MATCH CITY Read online

  Match City

  By Megan Kreuger

  1

  The building shakes as a thunderstorm rattles the outside world, jolting me from my sleep. My bedroom appears excessively calm from the cold, everything still, not daring to move. Obviously the Creators must be limiting heat for conservation purposes. Sliding out of bed and effortlessly throwing on my education uniform, a white blouse and grey skirt, full realization sets in; I turn twenty three tomorrow. There are no excuses left for my hesitation, I have to start looking for the man that will pass the Scan with me and give the Council the enhanced children they desire.

  I haven’t been to the match compatibility scanner–MCS— with anyone, and the thought of being reprimanded for being over twenty and not putting all of my effort into contributing, gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  A lavish gathering is held every month for single community members. The menacing unwed ruffians are societies’ biggest concern. This month’s event is already scheduled for Friday evening—tomorrow. I’m dreading it.

  I swallow the little blue pill allocated to me by the Creators and City medical professionals. I’m told something’s wrong with my nervous system. Waiting too long to take my dose can give me anxiety, a feeling I realize is now consuming me.

  It’s fine. Anxiety is tolerable. It’s like sharing a room with spiders, difficult at first, but soon it’s the new normal. I’d learn to deal with it, but I can’t miss my dose.

  After chasing the pill down with a glass of water, my nerves calm, and the normal tranquility that shadows my routine takes over.

  What time is it? I feel like I am running late. Father is sitting at his usual place in the dining area of our floor, sipping coffee from an over-sized, white mug.

  A picture of the current Creator Saros hangs in the empty front room, the eyes callously judging our daily activities. After acknowledging my presence with a look, Father goes back to viewing mandatory news reporting— a prerequisite of his morning routine. He’s part of the official administration, though he’s never allowed to speak in detail to his family about his duties. I have little clue as to what exactly he does all day.

  I grab a meal bar and turn to leave, but he interrupts my sneaky departure. “Oh, you’ve had four requests for coupling, permission granted by me personally. You need to focus all your effort on pairing now. You turn twenty three tomorrow. I know you wanted to wait, but now the Creators will notice.”

  He says this in a casual yet patronizing tone, adding “The sooner you act the more opportunities you’ll have to go through the scanner.” He awkwardly attempts to smile at me, but the look that follows contains severity and harshness.

  “I agree,” I say, well versed in this advice. I’m going to the gathering tomorrow.” “Excellent,” he says, dropping his eyes back to his viewing screen.

  It’s still storming when I step outside onto our patio platform to catch the Sky train. The storms always try to clean the structures here, and yet they continually look worse.

  I shiver from the cold that is now assaulting my ears and neck. Even with my thick coat, gloves, and boots on—I’m freezing. The cold attacks today, but the temperatures could be scorching by tomorrow, Mother Nature, unpredictable in her wrath.

  Everything is grey: the buildings, the sky, even my coat. On one of the tallest buildings I can see an oversized, deteriorating sign, with the words “Finis Est Initium” etched deep into the cracking silver, almost camouflaged by the sleet molded around its ridges.

  The train arrives, blowing my hair back belligerently before stopping at our building. I board quickly, take my usual place near the front and observe the City zooming by outside the window. I decide to pull my Ursa files from my tracker. The words illuminate onto my wrist and I get some extra study time in before arriving at building 151 for my classes. The Creator’s Building. Today is the last day before my graduation.

  Today’s topic:

  The Deterioration of Past Civilization: Why Freedom Should Never be Given to the Uneducated.

  I read the hologram on my wrist quickly. We are thankful for our City and the Creator’s generosity, allowing us to be a part of this ‘Reformacione,’ the only known establishment left that is organized, controlled, and safe from destructive and rampant anarchist ideology.

  The tracker on my wrist glows blue or green normally. Mine will change to purple once training for my career ends and I’m officially Ursa. Trackers that glow red have been tampered with. I’ve never seen red in person, fortunately.

