Forged

For my sister:
who was my very first fan,
and for all the fans that followed.

MY SURROUNDINGS ARE BECOMING FAMILIAR
. I never expected this to happen. I thought we would have done something by now, made progress, marched on Taem, lobbed a threat Frank's way.
Anything
. But no. There's been no forward action, not that I can see at least. We are falling into routines and growing comfortable in them. We are letting the days drift by like we have time to waste.

I've complained—politely at first, bluntly after that. They keep telling me the same thing:
We're planning. Planning takes time
. As far as I'm concerned, the longer we sit around, the more advantage we give Frank.

“I'm saying something again tonight,” I tell Blaine. “This
is ridiculous. We should be out there
doing
something. Not sowing crops.”

He stops breaking up the soil he's working on and rests a forearm on the handle of the rake. “You're just gonna stir the pot.”

“Maybe it needs to be stirred.”

He raises his brows knowingly, then stretches, arms reaching toward the gray, segmented ceiling of the greenhouse. It looks like the notches of a giant pill bug. Sterile. Unattractive. The hum of artificial lights fills the space between us.

“It's been two months,” I say, “and all we've done is sit in a few meetings and pull weeds.”

“And what do you think we should be doing? Marching to Frank's door? Knocking and asking him if he'd mind stepping down and letting someone else give things a go?”

“It would be better than doing nothing.”

“It would be reckless.” He goes back to hacking at the soil. “And a death wish.”

“Dammit, Blaine. His Order only gets stronger while we sit here. Screw whatever Adam and Elijah are dreaming up with Vik. I'm ready to swipe a rifle from the stores and round up my own team to head east.”

“I don't remember you being so bloodthirsty.”

“And I don't remember you being so content to coast. To let
everyone else make decisions for you. Especially important ones. Don't you miss Kale?”

“Of course!”

“Well, you could have fooled me.”

Blaine doesn't take the bait about his daughter. Doesn't snap or yell or even give me a good shove. He just frowns. “Do you want to talk about it yet?”

“It?”

“Whatever happened during your mission with Pa that caused this rift between us.”

I catch Sammy and Bree in the corner of my vision. They're working two rows away and have both paused, eyes drawn by my raised voice.

“There's nothing to say,” I mutter to Blaine, and return my attention to the soil.

He doesn't argue. At least his hatred of confrontation has remained constant. It feels like the only thing I can count on these days.

We were fine the first few weeks following our reunion at Sylvia's—an Expat safe house west of the border—blinded by the joy of being together after so much time apart. Then friction started to surface. Awkward silences. Moments when I realized I had no clue what he was thinking. Situations where I could have used support and he didn't bother backing me up. Like with all this stalling, this inactivity. We
used to read each other so well, and even if we didn't always agree, we understood. The way only brothers—
twins
—can. But now I catch him looking at me sometimes—eyebrows drawn, mouth twisted in a puzzled pinch—and it's like he's regarding me as a stranger. In the time that passed between my departure from Crevice Valley and our reunion, something changed. Something drastic.

I probably shouldn't be so surprised. How
could
Blaine understand? He didn't see Pa take a bullet and go down with the
Catherine
. He didn't have to kill a Forgery of his own brother or watch friends fall around him. He doesn't wake up every morning knowing that half of Group A's people died on account of his decision to strike an allegiance with the Expats.

It's no wonder I find myself relating better to Sammy these days. And Bree. Always Bree, though she's been as forthcoming as a brick wall since we left Sylvia's for Pike. Still, they understand because they've been through it with me. They know the true extent of Frank's ruthlessness, the way a Forgery can be merciless and sly. It's practically a part of us now, those horrors. It's like witnessing it made it crawl beneath our skin and leech on to our souls.

Emma as I last saw her flashes through my mind—Forged, her eyes narrowed, her gun pressed to the back of Xavier's skull. Frank still has her—the
real
her. He has Emma in his
grasp, and Claysoot under his palm. Maude and Carter and Kale. Kale with her blond curls and small nose and pudgy fingers. I don't think I appreciated how amazing it was to be her uncle until I was separated from her.

