Citizen: Season One | Uncured Series

by Maggie Ray

  It isn’t until it’s over that I fully realize what I’ve done. When I release him, Alexei is glaring.

  The embarrassment is fast and hot behind the panic from a moment ago, and I instinctively recoil. What was I thinking? There’s a simple answer to that, which is that I wasn’t. We’ve been too comfortable around each other and I’ve gotten confused. I’ve forgotten—I’ve forgotten that cured people don’t feel, not like I do.

  I’ve never been more afraid of Alexei than in this moment, and something Rory once said, something I overheard in the labyrinth just before George kissed her, comes to mind: I have the most awful feeling.

  I hadn’t understood, back then, but now I think I do.

  “Sabine,” Alexei speaks finally, a warning.

  He sounds like he pities me, like I’m something fragile that needs to be handled with care. My stomach twists with self-disgust, and my eyes drop to the floor in a weak attempt to conceal my true feelings.

  The coats and the boots are stacked against the walls, hanging from hooks, bearing witness to my embarrassment. There is nowhere to hide.

  “I have to go,” he says, more softly this time. “If I’m late, it’ll look bad. You being here is bad enough.”

  His pity is too much, and angry words spill out, almost of their own accord. “Is that all you care about? Do cured people care about nothing at all?”

  I’m hoping an argument will distract him. I don’t expect his response in the least.

  “I’m not cured,” he says.

  18

  He says it calmly, almost apologetically. I’m not cured. I look up and stare at him for long seconds, not understanding.

  “How can I be?” he says. “A cured person would never have helped you like I did.”

  I don’t believe it, at first. “But you—you act just like them.”

  “So do you. So does anyone like us—anyone who has to. I used to think it worked for me, but I’ve come to realize it didn’t.”

  I wonder what made him realize he isn’t cured. I wonder if it’s me.

  “You’re not making any sens—”

  “I have to go.” He’s really scared now. For both of us, I realize. “Don’t you see what this could do? Why did you even come here?”

  I don’t know how to begin answering that. There’s too much to say, not enough time.

  He turns towards the door again. This time, he doesn’t make it outside.

  We feel it when the explosives go off, even at this distance. The ground shudders like in an earthquake and all the lights in the house blink on and off. We catch ourselves on the walls, something falls off a shelf in the next room, we hear it shattering into pieces.

  There’s a beat of silence before the electricity clicks on again. The microwave beeps, the fridge hums.

  I practically collapse from the relief. It’s over.

  Alexei whips towards me. His face shifts through a quick succession of emotions—he’s panicked and confused, he feels betrayed and he’s accusing me.

  He turns and throws the door open, stepping outside. I follow, and we seek the horizon for signs.

  A part of me didn’t think they’d go through with it, but the evidence is here before my eyes. The smoke is a deep black, rising into the sky above the trees in the near distance. I know their target was the bridge, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the building itself suffered damages.

  “You knew,” Alexei says, and it’s not a question.

  “I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry.”

  In the next instance, there’s an alarm, ringing clear across the collective. Not the usual kind, like a fire or a security alarm. This is a state of emergency. The collective is equipped to defend itself. Mandatory evacuations will start downtown, people will be forced to return home. I have a feeling I won’t need an excuse for my absence from work this afternoon. One problem solved, only to be replaced by another.

  There isn’t time to go into details, and Alexei starts pushing me back. “Go inside. I’ll be back later.”

  I don’t want to let him go. I try to reach but I grab nothing but air. He's already gone, there’s no other choice.

  Something inside me shrinks and I retreat to the safety of the house.

  ∆∆∆

  After he’s gone, I go to the bathroom and wrap my knees in bandages, then I change into a pair of pants to hide the evidence.

  All the while, my mind replays the events of the day.

  Did I really run here like this—skin my knees bloody—kiss a peacekeeper? Did I really save someone, instead of cursing them?

  Today, I wasn’t forgettable. I wasn't hidden behind my sister’s ghost. Today, there was something interesting about me, the individual.

  When I look in the mirror, the one hanging above the sink, I hardly recognize the face looking back. I get the impression I’m meeting myself for the first time, and perhaps that’s true, in some way. Perhaps I have been invisible to myself, like I’d forgotten who I was over the years.

  I’m not sure I had entirely realized, until this moment, how much I’ve lacked an identity of my own—how much time I’ve wasted, being contented living as other people’s shadows. Now, all at once, like two images eclipsing each other, an identity superimposes itself onto my reflection.

  Who am I?

  I’m the kind of girl who isn’t afraid to take risks. A girl who cannot be controlled, manipulated, or cured. The kind of girl who falls in love with peacekeepers.

  ∆∆∆

  My stepfather returns, alone. I meet him at the door and help him out of his coat.

  “You’re not hurt?”

  “No,” he says, and he actually sounds rattled for a cured person. “They sent you guys home, too?”

  I nod, a small lie. “Where’s our peacekeeper?”

  “He had to stay there. They need all the help they can get.”

