Blaze

24. As If Reality Were A Window

I'm handed a gun filled with kill darts (we don't want to damage the flesh with bullets or knives). I'm told to get three—no more, no less. There are quotas to follow. One of the duties of those who drain, I'm told, is to flush out the poison in preparation for consumption. The killers follow quotas.

Consumption.

We're going, Alaina says. Do you want—

"I don't want the bread," I say. "I want to stay awake."

She pauses to read me. I wonder if she thinks I'm getting cocky again, and if so, what new method she'll decide on to take me down a notch. So far, I know her to be (too) effective. I look at her, or rather at the reflection of myself in her glasses. (I look tired.)

She places an arm on her thought and prods me, gently, with it.

Are you sure?

She's a bird-thing now. The goggles hide her black eyes and form a beak around her mouth. Her arms shine with feathers when she outstretches them, and the ground slightly shudders with the weight of her metal tread when she walks.

"Yes," I say.

She straps me to herself.

We're on a cliff overlooking the lump-shaped forest. I can see the end of the tree line now, as well as its beginning. It's strange. Just beyond the trees is cracked beige.

She's strong. Even with my weight on her, even with the weight of her exoskeleton, she manages a running start.

She jumps.

---

We're flying! We're flying! she thinks. I don't even think she means for me to hear it; it's just so loud.

And we are. We are flying. I look down and see mini trees and a mini ground. My legs dangle; nothing holds them in place; I feel myself falling or rising according to her adjustments.

I've never smelled air this sharp. (It's so cold, too.)

Around us, the sky is blackened by birds. I hear whooping and cheering. The other Raiders make dangerous curves and loops. Alaina wants to try them; I feel it. My stomach tightens in preparation, feeling hers do the same.

Is the Captain among us?

I haven't seen him since the day Alaina introduced me to him. Since the day we talked about my eyes. I've heard him since, of course; he's given me thoughts. He gave me thoughts during the trek here, sometimes warm and patient, sometimes cool as winter. Can he see through my mind? I don't know.

Is he among us?

With his cool evil voice, telling us where to go and who to kill (because we're heading out to kill, no matter how thrilling flying may seem).

I like to think he's here. I like to think he's far away from Austin and Jackie and Mother.

For now.

I don't know who thinks that at me.

---

I see houses, up ahead. Not a village. Something that looks like a suburb.