Awakening (TalentBorn Book 1)

by C. S. Churton

  “I understand,” he says, and it’s my turn to frown. That’s not the reaction I’d been expecting. At all. As ever, Scott seems to sense my confusion.

  “Anna, no one’s going to force you to do something you don’t want to do, and you’re right, it is dangerous. None of us fully understand this ability of yours. But...” He pauses, either to choose his words or make sure he has my full attention, I’m not sure which. “Don’t you want to? Your ability is dangerous whether we’re helping you or not. And at least with AbGen behind you, you’re not on your own if something goes wrong. Like yesterday.”

  I shudder, picturing myself in France, knowing no one is coming to help. Scott makes a compelling argument. But I shake my head.

  “I know enough to stop myself shifting. That’s all I need. I’ll lock it away, never use it again. It’s the safest way.”

  “If that’s what you want, I’ll support you, you know that. But just think about it – don’t rush into anything, okay?”

  I bite my tongue and nod instead of disagreeing. It’s a reasonable enough request, much as it goes against my instinct. After everything he’s done for me, I owe him this much at least. And maybe I am being a little hasty.

  “Okay, I’ll give it until the end of the week,” I reluctantly agree, and turn my attention to the eggs and bacon in front of me to discover I’ve lost my appetite.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Grab her from behind; get your arm around her throat.”

  It’s not as bad as it sounds – I’m being trained in hand-to-hand combat. I’ve been having self-defence lessons every morning since joining AbGen, and it turns out I have a bit of a flair for it, which surprises no one so much as me. Of course, it’s not much help against half a dozen armed soldiers, but it’s nice to know I’m not utterly useless at everything I turn my hand to.

  I hear Scott moving behind me as he gets into position, locks his right forearm around my throat and grips my t-shirt with his hand, pinning me tightly against him. His grip is loose enough that I can breathe, but the pressure is not insignificant and there’s no way I could get free by struggling. He knows better than to go easy on me: not much gets by Nick, the resident hand-to-hand combat instructor. We’re both aching from the long session – me from the heavy workout, and Scott from being thrown around like a ragdoll for the better part of an hour – but neither of us is prepared to ease up.

  “Grab his right hand with your left, putting pressure here and here,” Nick tells me, pointing out two spots on Scott’s hand. I glance down at the spots and nod as much as Scott’s grip will allow me. “You’re going to twist his hand and put pressure on the wrist until his grip gives out, then push the hand up behind his back to lock up the elbow. Once his upper body is immobilised, step in with your foot in the back of his knee here–” He taps the point on the back of my own knee “–and push forwards and down. Take the arm with him as he goes down so you can hold him there.”

  I nod, absorbing the information and running it through my head. Grip hand, twist, raise hand, foot on back of knee. Got it.

  “Obviously in a real-life situation you’d use an elbow strike or a headbutt to loosen his grip first, but we won’t do that here.”

  “Yes, please let’s not do that here,” Scott interjects.

  “Wimp,” I mutter with a smirk.

  “We’ll see who’s the wimp,” he murmurs back, tightening his grip on my throat.

  I grip his hand and squeeze, grinning in triumph as I feel his fingers loosen slightly. I twist it, bringing all my force to bear on his wrist – it’s harder than Nick made it sound – and manage to pull it off. A quick step puts me behind him, and I hear him grunt as I twist his elbow up. I push my foot into the back of his knee, and he hits the mat with a satisfying thud. I release his wrist and smile angelically.

  “It’s still you.”

  “Ha. Ha,” he says, rolling onto his back and massaging his wrist. I offer my hand to help him to his feet and he reaches out for it. I’m going to miss these sessions when I leave AbGen. I know I could always take classes somewhere else, but it just won’t be the same if I’m not training with Scott.

  I feel a sudden pressure around my wrist and before I know what's happening, I'm face down on the mat with my arm twisted up behind me and Scott straddling me.

  “Hey, no fair!” I complain. “We haven't covered that yet.”

