by Sophie Davis
“Well alright then. I suppose you need some incentivizing, something to convince you to rally round. You bloody Americans, you never feel the sense of duty quite like us Brits. No worry, though, I have just the thing. A reminder of how much worse your life will be if you don’t start cooperating.” Libby’s words were all the more chilling because of her playful tone. Like she was talking to a disobedient puppy who just needed to accept they weren’t in charge.
Vision-Kenly may’ve been continuing her uninterested act, but I could see the very slightest beginning of panic creeping up in her eyes.
With just a glance from Libby, the wallscreen in the corner of the bedroom sprang to life. A male reporter stood in the middle of a mob, in what appeared to be an active war zone. A group of men with bats, pipes, brooms, and even one with a gardening rake, stood in a circle behind the reporter, slamming their makeshift weapons over and over again into something crumpled by their feet. Shots rang out in the distance, causing the reporter to throw his hands over his head and mutter an oath. When the shots weren’t repeated, the man straightened and began rapidly patting his chest and back, searching for damage. Finding no gaping bullet wounds, he let out a deep breath and began his report again, speaking so fast that his words ran together at times.
“This is Douglass Atley from BBC, reporting from Anabel’s Pier. It is here that Chromes have been queuing up in scores for passage to the Isle of Exile, ever since Wednesday’s shocking conclusion to the weeklong summit on the Coexistence Treaty. Despite having two more days before the grace period expires, violence here has reached extraordinary levels. Scotland Yard has pulled the perimeter they set for shielding the Chromes from human attacks, citing the safety of their officers. There have been—Ahhhh!” the reporter screamed as a teenage girl caught him around the waist, burying her head in his stomach and using him as a shield from the mob of bat-wielding crazies.
“S’il vous plait! Aidez moi, s’il vous plait! Aidez moi! S’il vous plait, monsieur!” she begged, in what I thought was French.
The girl’s yellow tee shirt was torn down the center of her back, the two halves flapping like bird’s wings in the breeze coming off of the water. At first glance her hair appeared to be a dye job like many unusual ones you’d see in D.C.—cherry red at the roots with ginger ends. And it was slick from sweat, or maybe the constant rain in England. Squinting for a better look, I was horrified to realize that the cherry red color was blood from a scalp wound.
Disgust and terror mingled in the reporter’s expression. He began swatting at the girl as if she was a pesky insect.
“’Elp us, please, please, please, please,” she sobbed, the words barely distinguishable through her tears and accent.
“You bastard!” I tried to scream at the reporter. But in the Vision I had no body, no lungs, no vocal chords, no lips.
“Turn it off,” Vision-Kenly said, tone flat.
I was not the type of girl who spent a lot of time in front the mirror. Make-up was an accessory I usually went without. So, while I was fairly adept at reading the facial expressions of others and their non-verbal cues, my own were a mystery to me. Vision-Kenly wore a neutral face, devoid of any and all emotion. No stress lines. No jaw tightening. Not even an involuntary tick or twitch to show her outrage at the news report, suggesting that this was not the first time she’d seen such brutality. But I couldn’t imagine ever feeling disaffected by such a scene. I prayed I never would be. Aching at the thought, I hoped that I was just that adept at concealing my thoughts and feelings.
“Not quite yet,” Libby said, smug smile firmly in place. “Just one more, tiny bit for you to see. This part coming up, it’s my favorite.”
Mentally, I shuddered.
The wallscreen switched to another channel.
A boy with tousled dark blonde hair came into view. He wore loose-fitting gray track pants, knotted at the waist with a thick drawstring, and no shirt. He stood in the middle of a raised, circular platform approximately three feet in diameter and six inches off the ground. There were no chains holding him in place, yet he was perfectly still. Except for his eyes. Those bottomless platinum eyes churned with loathing as he stared into the camera.
Like Vision-Kenly, James appeared physically unmarred. The only indication that he might not be well was the light sheen of sweat glistening on his smooth bare skin. Still, I breathed a mental sigh of relief at his lack of physical injuries.
It’s okay, Kenly, this could be worse. He could be covered in whip marks, or nursing broken bones.
Without warning, James’s face contorted in agony. His eyelids slammed shut and his entire body clenched, his shoulders thrown back. His lips parted in a silent scream. James started to bend forward at the waist, but only managed to move several inches before his spine snapped straight again, as if pulled by an invisible string.
“I said, turn it off,” Vision-Kenly growled in a guttural tone that was more animal than human.
The wallscreen went black, smoke curling in lazy spirals from the back of it.
“Hey!” Libby exclaimed, the surprise obvious on her perfect face. “You’ve fouled up the show! This is a first-rate mess you’ve made, I’m going to have to start all over again! And the poor lad is going to have to do it all over again, just because you made a mess of my hard work.”
She whirled from the screen to face Vision-Kenly, annoyed that her demonstration had been botched. Her eyes widened and a big smile replaced her scowl. It was clear that the video of James had upset the girl sitting in the window seat. Which had been Libby Monroe’s intention all along.