  That makes sense, although I don’t like it. We settle in the living room to wait, unsure of what to do with our time. My stepfather seems normal enough, but he also doesn’t seem altogether calm.

  I have to fight hard not to fidget. I could chew my nails clean off, I’m so nervous.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

  “There was an explosion.”

  “But was anyone hurt?”

  “No. It was just the bridge. A couple windows blew out, but that’s it. They had to put planks over the river, to get us back across.”

  I listen while keeping my eyes on the window, hoping to see the car.

  My stepfather rises from his chair. “I suppose we should eat something.”

  It’s a bit early, but I don’t argue and follow him into the kitchen. We cook something fast and eat standing over the counter. My appetite isn’t strong, so I have to force the food down.

  I figure I’ll need the strength to get me through tonight, since I don’t expect to rest until Alexei returns.

  While we eat, we watch the news for updates, not that they’re broadcasting any. They keep playing news coverage from other sectors, other collectives. Nothing about us.

  Maybe they're embarrassed. Someone has gotten the best of them. Several someones. I can picture all their faces, standing around that table in the basement, the light bulb hanging overhead. Cee with her stormy eyes and her determination. Markai with his cigarette, poisoning us all slowly. The girl with the black hair I met today at work, the others, George.

  This isn’t as simple as the protests in the streets we had in the beginning, the incidents we saw reported each day on our television screens. They’d expected all of that, they knew there would be pushback during the early days of the new law.

  Those days were violent enough, but this is worse. An act of terror.

  That’s why they aren’t broadcasting it. They probably don’t want to cause widespread panic. It would mean admitting the cures aren’t working like they should—it would mean exposing their weak spot.

  We watch the screen, the man reporting onsite at a
bride market in another collective. In Reye, our bride markets don’t get much news coverage, but in the bigger collectives, it’s a thing. The festivals are huge, thousands of people crowded in one place.

  It reminds me of Rory, and that time we snuck into the bride market together, and how I caught her with George in the labyrinth.

  It seems ridiculous to be watching festivals, when there’s a war waging in our streets.

  I turn the TV off.

  19

  It’s late by the time Alexei returns. He stands at the foot of his bed and waits for an explanation.

  The best I come up with is, “I fell asleep. Sorry.”

  It doesn't explain why I've come to his room in the first place, but he used to do it, so why can’t I? Nightfall is the only time we can really talk.

  Tonight, he says nothing. He quietly removes his watch and unbuttons the collar of his shirt, his face marked with deep lines.

  I sit up and fold my legs, feeling shy. He turns on the bedside lamp and then sits at the foot of the mattress, as far from me as possible, staring at the floor.

  We’re uncomfortable with each other now. His revelation has ruined things.

  Nothing is safe anymore. Neither of us is cured.

  “Are you alright?” I ask.

  “No.” A twitch of the mouth. I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a smile or a grimace. “Not tonight. Tomorrow, maybe.”

  He’s using my old words back at me.

  I find a loose thread in the bedding and pick at it. Since he won’t look at me, I won’t look at him. “Don’t you want to know who did this?”

  He sighs. “It’s better if you don’t tell me.”

  “Why not?”

  “You shouldn’t be too involved,” he says. “You’re already too involved.”

  It sounds like he’s mostly saying it to himself.

  “They might already be looking for me,” I say. “I left work early to get here. I set off the fire alarm. They’re going to see it on the cams.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Okay.”

  He looks uncomfortable, and I desperately want to fix this sudden distance between us, but I don’t know how.

  “What happens next?” I ask, and I feel sad when I say it. He hasn't even answered the question yet, but already I feel sad.

  He directs his words at the floorboards. “They’re sending me away.”

  I’m not surprised. It's like I knew.

  “Do they know the attack was meant for you?”

  He shakes his head. “No one realized I was late picking up your stepfather—no one clued in I was supposed to be on that bridge when the explosion happened.”

  “Then why are they sending you away?”

  “Because I’m one of the best,” he says. He means one of the worst, although it depends from which angle you’re looking. “They need someone they can trust to start the process in the next collective.”

  The process. Those words hitch in my mind. Is that what they call it? Invading and uprooting our lives, it’s all a simple protocol to them.

  There’s a brief moment of silence while we both sit there in the glow of the lamp. I trace his profile with my eyes, willing him to look at me, but he never does.

  Finally, I ask the important question, the one that’s weighing on my mind. “When do you leave?”

  There’s a pause—a sigh. He sounds tired, and not in the usual way. “In the morning.”

  ∆∆∆

  From my bedroom window, I strain to see the car outside. It pulls up to the curb and idles softly in the dark. It doesn’t seem the least bit apologetic for coming. Less than a minute later, Alexei’s figure appears in his black coat, cutting a dark shadow on the front lawn. He strides down the foot path, never looking back. A single bag goes into the backseat with him. The door shuts.

  I watch the car disappear, a tightness coiling my chest. Can it really be that easy? Can a person exit your life just like that? One moment they're here, the next they're gone, and the screen fades to black—the curtain falls.