  He laughs and climbs off me, then helps me up.

  “Once more,” Nick instructs.

  We reset our positions and Scott grabs me from behind again. This time I dislodge his hand much more easily and it's only a matter of seconds before he thuds face first into the mat again.

  “Excellent, Anna,” Nick praises. “Let’s leave it there for today.”

  “Yeah,” Scott echoes. “Let’s leave it there for today.”

  We grab some water then hit the showers, and make our way down to the firing range, where Scott has scheduled my first lesson with the resident firearms specialist. It’s as if he’s on a personal crusade to prove to me that I’m safer with AbGen. Maybe he’s right. But funnily enough, nothing about the idea of holding a gun makes me feel any safer.

  “Hi Anna, I’m Dominic Fletcher. Everyone calls me Fletch.” The short, balding firearms instructor extends a hand to me and I shake it tentatively, looking behind him to the large, mostly empty room. A yellow and black line runs across the varnished wooden floor from one side to the other, and beyond it on the far wall is a row of human-shaped targets, each hanging from a motorised clip. Tracks run along the ceiling, presumably for moving the targets closer or further away.

  “So, we’re going to get you acquainted with the basics today. First things first: ear protectors. Any time you’re on the range, you need to wear these.”

  He hands me a pair of distinctly unstylish earmuffs; another reason to avoid spending too much time down here. Scott gets a pair too, which is some consolation. At least I don’t have to look like a weirdo by myself. Fletch pulls a key on a chain from around his neck and uses it to unlocks a wire-doored cage that’s fitted to the wall. Running from the ground to head height, it’s filled with row upon row of guns. I recognise the shotguns and rifles, though I’ve never seen one up close before, but it’s a pistol Fletch reaches for.

  “This is a SIG-Sauer P228 9mm semi-automatic pistol, the weapon of choice for most of the agents here. You’re welcome to use one of these until you’re assigned your own.”

  He slides the top back and checks inside, then tilts the gun and checks the bottom.

  “Always make sure the weapon is made safe – no magazine and no round in the chamber – before handing it to someone or storing it away.”

  He hands the gun to me – it’s heavier than I was expecting and I stare at the weighty lump of metal for a long moment. To think that this thing is capable of killing, and that I might one day have to use it against someone… a shudder runs through me. If Fletch notices, he doesn’t say anything. I fight the urge to hand it right back and instead focus on the matte-black metal and feeling the textured grip as it sits in my hand. Some part of me acknowledges that for a killing machine it’s kind of beautiful… in a macabre sort of way.

  “Wrap your right hand around the grip, like this, and support it with your left hand, under here.”

  He arranges my hands and immediately my outstretched arms feel the pressure. This stance is going to take some getting used to – not that I really want to get used to it.

  “Keep your finger outside of the trigger guard until you’re ready to fire.”

  I nod, and move my finger away from the trigger, resting it lightly on the outside of the trigger guard. It doesn’t feel any safer.

  “Okay, now you’re going to load it. Remember: never point your weapon at something you’re not willing to shoot.”

  I nod again and try to banish the image of an innocent bystander hurt by one of my bullets. Fletch hands me a rectangular piece of metal and I can see the bullets sitting insi
de it.

  “This is your magazine. Slide it inside the magazine well,” he says, indicating to the bottom of the gun, “and wiggle it gently inside until you feel it click.”

  I ease it inside tentatively, trying to keep my fingers well away from the trigger, and Fletch nods his approval.

  “Now pull back the slide with your left hand and then take up your stance again. The weapon is now cocked and loaded.”

  With the loaded weapon in my hands, everything suddenly seems a lot more real. I swallow noisily and stay very still.

  “When you’re ready, release the safety with your thumb, then line up the front and rear sights with that target. Take a deep breath, release it, and then gently squeeze the trigger.”

