The Other Four//Between The Voids

Chapter 1: Celeste - Falling From Space

Chapter Text

Rational thought is the first thing to go when you find yourself snatched around the torso by an invisible hand and suddenly pulled up into the sky. I was fairly certain it wasn't an animal that had grabbed me, but I couldn't move my limbs or turn my head to see for sure; I was frozen, arms wrenched to my sides—surrounded.

Things I would never have conceived one minute ago as existing were now very real threats needing to be checked off a list, and so far, I'd checked off all but two: I had died and was going to heaven, or I'd severely pissed off God and was on my way to explain myself.

The elevated train I had been sitting in chugged down the line without me, a boulder-sized hole above what had once been my seat; for a moment I could hear the other passengers still screaming in alarm, then I was pulled further, raised higher, and there was nothing but the wind rushing around my ears.

“Help!”

I was fully aware that my predicament might require more than the police, and that no one was likely to come or hear me: there was nothing for miles but a canopy of trees. In one direction, the ocean, and the other, the towering city of Onem with its glittering surface and seedy underbelly, where no one besides the companies I paid bills to was going to notice I was gone.

Quick, think: what have I done to deserve this? Or, is it what I didn't do?

I wanted to fight even though I had no idea what I was fighting against. If it was God then so be it—life wasn't that great and I had nothing to live for anyway, though my heart hurt for my houseplants, probably left to wither in my tiny apartment in Lemon Grove. And hell, maybe if God had something to say to me, then I had something to say to It.

Because God could be mad at me for the things I didn't do, but I was mad at It for doing what It did.

Why would a creator give me visions—the ability to see all kinds of terrible tragedy—without any way to do something about them? What was the point of that? I didn't need to see, I didn't want to know: but I did, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I almost always saw the victims: almost never the perpetrator.

I had seen more looks of agony and despair than I could fathom, manage, remember, or count. I'd heard more screams than I could handle, and all of them, all of them gouged me, scooped out my insides, and took parts of me away. I was thin and ragged, a stooping skeleton with long blonde hair and androgynous features, cosmic blue eyes that saw all and were hardly seen. I languished in anger and despair, always looking to the sky and questioning why.

And now, I was jettisoning towards it at top speed.

Let it be God, I thought. I have something to f*cking say to you.

I rose higher and faster, the air thinning, becoming colder as the ground got smaller and the curve of the world began to take shape; I found myself becoming lightheaded, weary, and a larger sense of doom began to encroach.

“Oh...” I muttered, my eyes rolling, closing slowly. “sh*t...”

When my eyes did open my vision was all white; it took me several moments to realize I was in the clouds. The wind rushed and my hair whipped at me, the ground tens of thousands of feet below, and it seemed like this would be all there ever was ...

… until slowly, but not slowly enough, I began hearing the unmistakable roar of a plane engine, off to my side and up above—and if I was predicting the trajectory of our paths right, we were about to meet.

Was I really ripped out of my train seat to be hit by a plane?

“Oh god, oh sh*t, please no, please!” I screamed, but my voice, which seemed foreign to me, was drowned out by the loud roar—and I screamed again, just as I saw the plane to my left, the tint of windows visible to me from there, and as I squeezed my eyes shut and braced for impact, I heard it suddenly below my feet, whizzing by at faster speeds than even me, and suddenly I was spinning, swirling, and still catapulting towards the sky.

My eyes fluttered and my heart skipped, I lost consciousness continuously—and then I had that sinking-into-a-vision feeling, and the dread that came with it.

At first, the image was swirled, like a few drops of paint in water. Then it became clearer, and more vivid, coming together in pale blue—and I saw a sprawling, white, modern home on the beach, with tall windows and a deck, to which a large yacht was moored.

Standing on the deck was a man. He was lean and pale, with sharp features, light hazel-green eyes, and a mop of dark hair falling into his face; I was so struck by a sense of familiarity, a face from another life, that I almost didn't notice that he wasn't standing—he was levitating, flying several feet off the ground. His brows were furrowed in concern, his eyes were urgent, and he appeared to be shouting at me to take notice of something, his finger thrust to the sky, but I could barely hear him—

The word I intuited was, “Look!”

My eyes fluttered open at his command, but the air was thinner and I couldn't listen; I passed out again, into another vision.

A woman was sitting at what looked like a fancy bar with the lights turned low and a tall-stemmed glass gripped in her hand. Diner chatter echoed painfully through the vision, vibrating the edges, making it hard to see. The woman's features were icy, I had olive skin, and dark hair around fiery-ember eyes—but, it was like she had layers of different paper over her face, and each layer kept shifting, changing, somewhat distorted, into other people.

“It's coming,” She said, her voice an unnatural hiss. “It's bringing him with it.”

I didn't know what that could possibly mean, what 'him' the woman was referring to—before I could question it further, the vision swirled again, and I saw a large bird, the size of a plane, fly over a jungle of gnarled trees.

My gaze dropped down into them, and I saw fog rising from marshes, and then, I saw a man in fatigues, carrying a rifle and crouched in the elephant grass, covered in dry mud and fresh swamp water, tendrils of blonde falling towards hardened yellowy-green eyes—but there was a deep sense of loss and sadness in them, something I could tell he hoped was hidden.

He said quietly, “It's too late—they're already here,”

He rose up from the grass with his rifle, and as he did, the scene changed—the fog lifted, the elephant grass and marshes became a long, overgrown meadow spotted with wildflowers, below a stormy midday sky.

A girl of about twelve or thirteen, though very small and underfed, stood in the clearing with a numbed expression, poorly-chopped red hair and eyes like emeralds, and an upturned palm, cupping the middle section of a mountain range in the far background; as she slowly closed her fingers into a tight fist, the mountain behind her crumpled, the rock cracking like mounds of dirt and sliding down the surface face. And with a voice too firm for her age, said readily, “We can fight them here.”

Fight? We?

I, all at once, saw time moving quickly forward, the grass growing and the sky shifting from day to night to brilliant to cloudy—then, I saw them, all of them including myself, standing side-by-side in the valley, looking worse for wear, looking towards the space the girl had cleared out—no, they were looking up, towards the sky, waiting for something—

And then I saw the whole of Onem, an extremely large and over-built city surrounded by thick forests of trees; I saw the districts, differentiated by the way they shone and rose to the sky, gleaming and glittering and clean—or disintegrated and crumpled, with every darkened space plastered with neon advertisem*nts. I saw the elevated trains that swirled through the city high above the ground, and the cluster of cars on the roadways down below.

It was normal—even peaceful from this distance.

Then, I heard, and felt, a boom, and I saw the air particles jerk, the buildings sway—and one by one I saw like dominoes, the skyscrapers of Onem begin to implode, and crumple floor-by-floor from the middle. The trains fell off their tracks 110 stories above the ground, the cars careening and slowly twirling as they made their fall, smashing into the sides of the falling buildings, all of the carnage racing itself to the earth—and I heard and felt the immeasurable death that had just taken place.

I saw smoke filling the air, and then, superimposed into the scene I saw six figures begin to take shape. I knew, despite it being just a vision, that these figures didn't belong there and were coming from somewhere else—perhaps in more ways than one.

I couldn't see them yet, but even the silhouettes of them made my hackles rise, skin crawl, and a sour taste spill across my tongue, quickly filling my mouth like the saliva that accompanied nausea—and I knew that they were to blame. They were the ones the others were warning my about—and this was why.

I focused on them, these figures of death, and had a strange feeling that I shouldn't but at the same time, I couldn't understand why I wouldn't—I had to see their faces.

I tried to sharpen their images, bring them to the forefront of the smoke—and I did too much.

All of a sudden, without a blink, I was hovering in a small, nondescript room, with what I thought might be a deep, wine-red carpet. And in it were the six figures, five of which were still shadowed but discernible, dressed strangely in pointed, angled clothing.

The sixth one was in front, very much in clear view, and put a deep chill through my.

He was a tall, looming, slender figure, with pale silver hair that darkened around his ears and nape, square and narrow features, appearing somewhere in his fifties or sixties. His head was co*cked, his fingers cupping his chin thoughtfully, and he was looking right at me.

And I knew he saw me too.

The realization hit me like a two-fisted punch to the chest.

“Aphaste,” He said, softly, and a tall, tan, bald woman standing with the others picked her head up to look at him.

He kept his eyes on me.

“I like what this one can do.”

Panic pooled in the base of my chest and I gasped, the air pulled straight from my lungs—my vision went black, and then I had the feeling of finally being freed from underwater, my head raising from a tub, and I gasped again, this time inward, and opened my eyes—

And lost my breath again at what I saw, and forgot for a moment what I had just seen.

It was the blackness of space, stretching for endless eons in any direction, dotted with stars, trails of gas nebulae, other galaxies in the deep distance and some just close enough to give a dreamer hopes of reaching it. And, straight ahead, my own planet, Tellus, right in front of my in a way I had never seen before.

The world was so much larger, more vibrant, more detailed, then I could have ever imagined.

I saw the ocean's currents and depths, in brilliant hues of blue and topped with white foam; I saw the continents that looked small on paper becoming glaringly large, etched in ridged, staggering, triumphant mountain ranges, and off-gold coasts.

I saw the nighttime blotted in lights, and the daytime blurring out the lines of where territories were drawn. I saw the sun in the just-perfect distance, and I saw the moon, and a couple other planets, hovering nearby.

I had seen pictures; I had seen with telescopes and with my own eyes, the closet planet to ours hovering near enough to be seen quite clearly for a large part of the day—but this was so much more unimaginable. It was achingly beautiful, and immensely terrifying in its grandness, distance.

How did I get here? How am I alive? These were the questions I couldn't begin to process but sat at the forefront of my mind anyway, like a sopping blanket atop my head.

I turned my head, realizing I could do that now, and I could even move my arms and legs, though I hadn't the faintest idea how I'd move them or where—I still wasn't sure what was happening but it was occurring to me that … maybe … this wasn't a vision anymore.

So I left my limbs hanging loosely at my sides, and looked around, moving only slightly, slowed some by the lack of gravity. Beyond my shoulder was the inky blackness of space, dotted in color, in light, in life—yes, I could sense it all around me, the many worlds inhabited by others, and in some part of my brain I felt a map unlock, as if I could turn my gaze in any direction and know what I'd find on the other end.

Then I started … noticing something.

Between the nebulae and the empty vastness, light from stars projected towards me—but some were disappearing and reappearing, which was something I didn't think stars did.

Curiously, I tilted my head and squinted, and as I watched them ebb and flow it reminded me of waves crashing … something swimming … swimming …

That woman's voice, the one I saw earlier, whispered in my hiss through my ears again:

It's coming.

My body felt like it was plunged in ice water, and as it neared the light of the sun, I began to see a shape, a dim outline of something large and bulbous, the deepest color of space in the darkness.

It's bringing him with it.

My heart thudded hard in my chest, my jaw dropped, eyes popped, and I only had time to think, “Oh my god,” before I had a sudden sensation of the ground dropping from beneath my feet, stability ripped from me. I fell onto my back, through the blackness of space, and too soon, way too soon, the inkiness was yanked away like a cloth ripped from a table, and the blue tones of the oceans and the green and gray landscaping began climbing higher in my peripherals.

There was no escaping it now—the world and me were beginning our course for collision.

I reached with my hands and grasped at the sky to save me, air slipping between my fingers, and all I could do was fall with the fear, as I cut through the clouds like a heated knife, until I reached the other side. The image of my hands plastered against the distant clouds and sky was seared into my brain, and, without a doubt, shaping up to be the last thing I ever saw.

Out of the corners of my eyes, I could see the sprawling metropolis of Onem, gray and tall and sleek, illuminated by sun, racing to meet me.

“Oh f*ck, please help me,” I heard myself say, but the words were meaningless, aimless, directed at no one.

I was now so close I was starting to recognize some of the buildings I was on a direct path towards; and then, I was falling beside them, between them, and I saw the reflection of myself falling on the windows that I soared past—the only thing left was the road below my.

I closed my eyes tightly, let out the scream I'd been too afraid to let go of, and braced for impact, only feeling twinges of hope as long as the wind was still racing around me.

Then I hit the ground, and the last thing I heard before everything went dark was the sound of concrete busting around me.

Chapter 2: Renner - Beast Mode

Chapter Text

2^nd Squad, Hostage Stud, had been air-dropped into the ocean outside of Resu Mai armed with only the provisions we'd need to survive for 90 days, our rifles, and our training. The only piece of technology we had in our possession was a handheld tablet that ran off solar power and was used to transmit our findings back to base—and it only did that. No satellite calls to Mommy or Sally Sue on this trip.

Bobbing in the ocean was the first time the seven of us got a look at our new home: a small island with two fat mountain ranges, blanketed with trees and sloping rock faces; in the valley between the two ranges were marshy, canopy-covered, leech-infested swamps, hills, and bugs that were basketball-sized—it was aggressively muggy and humid, and all the creature comforts of home, like internet, electricity, running water, and sewer systems were a thousand miles away.

In short, it was a turd floating solo in the toilet bowl. I could agree to that—

But I was exactly where I wanted to be, dreamed of being my whole life: I felt how I imagined the early settlers and discoverers of the world must've felt, trekking the unknown, watching the stars, their hearts racing in anticipation and excitement of everything that was out there under the same sky—hoping to be the one to find it. Our job was to map the terrain, learn the environment, look for suitable spaces to build bases, and get eyes on the enemy. We were cartographers and civil engineers with rifles. If it came to it and the situation broke down, we were instructed to use any tactics we deemed necessary.

We were 21 years old, with no supervision in an unknown world, absolute freedom, and license to kill.

But some members of the squad—Eric—didn't get the picture.

“I gotta tell you man,” Eric McCray sharply swatted at a mosquito by his ear. “I'm so f*cking sick of this bullsh*t it's not even funny. I'm sick of these damn bugs, I'm sick of the f*cking smell around this place—”

“Like sweaty ballsack,” Trick Brasington offered helpfully.

“Like some nasty-ass, rotten-ass algae soaking in stagnant water,”

“Or sweaty vag,” Trick continued, then paused thoughtfully. “Nah, not sweaty, dirty—I like it salty.”

McCray threw an annoyed look behind him. “Would you shut the f*ck up?” He snapped, then he turned to me. “And you? f*ck you.”

I laughed; I wasn't the one who'd chosen where we were dropped off, but I'd be lying if he said I wasn't enjoying it, and right in their faces, too. “What'd I do this time?”

“This time?” McCray's eyes were as wide as saucers. “All the f*ckin' time, man, you're a prick.” I laughed again. “Always makin' us climb this f*ckin' thing or scale that f*ckin' thing—f*ck you! Why the f*ck are we almost a hundred f*cking feet in the air right now? For what reason, besides you want to?”

We were traversing up the side of Lefty—the creative name we'd given to the left mountain range—following a narrow, broken trail of steppes almost completely covered in overgrowth. Tops of umbrella and black gum trees crested a couple hundred feet above the ground, stretching to the sun all across the yawning valley. The other range across the valley, Righty, curved and spiked in shades of gray and green for as far as we could see in either direction.

The sun was shining and the rain came in a light, soft smattering of mist; with the breeze up high, it was sort of cooling, and refreshing. Or, it would've been, if we weren't still wet from the last downpour. But, the spot we were heading to I was considering for our next camp, a small cavern where we could maybe post up, and spread out, which I thought everyone would appreciate. I'd seen the cavern while watching a village down below, and I'd been waiting for an opportunity to check it out.

Today had been the right day: our squad had split up, I volunteering to take the Complainer, the Club Kid, and Forgetful f*ck on a scouting mission while the three other members of our squad, Templeton, Domoske, and Brattier, kept eyes on a village in the valley. I was in charge by title and rank but Templeton had been my best friend and main voice of reason since Entry School, so he—and by extension the rest of the crew—viewed Templeton as my own right arm—we were one and the same and each other, a ying and yang.

And without Templeton around to slow my motivations, I knew the others were very nervous about where we'd end up. But I thought they'd appreciate it in the end, so I was willing to allow their anxieties to heighten as I dragged them up the side of the mountain for seemingly no reason.

“We'll get an eagle-view of the area,” I told McCray flippantly. “Watch from up high. Not to mention, we're safer up here, where we can't see us.”

“Well I’ll just keep that in f*ckin mind. Those words will be the last thing that goes through my head when we turn one of those f*cking rocket launchers up here and blow us all off this damn ridge.”

He didn't really mean any of it, at least not deeply enough to be provoked to action. McCray coped with life by complaining about it, and I had known him long enough to understand that. We called him “Big C” because in Entry, he corrected an instructor on the spelling of his name, which he emphasized was with a “big C”. He spent the rest of daylight sweeping the sun off the sidewalk. He was also a big ass Complainer, so he earned his nickname on multiple fronts.

“Well in that case we’ll all be dead anyway, so I won’t worry myself too much about that,” was what I told him, and I felt his expression flatten. “But we’ll probably be safe if you don’t let them know we’re up here by runnin your f*ckin flap,”

Trick barked out a laugh, which McCray ignored.

“How long did you have that one tucked away for?” McCray asked, sarcastically, and I kept moving up the steppes.

“Don’t you worry, all my remarks are on fly,” He said, and McCray gave a mocking laugh in response, then glanced away. “Trick, what do you think of this little hike?”

Trick looked like a dark-eyed TV star that would get away with drunkenly crashing his car into a nightclub he had just been forcibly evicted from. He was only interested in anything that fired, or climaxed, and each of his stories began or ended with him waking up somewhere. His and my weekends off in Stealth were endless blurs of laughter and fun.

“I happen to like it a lot,” Trick drawled antagonizingly, and then feigned sweeping air towards his face, and taking a giant sniff. “You can really catch that swampy smell carrying across the breeze,”

“What about you, Rover?” I directed the question behind him, at Travers.

Steven Travers was a confusing mix of being good at his job, and not good at his job. On one hand, Travers had an eagle-eye that made him an excellent point man, but somehow, he could never seem to spot when his boots were unlaced or if he’d forgotten he wasn’t carrying his entire 70-pound rucksack after leaving it in the woods. Whatever word one would use to describe a sandy, goofy, tripping-over-his-own-feet idiot savant mutt that could find a dime buried ten feet underground, that was Travers. I had begun calling him “Rover” for that reason, which Travers didn't understand but accepted with a shrug and simplicity, because that's how he was.

“The hike, or the swamp smell?” He replied casually, conversationally, without a lick of sarcasm. “Because the swamp smell kinda sucks, but the hike is okay. It's a great view.” He sent an appraising look to the side of the ridge we teetered on, out into the sprawling valley. It was the most helpful thing he had said in several days.

At least I can always count on Travers to be on board.

“I agree,” I said simply. “Big C, you should take a page out of Rover's book—silver linings, my man.”

“I've got one,” He replied, just as simply. “I can see it, 74 days from now.”

He was talking about his game console—I wasn't knocking it, because at least McCray had something to go back to.

All I had was this; all I had was them.

But even they didn't really know me, though I clung to their brotherhood all the same. I was different, but we had the same ambitions—the same desires—and dreamed of similar things. Wasn't that what mattered? I never said sh*t though. I never told anyone. How could I explain to someone, without freaking them out, that I can hear their hearts beating? The air whooshing through their lungs? How do I tell people I can lift a vehicle, I've never had so much as a cut, and didn't need to sleep more than three hours? How do I bring into conversation that I can run a mile in a handful of seconds, see in the dark, breathe underwater?

I looked like everyone else, tan, blonde hair, green eyes, frame sculpted by the military; I had a sole desire to move the earth with my feet and climb the tallest peaks; I just had something a little extra, too.

I wanted to share the truth with them, and sometimes after a tub-full of liquor I started to get the gumption, the nerve, maybe they won't remember, they'll assume they were drunk, it wasn't real, but then I lose it. I knew we were the same where it mattered, but I didn't know if they'd see it the same. Maybe I was too different. Unnatural.

We kept hiking the mountain, and as we rounded a bend, we could see the village that we'd been watching down below when I first saw this cavern. The locals were goat herders and farmers, quiet little people who looked grateful for bread and did ceremonial dances for what we could only assume were for good harvests or health—and every now and again their peace would be destroyed by the military roaring through in their ancient trucks, swinging rifles and popping any random person they felt like.

We watched them shoot children in the legs, blow the heads off sheep, and threaten entire villages into bowing before roaring off through the trees again. Sometimes they would take people from the villages, and we watched husbands begging as their wives were dragged into vehicles, children being ripped from their mother's arms only to watch her get shot, old men reluctantly following the military to their vehicles while old women cried in despair. We followed them as far as we could before we lost them, their limitations on foot keeping them from following too far. This was a f*cked-up place to be and an even worse place to live in, but I wasn't there to have an opinion: I just took pictures, wrote notes, and reported what I saw. The Seeley military would take care of all this, and our information would make that happen. We believed, anyway.

I was aware that the smart thing to do would be to recon the cavern, watch it for a while and wait to see what we saw. I knew that just blindly walking up to the mouth of this thing was a risk, but I was comfortable with that, even excited about it. There was only this one path to the cavern, and it was narrow, rocky, with all kinds of gaps in the path that would take you on a very long, very jagged slide down the entire face of this beast, and drop you in a broken, mangled pile into the valley. It didn't seem likely that a military would traverse this regularly. They couldn't drive their trucks through here, it was a dangerous climb, and the path showed no signs of activity. Plumes of broadleaf and parlor palms burst from the cracks in the path, making it a fight or an obstacle to skirt, so I felt we would be okay hiding out here—it seemed perfect.

As we made our way around the curve, beginning to leave the blocky little white slab village behind them, we saw the path widen and trail directly into the mouth of the cavern. It was dark, and quiet, with little pools of collected, stagnant water, and naturally-eroded pillars in various shapes and sizes as far as we could see, until there was nothing but the deep, empty blackness of the furthest parts of the cave.

I was about to voice that we were almost there when something scraped behind me, boots siding over gritty rock, and it didn't immediately register as an alarming thing—not until I heard cans in a rucksack rattling and Travers shout, “Oh!”

And the worst thing that could have possibly happened, suddenly f*cking happened.

I whipped my head around in time to see Travers try to correct his misstep by spinning to face the rock wall, but he spun too far, misjudged the weight on his back, and his hands grasped at air, his other foot left the ledge, and before our eyes he fell backwards off the side of the ledge.

“Rover!” I screamed, my voice mixing in with the voices of Big C and Trick, and we all realized at once that none of us could move to grab him, not just because we would knock each other off, but because we were already too late—Travers was plummeting towards the canopy, and the look of shock on his face was instantly seared into my brain.

“f*ck!” McCray screamed and Travers smashed into the rocks, rolled off and broke through the trees, and I couldn't wrap my head around why it happened—but mostly I was struggling with the fact that nothing could be done. “He f*cking fell! He fell! Why the f*ck are we up here?!”

This was my fault, I was the reason we were up here—he never would've fallen if I hadn't told them to come up.

Without thinking, I leapt forward and jumped off the ledge. It was only when I was falling feet-first alongside the rock face and heard Trick and Big C screaming my name that I thought maybe I should've tried a different strategy. But then I broke through the canopy, my vision filling with green and I was being smacked by leaves and thin branches that snapped as I passed them, and when I looked down I saw Travers lying on the ground floor, still and in a mangled heap on the forest floor. I braced for impact and my boots thundered against the dirt and twigs, I hit in a crouch and my eyes went instantly towards Travers.

“Travers—Steven,”

I went to my knees and slid to Travers, and for a long moment, I just took in his position. He had hit on his side, and his arm was bent back underneath his body, his rucksack half-yanked off one shoulder. His legs were twisted in a strange angle, and he was pale, with blood trickling from his mouth and hairline—but he was breathing.

“Steven,” I said again—

And then I realized we weren't alone.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up and I went still, my body seizing in cold as all the blood rushed to my legs. I knew without looking that they were Resu soldiers—I just felt it. The tension was palpable, and their hearts were beating shallowly:

Thwump, thwump, thwump...

My eyes slid up and connected with four uniformed men crouching around a small fire, cupping bowls in their palms and eating rice with their hands, frozen in their movements—each of us shocked to see each other.

Then they started yelling. I didn't know what they were saying, because Domoske was our translator and he wasn't there, but it came together when they dropped everything and reached for their rifles, swinging them towards me and Travers.

Mine was on my shoulder, and while I knew I could get it off and shouldered quickly the chances were they'd fire first and quicker, and kill us; the Resu soldiers' hearts were slamming against their chests, their fingers were tense on their triggers, and the wild confusion in their faces told me that they were gonna let loose on us—

And that couldn't happen.

What was I supposed to do? I'd never really considered we'd be caught, that the jig'd be up so soon—it wasn't supposed to be like this. The mission blown, my buddy lying broken beneath me, and that was mostly my fault, too: it can't be like this.

The only thing I could think to do in that split second was to divert the gunfire, and take it away from Travers.

A roar, a guttural growl came from somewhere deep within my chest, all my hackles were raised, and I started to stand—they opened fire and something hit me in the chest, knocked me back onto my ass but I wasn't dead, though I was pissed—and now felt really cornered.

When I rolled up onto my feet and locked eyes on the four of them firing at me, something else had taken over; I cut through the air like a knife, a steady, heavy calm had filled my chest, my fingers felt like spears and I knew my arms were the most powerful f*cking weapon on this planet. I stared them all down, digging my heels into the dirt, and I figured that when it all came down to it, it had always been them or us, and I'd always choose us—f*ck these motherf*ckers.

I ran towards them and their guns were firing at me, muzzles exploding before my eyes as I bounded across the marshy earth but I kept moving, moving the f*cking world with my boots, and I grabbed the first one, whatever one was nearest to me, grabbed him by his front and hurled him like a Frisbee into the other nearest one, and as they tumbled, their rifles flying, I turned to the third one, picked him up and hurled him like a javelin into the trees above, where he careened into a branch and tangled around it.

