Chapter Sixteen: Sinners in Their City

"Grief is the price we pay for love." -Queen Elizabeth II "There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief." -Aeschylus

I yank my hands out of the ground, abandoning the flames in the outer core. They break away from me with a snap, taking much of my energy and power with them. I am barely able to move, much less launch a fireball. I have to find another way to save Andrew, because I will save him. I scramble to my feet, the world is blurry. Whoa-- I lost more than most of my energy. Still, I can't let them kill Andrew! I launch myself at the soldier. I tackle him, barreling into his gut and knocking the bazooka down.

The man slams against the ground, and I land on top of him. The wind is knocked from his lungs and takes a decent amount of mine. I hurry to sit up, legs on either side of his ribcage. I dig my feet into his meaty wrists and pound my fists into his face over and over again. Each swing is accompanied by a grunt of mine, and I wail on him. I hit his temples, his forehead, his nose, his eyes, his mouth, his cheekbones, everywhere I can. He lies unmoving on the ground, blood trickling from his head.

I hear shuffling behind me and see the other soldier setting up the bazooka. I forget the bleeding man below me and try to stand. The panic and desperation and adrenalin doesn't help me. I fall to my knees and can't see or hear correctly. I have to save Andrew, I have to! I give up on standing and throw myself at his feet. I wrap my arms around them and roll to the left, dragging him with me. He falls perpendicularly on top of me, smashing my ribs. Whereas I land on my back, he lands on his chest. I blindly swig my elbow, missing a few times before I feel it hit his shoulder. I swing to the left more and brush his temples.

He slams his knee into my side, hitting my upper rib cage. I groan and suck in air. He hits again, and I feel something crack. I writhe in pain, squirming and twisting to try and get away. He keeps hitting me, and I feel my bones cracking and my my skin bruising more and more. I need to get him off of me! I decide to copy him, yanking my knee into his hips with all the energy I can conjure. He winces, and it gives me a second to react. I push him off me, sitting up as I go. He rolls off my feet and I pound his head with the bottom of my feet.

I keep kicking, grunting every time I do. This is for Ty! I get out all my anger in each strong kick, smashing his skull over and over again. This is for what you did to him, and what you did to me! This is for cutting his life short! This is for making me live the rest of mine without him! I kick and kick, and the grunts turn to soft cries. I hit my heel into the man's skull until it is no longer satisfying, and I just want to cry. No matter how hard I kick him, I'm never getting Ty back.

I knock the bazooka down and disarm it. I wrap my arms tightly around it and I let myself sob once more. It hurts my ribs, and I can't cough without hacking. I put my fingers to the injury, it's already tender. I feel the hole made by the man and push further. I grimace at the severe stab of pain and I understand why it hurts so bad. My ribs have broken and implanted in my lung.

Plan one has to be aborted. I can't finish. I can't do anything in this state. I have to tell the others. I crawl closer to the edge of the Valley, one hand over my ribs. I'm going to have to shout to them. They probably won't hear me.

I breathe in, only to be met with intense agony. "Abort!" I scream, my voice carrying over the Valley. It bounces on the water and echoes. I hope they hear. I hope Kelli doesn't waste energy on an attack. I think the flood and landslide have done enough. I overreacted. I wasted everyone's energy on an unnecessary attack. Kelli should be team leader. She should make the calls. She's more professional than I ever could be.

I lie down, trying to breathe and failing to. I can inhale, I can't exhale. I feel my punctured lung pressing against the bones and stop breathing for a moment.

I start again, though.

I blackout, and even then, I breathe.

I fade into consciousness, only to return to the darkness. I feel myself strapped to a stretcher, an air mask over my mouth and nose. I get maybe a second of blurred vision every now and then. I see people in scrubs hunched over me, pulling me along. I catch the insides of either an ambulance or a military car. It's too difficult to tell. All I see is a ceiling above me. It doesn't last long. I get a third second of consciousness, in which it's too dark to see and I only catch a few words of chatter. I can't make them out, and I fade out with nothing to keep me going.

Maverick drives us from Half Moon Bay to Redwood City, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the song. I stare at the cars we pass by, my elbow against the armrest and my head in my hand. I slump forward. Until now, I've never had to try to have good posture. Now that I do, I find that it's exhausting and a waste of time. On the rather empty highway, there's a little thing with a little woman inside, a minivan with a dad and three kids and another with a bike rack on top. My curiosity begs the question, "Has anyone ever rode on those things while driving?"

