Unleashed (TalentBorn Book 4)

by C. S. Churton

  I need a bathroom break. I push myself up, wincing as the movement pulls on several wounds, and shuffle off the edge of the bed. Looks like my private bedroom doesn’t extend to a private bathroom. I can see someone’s left a bedpan but I’ve no intention of using that. Slowly I move towards the door, dragging my feet across the floor and ignoring the pain that lances through me with each step. Pain is merely a state of mind.

  I try the door handle – it’s not locked. And why would it be? There’s nothing for me in the outside world, I have everything I need right here. Doc is the only one who cares about me. He knows I’d never run away from him.

  The door swings inward with a muted creak, and I don’t bother to close it behind me. I’m weak as a kitten right now and I don’t have the energy to spare. I despise weakness. I stretch a hand out to the wall and look around. A corridor. Three doors on each side. One at either end. I sigh, and push open the first one. Empty. I pull it shut, ignoring the way my arm screams in silent protest, and stagger to the next door. I swing it open, too, and peer into the gloom. Another bedroom. This one is occupied.

  “Anna?”

  I can’t help myself; I stare at the figure sitting up in the bed. He’s in his early twenties and he’s got shaggy, light brown hair. He’s wearing a pair of glasses and his hands is a comic book, momentarily forgotten. I’ve seen him before. He pushes a lock of hair out of his eyes, and his face splits into a grin.

  “Anna, I thought– How are you?” His eyes appraise me as I lean against the doorway, and the smile drops from his face.

  “Are you okay?”

  Toby. His name is Toby. He’s a scientist. He helped me get control of my talent. I grimace; those are looking-at-the-sun BTD memories, and most of them are tied to the traitor. Toby is loyal, but he’s weak. Like I was. He was fooled by the traitor.

  I pull the door shut and shuffle back to my room. Doc left the bedpan for a reason.

  *

  I spend the next few hours contemplating the monumental ways I’ve messed up, and carefully examine every move I made in the fight, taking each in turn and turning it over in my mind. I’d gone in cocky – and with good reason: Doc has honed me into a weapon, and I’m a damned efficient one – but I’d been blind to my target’s strengths. I underestimated him. It’s a mistake I won’t make again. Letting my grudge against Snow– Megan spill over… much as I hate to admit it, that, too, was a mistake. Professional first. Personal later. I allow myself a smile. It did feel pretty damned good though, seeing her on the floor, that smug look wiped off her face. And it’s not like she was badly hurt, and I got the target back to base, so can anyone really say it was that big a deal? I mean, it’s not like– No. Doc was disappointed. That alone is reason enough to refrain in future. And I will. He allows me my little indulgences, but I won’t over-step again.

  There’s a tap on the door – a courtesy that I’ve become disused to – then it swings open and a figure steps through. Tall, slightly overweight, wearing trousers and a creased shirt, the middle-aged man peers at me over the top of a pair of glasses perched halfway down the bridge of his nose.

  “Good afternoon, Anna. I’m Doctor Fisher.”

  My hand trembles and I shove it hastily beneath the blanket, then make a conscious effort to still it. Fear is weakness. Weakness kills. A soldier lets her adversary see neither. And any doctor is an adversary in my books. Except Doctor Pearce. Yeah, except him.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he says brusquely, settling into a chair opposite my bed. He crossed his legs and rests a clipboard on his knee. I eye it suspiciously. Doctors and clipboards are one of my least favourite combinations. But at least clipboards don’t inflict pain. At least, not right away. That comes later. I’ll endure.

  “Doctor Pearce asked me to pay you a visit.”

  Like that’s supposed to put my mind at ease. I’m in his bad books; it’s clear he’s changed his mind about punishing me. It’s no less than I deserve.

  “Now, I understand you have a latent talent that you’ve not yet attempted to access?”

