Maybe this time, he'd escape.
"Hey, blood fairy, looks like your girl's hitting up shock or something." The soldier across from Roan gestured to Sheyla. "You should do whatever it is you lab elves do. Fix it. Hate to see her keel over before we get there."
"Would you lay off it, Nadjos?" a woman's nasally voice hollered. "Or I'll come and kick you in the goddamn g'nads."
Roan stared over the rim of his shades at Sergeant Kim. Tucked in the back of the cramped hold, she resembled a child, her slight form crunched between two muscular soldiers. Although he'd met her twice, he'd never heard more than twenty words from her, most of them "Yes, sir."
What possessed her to say anything now?
"What the hell, Kim?" Nadjos's painted face contorted as he tipped back his green helmet. "Since when do you stand up for these freaks?"
"Since I've gotten tired of your gob always flapping. Find someone else to obsess over. Otherwise I'd think you wanna sleep with them." Kim's voice sounded louder than was possible for such a small body. "Whaddya think, Nadjos? Want to take a Ven to bed? See what they're really made of? See if the rumours are all true? I know you like blonds. He'll do, and something tells me he'll do you damn good," she said, pointing at Roan.
"Screw you, Kim." Nadjos threw himself back against the wall with a huff and faced the cockpit.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." Kim's slender brown eyes regarded Roan before turning away.
She had more of a mouth on her than Roan expected.
Defending him confused him more. How many times had scientists called him a Homo sapiens veneficum, or whatever they classified his race? Only the walking lab coats with the soul-sucking needles bothered with anything more than an insult. Everyone else in their crumbling society was addicted to the insults. It was easier for them to be cruel than kind. They didn't consider him worthy enough as a living being to even address him as Ven. Simple as it was—as politically correct as it was meant to be—most people didn't care.
Every time they open their disgusting mouths, another derogatory term slips out. And they think Vens are a problem. Should take a look at themselves first.
"No, seriously, Kim. What's your problem?" Anaheim called down the bay.
Roan rolled his eyes. If anyone deserved to be left behind in Toronto, it was the guy who talked too much. Why was it difficult to have silence before going into battle? Anxiety chewed on Roan's insides and spat out contempt. The least anyone could do was let him suffer in a quiet space.
Kim shook her head, her lips pursed. "Just can't stand all this bashing. No reason for it. Got nothing nice to say? Then shut it. Can't tell me none of you were taught right." She gestured at Roan with her chin. "And leave him be. He's not a bad guy. He gets enough crap from the Mire-Leeds facility."
"Wait, you know this one?" Caull laughed. "Shit, Kim, we've gotta trade you posts. Think you're getting attached. You're not here to make friends."
"Nah, nothing like that, sir," one of the soldiers beside Kim hollered. "Despite the uniform, she's still a woman first. All estrogen, all the time. Can't help but defend a bound man. Especially when she can't get one of her own."
Kim elbowed the soldier in the waist before sticking up both middle fingers. Roan smirked. She was full of surprises.
"Wheels down in five," a man's voice announced over the crackling radios clipped to their bulletproof vests.
"You heard him," Caull yelled. "Get ready."
Oh hell, kill me now. Roan flinched as the soldiers snatched their rifles. The soldier beside him released the bindings from the gun at Roan's feet and held it up. The soldier nodded then held Roan's gun to his chest with his own.
It was the same thing as always: no one could trust a Ven with a weapon, especially not in a closed space. Roan would receive the rifle after they hit the ground and were ready to fight. Then he would be the good boy they desired and fight for them. Otherwise, one tranquilizer dart and at least one taser later, he'd find himself strapped down to a medical bed and swimming in agonizing visions. He'd been there twice before, the punishment reminiscent of a tainted PCP trip paired with barbed wires for a straightjacket.
He needed out. More than anything, he needed to escape. I'll take any opportunity. The smallest hole. A polluted lake. Dirty bomb from the States. Something I can use. Anything. Any moment. I'll give my arm. My foot. Whatever it takes. I can't be their guinea pig anymore. I can't keep doing this.
