Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(64)
“Is there a way out of this for him, Grisholm?” I ask. MacGregor probably enlisted in The Trials when he was healthy. Now he’ll likely be killed in a gruesome exhibition.
“He chose this. He must live with it. Come to think of it, he has to die with it, too,” Grisholm quips.
Violence touches every part of my life. It’s unavoidable. It’s in every breath I take. Watching the competitors train, I begin to loathe myself for not using all my resources to put an end to it. They might have chosen to enroll in the Secondborn Trials, as Grisholm says, but doing so is a suicide note to the world: You’ve brought my spirit to its knees, and now you may rip apart my body as well. Some probably believe they have a chance, but most know they don’t. They just want their pain to end.
Grisholm logs everything I say on his moniker. After we exhaust this field of competitors, Grisholm is anxious to move on. Mounting the hovercycles, we fly to the next section, staying close to the ground as we ride. I rest my cheek against Reykin’s back. We pass a small lake, and the air suddenly gets cooler. Passing meadows, the wind grows sweet with lush flowering plants. I’m disappointed when we get to Flabellate Two. I’d rather keep riding, bumping over pockets of air, letting the tension of this world ebb.
Flabellate Two is hauntingly similar. After it, we tour the other sections until the sun sets and the competitors are excused to scrounge for meals. Grisholm suggests we take a break and find some food ourselves. Mounting the hovercycles once more, we fly to the center of the training matrix.
The fan-shaped training fields encircle the Trial Village. Reykin slows the hoverbike as we near the epicenter for firstborns and the media, a wooded glade filled with fantastical architecture and surrounded by gleaming walls of fusion energy. Round orbs of light float above and cast a glow over the bustling crowds. Security is tight here at the enormous arching stone portico to the modern-medieval village. Armed Exos stop us at the entrance. As part of Grisholm’s entourage, we’re waved through, but others—those not high enough on the aristocratic ladder—are turned away.
Grisholm and Reykin park their vehicles. Reykin’s hand drops from the throttle. His fingers skim the outside of my thigh. The gesture is possessive, even if it’s brief. He climbs off the bike and extends his hand to me. This suddenly feels very intimate. I’m not sure why. He’s told me that he doesn’t care about me. I should listen. Reykin always means every word he utters, but it’s confusing nonetheless. I decline his help and climb off on my own.
A cool wind blows through the trees, rustling the needle leaves. A gorgeous starry night peeks through the redwood canopy. Paved paths lined with wrought-iron lampposts branch in several directions. I pull my jacket closer around me.
“Are you cold?” Reykin asks. His dark hair is windswept, but no less attractive for that.
I shake my head. “No. I’m fine.”
A festival atmosphere prevails. Dressed for clubbing, the throng around us is jovial, thrill seeking. I’ve never been in a crowd this happy before. Firstborns are dance-walking, moving to the beat of live instruments. Glitter tints the women’s hair and skin in vibrant colors, with small holographic fireworks displays bursting around them like crowning laurels. Strings of holographic bluebirds fly around the heads of others. Some men sport holographic angel wings that flutter with white light. Others carry miniature holographic monsters that sit reaper-like on their shoulders and lurch out at passing women, whose screams mix giddy fascination with surprised terror.
Unsettled by the strangeness of it all, I reach for my fusionblade, but I don’t have one on me. I feel exposed. Reykin’s hand brushes mine as we walk. He seems closer than normal. I can still feel his shape against me, and I wonder if he feels mine. The paved path forces us closer still as we follow Grisholm, surrounded by his security force.
I recognize a famous face as it passes—Firstborn Gerard Hampton, a Diamond-Fated actor who plays a secondborn Sword in a popular drama. He’s with a Virtue-Fated firstborn woman I don’t recognize. He recognizes me, though. He says my name and gives me a soldier’s salute as we pass. It makes me want to crush him. He’s clueless about what it’s like to be secondborn.
We see more film stars and musicians. Some are working, but most are here as spectators. Everyone steps to the side for the heir to the Fate of Virtues, and they whisper about us behind their hands after we pass.
Drone cameras and news crews occupy live-coverage booths, and roaming commentators narrate the ongoing action for a worldwide audience. The carnival atmosphere extends to the vendors. Salloway Munitions Conglomerate has a multilevel, interactive showroom in the Trial Village, prominently featuring the latest in advanced domestic weaponry for the private sector. The featured weapon is the new Culprit-44, complete with neon-tinted energy filters that render hydrogen rounds in a variety of rainbow colors. My holographic image runs through the mock battlefield on the outside of the Salloway showroom, acrobatically maneuvering and destroying fake enemies. My cheeks feel hot as I watch it. Reykin gently squeezes my waist, but I pull away. I don’t need his sympathy. I do what I do to survive. In that, I regret nothing.
We keep walking. Around every bend is a fanciful bronze water fountain composed of statues of victorious secondborn competitors. Most are depicted in their final challenge along with the loser at the defining moment of victory. One stands before us with his bronze fist entwined in the hair of a severed head, holding it aloft. Glorious? Maybe. Gruesome? Definitely. I’m glad that we don’t linger.