Firstlife

“I’d rather not talk about your goods and services, thanks.” Slowly I pivot, placing her at my back. This is a rarity for me. A low point, a moment of utter desperation. If she attempts a hit-and-run or a grab-and-stab—anything dirty—I’ll make sure she regrets it.

She inhales sharply, and I assume she’s studying the wealth of bruises I’m sporting.

“Sometime today,” I snap, horrified by the perceived weakness.

She gently works my arms through the sleeves. “I hope you’re prepared for the Everlife. Another beating like this could kill you.”

Doubtful. Dr. Vans has the torture thing nailed. He knows when he’s about to push a body too far. “Trust me. Death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to me.”

“Of course it isn’t. If you haven’t made the right plans for the Unending, you’ll wish you ceased to exist.”

The Unending, where Myriad and Troika—the two realms in power in the afterlife...aka the Everlife—are located. Where “real” life is said to begin.

Over the years, the world has been divided into two factions. Those who support Myriad, and those who support Troika. No one ever supports both. How can they? The realms are too fundamentally opposed—about everything!

Myriad boasts about autonomy...bliss...indulgence. To them, Firstlife is merely a stepping stone into the Everlife, everything happens for a fated reason and, when we experience Second-death—death in the Everlife—our spirit returns to Earth, the Land of the Harvest, to Fuse with another—brand-new—spirit.

They are willing to negotiate covenant terms to win over a human.

Troika, on the other hand, is known for structure...constant study...absolute conformity. To them, Firstlife matters just as much as Everlife, fate is a myth and, when we experience Second-death, we enter into the Rest, never to be seen by human or spirit again.

Troikans refuse to negotiate covenant terms, offering the same benefits to everyone everywhere without exception. The same laws, too. To them, what is right is right and what is wrong is wrong, for one and for all. Everyone on equal footing.

If one realm says the sky is cloudless, the other will say a storm is brewing.

They’ve been at war for centuries, the other’s destruction the ultimate goal. That’s why they fight so hard to win souls. That’s also why picking the right side is so important. Someday, someone is going to lose.

Here on Earth, the Myriad and Troika supporters aren’t segregated...exactly. They try to coexist, but it’s in imperfect harmony and there’s always an underlying hum of tension.

Sometimes riots break out, and the government is forced to execute martial law to prevent an all-out brawl.

A rare few people, like me, have no idea which side to back. We see merits to both sets of beliefs. We also see downsides.

We are called the Unsigned.

For us, there are rumors of a third spirit realm, the place we’ll end up after Firstdeath. My parents used to tell me horror stories about it, stories whispered in the dark of night. The Realm of Many Ends, where nightmares come to life.

I’ve often wondered... Is Many Ends a made-up place intended to scare kids straight?

“Do you?” Bow asks as she zips up my jumpsuit. “Have plans for the Unending, I mean?”

“I’m not talking Everlife with you.”

Her features scrunch with disappointment. “Why not?”

“I’ll be here another three hundred and fifty-two days.”

3 + 5 + 2 = 10

“And?”

And she will leave sooner rather than later. I recognize her type. Extremely optimistic until something goes wrong. After her first beating, she’ll cave and do whatever her parents want, guaranteed.

“Forget the next life. What about this one? Tell me why you’re here.” I motion to our illustrious cell with a tilt of my chin.

“My guardian sent me.” She strides to the second twin bed and sits, and there’s nothing graceful or feminine about her. “Told me to be a light.”

Ugh. What I hear? Absolute conformity. “You signed with Troika, then.” Not a question.

Her nod contains a thread of pride. “I did.”

We’re going to clash so hard. “What is light, exactly?” What’s she going to be pushing on me?

“Whatever is needed to help someone find a way out of darkness.”

Darkness. “Meaning Myriad.”

She ignores my dry tone. “Meaning a problem, any problem.”

Well, I’ve got plenty of those—though I tell myself this situation is fertilizer, and something good must grow from it.

“Why are you here?” she asks me.

“I refuse to make covenant with Myriad.” Covenant—the equivalent of signing a contract in blood.

Sometimes, in an attempt to convince me to sign away my rights, I’m pampered. Isn’t this nice? This is what awaits you in Myriad. Most times I’m tortured. This is only the beginning of what you’ll endure in Many Ends. Not knowing what awaits me is the worst.

