Chapter Six
In my dream I’m at a ball, garbed in fine silk and gentle dancing shoes. Glittering around me, the Elder Corp ballroom’s aglow with hundreds of tiny lights strung around tall pillars. I’m surrounded by hundreds of people; each dressed more lavishly in handsome tuxedos and twirling gowns, their eyes shielded by slender masks. Music begins to play, swelling the room with gentle crescendos as the people start dancing. I feel a hand on my shoulder and know it’s Tor beneath the plain black mask, gesturing toward the floor. He guides me, his strong hand at my waist until we’re standing in the middle of the floor. Taking my hand in his, he leads me into a slow waltz, swaying with the music.
His scent mingles with my senses, the reliable smell of laundry soap and peppermint reminding me of how it feels to be home, and I squeeze my eyes shut, letting the haze of familiarity wash over me. I miss him right now, wishing he could always be there to save me. The song slows to an end, leaving the dancers momentarily static. I feel a figure nearing my back, and feel Tor’s muscles clench. A man, tall and lean with shiny black hair and an extravagant purple mask stands beside us, tapping Tor on the shoulder.
“May I cut in?” he asks. Tor looks at me with confusion in his eyes, but I nod that it’s okay. He steps away from me and I’m whisked away by the masked man, his every move as graceful and lethal as a tiger’s.
“What are you doing here?” I ask quietly. There’s an edge creeping through my body as a slower song is played.
“Seeing what all of the fuss is about at this soiree. It’s almost perfect, isn’t it? The bright lights and fancy music, the pretty dresses. The masks are a great touch, aren’t they? This way no one can see who I am,” he replies. He holds me closer, his fingers applying gentle pressure onto my back. I can see Tor in the crowded table area, his eyes never leaving us as we twirl about the room.
“We can’t do this,” I protest, trying to push him away from me, the closeness of his body almost intoxicating, “you need to leave.”
“When will I see you again?” he whispers into my ear. His breath is warm and sweet, leaving a soft tickle on my neck.
“Tonight, after this is over,” I reply.
“Tonight, then. Remember, Piper Madden, you belong to me, no matter who you’re dancing with,” he says, pulling away from me. Before he leaves I lean into him, my lips just grazing his earlobe.
“And you belong to me.”
I groan as I roll over and open my eyes, soft daylight filtering in through a window, tickling my cheeks. I’m lying on a cushy bed, and a girl with big brown eyes is standing over me, peering intently. I scream.
“Well, at least I know you’re alive,” the girl says, moving over to the other end of the room.
“Where am I?” I ask groggily. My vision slowly fades through, revealing a room with soft pastel walls and lined with twin beds along each side.
“Recovery room. You don’t remember passing out when you got pricked?” she says. I’m guessing this is Grier, whom Myra told me about. She’s a bit shorter than me, with fierce-looking eyes lined black and shiny ebony hair. She wears straight-cut bangs across her forehead and I am completely envious of how good it looks on her.
“Ugh. Yeah, I remember. I hate needles,” I mutter. She seats herself in a cushy chair beside the bed, looking at me quizzically but with a hint of a smile on her face.
“Strange for a Hunter to fear the transfusion,” she replies. I strip the thin infirmary sheet from my body, thankful I’m still in all of my own clothing.
“I’m not a Hunter anymore,” I mutter. To this, she giggles quietly. I sit up, ignoring the black spots crowding my vision and face her, raising an eyebrow in question.
“Leaving the Corp doesn’t make you human. The Hunt is in your blood, and will always be in your blood,” she says, placing a hand over her heart for emphasis. I exhale loudly. My blood type will always tie me with the Corp, it seems. Will there ever be an escape?
“I’m no longer a dog on the Corp’s leash,” I rephrase. She nods in snooty satisfaction. I scan her again now that I’m upright, noting her fitted imitation eel-skin pants, silky, airy top and custom brown boots that look brand new. From the handbag on the side-table hangs a keychain with tiny photographs in plastic casing: Grier smiling widely with friends, boys, and posing comically, all nothing like the harsh girl I see before me. I realize I’m jealous of her photos because I don’t have any. I burned all my memories a year ago.
“Are you okay?” she asks. I shake my head and try to smile, remembering that we haven’t even properly introduced ourselves.
