Four days before the Selection

Sánchez trudges in front of me, their left hand stuffed inside their hoodie pocket. I trail behind them, my face still warm from their comment.

Perhaps I should return the compliment.

"By- By the way, I didn't mean what I said about being better than you. Not- Not in that way, at least." I clear my throat. "You're, uh, very good-looking too."

Sánchez's steps falter as they glance back at me. Even in the forever-shadow cast by the Tower, I can still see the dewy sheen of their dark skin and the glisten in their eyes. As annoying as they can be, Sánchez really is beautiful.

"I know," they say with a shrug, "but it's not in the way the Neon District wants."

"What? What do they want?"

Sánchez sighs and continues walking.

The warmth inside me bursts into a frustrated heat. "Hey, is it so hard to answer just one question? You still haven't explained to me what kind of job that woman was offering me! Hey!" I quicken my pace to get in front of them. "We went over this, remember? Don't avoid me like—"

Sánchez yanks me by my arm as a jet of wind whips behind me. The loud noise that follows leaves my ears ringing.

I turn around to see a few two-wheeled vehicles zipping away from us. My skin tingles with chills. They were so fast... and so dangerously close. I could have been splattered.

"You stepped right into a bike lane, dumbass," Sánchez says, gesturing to the ground. There is a faint demarcation, but the words are covered by a bunch of graffiti. If Sánchez had not pointed it out, I would not have noticed it at all.

"Those- Those things are bikes?" My eyes scan the area again. It is clear of those deadly vehicles for now. "They flew by like jets!"

"Yeah. Motorbikes." Sánchez bends down toward me, their gaze drilling into me, their hand still on my arm. "Just follow behind me, Lorensky. Quietly."

When they let me go and continue walking, I can't help but grumble behind them, "It's not my fault these bike lanes are so hard to see. Someone needs to repaint them, or at least put up a barricade or something. And who are we going to for help?"

Sánchez shushes me as they stop in front of a phone on a wall. They pay with Ryan's card and punch in a few numbers. After a single ring, a feminine voice speaks through the speaker.

"Tijuana Tacos, how can I help you?"

"This is Morgan Sánchez, looking for directions to the Piranhas."

There is a brief pause on the line before the voice continues, "Morgan Sánchez, membership verified. Please make your way to Rosarito Beach. A representative will meet you there in one hour."

The sound clicks as the phone hangs up.

"What was that, Sánchez?" I frown. "Piranhas? Some kind of beach? And something tacos? What's that?"

"Geez, you're relentless with your questions." Sánchez runs a hand through their side-swept hair. "The Piranhas is this... organization I used to be a part of. They change their headquarters every few months, but you can find out where they are by calling this fake number. They only let their members know the location. I wasn't a hundred percent sure I'd still be considered a member after all these years, but it seems I still am, so..."

"Oh." When Sánchez said they knew who to go to for help, I thought they meant their family or friends. I was not expecting an organization with a weird name. "And this, uh, Piranhas people will help you find a mechanic?"

"They helped me with my first mechanic," Sánchez says, although their tone is unconvincing.

"Are they trustworthy?"

"Depends."

"Depends?"

"They'll be helpful if they think we want to join them, so just keep up an act or something."

"Uh, okay..." I'm not sure why Sánchez would say that so casually, as if I had great acting skills.

"Anyway, Rosarito Beach is pretty far out," they continue, "so we'd need a ride. Come on."

They lead me back to the deadly bike lane where I had nearly been flattened. We hold our thumbs out—apparently a common Ground Earth hand sign for transportation requests—until a group of motorbikes stops for us. Sánchez tells them our destination, and they agree to take us there.

There is an extra passenger seat attached to one of the bikes, which Sánchez and I manage to squeeze into. My arm presses into their torso, while our legs cram like sardines in a can. Even the closet we were stuck in the last time did not mash us this close together.

Under the hoodie, Sánchez's body feels firm and taut. The familiar cardamom scent is strangely intoxicating at this distance. Is it from the hair spray they use, or is this what they smell like naturally?

The acceleration slams me to the seat and jerks all thoughts out of my mind.

I've been in vehicles or elevators that move fast, but they were always closed to the environment. Now, in this unenclosed passenger seat, boulders of air strike me continuously. My ponytail thrashes behind me, and even Sánchez's short, flailing hair is slapping my face.

The moving scenery around me is the best part of the ride. The further we get from the Tower, the less crowded the buildings are. Increasing amounts of trees and plants replace the vibrant colors of the buildings.

The greenery reminds me of all the forest simulations I adored during practice sessions. Except this time, I can smell them. It's... fresh. Faintly sweet.

When the bikers drop us off at the destination, the view takes my breath away.

Behind the buildings, the trees taper off to sand and water. Endless amount of blue water. It stretches out infinitely, rippling along the surface like the pulses of a heartbeat. It reminds me of the sky, the space where NovaTopia resides, except with a lighter hue—and more alive.

"Beautiful, right?" Sánchez says next to me. "I love the ocean."

"The ocean," I repeat, taking in a deep breath of the salty air. Calmness washes over me as the waves crash onto the shore. "I've read about the ocean. I never knew how beautiful it is."

I turn to Sánchez. They are staring at the water with a serene smile, their eyes shimmering. Despite the tumultuous wind during our ride, their hair is back to its flawless side-swept position.

"Hey, why did you leave such a beautiful place for the Tower?" I ask.