  I breathe an audible sigh, woozy with relief. Different sort of doctor. Still not to be trusted, of course, but here to work with me, not on me. Fisher removes his glasses and polishes the lenses with a corner of his crumpled shirt. While he’s distracted I watch him openly, wondering why he doesn’t have corrective surgery. AbGen have access to the best doctors in the country, the glasses are entirely unnecessary. I study him a moment later, and conclude he likes having the physical prop. His way of giving me time to compose myself. As my gaze lifts from the glasses to his face, I realise he’s watching me surreptitiously from the corner of his eye. I look away awkwardly, breaking the accidental eye contact.

  “This isn’t my first choice of environment, either,” he says, glancing around the sterile room. “It doesn’t exactly help put you at your ease, does it?”

  I think he’d revisit that appraisal had he seen my basement.

  “No matter. Needs must, and I gather you’ve been in the wars lately. We’ll just have to work with what we have as best we can. Do you understand the nature of your latent talent?”

  “Astral projection.” The words are thick and heavy on my tongue. I want it to be true, so I can find my way back into Doc Pearce’s good graces, but as in so many areas of my life, what I want is irrelevant.

  “That’s right. Or remote viewing, if you prefer. Once you master it, you will be able to ‘see’ almost any location you desire and gather intelligence in real time. Quite an impressive talent. Of course, until you manage your first viewing, we won’t know what restrictions there might be. I’ve never come across anything quite like this before. We’ll explore your capabilities together.”

  If it’s supposed to be a gesture of camaraderie, it falls flat. As Doc Pearce pointed out, I don’t play well with others. I certainly don’t ‘explore’ mythical talents with them. But I’ll play along. I push myself up, clenching my jaw as pain stabs me in half a dozen places at once. One… two… three… four… five… The pain fades to background noise as I count. I take in a slow breath and relax my muscles as I let it out again.

  “Alright doctor, work your magic.”

  He chuckles, and I eyeball him, wondering if he’s gone mad. The sound dies in the air between us.

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t quite work like that. But I’ll help you relax and teach you some exercises to build your focus. Are you ready? Good. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  I lie back flat on the bed – not that I’d admit it, but sitting is painful as hell right now.

  “Close your eyes and focus on relaxing each group of muscles. Start with your face, work your way down through your neck and your shoulders, right the way down to your feet. That’s it. Take your time, we’re in no rush.”

  It’s harder than it sounds, not least because of the knife wounds – relaxing certain muscles sends sparks of pain through me, which makes all my muscles tense again. It takes four attempts before I’m able to get most of them relaxed, working around certain areas that are taking the pressure off my wounds. It feels good. Peaceful. Like I’m floating on a cloud. I make a mental note to try this more often.

  “I’m going to count back from ten. I want you to take a deep breath in each time I count. Clear your mind of everything except for my voice.”

  He counts back and I try not to let my mind wander – which is also harder than it sounds. Several times I catch myself thinking about whether I’m thinking about anything and have to empty it all over again. Relaxing is hard.

  “Okay Anna, you’re now in a light meditative state,” Fisher says, his voice distant and hollow. “I’m going to talk you through some exercises. I want you to start by picturing a flame.”

  I conjure the image – a static orangey-yellow blob that’s semi-translucent and hard to see. With a frown I try to give it more substance, but Fisher is speaking again. He wants me to make it move, then he has me make it larger, then smaller again. Then tu
rn it into a bonfire, and hear it crackle, and smell the wood burning. The best I manage are fleeting impressions, and the whole time I’m acutely aware that I’m lying in a hospital bed, and there is no flame. I open my eyes.

  “Is there a point to this, doctor?” I ask coldly, lifting my head to look at him. Immediately I feel woozy again and drop my head back onto the pillow. So much for relaxing, I feel… vacant. Foggy. Like someone’s pumped my mind full of novocaine. I blink rapidly.

  “It takes time, Anna. And practice. Close your eyes, please.”

  I close my eyes… not because he asked nicely, but because the ceiling is swimming and it’s making me dizzy.

  “Coming out of an altered state rapidly can cause some disorientation. Take a breath and relax your mind again. Let’s try another exercise.”