  The gun wrenches in my hands and there’s a loud bang that deafens me even through the earmuffs, and then a metallic ping. The two sounds echo around the room. I look down the barrel of the gun – which is no longer pointing where I aimed it – and search for a bullet hole on the humanoid target. Nothing. I hear a faint chuckle from Scott and glance back at him over my shoulder, taking care to keep the gun pointed down the range. He nods at the next target along and I see my bullet lodged in the upper right corner. Not only have I missed my own target, I’ve missed it by so much that I caught the one in the next lane.

  “Congratulations,” Fletch says with a wry grin. “You’ve just hit Mrs Jones on her way back from the supermarket. Let’s give it another go.”

  That’s the last thing I want to do, but I can see there’s no way I’m getting off that lightly. With a grimace I raise the pistol again and line it up with the target. My second shot isn’t much better, and nor is the one after. Fletch adjusts my position.

  “Try to stay relaxed and don’t anticipate the recoil. Keep your grip loose. You’re tensing up as you pull the trigger.”

  I don’t see how loosening my grip on the gun is going to stop it leaping all over the place as it goes off, but I nod anyway and try to follow his instructions. By the time I’ve fired another thirty or so shots and reloaded twice, my bullets are hitting the right target, but that’s the best that can be said for any of my attempts. The holes in the sheet are completely erratic – some high, some wide, and a couple low. The only real consistency is that none of them have actually landed inside the crudely drawn outline of a person.

  “I think your gun is a pacifist.” I hold the weapon out to Fletch and hope I never have to use one for real. I think it’s safe to say that we’re all better off when I don’t have a loaded gun in my hands.

  Fletch laughs. “You’ll get the hang of it. Come back and see me tomorrow.”

  I wonder if there’s a way I can get out of it without offending him, but there's something else playing on my mind as we leave. I broach the subject with Scott as we're walking down one of the long corridors.

  “What happens if we're carrying guns and we get arrested? I mean, they're pretty illegal, right?” It's not like I could pull out an ID card and tell the cops that it's okay because I work for AbGen, given that its existence is a state secret.

  “If you ever get picked up, use your phone call to contact Gardiner: he'll have you out in no time.”

  I frown, picturing myself locked in a cell with Gardiner my only hope of salvation. The image does not sit well with me. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t realise where we’re going. Until I do.

  “What are we doing here?” I demand, narrowing my eyes. Sandra’s door looms at the end of the corridor.

  “I thought it might be a good idea to talk to someone impartial, before you make your decision.”

  “She’s hardly impartial,” I object. “I might as well speak to Gardiner himself.”

  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

  “Are you kidding me? He’s the last person I can trust.”

  “Anna, enough! What more has the man got to do to prove he’s on your side?”

  Scott looks just as riled as I am. I realise that he’s put up with a lot from me over the last few weeks, and now I’m running down the man he’s looked up to for the last seven years. But I can’t help myself. Gardiner makes my skin crawl, and I grind my teeth in frustration. I don’t get this absolute faith Scott has in him.

  “Something isn’t right,” I snap at him. “Why can’t you see that – are you blind? He can’t be trusted!”

  Scott grabs my shoulders roughly and pushes me against the wall. My mouth goes bone dry and my heart hammers in my chest. His jaw is clenched and he's breathing heavily – I've never seen him this angry and suddenly this whole conversation seems like a really bad idea. Especially in an empty corridor. I've got no idea what he’s capable of. I struggle ineffectively: he's too strong and his fingers are digging into my shoulders and his eyes are boring into mine.

  “He saved my life, okay?” I stop struggling and stare at him. “He saved me.”

  *

  “It was during a dark period of my life.”

  We’re sitting in a deserted corner of the canteen, feigning interest in our cooling coffees, and Scott is steadfastly avoiding eye contact.

  “I’ve never really explained how my ability works, have I?” he says. I shake my head but say nothing.

  “When I get anywhere within about ten miles of an absa, I’m drawn to them.” He shakes his head. “Drawn isn’t a strong enough word. It’s like... like an obsession. A compulsion. I have to find them, have to be near them. It’s all I can think about. More important than food, more important than sleep... nothing else matters. Can you understand that, Anna? Nothing.”

