“Andrew has always been a friendly bloke. I don’t know a single person who dislikes him! He shines brightest when speaking to others. However, in all my years in this sport, I’ve never come close to witnessing the kind of brotherhood he shares with Takeshi Endo. Those two are inseparable. From the moment they crossed paths, it was like watching long-lost twins find each other. Not many Blazewrath athletes can sway their supporters to root for another team. Yet Andrew has managed to get Scotland chanting for Japan during their matches. Japan’s supporters have even started chanting for Scotland, too! That is the power of Andrew Galloway.”
—Transcript from 2015 radio interview with Russell Turner, IBF president
DIRECTOR SANDHAR DOESN’T COME BACK TO THE STADIUM. HE calls President Turner instead.
After a long conversation in which they discuss our new knowledge of our contracts, President Turner hangs up and tells us, “He got away.”
Nobody speaks. I’m still in the greenroom with my team, which currently consists of crushed spirits, save for Victoria. Some of the IBF staff freaked out once they noticed we were missing. There’d been a bunch of security guards in the room when we returned. After the president calmly sent them away, he’d gotten the call from Director Sandhar, who relented to let us keep our memories. Now I want him to take every damn thing in my pounding head.
He got away.
Just like he’s getting away with controlling the Cup. I need to figure out why we matter so much to him. This can’t only be about making us the villains of his story. There has to be more.
I dab at my eyes, drying up leftover tears. Am I the Sire’s prisoner? Yes. That doesn’t mean I’m staying his prisoner.
President Turner is in the dark about his master’s real plan, so pressing him will be useless. I need to get craftier if I want to figure out what the Sire wants. Grinding his ultimate desire to dust might be the only way I can save Blazewrath. This competition matters too much for it to be tarnished like this. We just need our freedom back.
He got away, but I’ll make sure he doesn’t get what he’s after.
First, I need to stop Andrew from protesting. If I beg hard enough, hopefully I can save him from making himself the Sire’s next target.
A male IBF employee arrives to take us to the dragons. We cram inside the elevators in the most uncomfortable silence ever. Even Manny, who’s a little buzzed, keeps his mouth shut. By the time we get to the wait zone, a whole lifetime has seemingly gone by.
Chaos welcomes us once the doors slide open. There are Blazewrath players and IBF staff members everywhere, but there are also heaps of security guards lining the walls. They’re monitoring the players’ every move. Some guards stationed near the dragons’ wait-zone entrance are escorting them inside. The procession is in alphabetical order.
“Follow me.” The employee beckons us forward.
On the way, I spot Andrew, with his head down and his arms folded, in one of the corridors. He has three guards watching him from a distance, but no one’s bothering him. It’s like there’s an unspoken agreement to let him grieve in peace.
I slip away from my team and head straight to Andrew. He doesn’t look up at me, but his gaze flickers to my boots. “Hey,” I say as softly as I can. “You need to cancel the protest.”
I might as well have spit acid on his uniform. “Are you hearing yourself? We’re all being herded onto that field, dismissing a horrifying threat from a terrorist, and you want me to cancel the protest?” Andrew shakes his head. “Not a chance.”
“Listen to me, okay? You could cause more harm than good, especially to yourself.”
“Is Turner paying you an extra seven million to say that?” Andrew says icily.
I tip my head back with a hopeless sigh. I can’t tell him the truth, but I don’t know what works as the perfect lie, either.
“Are you thinking up a convincing load of dung for me?” Andrew’s grin is cocky as hell. “What’s this harm you’re referring to? What unspeakable evil will come to pass if I protest?”
His mocking tone would’ve pissed me off any other day. Right now, all I can dwell on is how to keep this stubborn boy from testing the Sire’s patience. The last thing I want is for him to get hurt because I couldn’t dissuade him from acting recklessly.
“Earth to Lana?”
I look back at him. “Remember what I said about betraying our countries?”
Andrew rolls his eyes. “Vividly.”
“Well, it’s the truth. We would be betraying our countries. I can’t live with that guilt.”
“But you can live with the Sire murdering people left and right? That would be bearable to you in comparison?” Andrew looks like his brain is frying up from trying to understand me. Then his eyes go wide. “Something happened before this conversation, didn’t it?”
“No,” I say too quickly. Damn it.
He tenses. “You’re lying.”
“Of course not.”
“Tell me what happened, Lana.”
“Nothing happened.”
“Stop lying to me.”