There was only one left. He was cowering, laying on the trigger of his automatic, and in the moment I believed that every bullet was magically missing me, but I was vaguely aware of the pinging against my chest and stomach, assuming it was adrenaline—I leapt at the soldier, ducked below the line of fire and grabbed him by his shirt, ripped him up off his feet, and choke-slammed the motherf*cker as hard as I could into the ground.

I went to move forward, to kick at him or something, but the sensation of little pebbles falling down my front momentarily distracted me, and I glanced down to see a cascade of crushed-up bullets fall off my torso, and land in a pile at my feet.

I stared at them for a moment, processing: then I looked to the soldier, and saw him watching me, breathing shallowly, his hands raised.

I had this instantaneous thought that we were f*cked regardless—but if we had one alive, we could get information, then this thing wouldn't be a total bust. Maybe I'd get to keep my job when we were lifted out of here.

But what if he told Domoske about this? What was there to even say?

Do I care more about keeping my secret, or my job?

I was securing the ties on the prisoner when I heard footsteps approaching from a distance, quick-paced boots and rucksacks, and I knew who it was: McCray and Trick, having made their way down the steppes and to the ground.

I looked at the prisoner, seeing his pained face, fear-filled eyes, and through grit teeth snapped, “Say anything about what you just saw and I'll f*cking kill you,” even though I knew the prisoner couldn't understand.

I heard Trick hiss out, “Delta!”

And hissed back, “Lightening!”

McCray and Trick emerged into the opening, their weapons readied and eyes shaded, but when they saw the scene they lowered their rifles and swept the area.

“Good f*ck,” Trick breathed.

McCray snapped, “What the hell happened?”

Trick swept his gaze to Travers then started quickly over, dropping to a knee beside him, his hands extending but pausing, not knowing where to land. “f*ck, man—Rover, can you hear me?”

McCray was glaring at me.

Trick continued, “sh*t, man … sh*t! He's got a f*cking bullet … he's shot. Travers...”

I reached for the handset at my side. We used a series of coded clicks to speak to each other while we were separated, and we had hundreds of patterns: I signaled an emergency to Templeton and the others, and a moment later, Templeton responded with another series of clicks, ready for the grid location, which I patterned out to him.

“Why the f*ck did you have us go up there?” McCray snapped at me, and I slid my eyes to him. “What was the purpose, Renner?”

“How about I'm your f*cking captain, asshole, and I had my reasons,” I snapped back.

“Yeah, you wanted to f*cking show off and waste energy, asshole,”

The words stung but not enough to make me pause. “You f*cking prick, there was a cavern up there—I was taking you all to see if we could post up in there as permanent digs and spread out, get out of the f*cking rain,”

“Will you two shut the f*ck up?” Trick swung his head to look at us, switching to his other knee. “We have a huge f*cking problem here. You were lighting sh*t up down here, alerting the whole f*cking nation to our presence, and Travers has a broken back among other sh*t,”

“I know, I alerted Tem to come back already. We can start fashioning a backboard out of the branches, our twine, and the wire inserts from our rucksacks. We'll move him and get the f*ck out of here.”

The reality was, there was no evac coming—there'd be no helo to come and take Travers, no medical assistance besides what we could do for him, which was simply manage his pain; it would be incredibly difficult to trek these hills trying to keep a backboard steady, but we were all he had—leaving him behind was not an option.

“A backboard,” McCray grumbled and I glowered at him.

“Go find some sticks, some good ones—leave your ruck.”

I could see he wanted to fight me, but the training drilled straight into his DNA left him silenced, tight-lipped, as he sharply dropped his ruck and stormed off.

I watched him go, taking the bag and dropping mine beside it, removing the knife from my calf holster and beginning to slit the fabric, wrestling out the inserts.

Trick was still knelt by Travers, but his eyes were scanning the scene.

“How the f*ck are you not hurt?” Trick asked, eyeing the holes in the canopy above them, the broken branches above Travers' path, that were now littered around him. “How did you not hit him?” Then he looked around, eyeing the dead Resu soldiers littering the ground. “How did—?”

“I don't know, Trick, it all happened so fast.”

“Why is that one still alive?” He pointed to the zip-tied soldier. “What are you keeping him for?”

“Information,” I answered tersely. “Now give me your ruck.”

Trick slid his ruck off, tossed it to me, and didn't say anything else.

__________________________

No one spoke while we waited for the others to meet us. We worked silently and diligently on the backboard, all while listening for any sounds of incoming—either the rest of our squad, or theirs. I was starting to doubt letting the prisoner live, but I'd already committed and believed we could make everything work.

I heard footsteps approaching, boots slicing through tall blades of grass. I felt the ground vibrate, just barely, below me. I listened harder, and could tell by the strides—three different sets of walks—that it was Templeton and the others.

“They're back,” I heard myself say, and Trick looked up, and around, and squinted.

“Where?”

“They'll be here in a minute.”

He stared at me again, then my handset clicked in a pattern at my side—our code for, “We're close, don't shoot.”

Trick shook his head, turning away. “How do you do that?” He muttered, not necessarily directing the question to me, not necessarily wanting an answer.

I wanted to, and normally would, feel prideful at the mention of my unnatural abilities, like it was something I'd worked towards and wanted noticed, rather than something that was just given to me and didn't have to try for. But this time, that little swell building up in my chest was quickly knocked down, smashed cold and flat to my stomach.

I tried to shake it off—think about something else. I had tasks to dole out.

I looked up, and was hit with another realization.

Normally, I'd send Travers to go fetch them, and that information hit me painfully. He was like the dumb, eager little brother of the group, the one who was supposed to leave here, stumble and fail his way into a good life, obliviously becoming a husband and father, beautiful wife and kids, goofing off for his entire existence without a care in the world. He wasn't supposed to die here, but he certainly would, and there was no getting away from that.

“McCray,” I said quietly, and held out my radio. He knew what I was trying to convey. “Make sure you call out when you guys get close.”

Travers had never remembered. It's honestly shocking he hadn't gotten his head blown off earlier.

McCray did his usual thing, rolling his eyes and scoffing, but he got to his feet, grabbed my handset, gripped his rifle, and walked off, muttering under his breath the whole way.

Trick and I sat silently with the prisoner, until the footsteps began to get closer—then, McCray called, quietly but firmly, “Delta!”

Hearing the call actually being used like it was supposed to was almost unwelcome, and hit me oddly. Travers should be f*cking up this moment, like he always did—I preferred it that way.

I didn't answer right away, trying to crawl out of the black hole of thought I'd been sucked into, temporarily losing my ability to speak. So Trick did it for us, calling out, “Lightening!”

A moment later, the four forms of our squad members broke through the trees to our right, stalking through the valley to the hill, and instantly, Templeton looked at me—I could tell he wasn't happy. I guessed McCray had filled them in already.

“What the hell happened?” He snapped, taking long strides up the hill. “What the f*ck is going on, Ren?”

Anton was my best friend and possibly the most reasonable, capable dude I’d ever met. He was tall, lean, athletic and good-looking, with dark skin, perpetually narrowed eyes, and an intimidating aura. We met in Entry School and went through every step of the way to Stealth together. He was no-bullsh*t, and he had a way of knocking me back from the worst parts of my reckless abandon in the pursuit of greatness. He was the only person whose opinion I valued as much as my own.

“There was an accident,” I said. “We were hiking up the slope and Travers fell. I jumped—”

“Yeah I know, C told me. I don't even want to talk about that crazy sh*t right now. Where is Travers?”

I nodded towards him and Templeton scoffed as he walked away.

Ski picked up the task of arguing with me.

Domoske, “Ski” to us, was olive-skinned with parents hanging out in the top echelon of the Service, and he was our translator. That was the sum total of what I knew about Ski, because the guy was a sealed vault.

“What happened when you got down here? How many Resu were there?”

“Four, they were eatin f*cking lunch and looked shocked as hell to see us. They pulled their weapons and I pulled mine, and I got three and managed to knock this f*cker out.”

“But why? Why not shoot his ass too?”

“Because he can tell us sh*t. He has information.”

Ski shook his head slowly, and spoke carefully. “I'm not sure this is good idea.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, we have no extra rations to give him—he's going to need food and water.”

“Why?” I asked. “I want information, not a f*cking pet.”

Templeton looked at me with a strange expression—Ski looked still-faced as always.

“This f*cker—” I pointed a finger in the bagged face of the prisoner, but suddenly, I heard the low, rumbling roar of trucks coming in the distance.

My hand fell, and I looked towards the noise.

“They're coming,” I said and everyone looked at me, looked around, trying to hear what I heard.

“What?”

But I was past the point of explaining and onto the part where I figured out if we had enough time to run. The trucks were coming fast, it sounded like maybe a good handful, maybe more—they were bumping over rocks and hills and careening through the marshes, treading water to get here. Could we run fast enough carrying a half-done backboard?

No, we couldn't—not all of us, anyway. And I didn't know how many people each of these trucks were carrying. Could we take them all? I didn't doubt the skill of the squad, I knew they were all badass motherf*ckers: but we were one down, outnumbered, with a mission to continue …

…. and only one of us is bulletproof.

“Take Steven and go,” I said, and they looked at me like I was insane.

“What the f*ck are you talking about?” Templeton snapped. “No one is leaving anyone behind,”

“I don't even hear anything,” McCray announced, but I ignored him, listening to the trucks coming closer.

“You're gonna leave me behind and it's gonna be okay,” I told Templeton. “I'll be right behind you, I swear. I'm just gonna give you time to f*cking run.”

“Oh, so you're some kinda f*cking superhero now and you can take on these trucks by yourself?” Templeton looked at me sarcastically but I just stared back at him.

“I guess so.”

They gave me bewildered looks, except Trick—he looked more suspicious than anything.

“Bro, what is happening to you?”

They always joked that I was made in a government lab, that I was a machine, a robot, because I didn't need to eat or sleep nearly as much as they did; because I could run forever; because I could bench press more than anyone in any camp we entered; because I didn't break a sweat—but they had no idea what I could do.

And it turns out, I'm still learning some of that myself.

But I know I can take this. I know I can hold these trucks back.

I just need these guys to leave.

The trucks roared closer.

“I hear them now,” Ski told us.

“Get out,” I directed.

“Not without you.”

“I said go.”

Templeton glared at me. “Ren, move your f*cking ass!”

“I SAID GO!”

The entire squad buckled at the waist and staggered back a step like they'd been gut-punched, and Trick looked up at me; his eyes widened.

“What the f*ck?”

His jaw dropped.

“What … are …?”

The sound of the truck engines began to echo through the valley, they were maybe two hundred feet away now and would be here any second.

I turned around, hearing my own breathing becoming heavier, labored; my fingers had begun to curl and clench into fists.

“Go,” I growled. “Now.”

I dug my heels into the dirt, didn't even think to reach for my weapon. I glared into the tree line, waiting.

“Ren!” Templeton screamed.

Then they were there, eight rusted, battered trucks careened through the trees and bounced over the hills, their suspensions lifted and shocks squealing—and within seconds bodies flooded from the trucks, what looked like twenty from each f*cking vehicle, and they were all screaming and waving weapons, I heard Tem and everyone else screaming behind me, and I stepped forward, towards the trucks with my hands beginning to raise—and then there was the sound of uncountable pops of gunfire, and suddenly, I was being pelted, from every direction it felt like, each bullet hitting like a sharp, hot stone on my head, face, eyes, torso, legs.

But I wasn't dying.

I closed my eyes and covered my head, I sank to my knees under the barrage and I screamed, screamed, screamed with everyone and everything else in this godforsaken f*cking jungle, wondering why the f*ck those assholes hadn't left when I told them—

Because I didn't want them to see—

—didn't want them to know—

—I didn't know what I was, either.

When I opened my eyes, the world was in hues of yellow and black—I heard myself panting, my heart pounding, blood coursing thickly through my veins, and there was a tight strain in my back—but mostly, the Renner I had been before took a back seat to someone, something else.

Whoever the f*ck I am, I'm done with this sh*t.

Glaring upwards into the gunfire and into their faces I snarled—

“f*ck you, motherf*ckers.”

And then I was bounding across the field, I was either on all fours or on nothing at all—I sliced through the air like a searing knife and entered their ranks like a battering ram, I was moving at a speed I couldn't comprehend and swinging my fists, ripping rifles away, throwing bodies into trucks, moving one after the other after the other as bullets continued to fly.

I came out of the whirl and ended up facing the squad. Their rifles were shouldered and lowered, Brattier was down, and so was McCray.

Trick looked at me with a strange, wary expression. He finished the sentence he'd never gotten to.

“What are you, man?”

It hurt more than I'd thought it would.

“I'm your brother,” I growled, and turned away, facing the soldiers clamoring to their feet, calling out in shock. “And I told you to go.”

In that moment I knew I could take them.

I am my own army.

Chapter 3: Terra - Sticks and Stones

Chapter Text

The small town of Cicada had a well-fitting name, because there were nothing but crickets on the streets.

I made my way down the cracked pavement, alongside fallen fences and discarded couches soaked from the rain, looking for any sign of a general store—but every narrow little street I turned down seemed to be filled with even more sullen houses and cluttered yards strangely absent, and I tucked my hands further inside my sweater pockets, shrugging the hood higher on my head.

If things had gone differently, I would be heading to high school next year. I would've been finishing up my last year of middle school, which would have likely been fraught with all-important crises and drama, whirlwinds of long-lasting memories and fights with friends. I would've maybe liked a boy, and maybe he would have liked me back, or maybe he wouldn't've. Maybe I would've gotten popular, though that was a stretch that even my imagination felt was too unrealistic to explore. I was always the outcast, and found my place among them, though I didn't quite fit in with them, either. They were a little too weird for my liking, and the others, well, I guess I was too weird for theirs.

But none of that matters now. Things like being cool, having a boyfriend, getting invited to parties—those are realities of a life I can't live anymore, because I lost control. I just couldn't put up with it anymore. I never meant to hurt anyone—I especially never meant to ….

Why couldn't he just leave me alone? Why did he always have to push, to prod, to poke, and rub salt in wounds? What did he get out of that?

Homecoming dances, silent, awkward cafeteria seating charts, lessons about explorers and participles, all of that got swept away in the same storm that ended normality for me.

And I have no one to blame but myself.

I control the weather. I make it rain, shine, snow—I grow plants, I shape the earth. I made that storm.

I was gone before the police came. There was no way to explain what happened—I couldn't hide what I'd done.

Or maybe I didn't want to.

I turned down a corner street and saw, finally, a main road, packed with small diners and run-down shops and charging stations—and a general store.

The sliding doors opened up for me, and I bounced off the little rubber sensor mat into the inside, which was lightly air conditioned, devoid of a lot of in-your-face signage and bright colors, but was organized, and understated in a vintage way. I stood dripping just inside the doors, planning my route.

I grabbed a cart from the small cubby along the side, and the wheel squeaked and rolled and got caught up on itself as I pushed it quickly towards the home hardware section. I perused around for a few as the lights shone down and gentle music played, looking for tarps but finding none. I dripped my way to the auto section, a small bit along the back wall, but only found oil, fluid, and air fresheners in various shapes and colors. So I went back to the home section, careful to avoid people or employees, and picked up a plastic shower curtain—it had to be good enough.

I tossed that into the cart, then went to food, and grabbed an armful of big bottles of water. I threw in some chocolate, trail mix, flavor packets, chips, nature bars, and soap, because I felt like spoiling myself. Lastly, because I wanted to spend the most time there, I went to the feminine products section, and looked for a shade of red I liked.

I couldn't decide between Love-Drunk Passion Red or Romantic Rose red, because, in some way, it seemed like whatever I grabbed would be a reflection of how I felt about me, how I saw myself. I'd never been in love or drunk or felt passion—did I want to? I'd never been given a rose, or known what romance was supposed to look like—but did I want to?

The Rose was a deeper shade; the Passion was slightly more vivid, with the potential of coming off clown-like.

I grabbed the Rose and threw it in the cart, then steered around, found a mixed box of pads and tampons, and stopped to make sure I had everything.

Once I was sure, I steered towards the end of the aisle, where I could see the door in the distance, and then, closed my eyes, and spread my fingers at my side, turning my palm to the store. I imagined fog, deep, dark, dense, roiling fog, starting from the floor and rising up, filling the space—

A woman screamed in shock, and then others started, and someone shouted, “What's happening?”

I opened my eyes, and could only barely see the light of the exit sign peeking above the fog, but it was all I needed. I ran towards it, pushing the cart hurriedly, and as the doors opened, some of the fog followed, wisping out into the daytime.

I kept running, moving quickly through the parking lot and around the few old cars that were sitting there, and in the distance, I could hear the shouts and screams continuing behind me in the store, and someone else speaking loudly, trying to maintain calm, and order.

I didn't stop running until I had made it to the next block. I promptly peeled off my backpack, loaded everything from the cart into it, shoved the cart off to the side, shrugged the backpack on, and ran out of town, into the trees where I could hide, and celebrate yet another successful heist.

__________________

I huffed and puffed my back to my camp. I was paying for everything I'd stolen now, and I went back and forth between accepting it, and trying to figure out how to use my powers to make sure I didn't have to do this ever again.

Powers—god that's so weird to say. When have I ever had power? Control? I'm a kid; my entire life, I've done everything under the thumb of someone whose qualifications were that they'd been here longer than me. What an initiation into the big wide world—here's a beleaguered and irate tall person to boss you around and offer no explanations for their behavior, and you're also not allowed to stand up for yourself to the tall, irate person, because they don't like that, and they'll smack the sh*t out of you if you do and tell you how disrespectful you're being. No wonder we're all so f*cked up.

I adjusted my shoulder straps for the hundredth time, but it didn't help—it just moved the pain to a new spot.

It's hard to imagine having power and control when you've been trained your whole life, by people you trust implicitly from birth, to believe you are powerless; it feels like stepping out of line. But the inherent reality is that I do have power, and somewhere deep down inside I know I can control it—and I have to be able to come to terms with that.

These things required so much more introspection than I cared to delve into. A large part of me was still clinging to the idea that one day, I'd just know—I'd get older and things would start clicking, like light switches in my brain flicking on. I'd have wisdom I don't have now, patience I lack; I'd be an Adult, Capable, All-Knowing, with extended resources and uncompromised authority.

But part of me was also starting to recognize that that was a bunch of bullsh*t.

Below the soft music playing through my headphones, I heard the grainy rumble of tires rolling over asphalt behind me, and my heart tightened in my chest—at that point, it was too late to hide.

My blood cold, chills radiating down my neck and spine, I looked to my left, and saw a deep blue SUV pulling alongside me, and then, the white Police logo.

My heart thumped hard once and seized.

I stopped and so did the police car, and a second later, the passenger-side window lowered.

The officer was maybe in his late thirties, but he wasn't wearing a uniform. He looked like he could be a high school statistics teacher, or like someone’s dad—average and kind of dorky, dark hair, polo shirt; the whole nine yards. Just some guy you’d see walking through the grocery store, maybe with a family, a wife that also wears polo shirts—just … some guy.

He was leaned forward, peering out at me, and I reached up and took out my headphones, faintly hearing the music continue before I lowered them down at my side.

“Hey there, sorry if I spooked ya,” He held up a hand, not seeming that sorry. “I’m trying to find Ne-Mart—do you know where it is?”

Do I … what? I didn’t take my eyes off of him.

“You’re asking me about Ne-Mart?” I questioned, unable to stop the furrow of confusion forming on my face. It all seemed so ridiculous. He's driving a police car, so presumably, he's a police officer—and he doesn't know where he is? There's no where else but here for miles.

He got a little flushed and looked away, laughed weakly, and sent glances towards the side and rear mirrors before turning back to me.

“Yeah, I … I’ve been driving around for a while and I have no idea where I’m going.”

Well I mean … what? I could hear his hazard lights blinking on and off, and at this point, I almost couldn’t look away, but everything in my body was telling me to run from this man.

“Uh … yeah,” I said, slowly. “It’s … I don’t know, down there,” I pointed behind me, “somewhere,”

I didn’t know sh*t about Ne-Mart and was in no way prepared for any type of extensive questioning about it. I wasn't even sure there was a Ne-Mart in town, but it was a pretty successful chain of mini-marts, so I just assumed there'd be one somewhere in Cicada. I'd ripped one off in the last town, Ridgeton—I could tell him where that one was.

He nodded slowly, trained his eyes on the road ahead and gripped the wheel with a hand, went quiet.

“Are you … not from around here?” I asked, slowly, and he looked back at me.

“No. I'm from Utica.”

That was where I was from too; I was starting to get a sinking feeling.

“Oh,” I mumbled. “Yeah, I don't know where the Ne-Mart is, exactly.”

“Are you not from around here?” He queried, and the hazard lights continued to click, click, click....

“Uh,” I scrambled to come up with something. “No, I … I'm from Mer Du, I'm just … visiting an uncle.”

“Oh, an uncle.”

There was something about the way he said it that chilled me. The only reason I didn't run was because of that logo, and the siren on the roof.

“Yeah, I was just … going for a walk.”

“A walk,” He repeated. “Well, it's not safe for you to be walking out here. How about you hop in, and I'll give you a ride back into town.”

It wasn't a question; he stared me hard in my eyes while he spoke and continuously after.

“I … uh, I appreciate the offer, but I … really just need to clear my head. You know, do some thinking? I'll go back to my uncle soon, after I … do my thinking.”

His expression didn't change. “Hop in.”

I didn't know what to do. My body was telling me to run, my brain was telling me to run, but the fear was telling me to do what the police officer said.

The lack of uniform was janky, though. It didn't seem real. But he was in the police car, and unless he'd stolen it—which would mean he wouldn't care about my stolen stash—there was a decent chance I could be caught, arrested, and charged for stealing. The whole thing would be done then. It also seemed like he already knew—he was doing that thing adults do, being fictitious while you bury yourself in lies.

“I'm sorry,” I began slowly, unwittingly putting my voice into a higher octave. “I don't mean to be disrespectful, but ... can I see your … your badge first? It's just, you're not in uniform,” I added quickly, “and I was always taught to … be aware of fake cops.”

I hoped it came off as more innocently cautious than criminally suspicious. He kept staring at me, and then, a moment later, dropped his hands off the wheel and to his sides and shrugged into a blue button-up, with a shiny gold sheriff star on the chest.

I turned into a block of ice as he shouldered open the car door, angled out, and stepped down, then began making his way around the front of the car to face me. His hands rested on his hips above his holster.

I instinctively gripped my shoulder straps tighter and stepped back.

He met my gaze, and spoke almost wryly. “It was a long drive.”

“Oh,” I didn't know how to take that. “Yeah, it's … quite a trip.”

“Why don't you just go ahead and get in now?”

I still didn't move, and he went to the passenger door, opened it, and stood there, waiting.

I felt like the ground was falling out from beneath me as I moved towards it, barely comforted by the fact that he'd opened the passenger door and not the back one. I tried to quell my shaking and not seem like I was holding my breath. In the moments before I climbed in, I thought, this is your last chance—and then I pulled myself in and he closed the door behind me.

I had a brief, impulsive thought to steal the police car, drive away as fast as I could—but he was around the front before I could build the courage, and soon, he was getting in beside me, settling into the seat and sealing my doom.

“Okay, so, how about you show me to your uncle's house?” He suggested in that fake way, reaching for the gear stick.

“Um … sure.”

He began the process of reversing and turning the car, and I squeezed my knees and tried to focus on my surroundings, act like I belonged here, or at least found it curious rather than terrifying. There was a light dusting of ash in the cup holder with a few crumpled bits of paper, and it was decked out with the radio, the dashboard computer, and spotlights on the side mirrors.

“So, what's your name?” He asked, keeping his eyes ahead as I tried to think of somewhere he could drop me off, that was hopefully empty.

“Terra,”

His eyebrows co*cked and head tilted, and he made a noise, almost like he hadn't expected it. “How long are you here for, Terra?”

“Just a few days, I'm actually leaving—tomorrow.”

“Is that so? You going back to Mer Du?”

“No, I'm going to visit my cousin … in Olive Tree.” I thought if he believed I had affiliations with rich people, he'd be more lenient with me.

“Across the river, huh? Well, you're pretty worldly, it seems.”

I watched the evergreens I'd just walked by sail past me again in the opposite direction, feeling my stomach sink harder.

“I guess.”

“So, are your parents in Mer Du? I hear it's nice there—lots of exotic animals. It's mostly safari, right?”

I struggled to remember my geography classes. “Yeah, and warm.”

He laughed. “Yeah, well I suppose it'd have to be. It's funny, the weather down there—they get hurricanes, don't they?”

I went even colder still. “Yes.”

“And heavy lightening storms? Must be intense sometimes.”

“It is,” I mumbled, and he nodded.

“You know what's crazy? Just two months ago, a small hurricane, with bad lightening, hit Utica. But only in one spot.” He scoffed in disbelief, smiled, and sent me a long look. “Weird, right?”

Mixes of lukewarm and icy vibrations ran up and down my body, and not a single atom on me moved.

“Yeah,”

Chapter 4: Ires - Theater of Pain

Chapter Text

The Septaran Corporation was located near Zenith Park in Jolie, looking out at the harbor between us, and them.

It had once been a flour mill, and the building stood imposingly, spread out along a vast stretch of concrete. It consisted of several different buildings all connected into one, standing sixteen stories at the tallest and four at the shortest. The off-white brick had been repaired and cleaned, the windows torn out and tinted ones put in, and the entire interior had been turned into high-end office space.

The sign above the doors simply read Septa Corps, for all to see and giving nothing away.

You know the wiry, red mesh bags that grocery store onions come in? Septa makes those, along with a bunch of other innocuous stuff no one thinks about being made, but does have to get made. You know the fancy mortars dropped on some Who-f*cking-Cares-Where across the world? You don’t, but Septa makes those, too. But they’d prefer if you focused on the bags.

I liked the mortar part, myself.

My office was located on the fourteenth floor. I was treated to a nearly 360-degree view of the area, the harbor on the left and the sprawling landscape of the city to the right, tall and beaming and buzzing, endless flows of traffic moving through the tube trains and down below, on the elevated trains.

