Citizen: Season One | Uncured Series

by Maggie Ray

  I’m guided to a chair and instructed to sit, while the others remain standing. The sitting makes me feel like I’m being punished—like I’m a child being put in a corner. They are active participants, and I am not.

  I’m otherwise forgotten as conversations are resumed, most of which I don’t understand the context. Something about supplies, a shopping list, but things that don’t make sense. Fertilizer, fruit, copper wire.

  All the while, the long-haired man gazes at me from the corner of his eye. He blows smoke up into the air, aiming it in my direction, which feels vaguely insulting.

  I’m terribly relieved when George finally makes an appearance. He parts the crowd with his tall frame and walks straight at me. His hand lands on my shoulder and he squeezes, as though we are old friends.

  It’s funny how times of crisis will bring people together, uniting against a common enemy. Before this, George had barely noticed my existence.

  It makes me feel worse, not better, that he’s being so friendly now. As if the past never happened—as if years of being overlooked can be smoothed over with a single gesture of kindness.

  “This is Sabine,” he says to everyone. “She and I share a common friend. One that is very important to both of us.”

  I ache at the reminder that we’ve both loved Rory—that we’ve both lost her. She connects us in some invisible way and perhaps always will.

  “A friend who, at this very moment, is in a coma due to a failed second curing.” George’s voice booms, like always, only now it means something more. He holds the attention of everyone in the room, ensuring my acceptance into the group.

  His introduction is met with nods of approval, and the first step of my initiation is complete. It makes my head spin to know I’m being so easily woven into a group I’m not even sure I want to be a part of.

  George takes my hand and holds it again, like he did back at my house. He looks so happy I’m here, it almost makes up for everything else. Almost.

  “This is my friend, Markai,” he introduces me to the long-haired man. “He’s the one who’s brought us all together.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  “Likewise,” Markai snaps back.

  I nearly grimace, but I manage not to. I’ve gotten better at keeping my emotions below the surface.

  Markai smiles, as if he knows. “You’re doing it.”

  The other conversations in the room fade, and now the attention is on me again.

  “Doing what?” I ask, trying to ignore all the eyes in the room.

  Markai leans forward, elbows on the table, so I can really smell the smoke on his breath. I try not to choke.

  “You’re holding back,” he says. “You’re so used to it, you don’t even notice. But you’re keeping your emotions in check, making sure no one knows that you’re feeling.”

  He pops the cigarette back between his lips, takes a long drag, and waits to see what I’ll say. He’s got such a smug look on his face, I want to smack it away.

  There’s something about him that makes me feel off—like he’s not someone I can trust.

  Despite this, he’s right. I’m so used to holding back, I don’t even know how to stop. Plus, it’s been so long since I’ve seen uncured people, I’ve forgotten what it’s like.

  Nobody here is hiding. Everyone is showing their emotions. The room is full with it—tension, anxiety, excitement. It feels almost offensive, having all these emotions thrown in your face.

  Without meaning to, I squeeze George’s hand tighter. I’m already leaning on him—turning to him for support. It makes me hate myself sometimes, how weak he makes me. He doesn’t even have to try.

  Maybe one day, I’ll stop loving him. But right now, he squeezes back, and it’s like every part of me comes alive.

  Markai laughs without restraint, head thrown back and everything, and I feel myself shrink. He wipes a non-existent tear from the corner of his eye. “The new ones are always so adorable.”

  George smiles, rubbing the back of my hand with his thumb. “Just relax, Sabine. You can be real with us.”

  I try. Because George asks me to, I try.

  “Stop tormenting the new girl,” the brunette from earlier pipes up. I wish someone would tell me her name, but no one does. “Let’s get back to the task at hand.”

  She plants her palms on the table. The light bulb hangs above, casting a spotlight on her features. She seems like a severe sort of person. Everything about her is hard, from the straight hair scraped back against her skull to the crisp lines of her clothes. I get the feeling that, if you grabbed a fistful of her shirt, it would crunch like paper.

