Chapter 21- With Honor

  The sun has set too early for me to be driving anywhere near the Abyss. Though Qonni assures me we’re nowhere near that zone, the bottom of the Aquarium is no different to me. If I’d known she’d take me somewhere this low, I’d call a cab.

  Reluctantly, I park my Xelton EXG, the newest sports car that’s yet to be released in the market for another few months, at the very end of the parking lot, away from curious eyes. I turn on anti-theft, a mode I’ve never utilized in any of my vehicles until now. And just in case, or rather, safe than sorry, I take the dual dragon from the glove box and tuck it into my belt, hidden behind my coat.

  The things I’d do for her.

  She grins as she takes the lead. “If it happens to be stolen, I’m sure you can easily get another one.”

  “Money isn’t the problem,” I sigh. “There are only five in the world. I can’t get another if I want to.”

  “Money isn’t the problem,” she mocks.

  We head out of the lot onto a busy bridge full of street vendors and foot commuters. Everyone bumps shoulders and squeezes in between bodies without regard for personal space, anyway to reach their destination. The darkness looms over us, and the crowd blends into the shadows. I keep my hands tucked into my pockets, careful of pickpockets for my bangle, the other lines the edge of my pistol.

  I keep my pace close to Qonni if not right on her heels until the amber street lights finally blink on. She’s light on her feet, matching the curve on her face.

  This feels like a test of my resolve—if I can keep giving her what she wants, then maybe she’ll consider doing the same. But as mean and ruthless as Qonni is, she’s not the type to be manipulative. I’ve emptied half of my credits today. Then again, I’m willing to pay more if it means she’s guaranteed to attend the gala.

  Vikson wants to speak with her. He has questions neither I nor anyone at Lotus can answer regarding her product. I’ll do whatever it takes for that to happen, even if it means risking losing my Xelton EXG or getting robbed.

  Qonni is confident where she’s headed, like she knows the place by heart. I study the threatening surroundings again. The potholes I’ve been tripping on, the fumes of cigarettes in the air with a foul stench of something I don’t dare imagine. How often does she come here?

  After we cross the bridge, we walk inside the base of a building. A Village building. The building itself contains multiple residential units in various locations, ranging from affordable to luxurious, depending on the level; a fully functioning hospital and clinics; over a hundred restaurants, cafes, and fast food chains; and even a stadium for concerts in select buildings. You can live your whole life without ever stepping outside the tower.

  I’ve been inside many times before on higher levels, but never at the very bottom, which is an entirely different environment from what I’m accustomed to. The layout is skewed and doesn’t follow current-day standards, making it easy to get lost. Qonni turns multiple corners, and somehow we end up on an entirely different level. The stores are wide open, without doors, with products laid out in the open, and the owners are both guarding their items and hollering for commuters to take a glimpse at their sale. Even restaurants have their tables out, where passersby nudge past eating patrons. But no one seems bothered by the lack of boundaries, and they continue their conversations as strangers graze their backs and shoulders on the narrow walkway.

  I keep close to Qonni and thread an arm under hers. She shoots me a glare, but doesn’t shove me away and hauls me through the surge.

  Within ten minutes, we end up in front of a traditional Bowenese restaurant, her arms hugging mine. She releases me, and we head in. The low ceiling takes me by surprise, as much as the scent of greasy food. All the dining tables and chairs are made from flimsy wood. Most of the seats are filled, the conversations are loud and bustling, the opposite of the low-light, quiet eateries I’m familiar with. When I asked her what she wanted for her first edible meal that was not her pills, this place was the last I had in mind.

  We sit ourselves in the back, then a lady slaps two menus onto the table without much of a greeting, and then proceeds to attend the table next to us. If Qonni is irked by the quality of service, she doesn’t show it. If anything, she seems to expect it.

  “Do you know what you want?” she asks, and puts the tacky menu aside.

  I barely read any of the dishes listed, since my appetite had been smothered the moment we parked. Especially when the cleanliness of this place doesn’t show much promise, the yellowed tiled walls, a weird stain on the ceiling, and the proximity of others in the area. I don’t even feel safe drinking the glass of water the waitress brings back.

  “I’ll have what she’s having,” I say, not knowing what Qonni ordered.

  Our meal comes shortly—two boiling bowls of milky soup with bone marrow protruding from the surface. The broth itself looks acceptable, and the aroma opens up my palate. Still, the chipped porcelain bowls and spoons with questionable fracture marks bring up the question of how many times these utensils have been worn through.

