The mirror is covered in a thin layer of dust, the smudge of a few fingerprints littered across the edges. One corner is cracked, and small shards of glass hang loosely from the frame. My reflection is eerily distorted in the shadows, and looming darkness covers the base of my nose, making it appear crooked. Long strands of frizzy hair the same tone of brown as wet straw cover my eyes, hiding the stormy grey irises from view. The scar above my lip is more prominent than usual; I don't look the least bit presentable, and my mother will not be pleased, but it will have to do. I don't have the money or the time to get my makeup or hair done, I used that for my dress. Instead, rose petals stain my cheeks, and minimal charcoal lines my eyes, making them the center of attention.
The olive green fabric of the dainty dress I spent nearly three years saving rations for is soft and breathable, resting just off my shoulders and showing off the many freckles that litter my neckline. It falls right above the knee, cinched at the waist, and erupts into waterfalls as it trails down my body.
I twirl the dagger between my fingers, careful not to slit any of my skin. Any cut, no matter how small, could turn deadly in just a few days from infection. There's no promising how forgiving the island or the Regime will be.
After glancing back in the mirror, I decide to put the knife down and instead run a brush through my hair in an attempt to tame it. It only irritates the waves more, though, and I let out an angry huff. I'll just have to pray that my Collector views the curls as a symbol of my Dynasty's heritage rather than a failed attempt at straightening it.
I hear Apollo scurrying about in the kitchen, meaninglessly arguing with my father. At the age of thirteen, he's at the point where he gets along with no one in the house except me. Luckily enough for him, the entire family is rarely home at the same time. Today, otherwise known as Collection Day, is the one time everyone housing a sixteen-year-old gets a day off, and he's stuck at home with the parents who neglected him.
"If you cared at all, you'd be comforting the daughter who you might never see again," he growls before stalking into the sleeping room.
His honey blond hair covers his eyes and he ferociously pushes it away. I see myself in him, from the grey eyes to the large bottom lip, to the freckles dotting his nose and the way he snaps around others. We're both hotheaded and stubborn, traits that haven't exactly brought my family a good reputation.
Apollo moves towards me, running his fingers through his hair. I don't comment on his puffy eyes or the clear lines on his dirt-stained cheeks where tears must have fallen.
"I'm sorry, Elara," he says, shaking his head. "If anyone deserves to go through that island, it's them."
"Apollo," I warn. "You might not see it now, but they're preparing you."
"Preparing me by stripping away the one thing I needed most?" he snarls.
Although I've forced myself not to care, I understand how he feels. The memories he's lost, the secrets he must've had to hold with no one to confide in; no one can blame him for the anger that boils in his blood.
"You need to come home," Apollo urged, emotion drained from his voice. "Don't leave me alone with them, Lara."
"You know I can't promise that," I whisper, my hand reaching to rub my locket.
"Kill the rest of them if you need to," he spits. "Don't let yourself survive only to be voted out by them or the Regime. I know how you are around people."
He does have a point. If we beat the odds and somehow the majority of us survived, the squad would vote me out. I can manage with people for a few hours, but a month trapped with them in isolation is sure to bring out my true colors.
Out of the thousands of groups that have entered the Sixth Trigger, only about a dozen or so have cracked under the pressure and murdered the entirety of their squad. The Regime doesn't reveal what happens on the island, that's for their eyes only, but they do announce the moment and cause of death in their fatality reports, published as a homage to the lives the Sixth Trigger has claimed.
The last massacre happened a few years ago, but everyone just knows it as the Archangel incident. Supposedly Foster Archangel, the son of a member of the Regime, went insane with paranoia and brutally murdered each of his squad members before stabbing himself in the chest with a knife. Nowadays parents use the tale as a warning, but back then it was a public embarrassment.
"I know you can do this," Apollo assures me. "You're smart and strong enough, just don't let your temper be the death of you."
I open my mouth to speak, but I'm interrupted by the striking of the Dynasty's clock, marking it as noon. My collector will be here any minute to lead me to preparation.
"You know what that means," Apollo says, his brow furrowing.
He pulls me into a fierce hug, his scrawny arms wrapping around me like a rope. I run my fingers through his hair in a mother-like manor as I watch my parents stare blankly from the doorway, unsure of what to do or say. Their eyes- one set of cat-like greens and another of pure slate- meet my own and we gaze coldly into one another's until Apollo lets go of me.
Their faces hold blank expressions, and I struggle to find the humanity in them. My mother's graying blonde hair is pulled away from her face in a tight bun, showing off her wrinkles and sunspots. My father has an arm around her, but they make no move towards me, even with Apollo out of view.
Fine then, they'll live the rest of their lives regretting not saying goodbye to their only daughter.
