Imagine Me

by Tahereh Mafi

  We’re up in the air, flying over the heads of at least two dozen highly armed soldiers and one dude who looks like he might be Nazeera’s dad, when someone flashes some kind of long-barreled gun up, into the sky. He seems to be searching for something.

  Us.

  “He’s scanning for heat signatures,” Warner says.

  “I realize that,” Nazeera says, sounding frustrated. She picks up speed, but it doesn’t matter.

  Seconds later, the guy with the heat gun shouts something to someone else, who aims a different weapon at us, one that immediately disables our powers.

  It’s just as horrifying as it sounds.

  I don’t even have a chance to scream. I don’t have time to think about the fact that my heart is racing a mile a minute, or that my hands are shaking, or that Nazeera—fearless, invulnerable Nazeera—looks suddenly terrified as the sky falls out from under her. Even Warner seems stunned.

  I was already super freaked out about the idea of being shot out of the sky again, but I can honestly say that I wasn’t mentally prepared for this. This is a whole new level of terror. The three of us are suddenly visible and spiraling to our deaths and the soldiers below are just staring at us, waiting.

  For what? I think.

  Why are they just staring at us as we die? Why go to all the trouble to take over our plane and land us here, safely, just to watch us fall out of the sky?

  Do they find this entertaining?

  Time feels strange. Infinite and nonexistent. Wind is rushing up against my feet, and all I can see is the ground, coming at us too fast, but I can’t stop thinking about how, in all my nightmares, I never thought I’d die like this. I never thought I’d die because of gravity. I didn’t think that this was the way I was destined to exit the world, and it seems wrong, and it seems unfair, and I’m thinking about how quickly we failed, how we never stood a chance— when I hear a sudden explosion.

  A flash of fire, discordant cries, the faraway sounds of Warner shouting, and then I’m no longer falling, no longer visible.

  It all happens so fast I feel dizzy.

  Nazeera’s arm is wrapped around me and she’s hauling me upward, struggling a bit, and then Warner materializes beside me, helping to prop me up. His sharp voice and familiar presence are my only proof of his existence.

  “Nice shot,” Nazeera says, her breathless words loud in my ear. “How long do you think we have?”

  “Ten seconds before it occurs to them to start shooting blindly at us,” Warner calls out. “We have to move out of range. Now.”

  “On it,” Nazeera shouts back.

  We narrowly avoid gunfire as the three of us plummet, at a sharp diagonal, to the ground. We were already so close to the ground that it doesn’t take us long to land in the middle of a field, far enough away from danger to be able to breathe a momentary sigh of relief, but too far from the compound for the relief to last long.

  I’m bent over, hands on my knees, gasping for breath, trying to calm down. “What did you do you? What the hell just happened?”

  “Warner threw a grenade,” Nazeera explains. Then, to Warner: “You found that in Haider’s bag, didn’t you?”

  “That, and a few other useful things. We need to move.”

  I hear the sound of his retreating footsteps—boots crushing grass—and I hurry to follow.

  “They’ll regroup quickly,” Warner is saying, “so we have only moments to come up with a new plan. I think we should split up.”

  “No,” Nazeera and I say at the same time.

  “There’s no time,” Warner says. “They know we’re here, and they’ve obviously had ample opportunity to prepare for our arrival. Unfortunately, our parents aren’t idiots; they know we’re here to save Ella. Our presence has almost certainly inspired them to begin the transfer if they haven’t done so already. The three of us together are inefficient. Easy targets.”

  “But one of us has to stay with you,” Nazeera says. “You need us within close proximity if you’re going to use stealth to get around.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “No way,” Nazeera says flatly. “Listen, I know this compound, so I’ll be okay on my own. But Kenji doesn’t know this place well enough. The entire footprint measures out to about a hundred and twenty acres of land—which means you can easily get lost if you don’t know where to look. You two stick together. Kenji will lend you his stealth, and you can be his guide. I’ll go alone.”