I walked into this job ten years to the day. I have endless wealth, a stunning apartment in the center of the most glamorous part of Onem, a sleek car, and VIP access to nearly all of the upscale bars and clubs in business. I have a rich social life, and an exciting job. I want for nothing.

And still, I want more.

Most of the time, I was the lead of a Research and Development team, a bunch of genius scientists working in secret several stories below the earth. I was Jane Devoe, the dark-haired, all-business, uber-professional who came to Septa with glowing credentials and enough charm and presence to enchant a room full of dopey blowhards who inhaled their own farts for the succulent smell of success.

The rest of the time? Well …

I suppose you'll just have to see.

____________________________

You’d think with the kinds of papers that were in the folder being passed over to me, the transactions would be a little more secretive, more formal—with less chit-chat.

“Can you believe they still have the Y tube closed? How long has it been now? A year, almost? A whole ten-mile stretch, closed for a year. And nothing done.”

Even if I weren’t already devoid of the ability to care, I doubted I would have cared. It was one of the more annoying finer points of assimilating into daily life, being forced into the small-talk, the pointless banality of it all.

“It’s unbelievable; I take Express Transfer now.” I said casually. “It’s more congested but it’s quicker than waiting for a Black Card driver, and certainly less time than taking my car through all the tolls, and then finding a spot to park.”

Harold Ramer’s office was the one above mine, and every time I thought about it, it made my throat feel as if it were swelling shut like an allergic reaction, a physical response to the disgust it caused me to know that at any moment during the day, he was moving around up there. Sometimes I swore I could feel him, the presence of him crawling underneath my skin like a trailing insect.

He was older, in his late forties, and his face appeared droopy to me though I could never pick what feature it was exactly that caused the effect; his eyes, just slightly too small, were buried deep under his brow, covered by thick-rimmed black glasses, and the hair at his temples was graying, coarser-looking than the natural brown throughout the rest.

We were standing in the windowed-in breezeway that connected the executive building where we worked to the science departments, underneath the inlaid lights that dotted the ceiling above us, the floors redone in smooth tile. The shadows cast down on his face, making him appear even droopier still.

It pissed me off more than I could rightfully stand, and though I would’ve loved nothing more than to get that head out of my sight, I wasn’t ready for that yet; barring any natural causes or outside forces, he still had five months left. Four, if my workload eased up by then.

It was risky, to kill so close to me, but he was going to be different, a suicide—assisted, of course. My official title was Executive Branch Leader; he was an Executive Leader, sent over by corporate headquarters so I could report to him directly instead of through any other means, which is what I would have preferred.

For the time being, I was settled with the idea of having a boss. Even when I took his position, I’d still answer to someone—I didn’t mind climbing the corporate ladder. In fact, I enjoyed it; the planning, the chase for the top. I was drawn to the job because of the money it would afford me, and I often found myself imagining the kind of money I’d see running the whole corporation, but I couldn’t deny that I had always been the sort of individual who liked to know every detail about whatever situation was put in front of me—so I’d set myself a timeline in years-long increments in which to allow myself free space to learn everything I could in each position I held before moving on.

I felt I knew enough. In five months’ time, he’d feel it too.

“Mm,” He nodded, and my eyes dropped momentarily to the file tucked under his arm, where it had been for the past four minutes and thirty-eight seconds. “Anyway—how are the cogs turning?”

That was his way of asking me how things around the building were going; I assumed he thought it was clever, or cute, but I mostly thought about silencing him, pulling his tongue through his neck. I’d fantasized about it often; it felt too symbolic to pass up, though unfortunately I would have to.

“Everything is well; nothing new to report.”

“And Beverly?”

‘Beverly’ was what we called the microchip-sized explosives that were being built underneath the building we stood in. Some people might find that lack of workplace safety unsettling, but I still had a little bit thrill-seeking left in me, a scrap of teenage bravado that never went anywhere, and I did passingly enjoy the thought of those chips detonating, perhaps all of them at once, and bringing all of us and everyone around us down with it.

The carnage would be tremendous; it was a deeply satisfying visual. As much as I would enjoy seeing it with my own two eyes, knowing it happened at all would be gratifying enough in the last moments—but then again, what would I do with the rest of my life if I were dead?

“On schedule.”

He nodded, and there was a small silence; after a few moments passed and he didn’t move to hand me the folder, I realized he was still intent on talking, and I pushed down a wave of burning—

“Hey, did you hear what happened, about the woman who fell from the sky?”

I began to tune out, expecting this to be the punchline to some sexist joke he felt I'd be “cool” with, since I wore business suits and worked with men.

“Yeah, she fell at least ten thousand feet, hit the ground—” He made a gesture with both hands, slamming the heel of one palm into the other, to simulate the impact “--and broke the ground. Not a scratch on her.”

I froze, iced over in seconds, felt the words crash against my insides like a tidal wave. My eyes cut over to him sharply. “What?”

“Oh yeah, you didn’t hear?” His beady eyes lit up with the gossip ready to be shared.

“No,” My eyes fixed on his. “That wasn’t on the news this morning.”

“No, it just happened a couple hours ago.”

My fingers tensed. “How did she survive?”

“Well that's the crazy thing—how did she?” He shrugged a shoulder. “People are saying she's, I don't know, some otherworldly thing. Can you believe that?”

I stared back at him, calmed only slightly, but every nerve ending in my body was sending off electrical signals, dancing under my skin like strobe lights, and I pictured it, couldn’t stop picturing it.

My throat went dry.

“No, I can’t.” I lowered my eyes to the file in his hands. The very last of my niceties was finally expended when I added, “I should go check on the lab.”

“Huh? Oh,” He nodded, slid the folder out from under his arm and passed it over to me. “Yeah, here you go, Jane.”

I couldn’t muster up a ‘thank you’, even for the sake of my act; I was done, moments away from tearing him apart, and every single second that I stood in front of him was a test of my willpower and strength—one of which I had a little more of than the other, and I thought that work might not be the best place to discover which one it was.

I took the folder from him, nodded once, and brushed past.

The minute I passed through the other end of the breezeway and into the empty hallway, I released the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

What does a god do when it realizes it's not the only one?

Chapter 5: Nic - Unwilling Travelers

Chapter Text

I was pretty set on driving out to Temasca, so I told my manager that I would be leaving that night.

“No you’re not.”

I raised my eyebrows at the projected image of him hovering above my phone and laughed, almost impressed by the size his balls had suddenly ballooned into.

“I'd love to see you try to stop me.”

“I can’t let you do it, not this time. You have to be on the plane—it’s a contractual thing.” He reached for the pack of cigarettes on his desk and put one in his mouth.

I watched the movement, perched in a lounge chair on my back deck with a cigarette clamped between my fingers, the ocean lapping at the stilts below.

He could sit behind his sleek modern desk in his sleek modern office that my career paid for and look as serious and sick of me as he wanted, but what he couldn’t do was try to smooth me over with a load of bullsh*t—it was a stupid lie and he knew I didn’t buy it for a minute.

“Is that what you’re going with?”

“There’s nothing to go with, Nic, that’s just what it is,”

“When have we ever cared about contractual sh*t?”

I reached a hand towards the table across the deck where I'd left my drink; the glass lifted off the table and came to my hand, and I lifted it to my mouth.

“Mm,” He spoke through the cigarette dangling as he shrugged into a black pea coat, and he quickly produced a lighter from his pocket. “Well, one of us always cared.” He tossed the lighter on the desk when he was done with it and took a drag, giving me a pointed stare.

I held his gaze plainly and spoke magnanimously. “A partnership is teamwork, Jackson, and this partnership can’t work if you don’t take equal responsibility.”

He took a drag, his eyes squinting against the smoke, but never leaving mine, then roughly tapped his ashes in the tray beside him, choosing to remain silent. But he didn’t have to speak—we’ve been doing this song and dance for far too long for me to not know the routine.

Six years ago, when I was sixteen doing magic tricks in the subway, we signed on dotted lines with the understanding that his job would consist of booking me in venues and on shows and negotiating my contracts, and it was my job to get people to pay to see me. Since then, I had systematically forced him to become a father, brother, friend, butler, life coach, therapist, bookie, chauffeur, E.M.T., drug mule, and occasional lawyer to me—I took it as a personal challenge when he’d said “call me if you need anything.”

But the thing was, he liked it, despite how sick of me he pretended to be; deep down we both knew he wouldn’t have been as happy without me. Jackson was born to be a manager, and if he could organize an entire existence while making truckloads of money, all the better.

“Alright,” He started, clearly choosing to change topics instead of confront my supreme rightness. “Why do you want to drive? More than that, what's to stop you from not showing up or being on time? You have interviews all day Sunday.”

I finished my drag. “I will be there on time,” I told him through smoke, and this time, he scoffed back at me.

“Well that’d be a first.” He said flatly. “Your track record is undeniably sh*tty.”

I shrugged: what can ya do? He was right and I couldn't deny it.

At some point my magic shows had strayed into TV, and I'd say that's about the time the train began to derail. I met a lot of people like me once I joined their world, and what's bad about that, is I'm an attention-seeking child who thinks only as far as putting one foot in front of the other—everything else that happens is a happy accident or a mess, and all the money floating around me makes sure that someone else cleans it up. And, even worse for me, I know all of this, everything that needs to be done to fix it, and I don't have any motivation to—like lamely pawing for the remote on the other arm of the couch, hoping something happens to make it fall into your hand.

Except, in my case, it literally does fall into my hand, if I want it to.

I didn't have many friends in my first trade—magicians are a secretive sort, jealous, and really don't like me because I can do things they can't figure out. What really did it was the time I levitated the entire audience. You can levitate a person or two, but for other magicians, the one or two have to be part of the act, and the audience kinda knows that. It's hard to deny that something really f*cking cool and unexpected happened when 1,500 people had the same experience; that many people can't possibly be in on it. It was an epic visual, one I think about frequently—the apex of my career, back when I was doing the thing I really liked. An entire tiered, open-roofed, circular stadium, every seat filled, flashing cameras and illuminated phones on all sides, and everyone rising from their seats nearly all at once, like a wave beginning to build up strength to crash, all dangling legs and hunched postures. Screams and cheers erupted from the crowd, sprinkled with shrieks of delight, echoing into the basin of the stadium, filling the world with nothing but that sound. It rang through my ears and it was deafening, vibrating, almost painfully, but I had the biggest grin on my face.

That wasn't even the hardest part—it was putting them all back down, without creating any lawsuits, or new holes to the other side of the earth. Then I slept for two days and woke up feeling like I got put through the wringer. But god, it was f*cking worth it.

I wake up like that now, but it's because of the near-lethal amount of drugs and alcohol running through my system every moment I'm awake, and the fact that my best friends were lunatics. We were deeply enmeshed in a prank war that revolved entirely around getting as close to ruining each other's lives as we possibly could, and hoo boy, I was losing. Or winning, depending on you looked. I was winning by having the sh*ttiest, most-almost ruined life ever. The dumbest part was that I could flip it around in an instant, I just … didn't want to. It was nice to sink.

Anyway, now I was doing these shows, and that was how I met The Boys. Grant was on the show I was doing a cameo (that had gotten extended to a Recurring Guest role for three seasons) on. One episode turned into a part, and a lot of actors and actresses either crave it, or have achieved it—but I could only act like myself, which I guess was what they were going for, but still. I didn't even want to act like myself for the most part. Sometimes it felt weird to be reading myself from the perception of other people off a script. Especially when I didn't agree with the action I was portraying … as me. The dumbest thing was that, over time, my character's telekinetic ability was phased out, and I couldn't even pretend I could do what brought me there in the first place.

Mcaillister was the spawn of one of our producers, and had been given a very, very, very comfortable life. He was hanging around watching Daddy work (we're all twenty-two by the way) and we all just clicked, in a “ooh, maybe it wasn't supposed to go in like that, maybe I should turn it around?” kinda way. But it still worked, somehow, so we just carried on.

We once filmed an episode in Onem, in the Crenshaw region. It was supposed to be a “dream” episode, where the cast gets transported to this alternate reality where the world was in ruin (wonder what the good-old people from Crenshaw thought of that?).

The “we” I’m referring to is not me and the rest of the cast and crew, by the way; “we” means the cast, we, and a body double who could vaguely look like me from behind, because “I” had been arrested at the airport after a minor argument was spurned up between a security guard and myself about how drunk I actually was. I was subsequently detained for two days, forcing the writers to have to edit the episode to exclude me and the show’s producers to release a bullsh*t statement about a high ankle sprain—I’d been “exhausted” too many times and they needed something new to say.

I’m not trying to make Jackson’s job hard. I know that seems like bullsh*t, but I really mean it, and I can honestly say that I never set out to hurt him (doesn’t mean I didn’t do it or haven’t done it, but I’ve never done it intentionally. Or at least, not with any sort of malicious intent). In fact, I respected Jackson so much that I never used my influence on him. I could be very persuasive when I wanted to be, all I had to do was turn it on and I got different answers the person standing in front of me, or standing in my way.

I eyed the ceiling, my turn to contemplate a way to bring this back around in my favor.

“Okay,” I started, turning my eyes to him. “Let’s think about this for a minute, Jackson—we’re gonna weigh some sh*t out here,”

He took a drag in response, eyed me over the end of his cigarette; I took that as a cue to continue.

“Does the network—no, do you really think it’s a good idea to put me on a plane?” I asked, and gave him a moment to think about it. When he didn’t respond, I continued. “Really think about this, man. I can’t drink, I can’t smoke, and I can’t exactly step out of the aircraft whenever I feel like taking a break from being in the f*cking sky. Having me trapped and bored in a metal tube thirty thousand feet in the air isn’t going to be good for anyone. That plane will land and I’ll have either beaten everyone down so hard that they’ll flee from the craft like someone set off a chemical bomb, or they’ll gang up on me and I’ll end up hog-tied and stowed under the plane. Whatever it is, it won’t be good; that, I do know. I mean, come on. You know that, right? This whole thing—” I made a circular gesture at our area with my hand “—is going to be a complete f*cking sh*tshow. Help me help you make your job easier.”

He eyed me. “That sounds like a lot of things that’ll make things easier for you; way I see it, having you ‘trapped and bored’ in a metal tube will ensure that I get you where you need to go,”

“Wow, selfish,” I remarked flatly, and he laughed.

“Look, I know it sucks,” He said. I sent my cigarette towards the edge of the deck, flicked the ashes, then brought it back to my fingers, and directly to my mouth. “Sometimes though—and I know you know this though I don’t think you really understand it—sometimes, you have to do sh*t you don’t want to do.”

I laughed mirthlessly and felt a smirk pull at my lips, reaching my free hand up and pushing a finger into the corner of my eye. “I do understand it, I just don’t agree with it.” I lifted my head and sent him a look through the phone, latching onto his gaze and holding it plainly.

He stared back at me for what felt like at least a full minute without saying a word, his gaze searching over mine and trying to figure out how serious I was, the words to say to make me reconsider and how to stay ahead of me—no wonder I always feel like I have to lie to him.

“This is your job,” He said, then instantly and firmly met my gaze, punctuating the end of his own sentence. “Stop—don’t even open your mouth, I can see you want to: I know you don’t care. Everybody in the world knows you don’t care, but right now, pretend that you do, because this isn’t about just you.”

I scoffed and raised my eyebrows, shaking my head as I sent a glance off to the wall behind him, covered in blown-up posters and stills from every project I’d ever been in as his client.

“That is all I’m doing, Jackson. The fact that I’m going at all is me pretending to care.” I told him seriously.

He held up his hands. “Okay.”

“I’m not trying to fight you—you know that. You know I’d never do anything to intentionally be sh*tty to you but let’s be serious here—we both know I’m not going on the plane.” I leveled a plain stare on him. “I mean, right?”

He stared back at me, searching his eyes warily over mine. “No, we don’t both know that.”

I laughed. “Oh, I think we do.”

“Nic,” He pressed the corners of his eyes. “You said you weren’t trying to fight me.”

“I’m not—I’m not. I’m just trying to make a point here. I promise you I will be in Temasca, on Saturday, with everyone else, in time to do my interviews on Sunday. All I want to do is drive there. If I’m going to be forced to continue to shoot this f*cking show, I wanna choose how I get there. That’s not unreasonable, right?”

“No.”

I threw my hands out. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“You’re right.” He countered, leaning forward. “It’s not unreasonable—but it’s still not happening.”

“I know you think that, but I don’t know how anyone is gonna stop me.”

He eyed me cautiously. “No one should have to stop you. You know what the right thing to do is.”

“I don't think we have the same idea about what 'right' is.”

He was quiet, watching me. I stared back at him. It would be so easy to make him say yes to me. But the thing is, I don't need his 'yes'—it'd just be nice to know it was there before I did what I wanted anyway.

Finally, he gave a little sigh and shook his head, stamping his cigarette out into the ashtray. “I'm not going in circles with you.” He stood up and adjusted his coat, stuffing his belongings into his pockets. “I'll be at your house tomorrow morning, and Nic, I trust that you'll be there, ready to board the plane.”

Then he hung up, ending the discussion.

__________________________________

Home was a three-story mansion on the beach. It was brand-new when I bought it. The tile and floor-to-ceiling windows glistened; the kitchen, with its large island and bar seating, sparkled with promise; the back deck, which extended out over the water, was large, and empty, ready to be filled with party seating.

Now, it was dinged, singed, cracked and damaged. The only furniture I owned was a couch, a TV, a couple lawn chairs, and my bed, which I kept behind locked doors. The only personal touches I added to the place were the promotional posters professionally framed and hung on the walls; more than a few had cracks in the glass, from wayward partiers stumbling their way to the bathroom.

I had a word circling around my head as I navigated the damage of my home, trailing my fingertips along the wall, and that word was trust. I trust, he said—it was a simple word, but it felt so heavy.

I hadn't had many people's trust in a long time—Jackson was the only one who still had hope around me. Shouldn't that mean something?

I looked to the side, where my extended hand was paused on a dent in the drywall, looking like the corner piece of furniture had been jammed into it. And, just above the dent, the poster of that day from the arena: me against the brilliant stadium lights, and every body lifted from their seats—and in the lower rows, closer to the stage light's projection, the faces of the audiences were of pure thrill, and I had done that. Suddenly, I was disgusted with myself for treating my stuff this way, and letting others do the same.

Hiding from the shame, I reached for the ring on my right finger. It was bulky, silver, with etched tendrils above a small diamond of deep blue; it was a secret container for my co*ke, and I quickly thumbed open the lid, did a quick bump, and righted myself.

The halls were the best place to hide from shame. I had nothing of a personal nature on the walls, nor was it hidden away in the house. Pictures of family, vacations, schoolyard friends … and it's not because I came from bad roots or whatever. My parents were good, creative people, and I never went without. They welcomed me into the world with a theology that I was simply another person being brought to life, and they allowed me freedom, independence, and constant support from the foundation and background.

But I was always adrift. And I never knew why.

Just beyond the archway of the hall, I could hear Grant and Mcaillister playing the same video game they'd been playing when I left. They lived with me, for the most part, mostly because they never left—they also never paid bills.

They had no idea that the things I could do were real—I don't think they'd ever asked, and I guess I didn't really need them to. I don't know, maybe it was nice to know that they were intent on making my life difficult because of who I truly was on the inside, and not the fact that I possessed mind control and telekinesis. I also think they were so f*cked up that it never occurred to them to ask. They poked fun and asked for tricks a lot.

Why am I letting these idiots help me ruin my life—break my sh*t? One time, we all got super f*cked up and took a drive out to the Argyles ... and then I woke up passed out below the wheel of a small yacht, which was strapped on the back of an eighteen-wheeler, flying down the freeway. I could not understand what had happened to me, because the last thing I'd remembered, I was driving my SUV for a weekend at the islands. I called Mcaillister, huddled below the ship's wheel because I knew he'd be dying to tell me, and after he laughed for way too long, he gave me all the details. Long story short, the weekend had come and gone, I did a lot of things that would make no one proud to hear, and then I bought a yacht, because he'd talked me into it. When I questioned why I couldn't remember anything, he proudly told me he'd drugged me, and Grant, and himself—laced it into the joint we smoked together as we were driving. I hung up, then sat there sniffing zaz in the co*ckpit, wondering what the hell I was going to do with a yacht as me and it made the journey back to my house. I felt a temporary solace in it, that we were both unwilling travelers. So I named her Unwilling Travels, which I understood might've been a bad name for something ocean-faring, so I balanced it out by never taking it out and instead choosing to have parties on it. You can imagine what the inside of that looks like now. The point is, that's not the only time it's happened—the part where Mcaillister drugged me and convinced me to waste my money because he thought it was funny, I mean—and it would certainly happen again.

I let it all, all of this damage, happen. I could've changed it but I didn't, because it was fun. I can say it freely, I had a lot of fun. Some of it hurt, some of it can't be fixed, and some of it altered things on a molecular level, changing their shapes and forms and properties—but it was all fun.

It's just not fun now.

I finally exited the hallway into the kitchen, and then, just to the left, the living room, both open to each other and looking out onto the ocean, the Unwitting Travels bobbing in place. Mcaillister and Grant were perched on the couch, mashing buttons on their controllers and smoking. Grant’s hair was curlier than ever, he was wearing the same board shorts he’d been wearing for three days, and Mcaillister’s stupid shell necklace clicked and rattled every time he jerked the remote, but what stood out to me right then was how thin they both looked, sallow below the shadows and life moving across their faces; I wondered if I looked like that, too.

But, they both did a drug called “hex” that made you reeeal low: it was okay if you wanted to feel like you were walking in a cloud bounce house, and living life on negative speed. Everything moved slow and felt very vivid, and real, and it knocked your perceptions up, because you became aware of so much more than the average. Every detail was critical, important, and large—not to be forgotten.

I didn't like that feeling. I wanted to haze out, fall sleepily and riotously into the chasm, and then emerge on the other side sometime later, to reignite myself to the idea that I was alive, and could be destroyed by nothing—not even myself.

The results on that are still ambivalent.

But, the important thing now was to address the two mooching drug addicts on my couch. For the first time, I didn't want to deal with the fallout of their disappointment. Why had what they thought mattered so much to me?

So, for the first time in a long, long time, I decided to be as persuasive as possible.

“Hey guys,” I began, airily, and they shot looks at me, scowling in annoyance at my interruption. “Neither of you wants to go on a road trip. We're getting on the plane tomorrow,” I said smoothly, “and you are both okay with it.”

Their eyes dulled, and they went slack-jawed, still, frozen for just a moment, as the new information took hold, and their ideas began to change.

Well—that felt better than I remembered.

_________________________

The next afternoon, Jackson arrived at my house in a Black Card car, all tinted windows and subtle chrome—the most stylish, lavish, and discreet mode of transportation. He looked shocked when I opened the door, kicking my duffel bag out onto the concrete porch. I set about guzzling down a few tall shots, stuffing weed and co*ke into my shoes, and complaining about leaving.

I complained the whole way to the car, while Jackson hefted my bag and stowed it; I complained on the drive to the airport, as my friends filled the backseat with smoke and spilled liquor, and Jackson communicated with the driver and the producers, doing the necessary tasks; I complained while we walked into the private entrance for our private plane, all organized by Jackson so give us the most comfort possible.

I really, really hated being cooped up, I had too much energy to be contained. But I also understood that Jackson was asking me to do the right thing for someone else besides me—and I wasn't such an asshole that I couldn't see that, or oblige. I figured this earned me the right to complain, because I had so magnanimously chosen not to be selfish for a second.

Just before Jackson opened the door, I looked across the tarmac, where I could see a plane parked at the hangar.

I turned to the security guy standing by the door. “Is that our plane?”

He nodded once, his hands laced in front of him and eyes turned straight ahead.

“How long until it takes off?”

He gave a mouth-shrug, keeping his gaze ahead. “I wouldn’t know.”

I rolled my eyes away from him. “Okay, great—thanks for the help.”

Jackson started pulling our duffels off his shoulders and tossing them onto the table in front of two security guards wearing gloves. “It’s not going to be long—I made sure to get here as late as we could.”

The bag screeners quickly opened the top zippers of our bags, stared inside for a couple moments, then pushed it aside. The second guy gestured me over, and when I got near, he started vaguely patting me down. It lasted an entire twelve seconds before he waved me through, and I grabbed my bag and stepped off to the side.

They all knew what we were there for, and as far as I was concerned, all of it was formality. Grant didn’t see it the same way and jerked back like he’d been electrocuted when the screener went to put his hands on him.

“Whoa, what the f*ck? No, don’t put your hands on me, man.”

“You have to be searched before you get on the plane. This isn’t news.”

“I don’t give a f*ck about all that, I just don’t want you touching me. You can’t search me unless you have a reason, so what’s the f*cking reason?”

The security staff eyed him. “You’re a passenger getting on a plane—that’s the reason.”

“Is that right?” I could feel the barometric pressure in the room start to rise as Grant’s head threatened to explode. “Well f*ck me.”

I started to step forward to help him, but I changed my mind and turned to leave. I looked over to Mcaillister to see if he’d follow, but he was busy gleefully watching the scene, so I walked away to find someone else to bug about the plane.

Regrettably, the room was empty save for the TV playing quietly in the corner, turned to some news station, so I took to staring out the window, contemplating the merits and consequences of dragging the plane over myself.

The three of them came into the lobby a few minutes later, everyone looking disgruntled except Mcaillister, who was grinning like a kid on Christmas.

“Can you believe this dumb ass?” He gestured towards Grant. “It’s a little zaz—no one gives a sh*t. Just go through the f*cking security. But you know, that’s what I love about you, man: you saw Nic go through without any problem and you had to make one happen for yourself.”

“Ha-ha yeah I know,” I said quickly and turned back to Jackson. “How long until the plane takes off?”

“I have no idea, but it should be soon.”

“But when is soon? Are we talking five minutes, ten minutes—an hour?”

“I don’t know.”

I decided not to mention the fact that I would’ve already been over halfway to Temasca had I left the day before like I wanted to, because I was pretty sure he could read it in every inch of my face.

We ended up boarding the plane nearly thirty minutes later, and I was the only one who cheered when we got to our seats.

