Chapter 7 #2
“Throughout a couple of moons, they practice the House. On the fourth full moon, they compete live in front of the entire Force. Then unit commanders bid at Auction for cadets they want in their unit.”
“What if the unit doesn’t have openings?” I asked.
“The unit commander makes room by dropping someone,” Levi told me.
“What happens to the ones who are dropped?” The entire process seemed cutthroat.
“Petitions, unless someone claims them within one full bell cycle,” Levi said.
“So the unit commanders can just ditch people?” I asked.
“Yup. Some commanders drop unit members every year no matter what,” Isla said, looking at Tristian. He had never dropped one of his unit members, I realized—returning every bit of their loyalty.
“Finish your history lesson in the locker room,” Tristian said. “I want above low-radiation gear. Keep the full suits for later.”
“This is really happening?” Damien asked.
Tristian nodded and walked away. “You have fifteen minutes. The last one back is the scout.”
“Fuck that. Isla, don’t dawdle.” Damien bolted toward the locker room.
“What about her?” Ingrid called after Tristian, jerking her thumb toward me.
“She has a locker with all her gear next to yours, actually,” Tristian called back. The rest of the unit trudged after Damien, who had already disappeared into the locker room. Whatever being the scout entailed, it evoked enough motivation to get everyone moving.
Several minutes later, I stood before a fully stocked locker in complete shock, gawking at all the items neatly placed inside—a pack that was filled to the brim; a second pair of thicker boots; several pairs of socks, all neatly folded; a second blue uniform; a patrol uniform; and a thicker gray uniform, with plates and buckles.
There were other items: thermals, a helmet, and ear and eye protection.
Everything sat militantly folded and organized by the size and color of the item.
I ran my hand over the items, all for just one person.
Me. My current possessions consisted of my outfit, two pairs of threadbare socks, an old journal, a pen, the remnants of my sister’s cardigan, a dwindling ammunition stash, and my weapons—a pistol and two knives.
One knife, I reminded myself. I had buried the other in Chuck’s leg. A pang of regret and longing racked me. I was supposed to check the death records and Ward, but I had forgotten the moment I stood before Command.
Ingrid ripped her shirt off next to me before immediately pulling on her thermals.
She moved quickly, with no intention of helping me, which was fine; I had no desire to be near her.
I glanced over, assessing what she grabbed.
I disarmed, hiding my father’s pistol and knife in the locker beneath everything, then pulled on the thermals and socks.
Again, everything fit me; the fabric wasn’t stiff or overworn.
It was warm and felt like an embrace compared to the garments I had grown accustomed to.
I ran my hands over the gray fabric once more before I glanced over for my next step, but Ingrid was gone.
I whirled to find her striding toward the exit, her helmet in hand.
Amazing. I fumbled through the items in my locker, grabbing the thick-plated gear Ingrid had on.
It was heavy and oddly cold beneath my fingers.
There were buckles, straps, and pockets.
How had Ingrid gotten it on so quickly? I grabbed the pants, which were far less intimidating.
I pulled them on. Again, they fit, snug in the right places but easy to maneuver in. I began threading the thick belt.
“You missed a belt loop,” a warm voice said to my right. I turned to find a cadet with rich brown skin and long braids standing several lockers down from me.
I ripped the belt out and started again.
“You missed it again. Here,” she said, walking toward me. I widened my stance instinctively, readying myself. She smiled, throwing her hands up. “Just offering to help. I have never been into making Angels fall.”
I scanned her wearily. She noted my hesitation and quickly removed her weapons, laying them in her locker before extending her hand. “Wilma Abbott. You stitched up my friend once. I always said if I met you, I’d say thank you.”
Slowly, I extended my hand. “Sasha,” I said.
“I can fix your belt if you want,” she offered, releasing my hand. “Or I can just point to the one you missed.”
“Point.”
“Here,” she said, gesturing to the back. “Doing the House?”
I nodded, rethreading the belt before fastening it.
Wilma stripped off her patrol uniform. “Better you than me. Hate that thing,” she confided, grabbing a towel from her locker.
I grabbed the top, overwhelmed by all the parts. It resembled a straitjacket. “I can help,” she said.
“I’ll help her,” Levi said, coming up behind me, tossing his helmet into my locker. He was impressive in all his gear, lethal as he stared down Wilma.
“I was trying to help,” she said.
