by J. D. Dexter
Breaking eye contact, I look up at Brent standing just over my shoulder, catching his gaze with my own. I try to tell him that Richardson, at least, is okay to talk to. His confusion is clear to see.
I wonder what it would take to get Whittier out of the room?
Concentrating on my body, which is considerably more difficult while trying to look like I’m engaging with the people around me and I’m the focus of attention, I focus on my heart. Sending a small, steady stream of energy to it, I wait for the machines I’m hooked up to register the change. After a couple of seconds, the machine’s beeping picks up its pace, alerting the room.
Dr. Jamison gives me a sideways look as he studies the monitor. He clears his throat, “We need to step everything back; Ms. Tindol is experiencing some agitation and anxiety. Both of which are detrimental to her recovery.”
Richardson’s small smile is washed away before she turns to address Whittier. “Why don’t you step outside the room. I can finish the interview on my own. And it might keep Ms. Tindol from anxiety and agitation.” She finishes up with a head bob in my direction, a slight sneer on her face—which I’m hoping is for Whittier’s benefit.
He huffs at her, clearly looking for ulterior motives. He shifts slightly to look at me before shifting his gaze to Brent and Dr. Jamison. I’m giving him anxious face to sell my racing heart.
I can’t really turn to look at Brent or Dr. Jamison, but I’m guessing they fulfill their roles as concerned parties because Whittier hefts his belt, jerks his shoulders, and stomps out of the room, complete with heavy footfalls and grumbling under his breath.
The door slams behind him. The sound makes me jump just a little, which is recorded and shared with the room by the hated beeping.
Richardson exhales long and slow. Looking like she’s trying to do some kind of aura cleansing ritual, she floats her hands from her lower abdomen to her upper chest as she inhales, and then flings her hands out and away from her body on the forceful exhale. She does this routine a couple of times before opening her eyes and focusing on me once again.
“Well done, Ms. Tindol.” She smiles softly at me.
“I have no idea to what you are referring.” I smile back at her, giving her a wink.
She tips her head back and laughs. Her laugh sounds a bit rusty, as if she doesn’t get to let loose very often. I’m glad I could help with that. Deep and throaty, her laugh sounds like it belongs to an old-fashioned vixen.
“Keep saying that, Ms. Tindol. It will take you far in this life.” Her laughter fades away.
“You came to our attention through a contact at Syv Global. They have been doing research—”
“We know about the research. My father is the head investigator.” Brent says through clenched teeth.
“I see.” She blinks rapidly for a couple moments as though trying to reconcile new, conflicting information.
“Alright, let’s jump ahead then. Participants in the ANK-23 study have been identified as having enhanced abilities. The government would like to implore these individuals to use these gifts for good, a kind of goodwill mission of sorts.”
Dr. Jamison cuts off a yelp, his eyes almost bugging out of his head. I can just hear it now, “Told you so, Finley. The government wants to help you and protect you.” He looks like he just won the lottery.
I’m still not sold on the grand gesture of the government. They have celebrities who do goodwill missions, not enhanced humans who can do secret things with their minds and bodies.
“I believe you to be such an individual, Ms. Tindol. It is my duty to explain the preliminary information to you. From your reactions, your medical charts and progress, and the attacker you found in your room earlier, I can tell that you would be an ideal candidate. However, I can also tell you that joining the program is not safe.”
I slide a superior look at Dr. Jamison. His look of disbelief makes me want to laugh, and vomit just a little. He really is naïve if he thinks the government is completely altruistic.
“We’ve had reports, yours most recently, of assassins seeking out ANK-23 participants and succeeding in their attempts to take them out. Luckily yours was not successful. I could get in a lot of trouble for telling you anything that would hinder your joining Team Twenty-Three.”
I snort, what a stupid name. Richardson smirks at my reaction, giving a little nod.
“Whittier is one of the recruitment agents. He wants to be in charge of one of the teams—I can only imagine the unmitigated disaster it would be if he were in charge of an elite unit of enhanced people.” She shakes her head, disgust alive on her face.
