The Battle Begins (8 page)

14

D
ESPITE HIS HOPES,
M
ARCUS DIDN'T GET TO GO INSIDE THE
Dome stadium. Instead, they entered the compound through a squat, gray, windowless building on the opposite side of the island, where they took a painfully slow elevator underground, went through a zillion checkpoints, and walked down a maze of hallways that, even though they had the most perfectly waxed floors Marcus had ever seen, Pete forbade him from skateboarding.

It didn't matter, though. Marcus was willing to crawl if it meant he could see the monsters.

First, Pete insisted on dealing with his arm. Marcus expected Pete's lab to be like a factory, full of all sorts of cool tools and wires and stuff for fixing the Unnaturals, but the care center turned out to be a tiny room with a gurney and an antiseptic smell that reminded Marcus of when his dad was in the hospital. It turned his stomach and made his heart feel weird and tight, and he would've walked right back out if it weren't for the promise of mutants.

Instead, Marcus obediently sat on the gurney and let Pete torture him with all sorts of stinging swabs on his scrapes and totally unnecessary gauze wrapped too tight around his knees. Marcus got excited when he saw an X-ray machine—that would've been cool at least—but after making him move his arm into all these wavy, modern dance–type moves that hurt so bad he gasped, Pete said he could tell it wasn't broken.

“It's just a nasty sprain,” he said. “You got lucky.”

Marcus still had to wear a sling that his mom would notice, and he didn't even get a tough-looking cast out of it.

He turned to Pete, eyebrows raised high with hope, and finally, finally his brother asked, “You ready to see
them now, or what?” Marcus leapt off the gurney so fast it collapsed.

“Let's go!” he shouted, and raced into the hallway.

Marcus forgot about the pain in his shoulder as soon as they entered the Pit. He wasn't sure what to expect. Charging stations? Autotransistors? Warp receptors to enable the virtual fight simulation? This looked more like a gymnasium. Hearing the snorts and screeches and stampeding feet, he got goose bumps. He couldn't believe he was really here!

The Pit was at least four times the size of the Skypark, with a twenty-foot high chain-link fence running around the perimeter, and a parrot perched on top. Having spent his life in the Sky Towers, the bird was the first animal Marcus had ever seen. It had brilliant blue and yellow feathers, and eyes that watched him intelligently.

“Don't stare too long at Perry,” Pete said under his breath. “Bruce has got that evil-eyed bird trained to report my every move.”

Marcus nodded. That wasn't too hard. As beautiful as Perry was, he was the least interesting creature in the room.

Pete wouldn't let him go inside the fence, but Marcus could see plenty from where he stood. The Swift, an
animal with a black panther's body and white rabbit's ears, was running loops around the steep-banked track that ran along the gym's perimeter, and every time she streaked past, Marcus's hair whipped around his face. In the center of the gym, other new monsters were training on machines and working with handlers. Marcus watched as a woman tossed basketballs to a giant bear, and it popped one after another with a set of curved teeth so big they almost looked like tusks.

“That's
Miracinonyx ursidae
,” Pete rattled off the scientific name automatically. “Saber-toothed grizzly bear.”

Marcus nodded. The Fearless. He'd started reading about the new teams the moment the stats were posted to the network feed. The creature turned her head as if she'd heard, fixing them with her golden stare. A long, striped tail swished behind her.

“And there's the Underdog,” Marcus said, recognizing the black-and-tan German shepherd–bald eagle mix. He was in the corner, stretching out his wings, and the images on the simulink definitely hadn't done them justice—the span had to be at least nine feet! “Totally incredible.”

“Is it really that much better than what you see when you warp?” Pete asked.

“Oh, no, they're exactly the same. . . .” Marcus raised his eyebrows with mock seriousness. “Except for, you
know, warp nausea, static interference, and low-res-supposedly-4D visual, versus actually being able to feel the ground shuddering as they run, or watch them move without a fraction-of-a-second time delay, or smell the sweat in the room.”

“Mmm, mmm, the sweet stench of animal BO.” Pete closed his eyes and sniffed the air.

But Marcus was serious. He peered through the holes of the chain-link fence, watching in awe as the grizzly crushed another basketball. “It's weird that they smell at all—the lab team really went all out. I just can't believe how real they seem.”

Pete cocked his head. “Uh, they are real.”

“Not, like, real real.” Marcus waved his hand. “They're androids. Programmed. Their cells are grown in little Petri dishes in a lab by Bruce and his guys. I mean, don't get me wrong, I think they're awesome! But they're pretty much automopooches, right?”

Pete crossed his arms and peered at him strangely. “Did Bruce tell you that?”

“Yeah. Forever ago, when he and Mom first started dating. Made me swear not to tell anyone that they were really virtual models, but I don't get why it's some big secret. I mean, they're still pretty rad. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Marcus's older brother was one of the most mellow people he knew, but right then, Pete's cheeks were flushed a blotchy red and his eyebrows were knotted together.

“So, all along you thought . . .” Pete ran a hand through his hair, searching for words. “Marcus, it's not like that.”