I shift past them, my shoulder pushing into my father's rib cage as I numbly stalk towards the front door to wait. Decomposing wood lines the side, and the hinges are worn and squeaky. The rest of our cabin isn't in much better shape; the furniture is covered in a thick layer of dust from the dirt floors and the roof lets in a trickle of water every time it rains.
The knock on the door is sharp and causes me to jump. I look back begrudgingly to find my parents, but they're not there. Apollo is though, lurking in the shadows, his jaw set. He just gives me a curt nod before slinking away.
I take a deep breath and open the door, the sunlight temporarily blinding me. Outside stands a rather tall middle-aged character. In her hand rests a clipboard and a small tracking anklet. Her skin is the same tone as burnt umber, and her eyes are dark as an abyss. She's rather intimidating, but I stand tall.
"Lovejoy, Elara Jane?" the woman asks, her tone stern and unwavering.
"Yes," I answer, voice quaking lightly.
"Yes ma'am," she corrects as she scribbles something down. "Step outside."
I try not to let my fear show as I gingerly step out the door. She looks me up and down, marking down scores for my appearance. I'm aware of every flaw on my face, every scar on my body, even the way my hair is blowing carelessly in the slight breeze. She raises her brows at me and holds her hand out.
"Left ankle," she demands, continuing the speech I'm sure she's rehearsed in the mirror hundreds of times. "As you're aware, the device holds a tracker. If you attempt to flee over any duration in the next thirty-eight days, attempt to tamper with the device or remove it, you will be found and taken care of accordingly."
She doesn't have to explain the consequences. I know if I so much as nudge the tracker the wrong way I will be executed.
I shiver as the cool ring clamps around my ankle. The device appears to be made out of metal, but it glistens and feels more lightweight than that. The band is thicker than the center, where a small screen erupts out of it. My Collector tightens it accordingly, then sets her thumb on the pad. The machine makes a small pinging sound, then seals shut.
"Follow me," she orders, taking a step on the dirt road.
I stick a foot out forward, my jaw locked as I try to look fearless. I don't look back towards my house, even though I want to. I know my Collector will take it as a sign of weakness.
I wordlessly follow her in the direction of the fence, knowing that she's taking me to the exit of Dynasty Four. From there, I know I will be thrown into a truck that will bring me to the Regime, where I'll be knocked out and flown by helicopter with my squad to the island.
I try to take in the only world I've ever known one last time. I study the way the dust stains my boots as I walk, watch every pebble that is propelled up by my steps. I notice the way the corn stalks eerily rattle in the wind, and how the beetles burrow into the clay as we approach.
***
The truck is unlike anything I've ever seen before and looks more like a Jeep with a larger backing than anything. Huge terrain tires lift it almost three feet off the ground, and the grey siding is plastered with mud and the remnants of bugs.
"In the back," the Collector orders.
I open the door and struggle to hop up, stubbing my foot slightly on the siding. I don't dare to look her in the eyes, so I just position myself on the leather seat and buckle the seat belt. She slams the door behind me, and I immediately feel flustered.
The strong smell of smoke and ruin hangs in the air of the vehicle and combined with the intense sticky heat, it's almost enough to make me throw up. Darkness threatens my vision, and I will myself not to pass out. I bite my lip until it bleeds and I district myself with the metallic taste of my blood.
My Collector starts the engine and immediately slams on the gas, sending my body lurching forward. She barely stays on the road as she turns onto it, and she tramples over vines that have spread outwards from the fields. In the distance, I hear other vehicles' engines revving simultaneously, and I have to wonder if any of them hold my future squad member.
We follow an identical Jeep to the more intact and heavy fence of Dynasty Four, rather than the fragile wires that surround the fields. The nearly fifteen-foot tall metal barrier grows stronger the closer you get to the main entrance of the Dynasty because it's the only place the Regime regularly checks for security. The chain-link gates are open, and about a dozen trucks are lined up waiting to exit.
A middle-aged man with salt and pepper colored hair and a regal-looking uniform seems to be the cause of the hold-up, and I discreetly peer out the window to investigate.
He holds out a keypad identical to the one on my foot attached to a device I haven't seen before. He barks something at the driver in the leading vehicle, and they hold out their thumbprint to the device. It blinks green, and he waves them through.
I have to will myself not to fidget impatiently in my seat; I don't want my Collector to take any notice of me. What I'm sure is only a few minutes seems to take hours, and my stomach flips over itself over and over.
Eventually, it's our turn, and the Collector drives forward until she is face to face with the man. Up close, his hair seems to be polka-dotted and looks like one of the spotted horses we have in our fields. His face is twisted like an old tree by wrinkled deformities, and the tip of his nose appears to have been burned. I'm shaken by his appearance, but I brush it off.
"Carrying 41590," my Collector states monotonously, rolling down my window so he can get a look at me.