For the first eleven and a half minutes, I listened to my headphones. Then I got bored of that and walked around the plane, trying to strike up conversation where no conversations wanted to be struck. I took an hour-long power-nap, and when I woke up, the coasts of Pliedes were narrowing into the bridge to Onem, and the sky was darkening. I opened the lid on my ring and did a bump, and tried to sit still—but it was almost impossible, especially after the zaz.

Eventually I made my way to the co*ckpit, reassuring the flight attendant that it was okay because I was rich and famous, though she seemed less impressed by my credentials than I felt she ought to be.

I opened the co*ckpit door and ducked my head in, sweeping my gaze over the controls and screens and buttons and knobs spread out in front of the pilots, of which there were three. We were sailing through clouds at an impressive speed, and they were as relaxed as could be, speaking and chuckling quietly and almost secretively amongst themselves. I could picture them in an old period piece movie, sitting in a drawing room decorated in the mounted heads of various animals, wearing smoking robes, engaging in witty and incisive dialogues about their many travels and journeys to the exotic worlds, as rum swished below their noses. I smiled, knowing instantly I was in good hands.

“Hello boys,” I felt this was the appropriate way to address them. “How's the sky sailing?”

They looked at me and it was obvious they were trying to absorb me, disheveled and high as f*ck, a skeleton grinning like a loon, wearing the same torn and dirty clothes I'd been wearing for weeks—addressing them as “boys”. They must've seen that I was harmless, because they responded in slow, casual drawls, a perfectly-crafted voice they all had, somewhat stilted and almost unreal.

“Well, I'd say it's goin' pretty good,” The navigator closest to me said, shrugging his head and shoulder, and giving me a warm and welcome look, smiles and attentive eyes. “How's the sky loungin'?”

I liked this guy. “Pretty fair, pretty fair,” I nodded. “You guys give a, uh, a smooth ride.” I coasted a palm through the air to simulate the exact amount of smoothness I meant. “I'm a little disappointed there weren't joints and lines of co*ke laid out to spell my name though,”

Surprisingly, they laughed, a lot, and loud, and I knew I was in. I came further into the small space and pulled the door behind me, making a space for myself hunching between the front two seats.

“No sir,” The co-pilot chuckled, looking over at me with a grin. “None of that on the flight, now,” He tapped the side of his nose twice and winked, and I really liked this guy, but also, I sincerely hoped he was f*cking with me.

“Right, right,” I decided it was time to change course. “So,” I clapped my hands and rubbed them together. I had unknowingly began to adapt some of their drawl. “How's it, uh, lookin'? We makin' good time?”

“Sure are,” The co-pilot drawled, smiling still. “We should be there in about, tsk, twenty to twenty-five minutes.”

I nodded slowly. “Well, alright. That's not too b—”

Something on their board beeped, and all three turned their heads to it—I could tell by the severeness in which they turned that it was not a regular thing.

“What?” I asked, and they began fiddling with things, quickly, their hands moving across the board like mechanical piano players getting into the big crescendo of the piece.

“Somethin' on the radar,” The pilot said.

“It's small—might be a flock of birds or somethin',” The co-pilot stared down at a small radar screen between them, and I peered into it too. I could make out a small blip, the tiniest little mass of pixels at the bottom, beginning to work their way up.

“Do flocks of birds move like that?” I asked. “Straight up?”

Their silence said it all. The co-pilot began fiddling with more things on the board, and the pilot reached up for the radio, and pressed the call button.

“HQ, this is 792, we have an object comin' up below the plane, small, uh, looks to be movin' at a rapid rate of speed, possibly a couple feet per second—do any of you have eyes on this? Over.”

“You should probably get back to your seat,” The navigator said, and I shook my head.

“No way, I don't like being surprised.”

“792, this is HQ; we do not have visual on that, over.”

` The pilots looked at each other, and I watched the little blip move quickly up the green, flickering screen, getting closer, closer, and closer to the middle point.

“What if it is a flock of birds?” I asked, and the co-pilot sent me a half-glance.

“Could be alright, or could be very bad.”

“Helpful,” I noted sarcastically.

“HQ, the object is showing on our screen and gettin' closer,” The pilot relayed into his radio. I watched the blip begin to reach the middle. “Are you sure you don't have a visual? Over.”

And then, at that moment, we saw a person, in the air, in the clouds, less than twenty feet in front of the windshield. It looked like she—blonde hair to her shoulders, in what looked like nurse's scrubs—was floating there, but the rational part of my brain told me she must be falling, because why else would a person be in the sky?

“My God!” The co-pilot shouted, clearly thinking the same thing as I was.

But the woman didn't fall. She rose up, she was pulled over our heads, and I swore—I swore—I could hear her screaming over the roar of the engines and the blood rushing through my ears.

The long, stunned, cold silence that followed lasted for what felt like minutes. Not a single one of us moved, not sure what to think, not sure to believe it. I, also, was struggling with another feeling, an itch beginning in the base of my skull that knew something I hadn't learned yet, urging me somewhere.

The radio went off, startling me, but none of them moved.

“792, we don't see it. Is it still there? Over.”

A blink of silence went by, and then the pilot reached out, his hand shaking just slightly, as he gripped the radio. It took him another moment to speak.

“Uh … copy that. No, it's … gone. Over.”

Then he slowly replaced the radio, and we all went back to staring into the blankness of our own minds. I swore I could still hear her screaming.

“So ...” I finally broke the silence. “You all … saw that, right? There was a … a woman ...?” The air tensed in the room, and I had a feeling I should stop.

Is this a time to use more drugs, or less?

“Yeah.” The co-pilot was tight-lipped, didn't look at me. “We all saw that.”

No one knew what to make of this, or how to go forward. The plane was still moving at its same clip, same altitude, and still, the image of the woman being yanked through the sky lingered in the windshield.

“For a moment there,” The navigator began, slowly, “I thought I was as high as you.”

__________________________

The next two days moved by in a haze. I couldn't speak for all of Friday, Saturday was a blank space, and Sunday, I started coming to just as the hairstylists and make-up artists and wardrobe people had worked me over, leaving me blinking stupidly at all the lights and cameras pointed in my face.

The interviewer, one of the many we were all supposed to talk to today, was prepping herself, getting her posture ready, looking down at her notes, and humming in various pitches to warm up her voice.

What the f*ck is all this? Why am I even here?

I saw … a woman …

Was she doing it herself? Can she … fly, like me? Levitate? Where was she going? Even I'd never tried to go that far into the air, keeping myself at maximum fifty feet off the ground, and that was a show-stopper move, an end point to a show—she was tens of thousands of feet in the air, and not stopping.

I'd never really considered the fact that there might be other people in the world, like me—I didn't think about much anymore. I was trying to numb feeling, pause thinking, and forget; for a while, I'd stopped thinking of what I could do as special, because it was a hat trick now—a gimmick.

But … what if there are others? And why haven't they made themselves known? Unless ... they weren't so hidden after all.

“Okay, Mr. Slater,” A producer whose name I didn't learn and wouldn't remember began. “We're starting in a minute.”

What if she wasn't doing it herself? What if … something had her? I couldn't stop thinking about it, about her, and her fate. If she'd been taken and we witnessed it, it begged the question, what was it? I was far too f*cked-up and brain-addled to think about this.

“We're starting in seven … six … five ….”

I didn't see anything around her, or near her—just her.

“Four … three ...”

What if—?

“Oh my god!” Someone in the room cried, and everyone, including me, turned to look. Some PA was staring down at her phone, and I could see a video hovering above it, but couldn't make out what it was. “Oh my god!”

“Quiet, we're starting,” A producer called tersely, and the PA looked stricken, panicked.

“No, look! This just happened in Onem!” She ran to the producer and showed him, and the irritation on his face began to melt into shock as he watched.

“Megan,” He waved a hand lamely off to the side, motioning for someone named Megan, his eyes never leaving the image. “Put on channel 19.”

Now there was a hush and a bustle to the room, people who were trying to figure out what was going on, people who were starting to understand, and then there was me, sitting in my chair, all dressed and tressed, dumbly watching a curly-haired woman scramble up to reach a TV set hung in the corner. When she turned it on, and hurriedly found the appropriate channel, the image of a news reporter projected out into the room, serious-faced, speaking in grave, reporter-like tones, putting guttural emphasis the verbs and nouns.

“--speculation that this is the same person who was pulled from a train two nights ago.” The air beside him filled with a gray-scale video showing a bunch of people sitting in their seats on the train, but I instantly and only saw her, blonde hair to her shoulders and burgundy scrubs, staring silently out the window, heading eerily towards her destiny. Then, a whoosh of air jetted down above her head, ripping advertisem*nts from the walls and sending them flying and fluttering, hitting the other passengers who panicked, and began to flee. She screamed, tried to cover her head, but was yanked up at an alarming pace, and was gone in an instant.

I went cold as ice, and my heart stopped in my chest.

A deep hush fell over the room.

“This video footage, obtained from the Transportation Department, was given to police after passengers reported that a woman was missing from the train—this event took place two nights ago. It appears now, she has resurfaced.” Even he looked like he wasn't sure about that phrasing. “Here is that footage again, and for those who are just now joining us, be warned that these images may be disturbing.”

The video, taken from the balcony of an apartment building in what looked like a fancy penthouse, was shaky, pointing to a blue and cloudy sky, and we could all hear the man behind the camera panting in disbelief, and fear. There was something small and dark visible in the sky, spinning towards the earth.

“I saw something,” The cameraman gasped, panting. “Something's falling out there,”

The video shook even harder when he zoomed in, and there, through the grainy footage, came the shape of a person, her, falling through a cloud.

“Oh my god it's a person,” The cameraman gasped, and the video shook harder, unintelligible for almost ten extremely long seconds before righting, pointing back towards the balcony. “Oh my god, oh my god oh my god oh my god—”

She fell sharply past his balcony, and he cried out, jumped backwards, and then quickly scrambled back to the railing, peering with his camera down to the road.

Around me, the whole room gasped, everyone watching this woman's fate helplessly unfold, and I was frozen, unable to process—the video on the news switched to the point of view of someone on the ground, watching her careen towards the street. There were people shouting everywhere, a lot of them filming it, and the spines of every person in the room cringed as she screamed, neared the ground—and then—

Everyone gasped as she collided with the concrete, some people turned away, buried their faces in the shoulders of whoever was nearest to them, and hands flew to mouths, jaws hit the floor.

I couldn't look away.

I saw her hit, and the ground exploded beneath her, imploded, sending broken asphalt jettisoning out in every direction, and a plume of dust into the air.

People on the video were screaming, some began running forward, and the cameraperson behind this new video was one of them, running in for the shot, and there, lying in a broken semicircle of concrete, was her, perfectly unscathed, not a drop of blood or a scratch in sight, and, with her eyes closed, looking almost peaceful, serene.

Then, her eyes opened, slowly, revealing icy blue, and more gasping came from the video, and the room. People backed away on screen, and after a few seconds, she began to rise to her feet, which caused even more people to run away, stumbling backwards, out of her space.

She looked confused, and overwhelmed, her gaze dancing towards all the cameras, the cars stopped on the street, the people poking their heads out of apartment windows—then, she ran, disappearing into the crowd that didn't know whether to part for her, or envelope her.

“Witnesses say she fell from over a thousand feet,” The reporter continued, and I thought, way more than a thousand feet, bud. “And while no one has yet been able to make sense of this, as her origin is unknown, the police are requesting anyone with information about this person's identity or whereabouts to come forward. They want to check on her, and make sure she's alright.”

Even the reporter looked grim as he said it—they didn't want to just do a wellness check on this mystery woman. The “checking” portion would likely involve bright lights, shiny tools, and a lot of cutting.

“There is currently a tip line ...”

I tuned out.

Maybe that's why the others stay hidden: they're afraid. It had never occurred to me to be afraid.

The interview was forgotten about momentarily, the whole room abuzz with talks of aliens, angels, and other miracles where people inexplicably survived crazy things.

I rose up and went over to Jackson, starting to come out of the daze as I crossed the space. Not just the initial daze I'd felt in the plane, but the one I'd been in for years, numbing me, deadening me—I was coming alive for the first time, in a long time.

My eyes met his, and I did something I'm not proud of: I put the influence on him.

“You're gonna help me find her,” I said, and his eyes went dull as I thought, before anyone else does.

Chapter 6: Celeste - The Woman Who Fell From The Sky

Chapter Text

My breath was coming through my mouth like razor blades, slicing my throat as I ran through the streets, my airway tightening every time I turned my head to look behind me, to check if the coast was clear.

It never was—every time I would start to slow down, try to catch my breath, someone would shout, “That's her!” and I'd have to start running again.

It seemed insane that so many people had seen me, and that I was now known, recognizable on the street, for something that had just happened.

So many people were there—so many phones pointed in my face. It must've been uploaded online—spread like wildfire. I thought, vaguely as I ran, of snatching a coat or a different shirt from one of the street vendors, but I couldn't let myself stop running, and had a hard time thinking about anything other than getting home, back to my apartment. Home was still a long ways away though, and now, I couldn't use any of the public transportation—I wasn't sure I wanted to, after being yanked out of the last one.

After an hour, I was gasping and wheezing outside of my building in Lemon Grove, a warm place where people lived for simple pleasures: statues of geese and flamingos, lawn chairs propped in the sun or in the hall, personalized doormats and signs, children shouting and pots clanging, the TV too loud and tattered, homemade curtains fluttering in the windows. It was a place where people left each other alone, had their own sh*t going on, and didn't need to pay attention to others. It was a fifty-story brick building, and the B train, which I took to work every day, went past the thirtieth floor, just under my windows.

I pushed my way through the main gate, and then keyed into the building with my passcode, which I typed with shaky hands, gasping for breath. The door buzzed, opened up into a small, dingy room that was tinted a dark yellow from either time, accumulation of dirt, cigarette smoke, or some combination of the three.

It never occurred to me that home wouldn't be safe.

There was a glassed-in security desk to the right of the door, and a narrow staircase to the left—the crappy elevators were straight ahead. Fearing the security would see me, I went to the stairs instead, running up them to catch the elevator on the next floor. I found one not being used and quickly jammed the button to open the doors. They slid open and I ducked in, pounding the CLOSE DOOR button a few good times, before finally, almost painfully, collapsing against the metal wall behind me.

Muzak played; my back ached, as did my head.

But, unsettlingly, it was just a dull throb, like I'd simply fallen out of the bed. How the hell am I alive?

Somewhere behind the current fear of being found, hunted, was the larger issue of why this was happening in the first place.

I had been taken from the train, I saw our planet in orbit, and something coming up to it. I sawpeople, one of whom informed me about this thing bringing the tall, creepy old man I saw with it. I'm not even sure how to take that, or visualize it. Are they … in its body? Are they sitting on the tongue of the thing? (Oh god, it has a tongue?) I don't know if I even want to know the answer, or how to process it.

Regardless, I saw everything as clearly—them, the two men, the woman, and the little girl—as if they were in front of me, each in their own environments and beckoning me in some way.

An obvious feeling I had was that I needed to find them—that feeling hadn't left me since I first saw them. But it was going to be a lot harder now that people saw me, and news seemed to be spreading.

News.

And I could remember lying there, looking up at the sky, realizing I was alive, and then realizing that I was surrounded on all sides, by loud chattering, and people with their phones stretched out in front of them, thousands of eyes in the form of black lenses and widened irises. I remembered seeing a news crew battling their way to the front—making their way towards me.

But I had run away too fast, terrified of what was happening around me, and hadn't stuck around to see the aftermath; all I'd known in that moment was that I had to flee, and home was my safest place.

Flooded with cold realization, I stared dumbfounded at the ground until the doors opened, and then I hurried to my apartment, fumbling with the lock before opening the door into the kitchen and stuffing myself inside. I locked my safety switches behind me, and then dragged the dining table over, shoved it in front of the door. It was flimsy, but in my angst, it did make me feel somewhat better.

I stumbled to the TV, clicked it on and crouched in front of it, and right there, right in front of me, was a video of me hitting the earth.

I was stunned; it looked as messed up as I had imagined it. I hit the earth, exploded the concrete below me, and shot up like a crazy person and ran off.

Then I saw, in the corner of the screen, the date.

It was Sunday.

I had boarded the train on Friday.

I couldn't take it. I fell back, landing hard on my butt and palms, and for a while, all I could do was stare blankly and frozen into nothing, my mind unable to process the utter shock I was feeling.

So many facts kept pinging around my head: two days. Space. The other four. Monster. Two days. The whole continent watching me hit the ground in the middle of Carthage, between the swanky apartments and businesses.

At some point, I laid on my side and stared sideways at the place where the carpet met the wall, my thoughts trailing through the fuzzy threads of the floor. I couldn't help but feel the sensation of gliding over trees, watching the world get smaller.

______________________________

I woke up, not having realized I'd fallen asleep. I could tell it was a whole new day, that time had passed; I could feel it in the heaviness of my body, the weighty ache of being unmoving, and the sunlight pouring in through the window behind me.

Bleary and brain-fogged, I turned onto my back, shielded my eyes from the sun with my hands and groaned, rubbing the sleep away, and began to try to work my way to my feet.

I stumbled to the window and closed the shades, and noticed that my plants in the windowsill needed watering, and looked droopy. I mumbled a “Sorry guys,” and stumbled my way back through the living room to the kitchen, where I opened a cabinet and grasped for a spray bottle, yawning as I filled it with water, hearing a strange rumbling noise muttering through the undercurrent.

Then I shuffled back to the living room, realized the TV was still on and powered it off, and it was as I was spraying my plants that the cold dread of remembering washed over me.

I'm f*cked.

My fingers slowed on the nozzle, and my blood went icy.

I'm known. People will be looking for me, and they will find me. They'll want answers to things I'm not sure about, and let's not forget, a f*cking beast from space is coming as we speak, and it seems that the only hope may be the others, the ones I haven't met and don't know how to find.

I had to sit down. My couch was cheap and crummy but it was comfy, black and plush, and I sat there for a while, thinking.

I have to find them—I would, somehow. I already saw it: I saw us, all of us, standing together to face off with this thing ... because … we're the only ones who can.

We have to come together, save the world—it's insane, but I know in my marrow it's true.

I didn't die when I hit the ground—it barely even hurt. I was shown something, I was given the answers, the way, and all I had to do, was do it.

But I still didn't know how.

This had to be my life now, and I wasn't exactly rolling in the kinds of funds that would help me pay my way around and locate all of these people, who could be anywhere in the world right now. But what else could I do? Sit around, wait for the thing to come, eat us, destroy the planet—and allow that creepy old guy, with his group, to do whatever to all of us?

It would be easy to let the world end—God knows sometimes I feel people deserve it. There are cruel, ugly, selfish people in the world, people who are too dumb and savage to be here, people who make life worse for everyone and everything, just by being alive. These people, I'd love to see them go.

But there are others—they are worth saving. And as lowly a existence I live, I don't want to leave it. I don't want to die right now.

All I can do is live.

____________________________

I was lying on my bed later that night, with its black blankets and draping canopies, trying to recall every detail of the vision I'd had—the things I'd seen while not on this world. I was wiling down the minutes till the end, holding out for as long as I possibly could.

Then, someone banged on my door.

I jumped almost out of my skin, and I started to panic, my pulse quickened and cold sweat sprouted all over my body, as the banging continued, many hands banging at once, and people started calling my name.

“Celeste! Ms. Sorun!”

“Can we get a statement?”

“Just a quick word!”

My heart was beating out of my chest as I slowly, as quietly as I could, hesitantly left my bedroom, and went to stand between the living room and kitchen. I watched the door bulge off the frame, the voices were louder and louder, overlapping onto each other, and it was terrifying. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I moved closer to the door, trying not to squeak on the linoleum or make any noise, as I climbed on top of the table and moved to look towards the peephole.

The entire hallway was filled with people, some holding large cameras and others with microphones in their hands, but there were a lot of them, and I quickly clamored off and backed away, my hands flying to my mouth.

I wasn't going to be able to get out of here. They would camp out, and, maybe even break their way in—I was no longer safe here.

I wanted to cry, and I felt my throat start to close up but I swallowed it away, looked shakily around my apartment, and tried to figure out what to do.

A thought came to mind, a hissing whisper of an idea that stamped itself into the base of my skull:

It worked once....

I looked to the window.

Yes, it did.

I couldn't bide my time here—there was no more thinking, or planning. I had to go, and I had to do it now.

I rushed to my room, grabbed the biggest piece of luggage I owned, and began throwing clothes, toiletries, and essentials into it; I paused in the closet to grab a long coat and throw it on, and then I found a hat, tucked my hair into it, and pulled the hood of the coat over top. I dropped down, dug under my bed for the safe, grabbed out my important papers, and all the cash I had in the world—$1,618 dollars, studiously stowed away since I was a teenager. All of it went into my bag.

I left my bedroom, a painful wave of sadness over the realization that I might never be able to come back here, to this place that I had made into my home over the last few years; I loved every piece of it, and had been very happy here.

Biting back the sadness, I moved towards the window, and gathered up my three small potted plants, Bob, Rhoda, and Earl—I couldn't leave them behind.

I pulled the blinds behind me, and shoved open the pane of glass; I unhooked the screen and tossed it behind me, getting hit with a cool breeze of nighttime air. I looked to the drop, thirty-two stories down—there was enough space between the train track and the side of the building for me to fall through. I could do it.

Hearing the pounding continue behind me, I took a deep breath, hoped for the best, held on to my plants tightly, and jumped.

Chapter 7: Renner - Roots

Chapter Text

It's been ten days since I found myself in a chopper heading back home to Seeley, the ocean looking calm as we flew above it.

Ten days since I held the papers for my discharge in my hand, thick and embossed and official, weighing more than I ever could have imagined they would. The silence in the chopper, despite the blades whipping overhead, was deafening.

Ten days since I last saw Templeton, the only one of the squad left—it had been even longer since he'd spoken to me. He had, however, afforded me the olive branch of not being completely outright in his report of what happened. He didn't look at me while he gave the report, but he cast me a glance after he had been dismissed, as he was getting ready to go, and the sharpness of that gaze let me know, when it settled decisively into mine, that it had cut ties along the way.

It's been ten long, grueling, agonizing days since I checked into this sh*tty hotel room whose only luxuries were the lack of bloodstains on the mattress. There was a musty, armpit-y smell in the room, and no windows to open to air it out. A long, standing mirror was propped in the corner, so anyone looking into it would never forget what sh*t they were in. It had a tattered, shaggy beige carpet that was patchy in its most well-traveled areas, and other areas were hard to be sure if they were either sticky or damp, though I knew neither answer would make me very happy.

It's been ten of the worst days of my f*cking life, since we left Resu Mai.

____________________

The Care of Seeley Veterans set me up with a physician and a psychologist, and I had mandated orders to go to the initial assessments of both; after that, I guess they could give f*ck-all about what I did. It was alright with me. I didn't even contemplate why I was still listening to people who no longer employed me—or a government, for that matter. I didn't know how to operate out here, yet, especially since I never truly thought I'd ever have to. I had no desire to return to civilian lingo, adapt to their routines, lifestyles—f*ck their rules, their sedation, their caution and immobility. I can't live that way.

I went to both appointments. I was physically healthy, of course; the doc scrutinized my body and marked down my scars, to be added to my military record. It raised a flag, a small one—a Post-It that this might be an issue later.

The psychologist asked me about the last tour. He tried to dance around it, he tried to allow me not to talk about it, but it turned out that that day, I was in a chatty mood. I told him about the events leading up to the ambush; the later details I delivered by breezing over them. I relayed the fake story Tem and I made up together. They'd all tried to stay away from me, after the ambush—but we'd had to survive for two weeks out there, still, until we could be picked up from our loss of a mission, and we'd crossed paths once or twice. Tem talked to me a little more once Trick had passed, but when Ski succumbed to his injuries, Tem quit talking to me again, and his last words to me were the lie we'd tell when we returned home.

The psychologist told me it sounded like I'd been faced with some hard decisions to make. I shrugged in response, but the truth was that the decisions hadn't been hard—I knew I had done what I thought was right, in the moment. The problem was that I hadn't been successful: the hardest part was the failure and the loss I felt.

I didn't make second appointments at either place. What would be the point of that?

Right now, I feel as translucent as air.

_______________________

Like every morning, I woke to two bottles of beer, which I enjoyed in my boxers on the deck of the U-shaped motel I was staying in. I took in the view, overlooking the stunning view of the parking lot, and the steaming pool over-packed with chemicals and illuminated by the neon green MOTEL sign, giving the water a radioactive hue. I drank the first beer quickly and the second one slowly; then I retreated into my room to have another while I parceled through the entirety of my belongings, condensed into a few boxes, suitcases, and duffel bags. No more military-provided housing for me. That's a thought I struggle not to linger on while I drink my fourth.

In the last ten days, I've only managed to fully unpack one bag, and not just because the thought of insinuating that I would be staying in this room made me want to hang myself, but because I kept coming across stuff that I didn't know how to handle yet. On the third day, I'd found the pictures that had been in the living room of my old apartment—whoever packed up my sh*t at least tried to put them securely in place, and had stuffed foam over the glass, which I appreciated. I hocked the frames for a little extra cash, and stuffed all the pictures but one back in the bag: the last one I brought with me, tucking it into the front visor.

Yesterday, I found the lighter that Brattier had made. He'd always been handy, inventive: I could picture him as a little kid hunched over a mechanical build set in his room, in the dark, having the time of his life and feeling like he was on to something big. The torch in question was comprised of tubes and coils, repurposed canned rations, and had been shaped and bent and molded to fit securely in the palm. I laid back for a while on the bed, examining it. Turns out, it wasn't just a lighter—with little levers and switches, it also opened C-rations, measured various lengths and volumes, had a magnifying glass, stored cigarettes, and also had a little receptacle for the field-stripped filters, to stash them away until it was safe to dispose of them. He didn't even smoke; it was for the rest of us to use.

I curled my hand around the lighter and pocketed it, and that was all I did for the day: I stared at the ceiling and let everything sink in.

