Ordinary

by Starr Z Davies

  This girl is a Divinic—amazingly, powerfully, beautifully Divinic. Only a Divinic could do this.

  The two of us stand in silence, watching the stars and swirling sky. The hand she placed in mine grows warmer the longer we stand there. Her head rests against my shoulder. Like an embrace. Time seems to fade, and it’s just her and I and the sky.

  I could stay here forever, but the shaking of her tiny frame brushes against mine, breaking the trance. I blink and look at her.

  Vibrant green eyes stare at my expression, but her skin has grown paler, ghost-like. It’s me. Whatever she’s doing by touching my temple, it’s hurting her.

  I gently take her hand away from my temple and lower it.

  “Don’t hurt yourself for me,” I say.

  “Celeste.”

  “What?”

  She puts a hand to her chest, and I can just see the edge of the Divinic brand over her heart peeking out of the V-neck cut of the scrubs top as it shifts. “Celeste.”

  The irony of her name pulls out a small chuckle. “Does the world always look like that to you? So…”

  “Wondrous?” Celeste smiles weakly, then looks out again. “The sky. An ebb and shift of color, but never changing.”

  “You’re Divinic.” I’m an idiot for stating the obvious.

  “The walls whisper your name in esteem.”

  Walls whisper. Does that mean she hears people speak highly of me? Why?

  “You don’t know me,” I tease back, looking at the now drab lights of the city. The night sky’s brilliance is gone, and without it, the city is flat. “I’m bad news.”

  Celeste cocks her head in a bird-like manner and peers through squinted eyes—dull again—then shakes her head. “No. I see what others can’t in depth, and yours is like a light.”

  “My name is Ugene.” I glance at the window again, seeking distraction.

  “Irony is for those who lack imagination,” Celeste says from a couple of feet behind me.

  I have to turn to see her face. In the dark, only the highlights of her pale features are evident through the mess of black hair.

  She crosses her legs on the bed and rests her hands gently in her lap. “People are not defined by Power, but by how they rise and inspire.”

  “Inspire.” I snort. “I wouldn’t call myself an inspiration.”

  “Time is in constant flux.”

  “You can read auras.” I stuff my hands into my pockets, uncertain what else to do with them.

  She nods as if she knew the question before I even asked it.

  “When did you come here?”

  She cocks her head as if she doesn’t understand the question.

  “How long have you been at Paragon?”

  Celeste glances around her room, holding a finger to her lips, then looks back at the stars I can no longer see. “Mysteries. There were parents. An accident. Sixth grade. I don’t… don’t remember the mysteries. The night… They died under stars. I bore witness before.”

  “So, you can foretell.” I pick up a snow globe from the desk and shake it.

  She shakes her head. “I bear witness to all at all times. Not futures or pasts. All. The flash of red and blue in tandem. Faces with light and without. Here.” Her hand waves around the room.

  Sixth grade and they snatched her up? There’s still a dull, youthful glow about her. She’s younger than me.

  “The sun has courted the moon three times. The moon has shown anger at the sun four, but they danced thirty-seven other times.” She turns her gaze toward the sky. “The moon will be angry again soon.”

  A riddle. I’m starting to notice most of what she says comes out in riddles. I like puzzles, and immediately start doing the math. If Celeste is referring to the sun courting the moon, she may mean a total solar eclipse, which happens about every eighteen months. And the anger of the moon makes me think of the red moon, a total lunar eclipse. There have been four in my recollection in the last three years. If she was twelve when she first came in, that makes her, Christ, only fifteen, possibly sixteen.

  “What do you do in the tests?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” The answer is so innocent it makes my head spin a little. “The nice man with white teeth comes with gloves each cycle. He brings me candy.”

  I see the jar of hard candies in the glass container on the bookshelf. “May I?”

  Celeste nods, and I walk over, taking one from the jar and popping it in my mouth. The caramel flavor melts against my tongue. The tension slowly eases from my shoulders.