“I’m fine, really,” I say. I’m waiting for her to return my smile, but instead she crosses her arms in front of her chest and frowns.
“Then, could you please stop staring?” she snits. My instinct is to stare her down, to show her dominance in the smallest of battles, but I’m too tired for petty competition, so I return my gaze to my bed, the room, the bruise spreading on my inner elbow where the needle was inserted.
“How long have I been sleeping?” I say. Grier sighs deeply, as if I’ve already held up too much of her precious time.
“A few hours now. Myra wanted you to run through some VR training with me before you left, but since you blacked out, she’s being lenient and letting you wait until tomorrow after the meeting,” she replies. She paces about the room as if to show off her tightly muscled body. I resist the urge to laugh, it seems so petty.
“Great. Tomorrow then, we can really scope each other out,” I say. She smiles, but it looks more like a challenge.
“I’ll warn you. I’ve gotten the top scores on the latest VR modules. I might not be as easy as you think,” she says. This time I smile, and though my inner conscience quietly murmurs to leave her with her games, to be professional and just walk away, I can’t help but add in one last remark as I gather my things to leave.
“That’s alright. I helped design them,” I say, leaving her silent as I saunter out the door, feeling a false sense of satisfaction, but at the same time recognizing the familiar tug of regret that I’d taken the low road.
I inhale deeply when I leave the Corp building, for once enjoying the staleness of the false air. Being in the stiff and prim building only reminds me of before. I hop on the nearest streetcar and grip the steel pole tightly. A wave of memories flashes before me like nausea, and I bend over slightly, trying to catch my breath.
I’m brought back to a lecture in Central on ethics, part of my ever-continuing training under Rupert’s command. Back then I was young and unwavering in my confidence with Elder Corp. When I think back on it, this lecture was probably the first time I started to have my doubts.
I remember the frail old ethics professor, her stout body planted at the front of the class while the other students around me were setting themselves up to take a nap. These classes were open; meaning not only Corp personnel could take them. She had one of those weird last names that are impossible to pronounce, so instead went simply by Leslie. My guess is that’s when she initially lost the class’s respect. Still, I felt for the old woman and straightened my shoulders to pay attention each day from my seat in the back.
I remember only a few faces in the front rows: some bubbly girls busy whispering to each other about lip-gloss or something, other Hunters with disciplined faces, and other Corp personnel looking for an easy credit to continue their contracts. Tor was supposed to take this class with me so we could have at least an hour together each day, but he bailed out at the last minute when he was given a new assignment. I was left sitting by myself, notebook ready even though I knew the Elder Corp Ethics Code by heart.
Professor Leslie set up her projection slides and began with the brief history of Elder Corporation that everyone has heard a million times, with the obligatory statement that without the Corp, society wouldn’t function. I daydreamed my way through the introduction, doodling in my margins. I don’t know how many times I wrote my own name before my ears tuned back into the lecture.
“It was for this reason that founder Roger Elder created the Hunter Code of Ethics. The Corporation was looking to ensure the safety of human society, but also to affirm that Hunters were solely responsible for eliminating the Harpy threat and not to use their increased strength and stamina for personal gain. Let’s discuss the ethics of the Hunter world. What do you think about the code?”
I scanned my eyes across the room, expecting each student to remain silent, twiddling their thumbs or letting drool fall from their lips. No one ever wants to speak against the Corp, and mindlessly praising them would just be redundant. What could be wrong with the protection and preservation of the human race? But a hand rose up from the middle row, a student I’d never seen before.
“It’s all a bunch of bullshit if you ask me,” he said, eliciting giggles from the girls and a hard jab in the ribs from a guy sitting next to him. I sat up straighter, trying to get a glance of him, but I was stuck with the view of the back of his head. Leslie waited until the room was quiet before addressing him.
“All right, Mr. Owen. Do elaborate,” she encouraged. It was hard to tell if she was merely annoyed or actually intrigued by his statement. Mr. Owen lazily crossed his arms behind his head before responding.