When it’s all said and done, all I had wanted to know was that I could survive no matter what, and I tested it time and time again, just to be extra certain, just to know for sure, that no enemy would defeat me—and I did it. Theory proposed, hypothesized, tested, and concluded. I stood down a hail of gunfire and didn't get a scratch. I moved trucks with my voice. I flew. What else is there to say? I came, I saw, I conquered.

That was what I wanted, right?

It's just, I'd never asked myself what I would do after I'd proved myself: the doing was the part I liked. The striving, the work, the struggle … the little payoffs of improvement. I had no other plan—and only enough ambition now to seek out my next drink.

The sun set and rose outside the small triangular-shaped glass cutout in the door while I laid in bed, filling the floor with empty bottles.

There was nowhere else for me besides this hotel room. My family was scorched earth, unreachable, across a badly-burned bridge that would never be repaired—the entirety of Alabaster Springs was empty to me. There wasn't even an awkward old middle-school friend to glom onto and grow to resent. I'd had a single-minded ambition to leave back in those days, and liked to engage in activities that, I can see for sure now, were better left as solo hobbies.

Those guys and that job were all I had—they were the plan. They were what I dreamed of when I was a kid in my bedroom, trying to imagine the future: me and my buddies surviving together, knowing that they always had my back, and I had theirs, no matter what. I was living that dream—I was being everything I could be.

I was.

And now … my closest friends were dead, and my best friend, the only other survivor of the ambush, didn't want to speak to me even long enough for me to thank him for not telling our superiors the truth. But we both knew there was very little that could be said that could explain the carnage I left behind, and the testimonies would have a hard time holding up under a large enough microscope. He did me a solid, covering my ass as he exited my life, with all reasonable rights to—and that left me … here.

I was once again in Seeley, awake, with nothing but dreams of being somewhere else.

Lying in the motel bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling and watching the rickety fan spin and wobble dangerously above my head, it occurred to me: I have nothing. All of my sh*t—a handful of clothes, pictures, some books, blankets, and my personal firearm—were all here with me in this f*cking room. My truck was outside—keys on the night stand, just a few inches from my hand.

I don't have a house, a family, a job—I also have no strings, tethers, ties, or hands holding me down anywhere.

I realized, “nothing” isn't the end of the world: dying is the end of the world, at least the end of your world, anyway, and isn't that really all that matters, on a personal level?

And, because I have nothing, the world is a wide-open field; nothing can stop me, or get in my way, so I can do whatever the f*ck I want—f*ck the rules. I have no need to follow them, because I have nothing to lose, and can't be beat.

What, they're gonna throw me in jail, a place I can probably pretty easily break out of? Sure, that'll set me back a day or two, but what's a day or two when you have nothing but time? I'm invincible. Invincible. I have yet to be killed, and at this point, the only thing I'm living for is to find the thing that will do it.

So, f*ck it—f*ck it.

Me, and all of my sh*t, are leaving this place, and heading to the sun. I'm gonna go see my buddies—say goodbye one last time.

And then, I'm going on a one-way trip outta this f*cking place—blazing my way into the nothing, headlong, as hard as I can, until I reach the other side, and am finally free.

____________________

I started where I was dropped off, in Port Rian, and went down to Utica to see Brattier, slamming beers along the way.

His family had only just managed to get a stone in; the dirt was fresh-turned. They were recovering financially from some sort of storm that had hit in the neighborhood. A whole house was blown apart by 100-some mile per-hour winds and the entire area was flooded out of nowhere, washing away barns and sh*t. The street had been cleaned up but still looked pretty wind-swept, quite a few shingles and windows less, even weeks later.

I sat with Brattier for a few, drinking his favorite beer and sometimes I'd chat, but he was never much of a talker anyway. I left a cold one at his grave, and went to reach for the lighter in my pocket, to give it back to him—then stopped.

He should have it: it's his, after all. He never gave it to me, he was letting Travers borrow it and I confiscated it—he might've wanted to keep it for himself, in the end, so it seemed right that he should have it.

But then I thought, if I leave it here, someone will take it. Worse than that, they'll have no idea about the maker of this object—they wouldn't respect that it was his. His device, rigged in the jungle out of what he had on hand, was cool, and deserved to have its story told—his name remembered.

I let go of the torch and returned to my truck, and drove around Brattier's old stomping grounds and took a personal tour, drinking another along the way.

Then I made my way to Ridgeton, where I could see Trick and McCray.

I went to McCray first, because the nerves were still raw around Trick. First I restocked my beer and snacks, and grabbed a couple burgers from the little hole-in-the-wall place McCray talked about constantly and demanded was the best, always saying he'd have it as his first meal when he returned. I had a few beers beside his gravestone, then I had the burger. He was right—it was an awesome burger, peppery and greasy and hot. I left one and a beer at his site, and took the rest of the burgers with me. I'd planned on eating them later, maybe taking one to Trick, but I had no appetite left and passed off the greasy bag to the first homeless guy I saw as I drove away.

Trick's family was across town. After I'd gotten my nerves right with a couple shots with a cigarette back outside the graveyard, I wandered the rows of headstones until I found Trick's, and I respectfully approached, because the last time we'd spoken, the morning after the ambush, the exchange hadn't been friendly.

I still didn't understand why they were all so … scared of me. You'd think they'd be happy I saved them—you'd think they'd be happy I ended it. I know I was too late, I know I didn't do it soon enough and we lost people, but I didn't know I could do what I did. I mean, I figured everyone would be shocked to see that I couldn't get hurt, and hell, I was shocked when they later said I flew, but ultimately, we were brothers, and they knew me. It was never supposed to be like this; I never expected they'd turn their backs when they saw the real me. It had been a fear, of course—but I didn't think it would happen. I thought they'd work past the shock, and hell, maybe have fun testing out what I could do. I wouldn't have minded taking bullets or throwing cars for the sake of a good time.

Maybe it would've come to that, if they'd survived.

There was a lot to hash out with Trick; the sh*tty thing was, it'd always be one-sided. I could envision his responses, but it was still just me talking to myself.

I stayed for a while and still didn't say everything I needed to say. Trick was my drinking buddy, my down-est friend, the one who gave you the wild story—and the whole time I was with him, one of the last things he ever said to me kept cycling through my mind. What are you, man? I can hear it in his exact voice. It still rings between my ears every now and again, and it sticks me, roots me to my spot. I have to swallow a few mouthfuls of something strong just to get myself moving again.

After I did my best with Trick, I said goodbye, told him I was sorry, and that I'd miss him. We'd had big plans to travel the world, getting wasted all across the globe; it would never be the same without him and his particular flavor of reckless abandon. I left behind some beer and whiskey, and a map, and walked away without turning back.

The next stop should've been Ski but he lived in Meriwether, where the government officials and their families lived behind gates and steep tolls at every border. Regular civilianscould pay to traipse through the opulence and stately grandeur, and have some of the local, private grocery store food or fast food, but the tolls successfully kept most people not on school-sanctioned field trips away.

The money was the least of the problem: I had that. Ski was buried in a military graveyard, in a private family tomb, which only the family and invited guests had access to. I'd need some more planning to see Ski, but I could reach Travers in Cicada—then, Templeton. He was posted up with his wife and daughter in Brent, and wouldn't be nearly as receptive to me as the others had been. It was selfish, and I knew it, and I knew he'd call me out on it, but I didn't f*cking care—I had to see him.

The easiest way to Cicada was through Corsica, so I followed the falling sun, listening to music down the long stretches of road.

The scenes were flying by in smears of color that I barely saw while my thoughts cycled without interruption, and by the time I exited the forest into Corsica, the sun was beginning to rise.

There was one word to describe the area, and that word was rustic. It was the kind of place where coffee was percolating and eggs were sizzling at 5AM, and Grandma and Grandma were out tending farm promptly after. Many of them had local diners or markets they needed to stock, so places were open early, and the smell of baking biscuits, eggs and sausage, and pancakes fried in butter was floating through the air, calling me.

Food was one of the things I missed when I was overseas; I'll admit there were a few. Other places didn't do food like they did in Seeley, and it took a lot of energy to run my body, a lot of calories—I liked what I liked, and how it was done.

I'd also missed driving—most countries had tight rules and restrictions on it, trying to sustain the life of the planet. Seeley was on the lax side of things; and, with everything being so spaced apart, it was more of a necessity here than anywhere else.

My dad had spent a lot of time messing with cars, tinkering with them in the garage when I was a kid. I'd sit on the ground beside his tool box and he'd talk to me about what he was doing, not really expecting I was listening, but I was honed in, soaking up every word—I thought he was the sh*t, cool with an easy one-sided smile. He didn't have long to teach me though, because he took his life in that garage when I was 7, and my mom and sister and I moved to Alabaster Springs, to my paternal grandfather, Jack's, farm. He, me, my uncle, a random cousin, and a hired hand, would take care of the farm and the animals; my mom, sister, aunt, and other cousin Janey would sell the eggs, meats, and vegetables in town at the local market.

Through the years, different family members came and went; the Thierry family was large. Jack spread his seed widely and looked down on those who did too. And somehow, despite his flaring temperament and desire to be “left the f*ck alone, goddamn it!”, all the rejects, strays, and down-and-outs of the Thierry clan ended up at his doorstep, where he put them to work. He treated the hired help better than us; he treated my uncle—his youngest son, thirty at the time—so poorly that one hired hand had a nervous breakdown and quit because he couldn't take just listening to the abuse. But that was fine, because there were others who were willing to let it slide for what Jack paid.

I understood my mom didn't have options—at least, I do now. No family of her own, no way to support her kids and care for them at the same time—she barely knew her father-in-law, but she knew he had land, space, money, and would let her bring us. She was only focused on ensuring our survival, food in our stomachs and a roof over our heads, even if it meant she had to give up such luxuries as a presence in our lives. She showed me that survival was about sacrifice, sometimes great ones—it was a lesson I f*cking hated living through, but can sit back and appreciate now. Shame she'll never talk to me again.

At first, as I rolled through Corsica, I attributed the hollow, twisting, seasick feeling beginning to chisel through my stomach to the fact that this place and Alabaster were so similar; I thought I wanted to run from away from the memories bubbling below the surface.

But as I puffed down cigarettes and searched for my exit, shoving aside the hunger getting stronger in me, I realized that I didn't necessarily want to leave—I didn't want to be here, but I hadn't really been searching for an exit after all.

Because, my eyes weren't going to the roads winding in lanky tendrils all around, seeking out where they might go; they were surveying the small houses with large barns and fields, and local businesses of all design.

I had started to look for something, though I didn't have a f*cking clue what that might be. But the sensation that whatever I was looking for was essential, and particular, was getting stronger the more I looked, and less I found.

I felt like something that was mine, something that was important somehow to me, was here, and I had to find it.

Once I understood that, I let go of thought. I let my muscles and instincts take over, steering me this way and that, letting me know through pure sense whether or not I was getting close—playing Hot And Cold with myself, and what I might know.

No, not that way, turn around … this seems right ...

I steered my wide grill down a narrow street, and the moment I was straight on and my eyes settled on the long strip of road, my heart started racing, anticipation gripped me like icy wines and my hands tightened on the wheel, teeth set—I'm close. To what? To who...

At the end of the road, just before the shabby intersection light, I saw a small store to my left, with a yellow banner-sign across the front with POLLY'S PANTRY in bold, blocky letters, the bottom cut into triangle shapes.

It was set back on the road, beside a taller commercial building closer to the sidewalk, and a quiet voice inside mumbled:

This.

I turned in, the anticipation still tight, but wondering why the hell I had to be here—it looked like a normal store as far as I could tell through the window, homemade chocolate syrups and jellies, eggs, flour, bread. Nothing special, urgent, important, or alarming.

I stared at the windows, brows furrowed, trying to piece it all together; my hand was on the buckle, readied to unlatch it and enter the store.

In my rear-view, a cop car rolled in, and I immediately realized that it looked like it had been through some sh*t—there was a big dent in the front bumper, and dings and scratches on the sides, and the windows were frosty, misted in condensation, as if it had been in a freezer and was only partially thawed. The cruiser, chugging and hissing and popping like a waterlogged engine carrying too much weight, pulled in beside me.

I made it a point not to stare so I could stare uninterrupted when he left; I worked on unwrapping a stick of beef jerky, too busy to notice him.

I heard him exit the vehicle and slam the door, before starting up the small flight of stairs into the building. I looked under my hat visor to check him out. He was dressed in plain clothes and looked twitchy as hell, checking the streets, checking the car, even looking at my truck on his way in, and he seemed frazzled—given the state of the vehicle, I could see why, but he looked f*cking wrong and suspicious as hell.

He ducked in, and something started talking to me again, mumbling: check out the cruiser. See what you see.

Casting one last quick glance to the shop—he was still in one of the aisles, looking for something—I quickly and quietly exited the truck, softly shutting the door so I could creep around his vehicle undetected. It was certainly f*cked up; it looked like it had been washed with sticks, but the outside wasn't what I was being drawn to. Although, I noticed that the vehicle had a Utica plate on it, which was my first flag.

The second flag was, the engine and the radio were off—the car was still and silent.

I went around the driver's side where he couldn't see me and peeked in, seeing the front cab was soaked, with bits of slush clinging to the vents and melting slowly between the windshield and the dash. It was littered in wet garbage, water bottles and paper bags of carry-out and cigarette ashes—it looked like it hadn't been cleaned in weeks. Flag three.

And then I looked in the back.

To my utter shock, there was a little girl tied up on the floor.

She was about ten or so, dark red hair chopped to her nape, ankles and wrists bound behind her with chains and electrical cords, and she appeared to be knocked out, possibly drugged. She wasn't moving, though I could see her back expanding with her lungs and the bits of hair falling into her face being blown by her breath; I could hear her heart pounding in a slow, steady rhythm.

This was what I'd been searching for—called to. I knew it as clearly as I knew my own name.

Somehow I knew she'd be here, that she needed help, but how didn't matter; I was here now, exactly where I was supposed to be.

The frame of the dirty kidnapping f*ck standing at the checkout was visible to me through the window, and he kept glancing back, making sure she hadn't moved.

I could've opened the door, busted it if I had to, lifted her out and returned with her to my vehicle—I could've done it faster than he could turn on his heel, and I could've tried driving off with her before he saw. Or I could've hung back, followed them, watched where he intended to take her and wait to strike at the moment it was most advantageous to me, out of sight, away from prying eyes. I would've been able to take care of it, no matter how he approached me.

But you know what?

I don't think that would be as … appropriate. Or as fun.

No, I think it sounds better to wait right here for that motherf*cker, confront him, and then beat his ass to death with his stolen police cruiser. I'd like to see the oh sh*t moment on his face when he realizes he's f*cking done.

I leaned against the back door and got comfy there, lighting up a cigarette and taking slow, casual pulls, other hand stuffed into my jacket pocket. Then it was a matter of listening, waiting as he anxiously passed some cash across the counter--“No I don't need the change, can I just get a bag? It's okay, I got it” as her heart kept softly beating--and then stuffed his items hurriedly into the bag.

He wheeled to the door and pushed it open, his footsteps pang-panging down the steps. Boots crunched across gravel, growing closer, and then, I lifted my gaze to his as he rounded the front of the car, not wanting to miss the moment I'd been waiting for.

He froze in place, his heart seized in his chest and he went pale, his eyes flicking rapidly between me and the back window, where she was visible through the tinted glass. His arm was wrapped tightly around a plastic bag, which looked to be carrying drinks, bags of snacks, and other goodies for his … trip. But what struck me the most was him. He had dark hair, and looked to be between approximately 19 and 23 years of age, standing roughly 5'7” with a beakish nose and close-set eyes. He barely seemed old enough to have finished college, let alone the academy. He was wearing a uniform that fit loosely, and he had the holster wrong, not latched in his belt loops—and then there was, of course, his dirty white sneakers, with blown-out soles, scuff marks, and neon green accents and shoelaces.

“Hey,” He began, shakily, accusatory, trying to summon up authority, beginning to palpitate and sweat as he glanced between me and the vehicle. “What do you think—”

“Seems a bit excessive, doesn't it?” I interrupted casually. “Tying her up like that?”

He looked flustered, and I could hear his heart pounding as I took slow drags. “It's not your concern, civilian,” He sneered, and I almost laughed. “Return to your vehicle or I'll arrest you too.”

“I mean, you could try, but looks like you had a helluva time reining in the kid, so,” I sucked my teeth thoughtfully, and the look he gave me was full of cold hate.

“I said return to your—”

“Arrest me,” I said simply, and he stopped, giving me a strange look. “Go ahead. As a matter of fact I'll let you. Or, better yet, just call for backup—I mean, you probably can't fit me in this cruiser because of the unconscious child chained up in the back which, hey, I understand. I will wait here for you to call backup, and then for that backup to arrive. All you gotta do is do it.” I shrugged a shoulder, tossed the cigarette to the side and held up a fist, extending my last finger. “Pinky promise.”

He stared at me agape, and I could see on his face that he had no idea how to take me. He knew he was busted, there wasn't a doubt about that: he just still hadn't ascertained what I'd do with the information.

“Well?” I urged, and his lips pressed together.

“Okay—” He exhaled sharply, and took a stride closer, clutching the bag to his chest; he looked at me under his eyebrows conspiratorially, beseeching me. “Listen, man, just … this … this girl, is not what she seems.” He shook his head gravely. “She's dangerous—she can do crazy sh*t, and we want to find out how.”

A shrill screeching was making its way up and down my spine, setting my teeth on edge. He was still f*cking lying, I could feel his dishonesty—but there was something there I wanted to believe, or, maybe even already did. I just couldn't place what. But nothing about this situation was protocol, or by any book.

“Like what?”

He gripped his bag tighter. “How about it's none of your damn business? Or it's classified information?”

“Alright, but which one is it?”

A wall came down over his expression and it was obvious he was ignoring me now. He started moving to the door and I stepped forward, quickly, and held my hand against it.

He glared at me, anger beginning to burn at his eyes.

“Get the hell out of the way, civilian—that's an order.”

I glared back at him, down into his eyes, and leaned in close. “I f*cking dare you to make me.”

He was ballsy; he didn't flinch or back down, but he did hesitate, obviously not wanting to go up against me. I had a couple years and a good amount of muscle mass on him, not to mention that I could pick him up and throw him across the entirety of Tellus and have him land ass-backwards in this very same f*cking parking lot in a minute. Not like he knew that, but I'd be willing to show him.

“You don't want me to do that,” Was what he countered with, and I did laugh at that.

“I think it's a good idea if you don't tell me what I want,” I chuckled. “I'm a little f*cking unhinged lately and we'll both be surprised by what happens.”

He sucked in a chest full of air to puff up. “I'm telling you—”

“And I'm telling YOU.”

I hit him with the parade voice, and his eyes widened in shock at the wall of sound—before he snapped a hand out and reached for the handle, giving it a sharp pull.

But I was still holding the door in place and he couldn't budge me.

With my other hand, I grabbed his wrist and ripped his hand off the door, yanked him away from the vehicle and shoved him back in one sharp motion, pulling his shoulder from the socket. I hadn't meant to, but I let it ride and didn't acknowledge it with him, stepping forward as he winced and hissed and nursed his sloping shoulder.

“Gah, f*ck man!” He shot at me. “God, my arm—”

“f*ck your arm, and f*ck you, you slimy f*cking sh*t-weasel. You're lucky I don't break your f*cking neck, or call your own on you. And if you don't tell me where you took her from and why, I will shove that entire f*cking cruiser up your ass. You can find out on your own if I'm being literal.”

I stared him down and he looked over at me, gritting his teeth in pain, turning clammier and more gray by the minute. He looked back at me for what felt like a long time, trying to breathe through the tension in his arm, and then finally, he came out with: “What do you care? Do you know her or something?”

Dumb prick. I exhaled through my nose derisively, keeping my eyes on him. “Or something.” I repeated, letting the words linger for a moment, so hopefully he could see how f*cking stupid they were, before continuing. “If she's so dangerous, how'd you knock her out?”

The corner of his mouth flickered, in a way I recognized as being a response to his own answer rather than the question—it was pride. “I sprayed her with an aerosol tranquilizer.”

This was obviously planned, premeditated, because he'd had to fashion this way to keep her sedated.

I didn't say anything, and he continued.

“She's for real dangerous, man,” I'd noticed he'd dropped a bit of the authoritarian voice he'd initially tried to put on; it must've been hard to pretend through the pain, or maybe he just didn't care anymore. “It's no joke. I responded to the call, I saw the footage. My buddies and I … we thought we could use her ...”

“What?”

“No! No, like ...”

He shook his head, but the darkness, that same familiar, creeping darkness, had begun to shroud over me again, slowly working its way up my back, and I couldn't stop it.

“Not like that. We thought—”

Behind us, a fwoosh of hot heat rocketed through the air, and I recognized the sound, the sensation, in an internal and primal way. Stiffly, I turned around, and saw with a pang of deep shock that the inside of the cruiser was illuminated orange, fire-orange, blazing boldly—the whole cab was a fireball, the flames licking at the windows.

My first thought was that he had done this, somehow—he'd tried to set her on fire.

I whipped back around, my teeth in a snarl, and his eyes widened when he looked at me.

“No—” He protested, but I was in front of him and grasping his shirt before he could finish the syllable, and I threw him at the cruiser as hard as I could, leaving a giant dent in the door where his body was collided; I planned on throwing him into the burning car after I got her out.

He coughed and gasped, looking weak and pained and confused.

“It wasn't me,” He choked, speaking through gulps of air.

I grasped his shirt again, reaching for the handle with my other hand.

“It's her.”

The fire, without warning, ceased, suddenly—the inside of the cab went black, and dark, and cold, and the fire was gone without a trace.

The black shroud was working its way over me, under my skin, and I was beginning to move into a blind rage, the same one that had me tearing through a battlefield like a missile, without thought, only instinct, and fury, and power to execute—but the part of me still clinging to rationality was confused by what was happening, and intrigued, and still trying to piece the puzzle together, so I didn't move.

“She can do things,” He told me.

A wash of warm chills washed down my shoulders.

“What?”

“She …. she's a monster—we need—”

“A monster,” I repeated, a hoarse edge beginning to form in my voice.

I was losing control anyway.

“So am I.” I hissed, and tightened my grip on his shirt—then I chucked him backwards, behind me, hearing him crash into the chain-link fence and trash cans.

With my freed hand, I grabbed the handle, practically punching a hole in the door in the process. I yanked it straight back, completely off the hinges, and threw the entire door to the side, the metal skipping across the concrete like a rock over the surface of water.

I looked in, and she wasn't on the floor—I glanced up, and saw green eyes peering at me from a curled-up position, behind two arms locked together in defense, crossed at the wrists—

And then everything was drowned out by a brilliant, blinding, beaming light that pierced right through my retinas; it was so bright and hot that it actually pushed me backwards, and just before I was forced to shield my eyes, I saw it was coming from her.

“What the f*ck?” I yelled, and, after a second, braved trying to look—

And realized I was looking at a wall of thick, white, f*cking feathers, some tinged black and gray—and, truly baffled, I followed the wall with my eyes, and saw that the wall of feathers were actually two large wings, and they were connected to me, below my shoulders.

I have wings.

“Ho...ly....sh*t...” I breathed, this new piece of information starting to sink into me.

Where the f*ck did these come from?

I couldn't completely process it or think it through yet because I had a little girl shooting sunbeams at me, and that was a whole other piece of information I couldn't yet process.

“Hey!” I barked, trying to take back control, attempting to push the f*cking wings out of my way. “Hey, I'm trying to help—”

Something heavy and flat collided into me, with metallic groans and a thick thud, and I didn't stumble, budge, or waver; I shot a look across my shoulder and saw Officer f*ckass standing there holding a metal chair, looking bewildered.

I glared at him, and off to the side, I heard the little girl scramble out of the vehicle and begin running away, her footsteps smacking on the pavement.

I could catch up to her; I turned to f*ckass fully and the wings dropped to my sides, out of my sight, on their own. His eyes were wide, and I grabbed him up by his collar once more, and hurled him like a fastball towards the cruiser. He hit so hard it rocked the vehicle, and then he slumped to the ground. I cut my eyes to the other side and saw her running away, going towards the direction I'd come from—she also had a bag with a bunch of dangly key chains slung over her shoulder, and they and the heft of sh*t inside the bag were jostling, rattling, tumbling around. God the girl is like a belled cat.

Sighing, I leapt high, easily reaching near twenty feet, then I angled down, aimed for the earth, and slammed into it several feet in front of her, breaking the asphalt below my boots.

She came to a screeching halt, her eyes wide and looking terrified—and then the wind started to pick up, rapidly, all around us, the sky over the quaint little town and tall trees becoming dark, troubled—a spread of fallen leaves scattering the parking lot and road behind her began to sweep up, and spin, forming a noticeable funnel.

She can, like, do things.

I felt so strongly that I needed to be here.

It was beginning to make sense now.

“Leave me alone,” She whispered, summoning a severe edge to her small voice. “I'm warning you.”

“Kid, listen, I don't wanna hurt you—I'm trying to help. I can take you somewhere safe—”

“How can I believe you?” She questioned sharply, throwing it back at me, her voice gaining strength.

Her fists clenched, her shoulders pulled back, and the fear was melting away.

“That's what everyone says. All of you adults. I don't care if you're a f*cking angel, or a … a whatever! I don't f*cking trust you! And f*ck you!” She glared at me hatefully, and under different circ*mstances I would have laughed.

This kid was cool, I liked her—I admired the fire. But even I, having never spent time with any children ever, could tell the situation required a steadier hand than that. She needed to be de-escalated, made obvious by the swirl of leaves behind her picking up speed, and her emerald eyes burning.

I held up my hands in retreat.

“Hold on a second—can we just pause, kid? I—”

“I'm! Not! A kid!” She screamed, and exploded a wall of wind so hard and fast at me that it took me off my feet, sent me flying backwards—and as I sailed through the air, confused as all f*ck, it occurred to me that this, right here, was what it was like to be well-matched.