  I can’t even begin to imagine how it must feel to be taken over like that. I remember my first day here when I was under Helen’s thrall, and try to imagine what it must be like to feel that way permanently. A shudder runs through me. Scott sees it and nods.

  “It was a little over seven years ago when I first crossed paths with the woman – an absa. We think that’s what triggered my talent. Of course, I didn't know what it was back then, all I knew was that I had to be around her. So, I followed her. I didn't sleep for two days, I couldn't eat, I just kept watching her – when she was at home, when she went to work... I couldn't stay away.”

  He picks up a spoon and stirs his coffee, and I feel a stab of sympathy. He’s never talked about his past before, now I know why.

  “She had a fiancé, a huge guy, ex-army. He came after me and warned me off, told me to disappear or he'd make me – permanently. I knew he could do it, but I didn't care. Being away from her was worse than being dead.”

  He breaks off and looks across at me.

  “Understand that I was completely on my own; I didn't have the upbringing you might imagine, and by the time this was happening, I had no one – I'd long since lost contact with my family, I was in and out of trouble with the law so I never stayed in one place long enough to make friends. I knew what I was doing wasn't right, I knew something was wrong with me, but I had no-one to talk it through with.”

  He takes a deep breath and then lets it out again while I try to imagine what it must be like to be so utterly alone in the world. I don’t have much family, just my mum, but we were always close, and even now she’s only ever a phone call away.

  “I tried to stay away, but it was like she was the only thing that existed in my world. She moved a few miles away, but not far enough. I could still sense her, and it didn't take me long to track her down. A couple of days later, the fiancé came for me again, but he made the mistake of coming alone. He was stronger than me, and better trained, but I was desperate. We were both in a bad way by the time we finished, but I wasn’t going to let anything stand between me and her... and that's when I realised. I couldn't sense her anymore. She was gone. He'd sent her away before he came after me. I was furious. I turned on him again, but I had a moment of clarity. Away from her, I could think again. I called him an ambulance, then dragged myself up to the top of a nearby building. I had to make sure I never hurt anyone else, I couldn't lose control like that ag
ain. I climbed up on the ledge–”

  He's blinking furiously and taking rapid breaths. His hand is gripping the table so hard that his knuckles have turned white. I reach over and place my hand on top of his, squeezing it softly. His grip loosens and he gives me a lopsided smile.

  “That's where Gardiner found me, out on that ledge. He told me what I was, what the girl was – they'd been tracking her too – and he brought me in. It was hard at first, being surrounded by so many absas, but he helped me learn to control it, and showed me I could use my talent to help people, not hurt them.”

  He takes a sip of his coffee, grimaces, and sets it aside.

  “So now you know why I trust him,” he says. I nod.

  “I'm sorry; I promise I'll try to trust him too. And I'm sorry for what you went through.”

  “Anna, I'm the one who should be apologising. I should never have reacted that way. I truly am sorry – can you forgive me?”

  “Of course,” I answer easily, and add softly, “You're my Gardiner.”

  Scott smiles. “I hope that's a compliment. Come on, we both need some air. Let's get out of here.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Something looks different.”

  It’s the day after I told Scott I wanted to quit, and so far I haven’t, which he seems to be taking as a victory. After hearing about what he went through, I can’t help but feel that I might be overreacting. If he could learn to control something that erased everything he was, something that would drive him to kill, then surely I can learn to control this. What I know for sure is that I’m at least going to try, and hence we’re back in the lab, ready to test my theory. Toby hasn’t asked why I didn’t show yesterday, which makes me wonder if he already knows – AbGen takes office gossip to a whole new level – or if he thought that whole France thing caught up with me, which wouldn’t be entirely untrue. I’m terrified of where I might end up if my theory is wrong, but determined not to show it, and adamant that it’s not going to stop me trying. We’ve just come into the EM-shielded room, and something looks... well, different.