“It’s bullshit because the code isn’t ethical at all, in the literal sense of the word. There are three different classes involved, Harpy, Hunter and Human, each with their own society. Who decided that humans have the right to live and Harpies don’t? I don’t think it’s up to us to make the executive decision based on our personal preferences,” he continued. The faint rustling of papers lulled to a dead silence, and I felt the screaming need to jump in.
“But Harpies kill humans,” I stated, “Elder Corp keeps human society alive and functioning by destroying a threat toward human extinction. I think it’s up to us to make an executive decision to keep our society alive, it’s instinct.” The guy turned to glance at me briefly before countering, that once glance shaking me to the bone. Messy hair covered most of his face, but his light blue eyes bore into me. It was like he knew that I’m not really human, that I’m just part of the contract service that keeps humanity alive for a quick buck.
“And Hunters kill Harpies. I’m all for surviving, but when we’re talking about the ethical standpoint, isn’t it a little hypocritical to place Harpies in the same category as animals? We know that Harpies have a society. They’re living, breathing creatures. We, as humans consume animals for our own meat. What if the cows were able to band up and take down the humans to save their own populace? Who would be the bad guy?”
I was left speechless. There were so many self-serve questions from his argument. I guess the biggest one was: Am I good, or am I bad? I’ve killed hundreds of Harpies. Harpies have killed hundreds of humans. Who gets the high road? I filed the thought in my to be continued folder in my brain as a high-pitched voice chimed in.
“But cows don’t have a society,” the student claimed. Professor Leslie called the class’s attention back to the front.
“I think that Mr. Owen and Miss Madden have both brought up some valid points. These are issues within ethical code that the Corp deals with to this day. There are human based pro-Harpy functions who oppose the Hunter organization completely. This question has existed for generations and has been pondered by philosopher and government official alike. Who gets to decide who lives and who doesn’t? Where do we draw the line between right and wrong? I want you to think about this over the weekend and write an essay due Monday,” she said. A widespread groan waved throughout the room as outlines were handed out, but I remained flabbergasted. Of course the Corp was right to eliminate a threat to our own race, right? I stuffed the outline in my bag, the questions racing through my mind. Questions I still have to this day. Does being a Hunter separate me from humanity? Am I a third-party in this society?
Mr. Owen caught my eye briefly as he passed by, his friends joking around behind him. His gaze stripped me down to my core, like he knew every single thing about me: my wants, my secrets, my despair. I never saw him again.
When I enter the apartment a loud buzzing pervades the air. I feel around in my coat until I find a tiny, vibrating cell phone. Just like the Corp to plant a tracker on me while I was unconscious. I flip the phone open and bring it to my ear.
“Hello?” I say. I cradle the phone between my head and shoulder as I un-suit myself and kick my boots into the closet.
“Good afternoon, Piper,” a voice sounds. I recognize the gravelly tone instantly.
“Rupert,” I reply. I hear him exhale the thick smoke of his cigar, and it’s almost as if the pungent stink is permeating the phone and into my house.
“It’s good to hear your voice again,” he says dryly. I resist the urge to roll my eyes, picturing him at his desk, cigar in hand, feet raised up as he leans back in his chair.
“Well, I had a pretty good vacation,” I reply. He chuckles slightly.
“Listen, Piper. You took off after David died without even telling anybody. Half of Central thought you were dead. I’m just glad to find you alive and well. Now, tell me about your current situation. How are they treating you?”
“Fine. We’re debriefing tomorrow and running some VR modules. No weapons yet. Actually, I haven’t seen weapons on any of the other Hunters,” I muse. It’s one thing I miss about being a part of the team. My crossbow and daggers used to be like a second skin, sometimes my only companions.
“Too sentimental. What have I always told you?”
“A weapon is only a piece of metal to a sentimental warrior,” I repeat in monotone.
“Good. At least you still remember something. Just try to relax, and call me immediately if you see something that looks suspicious,” he mutters, then hangs up the phone. That’s Rupert’s trademark, deciding when any conversation is over. He took over Elder Corp a few years before I started training heavily, leaving his older brother Raul to a comfortable retirement in the clean beaches of Southern France. He’s one of the only Elder Corp presidents who actually did some time in the field, making him a valuable boss and ally, and sometimes an infuriating slave driver. I click the phone shut and toss it back in my bag, unable to shake his last words from my mind. Suspicious. What exactly is going on around here?
