Page 149 of Stormbreaker

They flow like water, dodging a blitz of strikes raining from above. Their pace is much faster, movements more aggressive. They’re mesmerizing to watch, almost like dancers. I feel Rook move beside me as he studies the Breakers weaving in and out.

“Where did you come up with the design?” Rook asks Dr. Cummings. “For the vests and for collecting the charge?”

She blinks, clearly taken aback. “You’re the Solitude,” she says. It isn’t a question, but there’s plenty of heavy implication in her tone. Rook doesn’t answer, simply stares at her, all confidence and self-assurance. How does he do that?

“Through many iterations and years of testing,” she finally says. “General Sol helped develop the earliest prototypes. They were useless at first, but over time, we managed to perfect them to what you see before you.”

Almost as if the energy hears her, one of the Guards is struck, and we all gasp as she flies through the air and a plasma arc flares around her before fading away. It takes me a moment to realize the Breaker hasn’t been blitzed. I watch in fascination as she glitters with the remnants of purple Spark, which must be an effect of the vest. Then she rolls over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. She doesn’t move, but she isn’t dead, and she definitely isn’t a husk of ash.

It’s becoming clearer to me that while I thought I’d be relatively safe training to be a Breaker, their technology is advancing at a rate that could put me at a greater risk. I wonder how often they’ve started training with real Spark instead of the simulated version we use at school. I might need a plan if I continue on this path . . . or I might need to give this dream up.

The thought sits heavy in my chest.

Dr. Cummings flicks on a microphone and orders the medical team to remove her, but she wears a pleased smile. “This is very good,” she says almost to herself.

“So everyone could have one?” Rook asks. “No one would have to fear the storms again?”

Dr. Cummings shrugs. “Perhaps in time, but they’re incredibly costly to make and require materials that are difficult to obtain. The priority will be Breakers and other people of importance first.”

She returns to the simulation, and again, I’m struck by how the Breakers move so seamlessly over the terrain. It takes about a quarter of an hour for two of them to near the center of the arena. I find myself gripped by the scene as my gaze darts between the Breakers and the huddling Hollows on the screen.

Spark hasn’t breached their circle yet, but a charge spears down and hits the ground a foot away, exploding up, leaving behind a charred ring. The Hollows’ mouths open in a scream before they leap for cover. That’s when a Breaker emerges between the buildings, shouting orders for them to run.

Dr. Cummings leans forward and reaches for a knob, cranking up the barrage of bursts. More jagged bolts fall from the ceiling, gathering into a potent strike. It hits the Breaker and then the Hollows. Everyone flies several feet.

I squeak out a shocked gasp as we all wait with our hearts in our throats.

It takes a minute for the dust to clear, revealing a coughing Breaker clutching his chest and three blitzed Hollows.

The Breaker struggles to his feet, hacking, struggling to breathe. But he’s alive.

The Hollows, however . . .

They’re nothing but ash and smoke, their bodies charred to husks.

I cover my mouth, horrified.

“Excellent,” Dr. Cummings says with a definitive nod. “Excellent.”

54

Once Dr. Cummings ends the simulation, we’re invited to the arena floor, where we walk around, exploring its nooks and crannies. The Breakers answer some questions about what it’s like to work on the Storm Towers, and then we do a series of drills.

But I can’t focus or concentrate. I can’t stop seeing the blitzed Hollows, nor the easy cruelty with which they were treated.

Dr. Eze pulls me aside. “Are you okay, Poet?” she asks, and I shake my head.

“I’m not feeling well,” I say. It’s not a complete lie, but I’m almost positive she isn’t taking my answer the way I intended.

“Why don’t you just have a seat, then?” she says, steering me to a quiet corner. “We’re almost done here anyway.” She sits me down and then crouches before me. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” she says. “I’d like for you to come to my lab for some extra testing.”

My head snaps up. “Why?”

She shakes her head. “Just some anomalies I noticed. I’d like to check things again.”

“Anomalies?”

Does she know about me? Can she tell what I am?