Four
"Thompson gave you a second strike," Joyce said quietly. She frowned, staring out the window as Twelve's story sunk in. Finally she shook her head. "I never liked that guy."
Twelve chewed her lip, thinking back to the satisfied look he'd worn while giving her the strike. Thompson had been looking for any excuse to strike her-that much she knew-and he was within his rights to reprimand her for discussing Authority business with a civilian, but a strike was the severest punishment dealt and it was highly unusual to be used as a penalty for her lapse in judgement. The punishment didn't fit the crime. Though, it rarely did.
Twelve received her first strike five years earlier, the day the reapers breached the walls. By the time the Authority arrived in force, she'd already killed the Demogorgon and was standing over it, machete in one hand and baton in the other. The entire scene was a complete mess: rocks littered the ground; half of the colony surrounded the area while the guards' unconscious bodies lay forgotten around the perimeter; one Slayer taken and a twenty-five year old girl standing triumphantly in a puddle of blood. It was an embarrassment for the Authority and they lashed out, giving Twelve her first strike in front of an audience of thousands. She was charged with theft and use of a restricted weapon for having shocked the Demogorgon with the guard's baton—a weapon that was strictly wielded by the Authority and Slayers. Since Twelve wasn't a Slayer yet and the baton came from an unconscious guard, she had no argument. But when the punishment was announced, the audience's boos quickly transformed to her name and everything else was drowned out by the resounding chant: Twelve! Twelve! Twelve!
She was out of chances now and an entire colony of chanting supporters couldn't help her if Thompson decided to give her the final strike. If he did, she'd be banished from the colonies immediately and forced to live in the Badlands—the reaper hunting grounds. It was a death sentence for most people. For Twelve, it meant severing all contact with the only person that mattered in her life—Holly.
"He's got it out for me, Joyce," Twelve said, leaning over the table and lowering her voice. "He wants me gone and he has that power."
Joyce pressed her lips together and gave Twelve an apologetic look. "Transfer jobs," she suggested.
Twelve nodded. "I'm picking up an application tomorrow," she agreed. "But after getting food today, we're out of tokens."
Joyce held out her empty hands. "I don't have any…"
"No, no," Twelve said quickly. "I'm not asking for tokens. I'm just saying… I have to go out again and hunt. I have to keep earning until the transfer goes through." Next to her, the radiator hissed loudly and heat rolled off of it. She felt a trickle of sweat snake down her neck, then a flush across her whole body. Unbuttoning her hooded sweatshirt, she peeled it off and draped it over the back of her chair. "If Thompson is dead set on striking me out," she continued, then stopped when she saw Joyce staring blankly at Twelve's forearm. In a single column along the stretch of pale skin was a tattooed list of names: "Barb; Ted; Karen; Mike; Steve…" Will's name was toward the bottom of the list and, set apart from the others, scrawled in script across her wrist was "Jonathan." Twelve cupped her hand over the script and pulled her arms beneath the edge of the table. She took a deep breath and looked across into Joyce's wide, brown eyes. "If Thompson strikes me out before I have time to transfer," she continued, still clutching Jonathan's name beneath the table, "Holly will be evicted and she'll have nowhere to live."
Joyce glanced at the table, where Twelve's arms were hidden, then looked back up with the same indiscernible gaze. "If you strike out," she said, "Holly will leave the colony looking for you. There's no way she'd stay; you know that."
"She can't do that," Twelve replied curtly.
"Then don't give Thompson a reason to issue the third strike," Joyce said.
Twelve laughed disparagingly. "I'm not planning on pissing the guy off," she argued. "Trust me; I'm not here because I want to be banished." She felt a boiling tension easing in her chest as she vented. "Don't mistake anything I've done this past decade as more than a means to provide for Holly. I'm not feeding my ego or entertaining my fan club," she angrily spit out the term Thompson had used. "I'm trying to keep Holly alive."
Her last words echoed eerily against the bare walls.
Joyce studied Twelve for a few uncomfortable seconds before asking, "What aren't you telling me?"
Twelve deflated after the outburst, sinking into her chair. "I need you to take Holly," she said finally, staring at Joyce's shoulder, deliberately avoiding those searching eyes. "If anything happens to me, I need to know she's safe. Please…"
Joyce's brows knit and she reached out, but Twelve kept her hand clasped against her wrist, beneath the table. "Nancy?" Joyce asked.
Twelve lifted her head. "Holly is O-negative," she admitted. "You can't tell anyone," she insisted. It was bad enough that Thompson knew. If word got out…
The fact that reapers were drawn to fresh blood was well-known. It was a technique she and Jonathan had used on the very first Demogorgon years ago. But, as it turned out, they were drawn to certain blood types more than others and O-negative was, by far, the most potent lure for drawing out reapers. During the collapse of '84, an estimated 95 percent of people with O-negative blood type in North America was hunted and killed. Now the carriers were almost non-existent.
If the wrong people found out that Holly had O-negative blood, they'd drain her and sell her blood on the black market to Slayers or anyone else willing to pay. Or, if Holly was evicted and ended up having to take a job outside of the walls—she'd be snatched by a reaper on the first day. If word got out, it meant Holly's life.
"Promise me you won't tell anyone," Twelve repeated.
"I won't," Joyce promised. She tilted her head, looking sideway at Twelve and asked curiously, "Have you been using her blood?"
Twelve averted her eyes and made noncommittal gesture.
"Why don't you use your own?" Joyce asked sharply.
"I'd love to," Twelve replied, looking back at Joyce imploringly. "But the reapers haven't been drawn to my blood since the infection." She hiked her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the thick, rope-like scar that lined the length of her back where she'd been clawed by a Demogorgon eleven years earlier.
Joyce scrunched her eyebrows. "Why?" she asked.
Shrugging, Twelve replied, "Dunno. It was the same for Lucas, though."
They lapsed into silence. The radiator gurgled and echoed metallic rattles from the boiler below. Through the door, Twelve could just make out the shrill giggles of young children down the hallway. She ran her thumb absentmindedly across her wrist where the cursive letters of Jonathan's name were still raised slightly from the tattoo. Joyce chewed her thumbnail and watched out the window where pinprick snowflakes were gently falling.
"Joyce," Twelve said softly. "I know you've lost a lot—"
"Don't…" Joyce cut in, but Twelve spoke over her.
"I know you've lost a lot," she repeated. "So you've got to understand. My mom and dad are dead. My brother's gone. All of my friends either disappeared or died in my arms. Holly is it for me." She leaned over, imploring. "For the last ten years, everything I've done has been for her safety. If I can't secure her safety after I'm gone, then it will all have been for nothing." She hesitated a moment, then stretched her arms back out on the table, the names of the dead and lost cascading across her skin.
Joyce's eyes lingered on the names of her sons; then she looked up. "If anything happens to you," she said, meeting Twelve's eyes, "I'll keep Holly here. I'll keep her safe."