Score. Points.

Every time we got pulled, I’d see her numbers climb.

All the pieces click into place. We earn points, as if this really is a game. When he talked about that in Vegas, he wasn’t just talking about the imaginary game in his head. Earn enough of them and—

“They’re pretty generous in the charges they levy. Not so generous with the points they pay out for hits,” Tyrone snarls.

“Save it,” Jackson says, low and fierce. “Save that anger for the Drau, Tyrone.”

Tyrone stares at him, jaw set, eyes flashing, and then he snatches the harness and gears up.

When Jackson points to the weapons box, Tyrone holds his hand out to draw his cylinder. Jackson’s shoulders tense, then he turns his face a little and I can’t tell if he’s looking at Tyrone or me.

“You live through this, Tyrone,” he says, so low I barely hear him. “Don’t you die.”

I swallow, not sure exactly what’s going on here, because even though he says Tyrone’s name, I feel like he’s speaking to me, too.

“Strong language for someone who claims it’s every man for himself,” I say.

Seconds tick past. “I just don’t want to have to train someone new.”

“Asshole,” Tyrone mutters without heat, sounding almost like himself. Jackson smiles a little.

“Scores,” Luka says from behind me.

Tyrone turns. I follow his gaze to the center of the clearing. The air dances like heat shimmers off a hot sidewalk. Something glossy black and rectangular begins to take shape. It looks like a massive, flat-screen TV, but when I walk over and reach out to touch it, my fingers pass through. As I draw them back, that corner of the image wavers and warps, then settles back into the shape of the screen’s corner.

Luka walks over to stand beside me, followed by Tyrone. A picture of Jackson bounded by a black border appears on the screen. He’s dressed in the clothes he was wearing the first time I met him, complete with the old-school aviator shades. In the picture, there’s blood on his clothes and a scratch on his cheek. The picture is odd and more than a little eerie because it isn’t a photo. It looks like a truly awesome 3-D rendering of a person. 3-D Jackson turns end over end, then zooms to the top left.

A new picture appears: Luka. He’s leaning against the wall, holding his arm, and I can see the white shards of his broken bones. I gasp. These pictures are from the end of the last battle. I take a step back, feeling uneasy as 3-D Luka turns end over end, and then lines up in the top left. Jackson’s image moves down a notch.

Tyrone’s next. The picture rotates up and over. He ends up above Jackson but below Luka.

I want to look away. The next picture will be Richelle’s. Or mine. Either way, I don’t want to see. But something pins me in place and I can’t tear my eyes from the screen.

The black frame forms. The picture shimmers into place. My heart clutches. It’s Richelle. Her last battle. Her last moment. Her skin is gray, her hair tangled, matted with blood. Her eyes are open, but she isn’t there. Beside me, Tyrone exhales in a rush, the sound like a deflating balloon. My gaze still locked on the screen, I reach for him blindly and loop my arm around his waist. He shudders beneath my touch but doesn’t pull away. I shudder right along with him, remembering the way Richelle touched me in the dark warehouse before the aliens came at us, offering silent support. Tears prick the backs of my lids.

We could have been friends. We would have been friends. I didn’t help her, didn’t do anything to help her stay safe. I barely managed to keep myself safe. And Jackson? He was busy keeping me from getting my brain sucked out through my eyes—at least, that’s what it felt like. Would he have been able to save Richelle if I hadn’t been there? Would he have even tried?

I cut him a sidelong look. He’s standing rigid and still, not even breathing. Every man for himself. He keeps insisting on that. And at the park, he told me not to feel guilty for being alive when others aren’t. But if he stands by his own philosophy, why does he look like the world is sitting heavy on his shoulders, his muscles tense, his lips pressed to a thin line?

Richelle’s picture dances to the left, nudging Luka’s down. She’s at the top.

Then comes my picture. I feel like I’m looking at someone I’ve never met. The girl looks pale and pained and wild. There’s fear in her eyes, but the tilt of her chin and the set of her mouth say she’s not quite out of the game, yet. She is me, but not me. Topsy-turvy I go, and then I’m in rank above Jackson and below the others.

Two columns of numbers pop up beside our images. The numbers beside Richelle’s name are red while everyone else’s are white. Red, like her con. Red, like her blood.

“What are they?” I ask.

“Scores,” Luka says. “The first column is our score from the last mission. The second column is cumulative for all the missions. The rank is according to the cumulative total.”

I stare at the numbers. Richelle had the lowest score for the last mission, but the highest cumulative total. That’s why her name is first. “Richelle was kick-ass,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” Tyrone says, his voice catching. “She was. And she almost made it out.”

My pulse kicks up a notch because I think I understand, but I barely dare hope. “Her cumulative score was nine twenty-five. How much did she need to make it out?”

“If she’d hit a thousand, she’d have been done.”