I let myself slide onto my couch, deciding that all of the big questions can wait until tomorrow, especially when I see a note taped onto the coffee table that reads Don’t forget about tonight. Dress cute—Shelley.
The venue is at a bar called Trash. It’s a tiny hole in the wall, and one of my regular dives. I try on a few outfits in my room, even debating on raiding Shelley’s closet for something cute before I give up and slip into my favorite jeans, ripped and splattered with paint, and a simple t-shirt. At the last moment before I leave, I let my hair out and shake it so it drapes over my shoulders and dab on a bit of lip-gloss. I guess there’s no harm in trying.
With the Holo-sky glowing the frail purple of twilight, the underground comes alive with bright lights from every shop and restaurant, and as I walk along the sidewalk every door I pass carries a different scent. The food might be genetically altered, but the smell and taste is almost—almost—real. I content myself with watching the people around me; the shopkeepers haggling to sell their wares, the younger kids traveling in groups, their world centered around them for now, and the odd couple holding hands. Sometimes I think there isn’t so much wrong with this underground world. How different would it be on the surface? Eventually the wealthiest will move up to the fresh-air district, but instead of being stuck down here in filth, I wonder if the remaining population will still thrive.
“Hi there!” a light voice sounds from beside me. I whirl around to see the little girl with pigtails, the one I saw in the elevator the other day. Her eyes are bright and she carries a stuffed teddy bear in her hands. I smile at her and look around for her parents, but every adult around seems to be preoccupied with other things. I turn back to her to ask her where they are when she skips off down the street.
“Hey, wait!” I call. I pick up my pace to a fast walk, trying to keep up with her without drawing too much attention to the fact that I’m chasing a child. The way she jogs is so carefree, and she weaves through opposing travelers as if they aren’t even there. My lungs burn slightly as she finally turns off into an alleyway right beside Trash. I slow my pace before following, my mind telling me that something’s off. I look around before continuing, and everything seems normal, from the loud lineup to the bar to the slow, pounding beat coming from within.
I take a deep breath and enter the dark alleyway, but instead of finding the little girl, I find the guy from the other day, the one who stole from me. He leans against the brick wall, his raven hair messy against his pale skin, and his eyes are closed. I stand stock-still, just watching him breathe in and out, like he’s trying to focus deeply or push something away. His face is pained, but from here I can see the light brush of freckles across his nose, and the almost graceful way his lean body curves into the wall. I clear my throat finally to announce my presence. His eyes shoot open, but when he sees me, his lips turn upward into the slightest of smiles.
“I knew you’d find me again, Red,” he drawls. I cross my arms in front of me and raise my eyebrows. What is it with this guy?
“Because you just happened to lift hundreds of dollars of merchandise from me?” I reply. He chuckles lightly and runs a hand through his hair.
“That, and other things,” he says. I exhale, letting go of the tension in my chest.
“I take it you’ve squared it with Darcy?” I ask. His eyes flicker to me at the mention of her name.
“How do you know Darcy?” he asks. I lean against the wall beside him, facing him, not too close, but close enough that he can’t just take off on me.
“She’s my runner. Said you were her client, among other things,” I reply. To this he laughs loudly, and I don’t want to admit it, but his smile is infectious. Shelley’s words run through my head, Don’t get involved with another user.
“Darcy, as it happens, is my sister, so don’t worry, things are square. I didn’t know that you were her seller, though,” he says. I raise an eyebrow, almost like a challenge.
“Well, you don’t really know me, do you?” I reply.
“Not yet, anyway,” he says. I want to call him an arrogant bastard and go into the bar to meet Shells, but a part of me is actually enjoying his pompous banter. I never said I had good taste in men.
“So what happens now, then?” I say. He moves closer to me until he’s right beside me, his body so close to me I can feel his breath on my neck and smell the rich musk of his cologne. He leans in toward my ear.
“Now, Red, I’ve got to go into that bar and play a few sets,” he whispers, sending shivers down my spine.
“You’re in the band?” I ask. He grins wickedly before walking past me and knocking on the side door.
“Baby, I am the band,” he says. The bouncer opens the door and lets him in, and all the while I stand in the alley, still trying to catch my breath.