“If you could get in trouble for telling me this, then why are you?” I ask her, watching her face and body closely.
“Because, like you, I have ANK-23 markers.” She points to her eyes.
“So, you’re behind the creeping calm from before?” I ask for clarification.
“Yes. Reverse empathy is my main enhancement. I can make others feel anything I want them to: fear, excitement, sexual arousal, sorrow, calm. It comes in handy,” she says the last with a look of self-hatred. That kind of hatred is hard-earned and leaves scars.
I was just whining about what my enhancements helped me do earlier. I feel a wave of sympathy for her.
“So, do all of the ANK-23 participants have one main enhancement?” This is the first time I’ve ever met anyone with actual answers. I’m almost giddy. I have so many questions.
“Yes, although this is a very recent discovery. As you already know.”
“True. If I were to join Team Twenty-Three—which is seriously the stupidest name for a super team I’ve ever heard—what would that entail?” I can hear Brent grind his teeth at my question. Dr. Jamison’s sudden inhale fills the room.
“If you were to join, you would be ‘invited’ to move to Washington D.C. Once there, you would live in a secured facility with other 23ers. You would be able to refine, expand, and utilize your gifts in a controlled setting. Your every breath, bodily function, mood swing, and action would be monitored and recorded. If you became too difficult, or your gifts became too dangerous, you would be executed without trial.”
“The paperwork you would sign is worded in very specific language that would essentially put you into indentured servitude to the government. Oh, you’ll live in the lap of middle-class luxury, with all of your basic needs fulfilled. However, you would be an asset, granted a valuable asset, much like a computer or printer. Your rights would be non-existent, except as a ruse to keep you compliant.” Richardson’s breath is heaving in and out of her chest, her eyes filling with tears.
“You’ve lost someone?” I ask gently, my heart hurting for her.
She simply nods before turning away to look out the windows at the dark cityscape of Wichita.
“You walk a very dangerous line, Agent,” Brent says gruffly. I turn my head to see the sympathy on his hewn face.
“True. But you are the first 23er I’ve met who has had a good life, a steady family, a support system, and love. And I’ve met a lot of 23ers over the last six months. I don’t want you to get caught up in this mess if you can avoid it.” Richardson is still facing the window. The wavy lines of her reflection distort her features, but I can still see the anguish.
“What happens if I don’t join Team USA?” I ask carefully.
She turns back to face the room after a couple more breaths. Her features tight, hands clenched. “I’ll do my best to shield you from the agency. You need to live as quiet a life as possible. No bumps, no bruises, no hospitals, no specialized testing, nothing that means your blood gets run through a computer again. No DNA samples, no investigation into Dr. Hastings’s research, no playing or experimenting with your enhancements—nothing. And zero contact with law enforcement.” Her face is cold, her eyes flashing fire.
Something about what she’s saying rings true, but I just can’t help myself. Using the Spectrum, I see she believes exactly what she’s telling me. There is no doubt in
any part of her body. I look at her face, and notice that her eyes shine a bright, crystalline white. It’s beautiful, like a perfect snow fall surrounded by the colors of spring and late fall.
Blinking back into normal vision, I see she’s got a scowl on her face. “What the hell did I just tell you about using your enhancements?” She gripes at me, a look of irritation on her face.
I’m shocked that she even knew I had switched vision. My heart rate soars once again—the beeping machine keeping track for the room to follow along.
I’m going to destroy that machine as soon as humanly possible.
“Sorry. I’ve never had anyone notice, let alone know, when I use the Spectrum,” I apologize weakly.
“Spectrum?” she asks, her brows furrowed.
“It’s what I’ve always called my secondary vision—because different symptoms, issues, pain, emotions show up as colors across the Spectrum. Did you know that your eyes shine like fired white quartz?” I ask her quietly.