  Qonni blows on her spoon of soup and sips. She nods in satisfaction, then peers up at me. “What, scared your fragile stomach can’t handle it?”

  I stir around the bowl for a while, until she stops me and takes my spoon. She gently blows on it and hovers it to her lips.

  “One sip,” she says.

  For the entire day, she’s been dodging any questions about the dinner with Vikson and Mital. I still need an answer by the end of the day, and without it, she can hover a spoon of poison, and I’ll willingly accept it with an open jaw.

  Reluctantly, I connect my lower lip to the tattered porcelain and let the liquid pour in. I plan just to swallow it quickly and get it over with, but the broth stuck to my taste buds, and I’m suddenly brought back home. Qonni sets my spoon down, and I take another sip myself just to be sure. The moment I realize, a grin spreads across her face.

  “This tastes just like my mother’s soup,” I say. Ama only makes it every year on my birthday, or when Qonni comes over and shamelessly demands it. After I left the chateau, I haven’t had a sip since. And I didn’t know how much I missed it until now.

  “Hmm, sort of,” she says. “I like your mother’s recipe better. It tastes more…homemade.”

  The missing ingredient. The melancholy creeps out of nowhere, sitting heavy in my chest. The rest of the world dims, and I focus on feeding myself another spoonful and another until the bowl clinks empty.

  “You’re welcome to stop by,” I say, finally lifting my head. “I’m sure my mother would be delighted to make you a bowl.”

  Qonni shifts in her seat, wondering how she’ll decline another invitation. I watch her finish the rest of her meal. Then she excuses herself to the washroom as I pay for the bill.

  “Wait here,” she says, and grabs her purse. “I’ll be back.”

  I drink the cup of tea, washing down the rich substance from the bone marrow, associating the place better than I did in the beginning. Despite the location and its deteriorating exterior, this hole in the wall blooms into prosperity, not just some random restaurant that serves soup. Who would’ve known a place like this existed?

  All the tables are filled, and there’s a queue by the door. I grab my belongings, checking my bangle and pistol before exiting the joint.

  The slim walkway has cleared up a bit; still busy, but enough to give everyone some personal space. I veer around and spot Qonni behind a hazy cloud of smoke, a cigarette burning between her fingers.

  I turn on my heels to finally face her. So that was her earlier on the Gaia club. To say I’m surprised would be a lie.

  She leans against the crusty wall, and her eyes finally meet mine. The busy crowd flies between us, but it’s no longer as daunting as it was in the beginning. Qonni makes no effort to hide or smother the cig and takes another drag before me. She must’ve held her urges all day.

  “I told you to wait inside,” she says casually, with a grain of accusation as if I’m the one to blame for catching her in the act.

  “After all the lessons warning the dangers of nicotine,” I say, making my way towards her, “you’re the last person I expect to have one between her lips.”

  She scoffs and drops her gaze to the ground. “Too bad they didn’t prepare us for the bullshit in life.”

  I keep a distance from the fumes as she pulls the flames to the end, and kills it under her heels. Indicating from the easy way the smoke leaves her lips, it’s not a new habit. I never caught the bitter fumes left on her clothes or stains on her teeth. If I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I could hardly believe it. How long has she been hiding this?

  We head out of the Village with me leading the way. Despite the crowd waning, I’m eager to leave this region of the Aquarium, and most importantly, pray my Xelton is still parked where I left it. But Qonni is dragging on her heels.

  “You alright?” I say, hiding my impatience.

  “You can just go if you want,” she says, taking her time climbing down the stairs. She descends one at a time with both feet on the same step, then repeats.

  She’s spent the whole day walking in those. The ends are short, but they’re heels after all.

  “Your feet hurt?” I ask.

  “If I’d known we’d be walking the entire day, I’d wear something more appropriate.”

  There’s still a distance before we get to our ride. So I offer, “Would you like me to carry you?”

  “That’s too much.”

  I close the gap between us. “Princess treatment is the bare minimum for you.”

  She pauses thoughtfully. “I’m wearing a skirt.”

  Her wool coat doesn’t go past her fingers; nothing to cover her lower half up in the air. I shrug mine off and hang it over her shoulders, ending just above her heels. I roll my shoulders back before scooping her up from behind the knees and back. “My car better be right where I left it,” I say and lift her.