"What thing?" Mav asks, looking over at my window. His drumming stopped. "The bike rack?"

"Yeah." I clarify.

He chuckles and turns back to the road. "Uhh..."

"No way." I animate suddenly, bolting straight up. "You have?"

"K.B. had just gotten her license," He begins. I love the sound of his voice. It's low and masculine and still playful. Still lighthearted and fun. "We were bored. Being the brilliant teenagers we are, we decided to go to this old highway and screw around." I watch his sharp jawline move as he talks. He has a nice profile. He has a nice face in general. My eyes start to droop. "I bring up the idea of riding the bike, and we figure, what the hell! Let's do it." He glances at me, and I snap to life, only now realizing how relaxed I had gotten. I was smiling. I hadn't even noticed. Mav, who seems to have a permanent smile, continues after it deepens the slightest bit. "K.B. gets behind the wheel, Dawson sits shotgun, and I get on the bike. She starts slow, and I tell her to go faster." He pauses for a moment to look at me. "She doesn't gradually get faster."

"So that's where you're going with this." I interject.

"She slams on the gas and we go off. I hold on for like, two seconds, and get thrown off. I did a backflip and cut open my face and comminuted fractured my collarbone." He pulls the collar of shirt down, revealing a jagged and short scar going horizontal across. The desire for him to pull it down further is obvious and kind of frightening to me. "Thirty-four stitches. We told them I was skateboarding downhill and ate s**t."

"Do you even skateboard?"

"Not since seventh grade. Last time I did, I got these stitches." He holds up his right arm, and I see a long sliver. "Compound fracture. Ran into a solid wall and tried to catch myself." He sighs, putting his hand back on the wheel. "Things pretty much hit the worst possible scenario with me."

I giggle. "Then why are we letting you drive?"

He scoffs as he answers, "I'm not sitting in the back." I think to what K.B. said and laugh. "You kidding? I'd fall out and break my spine."

"If you fell out, I'd catch you."Of course I would. It's my purpose. I was made to save people.

He shakes his head. "I'd take us both out. I don't want that." I roll my eyes. Please. You couldn't take me out of your life depended on it.

"Oh, come on." I joke. "If you're going to destroy yourself, let me come with you to watch."

"You've stared at me enough." His tone drips with sarcasm that encourages me to stare more. I take on his inferred challenge, and his smirk remains. He steals looks in my direction and I find myself grinning. I could just sit and talk to him for hours. Everything about him pulls me hopelessly in and I don't know how I'm supposed to stay out.

I'm so fascinated by him. I don't know why. There's nothing that makes him special. He's just an average human. History won't remember him. So why do I feel like I will, even if I could forget him? I don't understand why I'm so content just sitting next to him in a slow moving car in complete silence. I'm not certain on who to trust and believe is genuine. Yet I feel I can put my bet on Mav's legitimacy. I don't know if I should go with that. I want him to be good. I want him to be honest. I feel like I can trust him, I don't know if I can.

I want to. I want to be able to count on him and confide in him and turn to him when I need support. I see something in him. Something that attracts me to this average, typical, ordinary human.

Whatever it is, it makes him special. At least to me.

The warm, blurred edges of my memories change. They turn cold and sharp, piercing my mind and stinging. I hear my heartbeat, and it hurts. I writhe in the inescapable prison I’ve made of my skull and try to get through it.

There are no many shadows. So many screams, so many whispers. Dark, demonic figures enter my vision and screech in my face from all sides. I try to run from them, and I run into the back of a girl. I grab her shoulders and scream for her to help me. She turns around, morphing into another demon. I push her to the side and keep running. The demons catch up to me, they tackle me to the ground.

They hold me down and prick my skin, burning me with their hellfire. They leave me to die, the fire eating me soul. It burns away everything I am, rips my body apart and turns me to ash. They pick up the ash in their hands and blow it into the breeze. They get rid of me. They make it so I am gone, so I no longer exist at all.

I hear a voice. Much younger, shakier, quieter and more awkward than mine, it speaks loudly in the darkness. Shadowy, distant, colorless images show. There’s a young adolescent boy who stands out. I can only detect short hair. I don’t get any color. Everyone else is too blurry to even recognize as human. He may be standing next to statues.

Maybe they don’t see what I see. She narrates the images as the boy’s mouth opens, only beknownst to be from the dark cave that must be his mouth, and closes, forming words I can’t hear. The black edges stab across my vision, cutting and piercing and poking and breaking and streaking. The images continue through what looks like the broken lense of an old camera. But he’s special. He’s different.