  “What?” I say, panicked. “No, no way—”

  “Warner’s not wrong,” Nazeera says, cutting me off. “The three of us, as a group, really do make for an easier target. There are too many variables. Besides, I have something I need to do, and the sooner I can get to a computer, the smoother things will go for you both. It’s probably best if I tackle that on my own.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “What are you planning?” Warner asks.

  “I’m going to trick the systems into thinking that your family and Ella’s are linked,” she says to Warner. “There’s protocol for this sort of thing already in place within The Reestablishment, so if I can create the necessary profiles and authorizations, the database will recognize you as a member of the Sommers family. You’ll be granted easy access to most of the high-security rooms throughout the compound. But it’s not foolproof. The system does a self-scan for anomalies every hour. If it’s able to see through my bullshit, you’ll be locked out and reported. But until then—you’ll be able to more easily search the buildings for Ella.”

  “Nazeera,” Warner says, sounding unusually impressed. “That’s . . . great.”

  “Better than great,” I add. “That’s amazing.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “But I should get going. The sooner I start flying, the sooner I can get started, which hopefully means that by the time you reach base, I’ll have made something happen.”

  “But what if you get caught?” I ask. “What if you can’t do it? How will we find you?”

  “You won’t.”

  “But— Nazeera—”

  “We’re at war, Kishimoto,” she says, a slight smile in her voice. “We don’t have time to be sentimental.”

  “That’s not funny. I hate that joke. I hate it so much.”

  “Nazeera is going to be fine,” Warner says. “You obviously don’t know her well if you think she’s easily captured.”

  “She literally just woke up! After being shot! In the chest! She nearly died!”

  “That was a fluke,” Warner and Nazeera say at the same time.

  “But—”

  “Hey,” Nazeera says, her voice suddenly close. “I have a feeling I’m about four months away from falling madly in love with you, so please don’t get yourself killed, okay?”

  I’m about to respond when I feel a sudden rush of air. I hear her launching up, into the sky, and even though I know I won’t see her, I crane my neck as if to watch her go.

  And just like that—

  She’s gone.

  My heart is pounding in my chest, blood rushing to my head. I feel confused: terrified, excited, hopeful, horrified. All the best and worst things always seem to happen to me at the same time.

  It’s not fair.

  “Fucking hell,” I say out loud.

  “Come on,” Warner says. “Let’s move out.”

  ELLA

  JULIETTE

  Max is staring at me like I’m an alien.

  He hasn’t moved since Anderson left; he just stands there, stiff and strange, rooted to the floor. I remember the look he gave me the first time we met—the unguarded hostility in his eyes—and I blink at him from my bed, wondering why he hates me so much.

  After an uncomfortable stretch of silence, I clear my throat. It’s obvious that Anderson respects Max—likes him, even—so I decide I should address him with a similar level of respect.

  “Sir,” I say. “I’d really like to get dressed.”

  Max startles at the sound of my voice. His body lang
uage is entirely different now that Anderson isn’t here, and I’m still struggling to figure him out. He seems skittish. I wonder if I should feel threatened by him. His affection for Anderson is no indication that he might treat me as anything but a nameless soldier.

  A subordinate.

  Max sighs. It’s a loud, rough sound that seems to shake him from his stupor. He shoots me a last look before he disappears into the adjoining room, from where I hear indiscernible, shuffling sounds. When he reappears, his arms are empty.

  He stares blankly at me, looking more rattled than he did a moment ago. He shoves a hand through his hair. It sticks up in places.

  “Anderson doesn’t have anything that would fit you,” he says.

  “No, sir,” I say carefully. Still confused. “I was hoping I might be given a replacement uniform.”

  Max turns away, stares at nothing. “A replacement uniform,” he says to himself. “Right.” But when he takes in a long, shuddering breath, it becomes clear to me that he’s trying to stay calm.

  Trying to stay calm.