  A gasp slips from her mouth, and I steel myself from her retaliation. Qonni lives in her own little bubble and refrains from any physicality unless it involves violence. I expect her to shove and chide me to let her down, and we’ll slug our way back from here. Instead, she immediately throws her arms over my neck the moment she’s in the air.

  For how strong she can be, she’s incredibly light. I spare a second to adjust her better, so she’ll sit more comfortably. Her floral perfume with a sprinkle of sugar fills my nose again, the scent that follows her all these years, strong enough to mask her odor right after drills and cigarette fumes. There’s still an uncertain look on her face, anger, and embarrassment. But realizing this is a better option, she puts her Govon bag on the valley of her torso and relaxes her shoulder.

  The bridge is now almost empty. Shops close right after sunset, and commuters have gone home. I keep my pace even, hasty but careful not to disturb the passenger. Qonni rests her head against my chest, her eyes on the hologram ads just above the horizon.

  I think of questions or conversations to diffuse the silence, but the dark, cool night air feels just as soothing. Neither of us says a word and enjoys the clatter of the city until I reach the end of the lot, where my Xelton remains untouched.

  My shoulders drop in relief.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Qonni laughs as she slides down my arms. “It’s not too dangerous in this specific area. People are just living.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” I unlock my vehicle and inspect the exterior.

  Qonni lights up another cigarette and leans against the rail, facing the divide between the two worlds on the horizon. The blue bustling city on top and the red zone no sensible person will dare cross.

  Once I’m certain no piece of hair has landed on my car, I join her by the bannisters. She takes a drag and offers it to me, her cherry lip gloss stamped on the filter. I’ve always been curious about the substance, though I know I shouldn’t cross this line; the temptation wins in the end. I pull her hand toward me, and my lips close in; I take a small inhale. The moment the bitter fumes hit my lungs, I jerk away and cough out. It tastes as disgusting as I imagined—bitter, burnt, ashy, and just a pinch of cherry on my lips that makes the worst slightly better.

  “I think I’ll stick to day drinking, thanks,” I finally say when I compose myself.

  Qonni laughs, her cheeks bubble up again, the same way they have this whole day.

  I find myself staring again. Is this what it's like if nothing has changed between us all these years? That Dr. Lena is still alive and well, Haiko hasn’t destroyed her family’s reputation to the ground, and the last eight years are only a bad dream. Our engagement is still on, and our wedding will take place a month after graduation.

  And it won’t matter who takes the Golden Plaque home. Speaking of which—

  “The dinner will take place the night of the next drill,” I say. “That’s alright with you?”

  She stares at me blankly, smoke spewing from her lips. She’s yet to give me an answer regarding her invitation. Finally, she blows the rest out of her mouth and kills the bud.

  “I don’t really have a choice, do I?” she asks. “Or are you going to keep me hostage until I agree to your terms? Where will you bring me next, a hotel room to rest my feet?”

  “How about a suite? Order full room service if you like.”

  “In your dreams.” She rolls her eyes and sighs. “Before I agree to anything else, will you guarantee we’ll have this deal if I do attend?”

  There’s no doubt Vikson would be eager to sign on the spot, but Qonni doesn’t know that.

  “You have my word,” I answer.

  Ultimately, we settle the arrangement, and Yun Qonni is confirmed on the list. I messaged Vikson right away. I can’t wait another moment to see his face when I return. I’ve done the impossible, nothing my cousins would come close to. There’s only one more step before I’m back on Vikson’s good side, and I’ll target shoot with him on the weekends again.

  “Ready to leave?” I ask. “We have class in the morning.”

  She sighs and leans beyond the railing, dropping her gaze below, the wind blowing against her frosty strands. “Then drill the next week. Then class. Then drills. Rinse and repeat.”

  “Don’t fret it. It’ll be over soon.”

  Then one of us will take Valedictorian and the Golden Plaque, but neither of us voices it.

  “Seven years,” Qonni mumbles into the Abyss. “Such a long time, yet it went by in a flash.”

  I rejoin her on the edge. “Eight, if you count this one.”

  Eight years of fighting neck-and-neck for the plaque. Well, we didn’t start drills until third year, but we’ve been going at it just the same, trying to one-up the other, so when did the Golden Plaque become our main goal?

  “Why do you want the plaque?” I ask.

  “I deserve it,” she simply replies. Her usual arrogant, entitled response. She can’t just answer truthfully for once, can she?

  She must’ve caught my vex, because she steers the question back to me. “Why do you want it? You have everything.”

  “If I won’t have the plaque, then it’s not everything, is it?”