It drops black suddenly.

I know he is.

I take a slow, soft breath that seems to stretch on and on.

I wake up, my eyes quickly opening. I’m lying on my back in a small hospital room with light pouring in through the windows. I have a loose white tee on, a blanket is pulled up to my hips. There are tubes in my nose, the bend is bent to prop my head up and I’m hot. Nothing is right. I kick the blanket off my feet and fumble at the tubes. I rip them from my nostrils and the blanket falls to the ground. I sit straighter up, and-- whoa, headrush-- swing my knees around the edge of the bed. I look down at my little toes as I plant them on the slick ground.

I hear the door open and close. Across from my feet, I see two tightly laced boots stop walking. I relax my shoulders, hunching forward. "I’m sorry." I keep my eyes on the ground. Kelli’s glares are vicious when she’s happy. I don’t want to see what she looks like when she’s actually angry. "I was overwhelmed and wasn’t thinking. If I hurt you or Cody or Andrew, I’m sorry, I hope I can be forgiven in time." In time. I don’t know when they’ll be able to accept that I killed Ty. I don’t know if I ever will.

She stands in intimidating silence for several minutes. I can’t even hear her breathing. Finally, she speaks. "That’s not why I’m here, Ashler." Her voice is empty, hollow and unyielding. "You have to lie down and keep the tubes in."

I know she means no harm, so I obey. I’m in no state to rebel. Besides, they’re trying to heal me and I’m on thin ice with everyone. I sloppily place the tubes into my nostrils, taking my time to mess up and start over. I leave the blanket on the floor. Fortunately, it’s on the opposite side that Kelli stands on. I turn my head to the right to look out the window. The sun is low in the sky, less than two hours from setting. It’s probably around six o’clock. The sky is orange and yellow and pink, and there are a few gray clouds to remind me. "How’s Andrew?" I ask.

"Several injuries required stitches. He’s exhausted, he--" Her voice is so monotone. I wonder if there’s such a thing as too professional.

"No," I interrupt. "How’s he dealing?"

She doesn’t answer at first. Either to comprehend the question or think of an answer. Or to be theatrical, as she has a reputation and persona to uphold. "He hasn’t spoken much." She says. I don’t know if I should believe her. She manipulated my emotions before, she can definitely do it again. "It may be the exhaustion."

"When can I see him?" I ask. My eyes drop to the nearby buildings and mountains in the distance, and I don’t recognize where we are.

It’s like she has no interest in my words, and thus no urgency to respond. She’s probably admiring her new black nail polish. "When you heal." She answers.

"Where are we?" I ask. I scoot closer to the bed and try to look down. We’re several stories up, I can’t see the street signs. The buildings around us aren’t houses. There aren’t any houses in my vision. Kelli hesitates. Of course she does. Minutes pass, and she still neglects to answer. Frustration builds inside me, and I whip my head around. What, is she reading a book?

No. She’s staring at me. Stone cold. Her eyebrows are knit, she has a bandage going horizontally over her cheekbones and bridge of her nose. Her arms are folded across her chest, her usual attire is restored. She wears a black choker that fails to cover the hickie completely, a black long-sleeved shirt and a black shirt over black fishnets. That’s more skin than she usually shows. I’m not interested in why she’s wearing them.

"Las Vegas." She answers.

"What are we doing here?" I ask. I’m not going to stop until I all my answers. She should be used to my stubbornness by now. I stare right back at her. Her face is so emotionless, and paired with the literal porcelain skin, you’d assume she was a doll.

"It’s safe." She answers.

What’s safe? The city? The state? The hospital? Or are we in a compound? "What are we doing here?" She stares at me, and I've had enough. She's doing this on purpose! Her eyebrows have dropped inward, she's grown a slight sneer. She's mad at me, she's trying to make me angry! "Answer me, d****t!"

Her eyebrows scrunch further, and her sneer drops to a frown. "I should be captain." She spits the words out and leaves quickly, slamming the door behind her.

That's why she's mad? Not because I killed Ty? Because... They promoted me back to captain? Why? I could have gotten Andrew killed for no reason! I showed poor judgement and leadership in times of stress, why should I be the captain? I have to say I agree with Kelli.

I don't have to sit with my curiosity for long. Another person enters the room, and he looks like his usual self.