  This is someone who doesn’t have time to waste—someone who commands attention.

  She produces a map from under the table, which she flattens for everyone to see. Our small collective is displayed neatly in bright colors. It’s not often you see printouts like these, so it’s interesting to look at.

  She points to a covered bridge. The one outside the library, where my stepfather works. “We’ll plant it here. All we need is a time, so we don't risk hurting anyone innocent.”

  She marks the spot with a bright red marker. The room becomes very still, everyone waits. This is a test—a shock tactic. No time to waste, the brunette seems to say, her chin pointed at me.

  I don’t move. I barely breathe. All at once, the shopping list makes sense. I know what they’re planning. I can feel the eyes on me from all directions, but I can’t look away from the X marking the map. Red and splotchy, like a blood stain.

  George rubs little soothing circles onto the back of my hand, but now it hurts almost, grating against my skin like sand. I swallow with difficulty but manage to remain calm. I’ve become good at that, the pretending.

  Markai starts laughing again. That offensive, machine-gun laughter that I already hate. “Well, she hasn’t gotten up and run out of the room.”

  At that moment, I look up at the many faces surrounding me, and a sound bubbles up my throat. Of all things, it’s a laugh. I can’t hold it back. It’s a laugh of nerves, if I’m honest, but it shifts the mood instantly.

  Everyone joins, as though encouraged. They’ve misunderstood.

  Meanwhile, I don’t share their relief. Not one bit. I’m rigid in my chair, my mind swarming with escape plans. I want out, but I don’t know how. I don’t know how to fix this. There’s just too much attention, all directed straight at me, and I’m suffocating under the weight of it.

  George looks proud, his handsome face beaming, dimples showing. He looks younger than I’ve seen in years. “I told you guys she was one of us.”

  The words seal my fate. The others all nod.

  The brunette is the only one who doesn’t appear convinced. She leans closer. I stare back, pinned in place by her scrutiny.

  There’s only one question on my mind. “Who’s the target?”

  She smiles, abruptly, a flash of white teeth. She’s misinterpreted my intentions, too. She produces an object from somewhere—was it beneath the table? Was it in her pocket? I missed something, like a glitch in time, because suddenly there's a pen in the center of the table, shiny stainless steel. Harmless looking.

  I stare at the thing, waiting for an explanation, because I suspect it isn't harmless at all.

  “It's a tracker,” the brunette says, picking it back up to examine it in the light. She turns it this way and that. “When you click the top, it activates.” She clicks it a few times, to demonstrate. “It could be easily slipped into a pocket, undetected, giving us the exact location of the person we need.”

  In a rush, she cuts across the room and thrusts it at me, her chin pointed confidently. I put my palm out, like an automatic reaction. The pen feels normal, and I slowly close my fist around it.

  It's a simple gesture, accepting a pen when it is offered to you. And yet I can sense the significance of it.

  I am one of them now. Part of the club.

  No, I scream internally. I don’t want thi
s. I didn’t ask for this. But it’s too late, no one can hear me.

  There’s a beat of silence that follows. Markai smokes, still looking smug. George is still clutching my other hand, but I want him to stop. It’s like he senses how badly I want to rip away from him, so he holds even tighter.

  They all wait for me to clue in. There’s a reason I was chosen—a reason I was brought here. They needed me for something, and George volunteered to get the job done. I can see it playing out in my head like a movie, all the little moments adding up to this one. This is why George is being so nice, why he’s suddenly acting like we’re the best of friends. It wasn’t because Rory connected us or because I chased him down the street. It wasn't even because I work for Onyx.

  My heart sinks, dropping into my stomach. I think I might be sick.

  “The target is Alexei.”

  15

  The brunette looks manic, now I’ve said his name. “He’s the perfect one, don’t you see? He’s the most respected, the one with the worst reputation. It’s the only way to send a clear message, with the least amount of bloodshed.”