  “Why don’t you come out of the room more often?” I ask, stuffing the candy into my cheek with my tongue.

  Celeste leans toward me and whispers, “Their eyes are globes. They see only death.”

  I frown. What does that mean? I try to puzzle it out, but exhaustion must be kicking in. It’s hard to grasp my thoughts for more than a second before they drift off.

  I stay in the room with her until my eyelids get heavy and Overwatch announces the approach of nightly lockdown. Neither of us speaks. We just sit together and enjoy the view, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be together.

  Celeste is by far the most fascinating person I’ve met since arriving at Paragon, and for the first time in years, I feel ordinary.

  15

  I fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow, even before my door locks down for the night. The dreams come in swirls of color similar to the sky Celeste showed me. Boyd and Enid, their bodies indistinct, swirling together, turning to vapor when I try to touch them. Mom crying in the kitchen, thinking I’ve died. Dad withering away. Forrest reminding me that time is running out as a chasm opens in front of me, the edges always shifting, never the same, continually flowing or rippling like a flag in the wind—except there is no wind. Just me, the endless shifting chasm, and the nagging feeling that I will never escape.

  A chime startles me awake, and I sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of my bed. My head immediately begins pounding furiously, forcing me to lean my elbows on my knees and press against my pulsing temples.

  “Good morning, Ugene,” Overwatch says as the lights come on, revealing tan walls. “You are scheduled for testing to commence in 30 minutes. Please proceed to the cafeteria for breakfast, then return to your room for testing. Participation is compulsory.”

  The lock on the door grinds out of place, and the door swings open. But I can’t move. The headache is too much. What would happen if I just lay down and went back to sleep? Temptation pulls at me. The test must have had a stronger effect than I realized.

  Grumbling and moving slowly, I pull my shirt on and slip into the loafers. Maybe food will help.

  The churning threatening my stomach makes me second-guess the decision as soon as I enter the cafeteria. Bacon, eggs, pancakes, and oats bombard my senses. I swallow down the revulsion and tuck my head, squinting against the bright lights.

  “You look like shit,” Miller announces behind me as I gather my toast and oats from the dispenser.

  I grimace and rue the motion as even the scrunching of my eyes hurts. “You’re always sunshine,” I grumble, regretting the sarcasm only a little.

  Miller huffs and heads to his usual table. I shuffle along behind him. Neither of us speaks as we eat. For once, I’m grateful for his silence. By the time I finish my breakfast, the pounding has reduced to a dull ache. Miller has already disappeared to his room, so I follow suit as Overwatch kindly reminds everyone only two minutes remain until testing begins.

  It takes nearly that much time to make my way back to my room. Two men and a woman in Paragon security uniforms usher test subjects into their rooms. I watch as one subject—a mousy-looking girl my age—whimpers and resists. She turns to run up the hallway, but security pulls a gun and shoots. I jump. Did they just…?

  She drops to the floor convulsing, and one of the guards drags her into her room. Another guard turns to me, and the grim set of his jaw make me dodge into my room without further protest, heart p
ounding. What the hell was that?

  What have I gotten myself into? What’s going on here?

  Before I have time to think it through, the door swings shut and locks in my face. My room disappears, replaced by another room even more institutional—gray walls and smooth grey floor. I brush a hand against the wall and can feel the texture of soundproofing. Is that really necessary in a simulation?

  “Please be seated,” Forrest says, his voice coming from above.

  My hand slides off the wall as I turn, and breakfast rises up my throat.

  A medical chair greets me. The sort of chair you see in a dentist office or in an awful old horror film right before something terrible happens. I can’t help but think back to the previous test. What will happen if I sit in the chair?

  “Can we talk?” I ask, scanning the ceiling for a camera. “I’m not really comfortable with this, and I have questions about yesterday’s test.”

  “Please sit, Ugene,” Forrest repeats. “Participation is compulsory. The test will not complete until the task is finished.”