“I’m not lying.” I retreat a few steps. I can’t protect him without compromising my contract. “You know what? Forget it. You’re going to think what you want, but trust me, protesting is useless. The Cup won’t get canceled. And like I said, it could seriously backfire.”
Andrew gives me a pitying look. “I’m not backing down because someone won’t do what I say. I’ll keep going because I believe in something greater than me. Let the Cup go on if it must, but I won’t be silenced.” He pushes away from the wall. “Thanks so much for pulling out at the last second like a coward. Don’t concern yourself with what I do anymore. We’re done.”
“I’m trying to help you!” I whisper-yell. “You’re making this harder than it should be.” I raise a hand to his chest. “I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes, but it must suck to go through this alone, so please don’t shut me out. And please don’t pick fights you can’t win.”
Andrew leans down. He’s bridging the gap between us, acting like he’s about to hug me. Instead, he whispers in my ear, “Thanks, but I’m choosing to resist in other ways.”
Wow. He’s using my own words against me.
Andrew walks away before I find a suitable way to respond.
“There you are!” Gabriela seizes my arm. “Our chariot is ready!”
I follow her out of the corridor, hoping against hope Andrew comes to his senses.
EACH TEAM GETS A PRIVATE WAIT ZONE, WHICH IS A HUGE CHAMBER identical to a hangar. There are sliding panels to the front and back. Pakistan is in front of us, with Russia settling behind. The panels will open once the procession starts. Each team will be flying out one by one.
The six Sol de Noche dragons have been arranged in pairs. Titán and Esperanza are first, followed by Puya and Daga, then Rayo and Fantasma. They’re tethered to thick straps the color of their dark scales, which are all hooked to the chariot that’s been built for me.
Not that I’d call it a chariot. It’s more like a replica of the Sol de Noche’s skull.
Its frontal horns, eye sockets, and fangs are there, but instead of bone white, the skull has been painted black. Its mouth is wide open, as if it’s about to devour everything in its path. A podium is nestled between the horns, and a leather strap has been placed at the top. I have to tie it around my waist so I don’t free-fall to my death. I shudder. No other Runner has had to step foot in a contraption like this. Everyone else gets Roman-style chariots. There’s either been a change in protocol, or I’m the only Runner getting a different design. Either way, it’s clear the Sire’s trying to keep the press’s attention on me. Is he expecting them to drag me for this over-the-top stunt? Or does he want to see how they react? Why would he even care?
And here I thought I couldn’t loathe him more.
I walk into the skull chariot. Staff members secure the harness around my waist while my teammates mount their steeds. None of the dragons show signs of discomfort. It’s as if they’re unbothered by the Sire’s latest message. Once the harness is set, another employee hands me a thin white pole with the Puerto Rican flag at the top. It’s much lighter than I feared. The red, white, and blue above me is a sight to behold, but I can’t look at it for long. I swallow down the boulders stuck in my throat and keep the tears at bay. This isn’t the time for a meltdown.
“Puerto Rico ready for takeoff,” I catch an employee saying into his mic.
“You look really powerful up there,” Joaquín says, trying his best to cheer me up. He then looks at the rest of my team. “You all do. Remember that. You are powerful.”
No. We’re prisoners.
Twenty minutes later, the international livestream begins with drums. Their booming, spine-jolting sound engulfs the whole stadium. A television screen appears on the sliding panel ahead, showing a procession of two hundred men from Dubai spilling onto the field. They are all dressed in their white kanduras, cotton robes that reach their ankles. The first man in line beats the biggest drum of all. The ever-posh Jeffrey Hines, who’s working as this year’s Cup announcer, calls the big drum the Al-Ras and the smaller ones the Takhamir drums.
“We’re about to be treated to a special performance of the Al-Ayyala!” he boasts. “Please welcome Dubai’s war dancers to the Blazewrath stadium!”
Applause quickly ensues. At first, I think the men are holding long, thin blades, but they’re actually camel sticks. They break into two lines, a hundred men on one side, the other hundred on the opposite side. All the men face one another while striking their camel sticks onto the sand and thrusting them into the sky. The men are chanting lyrical snippets in unison, a lovely blend of singsong voices, even though they’re pretending to challenge one another in battle. It’s such a pulsating, joyous performance that I don’t notice the fire dancers coming up behind them.
