by Lin Lustig
“Aubrey didn't take me like she did the others,” he began. “I sold myself to her.”
“Now’s not the time.” Licia's voice carried threats John knew she'd follow through on.
“Now’s as good a time as any.” John tried to shake off his nerves and his churning stomach. When Licia tried to round on him he shook his head. “I married her when I was just a teenager. I’d been living on the streets.” He didn’t dare look directly at Emerson. The disappointment and disgust would be unbearable. “She gave me a stable home and my first acting break. When she figured out what I was able to do, she started the World Humanitarian Relief Program. I let her use me, but she kept pushing it further and further. When she found Azami, that's when things started going wrong. That's when I asked Licia for help.” He had to stop talking or risk his heart jumping up and out his mouth. He took in Emerson instead.
“You were married?” Emerson's eyes went from cold to bleeding, like John could see his heart splinter and hemorrhage.
John's mouth flopped like a fish desperate for water. “I... I still am.” Emerson stilled and his expression shut down, falling under the mask of training to hide the depth of pain John knew he was causing him.
“We got Azami out, and his creepy wife imprisoned, but she's out and all that matters is stopping her.” Licia made an impatient gesture.
Glen crossed his arms. “You should have run the company into the ground.”
“I thought we had.” John swept his hair back. “Kostas bought up the dregs and somehow got his hands on more of us to experiment on, but I never imagined he'd bring Aubrey on, too.”
“And now,” Emerson cut in. “Kostas has created an Us versus Them. And you—”
“Easy.” Licia moved fully in front of John. Any other time he would have been touched by her defense, but right now he would rather Em hit him, scream, suck him dry. Anything.
Emerson took a long look at Licia, maybe sizing her up or seeing if she'd act on him, but he only shook his head and looked away from them both. “You two are something else.”
The last of his nerve failed and he knew Em would abandon him after this. One damn interview and he might as well have lost everything. He wanted to give in, but then it felt like a warm blanket draped over his shoulders, though nothing touched him. His thoughts stopped spiraling. “I've made plenty of mistakes, but we have a community of scared people who will need us. Hate and judge me all you like, but will you help me make this right?” John asked not just Emerson, but the others, too.
“I can't trust any of you to do this right, so yeah. I'm here until the end.” Licia smirked with a nod full of attitude.
“I'm surprised you didn't run off and kill her back then.” Glen shrugged.
“That would have been a damn good idea,” Licia said, staring at John with an intensity that made him flinch.
Emerson's lip curled and he shook his head. Without a word, he left the room, slid into his shoes, and jammed the elevator button.
“Emerson, wait. We need you.”
He didn't speak but held up his hand for John to stop talking. He obliged. The elevator arrived and Emerson stepped in but didn't turn around. John watched his back disappear as the doors slid closed. He hadn't even grabbed a coat.
John glanced out the window at the frigid clear sky, then had to stare at the textured ceiling to keep the tears back.
CHAPTER 31
Emerson
Emerson's thoughts kept hitting the same notes over and over like a song on repeat. John should have told him. Licia knew everything, or close enough to it. Who even was he?
He'd shared everything with John. Told him about his family, about his brothers. How he’d taken so much from them it could have killed them. The time he’d sucked a frat party dry and three students had ended up with alcohol poisoning. The day his caravan had wrecked on the highway and in his panic, he’d leeched enough vital energy away from the injured to kill three of his squadron. John knew Emerson's darkest self, but he had bought into John's show. How much of their relationship had been based on a performance? John playing the loving activist actor. What a joke. Fuck, Emerson felt like a complete idiot. Cold that had nothing to do with the weather seeped into his belly.
But now he knew. It didn't matter if John was hiding other secrets, because Emerson knew he was an outsider to him. Emerson was just a co-worker, a sex stress ball, but not a true intimate partner. His breath hitched and he swallowed hard, pushing down the pain until a dull, simmering, self-directed anger covered the hurt. He'd been fooling himself all this time. John wasn't truly in love with him.
