The sun dwellers have a choice: to be blind and ignorant and uninterested in the stark difference in living conditions between the Upper and Lower Realms, or see this travesty for what it is—evil and hate. No, these people do not get a free pass just because they’ve never known any other life. If they took one minute away from their own skewed self-images, greed, and slothfulness, they would see what I can see as clear as the spray of water from an underground waterfalclass="underline" they’re not human anymore. No, not even close. They’re robots, programmed only to care about themselves and enjoying their own lives, not the pitiful lives of those born beneath them.
I’m done with my rambling thoughts; it’s time for action. I’m not perfect, nor do I pretend to be. I’ve killed. I’ve said and done things I’m not proud of. But I’m better than these people. If these robots refuse to see the truth, we’ll show it to them—the hard way if we have to.
On the way out we pass a rotating display of tinted glasses. I remember seeing many of the partiers wearing similar glasses as we crowd-surfed past them.
“It’s bright out there,” Tristan says. “These will come in handy, both to protect our eyes and our identities.”
“What are they?” Tawni asks, picking up a pair of thick, blue ones and holding them up to her eyes.
“Sunglasses,” Roc says. “We use them to make our vision darker, due to the brightness of the sun.”
“Artificial sun,” I correct, snatching a pair of black ones from the rack. I put them on, watching how my vision dims into near-blackness. “I can’t even see with these on.”
“That’s because the lighting in here is dim already. Wait until we get outside,” Tristan advises.
I shrug and tilt the sunglasses onto the top of my head, the way Tristan and Roc are wearing their own pairs.
Tristan is just about to open the store’s front door, when Roc says, “What about Sleeping Beauty?”
“Huh?” I say, frowning.
“He means Trevor,” Tristan explains. “He was still sleeping off his head injury when we left him.”
“We could just leave him there,” Roc suggests. “He’d probably be safer.”
Raising an eyebrow, Tristan says, “Yeah, until the Sun Festival ends, at which time the stores will open, he’ll be found, arrested for theft and breaking and entering. Then when they determine he’s a star dweller invading the Sun Realm during a time of war they’ll connect him to the soldiers we killed or injured in the shipping tunnel, and he’ll be put to death. He’d be safe, all right.”
Roc shrugs. “Well, if you put it that way, maybe we should bring him along. But I don’t want to have to lug him around everywhere.”
As we march back through the store, I avoid looking at any of the stuff that just makes me angry. We reach a corner that’s filled with piled up clothing, almost like a bed.
“Crap,” Tristan says.
“Where?” Roc says, checking his shoes. “Hey, where’s Trevor?”
“You mean you lost him?” I ask incredulously.
“Uh, no, of course not,” Tristan says. “We just misplaced him.”
“Is there a difference?” Tawni asks.
“Not really,” Roc says. “It just sounds better saying it that way.”
Ducking back into one of the aisles, Tristan says, “He can’t have gone far—I’m sure we’ll find him around here somewhere. Trevor!”
We follow his lead, branching out into the store like a human net, each of us calling our lost friend’s name. I reach the end of the men’s section and, with nowhere else to go, proceed into the women’s section. Considering the extent of Trevor’s head injury, it’s entirely possible he’s trying on women’s undergarments at this very moment.
Sure enough, when I approach the women’s change rooms, someone’s talking. I can tell right away that it’s Trevor.
“…lookin’ good, my friend,” he says. “Sick shirt, awesome pants, nice shoes…”
“Trevor?” I say softly, not wanting to scare our concussed friend away.
“In here!” he calls.
When I peek around the corner, I find him standing in front of the mirror, posing, flexing his muscles and grinning at himself. “What do you think?” he asks, turning to show off his new clothes.
“They’re okay,” I say, downplaying the fact that he actually does look pretty good in his new digs. He’s not a bad-looking guy. Nor is he a bad guy—he can just be a bit trying sometimes.
“Okay? They’re awesome!”
“I found him!” I yell to the others. And then to Trevor: “Are you okay?”
“Never felt better,” he says. “Other than the hammer smashing against my head every second, I’m perfectly fine,” he laughs. “How’d we get here anyway?”
“You mean you don’t remember?”
“I don’t remember a thing after falling from the crowd, feeling my head crack the stone, and then making a smartass comment about how hard my head is,” he says.
“That’s probably a good thing,” Tristan says, walking in. “You weren’t really yourself.”
“I don’t know,” Roc says, entering next, chuckling to himself, “I think he was exactly himself.”
“I don’t know what you goobers are talking about, but what I want to know is how I got out of my old clothes and into these?”
I hadn’t thought of that. There’s only one way…
“You dressed him?” I say, glancing between Roc and Tristan, who are looking down, scuffing their feet against the floor.
“Aww, how sweet is it how the guys take care of each other,” Tawni says, arriving last.
“Uh, yeah, sweet,” Roc says. “I washed my hands three times afterwards.”
“You owe us, dude,” is all that Tristan says.
“If it wasn’t so creepy, I’d thank you,” Trevor says, grinning. “At least you’ve got good taste.”
“Thanks—I think,” Roc says. “Now, can we ditch this popsicle stand?”
“What’s a popsic—” Tawni starts to say.
“I’ll explain another time,” Roc says. “Are you sure you’re okay, Trevor?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Let’s move,” Tristan says. “Make sure your weapons are out of sight.”
Once more, we retrace our steps to the front door. Keeping low, we peek out the windows, watching for potential witnesses to our crime. The beat of the music continues to thump from a few blocks away. A good sign. The crowds won’t have dispersed as long as there’s entertainment.
A gaggle of four or five young girls in tight dresses and high heels wobble past. Even through the glass I can hear them chattering away, all at the same time, not bothering to listen to what each other has to say. They’re speaking so fast it’s almost like a foreign language. One of them stumbles as her heel bites into a crack in the stone. She nearly falls, but manages to regain her balance and pull the heel out and resume walking like one of her legs is longer than the other.
“They look ridiculous,” I scoff. “Tawni, are you sure you don’t want to change shoes?”
“I’ll put them to shame,” Tawni says. “Besides, those heels are at least twice as high as mine.”
She’s right, but I still worry that when the time comes to run—which it inevitably will—we’ll be waiting for her to unclasp her shoes with bullets flying all around us. As I picture the scene in my head, it’s almost comedic.
The girls turn the corner, leaving the street deserted once again. “Game time,” Tristan says, pulling the door open.
We file into the street in a line, the same way we’re used to marching through the tunnels. I squint as the artificial sunlight peeks over the top of one of the buildings, blinding me. Tristan stops, chews on his lip, eyes the group. “We look way too stiff,” he says, sliding his sunglasses over his eyes. “We’re just a group of sun dwellers out to have a good time. Sunglasses down.”