Page 119 of The Atom Between Us

The song ends, the crowd erupts, and for the first time in forever, I’m not thinking about the next move. I’m here, in this place, surrounded by people who might hate me tomorrow but don’t right now.

It feels like a victory.

Kang catches my eye, leans close, and says, “You did good, Dee.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

So I just raise my cup, and let the night begin.

Rosie’s band finishes its opening set, the last chord echoing off the concrete. People bang their cups and stomp their feet until Maven, who’s already perched on the nearest crate, silences the room with a single raised hand.

The crowd reacts in ripples, bodies turning, eyes tracking. Maven rides the moment, one arm slung around the shoulders of a wiry man who looks equal parts tech and street preacher. When the noise dips below a dull roar, Maven stands, wobbles for show, and swings their cup in a sweeping arc.

“Listen up, you beautiful degenerates,” Maven bellows. “We’ve made it through another rotation. That’s worth three toasts and a riot.”

A rumble of laughter. A smattering of applause.

Maven paces the length of the makeshift stage, letting the anticipation build. “I see new faces tonight—faces I know, faces I want to know, faces that look like they’d rather be anywhere but here.” Maven’s gaze lands on me and Kang, and for a second the weight of the room pins me in place.

“But you’re here,” Maven says, softer, the tone turning conspiratorial. “You made it through the walls, the checkpoints, the Authority’s best efforts to wipe us out or bleed us dry. You’re here because you chose something better. Something true.”

The room goes tight, the air humming.

“You know what I love about this place?” Maven asks. “Nobody here got a second chance by accident. Every person in this room fought to exist. You think Authority likes that? You think the system wants us to remember who we are?” Maven slams their cup down, the metal ringing against the crate. “They want us to forget! They want us docile, empty, scared.”

A shiver runs through the crowd. Heads nod, jaws clench.

“But we’re not scared, are we?” Maven grins, eyes flickering to Kang. “No. We’re not scared. We’re fucking furious. And that—” Maven raises their cup, “—that’s why we’ll win.”

A cheer goes up. People pound the tables, voices rising in uneven, joyous noise. Maven waits, soaking it in, then cuts the volume with a slice of their hand.

“Tonight, we honor the lost. We celebrate the found. And we remember every bastard who thought we’d give up.” Maven’s voice crescendos, every word bouncing off the stone and burrowing into my skull. “We are the memory they can’t erase. We are the mutation they can’t kill. We are the future they’re too scared to imagine!”

The crowd is electric now, raw and alive. Cups clatter, fists pump. Maven raises their own drink and yells, “Fuck the system!”

“FUCK THE SYSTEM!” the crowd roars back, in perfect, ragged unison.

Even I can’t help it. The words crawl up my throat and burst out, less a shout than a snarl. Next to me, Kang raises his cup and adds his voice, a single syllable but full of teeth.

Maven beams, soaking in the noise like it’s sunlight. “Drink up!” they command. “Tomorrow, the work begins again. But tonight, we live.”

The music surges, faster this time, a cover of a song I half-remember from the before times. The dance floor—really just the clear space near the ovens—fills with bodies, spinning and stomping in wild abandon. Couples pair off, groups form and dissolve. Even the solemn techs at the corner table clap in time.

For a while, I just watch. The beer makes everything a little fuzzier, blurs the harsh lines of the world. I let myself forget the edge of the bandage under my dress, the heaviness of old pain. I watch as Rosie crowdsurfs on the arms of laughing children, as an old woman in overalls twirls a kid in circles until they’re both dizzy.

A slow song sneaks in, a lull between storms. The mood shifts. The bodies pair up, move closer, cling. I see a girl in a patched Authority jumpsuit fold into the arms of her partner, her head tucked under his chin. There’s a hunger in the way they hold each other, like they’re the last two people alive.

I glance at Kang. His cup is empty, his gaze fixed on the dance floor, face unreadable. For all his toughness, he looks utterly alone.

Fuck it.

I nudge him, hard enough that the bench creaks. “You ever dance?” I ask.

He startles, then gives me a look—part suspicion, part embarrassment. “Not really my thing.”

“Good,” I say, and grab his hand. “Means you can’t be worse than me.”

He stands, slow, as if the floor might open up beneath him. I tow him into the mess of people, finding a sliver of open space near the edge. The music is a ballad, sweet and haunted, with lyrics about rivers and ghosts. I put my hands at his shoulders, and for a second he just stands there, rigid.