“Prynne is supposed to be unaffiliated with either realm,” she says with a frown.

“It is.” How else could Dr. Vans convince one kid to sign with Myriad and another to sign with Troika? Which he does. All the time.

She meets my gaze, a little surprised, a lot hopeful. “Do you want to make covenant with Troika?”

“Not even a little.” As her shoulders droop, I add, “I hate to break it to you, but your guardian sucks. He—she?—sentenced you to hell. For nothing! No one here will accept your light.” Trust no one. Question everything.

“Maybe not, but I’ll still make the offer. Yesterday, today and tomorrow, my actions matter.”

In that, I agree with her. I’ll even take it a step further. The most destructive or constructive actions begin with a single thought. And, ultimately, a single action can decide the direction our lives take. And our deaths.

I will choose my path. Me alone. My choice will affect no eternal future but my own.

She opens her mouth to say more, but I shake my head. Subject closed.

She hops up and walks around the room, studying every nook and cranny, finally stopping to gape at my calendar. “Seriously? You’re using a finger pen? No wonder everyone calls you Nutter. You’re the biggest nut in the whack shack.”

She just got here. How does she know what I’m called? “Everyone calls me Nutter because of the size of my lady balls. That, and I tend to smear my opponents across the floor like peanut butter.”

She thinks for a moment, frowns. “If your lady balls are so big, why don’t they call you Hairy Cherries? Or Furry Meatballs?” She taps her chin. “Well, duh. Because neither name describes your explosive temper. Oh! I know. I’ll call you Sperm Bank! It covers the balls and the explosions.”

I snort-laugh. She’s brave, so gold star for that. In a place like this, lack of fear is rare and precious. Of course, if she threatens me in the slightest way, I won’t hesitate to end her. Survival first, nothing else second.

“If anyone calls me Sperm Bank, my temper is going to explode all over you,” I say. “Meanwhile, I’ll be sure to call you Hatchet. The tool used to cut your hair, I’m guessing.”

She fluffs the ragged ends of her style. “I used a kitchen knife, thank you very much. I’m confident the trim properly highlights my beauty.”

Have to admire her positivity.

My internal clock suddenly goes off, the conversation forgotten. “Breakfast!”

She sighs. “Mealtime. Yay.”

“Our cell will open in three...two...one.”

The double doors slide apart.

“We have thirty seconds to exit the room,” I explain. “If the door closes while we’re still inside, we’ll miss the meal.” The food sucks, nothing but slop, but that slop has enough vitamins to keep us somewhat healthy. And really, anything is better than starving.

“So we’re like dogs in a crate, taken out only at scheduled times so we won’t crap on something important or chew on the furniture. Awesome.”

Together, we dart into the hall. Our blockmates do the same. In total, there are twelve of us.

Twelve: the number of months in a year, members on a jury, and the hours on the face of a clock.

For a moment, we take each other’s measure. Anyone going to uncage the rage today?

When no one makes a lewd or violent gesture—hey, this might be a good day—we head for the exit at the end of the hall.

Jane, one of the older inmates, mutters to herself and stops to bang her forehead against the wall. Skin splits at her hairline and blood trickles down her cheek. Everyone else keeps walking, head down and arms wrapped around the torso, as if to protect the vitals—or stop an avalanche of pain and misery from spilling out.

I march determinedly beside Bow, for the first time noticing she exudes a fragrant mix of wildflowers and lemon drops. I like it, but I know it won’t last. Our water smells like chemicals, and the soap we’re given smells like grease.

A high-pitched whistle cuts through the air, making me cringe. “Well, well,” a voice says from behind me. “I just lost a bet I’d assumed was a sure thing.”

“Like Becky,” someone else calls, and snickers erupt.

I don’t have to glance over my shoulder to ID the first speaker. Sloan “don’t hate me because I’m beautiful, hate me because I plan to murder you” Aubuchon. She is Dr. Vans’s favorite inmate, even though she’s tried to kill him, oh, a dozen times.

From the things I’ve heard the good doc say to her, she’s here because either (a) she can’t control her temper or (b) she refuses to marry the old fart who will save her grandparents’ estate. I’ve always leaned toward A. Arranged marriages still happen, but not often.

“Tenley didn’t kill her new roommate at first sight, y’all,” she continues, her Southern twang ridiculously adorable even while she’s sneering. “Meaning, the newbie wasn’t eaten—at least not literally.”

