before it began, before Akina had a chance to understand her defeat.

  It would be over, and Chiyoko could go home, and a new life, free of doubters and doubt, would begin.

  But she never acts until sure of success. This is what has kept her alive for so long. She can’t be sure, not until she understands what has happened. Why Akina has done what she’s done.

  So Chiyoko will wait.

  Only long enough to find out what the girl is up to, she tells herself. No longer.

  One day passes, and another, and still Akina lives.

  On the bright side, so does Chiyoko.

  Chiyoko knows why she hasn’t made a move on Akina yet. To kill without clarity always leads to more confusion, not less. But as for why Akina hasn’t made a move, that remains a puzzle.

  Chiyoko usually loves puzzles, but not the kind that’s planning to kill her and never the kind that won’t shut up.

  Akina has moved her supplies to Chiyoko’s camp. Or rather, Chiyoko’s camp has become Akina’s camp, since the other girl actually has supplies, and they have taken over. Akina’s tent, Akina’s sleeping bag, Akina’s food, Akina’s weapons. Chiyoko can’t believe how the elders have stacked the deck in favor of this girl, almost as if they’re rooting for her to win.

  Which, of course, they are.

  All but her uncle, and her uncle knows Chiyoko doesn’t need any extra advantages to win.

  Or he doesn’t want her to win. But Chiyoko refuses to allow this possibility.

  Camping with Akina is like living in luxury—or would be, if Chiyoko didn’t have to be constantly on guard against attack. She insists on preparing all the food so Akina has no chance to poison her. When Akina goes to bed, Chiyoko slips into the jungle to sleep in the hollow of a tree, safe from midnight ambush. She wakes with the sun and eases herself back into the camp so Akina never suspects a thing.

  “Want to do a little sparring?” Akina asks, the first afternoon. “I’m going crazy, just sitting around twiddling my thumbs. Aren’t you?”

  Chiyoko agrees, warily. But when Akina picks up her throwing stars, Chiyoko folds her arms, shakes her head.

  She will fight, but not with weapons.

  Not unless this is to be a fight to the death.

  Akina shrugs. “Hand-to-hand, then. Have it your way. But I should warn you, I don’t lose.”

  She does.

  They grapple, mixing martial arts with street fighting, fists flying, kicks thumping against shins and stomachs, bodies flipping and tumbling, sweat streaking skin, nails scratching, blood staining, and then, all too soon, Akina is on her back and Chiyoko’s hands are at her throat.

  Akina gasps for breath, taps the ground three times with her right hand, the sign clear: Stop. You win.

  I give up.

  Chiyoko does not stop.

  Chiyoko squeezes Akina’s neck, presses her knee to Akina’s chest, feels her lungs heave, feels her grow feeble as the air does not flow.

  A few more seconds and Akina will be dead. This will be over. Just a few more seconds of holding on.

  But Chiyoko lets go.

  Akina does not move, only lies there, gasping, sucking in painful breaths.

  “What the hell was that?” she says, when she can speak. Her raspy voice is as perky as ever, but there is a darkness in her eyes, like something wild and unleashed. She knows what it was. She knows why. She just doesn’t know why Chiyoko let go.

  Chiyoko doesn’t either.

  She’s killed before. She’s killed easily. In all the times she’s doubted herself, she’s never doubted that she could, at the very least, act when necessary. Do what must be done.

  Could it be that Satoshi is right? That she’s too soft to be the Player? That rel
ying on her would lead the Mu to their doom?

  Chiyoko offers Akina her hand, helps the other girl to her feet.

  It’s different, killing someone who’s not trying to kill you. Killing someone who hasn’t yet launched an attack. Chiyoko wills Akina to act, to make a move of her own. To shuck off the shallow schoolgirl act and reveal herself as an enemy. If Akina attacks, Chiyoko will be able to defend herself. If Akina would simply strike, Chiyoko would not hesitate. But even after the sparring match, even after fingerprint-shaped bruises bloom at Akina’s throat, Akina does not attack.

  All she does is talk.

  And talk and talk and talk.

  “You know the best part of this stupid island? No little sisters. You know what I mean? No, wait, you’re an only child, am I right? And I bet you always wanted a little sister. Onlies always do. It’s because you don’t realize how annoying they are. Trust me.”