  A darkness settles over me, like a cloud shifting into place overhead. It’s long minutes before I manage to walk away from the window.

  By that afternoon, a new peacekeeper shows up. It happens exactly like it did when Alexei first arrived. My stepfather and I are both standing at the door, ready to greet him.

  My stepfather even says the same thing. “I’ll show you the spare room.”

  The peacekeeper nods. This one has dark hair and squinty eyes that are too close together, and he’s not as tall, not as threatening. Maybe they’re easing up on us a bit.

  Or maybe there’s no one else available.

  He follows my stepfather through the house, towards the spare room. It’s already been cleaned, someone came by to do it earlier.

  After he sees the room, he comes back out to speak to me, pointing those little eyes. “I’m afraid I have a few questions for you.”

  He leads me into the kitchen, and we sit at opposite ends of the table. The peacekeeper places a recording device on the table, and I watch the little red blinking dot, my throat tightening.

  “This is just a precaution,” the peacekeeper says. “Due to the recent incident.”

  I nod and sit very still.

  He takes a tablet out and reads from the document on the screen. “The day of the incident, the reports show you were at work until the evacuation.”

  Alexei must have taken care of that part, like he said he would. I nod again.

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I came home and waited for my stepfather.”

  He looks at me, then back at the screen. “You were at home with him for the rest of the day?”

  “Yes.”

  He types something. “We’ll cross examine him to confirm this. Have you ever heard the name Cee Kephart?”

  He slides that question in so smoothly, I hardly notice. He studies my face, testing me for cracks.

  “No,” I lie, and my voice comes out right. It doesn’t get small, like it used to. I’ve gotten better at that.

  He keeps going, “She’s around your age, you never met someone by that name at school?”

  I shake my head.

  He moves on. “How about the name Markai Davis?”

  “No.”

  “Maddison Shaw?”

  “No.”

  “Rory Renaud?”

  He threw her in there on purpose, trying to trip me up. It works, I pause.

  “Yes.”

  He taps at his screen some more. “How do you know Rory?”

  It’s a pointless question. He already knows the answer, that’s why he’s mentioned her.

  “We were childhood friends.”

  “Good friends?” His eyes squint even more, if that’s possible.

  “Yes.”

  I wait for him to mention Corinne. That’s what he’s getting at, isn’t it?

  “Were you aware that Rory is in a coma?”

  My throat tightens further, but the numbness is right there, and I reach for it, pulling it around me like a comforting fog, relying on it to get me through. The same thing I’ve been doing ever since I saw her in that bed at home, slowly dying.

  Already dead, in a way.

  “Yes.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  His tone of voice makes it sound like the test questions Corinne used on me, back at the clinic for my check-up. The test I failed.

  I try not to deviate from the truth, without revealing too much. “It’s unfortunate.”

  His voice goes up a notch in volume. “Have you experienced any drastic emotions regarding your friend’s situation?”

  “No.”

  His voice goes up again. “Have you experienced any drastic emotions regarding the cure and what it has done to your friend?”

  I recognize what he’s doing. He’s digging for a motive, a reason I might get involved in any resistance efforts.

  I keep
my voice even. “No.”

  “Have you or anyone you know participated in any resistance efforts against the current government?”

  He’s almost shouting now, his voice rising from low in his abdomen, his throat bobbing with the effort. I wonder if they teach this at peacekeeper school, if it’s an interrogation method meant to apply pressure on the subject, or if it’s something he learned all on his own.

  Maybe he’s not as harmless as he seems.

  I’m surprised I’m able to stay calm, but I guess I’ve gotten good at regulating my emotions. Every day since the cure has been a test, a practice. This isn’t all that different.

  I tell him the truth. “I would never participate in any acts of terrorism.”

  He leans back in his chair. I’m thinking he’s satisfied with my answer, but then he throws in something completely unexpected. “How much do you know about your biological father?”

  I frown. I can’t help it. “Nothing.”

  Thankfully, he doesn’t appear alarmed by my reaction. “Your father was an active participant in known rebel groups. You’ve never had any contact with him?”

  I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

  The peacekeeper reads something on his tablet. “Says here he committed suicide seven years ago, after serving five years of his sentence at the rehabilitation penitentiary. It says that any attempts to cure him had failed.”

  Seven years ago. The same year as my mother.

  Maybe that’s why she did it. She couldn’t stand to live in a world without him. The possibility enters my mind in a flash, whole and compact. It would make perfect sense, wouldn't it?

  But of course, I'll never know for sure.

  “You never had any contact with him during his sentencing?” the peacekeeper asks.

  I need to say something now, I can’t keep giving non-answers. “We never knew anything about him, and I don’t remember him from my early childhood.”

  I’m relieved none of my emotions appear to be breaking through the surface.

  On the inside, I’m spinning. No wonder I had one of the top-ranking peacekeepers assigned to my household—no wonder I was one of the first people to be cured—no wonder I’m being interrogated now.