Silence.
I breathe out and take the next step.
Steps pound behind me.
Something grabs my ankle, and I pitch forward, cutting my forearms on the edge of a metal step.
“Got him!” Derrek calls.
I kick back, praying his head is near my foot. It connects with something, and Derrek releases his grip. I scramble up the last few steps but don’t make it more than a couple feet before Derrek tackles me to the ground.
I wince, my hand scrambling across the floor for something, anything, to help me. It closes around something solid and I swing as hard as I can at what I hope is his head. He yelps and falls to my side.
Heart in my throat, I dart out, praying for escape. Before I take a few steps, he grabs my arm and throws me to the ground. The air punches from my lungs as I land on my back.
Derrek pins me down. Shards of the debris dig into my back. Derrek’s face hovers inches above my own.
“Don’t make a sound, Powerless Prick,” Derrek hisses, the stink body odor makes me gag. “Or we make it look like a suicide.”
Even in the darkness, I can see his face clearly, leaning in close to mine. His breath reeks. Something about the way his eyes dig into mine makes every part of my body freeze—nose curled up in a snarl, the corners of his eyes creased to show a clear warning, teeth bared.
Terry joins us, his loafers crunching on shards, and crouches beside me, leaning closer.
“Your questions are starting to cause trouble, Powerless Prick,” Terry says.
Questions. How does he know? What does he know? My pulse quickens.
“Derrek here can’t allow that, and neither can I. Your questions could shut down this program. This place might be hell, but it’s a roof and three meals a day.”
I say nothing. Having a Somatic pushing you into shards of glass and other debris will do that.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Terry continues. “Starting right now, you stop asking questions. Stop knocking on doors. Stop looking for answers. No more secret conversations. No more hanging with friends. You go about your tests. We go about ours. Everything is fine.”
“I don’t know what you’re—” I cut off with a sharp hiss as Derrek drives the debris deeper into my back.
Terry watches me, but I can’t see his expression as clearly as Derrek’s. “Don’t play stupid with me.”
Right. Telepath. He probably knows something already.
“You don’t knock the questions off, we come back,” Terry says. His low, growling voice paints a crystal-clear picture as to how our next meeting will go.
Derrek lacks his friend’s knack for subtle threats. “See, next time we’ll—”
“—make it look like suicide,” I say without thinking.
Derrek shoves me down again, driving the shards of debris in deeper. A few are almost entirely flush with my back now.
Pain clenches my teeth. Warm blood soaks into my t-shirt, sticking to my back.
“A word of this to anyone else…” Derrek says.
“I get it,” I say, trying not to cry.
Derrek shoves me one last time to dig the shards deeper still as he pushes off.
Blinding, brilliant white light fills the room, and I squeeze my eyes shut. It doesn’t block the brightness.
I hear Derrek and Terry scream. For a moment, the air is filled with shouts, commands from Terry and negative responses from Derrek. I raise an arm to cover my eyes. Terry and Derrek’s voices are suddenly swallowed by silence. Something tugs at me and pulls me across the floor on my back. Shards of debris cut into what’s left of my skin. I scream. The weight of an anchor holds me down. Then the light disappears.
I roll into a sitting position slowly, wincing in pain, rubbing at my eyes to assist in adjusting to the light changes. Jagged edges of glass stick in my back. Touching one sends hot pain down my spine. I clench my jaw so tightly it hurts my teeth and pull. When I remove the glass, it bites into my palm, cutting as I try to pull it out. I drop the glass and examine the wound in my hand, a gaping slash across my palm and in the folds of my fingers. I can’t take care of the injuries alone.
Adjusting to the sudden near-dark is complicated after such blinding light. No one is around, as far as I can tell. I shift to my knees and try to stand. The pain around each of the jagged edges of the glow-shade cause searing hot pain with even the smallest of motions, also making it hard to breathe. It makes my knees shake, and the muscles in my legs buckle. I yelp and stumble, grabbing at anything for support. Darkness and blurred lines edge my vision. I squeeze my eyes to clear it.