Roan glimpsed Sheyla's fingers. The nails of her left hand were bloody, drawing more blood the harder they scraped the palm of her right hand. "Under my skin," she mumbled, jolting the harder her nervous system fought back. "Get 'em out. Damn it, Roan, help me get 'em out."
Get me out, get me out, he wanted to say, looking away. He knew the truth. Under the scrutiny of an army squad, there was no way out. In the fifteen years he'd been in the Sigma program, he'd never had that chance; that one, destined chance of escape. Always observed, always reminded of the torture he'd face if he defected and tried to be more than just the thing they'd labeled 54σK1. He was another body in the slave trade, trafficked to fulfill the governtary's greed, trading one loss for another.
Once more, he wished to be an emaciated kid again, huddled in the jagged, rocky corner of the dark cave, freezing under the all-weather blanket that wasn't really meant for all weather. Even with his ribs showing through his skin and his body unable to move, he'd felt more alive then than he did now.
In the briefest moment of silence between the soldiers and the jet engines, Roan could almost hear Moham Ama's voice calling out to him, coaxing him to crawl out of the corner to freedom—
"Landing in thirty minus," the voice over the radio said, yanking Roan from the memory.
And that's all it'll ever be: a memory. Amazing I still have any left.
The moment the jet began its descent, Roan slammed against the wall and braced for the landing. The wheels touched the ground. Jolted back and forth, his shoulder bumped Sheyla's. She cried for the zombies to stop bashing her around.
In a sick way, she wasn't far from the truth. Sometimes the delusions were more real than reality.
Caull grumbled and stopped in front of Roan. "C'mon, let's get you where you're supposed to be."
Two soldiers scurried to release Roan and Sheyla, then grasped their cuffs and led them towards the opening hatch. Sunlight poured into the cargo bay. Sheyla struggled to cover her eyes and screamed for the burning to stop, fighting the men pulling her towards the end of the ramp.
Roan eyed the sparsely vegetated ground from behind the safety of his dark lenses. There was more than one reason he insisted on wearing sunglasses, one of the few personal items he was allowed to keep.
"Fucking freaks," Nadjos muttered, pushing past Roan and elbowing him in the ribs.
"I've got him," Caull told the soldier escorting Roan, wrapping his hand around Roan's bicep. His grip tightening, Caull pulled Roan to the end of the ramp. "You know why you're here, so don't screw it. And don't test my patience. I agreed to bring you along as a favour. They said this was the last test of yours for a long while. They said you know what to do, so just do it." He pointed at Sheyla. "She's gone off the deep end, and that's bad enough. I've half a mind to smack her and tie her down. But you're supposedly high as a kite and, far as I can tell, taking it damn well."
Caull stepped closer and straightened, his nose almost touching Roan's. "Don't screw with me, or Anaheim will put you in a box. That we'll drop. In the middle of Lake Ontario. With a taser that's turned on permanently, until it dies. You figure out the rest."
"Do I understand?" Roan asked, his voice rising in pitch. This wasn't the first time he'd heard the threat.
Spitting on the ground, Caull snorted. "Mock me all you want, but you get it. Because while I'd never put my worst enemy through what you've been through, I'm sure as hell not letting you run rampant." He jammed his fingertip to Roan's chest. "Do your job. Then you'll go home just like the rest of us."
Be
fore Roan could respond, Caull walked away. "Get your gear. Let's move," Caull yelled, walking towards the ruins in the distance.
Roan remained still while a soldier unlocked his cuffs. The cuffs opened, revealing the red, itchy rash spread across his irritated skin. Several feet away, Sheyla wailed for the sun demon to be defeated. The soldiers fought to unbind her. They yelled until she whimpered and submitted, holding her arms before her as though she were about to be whipped.
"Not right," a woman said softly from behind him.
Roan turned, recognizing Kim as she walked by, her gaze meeting his.
"Stop gawking." Anaheim grunted and pushed Roan forward. "That way. We've got a fight to win."
You're not even worth a response. Roan obeyed, fighting a sneer. He'd gone on enough missions with Anaheim to know insults achieved nothing. Anaheim enjoyed the hunt. An inflamed sense of superiority made it worse. Words were useless.
The soldier with Roan's JK00 offered it back. "You'll need this."