  She sounds so sure of herself, convinced her plan is a work of art.

  It’s like the day I visited Rory all over again. My mind shuts down and my insides feel numb. I gaze blindly into the eyes of the brunette girl, and I realize they’re the same color as mine. Pale gray. The only difference is that hers are full of life, while mine have always seemed dull somehow. Her eyes are the color of storms, and mine are the color of ghosts—the color of dust. Just like the rest of me. Something that is here but isn't, something forgotten.

  It makes me feel less than, simply being in her presence. It was the same with my sister and with Rory, like flying too close to the sun.

  It suddenly frustrates me so much my entire body clenches like a fist.

  “No.”

  The word pops out, so perfect and dense, that everyone is surprised. Even me. My voice has never sounded like that before.

  “No,” I say again, thrilled by the sound of it. “I won’t hurt anyone.”

  A moment of tension follows. It crackles in the air, lingering like the cigarette smoke, choking us just the same. It’s the scent of oppression, that nicotine. Addictive, like a trap.

  George speaks first. He bends his tall frame to be more at my eye level.

  “I get it, Sabine,” he says. “Of course, we don’t want to hurt anyone either. It’s sad, really, that things have come to this. But doing nothing, sometimes, is just as bad as anything else.”

  I stare at him while he speaks. Earlier tonight, minutes ago even, I couldn’t resist him. Now his words mean nothing to me.

  The brunette jumps in next. “Think of everything that peacekeeper has done. He shot a man in the street, right here in town. He’s ripped people out of their homes, locked them away from their families.”

  She’s desperate, I can smell it on her. She wants this plan so bad and she needs me for it. An inside man to help set the stage, someone who knows where Alexei will be and when.

  George leans in real close, whispers into my ear. “Think of Rory.”

  My entire body breaks out in chills. Think of Rory.

  “Think of what they’ve done to her. You went to see for yourself, didn’t you? Just as I instructed in the note? I wanted you to see the truth. She's in a coma, Sabine. She’s dying, right now, as we speak. Because of them.”

  I blink at him, stunned by his audacity to use her as a way of manipulating me. George blinks back, silently pleading, oblivious to my sudden, vicious hatred. It materializes so fast, it leaves me breathless.

  “Are you going to let them get away with that?” He says it like a dare.

  Is this supposed to be the “or else" part of his note? Find Rory, or else let them get away with it?

  This is all about revenge for him, I realize, and I start to shake. I know I am, but I can’t help it. The tracker pen rattles in my fist.

  Are they going to let me walk out of here? They’ve already told me too much. I know their plan. Outside the library, on the bridge.

  All they need me to do is drop the tracker in Alexei's coat pocket.

  But I won’t do it. I keep my mouth firmly shut, lips pressed into a flat line.

  George sighs, like he’s disappointed, but the brunette is undeterred. She’s not giving up yet.

  “Give her some time to think. We've dumped a lot on her tonight. I’m sure she’s tired,” she says, then she looks right at me. “You hold onto that pen. I know you'll do the right thing.”

  George stands to his full height, looking hopeful again. He smiles like he's trying to alleviate the tension. “You’re right, Cee. I’m sure this has been a lot to take in.”

  Finally, I have a name for her. Cee. It doesn’t suit her. It’s too short, too sweet.

  I say nothing, worried they’ll change their minds. This is my one chance to get out of here.

  “I’ll walk you home,” George says to me, still with that tone of voice. I can see it now, how hard he’s trying.

  I simply nod, not trusting my vocal cords. My throat is painfully tight.

  ∆∆∆

  Outside, the rain has stopped and the air is damp and fresh. I hadn’t realized how stifling it had been in that room, with all those people staring, and the cigarette smoke.

  George walks quietly at my side, a small smile playing on the corner of his mouth. I bet he thinks that went well. He thinks he got away with it. He’s still holding my hand and I feel like a prisoner being escorted home. I feel like I did in the beginning with Alexei.

