by Sophie Davis
Belatedly, I realized I’d spoken in the present tense. As if TOXIC still existed. The glance that passed between Riley and James told me that my error hadn’t gone unnoticed. James gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, a subtle warning to Riley not to point out the obvious—that TOXIC was no longer a player. I sent James a small, grateful smile. His focus remained on Riley, except for a brief quirk of his lips when he glanced in my direction.
“Oh bloody hell, not this again.” Willa sidled up next to our table and ran a hand down her boyfriend’s neck before pressing a kiss on his upturned cheek. She turned to me.
“Pay no attention to him, Kenly. Every so often, usually after we hear about one of these more random bouts, Riley gets it in that thick skull of his to gather a hunting party.” She rolled her hazel eyes skyward. “It’s just natter. Yes, it’d be aces to give the Poachers their due, even to set fire to their castles. We’d all fancy having a go at them,” She sighed, the passionate tone dimming a little when she quietly added, “But it’s not realistic.”
“It’s right realistic!” Riley shot back, pulling away from Willa’s touch.
Instead of being bothered by his agitation, she simply gave another eye roll and placed her hands on her curvy hips.
“Come on, Kenly. You said it yourself, you know how these works go,” Riley was nearly pleading now. “You can draw together the intel we need. And it wouldn’t be just the five of us. I know a lot of other Chromes who are prepared to fight back, I can arrange it all.”
Unbeknownst to him, Riley had just touched on my weak spot. Even though I knew it was an inane plan, I couldn’t help but mull it over. This was exactly what I’d been trained for—gathering intel on targets. Going out into the field and actually pursuing those targets was what I’d hoped to do as a Hunter.
With the destruction of TOXIC, all of my future hopes and dreams had gone down the drain. Riley was now offering me a chance fish them out.
No. Don’t even consider it. Too risky. Even if Riley had access to computers, it wouldn’t enough. You’d also need the software to run checks, hack into private communications, and digitally track our targets. And even if he could get all of that, you’re just one person. We’d need a minimum of ten other Higher Reasoning Talents to interpret the data. Not to mention the hundreds of trained fighters to actually carry out the missions. Likelihood of success is too uncertain to calculate. Suppose—
In the back of my mind, the part still tuned in to the conversation, an alarm bell went off. Something Riley was saying yanked me out of my three second consideration.
“And the vote is drawing near. We all realize what will happen if the Coexistence Treaty is negated. Incidents like the one the other night will become bloody common—there will be bouts every day! We can’t just keep running scared. We need to fight back, don’t you see that?”
Crap. Besides James’s offhand acknowledgement that the Treaty was up for renewal, this was the first time someone in the group had actually brought up the topic for discussion. Everyone was aware that the vote was this year, it was a once-in-a-decade occurrence. But until my Vision, I’d been so caught up in everything else happening that I’d never considered the fact it might not pass again. Like clockwork, every ten years since its inception, the Joint Nations had congregated and voted to accept it again. It was even a major motivation that the Director had shared with us for taking on the Coalition; he’d impressed upon us the importance of showing the rest of the world that TOXIC had the rogue Talents in America under control.
But now that my classmates were running amok, wreaking havoc over and over again, the ordinary citizens of the world were unquestionably frightened. Unfortunately, it made sense for Talents to worry that the Treaty vote might fail.
“What will come of us if the Treaty is overturned?” Honora asked, voice small and timid, as if the inquiry was a taboo subject.
When. When the Treaty is overturned. You can’t correct her. It won’t do anyone any good. Plus, there’s no sense in outing yourself over something we can’t change. No one knows about your Visions. No one needs to, either. It’ll just put a larger price tag on your head.
The entire group went silent all at once. No one answered Honora.
I’d been so caught up in my head, I was late realizing that my friends’ attention, along with everyone else in the Giraffe, had shifted to the wallscreen behind the bar. With trepidation, I turned around as well.
