Imagine Me

by Tahereh Mafi

  I know that my loyalty is to Anderson, but that strange, familiar heat is still pressing against the inside of my mind, quieting the impulse telling me to turn around. I find I’m grateful for it. I realize, distantly, that my mind is a strange mess of contradictions, but I don’t have more than a moment to dwell on it.

  This hall is far too dark for easy access, but I’d observed earlier that what I once thought were decorative grooves in the walls were actually inset doors, so here, instead of relying on my eyes, I use my hands.

  I run my fingers along the wall as I walk, waiting for a disruption in the pattern. It’s a long hallway—I expect there to be multiple doors to sort through—but there appears to be little in this direction. Nothing visible by touch or sight, at least. When I finally feel the familiar pattern of a door, I hesitate.

  I press both my hands against the wall, prepared to destroy it if I have to, when it suddenly fissures open beneath my hands, as if it was waiting for me.

  Expecting me.

  I move into the room, my senses heightened. Dim blue light pulses out along the floors, but other than that, the space is almost completely dark. I keep moving, and even though I don’t need to use a gun, I reach for the rifle strapped across my back. I walk slowly, my soft boots soundless, and follow the distant, pulsing lights. As I move deeper into the room, lights begin to flicker on.

  Overhead lights in that familiar honeycomb pattern flare to life, shattering the floor in unusual slants of light. The vast dimensions of the room begin to take shape. I stare up at the massive dome-shaped room, at the empty tank of water taking up an entire wall. There are abandoned desks, their respective chairs askew. Touchpads are stacked precariously on floors and desks, papers and binders piling everywhere. This place looks haunted. Deserted.

  But it’s clear it was once in full use.

  Safety goggles hang from a nearby rack. Lab coats from another. There are large, empty glass cases standing upright in seemingly random and intermittent locations, and as I move even farther into the room, I notice a steady purple glow emanating from somewhere nearby.

  I round the corner, and there’s the source:

  Eight glass cylinders, each as tall as the room and as wide as a desk, are arranged in a perfect line, straight across the laboratory. Five of them contain human figures. Three on the end remain empty. The purple light originates from within the individual cylinders, and as I approach, I realize the bodies are suspended in the air, bound entirely by light.

  There are three boys I don’t recognize. One girl I don’t recognize. The other—

  I step closer to the tank and gasp.

  Valentina.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I spin around, rifle up and aimed in the direction of the voice. I drop my gun when I see Anderson’s face. In an instant, the pervasive heat retreats from my head.

  My mind is returned to me.

  My mind, my name, my station, my place—my shameful, disloyal, reckless behavior. Horror and fear flood through me, coloring my features. How do I explain what I do not understand?

  Anderson’s face remains stony.

  “Sir,” I say quickly. “This young woman is the daughter of the supreme commander of South America. As a servant of The Reestablishment, I felt compelled to help her.”

  Anderson only stares at me.

  Finally, he says: “How do you know that this girl is the daughter of the supreme commander of South America?”

  I shake my head. “Sir, there was . . . some kind of vision. Standing in the hallway. She told me that she was Valentina Castillo, and that she needed help. She knew my name. She told me where to go.”

  Anderson exhales, his shoulders releasing their tension. “This is not the daughter of a supreme commander of The Reestablishment,” he says quietly. “You were misled by a practice exercise.”

  Renewed mortification sends a fresh heat to my face.

  Anderson sighs.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. I thought— I thought it was my duty to help her, sir.”

  Anderson meets my eyes again. “Of course you did.”

  I hold my head steady, but shame sears me from within.

  “And?” he says. “What did you think?”

  Anderson gestures at the line of glass cylinders, at the figures displayed within.

  “I think it’s a beautiful display, sir.”

  Anderson almost smiles. He takes a step closer, studying me. “A beautiful display, indeed.”

  I swallow.

  His voice changes, becomes soft. Gentle. “You would never betray me, would you, Juliette?”

  “No, sir,” I say quickly. “Never.”

  “Tell me something,” he says, lifting his hand to my face. The backs of his knuckles graze my cheek, trail down my jawline. “Would you die for me?”

  My heart is thundering in my chest. “Yes, sir.”

  He takes my face in his hand now, his thumb brushing, gently, across my chin. “Would you do anything for me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And yet, you deliberately disobeyed me.” He drops his hand. My face feels suddenly cold. “I asked you to wait outside,” he says quietly. “I did not ask you to wander. I did not ask you to speak. I did not ask you to think for yourself or to save anyone who claimed to need saving. Did I?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you forget,” he says, “that I am your master?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Liar,” he cries.

  My heart is in my throat. I swallow hard. Say nothing.

  “I will ask you one more time,” he says, locking eyes with me. “Did you forget that I am your master?”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  His eyes flash. “Should I remind you, Juliette? Should I remind you to whom you owe your life and your loyalty?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, but I sound breathless. I feel sick with fear. Feverish. Heat prickles my skin.

  He retrieves a blade from inside his jacket pocket. Carefully, he unfolds it, the metal glinting in the neon light.