He kept marching onward, no direction, no destination. Just away.
He'd been wrong. John was who he was, and Emerson had built him up as his perfect man. It was his fault for not opening his eyes sooner. Now he needed to help clean up John's mess before it hurt anyone else. They still needed to work together, and that idea was like acid on his tongue. That murderous empath was a threat to them all, and no one else could see it. He could practically smell the bloodthirst on her, the itch to take deadly action against the woman that John had married—he stopped suddenly and felt the weight of that crash through him. John had been married. Fuck, he was still married. How many lies had Emerson believed?
The cold pinched at his exposed skin. He regretted the lack of layers but gave into the hollow and drank deep from anyone around him. Whomever was within his radius would be exhausted tonight, but he could be out all night and not die of hypothermia—because he couldn't die now. Not until he'd protected the world from John, his wife, and the woman he loved. Emerson spat and held back the urge to yell at the sky. It was all up to him. The other Abnormals needed him to keep them from his ex's blind stupidity. Emerson was the only one left with any sense.
Two breaths. Three. The plume of his warm exhales surrounded him like a cloud. No wonder John had always been so quick to cut him free. Emerson knew he was terrible at communicating his wants, but John was just bad at communicating period. John had said he didn't control Emerson and wanted him to make his own choices, but what bullshit. John hadn't wanted to get married because he already was. Hypocritical dick.
A spiral of dark thoughts clustered into his head. He walked on, trying to gain distance from them. A knife dragged across a throat. A last breath. The look on John's face when he finally admitted the damn truth.
He glimpsed himself in a shop window. It showed him where he’d been, but he had no idea where to go from here. His desires and dreams all crumpled when John had shown up on that clip. The future he’d hoped for couldn’t exist, but a new one didn’t seem possible either. There was no turning back to comfort and warmth. Now there was only forward into the cold, dark, and heartless future.
Part Three
CHAPTER 32
Tarrah
The lingering betrayal and heartbreak faded as the vision released its claws from her mind. Machines beeped and voices muttered, but she held onto the mental image of their faces. Tears welled and spilled down her cheek. Emerson couldn't give up on John. He just couldn't. And Licia. That woman was so lost. Tarrah wanted to go to her and find a way to convince her to find hope. Their kind, their specialized kind, deserved better than lying in hospital beds, dying. But that was exactly what she'd agreed to do. To be a good little tool and stay. To belong here and do her part.
The voices continued, unaware that her consciousness had returned. Tarrah refused to leave the dream-like images imprinted in her mind.
“Do you want us to give her another adrenaline shot?” a male's alto asked.
“No,” Dr. Benson's pinched voice replied. “The last shot was administered only a couple of hours ago and she still only woke for a few minutes. I can't risk flooding her system. We'll have to ride this out.”
“The new Jammers?”
“No. I'd hoped they'd delay the episodes, but there was no effect.”
“But all the other subjects have responded fine,” the man stated.
“She’s never responded to any of them. Her ability is unique even within other Abnormals, which makes her the key to balancing the other donors. Without her, we can't strip abilities.”
Tarrah tried to keep her breathing even and her eyes squeezed shut. They wanted to strip everyone's abilities? Even the people like Emerson and John? Licia? Well, maybe Licia she could understand, but she didn't want anyone hurt. She'd agreed to stay to help people, to keep them safe, but to take a part of them away? She couldn't give up her ability now that it was her only window to the real world. There was no expecting the others would want to do the same.
Dr. Benson continued. “Ms. West is going to help us cure them all permanently. Then we'll find a way to stop her, too.”
But John and Emerson were good. They helped people, even if they made mistakes. Tarrah had wanted to rid herself of the visions before, but only because she'd wanted to live her own life, not others'. If this was where she belonged, then there had to be something she could do from here. Something from the inside to stop Dr. Benson from reaching Licia and the others.
