Page 114 of The Last Hope
“You can be injured!” I remind him, and after frustrating communication back and forth—where many of us tell him to stop talking—I understand his next response.
Stork says, “Better me than you, dove.”
I’m human. A vulnerable, fragile human, but he treats my life with more importance. I’m someone who can be kept safe.
His life isn’t less important than mine because he can’t die.
The dumpster rumbles again.
This is fun.
I inhale sharply.So fun.
Stork smiles at me, not moving back yet.
My lip so badly wants to rise.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Mykal
I choke on the thick, muggy air and toss my helmet aside with the rest of the garbage heap. Behind me, the others crawl from the trash bin on all fours, unstable, like creatures leaving a cave for the first time.
My eyes burn from the sun, brighter than I’m used to. Cupping a hand above my gnarly brows, I examine the new landscape.
First impression: it’s the strangest sight I’ve ever seen.
Water surrounds us. Endless blue-green with tops of white foam. I turn around and every which way, I’m met with the same colors. Waves crash hard like they’re thundering snowstorms from the skies. The small pond we practiced in is nothing in comparison tothis.
We’re all silent for a moment.
Taking it in.
Even Kinden, Zimmer, and the Soarcastle sisters are hushed by the vastness of a warm ocean.
Court is the first to break the quiet. Sliding to my side, he says, “We have to make it over there.” He points toward more water. But then I squint, and I can sorta see a faint outline of skyscraping buildings. Taller than the ones back in BartholoandYamafort. Some seem to even disappear into the clouds.
My gaze rotates to him, and I can’t help but stare. Not only did Court pierce his brow, but a strand of his brown hair is dyed gray. It suits him well. Matches his eyes.
Even pretending to be a Fast-Tracker, he’s beautiful. He fits in.
Better than I.
The tips of my blond locks are fire-red and don’t look nearly as good. I have no tattoos, but I did agree to a small silver stud in my ear.
“What?” Court asks, catching me gawking.
I dislike, very much, being uncoupled from him. But those words don’t do us any good on the crest of this mission. So I just shrug, and his own riled sentiments crash into me and he bears down on his teeth.
“Toss your jumpsuitsunderthe trash,” Stork says, and I turn to the task at hand.
Everyone sheds their outer layer like a skin. Underneath the jumpsuits, we wear ripped shorts and frayed shirts. Not as graceful, I step out of the jumpsuit only having on a pair of torn jeans and a shirt that looks like it’s been clawed by a mountain lion.
Apparently all the fabric rips and tears is the silly fashion style of Saltare-1. Strings on my shirt fly about in the wind, and I yank them off in frustration.
Franny kicks her jumpsuit underneath a heap of crushed cans.
“This is the hard part,” Gem says, narrowing her eyes out at the ocean. Her periwinkle hair blows in a gust.
