Champion (Legend 3)

The alarm deafens me. I grab Eden’s hand and rush us out of the room. “We have to get out of here,” I shout. When he stumbles, unable to see where we’re going, I hoist him onto my back. People rush all around us.

I reach the stairwell—and there, a line of Republic soldiers stops us. One of them pulls Eden off my back. He screams, kicking out at people he can’t see. I struggle to free myself from the soldiers, but their grip is ironclad, and my limbs feel like they’re sinking into deep mud. We need him, some unrecognizable voice whispers into my ear. He can save us all.

I scream out loud, but no one can hear me. Off in the distance, the Colonies airships aim at the hospital. Glass shatters all around us. I feel the heat of fire. On the floor lies Eden’s paper flower, its edges crisping from flames. I can no longer see my brother.

He’s gone. He’s dead.

* * *

A pounding headache pulls me from my sleep. The soldiers vanish—the alarm silences—the chaos of the hospital disappears into the dark blue hue of our bedroom. I try to take a deep breath and look around for Eden, but the headache stabs into the back of my skull like an ice pick, and I bolt upright with a gasp of pain. Now I remember where I really am. I’m in a temporary apartment back in Denver, the morning after seeing June. On the bedroom dresser sits my usual transmission box, the station still tuned to one of the airwaves I thought the Patriots might’ve been using.

“Daniel?” In the bed next to mine, Eden stirs. Relief hits me, even in the midst of my agony. Just a nightmare. Like always. Just a nightmare. “Are you okay?” It takes me a second to realize that dawn hasn’t quite arrived—the room still looks dark, and all I can see is my brother’s silhouette against the bluish black of the night.

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I swing my legs over the side of the bed to face him and clutch my head in both hands. Another jolt of pain hits the base of my brain. “Get my medicine,” I mutter to Eden.

“Should I get Lucy?”

“No. Don’t wake her,” I reply. Lucy’s already had two sleepless nights because of me. “Medicine.”

The pain makes me ruder than usual, but Eden jumps out of bed before I can apologize. He immediately starts fumbling for the bottle of green pills that always sits on the dresser between our beds. He grabs it and holds out the bottle in my general direction.

“Thanks.” I take it from him, pour three pills into my palm with a shaking hand, and try to swallow them. Throat’s too dry. I push myself up from the bed and stagger toward the kitchen. Behind me, Eden utters another “Are you sure you’re okay?” but the pain in my head is so strong that I can hardly hear him. I can hardly even see.

I reach the kitchen sink and turn the faucet on, cup some water into my hands, and drink it down with the medicine. Then I slide down to the floor in the darkness, resting my back against the cold metal of the refrigerator door.

It’s okay, I console myself. My headaches had worsened over the past year, but the doctors assured me that these attacks should last no longer than a half hour each time. Of course, they also told me that if any of them felt unusually severe, I should be rushed to the emergency room right away. So every time I get one, I wonder if I’m experiencing a typical day—or the last day of my life.

A few minutes later, Eden stumbles into the kitchen with his walking meter on, the device beeping whenever he gets too close to a wall. “Maybe we should ask Lucy to call the doctors,” he whispers.

I don’t know why, but the sight of Eden feeling his way through the kitchen sends me into a fit of low, uncontrollable laughter. “Man, look at us,” I reply. My laughter turns into coughs. “What a team, yeah?”

Eden finds me by placing a tentative hand on my head. He sits beside me with his legs crossed and gives me a wry grin. “Hey—with your metal leg and half a brain, and my four leftover senses, we almost make a whole person.”

I laugh harder, but it makes the pain of my headache that much worse. “When did you turn so sarcastic, little boy?” I give him an affectionate shove.

We stay hunched in silence for the next hour as the headache goes on and on. I’m now writhing in pain. Sweat soaks my white collar shirt and tears streak my face. Eden sits next to me and grips my hand in his small ones. “Try not to think about it,” he urges under his breath, squinting at me with his pale purple eyes. He pushes his black-rimmed glasses farther up his nose. Bits and pieces of my nightmare come back to me, images of his hand getting yanked out of mine. Sounds of his screams. I squeeze his hand so tightly that he winces. “Don’t forget to breathe. The doctor always says taking deep breaths is supposed to help, right? Breathe in, breathe out.”

I close my eyes and try to follow my little brother’s commands, but it’s hard to hear him at all through the pounding of my headache. The pain is excruciating, all-consuming, a white-hot knife stabbing repeatedly into the back of my brain. Breathe in, breathe out. Here’s the pattern—first there’s a dull, numbing ache, followed shortly by the absolute worst pain you can ever imagine going into your head, a spear shoved through your skull, and the impact of it is so hard that your entire body goes stiff; it lasts for a solid three seconds, followed by a split second of relief. And then it repeats itself all over again.

“How long has it been?” I gasp out to Eden. Dim blue light is slowly filtering in from the windows.

Eden pulls out a tiny square com and presses its lone knob. “Time?” he asks it. The device immediately responds, “Zero five thirty.” He puts it away, a concerned frown on his face. “It’s been almost an hour. Has it gone on this long before?”