The laughter continues. The words that Corian’s father had spoken to me echo in my thoughts. You weren’t good enough. On the ground, the prisoner slowly pushes himself up to a seated position and meets my eyes with an accusing glare. I stare back, loathing myself for being sympathetic, hating him for forcing me to be kind.
A rat and a prisoner of war. Perhaps we’re not so different after all.
5
Evening falls. I can’t get him out of my head.
The sound of clashing blades in the arena still rings in my ears as I head out through the Inner City’s walls and into the streets of the Outer City, toward my mother’s home. Roads of mud cut through columns of haphazard shacks leaning this way and that. Everything is cobbled together out of scrap wood, threadbare cloths, and sheets of thin, rusted metal useless for anything else, leftovers from the worlds where we all came from. That no longer exist.
I pass all of it in a daze. My mind lingers on the prisoner—my new Shield, I have to keep telling myself.
The reminder sends a fresh wave of revulsion through me.
I haven’t yet changed out of my Striker gear. I can hardly believe I still get to wear it. Basean refugees call out to me from their stalls, holding out reams of bright fabrics or gesturing to their burlap bags filled with red and gold and purple spices, hoping I have money to spend. Servants sent by their noble Maran masters point at the hanging trails of crimson peppers and black garlic, haggling for the lowest price. Though Marans won’t let us live inside the walls, they have certainly developed a taste for our food.
I pause to buy a bag of spices, then continue until I reach another shanty neighborhood, my mother’s. Difficult as it is to be apart from her, here she is surrounded by a community of other Baseans. A small comfort that I hold dear. You can always tell the Basean streets apart because of the green they somehow manage to coax up from the dirt: tangles of squash vines snaking along the ground, mint and rosemary shrubs cutting through the scent of grease and perfumed rice and spiced fish. Fires burn low, dangerously close to doors, and in front of them crouch an assortment of people, cooking in iron kettles and on homemade metal grills laid over their fires.
They are my people and I am theirs, but they still stare at me as I pass by, eyeing my Striker uniform with a mixture of fascination and dislike. A familiar murmur from them buzzes in my ears. There are such things as spies who patrol the Outer City. They’re sent by the Senate to listen for rumbles of unrest from these people who have been stripped of everything. Pushed to their limit, some lash out, inciting attacks against Maran guards and riots in the streets. I’ve seen the occasional Outer City resident dragged from their leaning shack, locked away after some spy or other has reported their plotting. I always feel confused afterward, a mix of pity and anger and grief.
There are enough people in my mother’s neighborhood who think I’m one of these spies, dressed up in the fine uniform of a Striker and sent to watch over everyone’s affairs here. That I’m the eyes and ears of the elite, reporting who to punish. In this way, they see me the same way that the Marans do: undeserving of the Striker uniform. It keeps me suspended between the Inner City and the Outer—where I’m neither accepted nor entirely cast out by either side.
Even so, I can’t help feeling a bit at home as I walk these streets. Here, to me, is the part of Mara I understand, the people that Mara had allowed into its borders even as the Federation pushes in from all sides. We’re still here and alive. It’s enough of a reason to defend this place.
Now I slow my walk as I reach our quarters. From the end of this muddy path, I can see the humble little home I grew up in, its door open to let in fresh air.
If I could have, I would’ve moved my mother into the Striker apartments with me years ago. But even my position isn’t enough for the Senate to let her into the Inner City. It would set a dangerous precedent, said the Speaker. Instead, my friends each gave their offerings,