  Occasionally she pauses to let Chiyoko nod and shake her head, but often she speaks right through the silence, as if taking charge of Chiyoko’s side of the conversation as well as her own. Sometimes she does it so well, and so confidently, that Chiyoko is almost carried along by the illusion. It’s nice, pretending to be part of a conversation. Most people fall silent around her, or speak slowly, as if she has a problem with her brain as well as her mouth. Akina acts like it’s normal that Chiyoko doesn’t speak—like Chiyoko is choosing, for now, to stay silent, but might change her mind at any moment.

  “You think you want a sister until you have to buy a dead bolt for your diary and then your boyfriend’s getting emails of your incredibly humiliating baby pictures when someone gets herself in a sulk just because she’s not allowed to borrow your silk dress. Which, by the way, would look ridiculous on a ten-year-old.”

  Chiyoko has no diary, no baby pictures, no silk dresses. Certainly no boyfriend. But when Akina says, “You see what I mean,” she almost does.

  Akina talks about their island, and sees beauty and magic where Chiyoko only sees utility or danger. “Like a brooding giant,” she says, about a massive dark cloud sweeping overhead. While Chiyoko worries about monsoons, about damage to their camp, about storm and ruin, Akina gazes at the sky. “Imagine that, a shadow cast by a fairy-tale beast. A giant fist thrusting toward the earth, scooping us into its cloudy grasp. If I had my paints . . .” She pauses, even blushes a little. “I want to be an artist. I know, it sounds stupid.”

  Chiyoko doesn’t shake her head, doesn’t do anything, but Akina smiles as if she has.

  “Okay, maybe not stupid. But silly. That’s what my father says. That my paintings are as silly as the idea that I could make a living from them. He says it’s time I get serious, now that—”

  She stops abruptly. For once, Chiyoko wishes she could urge Akina to keep going. Something important was about to come next. An admission. But she can’t ask. And Akina doesn’t offer.

  As Akina talks and talks, Chiyoko hears the truth behind her words, and finally begins to understand. They are at an impasse, the two of them. Chiyoko is too soft to kill Akina before Akina proves herself an enemy. Akina, it’s clear, feels the same way. Each of them is silently willing the other to make the first move.

  Neither makes it.

  Both pretend the silent battle isn’t happening. That they are not in a contest of wills that must end in one of their deaths. That this is a waiting game, weakness pitted against weakness, and that eventually, one of them will decide to be strong, and end it.

  Akina is better at pretending than Chiyoko has ever been. It is the one skill in which she bests the Player, and as they wait each other out, Chiyoko tries to learn from her.

  Akina lives the lie of friendship like she actually believes it’s the truth.

  When the storm comes, Akina drags Chiyoko out of the tent and into the rain. They whirl in circles and dance and splash. “Like being a little kid again!” Akina says joyfully. Chiyoko, who was never that little, even when she was, can’t help but smile.

  Nothing about Akina Nori is as Chiyoko expected, and that bothers her. She is supposed to know everything about Akina. She’s been trained to understand her enemies—she knows that is the key to any Player’s survival. Is it possible that watching someone, spying on their every word and move, is not enough to truly know them? How many other things has she misunderstood, in all her years of hiding and watching?

  Akina talks about her parents’ marriage (shaky), her schoolwork (dull), her new puppy (prone to peeing in shoes). She talks about hating the way her father tries to control her life.

  “He’s always telling me what to do, you know? Oh, what am I talking about, of course you know. You probably get it more than anyone. It’s not like when you were a little kid you went around saying ‘I want to be a Player when I grow up,’ right? I mean, you must think about it, what would have happened if it wasn’t you. Who you would have been if you had, like, a normal life.”

  But Chiyoko doesn’t think about it, never lets herself. From the day she was born and did not cry, she has never been normal. How could she be owed a normal life?

  She has never thought of it this way, her uncle controlling her. He only wants to make her the best Player she can be. How else would he show his love?

  “Well, bright side, it’s not like you’re stuck doing this forever. Make it through a few more years and you get your life back. Unless you believe the whole Endgame thing is actually happening, and happening soon, but who really believes that, deep down?”

  They are sitting side by side before a campfire when Akina admits this, roasting fish on twin sticks over the flames. Chiyoko has imagined nights like this, staying up too late, slipping secrets back and forth in the dark with a trusted friend. This is how girls in books live, girls without responsibilities weighing on their shoulders or death hanging over their heads.

