Coda by Emma Trevayne Page B

shelves, obviously moved to allow for this. They’re filled with loops of cable, bars of soap, and bottles of water. Yellow Guy and Scope join me, Scope clearly knowing where he is. His usual smile widens into a grin he aims at Pixel.
    “This way,” Pixel says, leading us to the door. The hallway we step into is familiar, at least once we pass the doors to the hygiene cubes at the end, just before it opens up into the room where I spend so many hours of my life. Daytime-bright, even without windows, I recognize it only by extrapolation. My imagination offers whirling, colored replacements for the static, boring lights overhead, bodies to fill the empty floor as they dance to music blasting from the now quiet walls.
    I stand in the middle, staring as if I’ve never seen it before—and I haven’t, not like this, but it’s the vision my mind gives me that’s more enticing than what my eyes are looking at. A stage will go against that wall, right where Pixel is pointing, and the people who’ll fill the club will be listening to my music coming from the speakers.
    The others are talking about what gear we’ll need, how to find it, and where to set everything up. I’m not paying much attention. In my head I’m singing to Haven, who is looking down from the seats on the balcony, eyes focused on me. In my fantasy, she knows the song is about her.
    “Earth to Anthem,” Scope says, tapping the side of myhead.
    “Yeah?”
    “I was just wondering when you wanted to get started,” Pixel says.
    “Oh.” I haven’t really thought about it. “I guess we need another few weeks to practice?” If we still had Johnny . . . But we wouldn’t be doing this if we still had Johnny. He’s the reason now as much as he was the obstacle before. That same itch, the one he first cured by showing me there was another way, another path to music, has been crawling over my skin since he died. I have to do something to make this all make sense. I have to do something to protect the twins, even if I fail.
    I just have to do . . . something, even if they kill me before I’m done.
    “Sweet. Okay, I’ll take care of stuff here, but you guys should think about using this place to practice. You need to get used to the acoustics. Plus, I wanna know you don’t suck.”
    Scope hits him and Pixel laughs. I wonder if life would be easier if I had a sibling closer to my own age. A brother, instead of being an almost-parent to two little kids I’d die for.
    My mind is too young for this, my body too old.
    Work is especially draining the next day, the time spent thinking about my energy traveling in pulses of light along wires to the labs upstairs. I didn’t cover Johnny’s ears with headphones, but it doesn’t make a difference. I help power the Grid, the Grid powers the music, and the music is killing us all.
    I think of Haven, angry enough to want the Corp dead, though she’s too good to ever act on it. I’ve murdered, even if I’ve been apathetic, sometimes barely conscious during the process.
    If there’s going to be a future without the Corp and its evil, where music is just music, then death is going to have to come first. My own, maybe, if we build enough of a cause that I need to martyr myself for it. Anyone who stands up to fight will be risking themselves. There’ll be deaths caused by action, not by the energy suckedfrom me while I sit in a chair in a basement with a thousand others.
    I guess that’s just a matter of scale, too.

Haven’s usually pink lips are stretched white and thin around the rim of her water bottle. We’re sitting in a bar mid-Web, dodging dirty looks from the waitress because we’re not ordering anything else. Like the water doesn’t cost enough.
    “I need my own place.” She’s been upset since we met up, something her father did. She won’t say exactly what, but enough that she was torn between shouting and crying when she got here.
    “So, do it.” You can afford it hangs between us. Honestly,