Elusion(4)

Some people think Aftershock symptoms are a small price to pay for time in Elusion, but I don’t miss the side effects one bit.

The station we’re pulling into isn’t far from the Orexis building. Even though I’m running late, I think I can make it there on time if I use the pedestrian bridges and take a couple of illegal shortcuts. I grab my bag and rush to the cabin door, getting in line to exit before everyone else in the car. Once the door opens, I leap off the train and push my way through the mob descending down one of the fifty jumbo-size escalators that weave together in what looks like a gigantic aerial spiderweb.

I race out of the station, glancing toward the giant billboard that projects the latest air quality report. It’s a negative ten, which means this area is a currently a red zone, so O2 shields are highly recommended. Although it’s going to cost me time, I break from the surge of people who are streaming out into the streets and duck behind a towering copper pylon to pull out the pear-shaped plastic mask and place it over my mouth and nose. Once it’s correctly positioned, I press the silver button on the right side, activating the suction that will keep the shield fastened to my face and emit the steady stream of oxygen that I’ll breathe until I go indoors.

And then comes the acid rain. Just a couple of drops at first, but by the time I navigate my way through the hundreds of cars and buses crippled by traffic and reach the base of the first pedestrian bridge, it’s coming down in sheets of gray. I dig inside my bag again and find my umbrella, but when I try to open it, the top spring jams, preventing the special oil-proof vinyl material from staying up.

For a split second, I consider turning back. Maybe this is a sign that I’m supposed to skip Patrick’s press conference. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me that going to Orexis is a bad idea—I won’t be able to escape the memory of my dad there.

But then I think about the train a few minutes ago and how Elusion was everywhere. After today, there’ll be no place for me to hide.

At least not in the real world.

So I toss my umbrella into the trash and spit out my gum as I take the first step up the bridge.


“I don’t see you on the admittance log,” the stocky, surly-looking Orexis guard says, his eyes glued to the view screen in between us. He touches my passcard to the code reader on his glass desk once more, scanning it again.

Orexis headquarters is located in the refurbished Renaissance Center, or the RenCen, as it’s been referred to ever since it was built. A titanium building complex on the shores of the Detroit River, overlooking Canada, it has a 200-story hotel, a mall, and a variety of office buildings. It’s practically a city within a city—or a “brilliant micrometropolis,” as the Detroit Daily News labeled it. The lobby is packed with people eager to witness Patrick’s big announcement. It took me nearly a half hour just to reach the ID checkpoint at the elevator bank. If I don’t hurry, I’m going to miss the start of the press conference. Even though my demerit count is dangerously high, I still skipped my last class at school in order to be here, so I definitely want to make the most of my AWOL time.

“I’m sorry, but you’re not on the list of media that has been cleared to attend the event,” he announces loudly, his eyes focused on the information from my passcard that has popped up on his glass desk.

“I’m not with the media,” I say. The stocky guard has my passcard, and clearly my name isn’t ringing any bells, so I lean over the desk and whisper, “My dad is . . . was David Welch.”


God, I really don’t want to make a scene—being here is uncomfortable enough, knowing my father is never going to walk through this lobby again. “Patrick Simmons invited me himself.”

“Ms. Welch!” A tall guard with a shiny head devoid of any hair whatsoever comes hurrying over as soon as he recognizes me, his voice high-pitched and eager. “Do you want to use the private elevator, or—”

People are beginning to stare. So far no one else has placed me, but if I went up in the VIP elevator, I would kiss my anonymity good-bye. My father’s HyperSoar accident was headline news, and I don’t want reporters hounding me like they did a day or two after the funeral. Some of them even camped outside my house.

“If you could just swipe me in, that would be great,” I say quickly.

The tall guard yanks my passcard away from his coworker and scans it, handing it back to me. I give him a grateful nod of thanks and then hurry through the gate, scooting inside a crowded elevator. I’m pressed up against one of the rectangular mirror-paneled walls. My eyes shift down toward my feet, but not fast enough. I catch my reflection, and to put it mildly, I look disgusting.

Due to the rain, my strawberry-blond hair has a strange dullness to it, and my bangs are in desperate need of a flatiron. My mascara is caked around my lashes, making my green eyes appear washed out and almost translucent. My uniform—an ugly navy cargo skirt with an ivory button-down shirt—is wet and clinging to me in all the wrong places, streaked with sootlike residue from the tainted precipitation. I run my fingers through my hair in a vain attempt to freshen up, but it doesn’t help much.

Only a full-blast decontamination shower could help me now.

When the elevator doors open, I step off to the side, letting everyone move ahead of me. There’s a crowd hovering near the theater entrance, probably because it’s already full. My best bet is to sneak in through the back. I walk through an unmarked automatic door a few feet to my left and enter a gigantic hallway.