The Fallen Legacies

CHAPTER 20

Back at Ashwood Estates, they hold a banquet for Ivan.

All these planned suburban developments come equipped with community halls for neighborhood parties. It’s been three years since One was killed, and our community hall hasn’t seen use since then. People from the neighborhood spend a weekend cleaning out the dust, moving in a large table, and preparing food.

I wasn’t awake for the last celebration. I wish I could sleep through this one.

The General gives a speech describing Ivan’s valor in the field. Then he pins a medal shaped like a Mogadorian sword to Ivan’s chest, Ivan grinning stupidly as my neighbors rapturously applaud. There’s no mention made of my early arrival at Two’s safe house, nor does my father spend even a moment memorializing the warriors that didn’t return home, gunned down by Conrad Hoyle in the streets of London. No time spent on the weak.

I slip out, leaving behind a half-finished dinner, and I return to my house, enjoying the quiet darkness of my room. With the withering looks my father’s been giving me since London, I’m sure he’s glad I left early. Without me there, he can pretend Ivan is his trueborn son. They’ll both love that.

It’s a pleasant, breezy night, but I close my window, wanting to seal out the noise from the banquet. I gaze through narrowed eyes at the lights from the community hall, my neighbors enjoying their biggest celebration since coming to Earth thanks to the cold-blooded murder of an unarmed child.

When I turn away from the window, One is standing in the middle of my room. It’s the first time that she’s appeared to me since London. Her look is cold and accusing, far worse than the disdainful stares I’ve been receiving from my father.

“You watched her die,” she says.

I push my knuckles into my temples and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will her away. When I open my eyes, One hasn’t budged.

“Whatever part of my brain you’re hiding out in,” I snarl, “go back there and leave me alone.”

“You could’ve at least kicked the gun to her,” she says, ignoring me. “Given her a fighting chance.”

It’s a scenario I’ve agonized over: Two’s silly little gun lying at my feet, her only a short distance away. I’ve played out the possibilities in my head and managed to rationalize the fear I was feeling at the time as strategic self-preservation. There was no way Two was getting out of that room alive, whether I helped her or not. But knowing that doesn’t make me feel any less a coward.

“They still would have killed her,” I say, voice shaking. “And then they would’ve killed me.”

“Which is what you’re really worried about,” replies One, rolling her eyes. “Saving your own skin.”

“If I die, what happens to you?” I ask, my voice rising. I want One to understand.

“I’m already dead, dummy.”

“Are you? Because it sure seems like you’re here now, making me feel worse than I already do. I’m sorry I couldn’t save Two, but-”

I’m interrupted by a soft knock on my bedroom door. I was so distracted by One I didn’t even hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Without waiting for me to invite her, my mother slowly opens my door, looking concerned. I wonder how much of my conversation with my imaginary friend she overheard.

“Who are you talking to?” she asks.

I shoot a surreptitious glance to where One was standing a moment ago. She’s gone now, retreated back into my brain.

“No one,” I snap, sitting down on the foot of my bed. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to check on you,” she says, and gently takes my chin in her hands. She examines the yellowing bruise on my jaw, the scabbed-over spot on my bottom lip. “He should not have done this.”

“I was being insubordinate,” I say, the token reply to one of the General’s rebukes coming easily.

My mother sits down on the bed next to me. I get the feeling that she wants to say more but is having trouble finding the words.

“He told me what happened,” she begins, hesitating. “With you and the Garde child. He wanted to send you to West Virginia, but I talked him out of it.”

There’s a mountain base in West Virginia where intensive training classes take place. I’ve heard the “training” is really endless hours of laboring in underground tunnels. For a trueborn like me to be sent there would be the equivalent of a human teenager being sent to military school.

“Thanks,” I reply, not entirely sure why my mother is telling me this.

She stands up and goes to my window, looking out at the lights of the banquet.

“Get back to your studies,” she says quietly. “Grow stronger. And the next time you have a chance to take down a Garde, do it.”

My mother kneels in front of me, cupping my bruised face in her hands. She stares into my eyes, her look beseeching.

I stare back at her in disappointment, sensing that there’s something more she wants to say.

“Yes, Mother,” I reply. She opens her mouth to speak, but closes it without saying a word.