“How old was . . .”
“Seventeen.”
No, he shouldn’t have waited. Two years isn’t such a big gap.
Sorrow claws at my chest, making it hard to breathe. Richelle won’t get the chance for a lot of things. Prom. Graduation. College.
“It hurts to think about it,” I say.
“It hurts not to.”
I know exactly what he means.
“Nothing’s the same,” he says. Then he laughs, the sound twisted and ugly. “I used to play all the time. Every night. I’d play and I’d think about the game, this game, and I’d jot notes about scores and points and badges. I had plans. Big plans. Sell my game for millions, you know?” He snarls and spins away, breathing heavily, his back toward me. “Every time we got pulled, I’d see her numbers climb. She was almost out!” He slams his fist against his palm with such force that I jump and gasp. Then he repeats, very softly, “She was almost out. Almost free.”
Almost out. Almost free.
. . . all he cared about was himself and getting out . . .
I feel like someone just turned on a spotlight, making the whole world shine bright. I cut a glance at Luka. “There’s a way out? Other than dying?”
Before he can answer, Tyrone rounds on him. “How can you still play?” he asks, his voice a low rasp. “How can you laugh and joke and talk about running faster with a knife, like this isn’t life or death? Like the score isn’t the most important thing for us now? Our ticket out?”
Luka looks abashed, and for some reason I feel angry on his behalf.
“He didn’t choose to be here any more than you did,” Jackson says, his voice low and smooth.
I rest my hand on Tyrone’s arm. “He’s just doing the best he can. He’s stuck in this, same as you. If he’s laughing, it’s because that’s better than crying, isn’t it?” Better than feeling nothing at all. If you force yourself to laugh, to pretend you feel okay, eventually you will feel okay. At least, that’s the theory.
Tyrone stares at me, then scrubs his palm over his face. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“Tyrone, you need to gear up,” Jackson says. Maybe I’m imagining things, but I swear I hear a hint of sadness in his voice. Or maybe I just want to hear it. For a second, no one moves. Then Jackson grabs the harness off the ground and nudges Tyrone, who does absolutely nothing to aid the process.
“That’s gonna cost me,” Tyrone mutters.
“Cost you?” I ask.
“Points deducted for the cost of weapons,” Tyrone says. “Primary weapon costs fifty. Harness is twenty-five. He”—he juts his chin toward Jackson—“has a secondary, the knife. That’s another fifty off his score.”
Score. Points.
Every time we got pulled, I’d see her numbers climb.
All the pieces click into place. We earn points, as if this really is a game. When he talked about that in Vegas, he wasn’t just talking about the imaginary game in his head. Earn enough of them and—
“They’re pretty generous in the charges they levy. Not so generous with the points they pay out for hits,” Tyrone snarls.
“Save it,” Jackson says, low and fierce. “Save that anger for the Drau, Tyrone.”
Tyrone stares at him, jaw set, eyes flashing, and then he snatches the harness and gears up.
When Jackson points to the weapons box, Tyrone holds his hand out to draw his cylinder. Jackson’s shoulders tense, then he turns his face a little and I can’t tell if he’s looking at Tyrone or me.
“You live through this, Tyrone,” he says, so low I barely hear him. “Don’t you die.”
I swallow, not sure exactly what’s going on here, because even though he says Tyrone’s name, I feel like he’s speaking to me, too.
“Strong language for someone who claims it’s every man for himself,” I say.
Seconds tick past. “I just don’t want to have to train someone new.”
“Asshole,” Tyrone mutters without heat, sounding almost like himself. Jackson smiles a little.
“Scores,” Luka says from behind me.
Tyrone turns. I follow his gaze to the center of the clearing. The air dances like heat shimmers off a hot sidewalk. Something glossy black and rectangular begins to take shape. It looks like a massive, flat-screen TV, but when I walk over and reach out to touch it, my fingers pass through. As I draw them back, that corner of the image wavers and warps, then settles back into the shape of the screen’s corner.