And I'd never really been well-matched before now.

I hit the road and slammed into it, skidded across it, and heard the wall of wind go over me, and rustle the trees behind us.

The truth hit me all at once, and the relief was so comforting I could've smiled.

It feels good to be challenged again.

Chapter 8: Terra - Growing Pains

Chapter Text

I couldn't help it; the light formed at my crossed wrists and got brighter, and hotter, and I only had a short time to be shocked about it—I was mostly just glad it was working.

“Hey!” The sharp voice snapped. “Hey, I'm trying—”

There was the sound of something heavy hitting with a meaty thwack, and the voice went silent. I looked to the door, the light beginning to fade at my wrists, and I saw that asshole holding a metal chair, looking at the tall guy with wings—that guy didn't look happy either, but his attention was turned, momentarily, giving me my opportunity.

I wriggled and kicked the rest of the way out of the chains and cords, grabbed my bag by a strap, and scooted to the door, feet-first.

I had no idea where we were: it was obviously a parking lot, but the town didn't look like any of the towns I'd been to, and there weren't any signs giving clues. It didn't matter—I set my sights to the road and started sprinting, throwing my bag over my shoulder as I went.

Maybe I could hide in the woods—maybe he won't find me.

There was a loud crashing sound behind me, and it startled me, brought my shoulders to my ears and I almost fumbled, turned to look, but as soon as I saw the form of my kidnapper—Major Douche—falling to the ground by the car in my peripheral, I quickly corrected and faced forward, focusing on running as fast as I could—

Like a meteor, the form of the second guy came soaring down in front of me, feet-first, and slammed into the ground a handful of feet away. My heart leaped in my chest and I struggled to halt, the flat soles of my shoes sliding over the concrete, and I looked at him—couldn't help looking at him—and took him in.

He was staring back at me, and now, face-to-face, I realized that he looked like a regular guy, which hadn't been what I was expecting and threw me off-guard.

His eyes were glowing, but it was only barely now and dimming by the second; when the glow disappeared, they were light green with bursts of tan, and his hair was blonde, kinda messy on his head and falling past his ears, and he looked like he was in his twenties or something, and hadn't slept in a long time. He had sharp features, but like, normal sharp, not animal-sharp—which I guessed was what I had been expecting, what with the wings and lion's eyes in the dark. He had on ripped jeans, a hat, boots, and a v-neck, which had ripped in the back where his … wings … broke through. It was almost jarring, on a guy like him—tattoos crawling down his arms and up his collar, and he was very lean, but his strength was obvious—with a set of owl-white wings present just behind his shoulders, all the way down to his mid-calf. However, as he stood there looking at me, the wings started to pull in, going back into wherever they went in his body, and it made me squeamish watching it.

I don't know who or what this guy is, or what his deal is, and I also don't want to know. For all I know, this is a giant setup to make me trust him—he could've been the guy I saw Major Douche talking to, I didn't see his face. I'm not getting trapped again—I promise that.

“Leave me alone,” I stared back at him as firmly as I could; it was easier now that the wings were gone, and he looked more normal. “I'm warning you.” I wasn't sure what I would do against someone like him—I had never thought that, if I ever met someone else with abilities, it would go like this—but I was going to do my best to fight back.

“Kid, listen,” He started, and a sharp stab of annoyance pierced through the back of my skull. Kid. “I don't wanna hurt you. I was trying to help you.”

Sure.

“I can take you somewhere safe—”

“How can I believe you?” I interrupted, the words flying out of my own mouth and into the air without my say-so—but now that they were out there, they were empowering to me, and started getting my gears turning.

My real parents always had a hard time keeping jobs, keeping houses: I stayed with family a lot, and my parents moved around looking for work. When I was six, they took me to a place I'd never been before, distant family in Utica, and promised to come back. They did, but only to visit—then they stopped coming at all. My dad's great-aunt and uncle adopted me, but they had their own child they'd adopted at birth, and while their religion had forced them to accept me in their house as their own, all I really was, was someone who took away from their precious son, the child they had longed for and finally received late in life. They'd only had enough room in their hearts for one abandoned kid, and he'd gotten there first.

Teachers always said things like, you can tell us the truth—you're safe. But their promises were only valid between the hours of 8 and 3.

My parents' parting words were that I'd be safe—Greg and Etta will care for you, they'll love you, you'll be safe.

But they were all wrong.

And I'm tired of grown-ups, people who think they know so damn much, think they know everything, getting everything so wrong all f*cking the time.

You're safe. Sure I am—only so long as I'm away from all of you.

They think because I'm a “kid”, I'm dumb enough to believe what they say—that the words will be enough, or that I'll just forget tomorrow, or that I'm not even really aware of what's happening—that I can just be stuffed away, in a bag under the bed until I can be dealt with, because I'm just some kid.

I don't deserve the truth, because I'm a kid; I don't deserve respect, because I'm a kid; and I sure as hell shouldn't be listened to, or have a say in what happens to me, because I'm a kid.

Well, I'm not a kid—the adults in my life made sure of that.

And I don't have to do a f*cking thing anyone says.

A flurry of words was building at the base of my throat, and I felt myself shaking, my eyes threatening to water—I always cried when I was mad, or feeling too much. I made myself sniffle it all down, keep my feelings as a lump in my throat, a sharp pain in my stomach.

I glared at him, pouring every ounce of hate I had in my body into it.

“That's what everyone says—all of you adults.” I spat. “I don't care if you're a f*cking angel, or a … a whatever! I don't f*cking trust you! And f*ck you!”

He sort of smiled, and looked amused which pissed me off even more, but he held up his hands.

“Hold on a second—can we just pause, kid?”

And then I saw red.

“I'm! Not! A kid!” I screamed, and all of a sudden, the guy was being blown off his feet, spinning through the air, and he landed hard on the road, sliding across the concrete. The trees shook all around us, and when I looked around, I realized for the first time that the wind had picked up and the clouds had begun to darken, and I knew it was because of me.

It's happening again.

I looked back towards the guy, and realized with a sharp pain in my chest that he wasn't there anymore.

I whipped around, scanning the sky too.

“Hey.”

There was a short whistle to my left, and I jerked in that direction, my eyes flying towards the treeline, and then I saw him, hovering a few feet off the ground. His eyes had begun to glow again.

“I enjoy a good fight, don't get me wrong—but I don't want to fight you.” He said simply.

The only problem was, I wasn't hearing any of it.

I had too much adrenaline, and I was suddenly extremely aware of my powers, the way I could feel them coursing through my veins and yearning to burst from my body. I couldn't tell if I so badly wanted to use my powers because I felt threatened, or because I was just processing meeting another person like me in an unusual way—but my skin was telling me to give it everything I had, and that's what I did.

Without thinking, I threw my hand out, mentally gripped the earth with my fist, like scrunching a shirt-collar in my hand, and yanked it up. Below him, the ground started to rise, clipping his feet and knocking him sideways, forming a large mound that rapidly grew into a hill, and then a ridge that surpassed the canopy, breaking apart the grass and uprooting trees.

It stopped once I let go, and I stepped, stumbled, backwards a few paces, still surprised and disbelieving of what I'd done even as it was in front of me. The wind was ferocious now, and just overhead, for maybe a mile radius, the clouds were dark, rumbling, and dangerous-looking; below my feet, the ground rumbled, softly, and I started to wonder if I was doing too much.

Up top, the guy suddenly grabbed the side of the ridge, suspended high enough above the ground that I had to tilt my head all the way back to see him, and when I saw him dangling there it hit me that I didn't actually want to hurt anyone.

My hands flew to my mouth and regret built in my chest—and then, the guy grabbed the side with his other hand, pulled himself in closer, and then began to simply, hand-over-hand, climb up the face of the ridge like a ladder.

I'd never seen anything like that before; I squealed inadvertently and threw a look over my shoulder, back towards the parking lot and the street of small-town stores, as if I were looking for someone else to be seeing what I was seeing—and I was shocked when there actually were people there, seeing what I was seeing. They had begun to filter out of buildings, little smatterings of people all down the road, to gawk at the new hill across the street. I could hear their voices, raised in alarm, and some of them had phones out, pointing towards us—me and the guy with wings were momentarily united, and I felt it.

It took me a second to realize that Major Douche and the cruiser were gone.

Oh sh*t.

I started whirling around—thunder boomed loudly overhead—but there were too many things for me to keep track of—rain started pouring down, in a sheet, out of nowhere, drenching me—and I was in over my head, losing control—the ground shook harder, and the rain soon became blinding—

I wiped at my face, hearing the voices over the rain, shouting; I opened my eyes again, and at the same moment I realized I was seeing a shadow through the rain, I heard the engine roaring, and knew right away who it was: Major Douche and the stolen cop car.

I took off sideways, making him have to pull a sharp turn to follow me along the side of the ridge; he flicked on his headlights, and I saw the beams of light passing on either side of me, through the drops of rain. My socks, shoes, hoodie, jeans, and bag filled with stolen goods that included an armful of large water bottles were soaked, and I only had myself to blame. I tried shrugging off the bag, but it was caught on my wet hoodie and I couldn't get it off without stopping, or altering my pace to fix it. Every time I threw a glance over my shoulder he was weaving effortlessly around trees and fallen branches, foot heavy on the pedal.

In a quick effort, I put a hand behind me and thought of pulling a tree from the earth, up underneath his truck where he couldn't avoid it, but I only succeeded in dragging up the ground again, and realized with terror and too late that I had created a small ramp.

His front end lifted and all four tires left the ground, and I heard his engine in the air behind me—he was either going to land on me, or directly behind me, and then he'd hit me and kill me.

I'm dead—I believed with every ounce of my soul that I was about to die. My lungs were on fire, my legs burned, and I fought back tears in the rain as I decided to stop running, and just give up.

I slowed to a stop and stood there, panting, as I heard his tires hit the ground. He revved it louder. I don't know why I felt the need to turn and face him, but the idea of not knowing when it'd hit me was even more terrifying than knowing it'd hit me at all.

I turned around and faced his headlights, which were coming at me without pause.

I took a full deep breath, my last taste of air, and cringed, bracing for impact.

And then, suddenly, the lean frame of the other guy dropped down from the ridge, landed in front of the truck, his shape silhouetted in the headlights—the truck slammed into him, and wrapped around him like a concrete pillar, the back end lifting with the force of the hit.

I screamed and jerked back, my hands flying to cover my face as pieces of glass and steel came tearing through the air.

The back end of the cruiser was still fighting gravity by the time the debris had stopped sailing, and when it finally dropped, and slammed into the ground with a thunderous crunch and creak of broken metal, the only thing left in one piece was him.

He removed himself from the wreckage; he stalked around to the driver's side, ripped open the door, and then leaned in, dragging the wavering form of Major Douche out of the seat and onto the grass. Through the streaks of rain, I watched as he knelt down on the grass, raised his fist, and began bringing it down, sharply, over and over, the sound of skin on skin audible. I flinched and cringed with every deadly-sounding blow, but I couldn't look away.

Once he stopped, he slowly stood up, looked at the lifeless form at his feet, then turned to me.

His eyes found and stared directly into mine.

His expression said, do you get it now?

And I did.

I really did.

__________________

His truck was big, and loud, mint-green and very clean inside, but looked old, like he'd had it for a while. His driver's side visor was stuffed with neatly-folded papers, and I saw the corner of what looked like a photograph peeking out between them, but couldn't see anything more.

He didn't care about or mention his seats being wet; he didn't care that I sat as close to the door as possible, hugging my bag to my chest, with one hand wrapped around the handle. He didn't care that I stared at him, or that I didn't say anything—he seemed like, maybe, he was even happy for the silence.

He sat there and drove, keeping the hand closest to me on the wheel at all times and the other perpetually gripping a cigarette, one after the other. The only things he had done since we got into his truck was ask me where I wanted to go, which I didn't answer, and then turn the heating vents towards me. He didn't reach for the radio, make any sudden movements, or even look at me. His eyes remained on the road, but I knew he was aware of me watching him—I didn't do it discreetly, and didn't completely notice that I was.

I was still trying to figure him out, and validate my own decision to trust him despite the fact that I wasn't sure if I should.

He smelled like cigarettes and frigid air, which was my fault, but it did sorta suit him. He had a very relaxed posture and aura, but his shoulders were always kinda back.

He didn't look peaceful, or calm, or unhappy, or angry, but it wasn't blank, either—his expression looked like many things at once, but I supposed what it really was, was nothing, done intentionally. He looked like he was maybe in his mid-twenties, but it was like he'd seen a lot; I noticed many of his visible tattoos had some reference to the military, so maybe that explained it.

Something bugging me though, was that I could've sworn I knew him, despite the fact that I'd never seen him before in my life—the only adults I knew were my parents, Greg and Etta, and the teachers at school. But sitting beside him gave me the sensation I could only equate to sitting next to family. He had “big brother” energy, the rebellious one with his sh*t together. But I didn't know him, so it was kinda like he was a cool older cousin I wasn't super familiar with but still felt safe with because of his energy, and maybe even wanted to impress a little. Either way, there was familiarity, something I couldn't ignore, and I wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that we both had abilities.

I'd wondered, a little, about there being others like me; if anything my wondering was on the wishing, wistful side, because I was pretty sure I was a freak and that everyone could see on me that I was. It seemed like my sh*tty luck to be the only freak in the universe, or at least this planet.

But he was proof that that wasn't true. And he was obviously telling the truth about trying to save me—but why? And how did he do it? How did he know I was there? Did he feel it? Was it coincidental? How many more of us are there? Does he know them?

Now that questions were forming in my brain I felt myself wanting to talk, so I looked away and instead focused now on keeping the silence that had only seconds before seemed so comfortable. If I spoke now, I'd have to acknowledge the whole I-pulled-up-the-earth-he-stood-on thing, and I wasn't ready to do that, at least not right now—I hadn't decided yet if I should be really sorry about it yet.

“I'm not gonna apologize for fighting you,” I burst, and then sat there, dumbstruck, wondering why the hell I'd just said that—but it was too late to take it back, and I looked over at him to see his reaction.

He finished the drag he was taking off his cigarette, and only after he'd exhaled and ashed out the window did he respond.

“I didn't expect you to.” He replied, simply, not looking at me.

He returned to his cigarette, and I kept staring at him. His nonchalance made me want to probe; maybe that was what he wanted in the first place.

“No?”

“Yeah,”

“Why not?”

“Because I get it,”

“You do?”

“Yeah,”

“How?”

His eyebrows raised. “How?”

“Yeah, how?”

He seemed perplexed. “That's a pretty damned broad thing to try to answer.”

“I guess I thought there would be a story,”

“No story, I just get it—I wouldn't apologize either. You didn't know what to think. You probably still don't.”

He'd hit the nail on the head with that one—hit it so succinctly that I could only look away, clutching at my bag, fiddling with the ties on the zippers. “No, I don't,” I admitted. “I have a lot of questions.”

“Yeah,” He offered, as if it were obvious, and I supposed it was. It also sounded like he was giving me an opening to ask, but I didn't know where to start.

I toyed with a stuffed star decal on my bag, thinking about how hungry and thirsty I was—then I remembered the giant bag that had weighed me down and almost killed me was filled with food too, and I quickly moved to open a zipper.

He looked at me sharply, his eyes flickering to my hands then my face, and he was noticeably tense; it had never occurred to me that he might be wary of me, too—questioning me like I was questioning him. The thought put me slightly at ease.

“I'm hungry,” I explained, opening the bag and accidentally-on-purpose showing him a peek of the contents, water and food and nothing else to see here, reaching in and snatching a bag of stuffed pretzels and water. I fished out a second water bottle, and then held it out, slowly. “Would you like something?”

He looked at the bag, looked at the water, looked at me, and then shook his head, glancing forward.

“Nah, I'm good.” He shifted, and I took a deep gulp of water, opening the bag of pretzels as I swallowed.

“Have you … ever met anyone else like … us?” I ventured, slowly. It was odd to voice us as an “us” but it was true, and knowing that made my powers all the less frightening.

“No,” He shook his head. “You're the first.” Even as he said it, it sounded like he was coming to terms with it too.

“What's your name?” I asked, trying to sound casual, but I never knew how to sound casual asking that question. “It's irritating to keep referring to you as 'him' or 'this guy' in my head.”

He smirked behind his cigarette. “Renner. You?”

I almost didn't give it to him, but it seemed silly not to. “Terra.” I offered, and he nodded in response. “So, uh—” The confidence was leaving me like an untied balloon as the weight of the words I wanted to say began to settle in; I decided to change direction last second. “Uh, so, you … have wings,” I noted, slowly, realizing I hadn't prepared anything else to say and how dumb that sounded, especially when a smirk played at his mouth and he chuckled. “What's that about? Is it cool?”

“I don't know what that's about,” He replied earnestly. “I only learned about it myself recently.” He took a short puff. “It is kinda cool, though.”

“Does it hurt when they like … come out?”

“No, I didn't notice till I saw them.”

That was sort of exciting, to think that maybe his abilities were new for him too, and that something had happened to us at once.

“So, you've only had powers for a little while, too?” I asked, and he shook his head.

“No, I ...” The way he paused made me think, wonder, if he'd ever talked to anyone else about this either; it sorta seemed like he hadn't, because I hadn't, and we were both kinda dancing around it. “I always knew I could do other stuff, I just never had wings before.”

“Oh. Like what other stuff?”

“I honestly didn't think you would talk this much.”

“Sorry, I just ...”

“I'm an asshole, don't apologize to me.” He reached for another cigarette. “I don't know—I'm strong, I can't get hurt, I can fly ...”

“Your eyes glow and you get wings,” I added, and he looked over me.

“My eyes glow?”

I nodded. “It looks like a lion in night vision or something, it kinda freaked me out at first,” I admitted, and he took a long drag on his cigarette, staring at the road. “But you probably can see, like, really good.”

“I can. And hear.”

“That's cool. I can't do that. I can, like, make it windy, and rainy, and I can made seeds sprout,” I shrugged a shoulder. “I wish I could fly.”

“I wish I could make seeds sprout.”

I smiled. “I bet it pays to be fast like you, too.”

“Sometimes.”

“If I was fast like that, I would've been able to outrun...”

The mood suddenly shifted as the words left my mouth; it was the first mention of what had happened, with Major Douche. He shifted, and I wondered if he hadn't been trying to steer away from the topic. But if it was my feelings he was trying to spare, I was fine. I was shaken up, and scared, and even more distrustful of adults, but ultimately, I knew I was safe now, because of this particular adult.

“Don't think about that too much,” He said, slowly. “You have other ways.”

“I didn't really use them, though,”

“How long has it been since you've been able to do things? You asked me if it had only been a little while since I'd gotten my abilities too, so I'm assuming you just figured out that you can do sh*t yourself, right?”

“Last year, ish,” I shrugged, and he aimed his cigarette at me pointedly.

“See? It's all still new. You need time and practice.” He took a drag. “It's just lucky that I was around, I guess.”

“How many more of us do you think there are?”

“I have no idea.”

“What now?”

His eyebrows raised, his eyes stayed on the road. “What now?”

“Yeah, I mean … where are you going to take me?”

It wasn't a question I was necessarily ready to ask, because a part of me didn't want to leave the car, leave the relative safety of someone else like me—but it had to be asked, because the conversation about what to do with me was coming, and I couldn't escape that. It was better to get to the front, steer the boat there myself. I hate this part, being treated like luggage without a destination sticker, everyone not knowing where I belonged and hoping someone else would be able to figure it out—but until I'm an adult, it's the system I have to live by.

“I don't know,” He admitted. “Wherever you want me to take you, I guess. Where's your family?”

“I ... don't really have one,” I said, slowly, trying to be careful about what I let slip. “I was looking for somewhere to stay when he ...”

He tensed. “Oh. Okay. Well ...”

He went quiet, considering, and I turned to the bag of pretzels I'd left propped on my leg and began snacking. I was trying to chew quietly but I was also hungry, and hadn't realized how much so until I started eating. It was once I finished the whole bag that I realized I'd been eating for several minutes straight, and he had been silent the whole time, watching the road, and watching me.

“I was hungry,” I said, swallowing my last bite and swiping at the inside of my mouth with my tongue for seconds.

“Clearly. Alright, listen—I don't know what to do here.”

“Did you have a plan when you decided to help me?”

“No. Did you have a plan?”

“I was running away when you stopped me.”

“That … wasn't a good plan, whatever you were doing—you would've died of dehydration before you got anywhere.”

I gave him a duh look and held up my soaking shirt sleeve. “I can make water appear if I need to,” I reminded him, not mentioning the fact that I had a shower curtain in my bag because finding and keeping water had been a problem for me—but still, I could, technically, do it.

“Right, well, it still would've been a long time before you saw jack sh*t out that way.”

“Yeah, okay,” I conceded. “I didn't know that, I was just trying to get away.”

“Do you know where we are?”

I didn't; I shook my head.

“Where did he … take you from?”

“Uh, Cicada,”

“I'm heading that way now—is that a problem?”

“No, I mean … no, not really.”

“No, or not really?”

“Not really, as long as I don't … show my face in a couple stores,”

“Got it, well, we don't have to worry about that. I just need to make a stop, and you—well, I don't know about you yet. Do you not have family, or do you just not want to go back?”

“Can it be both?”

He paused, seemingly thinking something over; it was several moments before he spoke again, and when he did, it came out slowly.

“That guy—the f*ckstick who abducted you.” He looked at me. “He told me that you killed someone, and he and some friends were going to try to figure out how to use your abilities, somehow.”

My blood ran ice cold, not having considered that he and Major Douche had spoken at any true length about me; I hadn't considered how his saving me had all come to pass, because I was still trying to process it.

“Does that have anything to do with you not wanting to go back?” He asked, quietly.

My initial response, one of fear, was to lie—lie, lie, lie my ass off, through my teeth, to the moon and back—but just as the idea was beginning to build momentum and crest, the realization of how fatally stupid that'd be hit me like a ton of bricks. Something was telling me to lean into the moment, give up the truth, because it might just be rewarding—this once, for the first time.

I was cold with anticipation and nerves, and my clammy hands were looking for anything to grasp at, fiddle with.

“Yes,” I whispered, and he kept looking at me, giving only brief glances to the road.

“The boy you killed—did he deserve it?”

My lips pressed together; my knees locked in.

I nodded.

He stared at me for a long time.

“Okay.”

I looked over at him, and he took me in, sweeping his gaze across my face several times, before turning back to the road, finally and fully.

“Okay—well, how about this? After I make this stop in Cicada, I'm going to Brent to see a buddy. You can ride along with me, and we'll … figure this all out later.” He looked back at me. “Is that cool?”

Is it possible that not all adults are disappointing? Do some of them actually care?

Does this one?

Chapter 9: Ires - Terms of Negotiation

Chapter Text

For now, I'm being Tiffani (dotted with a cute little heart over each i). Petite, brunette, thirteen years old; I wear brightly-colored bolero windbreakers and sweats, I chew gum and love to read, and I'm trying to break out of my sheltered, naive little bubble. I smile in innocence, and also genuine interest, tinged with a tweak of adoration, and my air croons, teach me—that's what guys like him like.

I watch him across the table, my elbows resting on the surface, hands clasped, chin propped, and head co*cked just so perfectly, smile glued to my face, because all I keep thinking about is how I'm going to kill him.

It's a guilty pleasure of mine to go after pedophiles, creeps, predators—I like removing the power they crave. There's something just so delicious about it. I'm the true predator; I reclaim my championship again and again.

He was currently complaining about his wife, whom he no longer found attractive because she had made the mistake of bearing his children. He was careful not to mention his kids, one of which was only slightly older than little Tiffani, and the other, a few years younger. They were both girls, which he had kept even more closely guarded, but he had no idea how long I'd been following him—he had no idea how many times he'd seen me, spoken to me under a different face.

I knew quite a lot about Thomas. That's one of my favorite parts: getting to know the subject and digging into their life, weighing the scales to decide what I want to do with them. It might surprise you to know that I didn't always kill the subjects—we could safely describe it as a 70/30 situation. The latter times, I simply maimed them, or ruined their lives. In a select few situations, I combined the two, ruining their life before laying the plans for their demise.

Thomas was going to be one of those select few. He was a naughty, bad man, and deserved every ounce of the suffering he was soon to experience.

And I would smile the entire way.

“I apologize if you don't like this place,” He said, sending looks around the crowded, trendy little cafe we were in, with the elaborate, delicious drinks and finger-food selection.

He wasn't sorry; he knew exactly what he was doing. I must admit, the mocha shake I was sipping on was truly decadent. It didn't earn him any points in my book, but it was a nice topper to a series of savage daydreams, and I appreciated that.

“Leann has been watching my credit card statements.” He leaned in slightly, spoke quietly out of the corner of his mouth, meant for just me to hear. “She got a little suspicious when she saw the charge for the movies.”

She could thank me later; I'd been the guy posted outside of their upscale, moving-on-up apartment in Ishild, as a random jerk passing out fliers about the dangers of credit card fraud. I had two copies on top of a stack of blank papers, because there was only one person I planned on handing it to.

He spoke so disdainfully of Leann; he always had some story about how cruel, mean, ugly, or resentful she was of him. But she'd always been kind and polite whenever I spoke to her. She treated everyone the same, said please and thank you and excuse me, and, in her home, she was a good mother to the girls, loving, fun. She cooked and cleaned and made sure everything ran smoothly.

When Thomas wasn't at his job, he did a lot of sitting around, and looking for girls like Tiffani.

But I still put on the face, rolled my eyes and scoffed at the absolute nerve of that woman, so lame.

“Ugh, that sucks,” I said in an I-haven't-fully-formed-empathy-yet tone of voice. “I'm sorry, that doesn't seem very fair. Like, it's your money, you're the one who works—you should be able to spend it on whatever you want.” I swirled and stabbed the straw in and out of the cup. “Besides,” I opened my mouth to the straw and took a sip; he watched my lips the entire time. I swallowed, and then shifted gears, sending him a large, slightly conspiratorial grin. “That was such a good movie, wasn't it? Thank you for taking me, I've been wanting to see that so bad.”

