Free Scripted by Maya Rock

cricket murmurs to the female as they look over the footage on the camera. I hope they like what they see. I hear one word over and over.
Pipits.
The stern-faced Real looks over at us, and what I think is a smile creases his rough face. “We have what we need.”
    â€œWhat was that word they kept saying,
pipits
?” I whisper to Scoop as they leave.
    â€œ
Puppets,
” he whispers back. “That’s what the crew calls us.”
    â€œReally?” I mouth. I’ve always felt superior to the Reals, and in the back of my mind, I assumed they agreed. But
puppets
needles at me.
    Scoop’s mouth quirks up. “Don’t let it pull your strings. Besides, what do you expect? They’re not our friends.”
    â€œYeah, but they—” I strive for the right words. “They care about us. Without us, they’d have to live in the Sectors. They might not even have jobs if the show didn’t exist,” I remember Dr. Kanavan once lamenting how a childhood friend of hers, a nurse, couldn’t find any work in the Sectors.
    â€œThe Audience cares, maybe. But Media1 doesn’t,” Scoop whispers. He shrugs off his Windbreaker, revealing arms that are pretty muscular for someone who doesn’t do sports. Scoop isn’t gangly tall like Witson, or scary large like some tracs. He has just enough heft to make you feel protected but not threatened. Belle was lucky to have him as a big brother.
    But he’s not my brother. We’re not even close friends, and I get the feeling if I stick around here longer, he’s going to try to frall with me about her again. We were already way too close to getting caught. I clamp my hand over my mic. “I have to go. I’m supposed to help out at Mr. Fincher’s.”
    â€œWait,” he says. “Do you know what the Sandcastle is?”
    I step back, a chill running through me. I rub my arms, wondering if I should tell him that I heard the word on my radio’s Media1 channel.
    â€œYou’ve heard of it, haven’t you?” he whispers, closing the space between us. “I think it’s where they keep the Patriots. I don’t think they make it to the Sectors.”
    â€œI—I have to go,” I declare, turning and walking down the hall as fast as I can without breaking into a run. I can’t let myself get too bogged down in thoughts about Patriots again, not while I’m on the E.L.

Chapter 5
    I start dozing off on my bed Sunday evening while reading
The Player in the Attic.
I’m dangerously close to drooling on the cover when the phone shrieks.
    â€œNettie. It’s me,” Lia announces.
    â€œYou woke me up,” I greet her groggily. “Trying to read the book. Can you just tell me what happens?”
    â€œSure. But can you come meet me at the playground now?” She throws out the request like a dart to a board. “It’s important.”
    She’s upset—I can tell by her clipped tone. “Okay. Be there soon.” I shove my sneakers on and leave the house, quickly covering the short distance to the playground that divides the Arbor from Treasure Woods. We used to frall here, swinging side by side so the cameras couldn’t get a good view of us. Lia’s waiting for me, hunched on a swing, hands gripped high on the chains. When she sees me, she smiles weakly. Her eyes are puffy.
    Still, she looks more beautiful than ever. She’s wearing a long white sleeveless dress and the
liberato
beads she bought with Selwyn on a post-ratings-payment shopping spree. Up close, I discern eyeliner tracing the lids of her cat eyes and mascara turning her light brown eyelashes black. Media1’s been inviting her to private Sessions at the Center; they’re offered to high-ratings Characters on how to be more camperf.
    â€œHey.” I drop into the swing next to hers, feeling underdressed in my frayed jean shorts, same ones from yesterday.
    â€œCallen and