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ground. Next to them is a black box with five weapons nestled in foam, and a sword in a sheath lies flat beside that.
    I pick up a harness, turn, and toss it to Kendra. She catches it, her chest moving with each shallow, panting breath. I focus on adjusting my own harness, figuring she needs a minute to get her head together. She better do it quickly. A minute might be all she has.
    I cross the straps the way Jackson taught me, one resting across my chest and the other sitting low on my hips. Holding my hand over the box, I hover over each of the weapon cylinders in turn until one flies up to slap my palm. I shove it in the holster on my right side.
    You want your weapon on your dominant side. You don’t want to cross reach. It’ll slow you down.
    Jackson’s words of wisdom. It’s like he’s watching my back even though he isn’t here. I close my eyes, picturing his face, the too-brief flash of his ironic half smile, remembering the way it felt when he held me in the caves and told me to rest, his shoulder as my pillow.
    I open my eyes and force myself to focus on this moment instead of all the moments in the past I wish I could revisit. That’s not a good direction for me to go. Not right now.
    A glance at Kendra tells me she’s at least got her harness on even if she hasn’t claimed her weapon yet. Her lower lip trembles. If I reassure her, will it make things better, or worse?
    I bend and grab the sword that’s lying on the ground next to the weapon box. I don’t just get a weapon cylinder like everyone else; I get a blade. Perks of leadership. I guess something needs to balance out the downside.
    The soft silk wrap and the weight of the hilt are familiar in my hand from all my years of kendo, but the actual blade isn’t like any of the swords I’ve used—or seen—in the past. It isn’t a wooden bokken or a bamboo shinai like I used in practice and competition. This one is a shinken katana , a real sword, and while I’ve seen some gorgeous ones before, none were quite like this. The blade is black, smooth, like glass. It doesn’t bend or break, and as I found out in Detroit, it cuts through Drau like they’re made of butter.
    The thought of that still makes my stomach turn even though it’s them or me.
    I did a book report last year on American Sniper. It was written by a U.S. Navy SEAL about his tours of duty—nine, I think. I remember reading an interview with him where he said he didn’t think about his targets as people. He was killing people , but he couldn’t think of them that way, couldn’t wonder if they had a wife or kids or parents at home. He was there to keep his guys safe. Every enemy he shot meant they didn’t get the chance to kill one of his team.
    I didn’t get it back then.
    I think I get it now, though. Them or me.
    The ugly irony? After everything the guy had lived through, all the dangers he’d faced, he was shot and killed on a gun range somewhere in Texas.
    My breath hitches. After everything I’ve lived through now, if I die in the game, I’ll be hit and killed by a rusted-out speeding truck.
    There’s some deep, philosophical message in there somewhere.
    I don’t get the chance to decipher it. The Committee pushes knowledge into my head, sound and texture and scent that exist only in the neurons firing in my brain: Incoming.

CHAPTER FIVE
    TYRONE SHOWS UP WITH JAW CLENCHED AND HANDS FISTED. He’s tall and handsome, with smooth brown skin and full lips, his dark, tightly curled hair trimmed close. His eyes—all our eyes—are blue in the game, but mine are the only ones that remain that intense shade of indigo in real life. When we aren’t in the game, Luka’s eyes are brown. I think Tyrone’s and Lien’s are, too. Not sure about Kendra. With her pale skin and fair hair, I’d guess her eyes are blue or gray.
    Luka’s next. He arrives looking bewildered, then pissed, his whole body tensing as he registers that, yeah, we’re back here again. “This is