Chapter 9

TWENTY-TWO SAT SLUMPED OVER HIS BREAKFAST, POKING AT the oats with his spoon. His

hand rested against his cheek and his eyes drooped. His head was practically on the cafeteria table.

Ever and I sat down across from him, and she gave me a worried glance when she caught sight of his

sullen expression. She looked somewhat better today. No growling last night. I actually slept.

"You all right?" Ever asked Twenty-two. I wished she hadn't. He obviously wasn't all right. The

newbies rarely were after their first assignment.

"There's no point," he mumbled.

"What do you mean?" Ever asked.

Twenty-two looked up at me. "You're wasting your time with me. You should have picked Onetwenty-one. I'll never be able to do this."

Ever glanced from me to him, her eyebrows furrowed in concern. "It gets better," she said. I could tell

she was lying.

Twenty-two saw the lie as well. He frowned at her, then turned his head away, his dark eyes hard and

angry.

"That guy shot you four times," he said. "You didn't even blink. It's like it didn't register with you."

"I've been shot a lot. You adjust," I said.

"You adjust. I can't do that."

"Her trainer shot her over and over," Ever said quietly, and I stiffened. "She was scared, too, so he

and the guards shot her until she wasn't scared anymore."

It was true, but I frowned at Ever for sharing. Bullets paralyzed me at first, reminded me of my human

death, and my trainer found that unacceptable. He instructed the guards to shoot me until I became

desensitized to it.

Some of the anger had fallen off Twenty-two's face as he turned to me. "Who was your trainer?" he

asked, disgust in every word. He shouldn't have been disgusted. The only reason I was alive today was

because I had a good trainer.

"One-fifty-seven. He died in the field a few months ago." That was what Leb had told me, anyway.

He'd been close to twenty years old.

"Shame I couldn't meet that guy," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.

"The point is, it got better for her," Ever said, ignoring my frown. "It'll get better for you."

"I don't want it to get better. I don't want to do it at all." He reminded me of a three-year-old with his

arms folded and his lips in a bit of a pout. It was almost cute.

"You don't get a choice," I said.

"I should. None of this is my fault. I didn't ask to die and rise from the dead."

My eyes darted around the room. I hoped the humans weren't listening. That was the sort of thing they

eliminated Reboots for.

"Pull it together," I said, lowering my voice. "The first time is the hardest. You'll adapt."

"I won't adapt. I don't want to turn into some monster who enjoys hunting people."

And then he gestured at me.

A knife sliced through my chest. I blinked, not sure what to make of the pain. His words echoed in my

ears and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

Some monster who enjoys hunting people. I didn't like the words, didn't want him to think of me that

way.

Since when did I care what my newbies thought of me?

"Why don't you just piss off?" Ever's voice, harsh and icy, made me look up. She glared at Twentytwo, gripping her fork like she was considering using it as a weapon.

He grabbed his tray and got to his feet. I stole a glance at him and saw confusion and surprise written

all over his face. I wasn't sure where either emotion came from. He opened his mouth, looked at Ever,

and seemed to think better of it. He spun around and slunk away.

Ever exhaled, relaxing her grip on her fork. "That was crap. You know that, right? Utter crap."

"What?" I was still having trouble gathering air into my lungs. His words kept spinning around my

brain, taunting me.

"You're not a monster who enjoys hunting people."

I frowned. That assessment seemed fair. I could see his point.

"Hey. Wren."

I looked up at Ever and she put her hand over mine. "He's wrong. Okay?"

I nodded, slipping my hand out from under hers. Her skin was warm, much warmer than mine, and it

made the tightness in my chest worse.

"I still can't believe you picked Callum," she said, taking a bite of her oats.

"It's a challenge, I suppose," I said.

"But you always pick the highest number," she said. "You always do things exactly the same."

I lifted my eyes to hers to find her staring at me intently. She'd been giving me that look since our

conversation in the shower. She didn't seem sure what to make of me.