“So, Kenly,” she said brightly, as if they were best friends deciding where to go on holiday. “Are you ready to set out on an acquisition? Better yet, how about we begin with the intelligence you promised to Father? He’ll be so pleased.”
Vision-Kenly fumed.
“I’ve told you everything I know about him. I cannot tell you what I don’t know. Let James go, and I will—”
I never found out what bargain Vision-Kenly was willing to make in exchange for James’s freedom. A door slammed in the living room of the Barracks and I was yanked violently backwards, careening through darkness and swiftly swirling up the metaphorical staircase in reverse.
“Shit,” I muttered, the dingy bedroom in London materializing around me.
A second later I heard Willa loudly whisper, “Ri! Shhhh! You’ll wake the dead.”
I was going to take a wild guess and say that, judging by her perception of quiet, Willa was drunk. I considered getting up and going to talk to them, telling them about the attack behind the Circus of Wonders. That idea was quickly quashed.
Sloppy kissing noises were unmistakably coming from the other side of the wall. The entire room shook as something, or more likely someone, slammed into the wall. I pulled the pillow over my head and groaned. Evidently James was in for another night on the futon.
HOURS SEEMED TO pass as I continued to toss and turn in my bed. The sexual symphony occurring in the next room made both sleep and concentration impossible. I couldn’t even focus well enough to replay the Vision, to analyze the details as a distraction from my flat-mates’ nocturnal escapades.
I was torn between jealously and annoyance. Not that I wanted to be with Riley. But that the two of them had each other. And that they were able to enjoy themselves, unconcerned with the goings on of the outside world. It was enviable.
I wanted an escape. Even if just for a day, or an hour, or half an hour—hell, I’d take ten minutes—of mind-numbing relief from reality. That’s what I was going for earlier, why I’d focused and struggled to bring on a Vision. I just wanted to experience something other than right now, to see something that would confirm that this part of my life wouldn’t last forever.
Because it wouldn’t, right? It couldn’t. Though I’d hoped it would provide me with that relief, instead the Vision left me shaky and even more unsettled than before.
Why would James and I be with the Monroes
in the future? Did we go them voluntarily? What did I agree to help them with? What sort of information did they want from me, and why would they think I possessed it in the first place? I knew nothing about what was going on anymore, had nothing to do with it all. Who was the ‘him’ I’d referred to? And what was the ‘shocking conclusion’ to the global summit on the Coexistence Treaty?
Unfortunately, judging by the news report I’d seen, I was ninety-eight percent certain that I knew the answer to the last one. As terrifying as it was to even consider, sometime in the not-so-distant future, the Treaty was going to be overturned. Which would absolutely be shocking. It would be devastating to every Talent on the planet. And now there was no TOXIC to protect us.
The little I remembered about the Treaty itself came from my Talent History class. Unlike Alana, who’d used the period to catch up on her beauty sleep, I was fascinated by the subject matter; it was the only non-crypto class I ever received an Exemplary mark in.
The Coexistence Treaty was created twenty years after the Great Contamination, just after the first generation of Talents reached the age of majority. TOXIC had yet to become the powerful organization it was destined to become, and even UNITED was still in its infancy. With no laws and no protector fighting for Talent rights, my predecessors suffered horrific abuse at the hands of their fellow man. They were routinely attacked by lynch mobs, unfairly imprisoned for alleged crimes that had never transpired, locked away in sanitariums for believing they had powers, and captured by scientists to study without permission or consent.
The newly-formed UNITED was gaining traction in the world arena. They urged national governments to pass laws declaring that the Talented were equal citizens with all the rights, privileges, and liberties of the non-Talented. Few countries had readily complied. With the divide between Talents and non-Talents—or Talents and humans, as the ignorant liked to say, as if Talents were not humans—growing larger with every passing day, UNITED realized that more drastic measures were necessary.
Enter The Coexistence Treaty. UNITED drew up the Treaty and presented the document to the Joint Nations at a global summit, in an effort to force peace between the warring factions. The Joint Nations was comprised of one representative from most developed countries in the world. By entering the union, the nation agreed to abide by all laws passed through a majority vote. According to the history books, the Treaty was ratified by just a single ballot. With a large number of members doing so reluctantly, all of the Joint Nations member countries granted Talents equal rights with the hope that our world would once again know peace.
For all intents and purposes, the Treaty was considered by many to vastly improve the lives of the Talented the world over. However, after living in London for these past weeks, I was starting to realize just how thin the layer of protection it provided really was. England was considered second only to the U.S. in its fair treatment of the Talented. Yet, here we were second-class citizens. I couldn’t begin to imagine what it must be like for Talents living in even less tolerant countries.
For over three weeks, I’d been brooding about how unfair my life had become since UNITED’s mandate that all Created be contained. I’d been running and hiding for just under a month. Less than thirty days. And I was livid, heartbroken, outraged, and full of self-pity. Talents in other countries had probably been facing far worse every single day of their entire lives.
I suddenly felt extremely selfish.
Why was life so unfair?
Too agitated to lay still any longer, I finally gave up on the pretense of sleep in favor of burning off my excess energy by pacing the small living room until I wore a hole in the carpet.