  And what if I don’t comply? I plant my feet firmly and cross my arms. He isn’t here. What can he do?

  Forrest sighs. “Ugene, we just need to take a few samples. This is very simple.”

  “What happened to Boyd and Enid?”

  “Please, sit.”

  Two security guards appear at either side of me. Before they can grab my arms and drag me to the chair, I straighten my back and walk myself over. Resistance is futile. My strength is nothing compared to theirs. As soon as I settle back into the medical chair, straps appear, pinning my arms to the armrests and my legs to the foot of the chair.

  Panic rises in my throat. “Why am I restrained?”

  “It’s a simple test, Ugene, and I need you to comply.”

  “If it’s so simple, come do it yourself,” I snarl, tugging at the straps. There’s no point. Without a Power I don’t stand a chance of escape, and even if I did where would I go? It’s a simulation. There is no escape.

  Dad. I’m doing this for Dad. And for myself—for the hope that maybe these tests will help Paragon find a way to give me a Power. At this point, I’ll take anything.

  A door in the previously smooth wall swings open Forrest enters. Well, there goes that threat. Two others enter the room. Only one is clearly a test subject as well.

  “The purpose of this test is to take samples,” Forrest says.

  Meanwhile, the non-test subjects begin setting up their tools, but I can’t quite see what they are. “It is simple and straightforward, but we need complete compliance. Testing will not complete until all samples are taken. Let’s begin.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but no sound escapes me. No matter how hard I try, I can’t say a word. My gaze sweeps over the three of them. The boy with the square jaw has a Naturalist brand on his hand. The boy wouldn’t talk to me yesterday, and I’m starting to understand why as Forrest and the female Paragon employee approach.

  Beside the bed, a surgical table appears with a small stack of empty bags, a tube, a tourniquet strap, and a needle. Blood. They’re going to draw blood. That’s not so bad, right? Those are standard-size bags.

  The woman cleans the spot where the needle will go into my arm, then ties on the rubber tourniquet. The needle is steady in her experienced hand.

  “It’s just a little blood,” she says softly like she thinks it will reassure me.

  I clench my hands into fists and tense my body but stay rigid. The needle doesn’t hurt going in. She has a surprisingly gentle touch like she barely touches my skin at all. As soon as the needle is in place, thick red blood pumps out of my veins, down the hose and into the bag.

  The woman licks her fat lips and turns away to another table that has appeared.

  “Michael,” Forrest calls.

  The square-jawed boy takes uncertain steps toward my chair on the side where they aren’t taking my blood. What is his job here?

  “Make sure you get a good sample,” Forrest commands.

  Michael nods, making a lock of dark hair fall across his forehead. He rubs his hands together, anxiety knitting his features tight. My own chest tightens. What sample is he supposed to get? His cold hands wrap around my free forearm, and for a moment he just holds them there, but I can see the sweat beading his brow and the way his eyes widen.

  Nothing changes for me. No tingles on the skin or pulls at my biological DNA.

  He feels something, though.

  Michael snaps his hands back, and his whole body is shaking as he stares at his hands. Suddenly, his body convulses like he’s having a seizure and he collapses to the floor. The woman snaps on a fresh pair of blue rubber gloves.

  “Hurry, Cinthia,” Forrest says with excited urgency. “You’re wasting precious time.”

  I try to ask what’s going on, but there’s no point. No sound comes out.

  Cinthia grabs a scalpel from her tools and rushes over to Michael. I tug at the restraints fruitlessly and watch in horror as she grabs Michael’s hands and carefully removes the top layers of skin from each. Michael chokes on his scream. Blood drips on the floor and Cinthia’s gloves as she places the pieces of skin on slides Forrest offers.

  What are they doing? They need to help Michael!

  I pull at the straps again, but the pinch of the needle in my arm makes me stop. Tears roll hot down my cheeks, and I can’t wipe them away. The agony presses against my chest and forces me to look elsewhere as I blink back tears.