Sánchez glances at me, their brows raised. "Are you serious, Lorensky? You Tower folks look down on Ground Earth dwellers all the time, and now you can't understand why I opted to go to the Tower?"

I avert my gaze. "I- I've never looked down on..." My voice trails off. As much as I hate to admit it, they might be right. Before today, all I knew about Ground Earth was from what little I learned in the cadet history lessons—and General Caelum's occasional rants. Before today, I've never bothered to even think about Ground Earth.

"Fine, but I've only ever known the Tower," I admit. "I thought it had everything. But the bikes? All the variety of cyberlimbs? You don't see those in the Tower."

"There's a lot in the Tower that we don't have here either. You're only here for a day, so you don't get it. Earth is not... easy to live in. Not in its current state. It's a constant battle trying to survive. I watched too many people die." Their voice lowers. "I saw my parents die. I was eight."

A soft gasp escapes my throat.

"So as much as I love this place," they continue, shrinking further into their hoodie, "my survival takes precedence. I want to live in a place where I don't have to, you know, worry about whether I'll be alive by the end of the day. And so, yeah, I signed up for the cadet program in the Tower the moment I was eligible."

Tears well in my eyes. I blink them away. "I'm sorry you had to leave your home just to be safe."

Sánchez chuckles, but the smile does not go to their eyes. "Why are you apologizing? It's not your fault. And it wasn't that bad. After my parents died and I decided to escape to the Tower, I... well, I sort of cut myself off from everyone else. Stopped talking to anybody in the Piranhas, stopped going to the headquarters. I lived alone and I did nothing but train for the cadet program tryouts for a year. So when I finally left for the Tower, there was no longer anyone or anything here for me to be sad about."

That did not sound 'not that bad', but I understand where Sánchez is coming from. "So what you're saying is that you're a loser with no friends?" I tease.

Their smile widens. "Says the other loser with no friends."

"Hey, at least when I win the Selection and leave the Tower, there also won't be anyone or anything for me to be sad about."

Instead of insisting they are going to win instead, Sánchez's expression falls. "Is that... really what you think?"

I frown. Before I can reply, a deep voice booms from behind us.

"Morgan Sánchez!"

We spin around to see a group of men armed with large rifles marching towards us. The only unarmed person is a short, bulky man leading the pack. He doesn't look too old—maybe a few years older than Ryan—but his hairline has almost receded to nonexistence. And despite the Tower and the clouds blocking most of the sunlight, he is wearing a pair of sunglasses. How the man can see anything in that darkness is beyond my comprehension.

"Who are they?" I ask.

"Follow my lead," Sánchez whispers.

As the group approaches, the man's lips curl into a crooked grin as he removes his sunglasses, revealing a wild, almost overwhelmingly intense stare. "I cannot believe my eyes. When Seraina told me that the infamous Morgan Sánchez requested our location, I thought she was kidding. But here you are, crawling back to us—and missing an arm!"

Sánchez lets a sigh escape. "Hey, Waldo. Long time no see."

The man's grin twists into a snarl. "I gave up that name a long time ago. I'm a commander now, by the way, and I go by Big Papi now."

"Yeah, congratulations, but I'm not calling you that."

His jaw muscle bulges. "I see you're still a bitch after all these years. Did you get your arm ripped off for that piss-ass attitude?"

"Hey," I retort instinctively, "don't call them that!"

Waldo—or Big Papi—whips his head to look at me. The intensity of his glare sends a chill down my spine. I regret speaking up; I should have listened to Sánchez and let them take the lead.

"Who is this pink Barbie?" he roars. The men behind him raise their rifles and point them at us. "Are you a soldier now, Morgan, bringing a Tower Tot with you as you betray your own people?"

Big Papi's rage reminds me of the woman who shouted at Ryan for being a NovaTopian soldier—and the Ground Earth attackers from yesterday. Fear grips my heart.

Sánchez steps in front of me, shielding me from him. "I brought her here as a truce." That statement stuns both me and Big Papi. "I never made it to the Tower. I was lying to- to get out of Dominique's control. You know how he is. But I want to come back now. And she is a..." —they glance at me— "a friend who is interested in joining the Piranhas. I figured I'd bring her here and, well, try to rejoin too."

"Really, now?" Big Papi folds his arms as he stares right into me—right into my soul. "You, tell me: where are you from?"

I know I can't rely on Sánchez to help me with this. I have to come up with an answer right now to convince him I am not from the Tower. So, I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.

"I'm from the Neon District!"

Silence settles upon us.

Sánchez stares at me in horror, their face turning a deep shade of red. Big Papi gives me a once-over before bursting into hysterical laughter. The armed men lower their weapons, also laughing along. A few of them even let out a loud cheer. The mixed reaction is leaving me confused.

"Well, I can definitely see that!" Big Papi chortles. "My, my, Morgan Sánchez crawls back from the void with a beautiful woman from the Neon District. What a delightful comeback story!" He wraps his arm around my shoulder, all his weight pressing down on me. "So, pink Barbie from the Neon District, what would you like me to call you?"

"Uh, Lara."

"Alara, is it? You know, I already like you a million times more than this traitor over here. You're proud of who you are and where you come from. That, to me, is the greatest sign of a good character." He jabs his finger at his chest. "It tells me your heart is in the right place. Come with me, Alara. Let me bring you to the Piranhas."

I turn to Sánchez. They are still flushed, but they give me a small nod.

And so, I let Big Papi drag me away from the beach.