As predicted, James had been displaced to the futon for the night. He was lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows with his comm unit in his hands.
“Hey,” I said softly as I slipped from my bedroom.
James dropped the comm, clearly startled by my voice.
“Sorry,” I said quietly. Though I still had some lingering annoyance with James over the way he’d been acting since the attack, seeing him being tortured in my Vision had softened my irritation.
“Trouble sleeping again?” James asked, pushing himself up to a sitting position. The lack of a shirt had me staring at his biceps, and the way his stomach muscles rippled when he readjusted.
He’s still an ass, remember that. Just because he looks good without a shirt doesn’t give him a free pass.
“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s not like psychos wielding pipes attack me on a daily basis,” I tried to joke, still torn between aggravation over his reluctance to discuss the attack and gratitude for the small kindness he’d showed me in the alleyway.
Not to mention I just witnessed a future where you and I are the Monroe’s prisoners and the Treaty that supposedly ensures our peaceful existence alongside normal humans is defunct.
I didn’t even know who or what I considered the biggest threat to my freedom anymore. Who I should be hiding from, and who I should run to for asylum.
“Welcome to the Slums,” James said, voice devoid of inflection.
“Who were those people, James?” I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to give him my best you-better-tell-the-truth-or-else stare. Unfortunately, I was mentally and emotionally exhausted, so it lacked any real punch.
James shrugged unconcernedly, making it blatantly obvious that he didn’t find me intimidating.
Note to self, work on intimidation glare.
“I told you, didn’t recognize them,” he said.
“I know. But you and Honora were clearly bothered that they weren’t in a gang. Which, to me, seems like good news. Like maybe their comrades won’t be coming after us,” I said, gently pressing the issue. “So what does it mean? Are they Poachers?”
“Not that I could tell.” James shook his head. Scooting to the left, he made room for me on the futon. When I didn’t immediately sit, he gestured to the space he’d made. “Come have a sit?”
I considered leaving my feet firmly rooted to the sagging floorboards. Except, it was a nice gesture, and nice gestures were in short supply these days. I sighed and trudged across the room to join him.
Dust rose from the cushions as I flopped down. With my feet up on the futon and my arms curled around my shins, I rested my head on my knees, facing him.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I said again, this time less demanding and more imploring. “Was tonight a normal occurrence? Are you often chased by random strangers on your way home from work?”
James turned to face me, leaning his elbow on the back of the futon and his head in his hand. Sighing, he ran his fingers through his messy hair before using the hand to prop himself up again. The effect was adorable. Bed-head worked for him.
Focus. Stop staring at your hot new roommate. Scratch that. Roommate. Just roommate. Not a hot roommate.
“It isn’t uncommon, exactly,” James admitted. “That’s why we’re always so bloody cautious. And that’s why I was fuming that you’d been playing that damn game. You’re supposed to be smart, and instead you were being so mental. People are always watching, Kenly.”
His British-isms aside, he’s obviously right. But how was I supposed to know that people here are crazy?
There was no point in defending myself; I already knew the attack was my fault. He’d been absolutely dead-on while we were at the Techno Hut, when he’d predicted what could happen if I continued to draw attention to myself.
“Lately, the attacks have become more prevalent,” James continued. “Between the Treaty coming up for renewal and the Created running amok, being total arses, people are petrified. The Poachers are something I’ve endured my whole life. And I’ve become accustomed to the gangs, too, since moving to the Slums. But those people tonight? They were just common citizens. I’ve heard rumors of chance attacks like this, but...” James trailed off and shook his head.
Clearly he was having trouble believing that completely random attacks were really
happening, even though he’d been the victim of one just hours before. He continued on with his next thought, not bothering to finish the last one.
“I mean…look, it’s easy to look after yourself when you know who and what are after you. You know, the telltale signs of trouble. But having to be bothered about every person you pass on the street, anyone sitting next to you on the Tube. Who stands behind you in the queue…. It’s enough to drive a bloke mad.”
I absorbed his words, the weight of the implications a crushing force that made breathing difficult and panic set in anew. Sitting upright suddenly felt like too much work; I curled up to rest my head against the back cushion while still facing James.
“I know the feeling,” I mumbled.
“I’m sorry,” we both said, in unison. Locking eyes, we both smiled, easing some of the tension in the room.
“What do you have to be sorry for?” James asked. “You kicked considerable ass tonight.”
He playfully nudged my knee with his own. The brief contact made me feel warm all over, thawing what remained of my frosty attitude towards James.
Yep, that’s why people find you so menacing, Kenly, I thought. You’re so unaffected.
Despite the surge in my mood, there was something I had to do. Something I had to say. Before I lost the nerve. Because I really needed to tell him. I owed him that much.
“You were right about that woman, Bessie—she noticed us because of me. I heard her say as much to one of the guys with her,” I said quietly, staring at my hands to avoid making eye contact. “And you were right. I should have known better. I do know better. It’s just that I…,” I trailed off, unable to give voice to the reason I’d let my guard slip. How could I admit to James that I’d put us all at risk for a little bit of fun? A little break from reality? From constantly feeling terrified. He wouldn’t understand.