Mr. C. appears to be well rested and composed. His thinning hair is flat and his eyes are sharp. He wears a white and gray suit-- gray, gray, everything's gray-- and holds his clipboard loosely in his right hand. Funny. He looks fine for someone who lost one of his treasured creations. He places his clipboard down on my bedside table and takes a seat. He inhales to speak.

I beat him to it. "Why am I captain?" I demand. My voice is firm, as I hoped it would sound.

He shuts his mouth. He joins his fingers together and holds them in his lap. He's going to talk down to me. "Your execution of plan three shows courage, selflessness and dedication. You gave up the life of a single person in place of many lives. Do you think Kelli would have killed Cody to win the battle?" He asks. I know she wouldn't. "Kayd agreed that you acted like a great leader. One we believe should continue to lead."

I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to ask him why he commends-- even cherishes and encourages-- my killing of Ty. I know that he'll point out just how statistically insignificant Ty was, and how illogical I sound trying to argue that he was worth more. I decide to keep it to myself, because I've learned to keep my emotions away from Mr. C. "What do you want?" I snarl at him.

"To speak with you." He says.

"I'm done talking to you." I snap. I don't want to converse with someone who brushes Ty's life away like it means nothing. And to see him so put together drives it home for me. He lied to me and doesn't even care that Ty's dead. I turn my head to the windows. I don't want to look at him anymore. He disgusts me.

"Miss Ashler?" He asks.

"Go away." I order.

"I need to speak with you." He uses that adult tone he used when I saw good in him. When I valued his opinion and respected him. He seems thinks that if he demands something from me, he'll get it. Not anymore.

"I don't have to listen to you."

"A captain must be respectful."

"If I have to kill my best friend to be a captain," I face him with a fierce expression that widens his eyes. "Then I don't want to be a captain."

His eyes drop with his eyebrows. "You must listen to me."

"No. I don't." If he thinks his will is stronger than mine, he's a fool. "I never did."

He presses his elbow onto his clipboard and rubs his forehead with his hand. "What do I need to do for you to listen?"

I jump at the opportunity. I know exactly what I want. "You have to apologize. For all the wrong you've ever committed, and you have to act like a decent human being. If you're not sincere, the deal's off." Another thought comes to mind. "And you have to work to get Kayd demoted or fired."

"I can't get the General fired."

"You can try. If you don't honestly work to do so, you'll never go near me again. You'll never be able to influence me."

He sighs and picks his head up. He looks me in the eyes, but the sun shines in his glasses and I only see its reflection. "I'm sorry for deceiving you. I'm sorry I lead you astray. I'm sorry for what happened to Mr. Belovick and Ty." Mr. C. never uses Ty's last name. He hates saying it. He feels it is unbecoming, because he obviously has a mature mindset.

I shake my head. "You didn't convince me."

"I'm sorry." He says again. He doesn't regret the things he's done. He never will. He’s even worse than me. At least I felt something. At least I was upset. At least I cared.

"Whatever you so desperately need to tell me, I'm sure Dr. M can tell me." I hiss.

"She isn't here."

"Call her."

"Miss Ashler--"

I roll my eyes. "Fine. I'll make a new deal. I'll listen if you honestly answer some of my questions first." He's about to speak. "And tell me what FF13 means."

His jaw drops. He slowly shakes his head. "Miss Ashler, is there not something else you want?" Now he sounds desperate. Of course.

"I want Ty back. I want Maverick back. But you can't do that."

"Miss Ashler, be reasonable."

I let out a loud scoff in disbelief. "What is so important? What is so pertinent that you're begging for me to hear?" I demand.

He leans forward, looking behind him at the closed door before facing me. I can see his eyes above his glasses. "This is confidential information only Kayd and I know. You're the first to hear."

I was discharged eight minutes ago. As soon as I started burning the hospital, they declared me well enough to leave. I got an outfit from my fire-proof clothing line: a red crop top with short, loose sleeves-- until I reach my full size, the crop top will act as a tee-- and white basketball shorts. My hair barely passes my soldiers, my eyes are somewhere between yellow and green. I don't feel like myself. There's only one place I really could.