  Qonni grunts, dissatisfied with my answer.

  Don’t like that, do you?

  The conversation is dying, and though it’s better that way, I add to it.

  “Everyone in my family has one,” I sigh, propping my elbow on the paint-crusted railing. “Everyone from my bloodline, at least. All my cousins, my aunts and uncles, every member of the council—the Chairs—all have the plaque hung on their walls. It’s our standard.” I drop my head, and a pull of vertigo escapes my stomach as I stare at the bottomless Abyss. “If I want to show my face or earn any respect in the family, I must obtain the bare minimum.”

  With a raised brow, her expression twists into disbelief. Am I supposed to feel bad for you?

  She won’t understand.

  “Even if you don’t have it,” she says, “nothing will change for you. You’ll still have roofs over your head, mountains of gold in your bank account, vacations every summer and holiday, and the newest cars in your garage. You’ll still have it all.”

  And it’s still not enough. I don’t express it, knowing how it’ll sound.

  “Yeah, what will change for you?”

  “Right now? Everything. Opportunities, for one. God knows how many doors my father has closed these last few years. Some power, some status. A full ride to the best University in Van Sing. Then money will come rolling my way.”

  “You’ll have all those once you sign with us,” I point out.

  “That’s true, hmm.” She considers silently. “But I still want it—my name, engraved on the bottom of the plaque, hung on my wall. It’s the only thing money can’t buy, huh?” She jabs my shoulder.

  I find no humor in it.

  “Do you loathe me so much?” I ask.

  “It’s not about you, Rha Zeng.”

  Rha Zeng. So ceremonious, considering we’ve known each other for most of our lives. After our split, she never addresses me informally anymore. She doesn’t see me as a friend and doesn't allow me within arm’s reach. I recall the easy days when it was easy to take her hand, offering a palm, and she would place it there without hesitation. There was no boundary between us. And now she’s formed walls to keep everyone away, multiplied in the years after Dr. Lena’s death.

  “For your mother, then?” I regret voicing my inner thoughts the instant they slipped from my mouth.

  She stiffens, her gaze locked in the dark under her nose. The hums of aircraft skid and fly overhead, the advertisements flicker and change, yet Qonni doesn’t blink once, doesn’t glare in my direction once. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t rise in anger and threaten me, even the latter would be better than this.

  I made a mistake.

  Just when I think to apologize for my words, Qonni finally stirs and pushes herself from her elbows.

  “No.” She lights another cigarette and leans her back on the rail as she exhales a gray cloud. Her eyes meet mine again. “For me.”

  No need to continue this touchy subject. I nod in assent. “Of course.”

  “My mother never expected anything from me,” she continues, wrapping my wool coat around her tightly. “Never asked me to be smart, never asked me to read all those books. She was always busy, always liked to be around her colleagues, her smart, successful peers. I couldn’t fit into her schedule for as long as I can recall.”

  Though her voice is impassive like reading from an article, her expression is tinted blue, eyes unfocused, reliving the moment in her head. The first time she ever spoke of Dr. Lena outside of her academic background.

  “I’m the one who decided to break into her office one boring day when all the house staff weren’t attentive. Files and books all lay out on her desk, and all I had to do was pick one up. I couldn’t read them at first, but I had so much time to myself to learn. It took a long time, hours bled into days, bending into weeks, reading each word, digging through the rest of her shelves, finding old documentaries—foreign ones, wondering what in the world has kept my mother so busy she doesn’t have a second to spare for her daughter.

  “About a year later, in one of my mother’s seldom visits, we were eating at the dining table, she mumbled a question to herself about her work—you’d never see her not working. I asked her a follow-up question, something I read a week ago in her files. She knew I’d been digging in her office, the staff told her, but she didn’t bring it up. And she, for once, for as long as I remember at that time, looked at me. Really looked at me, not as her toddler, not a child to feed and care for, but with recognition in her eyes as if I’m a lone individual, a respectable one enough for her to consider conversing with. I’ll never forget that look.”

  Her cigarette has long smoldered into ashes by the time she lifts it to her lips, and the end breaks by her jolt. The burnt part lands on the lapel of my coat.

  “Shit, sorry.”

  “No worries.” I help her dust it off and tighten the coat around her against the biting cold. If she minds that I crossed any boundaries, she doesn’t swat me away. How can she when she’s finally opening up? Giving me entry behind her highly barricaded walls? Am I the first one she let in? Is there someone else? How does she want me to respond after handing me the keys? “But she’s the one who entered you into those contests, no?”