He grinned back at me, leaning in to match my posture. “Well, I don't usually do the rom-com thing, but,” He shrugged a shoulder, as if it were all so simple, “I don't mind, because it was for you.”

Oh how valiant he was.

“Aww, that's so sweet,” I cooed, doing the swirl-stab thing again. Hey, maybe I can do something like this to him?

He chuckled, sipping from his hot coffee, and my eyes were drawn, as if pulled by strings, to the window, and stopped on a woman shrouded in deep, brilliant shades of purple across the street. For a long moment, I allowed myself to stare at her.

Shaved head, pale-dark skin, and jarringly tall, in white pants, and a long purple jacket buttoned over a matching shirt. The moment I saw her, I knew, almost intrinsically, that I was seeing another different kind of person, and that this one was not the one that fell from the sky.

I'd watched that video—I couldn't help myself. I'd never truly thought about there being others. It had never genuinely occurred to me to consider that there were more people in the world who could do things like I could; I was content being alone. I watched the video, hoping I could discern whether or not the blonde had the exact same abilities as me—because I wouldn't like that, and I'd need her to know to keep to her part of Onem. But I didn't think she did. She didn't look like a person wholly confident; she looked scared, brand new, and if she'd had an ability like mine, I believe she would have noticed it before now.

There was something else about her too. I couldn't place it, but when our eyes met through the pixels, I had a strange stirring in my stomach, a small burst of electrical firing at the back of my head, something trying to click in place. It was not the same as the way I felt when I looked at the woman in purple.

I don't understand this. Why has there been no one else for so long, and now, with the appearance of the blonde, the rest are coming out of the woodwork? Did she open the floodgates to a superfreak highway?

I don't want any life-changing events. I planned and coordinated my life down to the letter. I did it perfectly the first time.

But I could also tell that this problem wasn't going to go away any time soon, and would likely interrupt the work I had going on here, all of my plans—so in that respect, I supposed this problem was also my problem.

There's nothing I detest more than people messing with my plans.

I returned my gaze to him and refitted the grin on my face as he gave a warm coffee sigh and set the cup down, porcelain clinking against shiny laminate.

“Anyway, I was thinking we could catch the 2:30 viewing of that new—”

“Oh, hold on a second,” I said, reaching for the cute little bag in the shape of a frog on the bar stool next to me. “I'm so sorry,” I began to rifle through it, and then stopped dead in my tracks, widened my eyes and allowed myself to go cold. “My mom is calling—I told her I was at Tonya's house.”

He leaned back and looked worried, the one corner of his mouth pulling up and in apprehensively.

“I'll be right back,” I told him, scooting off the bar stool and throwing the strap to my bag over my shoulder as I hustled towards the bathrooms, phone curled in hand. When I got near the hallway, I pretended like I was answering and cupped my hand over the receiver to block the noise; then I disappeared in the bathroom.

Once secured in a stall, I shifted into Jane, in black leggings and a plain black tank top. Then I stuffed the frog purse in the trash, under the bag at the bottom of the can.

Then I walked out, confidently as Jane, and made my way back through the cafe; I couldn't help casting a glance at Thomas as I passed, seeing he was deeply involved in his phone, appearing to be thumbing through messages—no doubt his and little Tiffani's racy messages. He didn't even look at Jane as I passed by.

I pushed my way through the glass double doors and out into the sunny streets of Ishild. I could feel the air conditioning being siphoned off me by the burning sun overhead, and I allowed others to move around me as I scanned for her where I'd seen her last.

She was still there, in the shaded alley between two towering buildings, except this time, she was looking at me too—and I knew she knew who and what I was.

I stalked across the street, paying little attention to the steady traffic of Black Card drivers, confident they'd stop for me, and made my way to her.

She didn't move, budge, flinch, or take her gaze off me as I approached, and I didn't either. I sliced through the throngs of people like a searing knife in butter and came to an abrupt stop in front of her, my stare fixed intently on hers.

“What do you want?” I questioned firmly, and the slightest, smallest bit of shock, intrigue crossed her sharp features, and lightened her golden eyes. She had a strange odor, a sort of pheromone that came across as sour to me, something instinctively I knew I didn't like—knew was bad for me. Like how humans have been trained by evolution and millennia to be wary of rodents and roaches and flies—they crawled through the death and decay and brought it with them. “Who are you?”

She seemed almost impressed, but it only showed in the slight lifting of her brows and the tilt of her head. She took me in for a few moments, I supposed trying to decide how to take me.

“What do you mean?” She replied, her accent like she spoke through a slightly curled tongue and tried to move her mouth as little as possible—something I'd never heard before. I clocked that away for later. The tone of her voice, however, was universal, and dripping in falsity.

I rolled my eyes and scoffed at her, trying my best to keep my Jane-ly composure and iciness, but Ires had sh*t to do, and didn't want to play that game: the tennis tournament of tiptoeing. “I usually enjoy the back-and-forth thing, but I'm busy right now. So let's cut to the chase. You've been following me all day.” I told her. “I've seen you—” She was hard to miss, looking how she did—“even if just in a flash, everywhere I've been. If you want to blend in, you might wanna change clothes—you look like a twelve year-old drew you.”

She studied me with those hawk-like, piercing gold eyes.

“I know what you are and you know what I am. Right?”

I studied her right back.

She seemed to come to a conclusion, and dropped some of the falsity. “I suppose so.”

I fixed her with a firm stare. “What do you want?”

She continued to be silent for a moment, appraising me. “I've come to talk to you.”

“About what?”

She kept my gaze. “Perhaps we should go somewhere private; there's plenty to discuss.”

I examined her. There was something odd to me about her visage: it was like the atoms she was comprised of were of a different opacity, sort of there but sort of not. She had a repelling scent, but she seemed like she was being truthful. But I was suspicious. Just because she's being truthful doesn't mean I'm going to like what she has to say, or that it'll be any good to me. Besides, she was giving me from another planet vibes, with her strange accent and weird clothes and gold eyes—this person wasn't holding down a day job on this world.

“Give me the gist, and we'll see if I want to keep talking.”

She was looking at me like I showed up out of nowhere with demands. “The jeest?” She struggled to say it with her accent, and I also logged that away.

“The pitch. Why you're here. The final summation, the punchline, the end note,” I waved a hand and tilted my head in an ad nauseam gesture. “What are we going to be talking about?”

“We are going to talk about the thing we both know,” She gave me a pointed stare. “And what's to come.”

If she doesn't get to the point in the next answer, I'm walking away from all of this. I co*cked an eyebrow at her. “Which is …?”

Her features changed, almost resignedly. She knew I was fighting hard for the upper hand and that, at this point in time, she needed me more than I needed her. I could see her deciding to let something slip.

“We want to teach all of you, you and your cluster, how to make this world yours.”

I eyed her, calculating everything. We implied that there were more like her; the you and your cluster confirmed that she was not one of mine, not from here, and she was speaking on world levels—this was becoming a problem that I feared had already escalated. The only way to stay on the right side of it was to meet on my terms, in my arena, where I had the advantage, and I took a moment to consider where that might be.

“What's your name?” I asked.

“I am Aphaste.” She replied, and then she got a glint in her eye and a wry, knowing smirk started to form. “And … who are you being now?”

“Jane. How well do you know your way around this place?” I asked her, and she tilted her head in consideration.

“Tell me a place, and I will find it.”

The question suddenly began to sink in for the first time: what can she do? What are her abilities?

“Do you just know where anything is?” I questioned, sarcastically, and she actually smiled.

“In a way, yes,” She chuckled. “I will meet you there. As you say, you are ...” She trailed her gaze to the cafe, “busy.”

I decided to ignore the comment and told her when and where to meet me (as vaguely as I could—why not test her strength?) then returned to the cafe to finish out my “date” with Thomas. I emerged from the bathroom as Tiffani, and, summoning up an expression of worry and fear, hurried back to the table and told him I had been caught lying by my mom and had to get home, and before we parted ways we made another date for a different day.

Little did he know how soon we would be seeing each other.

I made sure to slip out first, and then, I moved out of sight, into the alley, and shifted into another cute, trendy, too-adult young girl, just to flex my power, test a theory, feel the control again. He was bowing out of the cafe when I came around the corner, shoulder to the glass, but at the gentle jangle of sassy little key chain decorations made to flaunt growing individuality—available to be sold at every tween franchise with bumpy music and pieces of flare—his head lifted right up, and settled on the new form I'd created. I think I'll call her Ashley.

His eyes followed me as I swept past. As they always did.

Because Thomas didn't like any sort of specific tween—he just liked them. Any of them. Even his own. Sometimes he liked them so much that he broke them, and like the scared little child he coveted, he'd tried to sweep away what he'd done, bury it out of sight. Tsk-tsk, Thomas—that's bad behavior, and bad behavior must be punished.

And before I deal with this completely unnecessary life-changing event the weird space woman just dropped on me, I want to finish the very necessary life-changing event I intended to dole out here on Tellus. I think it's time to introduce Thomas to Ashley, and then, perhaps the meaty 7-foot Zavier, in the worst possible way.

Sometimes, karma deems justice necessary to be doled in the form of an eye for an eye. Sometimes, justice isn't about learning from mistakes—or living long enough to generate any sort of income for corporations from a prison cell.

It's about getting what's f*cking coming to you.

___________________________________

As a small white bird, I moved towards the lazy evening sun above the harbor, over the ferries and yachts and cargo carriers chugging through choppy water.

I had asked the woman—Aphaste—to meet me at an abandoned basketball court in Ducater. It was a short flight across the water, but in a lot of places on this side of the country, it's like a whole other world. Onem isn't very big, but it's dense, and broken into many regions. The differences are small but important, because on the more coastal part, like Jolie and Ishild and Witechester, luxury is simply everywhere. Air conditioning and heat are essential and base model, buildings are up to code and to date, with the latest technologies that made life easier: automated services, everything on call, ultraviolet-resistant windows, homes and cars run by AI assistance, so you never have to touch a switch, open a door, make coffee, or go without hot towels ready after every shower ever again. I controlled my home and my environment with my voice, my presence, and people were dressed up, flashy and sleek. Over here, things were dodgy, and you never knew when any repairs had been done on anything, so in many places you risked finding out only when the thing broke off in your hand or your elevator went careening to the ground.

And as much as I enjoyed my lavish life with seemingly endless money, my ability to become whoever I needed to be, to adapt, had been forged in the disrepair, and I couldn't deny that home sometimes called to me.

The buildings here were crumpling slowly day by day, and a lot of it had been abandoned, causing overcrowding in surrounding areas, because Ducater was mostly uninhabitable.

Built below sea level, they had relied on a series of dams and blockades to keep dry during heavy rainfall. But in a particularly bad season, the entire area was flooded, the water cresting the ninth story windows all over. Even after the water cleared, the damage was far too expensive and, frankly, not worth investing in a place like Ducater, it was decided. Their power plants had drowned, along with their electric stations and water lines; it was discovered that the pipes had been lead anyway, and the whole system would have to be replaced. So, many of the people that lived, left; quite a few stayed, for varying reasons. The water was still bad for you, almost none of the damage had been fixed, and you had to essentially travel out of the area to get anything you needed, but I liked it here.

I'd chosen the abandoned basketball court between a towering, wilting apartment complex and a stout office space. There was a parking garage behind the court, and then the wide, main street in front. The brick walls of the lower half of the apartment building were covered in moss and looked like soggy paper, and the office space had windows knocked out, vines creeping here and there, and long-dead seaweed hanging from the flat roof.

I dropped down into the center of the court and shifted back into Jane. I wasn't so concerned about shifting openly here—this area was mostly empty, and the ones that did live here would be easily convinced of the idea that it was just a hallucination. In case this meeting turned into sh*t, I wouldn't draw unwanted attention to Jane, who was meant to be the attention-grabber, while I solved the problem.

I looked around for the familiar purple, but there was nothing but breeze and silence and concrete around me. The rusted bodies of old cars still lingered in the street, and a musty, methane-y smell hung in the air.

I turned my gaze to the street, and a cold chill collapsed down my spine, a sudden sense of no longer being alone—and when I looked to my side, she was standing there.

I was mildly impressed she'd been able to find the place; then I was bored.

“I'm here, you're here—tell me who you are and what you want.” I said firmly.

She almost seemed amused. “Not much for chit-chat, are you?”

“I don't like bullsh*t.” I replied simply. “You wanted to talk to me, I'm here. So just say it.”

Her head co*cked, and then she was quiet, her eyes shifting down and to the side—it was like she was listening to something, someone whispering in her ear.

Then she looked back at me, her chin raised, appraising me.

“Alright,” She conceded, carefully. “You can consider me an emissary. I have …” She considered her words with a tilt of her head, “a proposition for you, and the rest of your cluster.”

My expression didn't change, but I started silently examining the statement. She kept referring to that, my “cluster”—she was certain I had one. I thought of the blonde, and a cold tension built at the base of my neck.

“I must be honest and let you know that our arrival is no coincidence,” She continued, gently. “One of your own presented herself to us, and we want to help you.”

I was beginning to see the story. “Help us what?”

She smiled. “No boll-sheet? We want to help you reshape your world. Gain control. Make things … as they should be,”

In whose opinion?

“This is what we do. We find ones like us, Gods, who are … maybe not so experienced?” She only hesitated briefly before she settled on that last word. I also clocked the 'Gods' comment, and something in me stirred. “We show them how to use their abilities to their full potential; we show them how to rule. Do you understand? You are not meant to stand amongst these humans, you and your cluster are so much more—we all are. As Gods, it is your right to be seen by the world, and have your judgment be known. We want to teach you how to take this world as yours.”

Okay … this is strange: bullsh*t with such sincerity. Am I supposed to believe that this journey from wherever the hell she came from was all because they saw what I'm assuming was the blonde, figured she wasn't a god using her full potential, and then decided to mosey their way on over here in order to … sell us an idea? With no strings attached? Coming simply from a place of brotherly love and wisdom?

Forgive me if I find that really hard to f*cking believe.

I eyed her. “And what do you get in return for this?”

Her head tilted as if she were trying to hear a sound far away. “I suppose, loyalty to our One, for showing you your full potential.”

And there it is. There it is.

I worked in the business world: it was my job to speak the bullsh*t pitch lingo. And that word, loyalty, is trouble in the business world.

This was a merging, with a new leader, who had ideas about how to do things in a home that wasn't his; ideas we would be forced to follow, because it was his intent to keep us under his thumb. And the whole shtick about full potential? Sounded like marketing to me.

I flagged that she referred to what I'm assuming was their leader as “One”—they referred to their rank by number. I wonder what sort of number an emissary carries in their group.

“I must say, you, specifically, have impressed our One; he appreciates your,” She twisted her lips wryly, “candor.”

“So he's here? Why didn't he come to pitch this, then?”

She kept that smile. “You asked before what my ability was. I can astral project across great distances. Think of it, perhaps, like a telescope, but my consciousness is what sees; so, what you're seeing and speaking to now right now, is, like you, not real—simply a mirage.” Her odd visage made sense then. “As my cluster draws closer, my physical body will become more tangible to my Sight, and I will be able to teleport myself and the others here.”

So they were already on their way then, cruising through the ether of space on a journey specifically to find us.

This was becoming an even bigger, more consuming problem than I could have anticipated.

“You said one of my own presented herself to you.” I said, and decided right then to take a wild stab in the dark. “The blonde?”

“Yes, her. She made herself known—”

“In what way?” I interrupted, and she regarded me with interest, and wariness.

“It's complicated—”

“Are you kidding?” I questioned flatly. “You're a mirage from outer space and I can shift into anything I can think of—try me.”

I saw it again, like she was listening to someone. She was discreet, but I was perceptive. I guess her “Sight” hadn't shown her that I wasn't f*cking born yesterday.

“She can travel through space and time, completely.” She said, her voice falling at the end of the word in a way that created a flag for me—a weakness to probe. “She can bend it to her will. She can do a great, great many things. However, when she showed herself to us—”

“How did she do that? Did she drop down on your planet, knock on the door, say hello, we need help over here?”

“No,” She looked a little less amused now. “She traveled beyond the orbit of your planet—Tellus, you call it?—and came to us in the form of a vision. Came to me, as a matter of fact. It is my understanding she has them too. You'll find, through our One's teachings, that all the planets with gods on them have a certain … configuration, molds to fit—roles to play. We saw that she was underdeveloped, living amongst humans; we assumed that meant the rest of you were as well, though we hadn't quite anticipated none of you being together. It's odd, a world where the Gods aren't connected.”

I eyed her. “How many worlds have you and your One and the rest of them been to?”

She smiled. “Many. As I said, this is what we do.”

“You never answered how your One knows anything about me when you're the only one who can come here,” I said. “You're the one who can astral project. Can he?”

A complicated, troubled look came across her face—and I flagged that too. “Our One can do a great, great many things as well.” She told me, quietly. “He hears and sees all.”

Is that so? He clearly can't see or hear where the blonde is.

“So what do you need from me?”

“To bring me to the rest of your cluster. We can help each other. I want to bring you all together, in preparation for his arrival, and as you're supposed to be. You'll know more than anyone where they are—you are drawn to each other. You cannot help finding each other once you start.”

She wanted to bring us together so it'd be easier for her One to take control, to tell us how to do things here. She was attempting to forge this partnership with me in the hopes that I would cut down her work, and also be able to convince the others to listen, and agree. I assume she thought I'd be the most willing to take control of the planet; she assumed my greed would drive me into his trap.

But this is my f*cking world—I already own it. She says I'm a God? I know I am. And I have no desire to sit atop a throne and stare from up high; I prefer to be amongst the people, seeding out the worthy and the unworthy in my kingdom. And I'm not going to allow some other to come here and tell me what to do here.

How dare she propose such a vile thing directly to my face, with such ease, as if I were stupid?

The problem, though, was that if I told her what she could do with her disgusting proposition, she would simply keep searching, and she would find the others: it was what they came here to do.

If she got to the others before me, or without me, she might be able to convince those ones, pull the wool over their eyes: I don't know who the hell these other people are, my cluster as she calls it, and I can't guarantee that one or however many of them would be able to see through her like I did.

I can't let anyone, or anything, ruin my plans, or this life I worked so hard to have.

I pretended to weigh it, ruminate on it. Then I looked at her.

“Alright, I'm going to tie up some loose ends here first, and then I'll help you find the others,”

And we'll boot you back to wherever the f*ck you came from.

Chapter 10: Nic - Immaterial Things

Chapter Text

“I don't understand what's so important about finding her,” Jackson was saying as we left Temasca in our background, convertible top down, the flippy front part of his hair flopping backwards on top of his head in the breeze. “I'll help you—I don't know why, but I will—I just wanna know what for.”

We were on an empty, narrow, busted-up road cut through a section of forest between Temasca and Laville. Onem was tragic, a giant, overpopulated, industrial nation with random spots of trees, and almost entirely unused, forgotten roads. Most people used trains, tubes, or foot power, and cars weren't readily available here: I don't know if their government crushed up all the cars somewhere down the line, but there were very few of them left. You either had to have money to afford one, or a family member that had one to pass down from the old times, a generational vehicle. So, we had a long ways to go with just the two of us on the road.

I affixed my sunglasses to my face and propped my foot on the cup holder in the door, began fiddling with a hole at the knee of my jeans. I considered the drugs stuffed in my shoe, and then my phone buzzed in my back pocket. I pulled it out, the latest VK Nato in white, with the reflective gold case and the dense screen that projected pure blacks so much crisper—it had a couple dents in it, one from the time I dropped it off the third-floor balcony at a house party, another from when I chucked it a little too casually into the passenger seat of my personal vehicle and it dinged off the door. This was the second one I bought, because the first phone didn't survive a week.

Anyway, I slid open the projector shield and pulled up the text, dragging it with a finger into the air; it was Mcaillister. Did you go to jail? He liked the run-ins with the police, because he could always pay his way out of it—or get away with it by playing up his attributes, slithering out of trouble by letting the authorities know he was educated, affluent, and sorry. He also really liked when his friends got taken in, because to him, having to stick it out in a jail cell for an hour or two was a game, and never a true consequence—his dad filled the halls with cash, and Mcaillister and the rest of us were walked out like nothing happened, and he got to throw it in everyone's face that it was happening. Of course, I could also make it all go away in an instant if I really wanted to—I just had to say the words—but sometimes, consequences are meant to happen, and should happen. It's the natural balance of life.

I closed the text and powered down the screen, tucking the phone away again.

“We skipped out on your interviews, and now, you got me driving you across the country to look for... ” He scoffed, like the right word would come out on the air.

It was fine, because I caught his drift. No one knew what to say about her, but she was all anyone was talking about.

She didn't have a scratch—not a single bruise, scrape, or chipped nail. She had been witnessed falling through the clouds by millions of people, after she had been ripped out of a train by who-knew-f*cking-what—which billions of people also saw. I'd seen it, with my own two eyes, along with three pilots who apparently hadn't told anyone about it because nowhere mentioned her being seen jettisoned, screaming, towards the moon. Two days later, she came barreling back into the world, hit it with unimaginable force, and then got up and ran away.

Why wouldn't we go find her?

And we weren't the only ones: it was a full-on witch hunt, like the type of ancient history sh*t that was so far gone it had to be chiseled out of the ground—including talks of testing her humanness. It was f*ckin' weird, and I wondered what she was doing—if she'd made it somewhere and was safe.

Police were combing the streets, reporters were digging through trash cans and people's lives, and all anyone could ask was, what is she? Is she an alien? An angel? What about her intentions? Why did whatever it was that took her, take her, and bring her back? Did it give her powers? Could we utilize that? The government was even getting in on it.

But all I knew was, she was where I needed to be.

I hadn't felt anything like it before. The moment my eyes had set sight on her, at first in the plane but mostly when I saw her again on TV, it was if I'd known her my whole life. I was suddenly starting to recall sensations I'd never felt, experience brief flashes of memories that weren't mine, get the feeling of deja vu without the knowledge of where it came from—it was as if we'd grown up together, and I was only just now remembering she existed. It was as if it was encoded in my DNA.

I knew it had something to do with our gifts, powers, abilities, whatever you want to call them—but all I wanted to do was stand in her presence.

“It could be good for my shows,” I told him, lackadaisically shrugging a shoulder and throwing a hand. “I mean, come on, the woman can obviously do incredible things—we could really pull in some big numbers.”

That was a language Jackson understood, but, strangely, he looked even more suspicious of me.

“I suppose that's true,” He said, slowly, eyes squinted distrustfully.

“Absolutely, man. I could do a whole comeback thing—go back to my roots.” I continued, slumping low in the seat and pushing my sunglasses up higher on my face. I dug for a cigarette. “Be done with the acting sh*t.”

He sighed, an opening of the floodgates, and smacked the heel of his hand off the steering wheel. “Nic, you were the one who wanted, as I recall, to foray into acting.”

I didn't remember that, but my frequent drug and alcohol abuse always put a sliver of doubt into any assertion about what I did or didn't do, so I fenced the line. “Foray, not live and sleep there—you know, endeavor, try my hand and leave?”

“That's not what foray means,” He told me flatly.

“According to who?” I lit the end of my cigarette.

He looked at me like I was an idiot. “The dictionary?”

I had to laugh because it was funny—Jackson burns were rare, much rarer than his criticism—but I was also pretty sure he was wrong. “Bullsh*t, man. Colloquially, we all understand that foray means, 'give an attempt'.”

“An attempt to take on a task. A new endeavor. And, you did give an attempt. And, poor you, you did it successfully and people like you. So you forayed into a career on the screen, every Thursday night at 8pm, and, in case you didn't realize, it's going really good—despite how much you try to sabotage it.”

“Sabotage?” I couldn't help but chuckle incredulously at that, peering at him over the rims of my shades. “No—undermine? Yes.”

“Do you know what any words mean? Because that would explain a lot.”

“Are we really going to have an argument about semantics? This early on? We still have a whole day of driving left, you know that?”

“I think you're the one arguing about semantics. And anyway, none of it matters, because you still are contractually obligated to finish out these last few months, despite how you feel about it. And that's because the You from a few years ago did want this, and signed on some dotted lines—you're going to have to contend with yourself on that one, and stop blaming me for how you feel.”

“I don't—”

“You do, and you know it, somewhere inside you. You have this picture framed in your mind that I'm making you do all this. I know that, because I know you. I've been with you on a constant basis for almost six years. You are the only client I have because, with you, I don't have time, or energy, for anyone else. You are my schedule. I know you. And you haven't shown any enthusiasm for work since—”

“I started on the show,”

“No, since doing magic stopped making you happy.”

I was speechless and cold, the cigarette frozen between my fingers.

“I'm not dumb, Nic. You never rehearsed, never had actors … yeah, I mean, don't get me wrong, it took me a while to come to terms with it. When I saw you for that first time, doing magic on the street corner, you were doing impossible things—things that you couldn't have possibly staged. The more you did, the more I became certain you were on another level. You kept trying to think of bigger things, and everything you were coming up with was never enough—you always wanted it to be bigger, cooler, and by the end, you couldn't top yourself. So you gave up. Anything you thought of would have been amazing to the audience, but it wasn't to you—and that was enough for you. You were drinking, miserable, and asked for something to do, so I got you cameos to boost your spirits, remind you that people admired you—then you met Grant and Mcaillister, and this is how it's been ever since.”

He was right: it was starting to come back to me, in crests, the memories I had recorded over with my own version.

He kept his eyes forward.

“You don't want to get out of your rut. But now, since she came around … I haven't seen you this determined in years, so that tells me it's probably pretty serious. She did something amazing, and it reminded you that you could, too.”

Washing in chills, I puffed on the dying flame of my cigarette.

“That's why I came with you.” I twitched at that. “I want to know what your plan is.”

There was a lot to unpack. One glaring truth was that, in the six years I'd known Jackson, he'd known for almost the entire time that I had true abilities. He hadn't said a word, just kept cleaning up after me, and learned everything about me—and I knew practically nothing about him. I doubted he had a wife or kids, because they might've cropped up at some point—what did he go home to? Did he have a cat, a gerbil, a couple fish?

