Chapter 1
The Selection
Piercing silence screams in my ear, creeping all around me.
I feel like a prisoner on death row. My skin shudders, just as a raucous cry of seagulls triggers my eyes to open and I breathe out the cold air vapors besieging me.
My feelings are trapped in a sea of emptiness knowing there is no escape from this barricaded metal cell.
The sound of the seagulls intensifies, echoing mournfully, coiling my heart in resounding sadness.
The vibrations of the ocean waves jolt the ground beneath me, snapping me back to my senses.
If one of these Patrons doesn’t select me, I’m screwed.
I’m so screwed.
Why would they select me? I don’t look like I can fight. I don’t look like I can fly. I don’t look like I can flirt.
It doesn’t help that to them I’m a nobody. My raindrop speckled sweater and sandy sneakers certainly don’t scream: look at me, my great grandparents have a billion dollars stashed in my bank account for such a time as this.
Shantavia Lerogaski! Snap out of yourself!
“No electronics in here. We take your phones and keep them safe. No cameras. No games. No devices!” an officer shouts.
Everyone takes out their phones and puts them inside a box. Just as the boxes are taken away, my eyes snap to the right to see six muscular beings in the distance dressed in white suits with a P sign and a cloud logo on their shirts. They all look like they are in their twenties or so.
A student behind me whispers, “Those are Air Patrons. They are like superheroes.”
“They are better than superheroes,” a boy responds.
“But superheroes aren’t as arrogant as Patrons.”
“That’s because Patrons are like gods.”
“Okay, even gods aren’t—” The student instantly stops speaking as the Air Patrons whisper among themselves, examining students in the distance whose heads are bowed to the floor.
Yes, to the floor. We can’t look at them apparently.
Our human eyes will disintegrate, or something, should it collide with a Patron’s.
That’s a joke, but I don’t doubt it’s possible.
Everyone around me now bows down in respect, and I follow them.
The aura of a Patron is unnerving, like when one is underwater and the pressure is crushing you, and you can’t breathe because if you breathe, you’ll die. That’s how I feel sensing their presence and they are not even close to us yet. Oh my…
“How did she make it in here?” a boy beside me says, swirling a dagger in his hands, staring at me with a haunting glare.
I thought we weren’t allowed to have weapons in here?
My sister forcing me to take martial arts could come in handy.
But from the way he’s glaring at me, he certainly didn’t read my resume.
He certainly doesn’t know that I crashed my fists down to the deteriorating fragments of my keyboard doing two years’ work in two months to even make it in here. There goes my gap year.
But perhaps I should have put more effort into my outfit? My dad would certainly be embarrassed. He never wears one outfit when seven would do.
Whispers now encroach around me from the elites that I have the privilege of sharing the same air with.
Yes, the same air. The elites are on the other side of the gate, dressed in flamboyant attires.
They have powerful recommenders who have paid millions to beg the honor of a Patron to claim their child on this selection day.
If you get claimed, you have a higher percent chance of making it into The Commons…
One percent. Very high, see… much better than zero point zero point zero point zero.
Did I get all the zeros? There’s probably more zeros.
The elites consider us too poor to be within ten feet of them.
Yet I am now to face the gods to which they serve—Patrons.
Snapping to the right, a former classmate of mine, Xexi, begins shaking uncontrollably, reminding me of the visceral effect my body should… should be having. But I’m too bold for my own liking. I’m na?ve, I think. Clueless at best.
“There are three upgrades in The Commons: Sachis, Lerods and the highest, Patrons,” she begins to rant to herself.
Herself not to me. I already know these things.
I read every last bit of trash I could find on these untouchables.
“Patrons are higher than teachers and administrators and are divided by elements. Air Patrons, Fire Patrons, Water Patrons, and the highest—Earth Patrons.”
Xexi whispers to another unfortunate middle-class student next to me.
Yes, middle class, that’s what we all are on this side of the gate.
To The Commons, middle class might as well be scum of the earth.
“I heard the top two Patrons are Patron Pesh and Patron Lenon. No one has ever seen them in a selection, let alone accept prizes from recommenders. One does not look upon their eyes and live.”
“How do you know?” she exclaims.
“I’ve heard rumors of them training the most CEOs and celebrities or something like that. Patron Pesh doesn’t like speaking to humans and Patron Lenon likes destroying them.”
