***
“I know you have questions but there isn’t a lot of time. Walk now, talk later.”
Blythe and I exchange a look, but have no choice but to follow. The darkened tunnel we climbed down into led into the city’s labyrinth of an underground railway. The lightning fast trains run beneath D.C. through a twisting maze of tunnels. We are walking along one of these tunnels now, on one side of the tracks, the meager light from our flashlights guiding the way.
I cringe as I stare at the back of the Aussie’s head while he leads us through the tunnel at a near jog. The last time I saw him, the metal plate bolted to the top of his head like a helmet was freshly done, the skin around it angry and red. The skin looks better now, but it isn’t pretty. In some places, it has puckered and wrinkled unattractively, warping an otherwise pleasant face. I wonder if he contracted an infection from his black-market parts, or the undoubtedly unsterile environment he received them in.
As we walk, I grab my COMM device, making sure I still have a good charge. This far down, I’m surprised to still have a good signal. Still no word from Jenica and I’m starting to get worried.
We follow Baron quickly and quietly for God knows how long before he finally comes to a stop at the very end of a tunnel. It’s the end of the line, running just a few yards past the turnoff for a nearby train station. Baron pauses in front of what appears to be a stone wall—a dead end.
“I’m taking a big risk bringing you here,” he says, turning to stare at us both. “I know we have a difference of opinion but we are on the same side here. So, I hope you and your Resistance buddies don’t come barging into our little hideout with your righteous indignation all fired up and aimed at your own kind.”
It takes me a minute to realize that Baron has absolutely no idea who I am. Once again, I’ve forgotten that I’m wearing someone else’s face. If he knew I was the same guy he’d gone toe to toe with in Tennessee not twenty-four hours ago, I doubt he’d help us. For some reason he’s taken a liking to Blythe and it’s for her that he helps now. Not that she returns the sentiment. In fact, she looks positively sick at the idea of going into a Reject hideout. But I know she’s as curious as I am about a lot of things, and that wins out in the end. When Baron runs his hands along the seam in the round tunnel’s end and it opens, we have no choice but to follow him deeper underground.
The panel slides back into place and, after a short walk down another tunnel, we enter the hideout. Several pairs of eyes are on us as we follow Baron into the very center of what appears to be a common hangout area. An old, bulky television is set up in the corner and surrounded by Bionics in various states of relaxation. On the screen, a newscast shows our faces—or, in my case, the face of Jack Knightly—as video footage plays of our escape from Stonehead. At least, the parts of the footage that can be twisted to make us look like the bad guys.
Couches and chairs litter the space and all around us are Bionics in various states of relaxation. Near the corner of the room, a group of teenagers are playing a simulation game, the helmets covering their faces pulling them into a world the rest of us can’t see. Not far from them, a makeshift cooking area is set up where a woman with two bionic hands and a face full of piercings is slapping meat over a crudely made gas grill. The smell of cooking meat makes my stomach clench in hunger. Near the center of the room, a large group of them lingers over a table covered in what looks like schematics and maps.
One of them I recognize from Memphis. He’s a surly-looking dude with two bionic arms. I remember him swinging through the Tennessee trees like a gorilla as he jumped on hover bikes and sent MPs flaming into the dirt. When he catches me watching him, he whispers something to his companions and they all glare at me while shifting to cover whatever it is they’re looking at on the table.
“This way,” Baron commands, gesturing toward one of several tunnels that branch out from the center room like the legs of a spider. “We can talk privately in here.”
We are almost there, nearly out of the room and away from the shocked stares, when a familiar sound stops me dead in my tracks. It’s a laugh… more specifically, a girl’s laugh. It wouldn’t have seemed out of place, except for the fact that the sound is entirely too ethereal and pure to be trapped in a place like this, warming the hearts of people like these. It is a musical song, almost syrupy in its sweetness, and the sound sends a cold stone of anguish plunking down into my gut as I turn to find the source of the sound—the last face I would ever have expected to see.
My tongue is dry as my mouth falls open to form her name in a hoarse whisper.
“Tamryn.”
The sound of her laugh taunts me, its innocence in the dark and grungy world of the Rejects jarringly out of place. She doesn’t belong here, yet she looks for all the world like she does. Bionic legs peek out from under a leather miniskirt, the titanium gleaming proudly. The girl who was afraid of being a freak is gone. Her pose is provocative as she leans against a pool table, chatting up a dude in black who’s covered in tattoos. She has one herself, a tiny red heart resting on her hipbone. Her blonde hair is in its usual pixie-cut style, but ebony streaks taint the nearly platinum locks, matching the dark eye shadow ringing her eyes. The eyes are still wide and blue but the innocence is gone and in its place is the gleam of a jaded girl, one who has seen and been through entirely too much to retain any sense of naiveté.
What she has become scares me. But more than that it fills me with guilt because I know it’s all my fault for not saving her. It reminds me that what I’m seeing in front of me could be Agata in ten years if I don’t protect her. It’s too late for Tamryn but Agata… her, I can save.