“Not like what?” he asked uneasily.

“Some cells are farmed, yes, especially when they need to graft extra skin or build protein for horns. But the mutants aren't just designed from scratch.” Pete stepped closer, and Marcus saw the pain in his brother's magnified eyes. “They start off as regular animals, Marcus. And the shot of spliced DNA they receive comes from the bodies of other regular animals—there are donor animals above the housing block.”

Marcus chewed his lip and shifted his feet. “What do you mean, ‘regular—'”

“I mean
real
. Alive.” Pete's voice was quiet but firm, and this time, there wasn't any room for misinterpretation.

Alive?

Marcus fell back against the fence—he felt like he'd been socked in the stomach. He thought of all the blood he'd seen spilled over the years. He thought of how he'd cheered.

Marcus couldn't bear to meet Pete's gaze, so he
peered through the fence at the Unnaturals again, his good hand gripping the chain links so hard his knuckles were white. He recognized the Mighty from last season, and remembered how cheated he'd felt that the zebra-bull didn't fight in the Mash-up, since he was Team Scratch's best shot against the Invincible.

Remembering what had happened to the other animals in that final match, Marcus now saw the misery on the Mighty's face. He saw the fear in the whites of the mutant rabbit's eyes, and the grizzly's anger.

Real animals. Real pain,
he thought, aware of the dull throbbing ache in his own arm. He thought of the words
donor animals
and remembered something Pete had said earlier—that the weird smell that hung around their stepdad was formaldehyde. Marcus hunched over his knees, worried he was going to be sick.

“That's why you don't like to watch the matches,” Marcus said to the dirt, knowing it was true. Marcus had tried to get Pete to warp in with him a dozen times, but Pete always had an excuse for why he couldn't make it.

“I'm sorry, Marcus.” Pete rubbed his back gently. “I thought you knew.”

Maybe he had known, somewhere deep down. Maybe the lie was just too convenient. A part of him wanted to
go on believing Bruce, even now, to keep enjoying the show, willfully oblivious. But that wasn't who he was.

When the nausea passed, Marcus straightened back up. “How can you stand it?” he asked his brother, unable to keep the accusation out of his voice. “How can you work here, knowing what it is?”

Now it was Pete's turn to look away. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, and Marcus could tell it was something he'd struggled with for a long time.

“I guess I just know someone needs to help them when they're hurt.” He shrugged in defeat. “I'd rather it be me they can count on.”

Shouts from across the training gym made the two brothers turn.

“Fly! Fly!” a skinny man with a pinched face was yelling. He'd secured weights at the base of the Underdog's wings, and strong, stretchy bands connected the dog's hind feet to a post. The eagle-dog couldn't seem to get even a foot off the ground before he was pulled back down again, his belly skidding along the floor as the bands snapped back. Even from here, Marcus could hear the whimpers.

“Stop it!” he yelled through the fence.

The man didn't hear him over his own high-pitched
shouts, but the parrot did. It turned toward Marcus and cocked its head, clicking its beak together a few times.

“Come on,” Pete said, watching the bird anxiously. “We should probably go.”

Marcus couldn't believe what he was hearing. He turned to his brother with narrowed eyes. “What happened to helping the animals when they're hurt?”

“Marcus, they're training. They do this every day.” He started to guide Marcus away toward the exit, but Marcus shrugged him off.

Instead, he leapt at the chain-link fence. He managed to scramble up it one-handed, still cradling his hurt arm to his chest.

“Marcus!” Pete said in alarm. “You can't go in there! Those are wild animals!”

But they weren't wild, Marcus knew. They were prisoners.

Years of crashing and burning skate tricks had made Marcus fearless and, as Pete fumbled with his keys to get the gate open, he was already hiking his leg over the top bar.

“Alert!” Perry the parrot shrieked next to him, flapping its wings. “Alert, alert!”

“FLY!” the man taunted below.

Marcus dropped to the ground and watched as the
eagle-dog took a few trotting steps, sprang hard from his haunches . . . and was yanked backward like a rock in a slingshot as the bands pulled taught. He yipped once, then sank into a heap on the floor.

Marcus ran toward the injured animal, but before he could reach him, another man stepped in his path and grabbed Marcus by the arm. Though this guy was older, with thinning hair and a gut, he had an imposing frame, and his grip meant business.

“What is a kid doing in my gym?” the big dude growled, looking over Marcus's head toward Pete, who had finally made it through the gate. “Did you forget that this is a restricted area?”

“Sorry, Horace,” Pete said, shuffling Marcus behind him. “He's my, um, intern. Can you give us a minute with the Underdog?” he asked, practically groveling. The guy must be a manager or something. “I need to check how his wings are doing so we know he's ready to fight.”

The man named Horace frowned and spit right at Pete's feet, but when Pete started pulling medical supplies out of the pouch at his waist, the boss relented. “Give 'em five minutes, Slim,” he called to the younger trainer. “Then back to work.”

“Fine,” Slim answered with a tight-lipped grin. Marcus didn't return the smile.

Horace walked away with a huff and Slim slunk off toward an exit, tugging a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. Marcus watched them go with disgust.