  Today is the day—the gathering. I’m already on the sky train, headed to the studio located outside the Convention Center to get ready. The single women over nineteen are already inside. I imagine they’re frantically whirling multi-colored gowns around; wigs, hair and body art gaudy as ever. It’s going to be crazy.

  I just graduated sniper school the top of my class, my genetic heritage. Training excites me. But the gathering makes me want to throw up.

  Exiting the train, I enter the building and walk through a winding hallway, turning into a familiar room full of chattering young women. I’ve only been here once before, but never for the parties or gatherings. Some of these women have been to one every month for several years since they turned nineteen. Most have been through the Match Compatibility Scanner with prospective spouses, but not me. This will be my first.

  As I suspected, gowns are strewn about everywhere, over tables and chairs, hanging over arms, and piled on the floor. I cautiously stroll over to the rotating structures. Everything is over the top, and every color imaginable cascades from the racks. Girls are having temporary tattoos scanned onto the sides of their heads, behind their ears, outlining their features and trailing down their necks.

  The City: never a dull place.

  There’s always some sort of celebration that allows over-the-top, flashiness. This is one of those occasions. Normally the Creators lecture us about the importance of unity, rules, and regulation, but they always find some new way to amuse the masses. Pairing is no exception, since pairing remains crucial to our superiority and existence.

  I see my best friend December. A wide smile spreads across her face when she notices me. “Freya!” she exclaims. “You finally came to one!” She gives me an exaggerated look of shock, her mouth hangs open as she presses her hand to her chest and quickly adds, “Oh, and Happy Birthday! I got you something, but I’ll give it to you later.”

  “Thanks,” I say with genuine sincerity, my eyes half-scanning the racks for a dress. A feeling of nervousness consumes me as I think about walking down the colossal staircase in the gathering room, possibly falling on my face in front of hundreds of male suitors.

  “I think you should wear this coral one,” December says, waltzing to the middle of the rack. She removes a backless, trumpet-mermaid cut gown from the frame. The racks start rotating again. “That’s beautiful, but a lot of women are already wearing pink,” I say.

  “Not this shade though,” she says, “and Freya, you are… you— you are going to stand out and be sought after regardless of what other women are wearing.”

  “You’re sweet, but I—,” she doesn’t let me finish, flapping her hand in front of my face, a small breeze rustling my hair. I let out a deep breath, not realizing I have been holding it in.

  “Well what are you going to wear?” I respond after a pause. She suddenly gets a mischievous gleam in her eye. “This,” she says assertively. It’s a beautiful violet gown with a sweetheart neckline and princess skirt. “That is gorgeous,” I say truthfully.

  Even though I’m uninterested in pairing, dressing up does bring me some satisfaction. I take a seat in an icy, metal chair to begin makeup and hair, carefully looking at the temporary tattoo options on the screen in front
of me, visible now where the mirror originally was. Hairdressers and makeup technicians are in art and design careers. The career seems enjoyable—relaxed.

  .Glancing in December’s direction, I notice she has selected a design that resembles butterflies, spreading from her hairline down her neck and across her shoulders, cascading as if a torrent of water.

  Feeling inspired, I choose a pattern that is similar, but instead a type of blossom I’m unfamiliar with. A technician with scarlet hair holds a printing device to the side of my temple. Rotating down behind my ears, she finishes printing the blossoms down my neck and collar bone.

  “I think we should do something bold with your hair. It’s beautiful,” the technician suggests. “Oh, I’m not a fan of the bold colors.” Lots of people have technicolored hair, but I like my natural blonde. “No, I was thinking of simply brightening it. It takes ten minutes, and it would really make you stand out.”

  I really don’t care, but she’s excited, so I consent to her request.

  “Ten minutes?”

  “Yes, I promise,” she assures me.