  I realize, suddenly, that Max might be afraid of me. Maybe he saw what I did to Darius. Maybe he’s the doctor who patched him up.

  Still—

  I don’t see what reason he’d have to think I’d hurt him. After all, my orders come from Anderson, and as far as I’m aware, Max is an ally. I watch him closely as he lifts his wrist to his mouth, quietly requesting that someone deliver a fresh set of clothes for me.

  And then he backs away from me until he’s flush with the wall. There’s a single, sharp thud as the heels of his boots hit the baseboards, and then, silence.

  Silence.

  It erupts, settling completely into the room, the quiet reaching even the farthest corners. I feel physically trapped by it. The lack of sound feels oppressive.

  Paralyzing.

  I pass the time by counting the bruises on my body. I don’t think I’ve spent this much time looking at myself in the last few days; I hadn’t realized how many wounds I had. There seem to be several fresh cuts on my arms and legs, and I feel a vague stinging along my lower abdomen. I pull back the collar of the hospital gown, peering through the overly large neck hole at my naked body underneath.

  Pale. Bruised.

  There’s a small, fresh scar running vertically down the side of my torso, and I don’t know what I did to acquire it. In fact, my body seems to have amassed an entire constellation of fresh incisions and faded bruises. For some reason, I can’t remember where they came from.

  I glance up, suddenly, when I feel the heat of Max’s gaze.

  He’s staring at me as I study myself, and the sharp look in his eyes makes me wary. I sit up. Sit back.

  I don’t feel comfortable asking him any of the questions piling in my mouth.

  So I look at my hands.

  I’ve already removed the rest of my bandages; my left hand is mostly healed. There’s no visible scar where my finger was detached, but my skin is mottled up to my forearm, mostly purple and dark blue, a few spots of yellow. I curl my fingers into a fist, let it go. It hurts only a little. The pain is fading by the hour.

  The next words leave my lips before I can stop them:

  “Thank you, sir, for fixing my hand.”

  Max stares at me, uncertain, when his wrist lights up. He glances down at the message, and then at the door, and as he darts to the entrance, he tosses strange, wild looks at me over his shoulder, as if he’s afraid to turn his back on me.

  Max grows more bizarre by the moment.

  When the door opens, the room is flooded with sound. Flashing lights pulse through the slice of open doorway, shouts and footsteps thundering down the hall. I hear metal crashing into metal, the distant blare of an alarm.

  My heart picks up.

  I’m on my feet before I can even stop myself, my sharpened senses oblivious to the fact that my hospital gown does little to cover my body. All I know is a sudden, urgent need to join the commotion, to do what I can to assist, and to find my commander and protect him. It’s what I was built to do.

  I can’t just stand here.

  But then I remember that my commander gave me explicit orders to remain here, and the fight leaves my body.

  Max shuts the door, silencing the chaos with that single motion. I open my mouth to say something, but the look in his eyes warns me not to speak. He places a stack of clothes on the bed—refusing to even come near me—and steps out of the room.

  I change into the clothes quickly, shedding the loose gown for the starched, stiff fabric of a freshly washed military uniform. Max brought me no undergarments, but I don’t bother pointing this out; I’m just relieved to have something to wear. I’m still buttoning the front placket, my fingers working as quickly as possible, when my gaze falls once more to the bureau directly opposite the bed. There’s a single drawer left slightly open, as if it was closed in a hurry.

  I’d noticed it earlier.

  I can’t stop staring at it now.

  Something pulls me forward, some need I can’t explain. It’s becoming familiar now—almost normal—to feel the strange heat filling my head, so I don’t question my compulsion to move closer. Something somewhere inside of me is screaming at me to stand down, but I’m only dimly aware of it. I hear Max’s muffled, low voice in the other room; he’s speaking with someone in harried, aggressive tones. He seems fully distracted.

  Encouraged, I step forward.

  My hand curls around the drawer pull, and it takes only a little effort to tug it open. It’s a smooth, soft system. The wood makes almost no sound as it moves. And I’m just about to peer inside when—

  “What are you doing?”