I hack at the earth beneath my feet. A hard chunk of soil crumbles into finer particles. The bond between Blaine and me isn't fully broken, because he senses my temper.

“Just hold off on saying something 'til tomorrow, okay? Today's Clipper's birthday. Let's enjoy it.”

A reminder of the date—the last day in February—only unsettles me further. We've been in Pike working with the Expats for two months and have nothing to show for it. Although I
am
farming in the middle of the winter. That would impress anyone in Claysoot.

“I'll even back you up when the time comes,” Blaine offers. “But give the kid a show for the night—smile, be
pleasant
if you can manage. Everyone would probably appreciate it, not just Clipper. What do you say?”

I give him a long look, then go back to raking the soil.

“That wasn't a
yes
,” Blaine says.

“It wasn't a
no
either.”

We work in silence, the clink of tools creating a rhythm for our labors. I watch Bree out of the corner of my eye. She's stopped to massage her left shoulder.

“Hey, guys!” A voice echoes through the greenhouse. I
straighten to see Jules, Adam's niece, running to meet us. She's gorgeous and she knows it, and even though I've only seen her in a few meetings, scribbling down notes at Adam's request, she seems to think we're best friends.

“Hey,” she says again, breathless as she finally reaches us. Her dark hair is sticking to her neck. “You've gotta come quick. Adam's called a meeting.”

This gets everyone's attention.

“What for?” Sammy asks.

“No clue. It's something big, though. He told me to get you all fast, everyone on Elijah's team.”

“Maybe we're finally going to
do
something,” I say, gathering up the tools.

Jules laughs like I've made a hilarious joke. Throws her head back and everything. She may be eighteen, but I swear she acts ten most days.

“You joining us for drinks later?” Blaine asks her. “Clipper's a man as of today. We're all going to celebrate.”

“Poor kid,” Sammy chimes in. “He's been through more crap than any thirteen-year-old I know. Talk about loss of innocence.”

“How sentimental of you,” Bree deadpans.

“Sentimental? I'm just saying I assume he can handle his alcohol like an old-timer, given all he's been through. How many rounds do you think he'll hold down?”

Blaine shoots Sammy a look. “He's
thirteen
.”

“And you're the one who just said thirteen marks manhood. Pardon me for wanting to be sure he gets a drink. Or seven.”

They go on arguing about rites of passage as we stow the tools. After two months of afternoon greenhouse duty, we're skilled at making everything fit in the exceptionally small storage shed. All Expats are expected to carry some weight in exchange for a room, and not a day goes by that I don't wish I'd been assigned to a task at the base. Sure, we spend our mornings training—target practice and drills—but working soil every afternoon has left me out of the loop. Apart from the few meetings we've been invited to, all I've managed to learn is that my leathered hands aren't so tough that they won't blister from working a hoe, and that artificial lighting can make a person sweat just as impressively as the sun can.

By the time the tools are stored away, Sammy is taking bets for how many drinks Clipper will hold down tonight. We make for the exit, and Jules nudges me with her elbow. “You joining Clipper's party?” she asks. She has the longest lashes I have ever seen.

“I haven't decided.”

“Come on. Live a little.” She grabs my wrist with both hands like it will convince me. She's sticky from her run. “I'll buy you a drink. Two even.” She leans in, drops her
voice. “Unless you're after something else altogether.”

I shrug her off. Probably a bit more aggressively than needed. She doesn't seem to like that.

“I'll let Adam know you're on your way,” she announces to the others. Then she turns and sprints out. She reminds me of a deer, all lanky limbs, eager. But with the tenacity of a hawk.

“Way to spook her off, Gray,” Blaine says. I take one look at him and know what he's implying.

“I'm not interested.” My eyes drift to Bree, but she's busy smacking dirt from her pants. “Besides, I don't know why Jules wouldn't cling to you instead,” I say to Blaine. “We're identical, and you're at least nice.”