  We put our gowns on, and it’s almost time to start lining up. Frantically, I search for December. I need to be near her for this portion of the theatrics, for moral support. This is my first gathering, and I feel unstable and a little nauseous. Squeezing graciously through a cluster of women, I locate her. She looks as relieved as I feel when we make eye contact. “There you are,” she exclaims.

  “You look amazing!” Her eyes are the size of saucers, and a flush of pink has most likely hit my cheeks. I hadn’t had the chance to look in a mirror because of my preoccupation with finding her, but now I finally make my way to the massive wall-to-wall glass. I gasp.

  I don’t look like myself. My features are tinted dark, now more visible from a distance. My skin radiates against the hue of the gown, and the blonde locks drifting down my back, with the bright white added, looks remarkable, like a flame, growing lighter as the color reaches the ends.

  My blue eyes are breathtakingly light from behind painted lids, and the imaginative prints of blossoms stream elegantly down my face and neck. The atmosphere and women look so magical, lively and beautiful, calming my nerves.

  For a moment, I feel wonderful. I imagine what it would be like to have a broadcasting career, to be sensationally dressed every day to deliver the news.

  The women are ushered out of the room and down a long hall. From there we are guided to a platform that raises us up onto the top balcony to begin announcements. The presenters begin revealing the names of the roughly hundred or so women who showed up tonight. One by one, we enter down the pristine staircase. Facts about family and occupation are announced with minimal detail.

  “Next we have Bianca Davis” says one presenter in a booming, deep voice. His face is excessively pale from some sort of powder or makeup, and his slicked-back dark, greasy hair adds to his strange appearance. “Her family is in engineering, and she has recently been chosen to join them in the field,” he reports.

  The women begin filling up one side of the room, distancing themselves from the eligible men until given permission to mingle.

  “December Adachi,” says the man. I hold my breath as I watch my best friend step away from me. It feels like the presenters have reached us too quickly. She strides down the stairs, appearing fearless as she becomes the focus of the entire room. Her black hair is curled in a stunning up-do that floods down her back. Blue flecks glisten in her locks, catching the light reminding me of stars.

  They announce the career she has been assigned to—“pharmaceuticals. December has already made significant contributions as a laboratory analyst.” Their next announcement hits me like a ton of bricks, my name—

  “Freya Skarsgard,” ripples the air around me.

  I force my legs to move toward the staircase. The room seems filled to capacity, but it is striking, Otherworldly.

  “Freya has been chosen for Ursa.” A distorted gasp can be heard from the audience followed by continued mumbling. The journalists seem to be in a theatrical frenzy since this is the first public announcement that has been made.

  “Skarsgard family genetics contribute to her sharp shooting capabilities and enhanced reflexes. Freya has been top of her class every year since her obligatory education has begun.”

  Heaps of handsome faces gawk at me, dressed in suits and traditional celebratory attire, smiling. Towards the left of the room I can see the Creator’s and Council Member’s sons, next to them stand the athletes, all of the most sought after males in the City, together in one section of the room.

  The athletes are even bigger in person than they appear on our viewing screens, towering above most of the other men. Pax officers are also massive; they handle disturbances within the City. Their training has made them substantially large in stature like the athletes.

  The Creators love healthy, brutal competition and entertainment so long as citizens keep the peace. Pax is always there to ensure these expectations are met. Ignus Messorem is bloody and ruthless, our only professional sport.

  My attention falls back to the room. Look at this genetic perfection. Ophelia Warner, the girl directly behind me, trips on her gown and begins to fall, stumbling down two stairs before I quickly reach out and grab her arm. We both collide with the banister before I regain my footing and manage to steady myself—and Ophelia.

  She gazes up at me mortified, but with a gleam of gratitude in her eyes for preventing the horrible situation that nightmares are made of. Pieces of her bun have fallen loose, but she straightens herself out quickly. “It could have been a lot worse,” I whisper. She seems to relax a little. I smile.

  Some of the men are smirking in amusement, so I lift my chin and an eyebrow in their direction, erasing their grins.