I push open the door and step onto the roof, four stories from the ground. I close the door behind me and walk to the edge. The night is dark, I can see the light of the casinos in the near distance. I'm sure there are stars. I just don't look at them. It's dry and windy, the kind of weather Ty and I thrive in. It's warm out, and I get mesmerized by the Vegas strip. I can do clearly imagine Ty standing next to me, excitedly jumping up and down. Pointing to all the best casinos, telling me how to win at poker and mapping out his dream trip. I stand on the edge of the building, my toes stick into the air. I try to convince myself that Ty got to his city of dreams. "You made it." I say out loud. My voice cracks as my bottom lip quakes. "You finally made it." I stare to the city, and I hear the slot machines in my mind. I hear the music, I hear the people asking for another round, going all in. I hear that one voice of out millions exclaiming, "Jackpot!" That one voice, in my head, belongs to Ty. I see him holding his fists in the air, loudly cheering and doing victory laps. Because that was his dream. And he was so close. He wasn't even five hours away.

I sit down, my legs dangling over the edge. I don't want to be here. Not without Ty. What's the point of being in Vegas without the gambler? Without a lover? I wish both were here. Then, maybe, I would be able to stand without the urge to jump.

I hear the door open. I look behind me as it closes. Andrew. He strolls over and sits next to me. He has stitches where his chin meets his cheeks and bandages around his biceps. He still has his hospital shirt and pants on. He doesn't say anything. He's silent, and I'm content.

"I miss him." He says, his voice not breaking the silence, but waving into it. He has to be thinking the same things I am. We just don't belong here without Ty. I don't know if Andrew and I will be the same without him. I don't know what to say to Andrew, so I say nothing. He doesn't have my temper. He should be patient and understanding. Should. People change under extreme duress. "We'll never be the same without him." Guilt wrenches my heart, and my expression darkens impossibly further. "But that's okay."

I turn to face him. "How?" I ask. "How on earth is that okay? How is it okay that a life on the battlefield is worth less than a life on the streets? Twenty people die during battle? That’s great! That’s nothing! Twenty people die at a mall or a school or a public place, and it’s a national day of mourning. That’s not okay!”

He takes a deep breath. "The loss of life never is. It's a cruel double standard. We're going to move on. We're going to heal. It'll take time to adapt. We will, though. And we'll be okay." He speaks slowly.

"How can you be sure?" I wonder.

"Everyone deals with death. They mourn, they suffer, and then they move on. You'll forgive yourself, and if you can't, know that I forgive you." He tells me.

I don't believe him. "You'll forgive me?"

He nods and gives me a soft smile. "We don't have a home or cars or phones or anything. All we have is each other. I don't know how long that'll be true, so I'm not wasting it being upset."

I smile back. "Thank you."

"I don't suppose I can hug you anymore." I shake my head. "No problem.”

We sit in silence, the bright lights of a glitzy city that once seemed to be a utopia. Now, it’ll always be a cruel reminder of what we’ve lost. My smile drops. “It's so messed up.” I murmur.

“What is?” He asks.

“All of this. Are K.B., Dawson, Ardo and Mav going to be remembered? Is anyone praying for their souls right now? By tomorrow, will anyone even care?”

No. Only I will. I don’t care if I’m selfish for wanting someone to share in this agony with me. I mean, God almighty, their mothers won’t even miss them. Some of the most lovable people, and no one, anywhere, will have a tear fall.

“And then you have Ty.” I continue. “One of the most amazing people I've ever met. He doesn't get a funeral. He doesn't get a memorial day. Nobody cares.” He deserves to be a hero. He has laudable traits. He made a sacrifice for the good of others.

“We care. And that's all he wanted.”

“How is it that a celebrity dies from a drug overdose and everyone mourns, but a hero dies protecting innocent people and no one knows, so no one sheds a single tear?”

“It's just the way this country is.”

“Then I don't know if I'm willing to die for it. I'll die for innocent people anyday. Not for a country that treats us like nothing and praises the rich. That's not worth defending.”

“So what are you going to do?”

I exhale. “I don't know.” I admit. “I don't have much time to figure it out, either.

“Why?” He asks. “What do you mean?" He knits his eyebrows and purses his lips.

"Mr. C. didn't talk to you when you were in the hospital?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Why?"

"About two hours ago, missiles were launched from Europe to America. They were destroyed in the air, but it's official now.

"World War Three has begun."

END OF BOOK ONE

Author's Note

Thank you so much for reading! Leave me any criticism, I'm eager for an editing partner!

One final quote I just adore:
I wasn't prepared for the fact that grief is so unpredictable. It wasn't just sadness, and it wasn't linear. Somehow I'd thought that the first days would be the worst and then it would get steadily better - like getting over the flu. That's not how it was.
Meghan O'Rourke