Burn (Pure #3)(38)

The door is open, but she knocks anyway.

He stops midnote. “I thought you two were asleep.”

“I was,” Bradwell says. He and Pressia step into the cockpit. He barely fits in the space. His ribs and chest and shoulders have broadened. His wings are bulky and arched on his back.

“We have to check on Hastings,” Pressia says, gripping the back of the empty copilot’s seat.

“We’d have to touch down at Crazy John-Johns then lift off and land again,” El Capitan says nervously.

“We can’t leave him there,” Bradwell says.

“I wasn’t saying I’d abandon him. It’s just a risk—that’s all. If we crash-land like we did last time, we won’t have anyone to help us. We’d have to make it back home on foot through a territory we barely survived the first time.”

“We have no choice,” Pressia says. “He needs us, and we might need him too.”

“Need him for what?” El Capitan asks.

Pressia sighs. “I’m going into the Dome. I’ve got to talk to Partridge. I’ve got to get the cure to the right people on the inside.” She keeps the backpack on at all times.

“You’re assuming there are right people on the inside,” Bradwell says.

“Right people,” Helmud says optimistically.

“They can’t all be bad. And now that Partridge is in charge, I’m sure he’s—”

“I’m not sure of anything,” Bradwell says. “Kelly knew that Willux was dead, that Partridge was in charge, so why hasn’t he heard about a new order in the Dome?”

“Maybe Partridge hasn’t had time,” Pressia says angrily. “Maybe his plan is in the works. Or maybe he has started to make real changes but telling Kelly—an ocean away—isn’t a top priority right now!” She turns to El Capitan. “You believe in Partridge, don’t you?”

“I always doubt people,” El Capitan says. “I’ve survived by not believing in other human beings.”

Pressia understands. She’s someone who’s let Cap down; she doesn’t love him the way he loves her. “What’s your plan? You bring down the Dome and there’s civil war? More blood, more death?” Pressia asks them.

“If you want to side with her, go ahead,” Bradwell says to El Capitan. “How you feel about Pressia isn’t a secret anymore. Do what you want.”

Pressia’s shocked that Bradwell’s said this out loud. She glances at El Capitan. His cheeks are flushed. He coughs into his fist and looks out the windshield. They’re cutting through a bank of clouds.

“You just want to be proven right after all these years,” Pressia says to Bradwell. “You’ll take justice over peace, even if it means people are going to die.”

“I’m not trying to prove I’m right. I am right. There’s a difference. The truth is important,” Bradwell says. “History is important.”

“El Capitan will do what he thinks is right—justice or peace,” Pressia says. “I trust him to make that call.”

“Peace,” Helmud says, giving his vote.

Pressia’s glad that Helmud is on her side. “Good,” Pressia says. “Thanks.”

“Cap?” Bradwell says.

“No,” El Capitan says. “I’m not choosing between you. We’ve got to be united on this.”

Bradwell stares out the windshield, and Pressia can only see his profile, the twin scars running down one cheek. He says, “My mother died gripping my father’s shirt. Her eyes were still open, staring at him, like she’d died begging him to stay alive. But they died Pure—on the inside.” He jabs his own chest. “They died as they were, fighting to get the truth out.” He rubs his knuckles together and says. “And what am I?” His wings twitch on his back. “I’m a fairy tale parents tell their children to scare them into living careful lives. I’m not real.”

Pressia imagines him as a little boy running through the house calling for them, his panic growing. Sometimes she forgets the little boy he once was—the one who was sent to his aunt and uncle’s to live, who ran through the flock of birds when the Detonations hit, the one who found his way back to his parents’ house, to the footlocker in the secured room, who fended for himself for years. She loves that kid. She loves the man he’s become—complex and stubborn. “You are real. You’re the same person.”

He shakes his head. “No. That Bradwell is gone.”

“What does that mean?” she asks.

“What’s really kept me going all these years is the truth and justice. I could look up at that white Dome, its gleaming cross, anytime, and I had all I needed to survive. They killed my parents. They holed up in their perfect little bubble and destroyed the world. I’m a wretch. That’s what made me Pure. And now? With those chemicals pumped into me, what am I?”

“You’re still yourself,” Pressia says. She wants to say more. She wants to tell him that he’s real, that she loves him. But his back is stiff. His eyes are locked on the sky. He’s cut off. She says, “You have every reason to hate me.”

“I don’t hate you. I only wish I could.”

“Look,” El Capitan says, “someone’s got to compromise.”