UNITED Councilwoman Victoria Walburton was again front and center, looking as formidable as the last time I saw her on-screen. Just like then, she was speaking from the top of a set of wide stairs, leading to the front of a building. This wasn’t one I had catalogued in my mental records, though. I’d never seen it before.
A mass of reporters were shoving their microphones in her direction, picking up the sound bites and transmitting them to their audiences. A ticker at the bottom of the screen informed those watching that the press conference was coming in live from Manassas, Virginia.
Someone sitting at the bar grabbed the remote tablet for the wallscreen, and was turning up the volume.
“Councilwoman, how many more facilities like this one did TOXIC have?” a tall man who stood at the edge of the crowd was asking. The camera zoomed in on him briefly, catching his sharp profile as he spoke.
“At this time we are not certain of the magnitude of TOXIC’s experimentation. As I previously stated, the organization’s digital records were destroyed on the same night that TOXIC forces were defeated in Washington, D.C. UNITED is tirelessly working to recover as much information as possible, but it is a lengthy process. Our goal is to locate all of the experimentation facilities and help the patients.”
“What are your plans for the patients?” Another man, this one in the front, inquired. Only the back of his head was visible from the camera’s angle, showing off a bald patch to viewers everywhere. “Are they all Created? Does the public need to fear these Created more or less than those who escaped after the Battle of D.C.? The ones you’ve failed to capture?”
Despite the man’s awkward inquiries, Victoria Walburton was all polish and politics. If his characterization of UNITED’s efforts bothered her, the Councilwoman did not show her irritation.
“At this time, we do believe that all of the patients received the Creation Drug. But we have yet to establish whether it was successful, whether they indeed possess Created abilities. That is a determination we intend to make in the coming days,” she said calmly. Victoria stared straight into the camera, the picture of a confident woman who was in control of the situation. One who could be trusted. “The public has no reason to fear the Created. They are not very different from other Talented. UNITED is only seeking the Created so that we may observe in what ways they are different from natural born Talents.”
“That is not entirely accurate, Councilwoman,” a female reporter interjected. She turned slightly so she was facing the cameraman, who obviously worked for her. She had so much hairspray in her hair, her bangs formed an immovable wave. “Dana Duval here, from Duval Delves on World Broadcast Frequency.” When she returned her attention to Walburton, the lens followed her.
“Councilwoman,” Duval continued, “the Created have been credited with an attack on a UNITED facility in New York, a tsunami and subsequent flood in Miami, a bus crash in Florence, a citywide power outage in Istanbul, and a fire in Shanghai. All but one of these occurrences have resulted in numerous casualties. You wouldn’t really have us believe that the Created pose no threat to humans, would you?” Her syrupy sweet tone gave an impression of innocence and naiveté that she surely did not deserve.
Every inch of my body was tingling with the update. So many catastrophes. I’d heard about the situation in New York and the tsunami, of course, but the other incidents were news to me. Was it really possible that my brethren were responsible for so much destruction? I didn’t want to believe that people I’d known and liked were capable of the things the reporter listed o
ff.
“The Created, just like the Talented, are human,” Victoria Walburton said coolly. “The unfortunate incidents that you mention can be attributed to a small group of troubled Created who have been identified and are currently in containment. It is irresponsible to condemn an entire group for the actions of a select few. Non-Talents perpetrate acts of violence and destruction against Talents every single day. And yet we don’t imprison all of society. Keep that in mind when you are laying blame.” Again, she spoke directly to the camera, ignoring the reporter, her gaze penetrating through the lens to touch each and every viewer.
I shivered.
Duval seemed unfazed, though. In fact, she appeared to be hitting her stride, taking over the press conference as if it were a one-on-one interview.
If it bothered the rest of the group, they didn’t show it. The reporters all seemed to surrender to her, as if she was someone to be revered and feared. Personally, I’d never heard of her, but we’d had all major news either commed to us or sent to our wallscreens from within TOXIC, usually before it was made public. Whoever she was, Duval was foolishly unintimidated by the Councilwoman. The woman’s owlish gaze narrowed in on Victoria, her next questions coming rapidly in a borderline aggressive tone.