Her head tips to the side, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “Interesting. Don’t do that again, and, for the love of all things holy, don’t tell anyone else. And no, I had no idea that my eyes shine white.” She looks thoughtful. “Okay, disregard what I just said for a second. Can you look at Whittier through the Spectrum for me, and tell me what you see?”
“I guess.” Moving back and forth between Spectrum and normal vision has never been easier—practice really does make perfect.
I settle back into the bed, considering Whittier is on the outside edge of range I’ve ever tried to use the Spectrum. Sliding into the Spectrum is as easy as sliding into a warm bed after a cold day: a perfect end wrapped in cozy comfort.
“Whittier’s Spectrum indicates he’s furious about something. He’s hiding something, something that gives him a high level of satisfaction.” I trail off as I try to figure out what else it is I’m seeing.
I’ve never seen this combination of colors before: reds, browns, blacks, with streaks of putrid yellow.
I look towards his head to see if he shines like Richardson does.
He shines, but nothing like Richardson. His eyes seem to absorb the light around him, sucking his Spectrum colors into an opaque obsidian. Something about him sends a fission of fear through my belly.
I quickly pull back into myself, not realizing that I had sent so much of my energy out towards Whittier. I feel tainted and dirty. I make a mental note to never come into physical contact with the man.
Shuddering, I blink my eyes a couple of times. Richardson’s face is hard as granite.
“There’s something wrong with him, isn’t there?” Her disgust drenching each word.
“Yeah, but how did you know that’s what I discovered?” I ask, still trying to remove the dirty film from my insides.
Does anyone make an internal bleach bath?
She points to her own chest. “Reverse empath. I can feel what others are feeling as they feel it. I have to be able to identify the full range of emotions, so I can get the nuances right when I send them back out.”
That makes sense.
“Over and above him being wrong, his Spectrum is something I’ve never encountered in my life: reds, browns, blacks, and cat-urine yellow. I looked at his eyes, just like I looked at yours: his are light-absorbing black. The black around his eyes seems to be eating the rest of his Spectrum.” I tremble. “I’ve never seen that before, nor do I ever want to see it again.”
“Damnit.” She heaves a huge breath, her head falling forward. She grabs the bridge of her nose like she’s getting a killer headache.
“What’s wrong?” Dr. Jamison asks, probably responding to the pain evident on her face.
“He has no inherent enhancements,” she says in a tight voice. As if that explains everything. I’m lost.
“Okay. I’m not sure why you reacted the way you did. What am I missing?”
“While I’ve never heard it called the Spectrum, we have someone who can do something similar to what you do. This person reads each agent quarterly to make sure their allegiance hasn’t changed. This person came to me a few weeks ago with some concerns regarding a shift in some of our agents’ energy patterns. The pattern identifier mentioned a black ‘that seems like a black hole—sucking everything around it into a dark pit.’ I’m not sure who else knows about it, but the agents we’ve secretly identified as ‘Obsidian Agents’ are under investigation for killing the 23ers in their care.” The anger is a living thing in Agent Richardson’s voice. Her voice is shaking along with her clenched fists.
“Obsidian Agents,” I say. That’s a cool name. And the good guys are stuck with Team 23? Lame.
“Yeah, although that is a term you need to wipe from your memory banks. All of you.” In turn, she gives all of us a stern finger point with a glare to scare the most dedicated bully.
I nod my head.
“So what do we do now? Especially if Whittier is dirty and he knows about me,” I say.
“For right now, he doesn’t think your talents are good enough for his team. If you have other talents than being able to see the ‘spectrum,’ do not make it known right now, or possibly, ever. I can cover your incredible recovery as a basic 23er trait. I don’t want to know if it’s more than that—for your own safety.”
She pulls her phone from her jacket pocket and taps a couple of buttons. She turns the phone for me, Brent, and Dr. Jamison to see. She hits a big red button in the bottom middle of the screen.
I hear my voice coming from the speakers. I jerk back at the realization she recorded our conversation.