Charming.

A few boos ring out, but so do a couple of cheers.

Bow turns and smiles at the girl. “What’d you lose? A few more IQ points?”

I almost sigh, because I can guess what’s coming next.

A volcanic Sloan races forward to grab Bow by the collar of her jumpsuit, forcing her to stop.

Yeah. That.

I stop, too, unsure how I’ll proceed. I’ve seen this song and dance before—eleven times, to be exact—and my reactions always differ. I’ve pretended to be blind and deaf, but I’ve also thrown a punch while screaming obscenities.

Sloan and I live by different philosophies. While I lash out only when provoked (usually), she attacks newcomers at the first opportunity to prevent challengers later.

Life sucks. We’ve adapted.

“Bless your heart.” Sloan releases Bow to plant her hands on her hips. Tall, blonde and model-pretty, she’s the girl every other longs to be. Until she opens her mouth, and her outer beauty can no longer compensate for her inner bitch. “You’re not smart enough to realize I run this shit show. You’ll keep your eyes down and your tongue quiet...or you’ll lose both.”

Bow flicks me an amused glance. “Hey, what do you call a blonde with only half a brain? Gifted!”

Am I really caught in the middle of this? “Have you forgotten that you are a blonde?” And Troikan! Forgive and move on.

“So,” Bow says, tapping her chin. “You’re suggesting I blow in her ear for a data transfer?”

“That’s it! Say goodbye to your tongue.” Sloan pushes Bow with enough force to make the girl stumble.

Before she can do anything else, I react without thought, slapping her arm away. “Hands off.” Guess I’m going to protest today. Which might do more harm than good. Like the rest of us, Bow has to learn to defend herself. There’s no other way to survive.

Sloan’s narrowed gaze focuses on me. “What are you gonna do, Nutter? Huh?”

“Do you really want to know?” I ask softly. Being the crazy girl in a place full of crazy girls certainly has its advantages. No one is ever able to anticipate my next move. “What I say, I’ll do. No take-backs.”

We’ve thrown down before, Sloan and I, and it wasn’t pretty. Forget scratching and pulling hair, the quintessential “catfight.” We punched and kicked and ripped at each other like animals.

We both bear the scars.

I’m not afraid of physical pain. Not anymore.

I’m hit with surprise when my roommate says, “Dude. Do you have any idea how funny this is? Sloaner the Moaner has a mouthful of number two while she’s talking to Ten.”

Another round of boos and cheers ring out.

Sloan forgets all about me, baring her teeth in a scowl. “Maybe I won’t remove your tongue and eyes...yet. I want you to see what I do to you, and beg for mercy I won’t give you.”

“Enough!” A harsh voice booms from overhead speakers. “You know the rules, girls. There’s no loitering in the hallways. Go to the cafeteria or go to the whipping post. Your choice.”

I look at Sloan, who’s glaring at Bow, who’s smirking at Sloan.

Sloan bares her teeth and says to me, “You do know your boyfriend wasn’t the only one capable of paying the guards to shut off the cameras, right? If I were you, I’d start sleeping with one eye open.” With that, she turns on her heel and flounces off. Or tries to.

I grab her arm, stopping her, and get in her face. I keep my voice low as I say, “You sneak into my room, and I’ll fillet you like a fish. No one will pay attention to your screams. You know that, right?”

You scream, I scream, we all scream. No one cares. The asylum’s unofficial anthem.

Sloan jerks free and stalks away.

I cast Bow a humorless smile. “Welcome to Prynne.”

chapter two

“Take comfort. Our laws are the same yesterday, today and forever.”

—Troika

Bow laughs, which I don’t understand. My temper is a bear that’s just been poked with a stick. I don’t like threats. And I especially don’t like waiting to deal with threats. Yet, she’s amused.

“Come on,” I mutter, dragging her down the hall despite my physical discomfort.

There are multiple doorways, each painted puke green. The walls are medicine-tray gray, and the floors are some type of soil-your-pants brown. I know this for a fact. Last week, a guard threatened a new guy with castration and all hell broke loose...just like his bowels.

“Thank you for having my six.” Bow bumps shoulders with me, only to mumble an apology when I wince. “Yeah, I could have taken her down, no problem, but you still put yourself on the line.”

“Don’t thank me. Just keep your head on a swivel and your insults to a minimum. I don’t want to mop up your remains.”