I shiver as his cold eyes scan me, comparing me to what must be a picture of me.
"Elara?" he asks for confirmation.
"Yes sir," I chirp out.
He sticks out the rectangular keypad to my Collector and she routinely brushes it on the screen. It takes a few seconds before a small sound erupts out of the device and it glows green. He waves us onward and I feel my shoulders relaxing. I let out a breath and focus on unclenching my muscles. The engine revs and before I know it, the Dynasty I grew up is far behind us.
I try to take in my surroundings, but I find it to become an unintelligible blur. A barren wasteland lays before us, with the occasional patch of grass or withered tree. There are no distinguishable features or landmarks, and I wonder how the Collectors know where to go. There's no road, just the tire prints and dust clouds of the trucks in front of us.
The sky above is washed out by smoke and dust, but a few slivers of slate grey poke through. What lies before us is nothing but clay, and I wonder to myself where the helicopters will be. Annually, there are about one hundred sixteen-year-olds born. They're divided into groups of five, meaning there should be about twenty helicopters located close to the Dynasties. Unless the number born was vastly shorter than the last few years, there should be no less than a mile long landing pad for the carriers.
I find myself envying the teenagers who got a free pass from entering the Seventh Trigger. Whenever there is a number not divisible by five, children are supposedly selected at random to advance to the interview part of the Trigger. Although they can't leave their home Dynasty for the rest of their lives, they're guaranteed survival, which is more than I can say.
***
When I see the first helicopter, I think it's a mirage. Although the windows are down, making my hair blow obnoxiously into my face, I'm overheating enough to be dehydrated. But as the truck continues to bounce over boulder-like rocks, the blades of a helicopter become less fuzzy and grow clearer with every passing meter.
The vehicle is tremendous, great enough to fit nearly ten people rather than six, and each of them is painted a different vibrant shade of red, ranging from almost white to a deep red-black. The entire body is sleek and sharp and looks as aerodynamic as the jets seen in the history books from before the Triggers.
"You're in helicopter twenty-one," my Collector says, her voice clear and sharp. "As you know, protocol requires your pilot to inject you with a drug that will put you and your squad members to sleep until landing at the island. Any allergies that could cause permanent mental or physical injury upon injection?"
I shake my head, and she beckons me out of the vehicle. We start towards the metal landing platform, and I notice the small outlines of figures too far away to make out. "It's also protocol I accompany you to the helicopter," she says.
"What crazed teenager tried to escape with hundreds of Collectors around?" I question before remembering she's an official and shouldn't be spoken to unless of upmost importance.
"Pardon?" she says, coming to a halt, a look of surprise and disapproval etched on her face like chalk.
I want to slap myself for letting my curiosity get the best of me, but it's too late now. I need to own up to mistake and play it off as a genuine question.
"There are hundreds of Collectors here. The rule is in place because someone in the past years tried to run or endanger one of the other sixteen-year-olds," I offer.
My Collector just nods. "Right when the Seventh Trigger first started, a boy thought he could give himself a leg up. He choked one of his fellow competitors and killed them. Hence the rule."
We approach the first helicopter, and I notice that it's already closed shut, meaning its occupants must already be inside. I quicken my pace, sensing the fact that we're one of the last to arrive.
The helicopters darken as we pass, and I'm breathless from the heat by the time we reach the last one. The bold metallic numbering is slightly peeling, and it's the only copter that has its doors ajar. A woman steps out, her hands swinging as she approaches me.
She's short like me but bulkier and more muscular. Her choppy, uneven hair is pulled back loosely dyed a deep shade of magenta, marking her status as an official. Freckles are scattered across her snub nose, and her eyes are large and doe-like.
"You must be Elara," she chirps, her voice surprisingly deep but upbeat. She sticks out her hand in a child-like manner. "I'm Kaylani."
I put out my hand to shake hers, and it's only then that I meet her eyes. They're two different shades, one an emerald green and the other light blue. I hold her stare, my expression unchanging.
"Let's get you in your seat before I sedate you. I'm not as strong as I look," she jokes as she helps me onto the craft.
I feel a sharp prick in my left arm and I stifle a curse as I whirl around. Kaylani removes the three-inch-long needle out of my arm and I instantly feel the effects of the sedative.
A small groan escapes my mouth, and I feel Kaylani's arm guiding me into the last empty seat. The world starts to blur around me, and I shake my head, trying to slow the fuzziness around my eyes. I try to take in my surroundings, panic settling in my bones.
A girl sits to my right, her head flopped over as she remains unconscious. I make out another two figures seated across from me, both presumably male. My head begins to grow heavy, and my eyes flutter closed, but not before I get a look at the boy seated in the back corner of the copter next to Kaylani. I grew up ruffling that hair, punching that top-heavy chest. The boy next to me is unmistakably Nico.