Legend

The movie starts. I’m grateful I don’t have to talk to Thomas anymore and can think in silence.

Change of plans. Otherwise, the boy who didn’t kill my brother will die tonight.

MY NEW EXECUTION TIME COMES WITHOUT ANY fanfare but the occasional crack of thunder coming from outside the building. Not that I can see the storm from my cell, of course, with its empty steel walls and security cams and nervous soldiers—so I can only guess at what the sky looks like.

At 6:00 A.M., the soldiers remove my shackles and unchain me from my prison wall. It’s a tradition. Before a publicized criminal goes off to face the firing squad, Batalla Hall broadcasts footage of them to all the JumboTrons in the square. They unchain you so you have the chance to do something entertaining. I’ve seen it in the past—and the onlookers in the square love it. Usually something happens: the criminal’s resolve starts breaking down, and he begs and pleads with the guards or tries to cut a deal or an extension, or sometimes even tries to break out. No one ever has. They feed your image live to the square until your execution time comes, then they cut to the firing squad yard inside Batalla Hall, and then they show you marching out to face the executioners. The onlookers in the square will gasp and shriek—sometimes in delight—when the shooting happens. And the Republic will be happy that they’ve made an example out of another criminal.

They’ll play reruns of the footage for several days afterward.

I’m free to walk around in my cell, but instead I just sit there and lean against the wall, my arms resting on my knees. I don’t feel like entertaining anyone. My head pounds with excitement and dread, anticipation and worry. My pendant sits in my pocket. I can’t stop thinking about John. What will they do with him? June promised to help me —she must’ve planned something for John, too. I hope.

If June is planning to help me escape, she sure is pushing her luck to the limits. The change in my execution date must not have helped her any, either. My chest aches at the thought of the danger she’s put herself in. I wish I knew what revelations she’d had. What could hurt her so badly that she, with all her privileges, would turn against the Republic? And if she was lying . . . well, why would she lie about saving me? Maybe she cares for me. I have to laugh a little at myself. What a thought at a time like this. Maybe I can steal a good-bye kiss from her before I step into the yard.

One thing I do know. Even if June’s plans fail, even if I’m going to be isolated and friendless when I head out to the firing squad . . . I’m going to fight. They’re going to have to fill me with bullets to get me to stay still. I take a shuddering breath. Brave thoughts, but am I ready to follow through on them?

The soldiers standing in my cell have more weapons than usual, along with gas masks and protective vests. No one dares take his eyes off of me. They really think I’ll do something cracked. I stare at the security cams and imagine what the square’s crowd looks like.

“You guys must be loving this,” I say after a while. The soldiers shift on their feet—a few raise their weapons. “Wasting a day of your life watching me sit in a cell. What fun.”

Silence. The soldiers are too afraid to reply.

I imagine the crowd outside. What are they doing? Maybe some of them still pity me, would still be willing to protest for me. Maybe a few of them are protesting, although it can’t be as serious as last time or I’d probably hear some of it from the hall. A lot of them must hate me. They must be cheering right now. And still others might just be out there because of morbid curiosity.

Hours drag by. I find myself looking forward to the execution. At least I’ll get to see something other than gray cell walls, if only for a little while. Anything to stop this mind-numbing wait. Besides—if June doesn’t succeed with whatever she’s planning, I’ll get to stop picturing John and my mother and Tess and Eden and everyone in my head.

Soldiers rotate in and out of my cell. I know five P.M. must be close. The square is probably filled with people by now. Tess. Maybe she’s there, too afraid to see it happen and too afraid to miss it.

Footsteps out in the hall. Then, a voice I recognize. June’s. I lift my head and look toward the door. Is this it? Time for my escape—or my death?

The door swings open. My guards make room as June enters the cell in full uniform, flanked by Commander Jameson and several other soldiers. I suck in my breath at the sight of her. I haven’t seen June in such clothes before. Shining, luxurious epaulettes draping from each of her shoulders. A thick, full-length cape made from some sort of rich velvet. Scarlet waistcoat and elaborate, belted boots. A standard-issue military cap. Simple makeup adorns her face, and her hair is flawless in its high ponytail. This must be standard agent dress code for special events.

June stops some distance away from me and, as I struggle to my feet, she looks down at her watch. “Four forty-five P.M.,” she says. She looks back up at me. I try to read her eyes, to see if I can guess what her plans are. “Any final requests? If you wish a last look at your brother or a last prayer, you’d better let us know now. It’s the only privilege you’ll get before you die.”

Of course. Final requests. I stare at her and keep my expression carefully blank. What does she want me to say? June’s eyes are intense, burning.

“I—” I begin. All eyes are on me.

I see June make the most subtle movement with her lips. John, she mouths. I glance at Commander Jameson.

“I want to see my brother John,” I say. “One last time. Please.”

The commander gives me an impatient nod and snaps her fingers, then mutters something to the soldier that approaches her. He salutes, then leaves. She looks back at me. “Granted.” My heart pounds harder. June exchanges the briefest look with me, but before I can focus on her, she turns away to ask Commander Jameson something.

“Everything is in place, Iparis,” the commander replies. “Now stop nagging me.”

We wait in silence for several minutes until I hear footsteps come down the hall again. This time, there’s a dragging sound mixed in with the crisp march of the soldiers. It must be John. I swallow hard. June doesn’t look at me again.

And then John’s in the cell, flanked by two guards. He looks thinner and paler than he did before. His long, white-blond hair hangs in dirty strings, and he doesn’t even seem to notice that some of it is plastered across his face. Must be what my hair looks like too. He smiles at the sight of me, although there’s little joy in it. I try to smile