Firstlife. Gena Showalter
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Bow clearly hasn’t gotten the memo. Talking about the Everlife is forbidden. Well, only with each other. Dr. Vans’s way of avoiding a riot inside these walls, I guess.
I deduced Sloan is Unsigned, which wasn’t exactly hard to do considering she’s said “I’d rather be a queen in Many Ends than a drone in the realms” countless times.
Okay, not countless. Twenty-three.
“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together,” Bow tells me. “Let’s get to know each other better.”
“No, thanks.”
She persists. “How were you introduced to the realms?”
“The usual way.” Since public schools aren’t allowed to lean one way or the other, only private schools, children are told stories by biased parents. Also, different facilities offer virtual tours but, depending on who’s running them, the tours are always skewed.
My aunt Lina is my dad’s crazy twin sister who, I’ve been told, suffers from polyfused disorder, meaning the older spirit (supposedly) Fused to hers is strong enough to gain control of her body. When she isn’t acting like a giggly ten-year-old who speaks in the past tense, she works for A Look Beyond, a tour company owned by Myriad.
I’ve seen night-kissed castles overflowing with orchid gardens. Bustling cityscapes with stone and metal skyscrapers intermixed with nightclubs and spas, everything connected by sleek silver bridges and tunnels illuminated by wrought-iron, dragon-shaped lamps. Vibrant white-sand beaches with a moonlit view of ruby, sapphire and emerald coral.
A bit of high-tech flare topped with old-world charm.
There’s something for everyone, Aunt Lina likes to say on her sane days. On her insane days? The light bled into the darkness and the darkness died... I didn’t want to die.
On the other hand, Troika’s version of Myriad is frightening. Darkness pervades. Darkness so thick it oozes over your skin like motor oil. There’s field after field of dead trees, the limbs gnarled, the bark dripping crimson—bleeding. Any birds able to survive the lack of sunlight cry rather than squawk. The city is overcrowded, everyone packed as tight as pickles in a jar, and the beaches resemble life-size litter boxes.
Myriad’s version of Troika is no better. Apocalyptic wastelands scorched by an unforgiving sun.
As a child, I was desperate to avoid Troika...until I heard my Troikan Laborer’s description: dappled sunlight falling over intricate gardens, wildflowers and rainbows. A thriving metropolis both fantastical and futuristic, with palatial country estates and chrome-and-glass buildings in a variety of shapes and sizes.
“You might want to stop mentioning the realms,” I finally say. “It’ll get you punished.”
She pushes out a breath. “Fine. I’ll talk about something else. Something fascinating. Like the food. I’m pretty sure it’s going to look the same coming out as it does going in.”
She isn’t wrong. “If you want a change of menu, the bugs in our room are always an option. Side note. Spiders taste like shrimp and cockroaches taste like greasy chicken.”
“Okay, I now want to gag and hug you at the same time.” She thinks for a moment, releases a dreamy sigh. “Maybe I’ll have dessert snuck in.”
“Good luck with that.” Others have tried. Others have failed. “You’ll be caught and—”
“Punished. Yeah, yeah. I know.”
We’re both given a tray. As we search for a table, a group of boys gives Bow a once-over. Snickers abound.
I stiffen, but Bow winks at them as we claim the empty table to their right.
“I think I heard the guards say her name’s Bow,” one of them says, not even trying to be quiet.
“It fits—unlike her uniform. Fatty Bow Batty,” another mutters, spurring outright laughter from his friends.
Bow ignores them and stirs her slop as if she hasn’t a care. She’s short and big-boned, a little plain, but she’s a person with feelings.
I find myself snapping, “Integrity matters more than size, dreg.” A derogatory name for someone neither realm wants.
He blows me a kiss. “Why don’t you come sit on my lap, Nutter? I’ll show you just how sizable I am.”
Innuendos are always on the menu at Prynne, and I usually overlook them. Today, my fingers tighten around my spoon. We aren’t given forks or knives, ever. Not that it matters. I can do bad, bad things with a spoon.
I glare at him and say, “Do you like having a tongue?”
He sticks his out and wags it at me.
I don’t want to fight him—I’m too sore—but I will. If I lose, I lose, but at least I’ll leave an impression.
Bow pats my hand. “Forget about him, Sperm Bank. He doesn’t yet understand the outside is a shell for all of us. My beauty is on the inside, where it never fades.”
She can’t be this nice. She just can’t be.
The boys return to their conversation, whispering among themselves, pretending what almost happened didn’t almost happen.
“Plus,” Bow adds, “he isn’t even close to my type.”
“Which is?”
She wiggles her brows. “Female.”
Ah. Got it.
We lapse into silence. I remain aware of the people around us, always on alert, as I clean my tray. Gotta stay as strong as possible. Bow merely picks at the meal. One day soon, hunger will get the better of her and she’ll be thankful for the slop.
One of the boys is trying to snag a bite off his friend’s tray as we stand.
“Touch my food and die.” The friend’s snarl is pure menace.
“Here. You can have mine,” Bow says.
The boy scowls at her. “Mind your own business, cow.”
Trust no one. Question everything.
She shrugs, unaffected. “Your loss.”
I’m not sure where to lump her in my mental files. Too good to be true? The real deal? Worth emulating? Or to be disregarded?
As we file out of the cafeteria, I’m sent to the commons for early morning therapy of the mind—have to get my day started right, I mentally sneer—and Bow is sent to the gym for early morning therapy of the body.
Sloan shoves another girl out of the way to claim the chair next to me. “You need to put your roommate on a shorter leash.”
Going to pretend we didn’t threaten each other? Fine.
“I’m not her keeper,” I say. Her actions, her consequences.
“Don’t be stupid,” Sloan snaps. “In this place, your roomie should be your best friend. She’s the one who’s going to watch your back when yours is bruised.” With a smirk, she presses on my shoulder, drawing a hiss from me. “Like now.”
I bat her arm away, which only makes my pain worse. “I don’t need your advice.” Trust no one...
“Obviously you do. Word is, Vans will be gone tonight. Two guards have decided there’s no better time to retaliate against you for choking their friend.”
I stiffen. The choking incident happened four months ago, and the memory still haunts me. The guard in question snuck into my room. He thought I should earn his goodwill. I thought differently.
He left in a body bag.
I didn’t enjoy killing him, even in self-defense, but I also didn’t feel more than a few twinges of remorse. I’ve endured one too many