“Ahh! I thought it was a myth, but they do exist!” she says with a slight grin.
Ahh, so exciting, death and apathy. Wonderful combinations. There’s no way they are gonna select me. And anyways, why is everyone so obsessed with these Patrons? Because they can make or break you, Shantavia.
“Oh my goodness, do you think we will see any of the Patrons come near us?” another student whispers.
“I doubt it. No one can see an Earth Patron unless they are on Common grounds, that’s what my recommender said.”
“Who was your recommender?”
“The President.”
“Oh nice, mine was the Vice President.”
I wonder why those students are on this side of the gate with such notable recommendations?
A former classmate’s recommendation was a member of Congress, and she is with her fellow elites on the other side of the plane.
Oh, did I forget to mention, this decorated golden prison cell I’m in is a plane.
A sailing, roaring plane that can zoom through waters and fly through mountains.
A plane that’s currently heading to The Commons as its final destination.
But if I don’t get selected by a Patron in the next few minutes, I may be taken out.
But most likely not to my blissful bed in New York, to Oblivion.
Some people call it death. I call it paradise. That’s wishful thinking.
And why am I here? I have a “save the world complex” from my overly genius sister, Levon, who decided to throw her life into the pursuit of The Commons and it led to her becoming missing. Yeah… that’s the part I’m trying not to think about. What has become of her…
The rules of The Commons echo through the intercom reminding me that Patron contact must be avoided, lest they kill me upon scent: “If you look at any one of the Patrons in the eye, you will be sent to Oblivion. If you get in a Patron’s way, you will be sent to Oblivion.
If you interrupt a Patron while they are speaking, you will be sent to Oblivion.
If you disagree with these rules, you will be sent to Oblivion.
If you disagree with a Patron in your mind, you will be sent to Oblivion. If you—”
I can’t help myself. “Apparently they can read our minds,” I whisper to Xexi with a cheeky smile.
She giggles softly, and just before I can laugh, my moment of guilty pleasure is interrupted. “What did you say?” a stern voice calls out to me. Who’s that? My mind pulses.
And now to our grave shock, a Patron stops at our cell.
Everyone shudders, falling to the ground, their faces pressed to the floor beneath me.
Oh my world. I shiver in shock. I knew the rule was not to look into their eyes but…
I am the outlier. The only one standing.
I am the odd man… woman… girl out. Crap!
Certainly dead. Slowly, my head tilts and it collides with a being in front of me and my eye is looking at him straight in the eye like laser lightning, like volcanoes in the night, like shooting stars that pierce into your medulla oblongata and vaporize your iris, so my soul feels itself staring at the being in front of me. I have locked eyes with a Patron.
Rest in peace. Shantavia.
Shocked, my eyes are caught staring into the most piercing hazel eyes I’ve ever seen.
A flash of fire in his eyes. His jaws carved like a sharp blade, its edge enough to kill the particles in the air.
A presence that arouses a sudden consciousness of one’s frailty and mortality in comparison to his seraphic figure.
A stern glare that would summon the darkest secrets out of the most cryptic soul upon sight.
I can’t quite discern where he’s from, but his brass-tinted skin seems like a hybrid of different constellations, and I’m sure immortality is somewhere in the mix.
I am confused about his background, but the combination is intoxicating.
Strands of his shadowed hair glide down his golden gaze in a majestic haze and I feel like I’m looking at a god in human form.
He looks about two or three years older than me. His toned body stands out like a sculpture in a museum of rare things, voice tinted with a British cadence.
Intimidating, but with a calm edge to him.
He looks like royalty, so regal and stern and enthralling.
Not to mention his face, the most attractive thing I have ever laid eyes on.
His gaze on me obviously does not share the same sentiments.
His intense stare cuts through me. He repeats, “What did you say?”
I gulp from awe to fear. “Nothing,” I whisper.
A girl pinches me from under with a side eye. “Don’t look at him.”
I turn to her, confused as someone whispers his name. And that is when it hits me: this is Pesh. The famous Patron Pesh. Wow.
I’m no longer looking at him, but I can feel his gaze piercing into my soul. He stares at me with a subtle aggression, as though I’ve just offended him. I keep calm and manage to stay still, my heart pounding.
Suddenly, I remember, there are blindfolds covering my eyes…
transparent ones. Oh… he can’t know that I’m staring at him.
