《Seeing Red》

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I'm taken aback by the brightness and the color. Our walls are stark white, clinical and clean, blinding like freshly fallen snow basking in sunlight. But here, the walls are a rich taupe, the color of beach sand, warm and inviting. The lights have none of the harshness of our fluorescents. They've got a softening effect and even Marava's face looks a little less angular.

"I think they're leading us this way on purpose," I say.

Quint's brow furrows and he shoves his hands in his pockets."Why do you think that?"

I point to my right. "Because the windows here don't have bars."

His head snaps to attention, eager to follow my finger. And though his eyes initially house doubt, as soon as his gaze finds the first window, then flits to the three beside it, each flanked by long, pale blue curtains, that feeling is extinguished.

The glass is frosted, so it's a bit hard to make out what's beyond, but there's an outline of trees behind some kind wall, where towers, similar to those eagle nests along the track, shoot up at evenly spaced intervals. Some kind of light streams in through the window, diffused but strong enough to highlight dust particles as they dance through the air.

"See?" I say, gently pushing his shoulder. Marava hisses."No pinholes on the sill to house the laser bars. And that glass doesn't look too thick. Sunlight never pours through the windows in our neck of the woods." He nods, though the sight of such normal windows has made him silent. "I think this part of the Facility was designed with lessened security measures. We were never supposed to be here, so why all the bars and steel doors if the only people coming here are approved staff?"

"You think we could shatter one of them?" Tujo plucks a coffee urn from underneath a lone maker from the counter across from us.

He tosses it casually in the air, like a baseball or a rock before it's hurled at its target. I shake my head. Rima puts her hand on his forearm and frowning, he lowers the urn.

"I don't think you'll need to find out," I say.

"And why's that?"

I motion toward the guards, toward their vests. "They've got enough grenades to blast this entire ward to smithereens." I nod at the windows. "They might be shatterproof, but they sure as hell aren't grenade-proof."

¤

"No dallying!" one of the guards' yell. "Fall behind, get left behind." The edge to the voice and the directness of the command makes me think it's the woman speaking to us.

Tujo chuckles. "Dallying," he says as he picks up Rima's hand and starts moving. "What is it about guards--"

"Or imposter guards," I contribute.

He nods. "That has them spouting aged slang?"

I shrug. "Maybe they've left modern idioms in their other Kevlar vests."

Tujo's large hand briefly leaves Rima's embrace to smack me on the back. I stumble forward, almost face-planting into a nearby dinette set. "Good one, Ten," he says, grinning.

I manage to recover my footing in time for most not to notice. Marava's scowl has shifted into more of a lazy half-smile so I guessing she saw and is running high off my near-collision. With eyes that hawkish, I guess you'd have to have your head tucked up your ass to have something go unseen.

We turn down corridor after empty corridor. I half-expect a lone tumbleweed to blow past, what with how deserted everything feels. Steam wafts from coffee cups. Plastic trays divide that day's lunch - some kind of roast, slathered in gravy, with a side of scalloped potatoes and stewed greens. Forks lay stranded across tables, as though whoever's been eating, left mid-bite.

LEDs hover over sprawling turquoise sofas, small screens still project half-read files. Someone's been brushing up on U.S. History, Twentieth Edition, Seventh Revision. FUA Council-Approved. It looks as though they'd just gotten to the first Oil War the old regime started with Iran before the country had been re-absorbed into the United Arab Emirates.

"Hey," Rima whispers. She nudges Tujo's arm and points to a running faucet. Water sloshes over the sink's sides and cascades down to the floor like a waterfall. "Where do you think everyone's gone?"

I poke my head between them. "I imagine they've got Panic Rooms. That's probably where all those people were headed to."

Rima runs her hands along her arms and squeezes. "I don't like it. Everything looks weird."

Tujo wraps an arm around her slumping shoulders. "Just pretend, Ri-ri. Remember that movie we were shown in class?" He scrunches his nose. "The one about the zombies?"

She stares at him before recognition alights in her eyes. "They showed us that film to demonstrate the old regime's frivolity, how talent was wasted on entertainment when it could have been used to bolster the image of a strong, united America."

Tujo's brow creased. "You remember way too much," he mumbles, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "but yeah, that one. Pretend like this is a set piece for that movie. Nothing's real. It's all make-believe."

She nods. "I think I can manage--"

A shadow and a flicker of black fabric darts past the hallway in front of us. The Militia halt, raising their guns. "What was that?" one of them asks.

Before someone can muster an answer, a gunshot pierces his chest and a spray of blood colors the far wall.

"Down! Everyone down!"

We all rush to our knees. I'm nearest a table so I kick out one of the legs, and allow it to topple over. Grabbing Rima's wrist, I pull her and Tujo into me. "Stay here," I say.

Sin's found himself a sofa to hide behind while Marava's pressed into Quint who's taken shelter behind a sliding, pantry door. More gunshots rip through the silence. The guards return fire, but another falls after taking a shot to the neck.

His body lands beside me and Rima, his gun clattering across the floor. A geyser of blood spurts from the wound. It courses over his cheek, down his chin, and creeps toward my fingers. Rima swallows back a scream. Tears well in her eyes.

The shooter's a Facility guard and by the looks of it, his Accuracy Assist seems to be functioning.

"Take cover!" A guard, probably the woman, screams over the chaos.

Her group moves as one, taking steps back, kicking over furniture, finding anything they can to stick between them and the lone gunman. A few empty their clips into the hallway. They eject them from their guns, cartridges smoking from the friction of rapid-fire. Return shots continue to push them back.

