Forged(74)

“I know how hard it can be to put down your weapon. I do. Especially when fighting seems like the only way to achieve justice. But those of you fighting for freedom have no reason to keep at it—Frank’s gone—and those of you fighting on Frank’s behalf are no longer bound by your service to the Order. Not unless you want to be.

“If this continues, we’re not destroying the enemy anymore. We’re killing neighbors. And I’m tired of fighting,” I say. “So damn tired. I want to go home. I want to start living again.”

Almost directly below me, a boy puts down a wooden bat. There are two Order members an arm’s distance from him, but he lets the bat fall from his hands like a shield he no longer needs. They look at the boy, then their handguns. It feels like it takes an hour, but they holster them.

And then the surrender spreads like a wildfire. Weapons are dropped, fists are uncurled, outward and onward. Not everyone complies. There are certain Order members shouting, and I can still hear fighting out of sight beyond the square, where people couldn’t see a screen or hear my words. But so many have chosen to surrender. They’re still watching me. I don’t know for what, so I do the first thing that comes to mind. I hand the microphone to the guard and press the Expat salute into my chest. Then I mirror the salute with my other hand, so that my arms are crossed, and both sets of fingers form a letter. E and W. East and West.

That’s when the bullet finds me.

I don’t hear it fired, but it hurts like no other when it strikes. It nicks my finger and hits my vest just above my heart. For a moment, I lose my breath.

The guards grab me before I collapse, and pull me into the safety of the building. I catch one last glimpse of the square. Already, a swarm of Order members and civilians alike are descending on what must be the shooter. Those not working to force the stubborn to surrender are mirroring my two-armed salute.

It’s beautiful, and I’m exhausted.

I could sleep for days.

I wish you were here for this, I tell Blaine silently. I think I might have made you proud for once.





THIRTY-SEVEN


I’M RUSHED BACK TO UNION Central by car. My vest is stripped off, and with the exception of an already-surfacing bruise, I’m uninjured. Elijah still suggests I see a doctor, but there’s only one place in the hospital I care about visiting.

The same medic who threw me out earlier is exiting Bree’s room as I sprint down the hall. He’s got this terribly drained expression on his face, and when he puts his hands up to stop me, I feel my chest rupture.

“Easy, son,” he says. “Easy. She’s not—”

“Let me see her!” I shout, straining against him.

He grabs my shoulders, shakes me, but I’m already deteriorating.

“I have a right to know!” I feel my knees giving out. “I don’t care if she’s . . . I have—”

“She’s not awake!” he yells. “And she’s on a lot of meds. You can’t barge in there like a madman.”

Not awake. The next breath I draw feels like it feeds double the air into my lungs.

“The bullet entered from the back and was lodged just below her armpit,” he explains. “She’s lucky she didn’t end up with a shattered rib.”

“But she’s okay?”

He nods. “She might lose some mobility on that side, but she’s going to be fine.”

I lean forward, trying to peer through the doorway. “Can I . . . ?”

“Just go easy. She’s got a long recovery ahead.”

Bree’s propped up against a pillow when I enter, sleeping. She’s wearing a clean tank, and beneath it, her right shoulder is bandaged. They’ve even seen to her pulled stitches. A fresh piece of gauze covers the corner of her mouth and a good portion of her cheek.

I move quietly into the room, sit on the edge of her bed. She doesn’t stir.

“Hey,” I say. “Bree?”

Her eyes drift open, and when she finds me sitting there, I swear she actually glows.

“Hey,” she echoes.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired.”

“You scared me, Bree.” I put a hand on her thigh and she curls her fingers around mine. “I’d have lost it if you . . . I wouldn’t have made it.”

“You don’t need anyone to get you through life,” she says slowly, like the words are a labor to produce.

“I need you.”

“No you don’t.”

“But I want you,” I tell her. “I want you in every moment. Everything’s better with you.”

“Greedy jerk.”

I shrug.

“No denying that?”

“Not when it comes to us.”


She manages a smile, but it looks like it drains her. I give her fingers a light squeeze.

“You know,” she says, “I’m not so weak that you can’t kiss me.”

“You want me to kiss you?”

“Don’t make me beg,” she says.

So I don’t.

The days following the Sunder Rally are an odd bunch. Oddly surreal. Oddly in limbo. Oddly . . . optimistic.

I have a cobwebbed bruise the size of my fist on my chest, and I’ve never felt more lucky. My announcement of Frank’s death was broadcast on repeat throughout Taem and the other domed cities and eventually, the Order stood down. Or maybe they stood up—for the citizens, for the average life they were always supposed to be serving. Turns out many of them had doubted their work for a while, but felt too trapped to do anything about it. The pay was good. Their families needed the earnings. The job gave them access to medical care and water and other goods that weren’t easy to come by outside service. Still, by the time the fighting ceased entirely, the casualties were numerous for both sides. So many fallen Order members. Even more average citizens.