Roan clutched the rifle, the metal sliding along his sensitive palms. His hands trembled, nerves twitching with anticipation. A faint amber glow enveloped the gun and brightened the longer he held it, feeding off the energy radiating from his skin. If they didn't expect him to work magic, he'd have worn the gloves stuffed into his bottom pants pocket. He hated the sensations surging through him. The ribbons of energy pulsed like bolts of electricity, numbing his insides and overcharging his brain, pushing him to the limits of his sanity.
None of it was right. He'd always thought his pain proved humans weren't supposed to be anything like he was. Otherwise it shouldn't feel like dying every time he called on the magical force within. It couldn't be healthy. If anything, it was a death sentence, even without the people factor.
They just make it worse. Kind of like everything else they do. Kind of like this mess.
Roan studied the crumbled buildings and split concrete. The soldiers in front of him crouched and slowly made their way through the ruins, searching for the rogue soldiers. The fact they were in the ruins of an old shopping mall didn't escape him. Rusted store signs poked out from the mounds of rubble and twisted water mains, eerie mountains boasting bits of petrified bone, tattered, sun-dyed clothing in various states of decay, and shredded stuffed animals covered in slick oil.
One hill in particular caught his attention, standing between two of the craters left by the bomb blasts. The charred yellow remains of traffic lights peeked through the upturned road, bound with dead hydro lines and contorted sign posts. Weeds claimed the hill, their scraggly leaves reaching for the sun from holes in the disjointed remains of water pipes. Near the top, a small green street sign stuck out at an angle, catching the sunlight. The dingy white letters spelt out "Fanshawe Park". The remnants of what resembled a black plastic purse hung around the base of the sign where the rest of the words disappeared into the dark clay.
And yet the goddamn university still stands. The trigger-happy bastards took out the malls and left the academics. The people who started it, this mess I'm in, and they're the ones who get to live. Don't care if they meant well. Don't care if they thought we were some sort of miracle. Really don't care how much grant money they got just to check us out. Those curious fuckers get to live while innocent people were killed. All over water—which everyone abandoned anyway. Too bad the war didn't fix stupid.
The only saving graces were the stands of trees lining the edge of the ruins, and the occasional tree growing among the rubble, breaking up the destruction with a touch of stubborn life.
If only he could get to the freedom on the other side of the stands.
"Get down," Anaheim muttered, yanking on Roan's cargo pants. They squatted behind a large red sign, peering over the dented edge.
Behind the holes in the overturned walls of what used to be a foundation, green flashes caught Roan's attention. They moved swiftly before light shone through the cracks.
Hidden behind a mound to Roan's right, Caull signaled for soldiers to go ahead in pairs. With his gaze locked on Roan's, Caull held up two fingers and flicked his wrist: Roan would be second to go.
Behind Caull, Sheyla whimpered. Nadjos clamped his hand over her mouth and shook her, jamming his knee in her back.
It'll be a miracle if she gets out of this alive. Roan turned back to the cracked foundation. There was no point in worrying about Sheyla at this point. She was better off curling into a ball and crying in the pit behind her. If the soldiers had any compassion at all, they'd let her.
That's not what they were paid to do.
They were there for an assault; for nothing more or less than winning. There was no place in society for former soldiers who took matters into their own hands. If they weren't playing by the rules, they weren't welcome.
Should form their own clan, Roan mused, waiting as the first pair of soldiers rushed towards the foundation. Give the government someone other than the hippies to worry about.
Anaheim jabbed Roan's elbow and rushed ahead. Roan followed, trying to listen past the loud noise of rocks crunching under his boots. Why did the burden of magic have to come with enhanced hearing whenever the user was charged up?
Biology be damned. I'm thinking this is all just a big ass joke. The universe gets off on this. Roan bent low, watching for movement behind the walls. His palms itched. His skin burned. He was holding too much energy back. Any minute, he'd need to release the magic before he lost control and unleashed it on Anaheim, whose sickly-sweet cologne made Roan nauseous. Just move already. Someone. Do something. I can't keep this—
"A hell of a lot easier if you just give up now," Caull yelled around the mound.