Once the Al-Ayyala ends, though, the war dancers part ways on either side of the field, allowing a fresh batch of both men and women to toss and twirl fiery batons. It’s a seamlessly woven frenzy of flames, acrobatics, and vibrant music. The field almost looks like it’s made out of spinning gold. An equally large group of singers appears next, each one gripping a small version of the United Arab Emirates flag: a lone vertical red stripe, along with the horizontal green, white, and black stripes. Singers belt out the IBF’s anthem, which is too long and convoluted, but the final verse has always been my favorite: “Bring home the gold, take home wherever you are.” It’s a reminder for players to proudly share their cultures regardless of which country is hosting the Cup. Growing up, that had been the one line I would sing along to. I prayed for the chance to sing it on the field. Now that the day has come, I can’t bring myself to celebrate my culture or anyone else’s.
First I have to rip this tournament from the Sire’s clutches.
Once the dancers and singers disperse to the sides, President Turner, Ambassador Haddad, and a slew of IBF representatives walk out. They pass right through the middle of the action, smiling and waving at the rowdy fans, then climb on a stage at the end of the field.
“And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” an ecstatic Jeffrey Hines says. “Folks, here are this year’s Blazewrath World Cup competitors! First up, Argentina!”
One by one, each team exits the wait zone. None of their chariots are as over the top as mine. This is what I get for standing up to the Sire’s little lapdog, Takeshi. How lucky am I.
The sliding panel in front of us rises. I can no longer see Jeffrey Hines or the stands.
“Up next,” says Jeffrey, “our newest competitors from Puerto Rico!”
The building is about to collapse. There are whistles and screams and stomping feet and that high-pitched noise that can only come from a horn. I hear an overwhelming amount of panderetas, too, which are similar to tambourines save for the jangling discs on their outer rim. A crew of musicians plays their loudest plena for the world to hear. It’s the kind of upbeat music I used to indulge in during weekends at my grandparents’ house. Music I haven’t heard in ages.
So many people from the island have flown to Dubai to watch us play.
So many people have come to witness history.
A tainted, cheapened moment thanks to the Sire.
Titán and Esperanza move forward as one. The rest of the dragons are synchronized to their every motion, flying out of the hangar with ease. It’s as if the skull chariot weighs less than an ant. I’m rocked forward but manage to regain my footing seconds before the dragons soar into the sky. I hold the flagpole as high as I’m able to and wave the flag side to side.
“Puerto Rico! Puerto Rico! Puerto Rico!”
Everyone seems to be chanting our country’s name. The whole stadium is losing its cool as we get in line behind Pakistan’s chariot, slowly circling the stadium.
I keep flaunting our flag, pretending everything is fine. At least no one is booing me. No one demands I prove how Puerto Rican I am or calls me out for abandoning the island. I really am their flag bearer. Their Runner. And yet their cheers don’t cross out the words in my secret contract. My fake smile gets the crowd cheering louder. My teammates are doing a better job of appearing excited. Luis is even blowing kisses at the fans. He almost makes me crack up.
Russia’s announced next, followed by Scotland.
Boos come hard and fast. A few people throw popcorn at the field, shouting gibberish I can’t quite make out, but most simply carry on with their incessant booing.
I search for Andrew on the jumbo screens. He’s inside his chariot, which is gilded to match the Scottish dragons’ intimidating horned heads. While the Golden Horns are all flying in formation, sunlight bouncing off their ice-blue scales with every flap of their spindly wings, the Scottish flag stands tall beside Andrew. In its place, he’s holding up a large sign with words in bold red: No MORE BLOOD. The same words painted on Sayuri Endo’s sign.
Andrew’s head is lowered, his eyes shut tight. No one from his team is openly protesting. No one else in the tournament is openly protesting. Whether he never approached the other players or if they rejected him like I did, Andrew’s choosing to be a lone wolf in the woods.
He holds his sign until the very end of the procession, where all the dragons descend onto the creamy sand field. Noora Haddad discreetly snaps him from different angles. The crowd’s boos roar like an ocean hurtling toward shore. They subside once a massive Rock Flame lights up onstage. It’s about forty feet high, ascending in slow motion. The Rock Flame cracks in half to reveal the Blazewrath World Cup, that golden beacon of hope I’ve dreamed of holding.
President Turner says, “On behalf of the International Blazewrath Federation, I welcome you all to the twenty-seventh Blazewrath World Cup!”
An assortment of bright-red fireworks set off from all sides of the stadium. Boos are replaced with bursts of light and cheers from the people onstage. The audience joins in with cheers of their own, but Andrew never does.
Neither do I. No one will be reporting about my chariot after Andrew’s protest. He’ll be the talk of the town, a huge target plastered on his back for the Sire to see. I couldn’t protect him.
But I’m still going to stop the Sire from claiming anything else I care about.