  Now Alexei has become something else to me—he represents freedom instead of imprisonment. He’s the one person I’ve been able to rely on and be honest with. It makes no sense, and yet it’s the truth. People aren’t who they seem to be, not at first, and I don’t know who to trust anymore. My mind is knotted up, trying to make all the puzzle pieces fit.

  When we reach my backdoor, George pulls me to a stop. I don’t have time to realize what he’s doing before he’s leaned down and kissed me, softly at first and then not softly at all.

  He’s trying to manipulate me, and that’s the awful moment I realize: he knows. Perhaps he’s always known how I feel about him. While his mouth moves over mine, I flush hot with shame. This whole time he’d known, and he hadn’t done anything about it. This whole time he’d known I wanted him, and yet he hadn’t wanted me back.

  I would willingly lose to Rory a thousand times over, but it still hurts.

  The kiss is nothing like when I’d seen him with her. This one is too intense, forced. It feels like blackmail, and it has the opposite effect than he’d intended. I feel repulsed and angry. I’ve never wanted him less.

  Our mouths part with an inelegant pop, a release of suction.

  “You know joining us is the right thing to do.” He pushes his forehead against mine, his hands on either side of my face, trapping me.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, because I just want him to let me go. I just want to go inside and forget about this whole night.

  “Don’t let them brainwash you. Remember how they targeted you, how they assigned you one of the worst peacekeepers, how they made you one of the first citizens to be cured.”

  I shiver at his words, wondering if he knows something else that I don’t.

  “Think of Rory,” he adds at the end, his voice dropping lower.

  But I am, I want to say. I am thinking of Rory. All the time. Every second of every day. And Rory would never choose this. She wouldn’t be a part of something this ugly.

  I don’t say any of this, though. Because I realize I pity him. He wants revenge, someone to blame, because he's sick with grief. Does that make him a bad person?

  Does it make me one, for not wanting the same things?

  Finally, George moves away, releasing me, and smiles. The smile remains perfectly frozen on his face when he says, “I don’t think I need to emphasize that we expect complete silence from you.”
/>
  This, without a doubt, is a thinly veiled threat.

  I don’t know what to do or think. I nod, hoping that’ll be enough. He nods back, and then he stands there, watching me creep back inside my house.

  I remove my shoes to avoid making any sound, and go to the counter and pick up the tablet. I access the settings and erase all history of tonight, wishing I could do the same with my thoughts. When I arm the security system, I wish I could do that, too. Arm myself against the world and lock myself away.

  The whole while, I feel George’s eyes boring into my back, through the glass door. Whether he’s actually there or not, I feel his eyes. I feel all of their eyes.

  They’ll be watching me from now on.

  My feet drag the whole way to my room; I’ve never felt so exhausted. The events of the night are clinging to me, the feel of George’s poisonous kiss still burning on my lips.

  When I open the door, Alexei is sitting on the edge of the mattress, waiting.

  16

  Alexei stares at the floor. The small lamp on the night table casts a warm and comforting glow across the room. I’m so relieved, I don’t care he’s here to confront me. I want to tell him everything. The words are right there, poised on the tip of my tongue. Alexei is the one person I can be honest with. That’s his purpose in my life right now, and I want to tell him the truth.

  I open my mouth, ready to unload everything, only to promptly slam it shut again. Something holds me back, a thought pops into my head.

  What will happen to George, if I tell Alexei everything right now? He’ll probably be arrested. Can I betray him like that? What would Rory think?

  I couldn’t live with myself, knowing I betrayed George—knowing Rory would hate me for it.

  The tracker pen feels like it’s burning a hole in my pocket as I stand in the middle of the room, torn.

  No, I decide. I won’t betray them.

  But I won’t help them, either.

  Alexei doesn’t notice my internal struggling. He lifts his head slowly, and I can tell he’s disappointed, even if his face doesn’t quite show it. “Should I ask where you were?”