Tarrah entered minds and saw their lives, but what if she could change them? If this was truly her purpose, then she wasn't going to squander it. She didn’t have to be limited by her body's weakness. Her mind—those dream-like visions, they were the key to both Dr. Benson's plans and her own. Save them. She had to save them by warning them.
Tarrah jerked up from the bed, her aching body and muscles protesting with the sudden movement. Two nurses and Dr. Benson jumped. Tarrah spilled from the hospital bed to the floor in a heap, thrashing to get the nodes and IV off her. The male nurse scooped her into his arms. The blows she landed on his chest took all her strength, but he didn't react. He held her onto the mattress.
“Tarrah? Can you tell me what's wrong? Are you in pain?” A female nurse checked her pupils and temperature. Tarrah yanked away and felt a muscle in her neck seize. She yelped, then thick Velcro straps lapped around her ankles.
“No!” She bucked against the hands holding her, but it was so hard to breathe, so hard to keep moving. She started to cry in earnest, frustration and exhaustion overwhelming her.
“Sedate her,” Dr. Benson ordered.
“Don't touch me,” Tarrah hissed, trying to sound like Licia had, trying to threaten and intimidate.
“What's wrong with her?” the nurse asked.
“I don't know. Give her ten milligrams of lorazepam and get her to stop or she'll hurt herself.” Dr. Benson grabbed one of Tarrah's wrists and strapped it down. Tarrah wanted to scream. She was a tool, not a fucking weapon!
A cold cotton ball swiped at her arm just before the sharp prick of a needle.
Instant heat welled through her body and melted the rest of the fight from her muscles. Whatever they gave her was strong. Then she felt the rush of endorphins and grinned. This wasn't the medication. She was going back.
It felt like her muscles melted and she lolled her head to the side. They’d opened the blinds on her window—maybe so she could watch it snow later. The sky was that cold uniform gray, heavy like a quilt.
Her focus faded and the external world lost intensity. Flickers of familiar faces brightened her mind and Tarrah chased them, giving in fully to the vision rearing up to take her away, back to the real world.
CHAPTER 33
John
As he woke, John took in the disheveled bedroom—the drawers still unclosed, Emerson's pillow missing from his side of the bed—and slid from the bed onto the floor. He'd closed the door to keep out Glen and Licia, but he knew it wouldn't stop her from feeling every shard of his broken soul. It had never hurt this much before. Rejection was part of the game, both as an actor and as a lover, but this was more. He'd lost the man he loved.
But right now, he only had a few minutes to mourn his own stupidity. Even if he'd come clean with Emerson a year ago, it wouldn't have changed this outcome. Em wasn't the kind of person to bend his morals for someone like John, and especially not someone like Licia. Part of him had wondered when Emerson walked out last night if that was the last time he'd ever see him.
There might be bigger situations to worry about, but this was the one he couldn't get out of his head. Yes, Tarrah was trapped and tortured. Aubrey was back and now their kind was exposed. Drugs were now capable of quelling their abilities, both internal and external. They would have to hold their breaths as the world decided how to judge their specializations.
John kept staring at Emerson's unused side of the bed. He hadn’t come home last night. John didn't give into the trickle of tears brushing at his cheeks, and instead cleared his throat, put on his acting mask, and called Prisha. After all, he still had a job, at least for another week.
“Hey Prish, mind driving tonight? Might want to call Henry, too.”
“Now what did you do?”
“Remember that whole Emerson proposal thing? Well, I don't think he'll ever want to ask again.”
“You cocked it up.” Her undertone said: of course.
“Like a frat bro on spring break,” he admitted.
Her I'm-tired-of-your-shit sigh didn't encourage him. “I'll be at your place by five. Be in the lobby and ready for once.”
“Thanks. Not sure what I'd do without you.”
A quiet moment hung between them, then Prisha said, “You going to be okay?”