“Do you believe that recent events will affect the upcoming vote on the Coexistence Treaty? Without the U.S. to persuade the other nations to vote for renewal, is UNITED worried that the Treaty will be overturned? If so, does UNITED have a contingency plan? If there is no active Treaty, will your organization continue to fight for the rights of the Talented?”
I held my breath and waited for the Councilwoman’s reply. Unless there was some sort of divine intervention, the Treaty would be overturned. I’d seen as much in my Vision. Even though I knew that some Visions never came to fruition, if the subject made different decisions that led to a different future, it wasn’t like I could simply choose an alternate path that would lead to the Treaty being upheld. With all of the harm already done to the way people viewed Talents, there was nothing that I could do to affect the vote. Like the reporter, I desperately wanted to know what, if anything, UNITED planned to do once that happened.
For the first time, Victoria Walburton looked briefly unsettled. But like any good politician, she’d mastered the art of composure. Victoria Walburton smoothed the lapels of her impeccably tailored black suit, squared her jaw, and then spoke in a tone so frosty, it was a wonder the camera lens didn’t crack.
“UNITED will always fight for and protect the rights of the Talented. Both those who were born that way and the Created. Just as their ancestors did, the current members of the Joint Nations understand that the Coexistence Treaty is vital to world peace.”
After waiting for more, Duval opened her mouth, as if to continue the questioning, but she was quickly quashed.
“Now, if you will excuse me, this is a vital time for Talents and Created, and I’m afraid I cannot spare anymore of mine. Thank you for coming, but I am needed elsewhere.” Without giving Duval or anyone else a chance to say anything more, Victoria Walburton spun on the heel of her beautiful black leather boots and sauntered out of view.
The camera panned out, widening the shot to follow the Councilwoman as she made her way to the metal doors of the nondescript building. Now that it was in full view, I could see that the structure was split-level, with just a single floor above the English basement. The only identifier on the white-washed brick exterior was an emblem displayed over the entrance that Walburton passed through.
The insignia was three interlocking ovals with an eye in the center. It wasn’t TOXIC’s logo, but something about it did seem familiar. Oddly, I was sure I’d seen it before. Except, what I recalled wasn’t the smooth carved metal emblem on the wall. My mind retrieved a crude, possibility hand-drawn, blueprint-type version. Where on earth would I have seen that, though? I didn’t even know what group it belonged to.
Suddenly Duval stepped in front of the camera, now framed in the center with the building in the background. She clutched a mike in her hands, showing off her dark red manicured nails.
“Are the Created simply benign humans, deserving of equal rights? What about the Talented? Are either or both dangerous, inhuman, creatures who should be removed from society? For now, I leave it to you, the viewing public, to decide. For World Broadcast Frequency, I am Dana Duval, reporting to you live from one of TOXIC’s experimentation facilities in Manassas, Virginia.”
Beyond stunned, I sat back in my chair and stared at the remains of my stew. How could she even suggest that those unbelievably harsh and prejudicial words were accurate descriptions of my kind? Queasy, I pushed the bowl towards the center of the table. With such clearly adverse reporting, it was no wonder vigilante groups were cropping up all over the place. And, sadly, it was unsurprising that the Treaty was going to be overturned. Duval had just planted a seed of doubt in every viewer’s mind, proposing that there even might be a reason to expel us from society. That seed would grow into a full-bloomed panic if she, and other reporters like her, continued to nourish the public’s doubt. Implying that we were dangerous to be around, even going so far as to call us “inhuman creatures,” did exactly that.
“Honestly!” Honora exclaimed, the first to break the silence. “Whatever happened to objective and fair reporting? She might as well have had a pitchfork and a sign that read, ‘down with the beasts!’”