Light. A dim glow. It drifts toward me, illuminating the familiar form of Celeste. Was she the one who created that light? What did she do to Terry and Derrek?
“You bleat like a dying sheep,” she says with her timid voice.
“I don’t suppose you have healing hands, too, do you?” The attempt at humor falls flat through clenched teeth.
“Come.”
Celeste takes my arm, helps me to my feet. Every movement and step are sharp reminders of the pieces in my back, digging deeper. Poor Celeste carries most of the burden of my weight. The world flashes bright, blindingly white, then fades to black like a slow strobe. I can’t focus on anything, trusting her to guide us and putting all my attention into taking substantial steps, one foot at a time.
The soft light guides our way, faintly illuminating displays of arctic life, past an igloo. We are in a museum. That explains a lot. The hallway twists and bends back and forth, and the two of us struggle along. Where is she taking me?
Asia. Or at least what we were taught Asia once was before everything changed. Celeste helps me up the step into a fake home. A woman—a mannequin—watches me with haunting eyes as Celeste shifts her grip to ease me down.
“Lie on your stomach,” she says.
Tears streak my vision as I lie down, happy to hide my face, trusting her to handle the rest.
The space smells of must and old age. I turn my head to the side and can just see the rock garden outside—or what is supposed to be outside. Everything is manufactured, fake.
Celeste pulls on a chunk of debris. Each one feels like a razor slicing my flesh. Celeste isn’t terribly delicate, either. The cold bamboo floor presses against my stomach, making the cuts ache. Celeste grabs the back of my shirt by one of the tears and rips it open.
One by one, she pulls out the chunks of debris—glass and pieces of wood—and sets them on the floor right in front of my face. Each covered in blood, which oozes off and drips onto the floor. Sometimes it feels like her fingers are ripping into my flesh, digging for chunks of debris. Every yank is like they are being shoved in again, and each rips another strangled sound from deep in my throat.
“God Celeste! That hu—”
She pulls another one, and my voice cuts out.
A chorus of panicked voices call out my name from somewhere in the distance. Or maybe it isn’t any distance at all. I can’t tell through the pain burning my body. Nor can I call back.
The stink of blood mingles with a metallic taste in my mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain and sight of blood-covered glass.
A familiar voice drifts through the haze. “Christ, your back!”
Miller! His voice is muffled by the sound of my heart thumping in my ears, but it’s him. “What the hell happened?” he asks.
“A couple guys… warned me,” I say through gritted teeth as Celeste presses her hands against my back. The words are like sharp needles of pain all their own.
Miller crouches in front of me. “I warned you about this.”
“Not helpful.” My words choke away in a wheezy gasp as the air locks up in my lungs. I can’t breathe. I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Not even a scream of pain. The room starts to spin faster and faster, then fades.
Miller’s voice sounds muffled. Distant. “What are you doing to him?”
I try gasping for breath, but nothing happens. Miller becomes
more of a shadowy form in the fading room, pointing at me and yelling at Celeste. But I can’t hear anything. Just the slowing thumps of my heartbeat.
24
The rock garden swims back into focus. The shards of glass are gone. The skin on my back feels stretched to the limit. Some spots feel like they’re burning.
More muffled voices.
A female. I almost recognize it.
“Thank you, Rosie,” Miller says.
“You’re lucky I found you when I did,” Rosie says. Who is Rosie?
Feet shuffle and scrape against the bamboo floor. Shadows dance on the wall.
I’m still too weak to move.
“What…” My voice sounds foreign. Raspy and dry.
Enid crouches on her haunches in front of me—her sling gone—brushing a hand over my face. It burns hot against my skin.
“Cold,” I mumble.