“I think she likes the brooding ones.”

“All girls like the brooding ones,” Sammy interjects. “I think the only type they like more are the charmers. Humorous. Good-looking. Tall and toned, with green eyes and killer biceps and—”

Bree snorts at Sammy's description of himself.

“What, you don't like that?”

“Arrogance is such a becoming trait.”

“Who said anything about arrogance? I was describing physical features, Nox.
Attractive
features. If anything, that's vanity.” He flashes a smile. “You can't really blame me though, right?”

Bree rolls her eyes. “So what do you guys think Adam wants?”

“No idea,” I say. “But I know what I
hope
this meeting is about.”

“Me, too. I'm sick of sitting around.”

I watch her rub her sore shoulder again and wonder how it is possible for the two of us to want the same things and think the same way, yet not be together. But Bree's stubborn. She's kept her word since telling me she was putting herself first. She's stood at a friendly distance. Said friendly things. Smiled but never flirted. Turned down everything I've thrown her way, be it apologies or advances or shameless begging. Even still, I haven't stopped trying. She forgets I'm as stubborn as she is.

It's been years since citywide climate control was used in Pike, and while the protective dome keeps the streets free of snow, cool winter temperatures hit us as we step from the greenhouse. Cut off from the east, the Expats had to decide which assets were necessary to power and which they could go without. Their trolley system hangs inanimate, cars hovering on their tracks in random locations throughout the city. Instead of being plastered with electronic signage, the walls are plain cement and brick and wood and glass. But the biggest difference between Pike and Taem is the lack of the Order. There are no black-suited soldiers here, no forces
storming through town with the Franconian emblem on their chests. Nearly half of Pike's citizens consider themselves Expats, members of the group that years ago waged war on the East and still looks to eliminate Frank today. The others just shuffle along, wishing their people would finally accept defeat.
We cut ourselves free years ago
, I've heard them muttering.
Why can't we keep it like that?

Pike has a smell about it—salt from the sea that finds its way beneath the dome by clinging to people's clothes. What can't be grown within the city itself is hauled from the ocean and land beyond its doors, then sold in an open market. As we pass the street lined with vendors, I watch a boy not much older than Clipper wrap a fish in brown paper and toss it to a customer. She thanks him and carries on her way. I can see why some people here just want to forget Frank. They are set in their ways. Almost content.

And
this
is why I fear how idle we've been lately. If it weren't for Emma or Kale or Claysoot, I could see myself forgetting the need to fight, happily uncurling my fists.

The Expat base comes into view ahead—a drab, sprawling building checkered with windows. The only sign of color on the entire facade is a red triangular flag hanging above the main entrance. Inside the triangle is a blue circle, and inside that, a white star. The Expat symbol. Not too different from the emblem Frank uses for his Order.

“Frank chose a red triangle for obvious reasons,” Adam said when he first showed us to the base, like we'd asked him for a history lesson. “A color of power and strength, and a shape with a sturdy base, near impossible to topple. Good in theory, but dangerous when you think that it is one man who rises to the top of it, and labels the whole as his own.” I thought of the cursive
f
in the center of the Franconian emblem differently after he said that. “So the Expats put a circle within that triangle, to represent balance and equality, and we chose a star rather than a label. All nods to our past, to what Frank's forgotten.”

I've seen the symbol throughout town, sometimes a smaller version of this flag, other times a haphazard carving on a door, but always making the same announcement:
This home/business supports the Expats
. It seems silly to oppose the Expats—they're largely responsible for keeping the city of Pike running—but unlike in Taem, people here don't fear for their safety because they disagree with people of power.

Sammy stops just outside the base's main doors to fish a pebble from his shoe, and we all pause with him. Bree again rubs her shoulder. I look at the spot she's still massaging. I used to be able to touch her whenever I wanted—she welcomed it, even—and now, when she's what I want more than anything, she's so far away. Bree catches me watching and frowns.