Firstlife

She snorts. “You basically won the lottery, and you know it.”

“Or, your guardian paid extra to pair you with an Unsigned, preferably one with a Myriad background.” Which is actually counterproductive to Dr. Vans’s goal in my case. But when has the man ever resisted a bonus?

“Hey, look at you! Pretty and smart.”

“And hungry,” I grumble.

As we edge our way to the front of the line, multiple conversations take place around us.

“—too bad. I called dibs.”

“—did you hide them? Tell me!”

“—don’t allow Myriad scum near me.”

How many of these kids are pro-Myriad? How many are pro-Troika? How many are Unsigned?

Bow clearly hasn’t gotten the memo. Talking about the Everlife is forbidden. Well, only with each other. Dr. Vans’s way of avoiding a riot inside these walls, I guess.

I deduced Sloan is Unsigned, which wasn’t exactly hard to do considering she’s said “I’d rather be a queen in Many Ends than a drone in the realms” countless times.

Okay, not countless. Twenty-three.

“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together,” Bow tells me. “Let’s get to know each other better.”

“No, thanks.”

She persists. “How were you introduced to the realms?”

“The usual way.” Since public schools aren’t allowed to lean one way or the other, only private schools, children are told stories by biased parents. Also, different facilities offer virtual tours but, depending on who’s running them, the tours are always skewed.

My aunt Lina is my dad’s crazy twin sister who, I’ve been told, suffers from polyfused disorder, meaning the older spirit (supposedly) Fused to hers is strong enough to gain control of her body. When she isn’t acting like a giggly ten-year-old who speaks in the past tense, she works for A Look Beyond, a tour company owned by Myriad.

I’ve seen night-kissed castles overflowing with orchid gardens. Bustling cityscapes with stone and metal skyscrapers intermixed with nightclubs and spas, everything connected by sleek silver bridges and tunnels illuminated by wrought-iron, dragon-shaped lamps. Vibrant white-sand beaches with a moonlit view of ruby, sapphire and emerald coral.

A bit of high-tech flare topped with old-world charm.

There’s something for everyone, Aunt Lina likes to say on her sane days. On her insane days? The light bled into the darkness and the darkness died... I didn’t want to die.

On the other hand, Troika’s version of Myriad is frightening. Darkness pervades. Darkness so thick it oozes over your skin like motor oil. There’s field after field of dead trees, the limbs gnarled, the bark dripping crimson—bleeding. Any birds able to survive the lack of sunlight cry rather than squawk. The city is overcrowded, everyone packed as tight as pickles in a jar, and the beaches resemble life-size litter boxes.

Myriad’s version of Troika is no better. Apocalyptic wastelands scorched by an unforgiving sun.

As a child, I was desperate to avoid Troika...until I heard my Troikan Laborer’s description: dappled sunlight falling over intricate gardens, wildflowers and rainbows. A thriving metropolis both fantastical and futuristic, with palatial country estates and chrome-and-glass buildings in a variety of shapes and sizes.

“You might want to stop mentioning the realms,” I finally say. “It’ll get you punished.”

She pushes out a breath. “Fine. I’ll talk about something else. Something fascinating. Like the food. I’m pretty sure it’s going to look the same coming out as it does going in.”

She isn’t wrong. “If you want a change of menu, the bugs in our room are always an option. Side note. Spiders taste like shrimp and cockroaches taste like greasy chicken.”

“Okay, I now want to gag and hug you at the same time.” She thinks for a moment, releases a dreamy sigh. “Maybe I’ll have dessert snuck in.”

“Good luck with that.” Others have tried. Others have failed. “You’ll be caught and—”

“Punished. Yeah, yeah. I know.”

We’re both given a tray. As we search for a table, a group of boys gives Bow a once-over. Snickers abound.

I stiffen, but Bow winks at them as we claim the empty table to their right.

“I think I heard the guards say her name’s Bow,” one of them says, not even trying to be quiet.

“It fits—unlike her uniform. Fatty Bow Batty,” another mutters, spurring outright laughter from his friends.

Bow ignores them and stirs her slop as if she hasn’t a care. She’s short and big-boned, a little plain, but she’s a person with feelings.

I find myself snapping, “Integrity matters more than size, dreg.” A derogatory name for someone neither realm wants.

He blows me a kiss. “Why don’t you come sit on my lap, Nutter? I’ll show you just how sizable I am.”

Innuendos are always on the menu at Prynne, and I usually overlook them. Today, my fingers tighten around my spoon. We aren’t given forks or knives, ever. Not that it matters. I can do bad, bad things with a spoon.

I glare at him and say, “Do you like having a tongue?”

He sticks his out and wags it at me.

I don’t want to fight him—I’m too sore—but I will. If I lose, I lose, but at least I’ll leave an impression.

Bow pats my hand. “Forget about him, Sperm Bank. He doesn’t yet understand the outside is a shell for all of us. My beauty is on the inside, where it never fades.”

She can’t be this nice. She just can’t be.

The boys return to their conversation, whispering among themselves, pretending what almost happened didn’t almost happen.

“Plus,” Bow adds, “he isn’t even close to my type.”

“Which is?”

She wiggles her brows. “Female.”

Ah. Got it.

We lapse into silence. I remain aware of the people around us, always on alert, as I clean my tray. Gotta stay as strong as possible. Bow merely picks at the meal. One day soon, hunger will get the better of her and she’ll be thankful for the slop.

One of the boys is trying to snag a bite off his friend’s tray as we stand.

“Touch my food and die.” The friend’s snarl is pure menace.