Miller puts my arm over his shoulder and, with Dave’s help, sits me upright. Blood stains the floor where I had lain. I’m freezing; my whole body is shaking like I’ve been submerged in an ice bath. Miller helps me settle against the artificial wall, then sits across from me, perching his arms over his chest. Rosie lingers near the doorway. Rosie, the mousy girl I’ve seen before. A Divinic Healer.
“He’s doing okay,” Rosie says to Miller. “I’m going.”
I want her to stay, but I can’t think of a reason to ask, so I let her walk off until she dissolves into the shadows up the fake street and disappears around the corner. I watch her go and notice that Miller, Dave, and Enid aren’t the only ones around me.
Trina leans against a wall, her clothes ripped. Leo has an arm around her, offering quiet reassurances. Sho and Boyd huddle in the fake street, their heads together and speaking quietly to one another. Mo sits on the steps of the phony house we occupy, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking himself. Everyone is here.
Except for Celeste.
“What h-happened?” My teeth chatter. I try rubbing my upper arms to warm back up.
“You died.” Miller’s lips curl downward, and for a moment he scowls at the door. “I don’t know what she thought she was doing, but it sure as hell wasn’t healing.”
Celeste. It was an accident. Had to be. She wouldn’t do that to me on purpose.
“If Rosie hadn’t shown up when she did,” Enid says, the implication of the rest clear enough.
Despite the chill in my bones, I blush. Taking in everything, the blood on the floor—and so much of it. The smell of it turns my stomach.
“Celeste… What did she do? Where is she?” I reach shaking hands into my bag and pull out the sheet and crisp shirt. Enid steps forward to help me pull the shirt on after she removes the ripped, bloodied one. I wrap the sheet around me, but it offers little warmth.
“Some crazy trick I’ve never seen before,” Miller says. “She disappeared when Rosie showed up. And good riddance.”
The look on Miller’s face reminds me of my dad’s right before I’m about to land in trouble. Only this time, it isn’t directed at me. I notice that the light isn’t coming from Celeste’s strange glowing light anymore. Streetlights line the fake street, and somehow two of them glow with soft light.
“What happened, kid?”
“Stop c-calling me that!”
“We just want to know,” Enid huffs, moving out into the street and looking both directions.
I shake my head and say, “Terry and Derrek. Something about me asking the wrong questions and rumors about me shutting the program down. They were pissy about it.”
“God…” Miller is clearly biting his tongue, raking his hands through his shaggy blond hair and tugging, staring at the lamp instead of at me, tapping a fist against the doorframe. He’s struggling to keep his opinions to himself. His jaw clenches. “I warned you.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say. “Just leave it alone.”
“Whatever,” Miller grumbles.
“Miller…”
But the stubborn set of Miller’s expression makes it abundantly clear that arguing my point won’t matter. Miller is as stubborn as my dad.
“Are they watching us?” I ask, pulling the blanket tighter. “Because I can’t understand why Paragon would let stuff like this happen.”
Miller looks up at the ceiling as if Overwatch is there. Maybe she is.
Silence descends over us.
The others gather in the doorway of the manufactured Asian-style home. Miller digs a protein bar and water out of his bag and starts eating, then after a moment, he grimaces and grudgingly offers us some of his supply.
As the rest of us eat, Miller begins scouting up and down the road.
Paragon is obviously going above and beyond with their research here, but to what end? I roll my neck, then pull out one of my notebooks, the smell of the paper soothing my headache. I sigh, sit back and stare down at the pages again. What are they doing and what do they stand to gain?
Maybe they have found the links that bind the Powers to our DNA and are now just lining up the pawns to test their theories. I’ve read Dr. Cass’s article on Power classification linking mechanisms a thousand times. Paragon may have everything it needs to corner the market on selling more than one Branch of Power to people. And if they can find a way to bottle specific Powers within each Branch...
I shoot upright.
It should have occurred to me sooner.
The pill.
