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As they moved back—the correct way, in his opinion—through the doors, he ran a hand down her back.
“On home then?”
She started to nod—home sounded excellent—then she thought: Choices. To kill, to train t
o kill. To move into trouble, or turn away. To share a precious new gift. To give thanks.
Wherever you came from, however you grew up, it always came down to the choices you made. Even when you only had one year on the planet.
She made one of her own, and took his hand.
“Let’s go back to the party.”
“Voluntarily?” he said, making her laugh.
“Let’s go back to the weird and the happy. Let’s go have some fucking birthday cake.”
He made a choice of his own, cupped her chin, and kissed her. “That sounds absolutely perfect.”
They rode up, away from the cages, from the curses, the tears, from those who chose to shed blood. And made their way back to the weird and the happy.