  He presses the hilt into my right hand.

  He takes my left hand and explores it with both of his own, tracing the lines of my palm and the shapes of my fingers, the seams of my knuckles. Sensations spiral through me, wonderful and horrible.

  He presses down lightly on my index finger. He meets my eyes.

  “This one,” he says. “Give it to me.”

  My heart is in my throat. In my gut. Beating behind my eyes.

  “Cut it off. Place it in my hand. And all will be forgiven.” “Yes, sir,” I whisper.

  With shaking hands, I press the blade to the tender skin at the base of my finger. The blade is so sharp it pierces the flesh instantly, and with a stifled, agonized cry I press it deeper, hesitating only when I feel resistance. Knife against bone. The pain explodes through me, blinding me.

  I fall on one knee.

  There’s blood everywhere.

  I’m breathing so hard I’m heaving, trying desperately not to vomit from either the pain or the horror. I clench my teeth so hard it sends shocks of fresh pain upward, straight to my brain, and the distraction is helpful. I have to press my bloodied hand against the dirty floor to keep it steady, but with one final, desperate cry, I cut through the bone.

  The knife falls from my trembling hand, clattering to the floor. My index finger is still hanging on to my hand by a single scrap of flesh, and I rip it off in a quick, violent motion. My body is shaking so excessively I can hardly stand, but somehow I manage to deposit the finger in Anderson’s outstretched palm before collapsing to the ground.

  “Good girl,” he says softly. “Good girl.”

  It’s all I hear him say before I black out.

  KENJI

  We both stare at the bloody scene a moment longer before Warner suddenly straightens and heads out the door. I tuck my gun into the waistband of my pants and chase after him, remembering to close the door behind us. I don’t want those scorpions getting loo
se.

  “Hey,” I say, catching up to him. “Where are you going?”

  “To find Castle.”

  “Cool. Okay. But do you think that maybe next time, instead of just, you know, leaving without a word, you could tell me what the hell is going on? I don’t like chasing after you like this. It’s demeaning.”

  “That sounds like a personal problem.”

  “Yeah but I thought personal problems were your area of expertise,” I say. “You’ve got what, at least a few thousand personal problems, right? Or was it a few million?”

  Warner shoots me a dark look. “You’d do well to address your own mental turbulence before criticizing mine.”

  “Uh, what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that a rabid dog could sniff out your desperate, broken state. You’re in no position to judge me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You lie to yourself, Kishimoto. You hide your true feelings behind a thin veneer, playing the clown, when all the while you’re amassing emotional detritus you refuse to examine. At least I do not hide from myself. I know where my faults lie and I accept them. But you,” he says. “Perhaps you should seek help.”

  My eyes widen to the point of pain, my head whipping back and forth between him and the path in front of me. “You have got to be kidding me right now. You’re telling me to get help with my issues? What is happening?” I look up at the sky. “Am I dead? Is this hell?”

  “I want to know what’s happening with you and Castle.”

  I’m so surprised I briefly stop in place.

  “What?” I blink at him. Still confused. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing wrong with me and Castle.”

  “You’ve been more profane in the last several weeks than in the entire time I’ve known you. Something is wrong.”

  “I’m stressed,” I say, feeling myself bristle. “Sometimes I swear when I’m stressed.”

  He shakes his head. “This is different. You’re experiencing an unusual amount of stress, even for you.”

  “Wow.” My eyebrows fly up. “I really hope you didn’t bother using your”—I make air quotes—“supernatural ability to sense emotions”—I drop the air quotes—“to figure that one out. Obviously I’m extra stressed out right now. The world is on fucking fire. The list of things stressing me out is so long I can’t even keep track. We’re up to our necks in shit. J is gone. Adam defected. Nazeera’s been shot. You’ve had your head so far up your own ass I thought you’d never emerge—”

  He tries to cut me off but I keep talking.

  “—and literally five minutes ago,” I say, “someone from the Sanctuary—ha, hilarious, horrible name—just tried to kill you, and I killed her for it. Five minutes ago. So yeah, I think I’m experiencing an unusual amount of stress right now, genius.”

  Warner dismisses my speech with a single shake of his head. “Your use of profanity increases exponentially when you’re irritated with Castle. Your language appears to be directly connected to your relationship with him. Why?”

  I try not to roll my eyes. “Not that this information is actually relevant, but Castle and I struck a deal a few years ago. He thought that my”—I make more air quotes— “overreliance on profanity was inhibiting my ability to express my emotions in a constructive manner.”

  “So you promised him you’d tone down your language.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I see. It seems you’ve reneged on the terms of that arrangement.”

  “Why do you care?” I ask. “Why are we even talking about this? Why are we losing sight of the fact that we were just attacked by someone from inside of the Sanctuary? We need to find Sam and Nouria and find out who this girl was, because she was clearly from this camp, and they should know th—”

  “You can tell Sam and Nouria whatever you want,” Warner says. “But I need to talk to Castle.”

  Something in his tone frightens me. “Why?” I demand. “What is going on? Why are you so obsessed with Castle right now?”

