Today could very well be the day I die, get mangled, or fail spectacularly and feel guilty about it for the next two months. Then again, it could also be the day I climb a rung on the MP ladder. Sensei Waine’s lecture — the one that crawled through our skulls like ivy — drilled one fact into us: higher levels demand more MP. If I can scrape into Level Two fast, I might already be laying down a little legacy.

  Two months from the Armonk — the window we’d been given to enter the mission — meant there wasn’t time to dilly-dally. The first order of business was the armory for weapons. A wand would have been sufficient for most people, but I don’t exactly have a fond history with wands. The last time I tried one, my Perk dragged me out of control and left me with a bruised ego and a lingering sense of betrayal. I haven’t figured that out yet.

  The folder gives you everything you need: address, targets, time, contingency details — basically a mission packet. Still, before any of that, Principal Renner had to sign us out. I used to think Mr. Drails or Mr. Robbs handled all that; Drails took care of the agents, Robbs kept to history lectures. Somewhere along the way Robbs chose the stable comfort of textbooks, while Drails stuck with field chaos. Which is fitting — Drails was the confusing kind of man who made the rules feel like puzzle pieces someone hid under the couch. My experience with him had never been neat.

  Once I’d been unceremoniously transported into YMPA, I made for Renner’s office. Tisiah met me at the stairs.

  “Where’s Nikki?” he asked.

  “In the bathroom,” I heard. “She’s been internally assaulted by a taco and the toilet’s collateral—”

  “Good to know,” I said, feeling the dry laugh stuck in my throat. Tisiah nodded, then added in a steadier tone, “She should be here soon. Have you seen Mari?”

  “Just got here,” I answered, and we headed toward Renner’s office. Mari stood in the corner, inward and still, as if she were listening to a private line only she could hear. She wore a black sweater, blue jeans, and black Crocs, which was odd because we were supposed to be in the white jacket, black shirt, and black pants uniform. She stared up at the ceiling without really looking, the expression on her face a map of quiet concentration.

  “Took long enough,” she said finally, still with that faraway look.

  I glanced at Tisiah; he glanced back. “I just got here,” I said.

  “I was waiting for Nikki,” Tisiah said, quick to cover.

  “Why isn’t she here?” Mari asked, eyes narrowing.

  “Why do you ask?” Tisiah returned.

  “Is it not normal to want to know the whereabouts of your team?” she said. She stood and stepped forward, keeping a deliberate four feet between us.

  “If a teammate fails to show up, it’s justified for me to worry,” Mari said. “I advise you all to do the same. Okay?”

  We both nodded, the motion mechanical and a little embarrassed. Then Nikki arrived — striding in with a short white jacket that barely cleared the hem of a tight black skirt, heels like illegal statements and Converse that looked suspiciously like Malachi’s.

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  “There she is,” Tisiah announced.

  “Come on. Let’s go,” Nikki said, knocking briskly on Renner’s door. Principal Renner rose, measured us with a look that belonged to someone who had signed off on worse things than we were about to do, produced a paper, and pointed.

  “Sign.”

  We signed. Renner glanced at us. “You’ve been exempted from school. Good luck on your mission.”

  Butterflies took up residence in my stomach as we stepped away. One small, practical question nagged me: how on earth were we supposed to get to Florida in a day? I hovered on the edge of asking, afraid Mari might judge me for thinking logistics mattered, then decided the question was worth the risk.

  The armory was downstairs, past the cafeteria, behind large metal doors that always gave Tisiah the heebie-jeebies. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Why so hard?”

  We were shown into a room that contained a lockered wall, a firearms display, a shooting range that looked proud of its own cruelty, and a long table of blades. An arsenal arranged like a grim holiday display: RPGs, grenade launchers, pistols, automatics, SMGs — enough to supply a small militia. Knives, daggers, even an axe slid against the table with a sound promising accidents.

  “Which ones do we take?” I asked, swallowing the enormity of it all.

  “Have you not been here before?” Mari’s tone could have cut glass. “You take all of them.”

  Nikki leaned toward me and whispered, “Usually.”

  The armorer — a man in a ragged cap, a brown vest over a green-and-black checkered shirt, an orange-and-white beard like roadkill confetti, and dark glasses — looked up. “Which one do you want?” he asked Mari. She blinked, then smiled like someone who’d been handed a better script than expected.

  “When did we update the armory?” she asked.

  “Two weeks ago,” he said.

  Mari considered the selection. “I’ll take a Beretta M5, a grenade, and probably a knife for extra measure.” As she stepped back from the table, an axe revealed itself at the edge, and my senses froze for a second on the blunt, ridiculously triumphant shape.

  “Same for us,” Tisiah said, reading the room. The man vanished through a brown door and returned with everything laid out on the table like a solemn buffet. “Choose your pick,” he said, grinning when we reached for the weapons.

  After the armory came the maze-like corridor, the great metal doors beyond it, and then rows of vehicles waiting like sleeping beasts. Could we pick whatever we wanted? Yes, if we wanted to be blacklisted. Usually a vehicle was assigned. But old rules had loosened since our last rushed mission; assignments were more curated now. I preferred that.

  Nikki scanned until she found our vehicle and zeroed in with an almost predatory efficiency. Tisiah held the folder; she snatched it like a gamble and read. “Black Jeep Cherokee,” she announced.

  Mari pointed. There it was, front left by the garage button. Nikki’s eyes widened and she practically sprinted toward it. “So, who knows how to drive?” I asked, a lump forming at the back of my throat. “I failed my YMPA driving test and have to retake it next month.”

  “Try to pass next time,” Mari said. Tisiah’s gaze flicked between us; no one said anything. I climbed into the backseat with Nikki while Mari closed the garage and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Everyone in,” she called.

  “No,” Nikki lied, and Mari caught it, because Mari always seemed to catch things that others missed.

  We pulled out onto a road that opened into a landscape of climbing mountains, their silhouettes sharpening as we drove. “Alright, we understand the mission?” Mari asked.

  “Yep,” came the chorus.

  “Have fun,” she said, and then faced the road. The mountains rose taller as we drove. The folder said it was an hour. I wondered, not for the first time, whether the fuel would be enough for the round trip.

  I wanted to ask — was there gas? — and then Mari gave me a look so withering I briefly entertained the fantasy of a quick chop to the jaw. I didn’t actually have the coordination or the desire to break my hand, though. This was bigger than that. This was for MP, for advancement, for whatever strange ledger of legacy I hoped I was writing with each dangerous decision.