“Do you want a cup?” a Real asks from the nearby coffee machine. I look up, startled. The Real waits, staring right at me, and I drop my head again, pretending to be engrossed in the paper.
“No, thanks,” I say, as fast as I can. I fold the paper up, tuck it into my shirt underneath the jumpsuit, and hurry away. I need to find Scoop, and we have to get out here. I’m almost out when I stop for a second, pulled in by the television. What’s on-screen now isn’t Blissful Days. It appears to be people giving commentary on the show. Three Reals sit on stools on a stage, two women and a man with pearly teeth. All three are in better condition than the Reals I’m used to seeing on the island—they could pass for Characters.
“Blissful Days was a doozy yesterday!” the man says. His pearly teeth wink and flash under studio lights. The camera pans over the audience, clapping in agreement.
The plump older woman says. “Yes, let’s talk teens. Finally, apprenticeship application time.”
“I saw a lot of second-guessing,” the second woman trills. “Lincoln Grayson changed his mind at the last minute and went for the casino slot.”
Casino dealer. Figures. Probably wants to be a Spate dealer to swerve off his parents. I spot a clock next to the television: 4:59. Scoop and I have until 5:30 to get back to the boat. I’m almost at the door when the ratter-patter of hundreds of drums striking in unison, marching-band style, stops me in my tracks.
A baritone voice proclaims, “Next up on Patriot Adventures,” and, of course, I turn back.
“Built over a century ago to house government records, Lim Tower is thought to be impenetrable. That’s why the Drowned Landers made it their headquarters after taking over Krail. But what will happen when we send Seabert Oreganet in to destroy this vital building?”
“Kaboom!” a Real slumped on a couch crows. “I wish they were sending in the teen team, though.”
“Teen team?” the woman next to him asks.
“Yeah, they’ve started transferring teenagers from Days to Adventures—they think they’ll make better Patriots. More malleable.”
“I hear they’ll let Seabert opt out of his contract if he survives this one.” The show. I bet this insane show, not Blissful Days, is what the Reals were referring to when I overheard the radio transmission. Mom said it was frightening, one had said, and then I remember being on the Tram, after the depot tunnel, when the man said that before they had a draft, Before they do that, they should up the adventures. He meant Patriot Adventures.
This is why Kat Deva knew my father was tough. Is tough. She’s seen him in combat. What happens to Patriots has never been a mystery for the Audience. But if I thought they were heartless before, now I think they’re a thousand times worse.
I remember how firmly my mother reprimanded me for mentioning my father on-mic and ruining our scenes for broadcast. All those reminders I threw out. Now I get that it was never about the Audience—it was how Media1 keeps us from questioning what happens to them.
A montage of destruction fills the screen—buildings toppling, flame storms, piles of fallen bodies. The drums start up again, and a Real claps in time on his knee.
Blood soaking through fatigues. Patriots racing through the jungle, fleeing gunfire. An agonized scream as someone falls to the ground. When I finally manage to tear my eyes away, I realize the Reals are rapt, unfazed by the carnage.
“Do you remember that time Starling blew up the bridge between the two rebel camps?” one of them asks nonchalantly. I look over. My father. They’ve seen him. I glance at the television. Maybe I can see him too.
“I miss him,” a dry voice says. “What’s it been, two years now?”
“Yup,” the other one sighs. “Sad. But for the best cause. To Sectors reunification!” He lifts up his coffee up, and the others follow suit.
The carnage disappears, and the screen returns to the set with the commentators. I remain standing, in a trance. All these seasons, I thought he was in an office building in Zenta. Even after I began to question that, I never thought it out—never considered he could be . . . really gone. I thought I’d accepted that I’d never talk to him, never see him, never know him. But this is a finality I could never have conceived of before.
Patriot Adventures comes back on-screen with a sickening roar—a helicopter touching down on a ragged field—and I snap out of my trance and burst into the hall. Scoop is at the shooting gallery, watching Belle.
“Let’s go,” I say. He ignores me and keeps moving closer to the glass. A Real watches us curiously. I grab Scoop’s hand, harder this time. “Let’s go.”
“We have to help her,” he says, arms crossed resolutely, like he’s ready to take the place down now.
“We will! I got it. I got the proof. It’s worse than we thought. I’ll tell you on the boat, but we have to get out of here.”
I don’t wait for him to agree, just turn and start walking down the hall. It’s all I can do not to break into a run.