  This time it’s an orange. I build the image carefully, starting with the uneven, textured skin and the vibrant colours. Fisher tells me to peel it, and I smell sticky sweetness, and taste its sharpness. The orange is easier than the flame. And just like that, my concentration shatters and the orange is gone. I exhale sharply and summon it again.

  “Okay, let the orange go.” Fisher’s voice floats across to me. The orange fades from view and the smell fades with it. “Now I want you to picture the room from my seat.”

  That’s harder. Much harder. I try to build the room, but I haven’t seen it from his angle. The best I manage is a weak impression, with a vague notion of a bed, some white walls and a table with a jug of water. I focus on the jug, trying to make the image solid, but it’s not happening. I can’t even remember if the jug was empty or full. I toss the image aside in frustration. My head hurts. Isn’t there someone I can just fight with instead? I know what I’m good at, and it’s clearly not this.

  Fisher counts me back up from one to ten and tells me to open my eyes. I cautiously part my lids, relieved that this time the ceiling stays where it should.

  “Try not to get frustrated. It gets easier.”

  “Still seems like a waste of time. I already know what this room looks like.”

  “You’re working from memory, forcing the images. You need to let the images build themselves. When you learn to do that, you’ll have a talent to be reckoned with. We’ll try again later.”

  Chapter Four

  “Until next time, then,” Doctor Barnes says, scribbling a note on his pad as I climb from the bed.

  A week has passed since my first attempt to utilise my alleged talent. Fisher has been coming by several times a day, and by now I’m an expert at building an orange, but I still can’t picture the room with any substance. I hope Doc Pearce hasn’t put too much stock in me having this talent. I’ve practiced the relaxation exercise relentlessly, at least half a dozen times between each of Fisher’s visits, and my mind is clearer than ever. I’m ready to get back to work, and prove to the doc that – new talent or no new talent – I’m still his best weapon.

  The doctors say I healed quickly, quicker than they expected. Not to me, of course – no-one says anything to me, but sometimes they talk to each other outside my door. Which means I’m getting out of here. I wonder where that leaves Fisher – somehow, I can’t picture the doc letting him into my basement. He doesn’t seem like the sort who’d understand.

  I shake the thought and ease the tension out of my shoulders as I stand. Flynn waits by the door for me, silent as ever – it irks that Doc sent an escort, as if I can’t be trusted to follow a simple instruction like returning to my basement, but I turn my scowl inwards. It’s no less than I deserve. After all, I did prove myself incapable of following orders on my last mission. I’ve got some making up to do, so I keep my own counsel as Flynn opens the door for me.

  “And Anna?” Doctor Barnes says. I glance back at him over my shoulder. “Do try to stay off my ward for a while.”

  I dip my head in response and hurry along next to Flynn, studiously avoiding eye contact with the few other patients we pass. I haven’t told anyone about my encounter with Toby, and nor do I intend to: I’ve already given the doc enough reasons not to trust me. I’m going to prove to him that I’m the perfect soldier, and what’s in the past can damned well stay there.

  I sink into a sullen silent on the drive back to the bunker where my basement is, annoyed that we’re wasting time travelling by car when I could get us there in the blink of an eye, but smart enough to keep my gripe to myself. It doesn’t matter. Waiting is nothing new to me; I can be patient if I must. Doc says patience is one of my challenges, but I’m sitting here, aren’t I, while the car crawls along at a measly seventy miles an hour? We’ll be going for at least another hour, but I’m not complaining – out loud, at least – or trying to shift. The collar’s active, so I couldn’t shift even if I wanted to, but that’s not the reason I’m sitting here. Doc wants me to crawl along in the back of a car, then I crawl. Don’t need a collar to make sure of that. He keeps it switched on all the time anyway, if I’m not on a mission. Says there’s no point in putting unnecessary temptation in my path. He looks out for me like that.

  When eventually we get back into the bunker, through the abundant security the doc has put in place to protect me, and down the concrete steps into my basement, every single one of my wounds is throbbing, and my movements are stiff and unbalanced. Flynn eyes me as he stands at the top of the stairway, watching my painstaking progress.

  “Medical status?” he asks evenly. It speaks.

