By Kinsey Holt

Tavin was on autopilot until everything ahead turned a bright vermillion.

His feet had been leading him home while he watched his favorite engineering channel, trying to meet his required screen time. His family didn’t need trouble with the ever-vigilant Inspectors.

He’d lightly tossed his multitool end over end with one hand. The narrow streets, framed by towering apartment blocks, had passed in his periphery unnoticed.

Then it was like someone flipped a switch.

His eyes snapped up from his phone, and he pulled out an earbud, tensing. Red warnings were not good.

Or so he’d heard, every year in the school informational videos.

Jian, his older brother who did martial arts and had actual ancient weapons in his room, always scoffed at red warnings. Said he wasn’t afraid of them.

Tavin, heart pounding, wasn’t sure he could say the same. He was the family nerd—not… well, Jian.

Ghoulish crimson light glowed from every neo-display, advertisement, and sign, creating a sharp border seven feet or so from where he stood frozen.

Reminders that had been drilled into every kid since preschool fought to the forefront of Tavin’s mind. Red means run. Get out and stay out, for at least a week.

But he didn’t move, even though his nerves were jangling like loose guzheng strings. Who knew how far the red zone spread—how far he’d have to reroute to get home? What if his house was in the zone?

Surely the whole zone’s not dangerous. Just… whatever’s causing it. I mean, it’s not like there’s something in the air or whatever. I’m still alive, still breathing.

Bouncing up and down, Tavin shook out his arms and shoved his belongings into his pockets. Go fast. Get home.

A mangled Inspector mech exploded through a wall five feet in front of him, smashing into a dumpster and collapsing in a pile of twisted metal and sputtering wires.

Tavin flailed back. As he landed, his phone screen crunched in his back pocket.

A figure stepped through the hole in the wall, veiled by masonry dust glowing scarlet. A wide conical hat hid his face. He wore a long sash around his waist, its ends fluttering behind him.

The Inspector’s eyes flickered red and it lurched, trying to stand.

Tavin scrambled away, crab-walking backward with hands on the pavement. Who would attack an Inspector, and why were the mech’s eyes glowing red? A friendly green was their usual color, shining out from a street corner where the mechanized creatures stood watch to make sure everyone was safely occupied.

The man with the hat made a flourish, and Tavin realized he had a sword, right as the man dodged aside with the speed of wind and sliced open a hose in the mech’s torso.

Jerking, the mech froze, tubes coughing out oil from various parts of its damaged frame. A rap from the hilt of the stranger’s blade knocked it over, its fall blowing away some of the dust cloud.

His back to Tavin, the man spoke in a computer-distorted voice. “Get out of here, kid. More are coming.”

The red deepened farther down the road. When the man turned to face it, Tavin got a glimpse of a shadowed profile with a tactical mask over his nose and mouth.

“Who are you?” Tavin asked, clambering to his feet.

“Better question—why are you still here? I told you to move.” The man slid his right foot back and brought his blade around into guard stance. His sword was a dadao—a long, curving blade with a wide point.

Tavin had only seen one other like it in his life.

The one mounted on his big brother’s wall.

“J-Jian?” he stammered.

“What did I—”

Another Inspector sprang from the levels above, crashing onto the warrior. The conical hat went rolling. Tavin’s breath caught.

Rising over its victim, the Inspector lifted a metal fist.

No!

Tavin sprinted into the red zone and sprang onto the Inspector’s back, clawing at exposed wires and hoses. As the Inspector reeled away, Tavin glimpsed the person sprawled on the ground.

Eyes that Tavin had known all his life blazed above the black mask. A streak of scarlet dripped from Jian’s temple. Vaulting up off one hand, Jian slashed at the Inspector with a shout. Metal screeched.

The mech rotated at the torso, slamming Jian away with one arm and plucking Tavin from its back with the other.

“Aagh!” Tavin swung fruitless punches while it held him at arm’s distance.

The red eyes raked down him. “Rebellious characteristics detected. Subject has entered a red zone. Terminate.”

“No!” Jian rammed his sword up into the gears of its midsection.

Sparks flew and the Inspector’s movement hitched as it tried to turn toward Jian. But its arms still worked.

A hand closed around Jian’s neck as he struggled to yank the dadao free. He cried out, pulling at the unrelenting fingers as he was lifted off his feet.

Tavin pried at the hand around his shirt. Inspiration hit him and he shucked off his backpack. I can slide out of my shirt—or cut it. Where’s my multitool?

He whipped it out, extending the knife.

The Inspector’s head spun around, and in a flash, it swung down and slammed him into the asphalt.

Tavin gasped as the air was jolted from his lungs.

“Very rebellious,” the Inspector intoned, bending close.

Beyond its tarnished face, Tavin spotted Jian, still choking in the mech’s grip. Tavin clenched his teeth and rammed the knife as deep as he could into one of the red eyes.

Something hissed and popped. The light died instantly. Oil dribbled down Tavin’s hand.

Wobbling sideways, the Inspector fell drunkenly against a neo-display, cracking the glass and tubes. Its fingers went limp. Jian dropped.

Tavin, aching all over, staggered to his brother, who knelt regaining his breath. “Are you all right?” Tavin offered his hand.

Jian took it, flashing a grin. “Still breathing. Welcome to the revolution.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kinsey Holt is an author of middle-grade and YA speculative fiction. Her mission is to bring truth, hope, and humor into the lives of her readers. When not writing, she can be found with her nose in a book, playing movie themes on the piano, or asking strangers if she can pet their dog.

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Author Website