All thoughts of the little girl are washed from my mind by the time I get into the bar. As usual, the lighting is dim, with cozy booths lining the exterior and an empty dance floor in front of the stage. Most of the crowd is huddled along the bar, chatting mindlessly until the show starts. I edge my way through a group of girls to get to the bar, where my regular bartender is wiping glasses. He grins when he notices me.
“Good to see you, Piper. The usual?” he asks. I shake my head no.
“Actually, Tony, I’m looking for Shelley. Have you seen her?” I ask. He nods and points toward a small door I’ve never noticed before. Surely enough, Shelley is standing, hip out; giggling and flipping her hair back, talking to Craig. She’s decked out in a vintage red skirt that’s too short to be legal and a creamy lace camisole. Craig has his guitar hanging over his shoulder, and instead of the plain band t-shirt and jeans I was expecting to see him in, he’s got on a crisp lavender dress shirt under a black vest.
“Piper!” she exclaims when I reach them. I nod briefly at Craig as my best friend hugs me tightly, her breath already layered with a tinge of alcohol.
“When do you go on?” I ask Craig. I ignore the fact that cute boy is up on stage, tuning his guitar. Craig scratches his head lightly.
“Actually, I should already be up there. We go on in five. Shelley, see you after the show?” he says. Shelley nods, and then her eyes light up as if she’s stumbled upon some brilliant, forgotten idea.
“Do you have time to introduce Piper to Asher?” she asks. Craig glances quickly at cute boy, who’s still focused on his guitar.
“Oh, no, no, no,” I say, turning to Shelley, “we’re not playing matchmaker Shelley tonight, okay? You remember what happened last time.” She crinkles her nose before patting Craig lightly on the shoulder.
“Fine, then. Good luck up there!” she says. Craig blushes slightly before heading back through the door. I practically have to drag Shelley away from the stage, where the crowds are starting to mill and the murmur of conversation is growing.
“Why do you always do this to me?” I ask as soon as I don’t need to yell. She rolls her eyes indignantly.
“Is it so bad for me to want to introduce my best girl to a good-looking guitar player?” she asks. I sigh. She always tries to word things like this, making them seem so simple.
“Whatever his name is. Asher? He’s the guy I ran into on the street the other day. The one who stole my merch,” I say quietly. Her eyebrows rise in surprise.
“Asher’s your boy?” she asks. My cheeks flush accidentally, and I lower my head, hoping she doesn’t notice.
“Don’t call him my boy. He’s not my boy,” I reply.
“He’s a prospective boy,” she continues. I groan inwardly.
“Do I even need to go on here? Hello? Just two days ago you were lecturing me on not getting involved with a user and here you are now trying to set me up on a date with him! Please find the logic in this for me,” I say. She puts on a pitiful pout, like I’ve insulted her.
“Maybe I just thought it might be nice if we could double-date sometime. He’s not all that bad, and he’s a wicked guitar player,” she says.
“And he’s incredibly egotistical, he’s related to Darcy, and we can’t forget that he stole from me,” I retort, trying to ignore the little smile creeping up on Shelley’s lips.
“What?” I ask finally.
“You’ve got a crush on him,” she whispers.
“What?” I repeat.
“I know you’re trying to play it cool because you always need to be so bad-ass, but maybe for the first time a guy’s gotten under Piper Madden’s skin. Stole from her without her noticing, makes her blush? Looks like I don’t even need to lift a finger,” she says.
I growl and shove her playfully.
“So how was your meeting with the white knight?” Shelley asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She means Tor. The blond, shining Tor who used to be my knight, once upon a time. I sigh before answering.
“He wanted to have dinner. Said he missed me and wanted to catch up.”
Shelley’s eyes widen like saucers. “Oh, he did not! What else did he say?” she asks, taking a long sip of her drink.
“He didn’t. I left. What was I supposed to do? I haven’t seen the guy in a year, and if you recall, we didn’t part on very good terms,” I reply.
“Trust me, he’s had ample time and opportunity to move on, if you know what I mean,” she says, voice lowered.
A slight pang resounds in my chest. Is that jealousy? I slip Shelley’s drink from her and take a big swig as she rolls her eyes. “Please do not tell me you’ve been thinking about him,” she says.
