by Tahereh Mafi
“Yes, but I did fucking tell you so, didn’t I?” A wave of happiness moves through me, conjures a smile. I didn’t know I still had it in me.
Joy.
“I’m so happy for you guys,” I say. “Truly. You just made this shitty day so much better.”
Winston looks up, suspicious. But Brendan beams at me.
I stab a finger in their direction. “But if you two turn into Adam and Juliette clones I swear to God I will lose my mind.”
Brendan’s eyes go wide. Winston turns purple.
“Kidding!” I say. “I’m just kidding! Obviously I’m super happy for you two!” After a dead beat, I clear my throat. “No but seriously, though.”
“Fuck off, Kenji.”
“Yup.” I shoot a finger gun at Winston. “You got it.”
“Kenji,” I hear Castle call out. “Language.”
I swivel around, surprised. I thought Castle was gone. “It wasn’t me!” I shout back. “For the first time, I swear, it wasn’t me!”
I see only the back of Castle’s head as he turns away, but somehow, I can tell he’s still annoyed.
I shake my head. I can’t stop smiling.
It’s time to regroup.
Pick up the pieces. Keep going. Find J. Find Adam. Tear down The Reestablishment, once and for all. And the truth is—we’re going to need Warner’s help. Which means Castle is right, I need to talk to Warner. Shit.
I look back at my friends.
Lily’s got her head on Ian’s shoulder, and he’s trying to hide his smile. Winston flips me off, but he’s laughing. Brendan pops another piece of potato in his mouth and shoos me away.
“Go on, then.”
“All right, all right,” I say. But just as I’m about to take the necessary steps forward, I’m saved yet again.
Alia comes running toward me, her face lit in an expression of happiness I rarely see on her. It’s transformative. Hell, she’s glowing. It’s easy to lose track of Alia, who’s quiet in both voice and presence. But when she smiles like that—
She looks beautiful.
“James is awake,” she says, nearly out of breath. She’s squeezing my arm so hard it’s cutting off my circulation.
I don’t care.
I’d been carrying this tension for almost two weeks now. Worrying, all this time, about James and whether he was okay. When I saw him for the first time the other day, bound and gagged by Anderson, I felt my knees give out. We had no idea how he was doing or what kind of trauma he’d sustained. But if the girls are letting him have visitors—
That’s got to be a good sign.
I send up silent thanks to anyone who might be listening. Mom. Dad. Ghosts. I’m grateful.
Alia is half dragging me down the hall, and even though her physical effort isn’t necessary, I let her do it. She seems so excited I don’t have the heart to stop her.
“James is officially up and ready for visitors,” she says, “and he asked to see you.”
ELLA
JULIETTE
When I wake, I am cold.
I dress in the dark, pulling on crisp fatigues and polished boots. I pull my hair back in a tight ponytail and perform a series of efficient ablutions at the small sink in my chamber.
Teeth brushed. Face washed.
After three days of rigorous training, I was selected as a candidate for supreme soldier, honored with the prospect of serving our North American commander. Today is my opportunity to prove I deserve the position.
I lace my boots, knotting them twice.
Satisfied, I pull the release latch. The lock exhales as it comes open, and the seam around my door lets through a ring of light that cuts straight across my vision. I turn away from the glare only to be met by my own reflection in a small mirror above the sink. I blink, focusing.
Pale skin, dark hair, odd eyes.
I blink again.
A flash of light catches my eye in the mirror. I turn. The monitor adjacent to my sleep pod has been dark all night, but now it flashes with information:
Juliette Ferrars, report
Juliette Ferrars, report
My hand vibrates.
I glance down, palm up, as a soft blue light beams through the thin skin at my wrist.
report
I push open the door.
Cool morning air rushes in, shuddering against my face. The sun is still rising. Golden light bathes everything, briefly distorting my vision. Birds chirp as I climb my way up the side of the steep hill that protects my private chamber against the howling winds. I haul myself over the edge.
Immediately, I spot the compound in the distance.
Mountains stagger across the sky. A massive lake glitters nearby. I push against tangles of wild, ferocious gusts of wind as I hike toward base. For no reason at all, a butterfly lands on my shoulder.
I come to a halt.
I pluck the insect off my shirt, pinching its wings between my fingers. It flutters desperately as I study it, scrutinizing its hideous body as I turn it over in my hand. Slowly, I increase the intensity of my touch, and its flutters grow more desperate, wings snapping against my skin.
I blink. The butterfly thrashes.
A low hum drums up from its insect body, a soft buzz that passes for a scream. I wait, patiently, for the creature to die, but it only beats its wings harder, resisting the inevitable. Irritated, I close my fingers, crushing it in my fist. I wipe its remains against an overgrown stalk of wheat and soldier on.
It’s the fifth of May.
This is technically fall weather in Oceania, but the temperatures are erratic, inconsistent. Today the winds are particularly angry, which makes it unseasonably cold. My nose grows numb as I forge my way through the field; when I find a paltry slant of sunlight I lean into it, warming under its rays. Every morning and evening, I make this two-mile hike to base. My commander says it’s necessary.
He did not explain why.
