Queen of Diamonds

Two Hours After The Sorting

The train slows to a stop, and Smoke shoulders his bag, walking to the door we came in from. I feel my pulse quicken. As terrified as I am, I'm also a little excited to see my new home. Some part of me that hasn't been crushed by this whole process wants to make the best of it. Or maybe that's just the nerves. The door peels open, and the first thing I notice is the stench. It's something like gasoline and fish, mixed together in a terrible smell that hits the car in a wave. Beyond the door of the car, the only thing I can see is darkness. I don't know if it's night already, or if it's just smog blocking out the sun. Shouts and screams fill my ears, echoing through the train stop we're being dumped out in. 
"C'mon, greenie," Smoke says, glancing over his shoulder to check that I'm following. I wrap the straps of my messenger bag around my shoulder and arm, clutching it to me. I take a deep breath and follow Smoke out of the car. The train stop, despite the noise, is empty. I recognize some of the architecture as Government-grade, but it's dripping with graffiti and filth. The windows are punched out, and the doorway at the other end of the room is empty. Smoke grabs my arm and drags me to the door. "Stay calm, greenie," he says. 

I feel like I've stepped into a different world. Neon lights fill my eyes, flashing from doorways, signs, and people's clothes. Some people are dressed like Smoke, in drab clothes with plainly visible weapons. But some are dressed up in elaborate costumes, too-short skirts with thick petticoats, corsets and waistcoats to match. People shove and push past each other, and although we stick to the edges of the street, I notice motorbikes pushing their way through the middle of the street. The smells of food, drink, and heavy perfume waft their way out of the shops. My head throbs, and I think I might pass out. The grip Smoke has on my arm tightens, and he says something, but I can't make out the words over the hundreds of thousands of voices in the street. I look up, but I can barely see the sky. The cramped apartments and shops tower taller than any building in the Diamond sector, with people leaning out the windows and running down the fire escapes. Far above, a glittering silver net hangs from one side of the building to the other, closing in the alleyway. 

Suddenly, the pressure from the strap around my arms loosens, and although I tighten my grip on the bag, something or someone tries to pull it away from me, and I stop in my tracks, trying to fight back, spinning around to see where the attacker is coming from. Smoke stops as well, turning around quickly and pulling me behind him. The strap on my bag strains, and the person on the other end is pulled out of the crowd. Its a boy probably no older than Alexa, with strongly black hair that I'm sure he cut himself. He's wearing a baggy gray shirt and baggy pants tied at the waist with a black rubber inner tube. 
"Hey," Smoke says, "scram." He yanks the strap of my bag towards us, hard, and it falls out of the boys hands. 
"She's a stinking greenie," the boy protests, and I'm starting to get a sense of what that term means around here. 
"And you're unmarked," Smoke says, shoving the boy harder than he needs to. The kid glares at me, but shrinks away into the crowd. Smoke grabs my hand again, and pulls me faster than before. I hold my bag tighter, the strap now dangling in two useless pieces by my side. 

Finally, after what seems like eternity, Smoke slows to a stop in front of a tall brownstone apartment building with a white stoop, and I could almost believe that it's Old District back home. But the illusion is ruined by the purple graffiti letters scrawled over the doorway. The Compound,  it reads, in surprisingly well done calligraphy. Smoke walks up the step, swipes some kind of key card, and pushes the door open. 
"Welcome home, greenie," he says, making himself laugh. I frown at him and make my way into the dark apartment. The interior reminds me even more of a museum or something in the Old District. There's a tall staircase with elaborately carved banisters, and tall ceilings. The walls are pasted with flowery wallpaper, which is so out of place with the rest of this terrible place. The whole building is narrow, built for height, not roominess. From down the hall, I hear a crash, and someone comes running down the hall. It's a short, lanky boy, not much older than the boy we saw in the street. He skids to a stop at the bottom of the staircase. 
"Felix is home!" he shouts. The sound echoes around the dark building. Then the boy notices me. "Who are you?" 

Smoke - or is it Felix? - leads me up the stairs, the boy following us closely, talking all the while about things I don't understand. Something called crews, someone called Princess, and a brawl. I stare at him in shock, but he doesn't notice. Smoke leads me down a long hallway, past a few empty rooms, and a few with the doors closed. I wonder how many other people live here. At the end of the hall, there's a door on the left that's hanging open. Smoke/Felix leads me to it. 
"You can stay in here for now. The bed should be all made and everything," he says. The little boy gasps. 
"You're giving her Olivia's room?" the boy asks, sounding almost comically shocked.
"Shush," Smoke says, shoving his shoulder, "it's the only room with a bed." I want to ask who Olivia was, but I don' t think I want to know. I push the door open a little wider, and go inside. 

The room is nice, albeit empty. There's a bed with some thin sheets, a dresser that's been completely emptied. In the closet, the only thing hanging up is a tight dress made of reflective spandex with a frilly petticoat underneath. I set my bag on my bed and sit down on the edge of the bed. I notice my reflection in a mirror above the bed, and for the first time, the weight of the whole situation hits me. Sitting there, in Felix's clothes, on some other girl's bed, I barely recognize myself. Tears fill my eyes, and I try to blink them away, but I can't help it. Tears start pouring down my cheeks, and I wipe them away with the back of my hand, but they just keep coming, so I lie down on the bed, hold my bag to my chest, and let myself cry.