The Sun Dwellers

I drink her in with my eyes. She’s wearing tight, black pants that, when combined with her form-fitting emerald-green leather silver-studded tunic, show off her gorgeous, hour-glass figure in a tough, rugged kind of way. The pants are tucked into high, black boots with a wide, modest heel that even I could walk on. She has on a half-dozen gleaming steel rings that match the studs on her shirt. Her long black hair is braided down the back and wrapped with silver, shimmering ties. Although she doesn’t need it, her eyelashes are lengthened and thickened with dark mascara, giving her green eyes a definite feline look. Her lips have just a touch of pink, leaving them glossy and intoxicating.

She tucks her emerald pendant into her tunic, and I realize the outfit is an outward expression of the jewel that hangs from her necklace. A memory of her father.

“Hellooo,” Adele says. “Am I that hideous that you don’t even have a word to describe it?”

“N—no,” I stutter, trying to gain my composure. “Roc got it right the first time. You look hot,” I say, nodding vehemently.

A flush heats up Adele’s face once more. “I look ridiculous,” she says, looking down at her getup.

“Again, not the word I would choose,” I say. Changing the angle of the subject, I ask, “Can you move okay? I mean, if you had to fight or run or whatever, could you?”

Before I know it’s coming, her shiny boot flashes upward, stopping less than an inch from my face, making me flinch. She holds the kick for a second, and then returns her foot to the floor, a half-step in front of her other one. Her arms are in a boxer’s stance, her fists knotted.

“I guess you can fight,” I say breathlessly.

“I guess so,” she smirks.

Chapter Thirteen

Adele

I’m happy with my new clothes. Although they’re not really me—too tight and revealing—at least I can fight in them. And hopefully they’ll help me fit into this crazy world.

Honestly, at first I was somewhat mesmerized by the artificial sun, the beautiful people, the interesting clothing, but now I’m just sickened by it. Not necessarily because it’s not cool, or fun, but because they don’t share it. While the star dwellers live in squalor and filth and darkness, and the moon dwellers are impoverished, hungry, and hopeless, the sun dwellers enjoy the high life, basking in their beautiful sunlight, surrounded by elegant buildings, pristine city streets, and everything money can buy. I always knew the Sun Realm was privileged, but I never knew how much.

As we pass one last time through the racks of vibrant and well-made clothes, I wonder whether people are just born a certain way and that’s it, or whether they can be changed. The sun dwellers are born in this place where clothes are used for fashion, rather than utility. It’s all they’ve ever known, it’s all they’ve ever seen. So is that it? Is it really their fault that they don’t see the reality of the inequality at play in the world? Are they a product of their inherent natures, or their environment? Or is it a mixture of both?

I think of myself. Although I’ve never been mean-spirited, I’m clearly a result of my parents’ upbringing, but I’ve also been changed significantly from my experiences. I guess it all comes down to how one reacts to the things they see, the things that happen to them. Like I can take everything I’ve been through—my father’s and Cole’s death, my sister’s maiming, mine and my parents’ imprisonment, the people I’ve killed—and wallow in self-pity, hate myself for not being strong enough, give up on everything…or I can rise above it, seek the good in the Tri-Realms, fight for those I’ve lost and those I still have. I can be better. It’s up to me. It’s a choice that only I can make.

The sun dwellers have a choice: to be blind and ignorant and uninterested in the stark difference in living conditions between the Upper and Lower Realms, or see this travesty for what it is—evil and hate. No, these people do not get a free pass just because they’ve never known any other life. If they took one minute away from their own skewed self-images, greed, and slothfulness, they would see what I can see as clear as the spray of water from an underground waterfall: they’re not human anymore. No, not even close. They’re robots, programmed only to care about themselves and enjoying their own lives, not the pitiful lives of those born beneath them.

I’m done with my rambling thoughts; it’s time for action. I’m not perfect, nor do I pretend to be. I’ve killed. I’ve said and done things I’m not proud of. But I’m better than these people. If these robots refuse to see the truth, we’ll show it to them—the hard way if we have to.

On the way out we pass a rotating display of tinted glasses. I remember seeing many of the partiers wearing similar glasses as we crowd-surfed past them.

“It’s bright out there,” Tristan says. “These will come in handy, both to protect our eyes and our identities.”

“What are they?” Tawni asks, picking up a pair of thick, blue ones and holding them up to her eyes.

“Sunglasses,” Roc says. “We use them to make our vision darker, due to the brightness of the sun.”

“Artificial sun,” I correct, snatching a pair of black ones from the rack. I put them on, watching how my vision dims into near-blackness. “I can’t even see with these on.”

“That’s because the lighting in here is dim already. Wait until we get outside,” Tristan advises.

I shrug and tilt the sunglasses onto the top of my head, the way Tristan and Roc are wearing their own pairs.

Tristan is just about to open the store’s front door, when Roc says, “What about Sleeping Beauty?”

“Huh?” I say, frowning.

“He means Trevor,” Tristan explains. “He was still sleeping off his head injury when we left him.”

“We could just leave him there,” Roc suggests. “He’d probably be safer.”

Raising an eyebrow, Tristan says, “Yeah, until the Sun Festival ends, at which time the stores will open, he’ll be found, arrested for theft and breaking and entering. Then when they determine he’s a star dweller invading the Sun Realm during a time of war they’ll co

Roc shrugs. “Well, if you put it that way, maybe we should bring him along. But I don’t want to have to lug him around everywhere.”

As we march back through the store, I avoid looking at any of the stuff that just makes me angry. We reach a corner that’s filled with piled up clothing, almost like a bed.

“Crap,” Tristan says.

“Where?” Roc says, checking his shoes. “Hey, where’s Trevor?”

“You mean you lost him?” I ask incredulously.

“Uh, no, of course not,” Tristan says. “We just misplaced him.”

“Is there a difference?” Tawni asks.

“Not really,” Roc says. “It just sounds better saying it that way.”

Ducking back into one of the aisles, Tristan says, “He can’t have gone far—I’m sure we’ll find him around here somewhere. Trevor!”

We follow his lead, branching out into the store like a human net, each of us calling our lost friend’s name. I reach the end of the men’s section and, with nowhere else to go, proceed into the women’s section. Considering the extent of Trevor’s head injury, it’s entirely possible he’s trying on women’s undergarments at this very moment.

Sure enough, when I approach the women’s change rooms, someone’s talking. I can tell right away that it’s Trevor.

“…lookin’ good, my friend,” he says. “Sick shirt, awesome pants, nice shoes…”

“Trevor?” I say softly, not wanting to scare our concussed friend away.

“In here!” he calls.

When I peek around the corner, I find him standing in front of the mirror, posing, flexing his muscles and gri