I'd never acknowledged nor celebrated a single birthday of his, except that one time the cops were digging around the Black Card car because they knew I got high, so I stuffed a pound of raz into Jackson's pocket and told him I'd gotten him a birthday gift. He'd responded that it wasn't his birthday and I'd waved a hand and said, “Well, whenever it is.” I stood there silently telling myself it was a good idea: he could sell that for a lot, that's a pound of raz, I thought. It cost me three grand and took two weeks to be flown in from Cilamonte, it was top-dollar sh*t, worthy of his efforts. Then I took it back when the cops left.

f*ck, is this who I thought I'd be?

I exhaled heavily and cupped my forehead between my thumb and index fingers, and just sat there exhaling like a balloon being slowly deflated for a minute, stuck in a vicious spiral of berating myself and reminding myself to fix this.

What could I possibly say to this guy, out of all the thousands of amends I needed to make? Where would I start? We only have a day, I'd need a whole year to get through everything. I've got him, the guy I pay to be my lifeline, driving through a different country—a weird country at that—on a personal mission that I wasn't even sure where he fit, and I hadn't thought once about what he would do when his use to me was expended. I just assumed he'd be there whenever I needed him, because that had always been the case.

“Jackson,” I started, still gripping my forehead, squinting through the smoke of my cigarette.

“Yeah,”

“Do you have any pets?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Pets? A dog, a bird?”

“Pets—no, I don't have any pets. Like I said, you take up a lot of my time.”

“I'm getting to that. What's your house like? When's your birthday?”

He was silent, his eyes on the road. I could tell he was trying to figure out my angle. “My house? Uh, I live in a bungalow on the beach, actually not too far from you, for obvious reasons.”

“Would you live there if you didn't have to, because of me?”

His head tilted. “Yeah—I like my house.”

“And the rest?”

“My birthday is in June. I'm thirty-two. Are you angling for my credit card information or something?” He cracked a joking smile.

“You didn't come because you wanted to, I made you.”

His smile faded some. “What do you mean?”

“I influenced you. I mind-controlled you.” His foot lifted slowly off the gas. “I told you that you wanted to come. I swear, it's the only time I've ever done it, and you should know that because if I had, we wouldn't negotiate as much as we do.” By this point, the car had rolled to a slow and complete stop on the side of the road, and he was staring at me. “I'm sorry for being a prick. I'm sorry I'm such an asshole. I'm sorry I've been selfish. I don't want to be that guy. You're right about everything. I'm an idiot. And I need your help.”

“You … mind-controlled me,” He didn't phrase it as a question but I could tell he wanted clarification.

“Yeah, see, I was afraid you'd say no, so I just … persuaded you a little. I told you that you wanted to.”

He looked away and leaned back against his seat, like he was trying to come to terms with what his own mind believed.

“It was f*cking stupid, and I know that,” I added quickly. “You would've done it if I'd just asked. I ... needed to be sure, though. It was a sh*tty thing to do, and I swear I'll never do it again.”

He stared at me, his eyes searching my face.

“This is important.” I continued. “I have to find her—I feel like I already know her. And she isn't safe. She'll be … caged and carved up and whatever else, I don't even want to think about it—just because she's … different. I've made a career off it.” I looked at him. “I have to help her.”

He was quiet for several long moments.

“If I try to leave, will you influence me again?”

I didn't have to think about it; I shook my head no.

“I'll help you, but let's get this clear—we're doing this together. I'm not your manager right now. I'm the person you need, because let's face it, you don't have a single sh*t's worth of life skills. And, despite everything, I still like you, which is why I've stayed this whole time.”

I reached for the lighter, relighting my cigarette.

“The first thing we have to do is see what the media knows about her.” He told me, reaching for his phone in the cup holder.

I took a drag and reached for my own, and we both began researching. Unsurprisingly, the world's biggest story had already been pried into by the population's sharpest handheld detectives, and the poor woman's whole life was spilling out in front of the entire world.

She worked at the Kenessee warehouse on the coast of Laville, mopping floors some days and stuffing DIY furniture parts into boxes on others. She lived in Lemon Grove, didn't make waves amongst her neighbors, and was reported as being polite, a woman who kept to herself. She had been on her way home when she'd been taken from the train, a mere twenty minutes after she departed, on Friday, 8:58PM. She fell from the sky on Sunday at 11am, crashing in the middle of the boutique district of Carthage, with thousands of coffee-grabbing shoppers in direct eye witness. Her work picture—never a very flattering thing, but hers was a rare one, or she was very photogenic—showed blonde hair chopped to square shoulders. Her features were sharp and she was shaped like a two-by-four, giving her a slightly androgynous glean—but her nose was thin and straight, eyes almond-shaped, icy blue, and piercing in their depths, seeing everything. There was something about her that exuded fairness, and knowing without judgment.

Her name was Celeste Sorun.

“Celeste,” I muttered, the word dripping like paint off my tongue and changing my colors.

“Oh hey—look,” He turned his screen to me, and I saw some shaky footage of an apartment door in a dingy building between the paragraphs of an article. “I have her address. The story says that she hasn't come out of the apartment yet.”

“What are the chances, you think, of her still being there?”

“Not great. If it was me, I would've grabbed what I needed and left.”

“We should probably go check it out anyway, huh? Still, it might be good to have a plan A-B,” I said. “A1. Whatever—the plan that happens along with the main one.”

“I know what you mean.” He offered, his eyes down on his phone. “What are you thinking?”

I handed him my phone with the camera app open. “Press start.”

Chapter 11: Celeste - Point of Contact

Chapter Text

It's not my first time on the streets—it's not even my second or third. I've had the sun and the stars over my head more times than I've had a roof over it, but I'd really thought that this time, the roof was there to stay.

I looked up only briefly, only once, to the open window of my apartment, the part of my life I'd begin now referring to as The Past, When I Used To, and Back When—and I let myself be wistful for only a moment before I turned my back and got the hell out of there.

The first order of business was, I needed to get off the streets. My face was everywhere, stolen off my work badge and stills of the train video—I assumed they got my badge from the satchel left sitting beside my empty seat, which meant they had my phone too. The scenes were playing on the giant neon billboards plastered on nearly every building, people on the street were watching it on their phones, and I tried to blend into all of it, head down, trench coat, cradling three potted plants in one arm and dragging luggage with the other. I needed to get off the road, out of sight, but it would take some doing—I had an idea, I just wasn't sure yet if it was a smart one.

Homelessness was a routine part of my childhood; survival along with it. Whenever we were homeless, our parents would split on us—Tiger and Sheeny Sorun weren't winning any parent of the year awards, and we certainly weren't making any to give them. And after they disappeared, we, their ten children, would split too.

Our older siblings had had to figure out the ropes on their own, so they figured we should too, and left without so much as a shallow “good luck” tossed over their shoulders. A few of us younger ones would stick together at first, but ultimately, the example we were shown took hold—plus, none of us liked each other, so getting along and working together weren't things we wanted to do. We were all miserable, angry, bitter children mad at each other because our parents kept having us. There were a lot of if you weren't here sentiments.

I always followed the train. When I wasn't as familiar with the streets, it was the only landmark I knew, and I used it as my guide around Wolsted, where we lived at the time. Until very recently, I was comfortable with trains. With nowhere to go and nothing to do, I would ride the rails endlessly, stop after stop, sometimes until the route ended for the night—then I'd find another one that was still chugging.

That was part of the Back When. In the Now, I need to get as far away as possible without being seen, and in order to do that I need a car. Stealing it is the easy part: finding one I don't feel bad for stealing from is less simple.

Except, that kind of thinking can't work in the Now—and unless I get a vehicle and find the others, the Soon To Be will be a helluva upheaval for the entire human race, involving some kind of goddamn beast that's bringing people with it. I think, right now, that trumps feeling bad about swiping a car.

As it was, I had one in mind. My downstairs neighbor drove a boat of a vehicle with a license that should've been taken away years ago. It was dented and dinged from everything that “jumped out” at him while he was driving around, nearly blind and mostly deaf—he took it out on Sundays like it was a fancy classic car, ran down some street signs and pedestrians, and then put it to bed in Slot 2B after precisely one hour.

Do I feel great about stealing from an old man? No. Is it necessary? Yes. If I had family I'd steal from them, but I don't, so this is what it is. Out of the ten of us kids, four are in jail, three are dead, one is me, and the other two and I are not on speaking terms, much less on crash-on-your-couch-while-I-hide-from-the-government-and-the-media terms. If the press offers a cash reward for information about me, my family will be the first ones lining up to speak, talking about how they always knew I was weird. Tiger and Sheeny will miraculously remember that I'm theirs and cry on TV about how they did everything they could to help me, scratching at their pocked skin with one hand and holding the other palm up.

So I made my way, steadily and not-too-hastily, towards the parking lot for my building, which was three blocks away and sat below the tracks. Mr. Kruger's sky blue two-door sedan with the squared grill was parked near one of the posts for the track, a few parking spaces away from the glow of the lamplight. I hurried to it, the wheels of my luggage rolling over the gritty road the only sound in the darkness. Mr. Kruger wasn't the kind of guy liable to leave his key in the car, but I'd been raised in the kind of family that had mastered getting into sh*t they weren't supposed to.

A cursory glance into the windows told me both doors were locked, but I figured I'd give the trunk a go, and it opened, washing me with a mixed spread of relief and anxiety. I quickly ducked in, pushing down the backseat from the trunk and crawling through to the front in a matter of moments. I settled into the driver's seat, ripped open the panel below the wheel, and slowly exhaled through pursed lips.

Okay—let's make my mama proud.

I yanked the wires down and ducked my head to see them, thumbing for the right ones. Once in hand, I quickly made the new connections, and with zap of electricity, the engine revved to life, rumbling below my feet and against my back. I'd only ever driven a handful of times, but I was pretty sure I could do this.

I scrambled out of the car, collecting my belongings. I threw the luggage in the back, closed the trunk, set my plants on the passenger seat beside me, and buckled up, my heart pounding in disbelief, anticipation, and anxiety. Somewhere under it all I was glad it worked, I was ready to go do everything I'd planned, even if I had no f*cking idea how or why.

I steered carefully out of the lot, trying to get used to pushing around the gigantic front end as I made my way towards wherever I ended up. The lights beaming from the buildings and billboards sailed past outside my windows, people were walking the streets, still hunched over their phones, and not a single one was paying attention to me. But it didn't stop me from chewing on my nails as I drove, anxiously thinking of being followed, or helicopters flying overhead, people figuring out where I was and what I'd done.

I needed a phone so I could keep track of everything they knew about me, and how close they were to finding me—the only question was, how to get one. I mentally unpacked my luggage as I cruised through the darkened streets, trying to decide what could help me. I had some makeup, scarves, baggy clothes … maybe I could disguise myself? I've only ever done makeup—gloss and some mascara, eyeliner if I was feeling extra-capable that day—for job interviews. I doubt I have the skilled hand and creativity required to completely mask myself—however, I did only take it with me because I thought I could use it for this purpose.

And then, it hit me: if I'm the kind of customer people don't want to deal with or look at, they might be liable to move quickly to push me out. I saw it work successfully on many occasions with my parents.

Though I have to pull the memory like a cloth between a clenched fist from the deepest recesses of my brain stem, it comes simply, and it's all there. The sound of rain hitting a shingled ceiling, fluorescent lights beaming from above, grimy tile and glass smudged with greasy fingers—struggling to balance my younger brother on my side while two of my older and four more of our younger siblings trailed after our drunken dad. My sister was holding the newest addition—Perry, barely a couple weeks old—in a shivering grasp.

Dad was on a hunt to get a bottle of one of three very specific things. If they didn't have the Haluna Lau rum, he wanted Sailor Leo's, and if they didn't have that, he, grudgingly and feeling personally slighted, would accept Georgio bourbon, goddammit. If they didn't have that, he'd explode outwards like a mushroom cloud into the face of the poor cashier, acting like they were purposefully hiding it from just him—and if that didn't magic up some liquor, then we'd leave and go somewhere else. We'd sweep into the streets and race to keep up with our fiending father, noses dripping and feet cold.

By seventeen, I had managed to save up enough money working multiple jobs to afford my apartment, and I've spent the last two years making it mine. I thought of all my belongings, everything I worked so hard for, being touched and tossed and examined, put on display, and a small lump began to appear in my throat that I wouldn't allow to harden.

No, get it together, Cel, and remember: we aren't thinking of the Back Then, the What Used To Be—we need to fix the Now.

But thinking of the past had inspired me, and I steered into one of the many unused parking lots scattered around the city and parked so I could rummage through my trunk. I shrugged on a few extra coats and exchanged my shoes for slippers, and wrapped a couple scarves around my head so my hair was hidden. I smeared on a deep red lipstick, poorly, getting it above my lip and in the corner of my mouth, and then I rubbed a little on my teeth in the rear-view mirror. I caked on mascara and eyeliner, and then I used spit to smudge and dishevel it all around my eyes, as if I'd been wiping at them. Then I accidentally scraped my eye with the mascara brush and I was crying for real. I popped on a large pair of cheap gradient-tinted glasses I'd bought during a switch-it-up moment, thinking they were retro and cool, but ultimately made me look like a grandma.

Weepy and red-eyed, I wallowed my way to the giant box store in Lemon Grove and wailed through the doors, sniffling and gasping. I shuffled to the prepaid phone section and grabbed one, a couple cards of minutes, then shuffled my way back to the checkout. People stopped and looked at me, but once they saw my multiple coats and slipper shoes, my smeared makeup and desperate expression, they quickly hurried away, hoping not to be approached.

I went to the first empty checkout lane and sniffled and moped while the cashier slid the box across the scanner.

She eyed me. “Are you … okay, ma'am?”

I shook my head, wiping furiously at my sore eye. “Oh, no,” I croaked, digging through my purse for my wallet. “It's my son … he won't return my calls … now I have to do this sh*t!”

She said nothing else and took the cash, gave me change, and I shuffled out, thanking her for listening as I went.

Then I hurried back to the safety of the car and shrugged off several layers of the coats, tossed aside the glasses and used one of the scarves to wipe the makeup off my face, which went poorly, but I had time—just how much, I wasn't sure, but I had a feeling. Actually, I had a lot of feelings.

I could tell that I was going to come into contact with these people: now that I had set off on the mission, the connections were strengthening, and the idea that I would find them seemed very promising. I could still remember them all, each of their faces, and when I closed my eyes, they were there. I sat there with my eyes closed for a while, absorbing as much of it as I could.

The only problem was, I had been pushing down my abilities for years, almost my entire life, and my body was still reflexively tensed against it, afraid to open up—afraid to let all the f*cked up sh*t in. I wanted to find them, and I knew, instinctively, intrinsically, that I could with my abilities; those, too, were becoming clearer to me, as if the neurons firing off in my brain were creating paths, making a map of what I could do, and how.

Cruising on, I plugged the phone into the car's charging port and set about looking for a quiet, clear place to think, somewhere in the center of Wolsted, an entire city that the cops shrugged at and moved on from. I found a small, empty park near what was once a library but was now a meeting spot for addicts and parked along the road, tucking the keys into my pocket as I trekked towards the swings, past the lonely jungle gym re-designated as a place to smoke and shoot up.

I lowered on the weathered plastic seat and the chains gave a soft squeak as my weight tested them, my hands wrapped around them, and I absently pushed off the earth with the toe of my sneaker.

Relax, I told myself, try not to think about the pressure, what needs done, what lies ahead or beyond—just swing, swing, this is all there is.

I pushed off a little harder, this time with both feet, scattering the wood-chips and closing my eyes.

If I think about it, I can almost recall every other time I've swung—all the different sets in all the different locations, and if I can hold that picture in my mind for more than a moment, I can recall what it felt like to be there that day: the mood of the weather, the moments I was escaping from. I can see tall and thin frames with long chains that gave you great air, and shorter sets that only let you go so far before they seemed to buckle. I recall busy playgrounds at the start of the sunny school season and bleaker shades of loneliness in the coming of winter.

I looked to the nighttime sky, navy blue and filled with stars, endless stars so very far away and giant streaks of gray clouds much closer to us, and believe me, I recalled how large they were.

As my feet began to touch the sky, my eyes settled on a cloud in the distance, focused on a single point above it—and suddenly, I found myself hurtling forward off the seat, I was being sucked towards the sky again and I gasped sharply, loudly—“No!” I shrieked—

And everything stopped, I quit moving abruptly, hung suspended several feet in the air, and only had enough time to gasp, “sh*t!” before whatever had me let me go, and I dropped with a heavy, dull thud—“Oof!”—onto the wood-chips.

My first instinct was to scramble to my feet and wrap my arms around myself, scanning the empty sky for whatever it was, but then it occurred to me that this time wasn't like the last time: nothing had grabbed me, nothing was holding me in place—I was just … doing it.

I was doing it myself.

I looked down at my hands as if they had something to do with it, but if I had to pinpoint it, I'd almost say it came from my chest.

And I can control it.

I looked up again, and I felt a newer confidence knowing I could stop being sucked into space again, but I wasn't quite ready to test it on such high stakes: I looked around, saw the jungle gym, and focused on the top of the slide.

Then I was pulled again, but no, I was doing it, I was taking myself—flying—

I'm flying.

I can fly, too?

But of course I could: I fell from space and didn't die.

Fell.

From.

Space.

No—I flew.

__________________________

So having a vision shouldn't be so complicated—right? I mean, this is the one thing I knew I could do from the beginning, so I shouldn't be afraid of it.

I shouldn't be.

I tried to shake it off, flubbing my lips and shimmying my shoulders in the dimly-lit dangerous area meant for children sometime around midnight, in preparation to have a vision.

I closed my eyes and took soothing, readying breaths.

Maybe I should try just thinking of their faces—I'll start with one. Let's do … the soldier guy, the one in the jungle.

I pulled up the image behind my eyelids again, and scanned.

Okay, soldier guy—crouched in fatigues in dense brush somewhere out there. I can see his face, sharp and fierce, slashing blonde hair, green eyes, the epitome of strength and determination—all square shoulders and rock-hard muscles. I also see the light splotches of dirt dried on his hands, grasping a long and dangerous-looking rifle with bulky pieces, meant for exactness and firepower. Yes, him—focus on him, see if we can find him.

I tried to melt into the seat, allow myself to think, and feel, and learn how to drive this ship.

I let the image of him fill my entire mind, and I sensed he was on an island, perhaps a rocky one, and his presence there was secret, meant to be discreet. There was an eerie, haunting aura, the dark mouth of a beast on that island—an evil he and his group, who I also sensed, had dutifully and unwittingly walked into.

Calmness and lightness was starting to come over me now, as if I were losing gravity.

Maybe I could go further—find him at this exact moment.

I began to attempt to steer the vision to the island, but it was almost like it was slick, and I felt myself, my consciousness, being viciously coiled as I slipped on it, and went veering off, hurtling towards the sky once again—and a sudden terror that my physical body would begin to go again too took over me.

I gasped and tried to pull back, come out of the trance, but it was like my awareness was stuck in a giant glue trap, and I fought to peel myself off.

With a mighty yank and a lot of effort, I snapped back into my body, almost like a rubber band, but with the sensation that I had just been submerged.

I gasped into sentience and thought first to check my surroundings, smooth my hands over my face and take stock of my situation, as I sucked in air like I hadn't been breathing. My body was cold in terror.

Okay—let's give that a minute.

Something felt off when I tried to see where he was: I don't think he's there anymore, at least not completely.

Let's try the little girl—the one who moves mountains. How the hell am I going to convince the parents of a little girl to let her help fight in the end of the world with me without seeming like a f*cking psycho? God, okay.

Little girl, red hair, brilliant green eyes, maybe between 10 and 12; she had on dark blue jeans and a black hoodie that didn't seem like they belonged to her, and her white sneakers were dirty, weathered. She had a young face full of anger, and there was a lot of pain there—

I pulled back, shaking my head. Okay. You know what? Let's try the other guy, the first one—the lean one with black hair.

The very instant his image registered in my brain it felt like my consciousness had been whacked with a frying pan; my heart was pounding, and I felt urgent, suddenly—he was my lead.

In my mind, his image became silhouetted with a phone, and that vision stayed firmly in place.

Taking it for what it was, I quickly returned to my vehicle and drove a few blocks away, parking in the nearly-empty lot of a video rental store so I could power up the new phone.

I searched me (a weird phenomena for me) and saw that the reporters were still at my apartment, waiting—it didn't seem as if any of them had made their way through. However, the door was caution-taped off, so I supposed the police had already been in there, and of course they had. They were probably moments behind the press—I probably made it out just in time.

The articles confirmed that the police had been in the apartment, and that no information had been released or hint given either way of what they found.

I knew what they found: nothing. I didn't have anything. I was twenty-one, with no friends, no family, no social life, and worked a lot in order to survive. The stuff I had—my plants and clothes and myself—was all I had. I ate at work if I needed. The stuff on my walls were just there to make it feel more like me—none of it was truly valuable, or even all that sentimental. I cared about Bob (a stout succulent), Earl (a deep green string of pearls), and Rhoda (a wine-toned tri-colored tradescantia), though. They were tucked on the passenger-side floorboard for the night cycle; just before the sun rose, I'd put them on the dashboard and let them get some light.

I began the doom scroll, my eyes flickering over the search results for me: people screaming in fear, frothing at the mouth in rage, or pompously correcting everyone else. Everyone was debating whether or not I was an alien, and reading how callously and certainly a lot of the content called for “tests” to be done on me was f*cking terrifying, making my heart thud tightly in my chest.

I swept my eyes over thumbnail after thumbnail of over-exaggerated, eye-catching images slapped together, people with their opinions, and some videos even featured people who did know me, passingly: coworkers I'd chatted with at lunch, people I sat near in school, people who had no idea about the real me but were more than willing to recall the details of my daily life for views. I started scrolling more, and all the faces began to blur—

I almost scrolled right past him.

My chest tightened suddenly, freezing me, and my thumb slammed down on the screen, stopping the scroll. It was a bit too far past; I carefully scrolled downwards.

And there he was.

Black hair brushing his nape, eyes a sunburst of ember blending into hazel-green, his features sharp, but like they'd seen a lot of laughter and light; he seemed to be sitting in a car on the side of some road, but the camera was rather expert-at-the-art-of casually hiding the background with a down and tight angle. His attitude was flippant, over-casual, couldn't-possibly-care-any-less drawl … with a death grip on a cigarette clenched between two fingers. He seemed boyish, not exactly like the strident version of him I saw in my vision, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt it was him.

More anxious than I thought I'd be, my thumb hovered over the video for several long seconds, contemplating if I was ready to push it, then I reflexively pushed it anyway.

“Hey everyone, Nic here,” He began casually, with a little hello gesture, sending a streak of cold through my entire body. “So I'm sure you all have heard about this, uh, woman falling from the sky ...”

He gave an almost apologetic smile through the screen at me, and I knew it was for just me.

His expression shifted into a smirk.

“All I wanted to say was, if Celeste ever wants to hit me up to do a show together—ticket sales would be incredible.”

He grinned in a devilish, all-in-good-fun way. I was still tingling from when he said my name, and I'm not a woman who tingles often.

I don't think I'd ever experienced the type of draw I felt to him before, except, maybe, when I was trying to pull myself out of the quicksand of the vision: swirling and sinking deeper and deeper by the moment.

It wasn't a romantic feeling, per se; it was something else, something … inevitable. Eternal. Like waking to the sun, like trees blowing, things evolving, time passing. As if he, and the others, had always been, and would always be.

He had millions of followers, billions of views: how had I never heard of him before?

“See ya,” He waved, and that was the end.

Still jittery, I clicked on some of his other videos and watched, in awe, as he performed incredible feats: levitating multiple eighteen-wheelers and walking on top of them, levitating an audience, hypnotizing entire stadiums—he was already powerful, and knew his strengths, had mastered them—

And I realized with a slow dawn that he was reaching out to me.

Oh sh*t: this is getting real, like really, really real. Eagerness fueled a burst of adrenaline. Okay—I'm in. I'm … in. That's the first one of the four, gateway open—all I have to do is take the step forward.

I created a new, blank profile, and attempted a greeting, typing and retyping without sending, for over thirty-five minutes.

>Hey, it's me

>Hey :) I'm Celeste … what's up?

>Hey, uh, it's me, Celeste. So, what do we do now?

>Hi, so, uh, I'm not actually sure how to begin this, but I'm Celeste...I'd really like to meet. How do we do this?

>I'd love to meet up—I think it's really important that we do. When and where? It's Celeste, by the way.

I stared at the screen for a long time, my fingers paused. Everything felt so stupid, so forced and wrong. Why should it be so hard to talk to someone I feel so strongly I need to be around? I guess introductions are always awkward, unless you're one of those people who knows how to start off strong—not like me. I f*ck up and slowly recover favor along the way by busting ass and staying upright while I struggle.

I set the phone on my leg and took a moment from it. I smoothed my hands over my face, rubbed the blue light out of my eyes, tried to wait to let the nerves drain and settle.

Does it really matter what I say? I saw him and the others and me all in a valley or something, waiting for the beast with the people to come—it's going to work one way or another, right? Well, at least that part, anyway.

I snatched up the phone and began typing again—this time, I simply tapped out the number of my burner phone, and said:

<| Call me. C.

The Other Four//Between The Voids - RT_Emory (2024)

Chapter 1: Celeste - Falling From Space

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Chapter 2: Renner - Beast Mode

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Chapter 3: Terra - Sticks and Stones

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Chapter 4: Ires - Theater of Pain

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Chapter 5: Nic - Unwilling Travelers

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Chapter 6: Celeste - The Woman Who Fell From The Sky

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Chapter 7: Renner - Roots

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Chapter 8: Terra - Growing Pains

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Chapter 9: Ires - Terms of Negotiation

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Chapter 10: Nic - Immaterial Things

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Chapter 11: Celeste - Point of Contact

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References