The minutes tick by. He scratches his head and begins to pace. He’s trying to figure it out. He’s trying to analyze. I recognize this approach. I’ve seen it in others. There is no real logic to what’s happened to him, though. Well, there is—in a “PhD in quantum physics” type of way—but this guy doesn’t look old enough to have that. Besides, even if he could wrap his mind around how this happened, there is no rhyme or reason for why it happened to him. It’s moot at this point, though.
The Five are up.
“Command, this is Beta Team leader. I’m going in.” My team begins to stand up, and I immediately stop them. “I’m going in alone,” I say with finality. I register their looks of annoyance. I don’t care. This guy is not a threat and he doesn’t need to be scared half to death by a bunch of commandos jumping out from behind a rock.
“Not a good idea, Ryn,” I hear Applebaum say with authority. “What if there is a weapon in that backpack of his?”
Applebaum doesn’t care about me personally one way or another. What he does care about is losing any Citadel—probably because of the expense that goes into training us. It’s hard to think of Applebaum caring about an actual person.
“I don’t think there is,” I say. “I’m making the call, but it’s sweet that you’re worried about me.” I put my gun down and stand up. I try to imagine what this guy is going to think when he sees me pop out of nowhere. We wear a uniform, of course. A long-sleeved unitard in forest green. The suit was designed by the Roones—one of the first groups that came through The Rift, and the creators of a lot of the tech we use. In terms of the uniform, our outfits are made of a polymer titanium, and spandex for movement. The titanium is spun so lightly and so deftly that it weighs practically nothing, but it is in effect like chain mail, kind of like wearing a bulletproof vest on your whole body. They must have added another compound to the suits, to compensate for the impact of melee weapons, but the Roones don’t like to answer questions about exactly how things work. Since the suit has saved me more than a few times, it seems rude to keep asking.
Attached to the bodysuit are strategically placed lengths of quilted black leather. Our knees, shoulders, elbows, and torsos are covered for added heat and protection in hand-to-hand combat. We wear boots, too, though they aren’t standard military issue. They look more like motocross meets Mad Max. I wish I could wear them outside of work, but we aren’t allowed to take any of these provisions home. How would we explain them to our parents? Especially the utility and weapons holsters? The guys generally choose to put khakis over the suit. I understand why. Tights are a pretty hard sell to a teenage boy. The girls have no such qualms. The suit helps us fight better and stay alive. I see no reason to alter it, even though we are all acutely aware that our uniform hugs every curve.
I walk around the rock with my hands up. I have taken my holster off. I have no type of weapon on me at all. Granted, every Citadel is basically a living weapon—and yes, Boone loves to make that joke over and over.
And over.
The guy is looking not at me but down at the ground, shaking his head, muttering something to himself. I walk closer and clear my throat.
“Hi,” I say with a smile on my face. He looks up and I really see him for the first time. I catch my breath. He is gorgeous—specifically, my type of gorgeous. His skin is one shade darker than olive. His hair is tousled and brown, his eyes are azure blue. They look almost unreal, like he’s wearing contacts. I push this thought aside. Even from this distance, he doesn’t seem like a guy who would wear lenses to enhance the color of his eyes. Then I push that thought aside. How the hell would I know what kind of guy he is? Yet even as I think that, my heart begins to race and I clench my fists. ARC is monitoring my vitals through my suit. The last thing I want them to see is my attraction. It’s so embarrassing. My cheeks flush. I suck in a deep breath and center myself. I’ll be fine as long as this kid doesn’t come too close or make any sudden moves to reach for me. He looks at me and narrows his eyes. He seems more wary than scared, which is good. He should be wary. But he’s not panicking, and that is even better.
I force a grin. “Pretty crazy, right?” What a stupid thing to say. He looks at me and then at The Rift.
“Where am I?” he asks slowly.
“Washington. State.”
“Well, then, when am I?”
The question catches me off guard. He’s smart. He knows that whatever has happened to him is huge and mind bending.
I walk closer to him, my arms open, my body language showing vulnerability. “When do you think you are?”
“Please don’t come any closer,” he says politely. He tries to smile, but it’s forced. He is standing stock-still but looks as if he could bolt at any second.
“Do you think you’ve time traveled or something?” I make it sound like that could never happen in a million years, but in a way it’s not that far off from the truth.
“I don’t know—have I?” He looks down again and then back at The Rift. His gaze finally falls back to my face, but his eyebrows are raised in a way that says he knows something and there’s no point in making small talk.
I tell him what year it is and he nods.
“Same year, then,” he says hesitantly.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” I ask with genuine concern. How disorienting that trip must be. How terrifying.
“I was working in the lab at school. I heard a kind of drumming noise coming from outside. I walked toward the sound to investigate it and I saw this green light. That light,” he says, pointing to The Rift. “And then the next thing I knew, I don’t know … it sucked me inside and I couldn’t breathe. It felt like I was being dragged underneath a wave and didn’t know which end was up. What is it?” His words are cautious and carefully chosen. Most people are in shock when they end up here. Maybe he is, too, but he’s holding on to his rationality pretty well.
Our eyes really lock for the first time and something passes between us. Heat maybe? Or just plain interest?
Or maybe wishful thinking. Get it together, Ryn.
“It’s a cosmic anomaly—that’s really as much as I know. Can I come a little closer? I promise I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Okay,” he says. Yet his voice is anything but casual. I walk toward him slowly. We are beside each other now.
I hear Violet’s voice in my ear. “Watch yourself, Ryn.” She’s part of my team, so that’s not surprising. But she’s also my best friend, and that means she knows exactly what’s going on in my brain right now. She’s not warning me against any kind of sudden attack by him. She knows he’s my type. She’s heard us talking. She’s worried for him.
“I’m not really trained to answer all the questions you must have. There are people here who can, though. I can take you to them,” I offer. But I don’t really want to take him anywhere. I wish we could just stay here for a while. I wish we were two normal people who met by chance, and who decided that they would like to get to know each other better. It’s a selfish thought. We are a thousand light-years away from normal and the answers he wants won’t bring him anything but pain.
It hurts me to think about that, and I start to wonder when in the past couple minutes I stopped being a Citadel and started acting like a teenage girl.
Never mind the fact that I am a teenage girl …
He looks me up and down. “What are you trained for, then?” he wonders out loud. Is he flirting with me? I’m so crap at this kind of thing, I have no idea.
“I’m like”—I fish for a word—“a guard.”
“You’re a girl,” he says flatly.
Now it’s my turn to narrow my eyes. “A girl can’t be a guard?”