Not likely. “Of course. I'm me, aren't I?” John toyed with the edge of the comforter, then ripped it and the sheets away from the mattress. No point wallowing. He knew Emerson couldn't handle the things he'd hidden.
“On second thought, I'll pick you up early. We'll get a couple of drinks and then head in for the show.”
“I’m not sure that’s a great idea.” Drinks would only loosen his tongue, and even without them he didn't trust himself not to confide in her.
“I found a new speakeasy—very exclusive. Trust me. Besides, I have a thing or two I wanted to pick your brain on.”
He wasn't about to give his last friend a reason to exile him, so he agreed, then figured there was no point in hiding all day in a room full of where Emerson wasn’t.
When John joined the others in the living room, Glen was parked at his laptop, his back straight like a pianist’s. The wall of text on the screen was probably from another news site, redelivering yesterday’s interview from a different angle. He'd been combing the web since the announcement. The extreme GANF naturalists were immediately against UHP's claims that Abnormals existed, or if they did it was somehow a result of GMOs. The other side of the same coin supported UHP's attempts to help the poor, suffering individuals overcome their afflictions—as if their abilities were a new kind of polio to be eradicated.
“Anything new?” John tested the quiet room. Licia sat in the chair on her phone, presumably searching through the same subject matter.
Glen didn't turn around and said, “No. Some prominent names from Asia and Europe have Tweeted xenophobic responses. I'll bet you anything UHP will find their funding, if not from the States then from the world.”
John rubbed his eyes, weight that had nothing to do with his morning daze dragging them down.
Glen continued to scroll through the National News Network site on his tablet. The NNN had a reputation for delivering reliable information with minimal bias. “There's too much white noise to see how public opinion will fall.”
“It will be fear and condemnation.” Licia clicked her phone screen off and leaned back in her chair. “It always is with anything new. A new class, a new discrimination, a new hell. We were safer in the shadows. Our only hope now is to figure out how they're making the Jammers and how they disrupt abilities before distribution.”
“They use DNA collected from Abnormals. My theory is they've been using Azami's as a base. Probably the new girl, Tarrah's, now, too.” Glen peeled himself away from his screen and joined them like the last point in a triangle. “But my contacts weren't able to get a chemical breakdown or anything actually useful.”
> John pulled out a stool from the kitchen counter and half-sat, half-leaned against it. “What if Tarrah's addition to the Jammers adds a mental component? If she's making us see memories, what if they can warp it to make us see whatever UHP wants?”
Licia cringed. “I don't appreciate forced memories from someone in need, and I’d like it even less if it's controlled by a company with our best interests far from their heartless chests. It's been over a day now since I’ve been paralyzed by a memory.”
“Me, too.” John admitted. He'd had several visions in a rush, and now it was quiet. “Do you think she's alright?”
“No. I don't.” Licia set her head in her hand and leaned against the arm rest, turning to gaze out the window. Somewhere, Emerson was out there without a coat in the cold. He hoped he was okay. He hoped he’d come home.
“I'm sorry. This is my fault. All of this.” John bowed his head.
“Yep. But guilt isn't helpful right now. Nor is shame.” Licia scraped her tongue against her teeth and glared at him. “We should have done this right the first time, but we can't change what is.”
John stiffened. “We did the best we could.”
“Even I couldn't predict this outcome,” Glen added as if he were an expert on extrapolating futures.
John couldn't feel any of Licia's emotional influence, so he had to accept that feeling defensive was purely on him. Figured.
“I still think those visions—memories—are leading us, showing us where we fucked up so we can fix it now.” Licia leaned forward so her elbows were on her knees, her icy eyes almost as gray as the sky.
John needed to shift his focus off this line of thought. He circled the kitchen island, reached three mugs from the top cupboard shelf, and started the kettle for tea. “I doubt that girl is making us see this stuff so we go in and wipe out every UHP employee.”
Licia's lips twitched. “Not every. Just the ones in D.C. would suffice. Specifically, the one named Aubrey.”
