Cat’s already on her uniglass, checking her fauxhawk in the mirror as she walks inside. “Ty, I’m sending you our location,” she says, her voice echoing in my earpiece.
“Roger that,” comes the reply.
“Everything okay?” Cat asks. “You sound out of breath.”
“Running,” Tyler gasps.
“… From what?”
“Bar brawl.”
“Aw, bloody hells, you started one without me?”
I raise an eyebrow at Cat, speaking into my uni. “Do you need backup, Goldenboy?”
I follow Cat inside, and as I step across the threshold into Dariel’s place, a whole-body shock goes through me. It’s like I’ve stepped straight through a FoldGate and into a room back on Trask. The walls are lined with white stone, bright green flic vines tumbling down from the niches along the ceiling where they’ve been planted, gently glowing leaves helping light up the room. Trickles of water trail down the walls, and the ceiling is a jagged landscape of stalactites.
It’s like being back in a place I’ve barely visited since I was six years old, and I’m completely unprepared for the wave of … I’m not even sure what this feeling is.
“Grew most of them out of salt.” Dariel’s voice in my ear startles me, and I turn to see him pointing to the stalactites above. “And commissioned a few carved out of rock, a guy back home does them.”
“It’s, uh … authentic,” I manage.
Cat’s looking around the cramped living room like she’s scared the surfaces are radioactive, and I don’t blame her—there are crates stacked up to the ceiling, computer gear everywhere, notes and pictures and screens pinned to every available surface, and it’s none too clean. Looks like my cousin’s running quite the business empire in here. I’m surprised his brain can keep up with it.
About forty minutes go by before the rest of our squad shows up, and Dariel and I spend most of it on family talk. Whenever you get two Betraskans together, we figure out where folks in our extended family have ended up lately. Cat’s pacing by the time the others arrive, walking a circuit of the room that weaves between boxes and crates and stacks of junk.
Our squadmates clearly found somewhere to hole up and change, and the results are impressive. Both the Jones twins look completely edible, him in a stretchy show-my-muscles kind of shirt, her in an equally stretchy bodysuit made of … some kind of black … something.
Hey, it’s hard to focus on fabric finishings with this level of hello there coming at me in stereo, okay?
Pixieboy’s in a coat with a hood that casts a shadow over his forehead, and therefore his Warbreed sigil—smart work, Scarlett—and Zila’s in a neat blue jumpsuit covered in pockets, her tight black curls tied back in a braid.
Kal and Tyler muscle their way through the door with a big plastene crate between them. Both are breathless and look like they’ve been in trouble—Goldenboy’s lip is split, and Kal is limping. Their hair is damp, too.
“Everyone okay?” Cat asks, peering anxiously out into the corridor.
“Five by five,” Tyler says, shutting the door behind him, and casting a quick glance around the room in the dim light, taking in the rock walls, the softly glowing plants, the trickling water. It’s a trip, coming from the metal hallways outside into this little slice of Trask.
“I never thought I’d say this,” Scar says, dragging damp red hair from her eyes. “But thank the stars for all those laps they made us run in PT.”
Tyler shakes his head. “How you move that fast in heels, I’ll never know.”
“It’s a gift, Bee-bro.” Scarlet does a little twirl, showing off her new boots. “And aren’t they gorgeous?”
“What did you do with the trouble magnet?” Cat asks.
In reply, Tyler raps on the crate with his knuckles, and Kal kneels down to open it up, revealing a blinking, mussed Aurora inside. Her black-and-white hair is askew, light brown cheeks turned pink, hiding her freckles. She’s dressed in a black tunic dress with a hood and a pair of black leggings, looking a little worse for wear.
“Can you smuggle me in something softer next time?” she groans as Goldenboy helps her up. “With room service?”
Dariel’s watching all this with undisguised interest, leaning against a dry section of the wall, arms folded over his open shirt. With an inward sigh, I make with the formalities.
“Everyone, this is my cousin Dariel. Dariel, this is everyone.”