  Max’s voice sends a sharp note of clarity through my brain, clearing the haze. I take a step back, blinking. Trying to understand what I was doing.

  “The drawer was open, sir. I was going to close it.” The lie comes automatically. Easily.

  I marvel at it.

  Max slams the drawer closed and stares, suspiciously, at my face. I blink at him, blithely meeting his gaze.

  I notice then that he’s holding my boots.

  He shoves them at me; I take them. I want to ask him if he has a hair tie—my hair is unusually long; I have a vague memory of it being much shorter—but I decide against it.

  He watches me closely as I pull on my boots, and once I’m upright again, he barks at me to follow him.

  I don’t move.

  “Sir, my commander gave me direct orders to remain in this room. I will stay here until otherwise instructed.”

  “You’re currently being instructed. I’m instructing you.”

  “With all due respect, sir, you are not my commanding officer.”

  Max sighs, irritation darkening his features, and he lifts his wrist to his mouth. “Did you hear that? I told you she wouldn’t listen to me.” A pause. “Yes. You’ll have to come get her yourself.”

  Another pause.

  Max is listening on an invisible earpiece not unlike the one I’ve seen Anderson use—an earpiece I’m now realizing must be implanted in their brains.

  “Absolutely not,” Max says, his anger so sudden it startles me. He shakes his head. “I’m not touching her.”

  Another beat of silence, and—

  “I realize that,” he says sharply. “But it’s different when her eyes are open. There’s something about her face. I don’t like the way she looks at me.”

  My heart slows.

  Blackness fills my vision, flickers back to light. I hear my heart beating, hear myself breathe in, breathe out, hear my own voice, loud—so loud—

  There was something about my face

  The words slur, slow down

  there wassomething about my facesssomething about my facessssomething about my eyes, the way I looked at her

  My eyes fly open with a start. I’m breathing hard, confused, and I have hardly a moment to reflect on what just happened in my head before the door flies open again. A roar of noise fil
ls my ears—more sirens, more shouts, more sounds of urgent, chaotic movement—

  “Juliette Ferrars.”

  There’s a man in front of me. Tall. Forbidding. Black hair, brown skin, green eyes. I can tell, just by looking at him, that he wields a great deal of power.

  “I am Supreme Commander Ibrahim.”

  My eyes widen.

  Musa Ibrahim is the supreme commander of Asia. By all accounts, the supreme commanders of The Reestablishment have equal levels of authority—but Supreme Commander Ibrahim is widely known to be one of the founders of the movement, and one of the only supreme commanders to have held the position from the beginning. He’s extremely well respected.

  So when he says, “Come with me,” I say—

  “Yes, sir.”

  I follow him out the door and into the chaos, but I don’t have long to take in the pandemonium before we make a sharp turn into a dark hallway. I follow Ibrahim down a slim, narrow path, the lights dimming as we go. I glance back a few times to see if Max is still with us, but he seems to have gone in another direction.

  “This way,” Ibrahim says sharply.

  We make one more turn and, suddenly, the narrow path opens onto a large, brightly lit landing area. There’s an industrial stairwell to the left and a large, gleaming steel elevator to the right. Ibrahim heads for the elevator, and places his hand flat against the seamless door. After a moment, the metal emits a quiet beep, hissing as it slides open.

  Once we’re both inside, Ibrahim gives me a wide berth. I wait for him to direct the elevator—I scan the interior for buttons or a monitor of some kind—but he does nothing. A second later, without prompting, the elevator moves.

  The ride is so smooth it takes me a minute to realize we’re moving sideways, rather than up or down. I glance around, taking the opportunity to more closely examine the interior, and only then do I notice the rounded corners. I thought this unit was rectangular; it appears to be circular. I wonder, then, if we’re moving as a bullet would, boring through the earth.

  Surreptitiously, I glance at Ibrahim.