Her grin slips a little. “I didn’t enjoy lashing out at her. Sloan has some pretty big baggage. But her general nastiness triggered my inner bitch. I didn’t even know I had an inner bitch! But yeah, okay, I should have handled the situation differently.”

“How do you know about her baggage?”

“Uh, perhaps I misspoke. I mean, who doesn’t have baggage, right?”

True. We all arrive with a couple carry-ons.

We pass through the commons, where our classes usually take place. There’s no escaping high school, even here. There are plush leather couches and three different circles of chairs—which makes sense. (1) Thought, (2) word and (3) deed, the sum total of human capability.

Around the corner and through a wide set of double doors is the cafeteria. A colorless, utilitarian room with a sea of tables and benches that have been bolted down. The male inmates are already seated, eating from trays.

As Bow and I take our place at the end of the buffet line, I narrow my focus to the nitty-gritty. The number of inmates in the room: one hundred females versus ninety-seven males. It’s uneven. I don’t like uneven. The scales should always be balanced.

There are twenty guards—ten males, ten females—one “good guy” for every ten “bad guys.” Despite the fact that outside these walls there’s a Laborer from both Troika and Myriad for every one hundred humans, there are no Laborers here.

“Are you mathing?” Bow asks. “You look like you’re mathing. Well, here’s an equation I think you’ll like. There are roughly two billion people in the world, and twenty million Laborers. With those kind of odds, I never should have been assigned to stay in your room.”

“Are you hinting life is a zero-sum game? You won, and I lost.”

She snorts. “You basically won the lottery, and you know it.”

“Or, your guardian paid extra to pair you with an Unsigned, preferably one with a Myriad background.” Which is actually counterproductive to Dr. Vans’s goal in my case. But when has the man ever resisted a bonus?

“Hey, look at you! Pretty and smart.”

“And hungry,” I grumble.

As we edge our way to the front of the line, multiple conversations take place around us.

“—too bad. I called dibs.”

“—did you hide them? Tell me!”

“—don’t allow Myriad scum near me.”

How many of these kids are pro-Myriad? How many are pro-Troika? How many are Unsigned?

Bow clearly hasn’t gotten the memo. Talking about the Everlife is forbidden. Well, only with each other. Dr. Vans’s way of avoiding a riot inside these walls, I guess.

I deduced Sloan is Unsigned, which wasn’t exactly hard to do considering she’s said “I’d rather be a queen in Many Ends than a drone in the realms” countless times.

Okay, not countless. Twenty-three.

“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together,” Bow tells me. “Let’s get to know each other better.”

“No, thanks.”

She persists. “How were you introduced to the realms?”

“The usual way.” Since public schools aren’t allowed to lean one way or the other, only private schools, children are told stories by biased parents. Also, different facilities offer virtual tours but, depending on who’s running them, the tours are always skewed.

My aunt Lina is my dad’s crazy twin sister who, I’ve been told, suffers from polyfused disorder, meaning the older spirit (supposedly) Fused to hers is strong enough to gain control of her body. When she isn’t acting like a giggly ten-year-old who speaks in the past tense, she works for A Look Beyond, a tour company owned by Myriad.

I’ve seen night-kissed castles overflowing with orchid gardens. Bustling cityscapes with stone and metal skyscrapers intermixed with nightclubs and spas, everything connected by sleek silver bridges and tunnels illuminated by wrought-iron, dragon-shaped lamps. Vibrant white-sand beaches with a moonlit view of ruby, sapphire and emerald coral.

A bit of high-tech flare topped with old-world charm.

There’s something for everyone, Aunt Lina likes to say on her sane days. On her insane days? The light bled into the darkness and the darkness died... I didn’t want to die.

On the other hand, Troika’s version of Myriad is frightening. Darkness pervades. Darkness so thick it oozes over your skin like motor oil. There’s field after field of dead trees, the limbs gnarled, the bark dripping crimson—bleeding. Any birds able to survive the lack of sunlight cry rather than squawk. The city is overcrowded, everyone packed as tight as pickles in a jar, and the beaches resemble life-size litter boxes.

Myriad’s version of Troika is no better. Apocalyptic wastelands scorched by an unforgiving sun.

As a child, I was desperate to avoid Troika...until I heard my Troikan Laborer’s description: dappled sunlight falling over intricate gardens, wildflowers and rainbows. A thriving metropolis both fantastical and futuristic, with palatial country estates and chrome-and-glass buildings in a variety of shapes and sizes.