Finally, he knelt down next to the animal, still lying with his legs tangled underneath him and his wings splayed out to the side. There were feathers everywhere on the ground, and there was a burnt smell from where they'd dragged on the treadmill.

“You're okay, buddy. It's okay.” Marcus reached a hand out, but the eagle-dog flinched away from him.

Carefully, Pete removed the harness, and as he rubbed ointment on the scabs where the new wings had broken the skin, Marcus stroked the animal's soft ears, trying to soothe him. He could feel the eagle-dog quivering all over.

Or maybe it was Marcus who was shaking. He couldn't tell. Everything was so real he felt numb.

15

A
FTER THE BOY LEFT,
C
ASTOR KNEW HIS SHORT MOMENT
of relief was over. Castor's handler nudged him with a steel-toed boot.

“Again,” he said with a smile.

Slim was a slight man with bulgy eyes and a grin constantly plastered on his face, but the smile didn't mean he was happy—Castor had learned that fast.

Castor scrambled to his feet now and got back into position.

“Fly!” Slim shouted, and Castor tried, really he did, but the bands yanked him back once more, and this time, Slim brought the whistle to his wormlike lips.

The sound split through everything. Castor had thought the guard's whistle was bad that first day when she'd signaled it was time for slop, but that was nothing but a quick toot to get him moving. Slim's whistle went on and on, a high, sharp scream that had Castor on the ground, curled into a ball, shaking.

“Enough!” a voice roared suddenly.

The whistle stopped.

“Horace. You're back.” Slim let out a high, nervous laugh. “I, um, didn't see you standing here.”

Horace was hard to miss. The Pit's supervisor was shaped like Enza—a solid, square mass of man, with arms coated in fur. Every time he came around, Slim's eyes bugged out even more, and he got all twitchy and nervous, like a rat.

Castor didn't blame him. While there was a cruelty in Slim that crackled with his every movement, Horace was completely detached from Castor's pain—it was like he didn't see him as an animal at all—and that was more terrifying than anything.

“You're messing up training for my whole gym with that thing,” Horace growled, and snatched the
whistle out of Slim's hand.

Looking around, Castor saw the other animals on the floor, too, wincing from the noise. Now he felt even worse.

“The scouts said this one was tough. Special.” Horace frowned down at Castor, who was feeling anything but tough. Then he looked back up at Slim, his thick eyebrows knitting together like two caterpillars. “And I told you the mayor wanted a win for Scratch this season, after all the rioting fans at the Mash-up. I ain't about to disappoint her, not with promotions coming up. Do you want to disappoint me?” Though Horace's voice was soft, you couldn't miss the threat in it.

“No, sir,” Slim mumbled, staring at the ground. Now it was he who looked like an omega, all deflated and cowering.

“Then what's the problem?”

“The worthless mutt won't do what I say,” Slim whined, and Castor could sense the restraint it took his handler not to kick him again.

“He doesn't respect you.” Horace huffed. “You need to make him understand that you're his master. That he does what you say, no matter what.” Horace tugged on Castor's harness, coaxing him back to standing, and Castor couldn't help but flinch.

What does “no matter what” mean?

Horace was rummaging around in a cabinet now, and he brought back something that looked like a human arm. He held it out to Slim.

“Put this on.”

Slim looked at the object uneasily, but he did as he was told and slid the rubber guard over his own hand.

“Hold out your arm,” Horace commanded, and Slim tentatively reached his covered arm toward Castor. “Now watch.” Horace cracked his knuckles, leaned over Castor, and said very calmly into his ear, “Attack.”

Horace looked Castor right in the eyes, something every dog knew was a direct threat.

“What are you waiting for?” Slim screeched, and the sensitive hairs inside Castor's ears quivered. He thrust his arm forward more forcefully. “He said move!”

Horace held up a hand to silence Slim, which made the smaller man sulk.

“Attack,” Horace repeated calmly.

When Castor hesitated once more, Horace lunged. In one smooth motion, he flipped Castor onto his back in an alpha roll, pinning Castor's body on top of his new wings uncomfortably. Castor was shaking all over, and it took everything he had not to howl in despair. Even Alpha had never used the alpha roll because it was so degrading.

Don't let the handlers think you're weak,
Moss had warned, and now Castor understood why. Castor felt as cornered as he had felt back on the docks before he was taken here. He was afraid. He missed home. He missed his pack and his brother. He missed feeling normal. Lying in that prone, vulnerable position, something inside of him snapped.

Castor bucked upward, throwing Horace off him. His paws slammed into Slim's chest, and his teeth sank deep into the man's arm. As Castor's mouth filled with the metallic tang of fresh blood, he realized he'd bitten the arm without the rubber glove.

“My arm!” Slim wailed, clutching it to his chest. He stumbled backward and fell on his behind, his feet kicking up sand as he scrambled to get far away from Castor.

“Good dog,” Horace said quietly.

Castor looked around the Pit; all of the other animals had stopped their training and had turned to stare at him.

Castor felt a cold unease in the pit of his stomach.