  It’s strange, Ursa is high stress; I would immediately be used as a soldier or sniper against anything that threatens our City, and somehow the thought of that scares me much less than this ridiculous exhibition.

  The women have all lined up on the right side of the room by the time the last names are called. The presenters announce the schedule for the evening. “Tonight, we start with appetizers and mingling, followed by drinks and dancing, and finally a sit down dinner before the evening’s end.”

  When the declarations have ceased, the men begin approaching women. I feel more uncomfortable now than at any other moment of my life. My introverted brain makes my body tense up. And then I see him.

  He’s Apollo Ailmar, and I’ve had a crush on him since I was 14 years old. My heart is beating so hard that I’m worried other people might hear it. Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Apollo is a professional Ignis Impetus player, I should say thee player, and he’s played for Team Imperium for five years now. Our media sources discuss the Bachelor regularly: “Why is Apollo single? Apollo was seen with red head at the Tower. Who did Apollo talk to at The Gathering?”

  I think every woman in the room wishes he would choose her to pair with, if only they’d just get to talk for the evening.

  I study his piercing eyes and his captivating smile. He’s grinning at a small mouse-like woman, who is leaning across a table to murmur something into his ear. I imagine her voice shrill, maybe for my own satisfaction.

  His long, dark strands of hair match his shadowy-lined eyes and lashes, absolutely perfect. His eyes shift, meeting mine, and stay. He doesn’t look away, piercing through me. My resistance to his smoldering face is about as good as a paper target shielding itself against a bullet. Internal gun references, always.

  Chest burning and cheeks flushing, I quickly scan the room for something else to focus on.

  I once had a dream that I passed the compatibility scanner with Apollo. We both have blue eyes. Blue— has become scarce over the last few decades, so it increases the chances of our percentage being high enough.

  Don’t glance back in his direction. It’s embarrassing enough he already caught me ogling. “Hey, it’s Freya Skasgard right?” A
low voice startles me amid my observation. I spin around and come face to face with Castor Quinn.

  Castor is handsome and touted as the most eligible man in the City. He’s always seemed neurotic…or something, to me. Blue eyes like mine. The pursuit may be slightly enhanced on his end due to this fact alone.

  “It’s Skarsgard, but yes. Um, I’m sorry…what’s your name?” I lie, struggling to keep a straight face. Everybody knows who Castor is because his father is on the Council. The media follow him more than anyone right now, even more than Apollo. I can tell his pride is wounded. “Castor?” pause— “Castor Quinn?” He’s talking to me like I’m an idiot.

  “Nice to meet you,” I croon, accidentally smirking. Castor smiles and looks me up and down, eyes filled with seductiveness. My brain is screaming at my body to run away.

  “Are you looking for someone,” he says candidly. I realize my eyes are darting around wildly. “Anyone in particular?” He tries again.

  “No…eh, yes, December Adachi. Oh and there she is,” I say with a rush of relief as she gradually makes her way to my side.

  “There are so many suitors” she says, eyeing Castor cautiously, “asking about you, Freya. It’s unbelievable,” she finishes loudly, deciding to ignore him.

  I bite my lower lip, “Um, December, this is Castor.” “I know,” her eyes seem to say as they roll slightly. “Hello, December,” he says confidently. “Castor,” she says demurely but with a hint of amusement in her voice.

  “I’m surprised to see you standing here without your usual fan club trailing behind,” December says, almost laughing. Castor smirks, but gives an expression that conveys he’s merely tolerating her conversation for my sake. Irritated, his eyes drop back to me.

  “Well, I’ve just been waiting to meet, Freya,” Castor responds swiftly, “And now that I have, I have to say that I’ve never seen nor met anyone like her.”

  His statement seems absurd considering he doesn’t know anything about me. I chuckle at the irrationality of his compliment. “Neither have I actually, that’s why she’s my favorite person,” December says and smiles. “But I really need to steal her away. There’s only so much time to mingle and meet new people.”