Page 42 of The Order

He quickly shuts down, letting his head drop with a sudden look of sadness.

I stop myself from addressing the change in his emotions this close to the tram’s interior camera. With a few backward steps, I am off the tram, rubbing my chilly arms to fight back the cold. The walk to my house seems longer now. It's a straight path filled with a poorly lit sidewalk that seems that much more daunting, knowing a black car could pull up at any moment, ready to hit me with a line of questioning over my abnormal behavior the last few days. I stand still, deciding if going home is even the best move.

“You better start running, Little Dove. You never know what's lurking in the shadows,” Fallan says with lowered eyes, stepping off the tram after a brief acknowledgment to Mark. Hunter is slumped into the window, sleeping blissfully and unbothered, his snores heard from where we stand.

“Why are you getting off here at this hour? This isn't your sector,” I say, turning to face him as the tram begins to pull away, taking the light with it. Mark looked back only once in his rearview mirror before disappearing into nothing but a speck in my vision.

“I’m not making Mark stay out past curfew to drive me back to my section of the Unfortunate sector. Hunter is right at the beginning of town, but I am much farther back, and that road is not one you travel at night at his age,” Fallan says, kicking the concrete with his heel.

“So what? You walk home?” I question, watching his eyes roll at the statement.

“Some walking, some stealing. Sadly, you Untouchables don’t put up much of a fight. That's probably why you had no problems pinning down that arrogant asshole against the bus,” Fallan says. I think back to Josh and his cocky attitude.

“Josh may be arrogant, but that move I pulled put a target on my back,” I explain, hearing him audibly scoff at the statement.

“Excuse me if I don’t have much sympathy for people targeting you,” he says, motioning to the neighborhood, “Clearly, you’re well protected in your sector thanks to your asshole father’s high-ranking job-”

“Is that why you hate me? My father?” I question, cutting off his words.

He is silent, watching me with a look I can't pinpoint.

“I saw how you two looked at each other during the rally. My dad has never so much as given an Unfortunate a second look, but when he saw you, it was like his whole world shifted on the stage,” I say, watching Fallan’s jaw clench harder.

“Your father took away everything important to me for his own self-gain and paraded his perfect family around as if he didn’t shed countless lives to create the life you live. That house you so desperately want to avoid, those clean clothes, and that full stomach you have, that pretty face, and those perfect, uncalloused hands were built on the backs of the people you’ve called 'bottom feeders' for years. Your father may be the source of my hate, but you did the rest all on your own. You’re one of them. You will always be one of them,” Fallan says, making my heart sink with a shame so deep it threatens to break me.

“I don't know what my father has done to you, but I’m sorry he hurt you, Fallan,” I say, watching his eyes wince at the comment. I continue rubbing my arms, feeling the goosebumps glide along my fingers.

“Your words mean nothing to me. Hunter may believe that load of shit, and maybe even Mark, but not me. I won't let you convince me you’re anything but the Untouchable I know you to be,” he says, sounding like he’s trying to convince both of us of the validity of his statement.

“Was any of what happened tonight real? Or was it all in my head?” I question softly, watching his mouth curl into a deeper frown. I grasp my lower stomach, feeling the rough skin of my mark from above the shirt.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fallan whispers, turning on his heels, ready to leave this conversation as quickly as he entered it.

I see the bag he clutches. It lingers at his side, much like the one I carry. It's the same bag he shoved the light sensor prod into. I move forward, reaching my hand into the bag with a drag, closing my hand around the prod before taking several steps back and away from Fallan’s sudden flustered figure. I hold the prod tightly, pointing it out towards Fallan. My thoughtless acts guide me. The linger of a blackout touches my mind as I feed into my rage.

“You can hate me, Fallan. You can hate me so much you think of nothing but my last breath and how you may take it from me,” I start, shaking the prod in my hand. He moves forward, my head instinctively lowering like his people have done for us so many times. He grabs the prod from my hand. I easily give it up, letting my eyes reach his own. "If justice is what you want, stop dancing around it. Strike me as many times as you need to satisfy your own hatred. Call me names, continue tormenting me, but, please,” I take a step toward him, watching his eyes scan my movements. “Don't make me alone in all of this. Don't let me be the only one who remembers what they did,” I whisper, keeping my defiant position in front of his flustered figure.

His nostrils flare, and his jaw clenches even harder. His hand shoves the prod back into his bag. Grabbing my arms by the elbows, he pulls me. I let his touch guide me, feeling the familiar shutter that signals that I might lose consciousness. I quickly shove it away.

He leans into me, letting his eyes meet mine as he bends his head down. His breath brushes my face, warming my cheeks in the cool air.

“You will never allow someone like me to disarm you like that again. It's pathetic!” he hisses, yanking me tighter. “You’re better than that. I never want to see that from you again,” he spits, scanning my face with anger before pulling away completely. He creates several feet of space between us.

My heart beats out of my chest, my face flush and warm. My arms still feel the places his hands touched. Only now am I taking a breath. Even his scent lingers in my nose. He runs his hands over his face, letting out a sigh of frustration as he turns away.

“Two weeks ago, I would have begged to have you in a position like that,” he says, not once fully glancing back at me.

“And now?” I question, hearing the wave of emotion in my tone.

“Things sometimes look better on paper,” he mutters, continuing his walk forward, leaving me wanting nothing more than to scream into the void of darkness.

The house is as quiet as it appears on the outside, offering little to no indication of my parent's presence. If the front door's sensor panel didn't show their check-in times, I’d be sure they were both still at work.

Shakily, I dig my hands in my pockets, reflecting on the words I exchanged with Fallan. He was so close I could see every detail in his eyes and map every scar on his face. I wish his words could fill in the fragmented picture in my mind. Why shun the opportunity to get revenge for his people? Why not make me suffer for the things my father supposedly did to him? There must be an explanation for why all of this is happening.

Everyone seems to have answers except for me.

My dad stumbles out of his office, staring over the bright phone screen flashing red across his face. His eyes scan its message repeatedly, only growing angrier the farther he moves his eyes down the phone.

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