“Now wait just a second.” Brent jumps forward as if he’s going to wrest the phone from her fingers. She pins him with a glare.
“Shut up.” She shows us that she’s deleting the file.
Right, like that’s going to stop her from having it.
I can’t believe this is happening.
Then she drops the phone into the mostly full water pitcher and leaves it there for a couple of minutes. After she’s done that, she drops the phone on the floor and slams it under her serviceable heel. She crunches it enough times that some of the phone’s inner workings shoot out of one of the breaks in the casing.
Leaning down she picks up the bigger pieces and holds them out in both of her hands. She looks meaningfully at Brent. He steps towards her and puts his own hands out to her. She empties all of the electronics into the cup of his hands.
“Do with this whatever you want. That’s the only phone I have on me. I left a backup in the car, so I can tell my superiors, and Whittier, that I forgot my phone in the car.” She brushes off her hands before putting her hands back into her pants pockets. She pulls out the lining, showing us clearly that she has no other devices on her person.
Agent Richardson ain’t playing…she almost might be a little insane. She’s really worried about this whole project, and my possible involvement in it.
I look at her, holding her eyes with mine. “Thank you.” I try to convey my feelings to her, hoping she can pick up all of the different nuances of my gratitude with her gift.
A single tear slides slowly down her cheek. She nods her head once. “Thank you for listening to me.”
“I’m going to get Whittier back in here. You’re going to let your trusty lawyer tell him that you are declining the offer of the government’s help and protection. You say nothing. You don’t even cough or breathe too heavily. I’m not sure what Whittier has done to himself, but I want none of his attention to rest on you for longer than absolutely necessary. He’s going to try to push and bully you. Say nothing, do nothing. Let your lawyer do all of talking.” She pins me with another glare—a harsh slap after the gentleness of our recently shared moment.
I nod at her. She smiles at me, and turns to go get Whittier from out in the hall.
Whittier leads the way back into the room, his ego leading. I can almost see the puff of it.
“Ms. Tindol, I need you to formally accept or reject the offer of the
United States government,” Whittier says. He’s standing at the foot of my bed, looking at me with a terrifying avuncular quality that skeeves me out.
Inside, I want to drop kick him in the face. On the outside, I give him serene smiles of placidness. I nod my head, the sign for Brent to speak for me.
“On behalf of Ms. Tindol, the offer is formally rejected. We appreciate the generous offer, but do not feel able to accept it at this time.” Brent’s formal statement is hard, final.
“Ms. Tindol, I need you, personally, to accept or reject.” Whittier glares at me.
I give him the same plastic smile as before.
“I’m answering as counsel of record for Ms. Tindol. She has elected to not respond, except through me. You have your formal answer, agent.”
“You are going to let your fellow American men and women suffer. For what? Some ridiculous self-entitled, self-important reason.” Whittier sneers at me balefully.
I don’t need the Spectrum to see the sweeping black behind his dark brown eyes. I feel the taint of that blackness on my insides again. I steel myself against whatever he has inside of him, sending an emotional signal to Richardson. I’m scared to take my eyes off Whittier at this point, so I can only hope Richardson got my message.
Whittier’s smile widens in reaction to something—the depravity in that smile makes me want to wash every part of me, inside and out, with bleach and prayer.
“She’s formally rejected the offer, Whittier. We have other participants to interview in the morning. We have a plane to catch,” Richardson interjects, ending the staring contest between me and Whittier.
He blinks and I immediately feel cleaner, lighter. I work to contain the shudders that want to wrack my body.
“We’ll be seeing you, Ms. Tindol.” Whittier’s comment makes me think he won’t be forgetting about me any time soon.
Richardson pushes him out the door in front of her, earning a blazing look from Whittier. I have no idea how she works with him on a daily basis.
I’m adding her to my prayer list.
She gives me a final nod before shutting the door behind her. I see them both stride back down the hall, hopefully to never remember me.