There's a momentary lull, as both sides seem to be re-loading and for a second, the gunman shows himself, the glow of his visor haloing wisps of reddish hair.

"Intruders," he says, coolly, calmly. "If you leave now, without the Liars, I won't alert the Council."

I scoff. This break-in's already been transmitted to the Council. It's probably being talked about in the Inner Chambers if the Birds haven't already been fed their instructions.

No one seems to be paying attention to the prattling guard though. They're all checking their weapons, their ammo, sweat running down masks and over necks. Fingers fidget over triggers as they wait for one clean shot.

The guard leans out from behind the wall, shoulder and arm exposed, gun pointed toward the ceiling. "There doesn't need to be any more bloodshed," he says.

Something small pushes past me and lunges forward. I blink. Rima, in a blur of hair, flesh and dirtied uniform, reaches for the downed man's gun. In another blink, she's got it hoisted in the air.

Bang!

The gunman yowls, reels back and slumps over, exposing his head and back. She's clipped him in the shoulder. Whether it's having the wind knocked out of him, or the shock and surprise of getting shot, the man struggles to get back to cover.

Rima pounces on this chance. She fires three more times. Two of the bullets find flesh, one near the man's spine, just below his neck, the other a clean shot through the skull. His body shudders as each bullet travels through him in passing, and then, he stops moving altogether.

Teeth pressed against each other, Rima lets loose a guttural scream. Her finger continues to press down on the trigger. The gun clicks. Out of ammo. Tujo gets to his feet, watching as tears travel over her cheeks, drip off her chin.

For the first time since I've known them, his hand wavers as he makes to touch her. The others remove themselves slowly from their hiding positions, all eyes trained on Rima. Tujo decides against touching her and instead goes for the gun. He lowers it, and Rima's arms fall back to her sides. The gun pings off the corner of the table, before landing on the floor.

Her breathing is erratic, chest heaving as though she'd just run a marathon. Her face is flush, hands clawing at her gray slacks. Tujo looks at me, at the gun. He opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn't know what to say. I've got nothing either.

Finally, it's one of the guards who manages to ease the tension. "We should have you on our side," he says to Rima in passing, as he shoulders his gun. "Nice shot."

Rima doesn't bother to look his way. She exhales, her body rigid.

"Everyone," the female guard says, moving back toward the hallway. She kicks the Militia's corpse, a modicum of retribution for the two of her men he took out. "We're almost there. Let's get the fuck out."

I couldn't agree more. I don't wait for Tujo and Rima to fall in line behind the guards. As I step over the dead guard, Nol falls in step beside me. Sweat pours down his face. A good third of his shirt is soaked.

"You okay?" he says. His fingers graze my knuckles.

"Physically?" I nod. "Mentally?" I sigh and shake my head. "It didn't even register, until--"

His hand closes around my own and he squeezes. "I told you to trust me," he says. Vibrancy leaves his eyes. A self-deprecating smile forces its way to the surface. "And now a thirteen-year-old is a murderer."

Heat rises to my cheeks. This is neither the time or place to let myself get taken in my Nol's scent, his touch, his warmth, so I slide my hand from his and widen the distance between us. "She made her choice," I say, though the words are cold, mechanical. They're half-truths. Yes, Rima made her choice, but at the same time, she's a child - it shouldn't have been hers to make in the first place. "She'll have to deal with it," I continue.

To my relief, when I glance back, I spy Tujo and Rima. Rima's crying into her hands, her brother's arm wrapped protectively over her shoulders. "I think she'll manage, given time." This was another half-truth, but right then, I wanted more than anything for those words to solidify into ineffable certainty.

Nol nods and speeds up his pace. For the rest of our journey, I walk in silence, by myself. It feels like I've put the world on mute and while no one dares to speak except to bark out the occasional, "Stop," "Move," or "Turn here," even our footfalls, heavy from our exhaust, don't make their way to my ears. All I see is Rima's face, her cherubic features twisted by years of pent up rage.

How long had she been suffering?

When she'd shot that gun, she wasn't just seeing that gunman. She was seeing every whitecoat, every Doctor, every teacher flit before her gaze, and putting bullets in each of their heads. Fury like that is hard to come back from and nearly impossible to do so without scarring. How would Rima change, now that she had blood on her hands?

My eyes drift to my own hands, clean, washed, still smelling of vanilla and clove. Soft and supple. I clench them, dig my nails into my palms, tear at them, hope to draw blood. Tears fill my eyes.

I should have done something. Acted quicker. Overcome my hesitation, the fear that had shackled my hands to my sides. I should have stopped Rima from pulling the trigger and hurting herself.

It should have been me - me with the gun, me with the man in my sights, me taking the shot and shouldering that burden.

Not her. Not angelic, sweet Rima who only ever thought about others, who only ever reached out to stroke a brother's bruised cheek or slouched back. Whose hands were used to console, to temper the anger and ache we felt boiling under our skin the more the Facility buried its hooks into the remnants of our souls.

I thought myself so clever - fucking around on tests and escaping the brunt of the punishments all while imagining what it would be like to have the world at my fingertips, bending the truth, reshaping history. Being a god made flesh, summoning destruction at the press of a button, championing the underprivileged.

All those stupid, vapid dreams. Smoke and mirrors, blown away by a single bullet. Reality was, I'm useless, and now a thirteen-year-old's a murderer.

It wasn't Nol's fault. It was mine.