“Scorpio is the name of the exoskeleton.” The wardrobe mistress rubs ashes on my bare arms while her colleague slips boots onto my feet. “Only the strongest of guardians can wield black zirconium.”
“What’s that?” I slip the suicide disc into the pocket of my jumpsuit.
“A form of metal.”
My eyes narrow. “It’s heavy, then?”
She chuckles and dusts gray powder on my face. “No spoilers.”
I turn my gaze to the screen where Prunella still stands at the foot of the tree holding out her palms. There’s no sound, but her face is twisted with anguish, and she seems to be screaming at someone on the other side of the camera. I purse my lips. What kind of people would watch someone’s last moments for entertainment?
The wardrobe mistress tells me to raise my head, so she can dust me with ashes. Sackcloth and ashes are supposed to be signs of repentance, but my only regret is the pain I caused Prince Kevon. I wait for the surge of guilt, for my heart to clench with misery, but whatever was in the effervescent paper and mint water has tamped my emotions.
Even as a hulking man in shining, black armor walks into the scene and the women around me gasp, I feel nothing except for determination that I will not fall at the hands of Scorpio.
The camera cuts to Scorpio's broad back, where the armor takes the shape of a carapace of blinking lights that I suppose are cameras. He spread out his thick arms that end in pincers the size of Prunella’s head.
Shiny bands of black metal stretch across his rib cage and around to the front, imitating scorpion legs, and the armor notches into segments down the base of his spine, which ends in a segmented tail.
He runs with mechanical steps over a landscape of dense roots that tangle and stretch over turquoise water. The trees attached to them grow at odd angles, and there isn’t a scrap of land apart from what’s created by the roots.
“He’s going to end Prunella.” The wardrobe mistress clasps her hands to her face and dirties her mask with gray powder.
“No.” One of the women hides her face with her hands and peeps at the screen through parted fingers. “I can’t watch.”
I turn my gaze to the camera. Prunella was no friend. She killed an innocent girl, injured eight contestants, and executed Gemini Pixel, but even she deserves a witness who isn’t watching out of some sick sense of entertainment.
A side shot of them appears on the screen. Scorpio wraps a claw around her neck and raises her to eye level. His tail lengthens and curls into a stinger the size of a large gourd. With one twist of his wrist, Prunella becomes limp.
The trio of women exchange dissatisfied glances.
“That’s it?” says the one who hid behind her hands. “I thought Scorpio would pull off her head or… I don’t know, do something spectacularly explosive.”
The third woman’s eyes slide toward me, and the apples of her cheeks rise beneath her black mask. “Maybe they’re saving his best moves for the next victim.”
I shoot her a venomous look, and she darts her gaze toward the wall.
A close-up of Prunella's face replays on the screen. She leans back, her eyes bulging, and her nostrils flared. The corners of her lips curl down in a scream that exposes her top row of teeth, and her wide face curls into a mask of horror.
She moves slower than usual, making me think that the producers want people to savor her death. I turn my gaze away and clench my teeth. One day, I hope Queen Damascena will know what it is to feel such terror.
After a few repeats of Prunella’s death, the camera cuts to a full-body shot of Byron Blake standing at the edge of a pool underneath another of those trees whose roots snake across the water. He wears green overalls that ride up to his chest with a lightweight jacket underneath and a hat in the same fabric.
The wardrobe mistress bounces up and down on the balls of her feet. “They’re about to announce the next victim.”
Facing the door at the other end of the dressing room, I pull back my shoulders, straighten my spine, and curl my hands into fists.
It’s time.
One of the women rears back. “Who on earth is that?”
I turn to the screen. A pair of women in black masks drag a short blonde toward Byron. She struggles against their grip, keeping her head down. This new victim doesn’t wear sackcloth like Prunella did or me, but a Harvester uniform with a full apron.
One of the women in black forces the Harvester’s head up, and aquamarine eyes stare into the camera within a face twisted with terror.
It’s Mom.
Chapter 22
Shock barrels my gut. I stagger back and clutch myself around the middle. “Mom.”
All three women turn from the screen and stare at me with wide eyes. “That’s your mother?” asks the wardrobe mistress. “I thought she was just a Harvester nobody sent in to get Scorpio in the mood.”
Byron addresses the camera, and the screen splits into halves. Mom’s identification photo and personal details appear on the left. The volume is off, so I can’t hear what he’s saying.
My heart pumps adrenaline and hatred through my veins. Mom has done nothing wrong. She won’t last ten minutes with Scorpio. “I’ve got to leave.” My hands curl into fists. “Now.”
“We can’t control the external door,” says the woman closest to the screen.
The wardrobe mistress shrugs. “Sorry.”
My rage mounts until blood pounds in my ears and the edges of my vision blur. I won’t allow this. I won’t stand and watch Mom die at the hands of these monsters. I won’t amuse them with my anguish at watching Scorpio run Mom ragged and beat her to death.
An idea jumps into my head. Earlier, the women warned me not to attempt an escape or
