One Life

SIX

. . . 

. . .I CAN FEEL my pulse in my eardrums as I get ready in the late half of the quiet hours, forced to breathe in the stale air of the examination room. A stylist gives me a black shirt with "2-1" on the chest and black shorts to match. Lastly, a Singe-red armband gets wrapped around my bicep, the words "ONE LIFE" printed on it.

"Am I ready?" I ask, hating how unsteady my voice sounds.

The stylist doesn't glance up at me from her position at the counter. When she turns back around, a strange contraption that looks like a gun is in her hand, and she sticks a large needle onto the tip.

"After this, you will be," she says. "It will hurt, but unless you want to die a painful death in the competition and not wake up back here, you need it."

I nod. I've dealt with needles plenty of times; from my repeated Flarepox immunizations to the endless piercings that decorate my head, I'm used to such things.

"What does it do?"

"Marks you," she replies. "You get your contestant number, a tracker, and, of course, your extra life. All things that keep the competition running smoothly. Since you're Onaian and you've got an 'a' surname, you'll be the first contestant."

The woman comes to my side and grabs my head. After telling me to hold still, she lines it up behind my ear and injects the Aurachip into my neck. A searing pain unlike anything I've ever felt before overtakes me, and I cuss all sorts of things before I regather myself.

"Contestant 2-1," says a robotic voice in—behind—my ear. Sector two, Competitor one. I blink unwanted tears out of my eyes and shake it off. Before I know it, it's as if the chip has always been there.

Once my stylist is done with me, I'm told that I can't say another word until the contest begins, and when I try to respond I realise I truly can't—the chip must have some management over my nerve processing. A coordinator escorts me down a private elevator to the parkade. Kane is waiting there with his coordinator, also silent. We ride together to what the coordinators call the "starting point". Purposefully cryptic.

As we ride along, I can feel the tension bouncing off of Kane and ricocheting on me in a back-and-forth game of who can be the most nervous. I wish I could speak to him. If only I'd had the chance to last night.

Out on the streets, people crowd the walkways, waving at our car and cheering. The city seems to be ablaze with excitement. It gets my blood pumping with adrenaline, but it also terrifies me.

"You two make a good pair," says Kane's coordinator, a man so large and intimidating I bet he could crush my head with his bare hands. "Good for views. But you can't be holding hands."

Kane and I look at each other. We only did for a moment on the stage last night, and it was nothing like he's insinuating. I want to rebut him, but I can't. I settle on a confused expression instead.

My coordinator sighs. "There are customs in place. This is Atla. You are an Onaian Singe, and you," she looks at Kane, her bug-eyes and pallid face looking very smackable, "Are... a Hydro Vaeli. You don't mix. You cannot mix. Work together, yes. But you can't be friends."

Atla is indeed divided. I haven't forgotten where I come from, and where Kane comes from. But this is One Life. I figured it would be different.

Kane's cheeks heat a bright red that I know isn't from embarrassment. I feel defeated by their words. We've spent days trying to see past our clashing identities, and all of that is erased.