  Sometimes, on this island, she feels like she’s fallen into a dream, the dream of a child hoping to imagine herself into an alternate life.

  She and Akina are not friends, will never be friends.

  How can they be friends when, no matter how diligently they ignore the fact, only one of them can leave this island alive?

  Sometimes it’s hard to remember what is the lie and what is the truth.

  “You want to know a secret? I can trust you not to tell anyone, right?” Akina laughs at her own lame joke. Then leans in close and lowers her voice. “Sometimes I think the whole thing’s bullshit. I mean, come on. Aliens? It’s about as likely as the idea that there’s some Temple of Mu sitting at the bottom of the Pacific. Tell me you didn’t laugh in their faces the first time they told you ‘the truth.’”

  Chiyoko doesn’t remember a time when she didn’t know the sacred truth of her bloodline. It has never occurred to her that she could question what she’s been told.

  That belief is a choice.

  “So what are you going to do? After, I mean.”

  Chiyoko has never imagined an after. She is the Player. That is her fate.

  How can there be an after to fate?

  “Seriously?” Akina says, reading Chiyoko’s blank look. “No idea?” She eyes Chiyoko appraisingly. “I think you’d make a good shrink someday. You’re such a good listener.”

  Chiyoko laughs, silently. She is not easily insulted.

  “It wasn’t a joke!” Akina insists. “You really are. It’s not just that you don’t talk, it’s that . . . you really hear, you know?” She falls silent, and gives Chiyoko a strange look.

  Chiyoko cocks her head to the side, as if to say, What?

  “I just didn’t know you had a sense of humor,” Akina said.

  Until now, Chiyoko didn’t quite know it either.

  “My father thinks I don’t take anything seriously enough,” Akina says quietly. The smile is gone from her voice. “But he doesn’t get it. I have to laugh at it all, because I do believe it.”

  Chiyoko raises her eyebrows.

  “Oh, I know what I just said. And I meant it. Aliens, et ce
tera. It sounds like bullshit. But what can I say? I believe it. I believe our people were all massacred by a bunch of aliens, and that if we don’t stay in line, it can all happen again. That the stupid aliens are going to make it their business to be sure it happens again. That they set things up so that the only thing standing in their way is a freaking teenager. That’s what my father doesn’t get—if I believe all that, how am I supposed to take anything seriously? How can any of this matter if at any second, the whole world could get wiped out?”

  Chiyoko nods, shallowly, to say she understands but perhaps does not agree. Endgame or not, this is the reality of life, she wants to say. Life ends. An ending doesn’t remove meaning from all that comes before.

  “You ever get jealous of them? The ones who don’t know? I mean, I look at my friends, the ones who aren’t Mu. Who don’t have any idea what’s coming. It’s so easy for them. They’ve got nothing to be afraid of. Nothing real, at least. I try so hard to pretend I’m like them, to make myself forget. But I can’t forget.”

  All these days together, and Akina still manages to surprise her. For Chiyoko has envied Akina in exactly the same way Akina envies her friends.

  Once again, Chiyoko has mistaken Akina’s lies for truth, failed to understand that they are more same than different, that they both live under the reality of obligation.

  They have both tried, and failed, to forget.

  Perhaps now, it is time to remember.

  Chiyoko dreams of Endgame.

  She dreams of an all-consuming fire, a sky choked with smoke, a rain of acid and blood.

  She dreams of skylines falling, horizons burning, scorched earth stretching to the horizon, sightless eyes and severed limbs and killing fields crowded with death.

  She dreams of her uncle, his back turned to danger, and in the dream she wants to call to him, warn him, but there is no voice, no call, and the sky falls down on him and crushes him under its giant fist.

  She dreams of the life draining out of his disappointed eyes, and of his final words.

  I was wrong.

  You are too weak.

  And now our people will pay the price.

  Chiyoko wakes in terror and, for a moment, forgets where she is. Forgets why she is damp and shivering in a pile of dirt rather than tucked safely into her own bed, her uncle’s cool hand on her forehead, his reassuring murmur in her ear. Reality creeps back in slowly, and she does her best to shake off the nightmare. Her people believe in dreams, believe that the gods can speak through signs and portents in the night, but not every dream has meaning. Not every dream is truth.