  Is this why they restrained me? Did Forrest know I would try to intervene? The thought sickens me.

  When I dare a glance toward Michael, a new test subject—the girl with mousy hair—tends to Michael’s hands. The skin Cinthia sliced off grows back as I watch. The moment it’s done, the girl disappears as if she were never there.

  But the damage to Michael is done.

  Michael stops convulsing on the floor and rolls over into a fetal position, hands cradled against his chest. His entire body quivers.

  Forrest moves to the now full bag of blood and deftly replaces it with a new one. Less than a minute, and he has more blood pumping out of my veins. He takes the first bag to the lab table where Cinthia works. She carefully puts some blood in each vial. Hematology. She must be using Hematology. Forrest is now reading something on his tablet.

  I turn my attention back to Michael, and my head swims a little as I lift it off the cushioned chair.

  But Michael is gone.

  A quick glance around reveals he isn’t with us anymore. Did he finish his testing?

  Cinthia mutters something, but with the pounding of my heart in my eardrums, I can’t hear her.

  It all happens so quickly. Forrest glances up from his tablet after a few minutes and rushes to my side as the next bag is filled. I blink, watching as he removes it, then hooks on another. I shake my head, which makes the aching worse. I can’t lose any more. Four pints—then death. Desperation grips my chest, but I’m restrained.

  Silenced.

  Too weak to do anything. Too powerless.

  Grogginess overcomes me, and I struggle to stay alert, to see what’s going on, to hear anything but the beating of my heart, but the loss of blood is getting to me. I don’t have the strength to resist as Cinthia carefully scrapes away a small square from the top layer of skin on my free arm. It hurts, but the pain is distant, and my cries of agony are more like garbled mumblings of a madman.

  I watch as the third bag fills, fighting off the sleep threatening to overcome me. Tears heat my cheeks. But it’s too much. The last thing I remember is fearing just how much blood they plan on taking from me as I lose the fight to sleep.

  ~~~

  My eyes drift open, greeted only by dim light. Pain aches in my head, arms, and back. The sensation of being violated clenches my throat and I close my eyes, willing back the tears as I roll onto my side. I don’t know where I am or what time it is. I don’t care. I just want this to be over. If I sleep long enough, it will al
l be over.

  Tears still escape despite my closed eyes, soaking my cheek and the cloth pressed against it. Hugging my arms tight against my chest, cradling the places on my arms that sting, I let sleep consume me.

  ~~~

  At some point during the night, I wake from nightmares that disappear as soon as my eyes open and am back in my room again. My heart pounds, and I brush hands over my arms, seeking signs of the test, or something else. Though I’m not sure what. I find nothing.

  Michael. That agony on his face. It was part of my nightmares. I’m sure of it, even though I can’t remember.

  The only thing I’m certain of offers only little reassurance. Michael is real. Boyd and Enid may still be in question, but Michael is real. So is the mousy girl. I shuffle to my desk and open the map in my notebook, searching for the room I marked yesterday.

  Room 1157 – Michael: Naturalist

  Exhausted, I rub my eyes and lay back down. I hope Mom and Dad are doing okay.

  Sleep captures me without protest.

  ~~~

  The morning chime wakes me, and a sense of dread fills my stomach as I lay in bed.

  “Good morning, Ugene,” Overwatch says as the lights come on. “You are scheduled for testing to commence in 30 minutes. Please proceed to the cafeteria for breakfast, then return to your room for testing. Participation is compulsory.”

  The lock on the door grinds out of place and the door swings open. Yesterday I wondered what would happen if I went back to sleep. Today, I intend to find out. The last thing I want is to get thrust into another horrific test. I close my eyes and let sleep take me.

  A hand on my shoulder makes me cringe, and I edge away from it until my back hits the cold wall. I blink away sleep, gazing at Miller perched on the edge of my bed.

  “What happened?” Miller asks.

  I sit up straighter, pulling my blanket up to my chin and looking toward the hall.

  “Nothing.”