“You think you’re better than me, Vale?” I spit. “Because you’re a Gifted?”
He steps close enough that I have to tilt my head back. His eyes burn with something volatile.
“Among other things.”
“Why not have a fair fight then?” I taunt. “Why rely on your powers?”
“I don’t need my powers to knock you flat on your ass,” he growls.
“Prove it.”
His mouth tilts in a sardonic smile. His foot slides behind mine to trip me, but I anticipated the move. I slide my leg upwards to knee his groin, but he slips away like the snake that he is.
“Playing dirty?” Ender tsks.
“I would gouge out your eyes if I were taller,” I say.
He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, as if he is amused by my bloodthirsty words.
“Enough of this, sunshine,” Ender says. “I’m on a tight schedule. Come with me.”
“What did you just call me?”
“It’s sarcasm,” he explains. “You’re as bleak as a rainy morning.”
“Don’tevercall me that.”
It’s the wrong thing to say, because he seems delighted by the fact that I despise it.
“I don’t have all day to play games with you,sunshine,” he replies. “In case you forgot, I am the Commandant of the Forge.”
I resist the urge to comment on the unfortunate pet name again. It’ll only make him keep calling me that.
“Who can forget when you make a habit of reminding us so often?” I ask bitterly.
He quirks a brow. “Impressed, are you?”
“Disgusted.”
He leads me past the main building, where recruits swarm like ants. Their gazes are low, and their footsteps are quick as they pass us, trying not to capture the attention of the Commandant. It sickens me how the world bends to his every whim. His mere existence makes them tremble, while people treat me like dirt just because I wasn’t born with powers.
Everyone has come to accept the hierarchy imposed by the regime. They’ve turned a blind eye to the injustice of it all, and I despise the Gifted for it. People may think the Resistance began to reject the Bind and to force people to accept Class Ones despite their dangerous gifts, but I like to think that it is also because the way our world is built is fundamentally wrong.
Commons have a higher tax rate even though they make smaller salaries. Fresh fruit and vegetables are exported to the wealthy families, while the poor ones eat cheap, packaged food like canned soup, and those nasty powdered meal packs that taste like mud.
The Gifted make up thirty percent of the population, yet the majority of our resources are funneled directly into their homes. They have the best electricity providers while ours is cut off the second we make a late payment, along with access to higher education, and dyed, vibrant clothes that aren’t the same stale color waves we mass-produce.
It sickens me that while we were drowning in debt in Division Eight, the worst people alive were growing rich off the blood of the impoverished.
Ender presses a badge to a second gate. It is thicker and made of reinforced steel. In black lettering, the words “Block A” are written on an entrance sign.
My heart thuds as I realize exactly where he is taking me.
Block A is reserved for high-level personnel. Block B is for the Gifted recruits, and Block C is for the Commons.
“Are you bringing me here to torture me?” I ask.
“Why would I torture you?”