  “Functional,” I grind out. Don’t need a bloody chaperone. Just need to get back in my cage, on my own damned bed, and get some rest. He doesn’t offer me pain relief, and I wouldn’t have accepted it if he did. It dulls the senses, makes you weak. I’m the doc’s soldier. The one thing I’ll never be is weak.

  He leaves without another word, shutting the door behind him. The electronic lock whirrs as it engages – one of the few noises that interrupts me down here. It’s quiet after the constant bustle of the hospital ward. Nothing to listen to but my own breathing, and the sound of my feet scuffing across the concrete floor. It grates on me for a moment, oppressive, like a heavy blanket draped over me, but I’ll get used to it again before long. It’s peaceful, not oppressive.

  There are five cameras in the basement, three of them covering this part of the room, so I quit shuffling and make my movements relaxed and confident, cramming the discomfort of the stitches pulling tight in a box in the back of my mind, along with everything else that isn’t necessary for my day to day survival. I keep some pretty dark thoughts in those boxes – my rebirth into this life wasn’t exactly painless – but there’s always room for more. Pain isn’t important, so it goes in a box.

  It’s twenty-seven steps from the bottom of the stairs to my cage’s doorway, and I can’t cross them quickly enough. There’s no rush – nothing to do but pass the time once I get there – but I don’t like being away from it as long as I have been. I can’t quite breathe out there, like there’s a band around my chest and no matter how much air I suck in, I can’t quite fill my lungs.

  I step through the open doorway, and I can breathe again. I inhale the flavourless air – no antiseptic, no smell of other people, just the plain air of my own personal space. My cage is empty aside from the bed pressed into the corner, wall on one side, bars on the other, and my sole possession is a half-filled bottle of water, so the shoebox at the foot of my bed immediately catches my attention.

  The box has no lid, but there’s a note resting on it, written in the doc’s meticulous hand. ‘Welcome home, Anna.’

  I pick up the note with a smile and tuck it under my pillow. The doc’s pleased I’m back. I look inside the box and my smile broadens. Two apples – green ones – are sitting at the top, and there’s a small bag of sunflower seeds which are my absolute favourites. Doc says they’re good for you, but this is only the second time he’s given me any. First time was after I k– well, that’s not important. I set them carefully on the bed and see what else is in the box. A small bottle of orange juic
e. Not a lot – too acidic, bad for the teeth. And is that…? I stare down at it for a moment. It is. It’s chocolate. I never get chocolate. Doc really has forgiven me. That’s the best gift. I’m back in the doc’s good graces. And this time, I’m going to stay there.

  *

  “Please, Doctor Pearce,” I say, running my fingers across the bars as I walk round my cage, trying to keep the petulant whine from my voice. I don’t beg. I negotiate. “Let me out for a while? You know I’m ready to get back to work. I won’t fail you again.”

  It’s been four weeks. Four long, painful, boring weeks. Twenty-eight dull-as-dishwater days. At least, as near as I can tell. I mean, no clocks or calendars, and no natural daylight, but it’s been eighty-two meals, and Doc normally gives me three meals a day, unless I’m being punished. I’ve been working hard to make sure he doesn’t need to punish me.

  “You almost lost me something I value.”

  Megan. I smother my resentment before it can escape and spread itself across my face. I don’t see what’s so special about her. But Doc ‘values’ her, and I have to show the appropriate responses. I wouldn’t jump through hoops for anyone other than him. I stop pacing and bow my head.

  “It was a mistake. She rubs me the wrong way and she made me lose my temper. I–”

  He raises a hand and I cut off abruptly. He gives me a disapproving look and it’s all I can do not to flinch back from his hard eyes.

  “When things do not go as they should, you can make excuses, or you can make changes. Your choice defines you.”

  I pause and think that one through, turning the words over in my mind, and thinking about the choices I’ve made. Not all of them of them have been good. Not all of them are choices that I’m proud of. But what the doc is saying, is that I get to make a new choice, right now.

  “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Give me a chance to prove my loyalty to you.”

  “Your loyalty was never in doubt, Anna. It’s your self-control I question.”