  She had a wall of trophies and medals when I visited once, never second place, no silver in the ocean of gold.

  “She wanted to see if I could win it,” Qonni replies. “A way of testing my knowledge. How else would you measure someone’s intellect? Sure, at first, it was for her. To gain her attention. Her approval. She nurtured me well. But once she’s gone…”

  The air goes quiet again—faint laughter in the distance, below us toward the Abyss, something about a winning hand.

  “I understand,” I break in.

  She curtly cuts me with a cynical eye. Do you?

  “By the time she was gone,” she continues, her voice clear, “I can’t lie, it’d been hard at first. Without a drive, without someone to please, there was no point in excelling at anything, is there? But even in my grief, school was easy, so unbelievably easy, I asked, Is that all? A curious part of me wanted to see if there is a limit to my knowledge. No better place than the Academy to test myself, and the Golden Plaque is the ultimate test. Thus, I’m winning this for me.”

  “You don’t need the plaque to prove yourself,” I say, hiding the irritation in my voice, but my tone betrays me. “Your SEM pill alone is great enough to carry your reputation until the end of time.”

  Qonni grins. “That’s why the feds are putting a pause on the public markets. And I’m not here to prove myself. Not really. I want the plaque, solely because I undoubtedly know I can get it.” She sticks her chin up to whisper in my face, “Mine.”

  “How arrogant.”

  She chuckles, then it grows into an uncontrollable, maniacal laugh; her chortle echoes in the hollow parking lot, so daunting that I take a step back, feeling uncomfortable.

  “There’s a fine line between arrogance and confidence,” she says once she composes herself. “Arrogance is made of thin glass, fragile and transparent to those who can see. But my confidence is built stone by stone, boulder by boulder, one feat after another, on top of my triumphs over the years, stacked up so high the rest of you probably can’t see the line from up here, and thought they both the same.”

  How arrogant. Proud. Conceited. A snob. Yet I can’t help but see her as she sees herself in all her glory, raised so high on her mountain of achievements, so sturdy and unshakable by mere winds. Her glow, so bright, overshadows everyone below, diminishing them within the dark, forgotten, overlooked.

  “And if I were the one to take the plaque?” The words slip through my mind before they spill from my mouth again, but once they’re out, I cannot stop them. “Would I stand where you would be?”

  To be drenched in the light of her glory. I can only wonder how it would feel.

  Her smile drops. All smugness gone in an instant as she straightens to face me on the opposing side, a clear reminder of where we both stand. It wasn’t my intention to stir the pot. Should I regret speaking from the heart if she was the one to do so first?

  “I don’t wish to make you my enemy.” With a straight face, she shrugs off the wool coat to return to me. “And you’re free to try to take it.”

  It’s not news that we both want the same thing. But can I take back what I’ve said? No, it wouldn’t change a thing, even though all our reasons and motives are laid out before us.

  Gracefully, without betraying my disappointment, I take my coat, unintentionally grazing the back of her hand in the exchange. When I pull away, I feel her walls rise again, this time thicker and firmer than the ones before, before locking me out, switching the locks, and throwing away the key. A guard meant for me, and I want to knock it down.

  But that’s silly. So foolish.

  “Despite all my reasons,” I say in defeat, in all honesty. “I would still like to see you win.”

  The clouds in her eyes lift, perplexed by my sudden candor. She searches me for deceit, but she won’t find any.

  “Even if I’m just a weed in the garden,” I continue, “I would still like to see the flowers bloom.” Especially lovely and rare ones just like hers. “And I do think it belongs to you, the one most deserving.” I stop here, before she thinks I’m sucking up to her. “But the spot and the reward aren’t for the one who’s most entitled to it. The crown belongs to the one who wants it most.” Her quote. “Grit, resolve, determination, desperation. You have to take those into account as well.” I thread my arms into my sleeves. The whiff of her sweet jasmine scent fills my nose. I do my best to ignore the aroma and extend her a hand. “May the best win.”

  She stares at it and hesitates. Is her guard still up? Perhaps.

  I don’t blame her.

  “Big speech,” she finally says, and clasps her palm into mine. Small and bony, the first time I’ve held them in years. “Don’t cry when you lose.”

  “You looked slightly intimidated,” I taunt. “Want me to go easy on the next drill? Balance the playing field a little.”

  She scoffs and slides her hand away, and I immediately miss her touch. Her warmth. “Don’t insult me.”

  “I would never.”