"He asked me to pick him."

"That's it? He asked, so you did it?"

"He needed me more."

Her eyebrows lifted and she slowly smiled at me. "True." She popped a piece of bacon in her mouth.

"Plus he's pretty cute when he's not being an ass."

"He's . . ." I didn't know where I was going with that. I couldn't say not. That wasn't true. Anyone

could see he was cute. Anyone could see those eyes and that smile.

I felt warmth on my face. Was I blushing? I'd never had those kinds of thoughts about a boy.

Ever's mouth dropped open. She'd been kidding about the "cute" thing. She clearly never expected me

to agree. She burst out laughing, muffling it with her hand.

I shrugged, embarrassed to have given myself away. Embarrassed to have those feelings at all.

But it clearly pleased Ever. She looked happier than she had in days, and I returned her smile.

"Softie," she teased under her breath.

I entered the gym to see Twenty-two standing in the corner by himself, his back to the other trainers and

newbies. He still wore the same miserable expression.

I started at the flash of rage that shot through my body. The sight of him made my heart beat funny, sent

prickles of anger rushing over my skin. What right did he have to be miserable, when he was the one

calling me a monster? I wanted to shake him and scream at him that he had no right to judge me.

I wanted to bash his face in until he took it back.

He looked up as I stomped over, his expression softening just slightly.

"Wren, I—"

"Shut it and get in position."

He didn't get in position. He stood rooted to his spot and reached out to touch me. I quickly stepped

away.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Get your arms up!" I yelled so loudly he jumped. I didn't like the tentative smile he was giving me.

He didn't put his arms up, so I threw a hard fast punch straight into his face. He stumbled and fell on

his butt.

"Get on your feet and put your arms up," I said tightly. "Block the next one."

He looked dazed, and blood trickled from his nose, but he stood up and stuck his arms in front of his

face.

I purposefully threw punches he couldn't block. Hard, fast, angry. My chest burned in a way I had

never felt before. My throat ached from the growing lump.

He hit the mat for the tenth time, his face a barely recognizable bloody mess. He didn't get up this

time. He collapsed, breathing heavily.

"You're right," I said. "I should have picked One-twenty-one. But now I'm stuck with you, so I

suggest you quit your whining and pull it together. There are no more choices, rich boy. This is it, forever.

Get used to it."

I whirled around and stormed out of the gym, the eyes of all the other trainers and newbies on me.

"Nice work, One-seventy-eight," a guard said to me with a nod.

A sick feeling washed over me. I'd heard those words many times in my five years at HARC, but

there was no pride or satisfaction on my part this time.

I made a sharp turn into the showers and rushed to a sink. I smeared Twenty-two's blood on the faucet

as I clumsily turned the knob.

The water ran red as it dripped from my fingers and I pressed my lips together and turned away. I'd

never been squeamish at the sight of blood, but this was different. I saw his face in the red.

I washed my hands four times. When I finished I looked up at my reflection. I couldn't remember the

last time I had looked in the mirror. It had been years.

Human memories faded faster the younger a Reboot died. I remembered broad strokes of my life

before the age of twelve, but the details were fuzzy. But I remembered my eyes. In my head my eyes were

the same light blue they'd been before I died.

My reflection was different. The blue was bright, piercing, unnatural. Inhuman. I would have guessed

my eyes would be scarier. Cold and emotionless. But they were . . . pretty? It seemed weird to describe

myself that way. But my eyes were big and sad, and the deep blue color was actually kind of nice.

At first glance I was not intimidating. Cute, even. I was the shortest person in most rooms, often

shorter than the thirteen-and fourteen-year-old newbies. A tuft of blond hair stuck out the end of my

ponytail, hair I'd chopped off to just above my shoulders myself.

I wasn't as scary-looking as I'd imagined. I barely looked scary at all, to be honest.

I certainly didn't look like a monster who enjoyed hunting people.