“We all know where your help gets people, Abbott. Go away,” Levi shot at her. Wordlessly, he pulled the first piece on over my head, before pulling the plated part on and set to fixing a series of straps and buckles.
Wilma receded as if Levi’s words had wounded her. She didn’t hide the anger in her voice. “She’s putting us on restock duty instead of the Abyss. Fucking restock. She’s making this a damn game so she can watch Tristian fail, and you know it. We should be banding together.”
“He’s not going to fail.”
“We all fail if you and your little medic project fails. We got rid of medics for a reason. We are running out of time. This is a waste.”
“I see Kaleo’s influence has ruined you,” Levi said coldly, tightening the last strap.
“No. Hope did.” She grabbed her towel and stormed off.
“What did she mean?” I asked Levi.
“We only have three minutes left.” Rumi’s quiet voice greeted us as she braided her long hair, her cheeks flushed like she had hurried here.
“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Levi asked, shoving my helmet into my hands.
He was angry, the quiet composure shed for something the beast within me knew.
I glanced between Wilma’s empty locker and Levi’s rigid form.
Rumi had said at lunch that they were together at one point.
You stitched up my friend once, Wilma had said. Had she meant Levi?
“She needs boots,” Rumi commented. I glanced down at my feet, covered in nothing but warm socks.
“Then I suggest you do your job and see that she has what she needs and is at the House on time,” Levi told Rumi. He ripped his helmet from my locker and stormed out.
A part of me wanted to ask Rumi what that was about, but the other part, the part that knew that anger, the part that never wanted people butting in, won. I grabbed my thicker boots and began lacing them up.
“We need to go,” Rumi said, dumping my discarded uniform and boots in my locker before closing it and heading out.
I followed her. “Shitty shadow moment by you.”
Rumi didn’t bother to respond as she led the way toward the House.
We walked through the central hub of the Force Sector, where Formation was held, which was empty, and entered the Gym.
Besides the Gym, every area I had ever been in throughout Haven was about the same—dark, tight spaces with stone walls and dim lights.
The Ward and main cafeteria had sweeping, two-story ceilings like this. The height felt freeing.
I turned to Rumi. “Wilma said they got rid of medics. Why?”
Rumi didn’t even look my way. “Because Command isn’t concerned with us living as long as we complete the mission.”
My steps stalled. “But Hayes…”
“Our unit commander wants both.”
“Congratulations, Rums, you are late, making you the scout for the House,” Tristian called out as Rumi approached a door directly across from the room I had entered yesterday. The rest of Unit Seven waited, fully suited up, several with their helmets already on. I hurried to catch up.
“And? Witching hour?” Rumi asked.
Helmet in hand, Tristian entered a code on a keypad on the wall.
I had thought Levi was impressive in his above gear.
He was, but not like the man before me. Tristian’s hulking frame was even more pronounced, wrapped in thick plates, the thicker boots making him even taller.
He was intimidating and stunning, his brown hair unbound.
“Just scout duties,” Tristian informed her, his gaze skating over me.
Patrick tucked his cross necklace beneath his gear, giving Rumi a sad smile. “Soon you’ll be back, Rums.”
“Not soon enough,” Rumi claimed, shoving on her helmet.
Ingrid grimaced as she pushed down her face shield.
“Inside, and I’ll brief everyone,” Tristian said as the door clicked open.
Beyond was a small, dimly lit room. The fit was tight with the eight of us in our gear.
“Welcome to the House,” Tristian began. “I’m going to skip the long, intimidating explanation about the threat that could return at any moment. We’ll use last names during the exercise—no call signs since Cadell hasn’t been above.”
I flinched at the name. I was tired of hearing it, but I was even more tired of the power my last name held over me.
Rumi’s helmeted head turned in my direction. She tapped the side of her helmet, as did the figure beside her. The shields came up, exposing both Rumi’s and Isla’s faces.
“Hayes, I think last names are difficult for her,” Isla said, throwing an apologetic glance my way.
“She needs to be comfortable with last names,” Tristian stated, laying his helmet down on one of the benches along the side wall. I glared at him, and he smiled, crossing his arms, the thing between us pulsing. “Roll call.”
Damien hit the side of his helmet, his face coming into view, a laugh escaping. “I haven’t heard roll call in years.”
How many years had they been together?
“Consider this a healthy refresher for us,” Tristian said. “Complacency breeds mediocrity,” Tristian called out, every inch the commander. “Are we mediocre?”