  Finally, Warner stops moving. “Because,” he says. “Castle had something to do with this.”

  “What?” I feel the blood drain from my body. “No way. Not possible.”

  Warner says nothing.

  “Come on, man, don’t be crazy— Castle’s not perfect, but he would never—”

  “Hey— What the hell just happened?” Winston, breathless and panicked, comes running up to us. “I heard a gunshot coming from the direction of your tent, but when I went to check on you, I saw— I saw—”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?” Winston’s voice is shrill. Terrified.

  At that exact moment, more people come running. Winston starts offering people explanations I don’t bother to edit, because my head is still full of steam. I have no idea what the hell Warner is getting at, but I’m also worried that I know him too well to deny his mind. My heart says Castle would never betray us, but my brain says that Warner is usually right when it comes to sussing out this kind of shit. So I’m freaking out.

  I spot Nouria in the distance, her dark skin gleaming in the bright sun, and relief floods through me.

  Finally.

  Nouria will know more about the girl with the scorpions. She has to. And whatever she knows will almost certainly help absolve Castle of any affiliation with this mess. And as soon as we can resolve this freak accident, Warner and I can get the hell out of here and start searching for J.

  That’s it.

  That’s the plan.

  It makes me feel good to have a plan. But when we’re close enough, Nouria narrows her eyes at both me and Warner, and the look on her face sends a brand-new wave of fear through my body.

  “Follow me,” she says.

  We do.

  Warner looks livid.

  Castle looks freaked out.

  Nouria and Sam look like they’re sick and tired of all of us.

  I might be imagining things, but I’m pretty sure Sam just shot Nouria a look—the subtext of which was probably Why the hell did you have to let your dad come stay with us?—that was so withering Nouria didn’t even get upset, she just shook her head, resigned.

  And the problem is, I don’t even know whose side I’m on.

  In the end, Warner was right about Castle, but he was also wrong. Castle wasn’t plotting anything nefarious; he didn’t send that girl—her name was Amelia—after Warner. Castle’s mistake was thinking that all rebel groups shared the same worldview.

  At first it didn’t occur to me, either, that the vibe might be different around here. Different from our group at Point, at least. At Point we were led by Castle, who was more of a nurturer than a warrior. In his days before The Reestablishment he was a social worker. He saw tons of kids coming in and out of the system, and with Omega Point he sought to build a home and refuge for the marginalized. We were all about love and community at Point. And even though we knew that we were gearing up for a fight against The Reestablishment, we didn’t always resort to violence; Castle didn’t like using his powers in authoritative ways. He was more like a father figure to most of us.

  But here—

  It didn’t take long to realize that Nouria was different from her dad. She’s nice enough, but she’s also all business. She doesn’t like to spend much time on small talk, and she and Sam mostly keep to themselves. They don’t always take their meals with everyone else. They don’t always participate in group things. And when it comes right down to it, Sam and Nouria are ready and willing to set shit on fire. Hell, they seem to be looking forward to it.

  Castle was never really that guy.

  I think he was a little blindsided when we showed up here. He was suddenly out of a job when he realized that Nouria and Sam weren’t going to take orders from him. And then, when he tried to get to know people—

  He was disappointed.

  “Amelia was a bit of a zealot,” Sam says, sighing. “She’d never exhibited dangerous, violent tendencies, of course, which is
why we let her stay—but we all felt that her views were a little intense. She was one of the rare members who felt like the lines between The Reestablishment and the rebel groups should be clear and finite. She never felt safe with the children of the supreme commanders in our midst, and I know that because she took me aside to tell me so. I had a long talk with her about the situation, but I see now that she wasn’t convinced.”

  “Obviously,” I mutter.

  Nouria shoots me a look. I clear my throat.

  Sam goes on: “When everyone but Warner was basically kidnapped—and Nazeera was shot—Amelia probably figured she could finish the job and get rid of Warner, too.” She shakes her head. “What a horrible situation.”

  “Did you have to shoot her?” Nouria says to me. “Was she really that dangerous?”

  “She had three scorpions!” I cry. “She pulled a gun on Warner!”

  “What else was he supposed to think?” Castle says gently. He’s staring at the ground, his long dreads freed from their usual tie at the base of his neck. I wish I could see the expression on his face. “If I hadn’t known Amelia personally, even I would’ve thought she was working for someone.”

  “Tell me, again,” Warner says to Castle, “exactly what you said to her about me.”

  Castle looks up. Sighs.

  “She and I got into a bit of a heated discussion,” he says. “Amelia was determined that members of The Reestablishment could never change, that they were evil and would remain evil. I told her I didn’t believe that. I told her that I believed that all people were capable of change.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Wait, like, you mean you think even someone like Anderson is capable of change?”

  Castle hesitates. And I know, just by looking at his eyes, what he’s about to say. My heart jumps in my chest. In fear.

  “I think if Anderson were truly remorseful,” Castle says, “that he, too, could make a change. Yes. I do believe that.”

  Nouria rolls her eyes.

  Sam drops her head in her hands.