When I finally reach headquarters, the sun has shifted in the sky. I glance up at the dying star as I push open the front door, and the moment I step foot in the entry, I’m assaulted by the scent of burnt coffee. Quietly, I make my way down the hall, ignoring the sounds and stares of workers and armed soldiers.
Once outside his office, I stop. It’s only a couple of seconds before the door slides open.
Supreme Commander Anderson looks up at me from his desk.
He smiles.
I salute.
“Step inside, soldier.”
I do.
“How are you adjusting?” he says, closing a folder on his desk. He does not ask me to sit down. “It’s been a few days since your transfer from 241.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And?” He leans forward, clasps his hands in front of him. “How are you feeling?”
“Sir?”
He tilts his head at me. Picks up a mug of coffee. The acrid scent of the dark liquid burns my nose. I watch him take a sip and the simple action conjures a stutter of emotion inside of me. Feeling presses against my mind in flashes of memory: a bed, a green sweater, a pair of black glasses, then nothing. Flint failing to spark a flame.
“Are you missing your family?” he asks.
“I have no family, sir.”
“Friends? A boyfriend?”
Vague irritation rises up inside of me; I push it aside. “None, sir.”
He relaxes in his chair, his smile growing wider. “It’s better that way, of course. Easier.”
“Yes, sir.”
He gets to his feet. “Your work these past couple of days has been remarkable. Your training has been even more successful than we expected.” He glances up at me then, waiting for a reaction.
I merely stare.
He takes another sip of the coffee before setting the cup down beside a sheaf of papers. He walks around the desk and stands in front of me, assessing. One step closer and the smell of coffee overwhelms me. I inhale the bitter, nutty scent and it floods my senses, leaving me vaguely nauseated
. Still, I stare straight ahead.
The closer he gets, the more aware of him I become.
His physical presence is solid. Categorically male. He’s a wall of muscle standing before me, and even the suit he wears can’t hide the subtle, sculpted curves of his arms and legs. His face is hard, the line of his jaw so sharp I can see it even out of focus. He smells like coffee and something else, something clean and fragrant. It’s unexpectedly pleasant; it fills my head.
“Juliette,” he says.
A needle of unease pierces my mind. It is more than unusual for the supreme commander to call me by my first name.
“Look at me.”
I obey, lifting my head to meet his eyes.
He stares down at me, his expression fiery. His eyes are a strange, stark shade of blue, and there’s something about him—his heavy brow, his sharp nose—that stirs up ancient feelings inside my chest. Silence gathers around us, unspoken curiosities pulling us together. He searches my face for so long that I begin to search him, too. Somehow I know that this is rare; that he might never again give me the opportunity to look at him like this.
I seize it.
I catalog the faint lines creasing his forehead, the starbursts around his eyes. I’m so close I can see the grain of his skin, rough but not yet leathery, his most recent shave evidenced in a microscopic nick at the base of his jaw. His brown hair is full and thick, his cheekbones high and his lips a dusky shade of pink.
He touches a finger to my chin, tilts up my face. “Your beauty is excessive,” he says. “I don’t know what your mother was thinking.”
Surprise and confusion flare through me, but it does not presently occur to me to be afraid. I do not feel threatened by him. His words seem perfunctory. When he speaks, I catch a glimpse of a slight chip on his bottom incisor.
“Today,” he says. “Things will change. You will shadow me from here on out. Your duty is to protect and serve my interests, and mine alone.”
“Yes, sir.”
His lips curve, just slightly. There’s something there behind his eyes, something more, something else. “You understand,” he says, “that you belong to me now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My rule is your law. You will obey no other.”
“Yes, sir.”
He steps forward. His irises are so blue. A lock of dark hair curves across his eyes. “I am your master,” he says.
“Yes, sir.”
He’s so close I can feel his breath against my skin. Coffee and mint and something else, something subtle, fermented. Alcohol, I realize.
He steps back. “Get on your knees.”
I stare at him, frozen. The command was clear enough, but it feels like an error. “Sir?”
“On your knees, soldier. Now.”
Carefully, I comply. The floor is hard and cold and my uniform is too stiff to make this position comfortable. Still, I remain on my knees for so long that a curious spider scuttles forward, peering at me from underneath a chair. I stare at Anderson’s polished boots, the muscled curves of his calves noticeable even through his pants. The floor smells like bleach and lemon and dust.
When he commands me to, I look up.
“Now say it,” he says softly.
I blink at him. “Sir?”
“Tell me that I am your master.”
My mind goes blank.
A dull, warm sensation washes over me, a searching paralysis that locks my tongue, jams my mind. Fear propels through me, drowning me, and I fight to break the surface, clawing my way back to the moment.
I meet his eyes.
“You are my master,” I say.
His stiff smile bends, curves. Joy catches fire in his eyes. “Good,” he says softly. “Very good. How strange that you might turn out to be my favorite yet.”
KENJI
I stop short at the door.
Warner is here.
Warner and James, together.
James was given his own private section of the MT— which is otherwise full and cramped—and the two of them are here, Warner sitting in a chair beside James’s bed, James propped up against a stack of pillows. I’m so relieved to see him looking okay. His dirty-blond hair is a little too long, but his light, bright blue eyes are open and animated. Still, he looks more than a little tired, which probably explains the IV hooked up to his body.