“You might want to stop mentioning the realms,” I finally say. “It’ll get you punished.”

She pushes out a breath. “Fine. I’ll talk about something else. Something fascinating. Like the food. I’m pretty sure it’s going to look the same coming out as it does going in.”

She isn’t wrong. “If you want a change of menu, the bugs in our room are always an option. Side note. Spiders taste like shrimp and cockroaches taste like greasy chicken.”

“Okay, I now want to gag and hug you at the same time.” She thinks for a moment, releases a dreamy sigh. “Maybe I’ll have dessert snuck in.”

“Good luck with that.” Others have tried. Others have failed. “You’ll be caught and—”

“Punished. Yeah, yeah. I know.”

We’re both given a tray. As we search for a table, a group of boys gives Bow a once-over. Snickers abound.

I stiffen, but Bow winks at them as we claim the empty table to their right.

“I think I heard the guards say her name’s Bow,” one of them says, not even trying to be quiet.

“It fits—unlike her uniform. Fatty Bow Batty,” another mutters, spurring outright laughter from his friends.

Bow ignores them and stirs her slop as if she hasn’t a care. She’s short and big-boned, a little plain, but she’s a person with feelings.

I find myself snapping, “Integrity matters more than size, dreg.” A derogatory name for someone neither realm wants.

He blows me a kiss. “Why don’t you come sit on my lap, Nutter? I’ll show you just how sizable I am.”

Innuendos are always on the menu at Prynne, and I usually overlook them. Today, my fingers tighten around my spoon. We aren’t given forks or knives, ever. Not that it matters. I can do bad, bad things with a spoon.

I glare at him and say, “Do you like having a tongue?”

He sticks his out and wags it at me.

I don’t want to fight him—I’m too sore—but I will. If I lose, I lose, but at least I’ll leave an impression.

Bow pats my hand. “Forget about him, Sperm Bank. He doesn’t yet understand the outside is a shell for all of us. My beauty is on the inside, where it never fades.”

She can’t be this nice. She just can’t be.

The boys return to their conversation, whispering among themselves, pretending what almost happened didn’t almost happen.

“Plus,” Bow adds, “he isn’t even close to my type.”

“Which is?”

She wiggles her brows. “Female.”

Ah. Got it.

We lapse into silence. I remain aware of the people around us, always on alert, as I clean my tray. Gotta stay as strong as possible. Bow merely picks at the meal. One day soon, hunger will get the better of her and she’ll be thankful for the slop.

One of the boys is trying to snag a bite off his friend’s tray as we stand.

“Touch my food and die.” The friend’s snarl is pure menace.

“Here. You can have mine,” Bow says.

The boy scowls at her. “Mind your own business, cow.”

Trust no one. Question everything.

She shrugs, unaffected. “Your loss.”

I’m not sure where to lump her in my mental files. Too good to be true? The real deal? Worth emulating? Or to be disregarded?

As we file out of the cafeteria, I’m sent to the commons for early morning therapy of the mind—have to get my day started right, I mentally sneer—and Bow is sent to the gym for early morning therapy of the body.

Sloan shoves another girl out of the way to claim the chair next to me. “You need to put your roommate on a shorter leash.”

Going to pretend we didn’t threaten each other? Fine.

“I’m not her keeper,” I say. Her actions, her consequences.

“Don’t be stupid,” Sloan snaps. “In this place, your roomie should be your best friend. She’s the one who’s going to watch your back when yours is bruised.” With a smirk, she presses on my shoulder, drawing a hiss from me. “Like now.”

I bat her arm away, which only makes my pain worse. “I don’t need your advice.” Trust no one...

“Obviously you do. Word is, Vans will be gone tonight. Two guards have decided there’s no better time to retaliate against you for choking their friend.”

I stiffen. The choking incident happened four months ago, and the memory still haunts me. The guard in question snuck into my room. He thought I should earn his goodwill. I thought differently.

He left in a body bag.

I didn’t enjoy killing him, even in self-defense, but I also didn’t feel more than a few twinges of remorse. I’ve endured one too many beatings, or maybe I’ve witnessed one too many murders. Kids killing other kids. Guards killing kids. Vans killing James. We’re desensitized fast. Here, it’s survival of the fittest.