I jolt my head down immediately, but I can’t help but think, this could be it.
This could be my chance to be claimed by a Patron.
If I am not claimed, I am as good as dead.
If I am dead, I cannot find my sister. I have no plays but my blasted bravery, so I use it. I do not bow. Like the others.
The Patron does not seem to even notice me past the second he did, discussing with his fellow Patrons on the livestock… us… that’s in front of them. Why did the famous Patron Pesh come to the middle-class station? He doesn’t even select the elites. Why is he here?
A proctor enters and begins to call out names. Each person is called forward and stamped. We all proceed to line up along with the elites.
The customs-looking officers check us in on their tall tables with golden lines and scanners inscribed on the furniture. The Commons’ mascot, a brown dragon, is inscribed on every table.
“First name?”
“Zavish.”
I look to the right. Zavish Lumiere. His hair slicked to the back with perfection as usual. He turns my way from a distance, staring at me with water-blue eyes thirsty for an ocean of power. He is in the “speed line” so he is not searched.
“All good,” the speed line officer says to Zavish. “And what was that high school again?”
“Commons Preparatory High School,” he pouts.
“GPA?”
“3.7.”
“It will be a 3.8 from now on, and that is what you will say,” the speed commons officer says to Zavish. “Welcome to The Commons.”
Of course, he found favor with a Patron. Probably before even arriving.
I’m next in my line.
“First name?”
“Shantavia.”
“Age.”
“Eighteen.”
“Height?”
“Five-foot-five.”
“High school?”
“New York Academy of Bright Scholars.”
I stare at my own officer as he reads my documents and checks them twice. “GPA?”
“4.0.”
“It will be a 3.9 from now on, and that is what you will say if you make it to The Commons.” Big emphasis on if. He stamps my document and hands it to me.
I’m sure they justify this with some weighted system of Commons Preparatory supremacy. Or something.
“And what was that GPA again?” I look to see my former classmate, Zia, being checked in.
“3.8,” Zia says, adjusting her straight, vanilla-blonde hair.
The female officer replies, “It’s a 3.9 from now on. Look left.” She presses her neck with a stamp-looking device with blue lights and it beeps twice. I guess I’m wrong. Not a high school thing. It’s a person-by-person partiality. That’s expected.
Zavish is stamped with a similar device. He jerks, stubborn, pulling his shoulders back to regain his pride. He takes his signed documents and walks through the screened doors. It seems he’s allowed to join The Selects, lucky.
“What’s that device?” I ask my officer.
“An Evaper. And it tracks your whereabouts. Look left.” My officer presses my neck. The Evaper beeps twice. “This is your call number. Shantavia Lerogaski.”
I raise my hands to be searched by my officer. And that’s when it happens.
“What did you say your name was?” Pesh interjects.
I freeze, my tongue numb. It’s the Patron, and he’s calling my name… my name is on his tongue.
“Um… Shantavia Leroga—”
“Take her out!”
What? No! Please. No!
“Now,” he commands, and the officers grip my hands, shoving me out, away from everyone.
“No. No, please! Please!” I beg. “I’ll do anything. Please, I deserve to be here. I was the valedictorian.” I suddenly begin to remember why I am comparable to these elites. “I was recommended by Governor Solodia. I’m smart. I passed all the common qualifier tests!”
Suddenly, he turns. His hands rise and he thumps toward me, my eyes to the floor, my face red.
He flicks his hands for everyone to leave, ripping the blindfold off my eyes so roughly, he could have ripped my eyeballs out. “You what?”
I what? What particular thing on my accomplished resume is he inquiring on now?
“Um…” my voice quakes, petrified truly. I cannot die. I must find my sister. “I’ll do anything.”
He smirks, tracing my shape with his laser-golden eyes, too beautiful for a being that I’m sure has a monster soul.
“Take her to The Selection Zone. Let’s see if she’ll do anything.”
The Selection Zone. God Almighty. No! No!… My heart thumps. That is Oblivion!
“Or… are you too scared?” He smirks.
My mind shudders.
I have no words to respond.
I am too scared.
But I can’t say that.
I promised myself that whether I faced death or bondage, I would find my sister and that is exactly what I plan to do. And if this is the only way to make it to The Commons, take me to my death, Patron Pesh.