Under normal circumstances, James should be able to heal himself, but if his body is drained, it makes the job harder. He must’ve arrived malnourished and dehydrated. The girls are probably doing what they can to help speed up the recovery process. I feel a rush of relief.
James will be better soon. He’s such a strong kid. After everything he’s been through—
He’ll get through this, too. And he won’t be alone.
I glance again at Warner, who looks only marginally better than the last time I saw him. He really needs to wash that blood off his body. It’s not like Warner to overlook basic rules of hygiene—which should be proof enough that the guy is close to a full-on breakdown—but for now, at least, he seems okay. He and James appear to be deep in conversation.
I remain at the door, eavesdropping. It only belatedly occurs to me that I should give them privacy, but by then I’m too invested to walk away. I’m almost positive Anderson told James the truth about Warner. Or, I don’t know, exactly. I can’t actually imagine a scenario in which Anderson would gleefully reveal to James that Warner is his brother, or that Anderson is his dad. But somehow I can just tell that James knows. Someone told him. I can tell by the look on his face.
This is the come-to-Jesus moment.
This is the moment where Warner and James finally come face-to-face not as strangers, but as brothers. Surreal.
But they’re speaking quietly, and I can only catch bits and pieces of their conversation, so I decide to do something truly reprehensible: I go invisible, and step farther into the room.
The moment I do, Warner stiffens.
Shit.
I see him glance around, his eyes alert. His senses are too sharp.
Quietly, I back up a few steps.
“You’re not answering my question,” James says, poking Warner in the arm. Warner shakes him off, his eyes narrowed at a spot a mere foot from where I’m standing.
“Warner?”
Reluctantly, Warner turns to face the ten-year-old. “Yes,” he says, distracted. “I mean— What were you saying?”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” James says, sitting up straighter. The bedsheets fall down, puddle in his lap. “Why didn’t you say anything to me before? That whole time we lived together—”
“I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Why would I be scared?”
Warner sighs, stares out the window when he says, quietly, “Because I’m not known for my charm.”
“That’s not fair,” James says. He looks genuinely upset, but his visible exhaustion is keeping him from reacting too strongly. “I’ve seen a lot worse than you.”
“Yes. I realize that now.”
“And no one told me. I can’t believe no one told me. Not even Adam. I’ve been so mad at him.” James hesitates. “Did everyone know? Did Kenji know?”
I stiffen.
Warner turns again, this time staring precisely in my direction when he says, “Why don’t you ask him yourself ?”
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, my invisibility melting away.
Warner almost smiles. James’s eyes go wide.
This was not the reunion I was hoping for.
Still, James’s face breaks into the biggest smile, which— I’m not going to lie—does wonders for my self-esteem. He throws off the covers and tries to jump out of bed, barefoot and oblivious to the needle stuck in his arm, and in those two and a half seconds I manage to experience both joy and terror.
I shout a warning, rushing forward to stop him from ripping open the flesh of his forearm, but Warner beats me to it. He’s already on his feet, not so gently pushing the ki
d back down.
“Oh.” James blushes. “Sorry.”
I tackle him anyway, pulling him in for a long, excessive hug, and the way he clings to me makes me think I’m the first to do it. I try to fight back a rush of anger, but I’m unsuccessful. He’s a ten-year-old kid, for God’s sake. He’s been through hell. How has no one given him the physical reassurance he almost certainly needs right now?
When we finally break apart, James has tears in his eyes. He wipes at his face and I turn away, trying to give him privacy, but when I take a seat at the foot of James’s bed I catch a flash of pain steal in and out of Warner’s eyes. It lasts for only half a second, but it’s enough to make me feel bad for the guy. And it’s enough to make me think he might be human again.
“Hey,” I say, speaking to Warner directly for the first time. “So what, uh— What are you doing here?”
Warner looks at me like I’m an insect. His signature look. “What do you think I’m doing here?”
“Really?” I say, unable to hide my surprise. “That’s so decent of you. I didn’t think you’d be so . . . emotionally . . . responsible.” I clear my throat. Smile at James. He’s studying us curiously. “But I’m happy to be wrong, bro. And I’m sorry I misjudged you.”
“I’m here to gather information,” Warner says coldly. “James is one of the only people who might be able to tell us where my father is located.”
My compassion quickly turns to dust.
Catches fire.
Turns to rage.
“You’re here to interrogate him?” I say, nearly shouting. “Are you insane? The kid has only barely recovered from unbelievable trauma, and you’re here trying to mine him for information? He was probably tortured. He’s a freaking child. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Warner is unmoved by my theatrics. “He was not tortured.”
That stops me cold.
I turn to James. “You weren’t?”
James shakes his head. “Not exactly.”
“Huh.” I frown. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m thrilled—but if he didn’t torture you, what did Anderson do with you?”
James shrugs. “He mostly left me in solitary confinement. They didn’t beat me,” he says, rubbing absently at his ribs, “but the guards were pretty rough. And they didn’t feed me much.” He shrugs again. “But honestly, the worst part was not seeing Adam.”