A grenade clicked in Anaheim's hand before he threw it over the wall.
A man yelled. Guns went off.
Boom!
Dirt and rocks flew over the walls. Roan scrunched down, his helmet taking no hits from the debris. When stones pummeled Anaheim's helmet, Roan almost laughed. Thank god for the small things.
Voices yelled from the other side of the foundation. Bodies in green camo uniforms followed, at least four appearing along the side of the wall. One rogue fired a series of shots, catching a military soldier in the face. The wounded soldier groaned and collapsed. Without hesitation, his partner returned fire, falling back towards Roan and Anaheim. Governtary soldiers shouted and fired from their hiding places, the bullets putting more dents into the foundation.
Sheyla wailed, the shrill pitches making Roan's skin crawl.
Screw this. Roan jumped up and fell back. The moment two rogues moved towards the governtary soldiers behind the mounds, Roan fired. The bullet pierced one of the rebel militants in the neck.
The man spun. Blood sprayed. His eyes widened.
The rebel's body exploded, flinging skin and guts in every direction. A shower of blood painted the foundation and soldiers near him.
"Damn it, Roan! I hate when you do that." Anaheim squatted, firing at the legs of the other rogue.
"Not my problem," Roan replied. "Get your superiors to stop making me level up their goddamn guns, and I'll stop blowing up bodies." More renegade soldiers appeared, sneaking behind the foundation. Roan shot them, one clench on the trigger for each body. Every bullet met its mark except for one, which lodged into an electronic sign before exploding. Limbs and circuits filled the air.
"Take this, assholes!" a man yelled from behind the foundation. A small dark form flew over the wall towards the mound where Caull waited, poised to shoot.
The grenade hit the ground in front of the mound.
Boom!
Concrete and clay blew apart. The mound wavered, threatening to collapse.
Sheyla screamed.
"Move it!" Caull waved to the governtary soldiers before rushing ahead and shooting the rebels as they scurried around the foundation.
Roan fell back, watching the mayhem. Thanks to the gunshots, he'd hear ringing in his ears for the rest of the week.
The sound didn't compare to the pent
up energy inside him, pounding against his skeleton, demanding release with the dizzying strength of a dozen jackhammers. He was supposed to wait for Caull's signal to attack.
Except Caull was busy, caught in a firefight with an opponent who wouldn't stay in one place long enough to be shot. The other soldiers were equally as occupied.
Roan's fingers twitched in time with the jittering of his leg. He stared at the trees in the distance. Maybe he could run. If no one was looking, he could run.
If no one could follow, that would be better.
Pain seared through the middle of his brain, from one temple to the other. Roan dropped the rifle and clasped his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He needed to do something before he passed out, with or without Caull's command. Maybe it was time to make his own way out; to distract everyone. Or make them go away. Magic didn't have to be target-specific unless he wanted it to be.
Given how much contempt he bore for every soldier on the field, he didn't want to play nice anymore.
Roan straightened, gritting his teeth against the pain. Turning, he glimpsed Sheyla, scrunched into a fetal position, convulsing in the dirt. He'd be damned if he'd return with her. She'd have to handle the situation on her own, no different than the rest of them.
He was done.
Go on. Do it. You've been tinkering with this spell for months. Make it happen. Dig your way out of this. You don't know how many more chances you'll get.
Especially since he didn't know what his next mission would be. Mire-Leeds could lock him up permanently any day they wished.
No, this was it; a chance to use the spell he'd worked out on his own. It required more energy than he normally used for anything—the same reason he'd been too hesitant to try it in the past—but it would be worth it. It had to be. He was running out of options.
There's no plan B, just an insane plan A. Here's to being batshit crazy.
Roan raised both hands, taking a slow, deep breath. Focused on the ground before him, he thought of nothing but flames. He forced his mind to contain a single image of a bright yellow and orange fire ravaging the bodies before him; a collage of green and black shapes burning together on a sea of red. The harder he pulled on the magic, the more he smelt burning flesh and heard screams not unlike Sheyla's wails for salvation. This was his intent; the reality he needed to make happen—or return to the nightmare and blame no one but himself.
For the Clan Page 2
