curvy hip cocked to one side. “Is there a problem?”
“Uh…yeah! You’ve been recruited into this chapter and you don’t even know anything about them? Their history…their lore?”
She swings her arms out. “It’s not a big deal, Claire. I’ll figure it out. They gave me some sort of pamphlet to read—”
“A pamphlet?!” I screech, my frustration bouncing off the concrete walls. “You can’t fit decades of heroism into a trifold. I mean, look at this!” I hold up my bulging diary for emphasis. “This is every scrap of info I’ve collected since I started following Warrior Nation, and that’s only seven years’ worth.”
“Calm down,” she commands, turning back on her heel. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
I laugh. “Doubtful.” I run to catch up with her, staring down the false confidence in her stride. “How can you be so casual about this? Do you even know what you’re getting into?”
“God! Enough!” she groans. “I thought you were cute up on the roof, what with your sad little fists ready to defend your birthright or however you built it up in your mind, but I never would’ve brought you down here if I’d known how annoying you really are.”
“How did you even fall into this anyway?” I persist, ignoring her comment. “There are people way more obsessed than me who have literally killed themselves to become Warriors, pushing their powers to the limits to prove their worth as heroes. You’ve never heard of people accidentally drowning or electrocuting themselves for this? Jumping off buildings, throwing themselves into fights? The audition-fail videos are all over the internet.” She keeps walking, eyes straight ahead, eyebrows furrowed. “But not you. You didn’t have to do a thing! You’re walking into one of the greatest organizations ever and you don’t even care. What, did you just happen to chat up a Warrior recruiter one day and make them fall in love with your smile or something dumb like that?” I shake my head. “God, I hate pretty girls! Everything is just handed to you.”
We’re almost at the end of the hallway, bright blue doors painted with the Warrior Nation logo waiting for us. The swirling silver “W” and “N” curl around a navy-blue shield, an image that is practically tattooed on my brain. Seeing it here, in this context, helps shift my frustration slightly; I won’t let some girl ruin this moment.
“Look,” Joy says, standing between me and the door. “I didn’t ask to be chosen for this. I had different ideas for my life, but I woke up one day to discover I could lift an SUV over my head. And now I’m here, and you can be sure that when I commit to something, I give it my all. So write that down in your damn diary.” She spins around, blond hair flying, and pushes open the double doors.
Whatever, I think as the doors close behind her. If she thinks she can jump into this world blind, then best of luck. But I’m not relying on chance. I’ve spent every day since I was ten preparing for this, and I am ready.
I’m here. Warrior Nation headquarters.
I open the doors, revealing a spacious control room. I instantly have to catch my breath, senses on overload as I begin mentally cataloging every single microscopic detail of my surroundings. It’s bright, despite there being no natural light, as everything is either painted white or made of glass. The styling is retro-futuristic, with furniture looking like it could have been modern in the 1960s paired with next-gen technology. Multiple movie-theater-size screens flash news reports and events taking place around Chicago, like the most wide-reaching security system ever. People hustle by, a straight-up army of support staff scurrying off to save the day in their own way.
It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
I stand on the edge of it all, feet itching to take off and explore, and spot Joy talking to a familiar face, a tiny wisp of a woman with a severe gray bob and thick, giant glasses resting against her slightly wrinkled ivory face. She makes no effort to contain a sneer as she taps away on a tablet that’s almost as big as her. OMG! I suppress a squeal upon realizing she’s Millie Montouse, Chicago’s Warrior Nation spokesperson.
“You’re late for hand-to-hand combat training, Miss Goodwin,” Millie says in disapproval.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Joy answers.
“I am disappointed with your performance this week,” Millie continues, not even looking up from her screen. “You are not where we