We all had to take it. The pill has had no effect on me as far as I can tell, but Boyd said his Power was stronger, and he isn’t the only one over-performing in this test. Enid created a fog she never could have created before. Sho found his way around without difficulty, and Dave seemed to hear better than he should have. The pill must have amplified their Powers. But for how long?
This test suddenly makes much more sense—wrong, but still understandable. The only way to truly test the viability of something that enhances Powers is to throw people into a situation where they have to push past their reasonable limits. It also means we are stuck in here for however long the effects last. Paragon will want to know how long it takes for the pill to wear off. And if they can perfect this pill, maybe, just maybe…
I could potentially gain a Power. Any Power.
It’s the only thing I ever wanted. But in exchange, everyone is subjected to more of this testing as Paragon perfects their pill. Is this what I want? It helps my dad, being in here, but how do I know Dr. Cass is holding up her end of the deal? And am I willing to let others face this level of torture just to get him a few more days?
I watch the others setting up defenses and finding places to get rest on the bamboo floor. Enid settles in beside me, lying with her head close to my legs. It doesn’t take long for her to fall asleep. Everyone needs rest, but I can’t. I understand now.
And it’s time to make a choice, just as Celeste warned me.
I can stay here, hoping for a cure to my problem, for a Power, while also potentially getting my dad more of the treatment he needs. But doing that means subjecting these people—my friends—to more of this torturous testing. While I may not understand why Paragon goes to such lengths, I’ve no doubt that their methods are immoral. Choosing to stay and continue the testing means forcing everyone else to do the same. Or…
I can create a plan that gets everyone out of here, saving the other test subjects—all of them. But doing so means I will never get a Power, and my father could die. Celeste’s words ring in my head. Choices must be made.
Did her warning mean I should choose my father? Should I follow her advice? And what about the test subjects who’ve disappeared? What happened to them? My heart refuses to accept the answer my mind is trying to shelter me from.
They were the first to be tested with these pills. Taken from our floor and never seen again. If the pills work, it’s possible those subjects were released back into the world to assimilate back into ordinary life. Yet, doing so would risk exposing everything Paragon is working for. They can’t af
ford that risk.
Choices must be made.
Even though the answer makes me sick to my stomach, makes me fight to keep from throwing up, I know what I must do.
My choice is made. We have to find a way out, even if I never get a Power. Even if it costs my dad his treatments. I can’t let others suffer through this anymore. Not if I can stop it.
Everyone else is settled in for sleep. Except for Miller, who still patrols the street. I wave him over, and a minute later he’s settling in close to my side.
Celeste said the walls are always listening, so no safe place to talk. Not even in a simulation.
I keep my voice to a whisper and explain everything. The pill. The missing test subjects. The purpose of the testing, my dad. Miller has to lean close to hear, and he remains silent as I talk, not once interrupting. His face gives him away, white skin paling even more, pain in his eyes.
“So, what are you trying to convince me of?” Miller asks, his face puzzled.
“So… If I know who has what Powers, maybe I can figure out how we can get out of here.” I pull out my notebook and show Miller the map I’ve been working on since that first day.
“Okay.” Miller scans my somewhat detailed map. “Then what? Prop 8.5 just means we’ll land back in here.”
“Except Mo said there’s a group trying to help people evade capture,” I say. “They don’t agree with the proposition.”
Miller falls silent, examining his hands. He tugs the hood of his sweatshirt up over his messy hair and pulls on the hood string. His shoulders tense, and a couple times I think he’s about to tell me something, but nothing comes out.
I nudge him. “What is it?”
Miller bites his lip, then looks at me. His grey-blue eyes are haunted. “What do you think happens to people who test out, then?”
I smooth my fingers over the pages of the journal. I can only answer with a headshake. Sure, I could wager a guess—but the answer wouldn’t be good.
Miller glances toward the street, body rigid. “I had a friend in here not that long ago. A mentor. Jaymes Murphy. He could do amazing things with Mutation.”
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