“Precisely!” Riley waved both of his fists at the wallscreen, middle fingers raised in salute. “This is what I’m talking about. UNITED says they aid the Chromes, but they’ve done nothing about the Poachers or the gangs. They damned well aren’t going to be of assistance with these new attackers either.”
Judging by the stormy looks of the others at the table, Riley’s gesture summed up what we were all thinking: Screw UNITED.
Willa came scurrying over to the table, her communicator clutched tightly in her hand.
“Of course I’m in charge of this place while the world is going wrong way round,” she cried.
Riley reached over and squeezed her hand, coaxing out an exhausted smile.
“Don’t worry, love. We’ll boot them all out soon,” he assured her.
“Right, right. Half one is it, that’s all I can take,” she declared. “So what do you reckon was really going on in those facilities? Maybe they were constructing a Frankenstein creature, or….”
Gazing around the table, everyone else looked at clueless as I was. Clearly we’d missed something.
“What facilities?” Honora asked, the trepidation apparent in her tone.
“We saw the interview, but it seems we missed the interesting bits,” Riley said.
“Oh!” exclaimed Willa, acting pleased as though she was the first to know some juicy gossip. “Apparently, TOXIC,” she snuck a quick look at me as she said the word, her excitement somewhat abating, “they, um, had these facilities all around, where were experimenting on people. Now there are loads of patients who were just sort of abandoned there, with nowhere to go, but no one is quite sure what they might be capable of. If anything at all.”
“Where did they get the test subjects from?” I asked quietly, dreading the answer.
Everyone else was silent, awkwardness settling over the table. Maybe it was just a figment of my imagination, but it felt like they were all avoiding looking in my direction.
“Well, um, they didn’t exactly say. Everyone’s just so riled up that this has been going on for ages, but the particulars are a bit cagey.”
“I’m sure they were volunteers,” Honora quickly supplied, attempting to shatter the descending tension.
Willa continued to babble on about the story, with markedly less enthusiasm. Every so often she’d sneak a fleeting glance in my direction to gauge my reaction. Or rather, my lack of one. I tuned out completely, unable to absorb another ounce of bad news.
Awesome, I thought. Just another reason for everyone to hate us.
“WHAT’S THE DEAL with James
?” I asked Honora as we lay in our respective beds the next evening.
I’d been living at the flat for a week and had learned a lot about Honora and Riley—favorite colors, favorite foods, pet peeves, grooming habits—but very little about James. Outside of the fact that James loved being a mechanic. During our lunches together, he still had yet to divulge any truly personal information that didn’t relate to vehicles or his job. He took pride in his trade, which was part of the reason I liked hearing him talk about the cars he worked on. Old road cars—the really old ones that ran on petrol instead of electricity—were his favorites. And I only knew that because he’d get this goofy grin on his lips and faraway look in his eyes when he talked about them.
Just picturing the passion on his face when he told me about rebuilding the engine of a classic Jaguar made me smile now.
“What do you mean?” Honora replied drowsily.
“I don’t know. He’s different from the rest of you. You, Riley, and Willa are open and easy to read. James is…not.”
Honora snorted.
“Thanks. Makes a girl feel right special to be described as an open book.”
An instant later a pillow came soaring over the edge of the bunk and smacked me on the arm. I yelped in surprise, but my reflexes were fast and I ripped the pillow free from Honora’s grasp and threw it back at her.
“I just mean that you don’t hide yourselves. I know you love chocolate scones but hate anything else made with chocolate. Your favorite tea is made from jasmine petals, but secretly you’re a coffee fiend. Blue is your favorite color, but if I asked, you’d say green. You are right-handed, yet are so adept at using your left that you must practice constantly. You use Telekinesis to aid the process. You aren’t an only child. Just a guess, but at least one sister and one brother. You’re accustomed to sharing, and always take the smaller portion, the last shower, and the least desirable chores. Which tells me that you’re probably the oldest and did not have a lot of money growing up. Being the firstborn probably has something to do with why you left home at such a young age. Oh, and you’re not from London originally.”