The truth is, up until this moment, I haven’t. I’d all but forgotten him in my quest to let the past go, but seeing him, being back with the Corp, it’s all brought back memories and nostalgia. I was happy with Tor, before, I remember this. It was easy, uncomplicated. Is it wrong of me to want to hold onto the one shred of the past that makes me feel normal?
“I don’t know, Shelley. This is hard for me. I don’t even know how I feel,” I say finally. My best friend stares at me for a moment before signaling the bartender.
“What you need is a drink and a good night with your best girl and good music to forget about it all,” she says. I sigh as a server brings us two fresh drinks. I hadn’t wanted to, but the idea of letting all of this go, even if just for a night, is so promising that I take the glass in earnest just as the band assembles on the stage.
Shelley’s boy Craig stands front and center, while Asher stands just to his side, guitar in hand. The crowd cheers as he strums a riff, and the familiar, chest-shaking volume of the speakers consumes me.
“Craig said he’d be singing to me all night,” Shelley yells into my ear as the rest of the musicians test out their instruments.
“Totally sweet!” I yell back. She laughs as she clinks glasses with me.
“Your sarcasm is fricking palpable, babe, but here’s to a good night!”
And then the band begins to play, and I find myself unable to focus on anything but the music pounding out through the speakers. It’s the perfect mix of everything, the lyrics tragically beautiful, the beat catchy and the guitar aching with passion. Just as he’d promised, Craig periodically glances at Shelley as he spills words about torrid romance in a decent tenor. However, I can’t seem to focus on any of the other band members. The call of the guitar brings me to Asher, whose eyes remain on me, never wavering even through difficult passages.
For the first time I understand what it’s like to have someone focused singly on me. There’s no Corp, no Harpy threat, no radiation concerns. Throughout the first set it feels like every song is just for me, my own private concert. The world fades away, all of the anxiety, the confusion, the pain, all lost in those bright blue eyes.
After the set the band takes a break, and at the bar, girls immediately swarm around them. I see Shelley clench her jaw and I raise my eyebrows.
“I’m not a jealous person,” she says, struggling to keep her voice serene. I laugh.
“Right, and Harpies don’t have wings. Come on, let’s go talk to your boy,” I say. I take her by the hand and lead her through the throng of people waiting for a drink. As expected, Craig’s eyes light up when he sees Shelley and he politely dismisses the girls crowding him to greet her. I set up shop against the cold brick wall, letting out a small smile as I watch the two flirt—all while the band’s groupies glare ferociously.
“So, Red, what did you think?” I whirl around to see Asher leaning beside me, placidly chewing on a toothpick.
“You’re very talented,” I reply. He tries to hide the fact that he’s smiling, but I don’t miss it. He moves his attention to my best friend with a slight head nod.
“He likes her a lot, you know,” he says. I steal a glance, taking note of the small grin on Shell’s lips as Craig whispers in her ear.
“She likes him too, obviously. But I think she really does like him, I haven’t seen her this giddy in a while,” I murmur in reply. He sighs deeply.
“They make it look easy, don’t they?” he half whispers.
“What?”
“You know, the whole flirting bit, finding someone, learning everything about them,” he responds. I tilt my head with a smile on my face.
“If I didn’t know you were a pompous bastard, I’d almost call you a romantic,” I say. He grins that lopsided, stupidly attractive smile.
“But you don’t really know me, do you?” he replies. I lean back against the wall and take a delicate sip from my drink.
“I guess not,” I say. He leans in toward my ear, and instead of feeling threatened or imposed on, it almost feels natural, like we’ve always been this close.
“But you want to know me, don’t you?” he whispers. I pause for a moment, studying him, his lanky swagger, his shaggy hair, the tiny admonitions that he’s not some a*shole but actually carries a soul inside.
“Maybe,” I reply eventually. I’m expecting him to pull me closer or whisper more, but instead he backs away, his eyes turning dark and sullen.
“You don’t want to know me, Red. I’m not who you think I am,” he says, and then disappears into the thick crowd without another word. I’m left standing stock still, breathless from the encounter, and more confused than when I’d arrived. I look around for Shelley, but can’t find her, so I finish my drink and go home.