Irving complied, leaning his head on his bound hands against the wall in front of him while Scythe searched him again.
“Bullet proof vest, huh? You’ve got yourself a heavy one here. Worried about something?”
“Yeah, a little.” His heart sped up and one of his hands closed into a fist.
Scythe would have been worried about that, too.
Having finished, Scythe guided Irving by the elbow to the table and sat him down with his back to the entrance. He pulled a chair over and sat in front of him. “Alright, let’s hear it.”
Irv grinned, and Scythe felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He remembered the way Irv felt when he had read his mind in the hall outside of his apartment. Fear tinted everything he did, overshadowed all his small victories and was a driving force for his decisions. Fear had kept him honest. However, the grin that he had spread across his face was fearless. Fearless and heavy with a certain emotion that Scythe recognized from his own experience with it: conviction. Whenever he had seen it in the eyes of an enemy, it had always meant trouble.
Scythe knew that he was in real danger from this fearful, unarmed Human. For a moment, he considered getting up and walking away. Instead, he leaned forward.
“What have you been up to, Irv?”
“He has a message for you,” Irving said quietly, his hands raising to touch his head, “here.”
“Who?”
“Ha!” Irving barked, his eyes widening and taking a wild turn around the room before settling back on Scythe’s face. “I don’t know! No one knows, do they?”
“Ah, him. Okay, let’s have it.” The truth was that Scythe didn’t want it, didn’t want to see what had brought this change in an otherwise harmless man, didn’t want to bring his own soul that close to the dark corruption that had nested in Irving’s eyes.
Nevertheless, he gathered his power and drove himself into Irv’s mind.
“Show…” The memory jumped forward on its own.
He stood in Irving’s living room, and the edges were furry, so Scythe knew the memory had been messed around with. The memory might not have even been made there. On the edges of the couch, green grass spurted out and then was sucked back into the upholstery and the lamp kept changing into an outdoor light and then turning back. His memory looked like a rush job to Scythe.
“Scythe,” the man in front of him said. It was the General from the coffee shop. He rubbed his neck and stretched a little before continuing, “Do you think you can hunt me?”
He laughed and when he was finished, his body had straightened out and his face blurred until the last sound emerged from the face of Captain Petrial. Even his voice had changed, “Even if you could find me, which you can’t, you would be no match for me.”
He twisted around and sat down at the table, a pair of chopsticks appearing in Kate’s hand. The waitress snapped them together, poking them at him. “I’d pick you apart.”
“So,” Scythe felt his heart jump as Mercy frowned at him, “you'd better stay back, or you might get hurt. Or, maybe, it won’t be you.” She took the chopsticks and rolled them together in her hands until they were a pair of kitchen shears, which she opened up and laid across her own neck. As she squeezed the handles, the sharp blades sliced easily through her neck. Suddenly, the hand on the scissors wasn’t hers, it was Irv’s. Scythe felt his hand slowly close, opening a huge gash in her neck.
Red. Dark red...way too much dark red. The color acted like a magnifying glass, expanding the power of the memory. Scythe became small before it, almost losing himself. The horror of her death seemed to seep out of every pore of his body, and, weakened by a shattering loss, Scythe felt his knees collapse beneath him in the vision, bringing him right down to the ground where she now lay to hover above her head. His trembling hand hovered over and then lightly touched her cheek. Icy cold. The cold traveled up his arm and into his chest and he began to shiver.
The face blurred for a moment, showing another behind it, and then another, and then became Mercy again, lying on the cement next to a large trashcan.
“Irving,” Scythe said, bile in his throat. “What did you do?”
The man was gasping for air, making small coughing noises in between each breath. One word made its way through, “Not,” and then another, “me.”
Scythe was back in the living room, standing across from the ghost man who was sitting comfortably on the couch wearing a satisfied grin and a poor imitation of Ian’s body; he was dressed in the clothes Ian had worn to Juniper. “If I want to, I can make you do it, Scythe. I can make you cut her up, and then forget, or I can make it so that it is all you remember. Hell, you don’t even know if I haven’t messed with you already, do you?” He stood, stepped up to him and rested his hand on Irv/Scythe’s shoulder like an old friend. “But, if this guy has any guts at all, I won’t have to do a thing, because that,” he pointed to a bulky black vest on the table in front of them, “isn’t filled with ceramic plates.”
Scythe froze, and felt the blood drain from his face. If he released Irving now…
The memory started to fade, but he managed to break the icy hold on him and pour all his power into the connection between Irving and himself, incapacitating the man’s mind momentarily.
He stood at the threshold of Irving’s consciousness, the usual spheres that held memories floating around him aimlessly. He thought about what he needed to know and began to frame a command, “Show…”
Irving coughed out, “Nine.”
Scythe yelled in his most commanding tone, “Evacuate the courtyard right now! We’ve got a bomb here! Everyone out!” Scythe didn’t know how Irv was able to speak on his own, or where the words were coming from. In front of him, there was nothing.
Irving’s whimper spilled out into a wild cackle. That laugh tightened Scythe’s nerves until he could almost feel them vibrating beneath his skin. “Show me how it detonates, Irv.”
“Seven.”
He waited for the bubble to appear, but nothing came forward.
“Six.” Another beat. “Five.”
“Show me how to diffuse the vest.”
Nothing but laughter, broken only by...
“Three.”
Scythe ripped himself away from the mind in front of him faster than he had ever done before, causing a sharp pain to blossom in the back of his head, and staggered back. He pushed the man aside and ran for the nearest hallway.
“Two...too...too late!”
Behind him Irving’s crazy laughter erupted, and then degenerated into pathetic, sorrowful sobs.
Scythe passed under the arch, hit the wall and threw himself sideways down the side corridor when the plastic explosives in the vest strapped to Irving’s body exploded. The whole building shook and chunks of the wall he was sheltering behind fell to the ground.
He rolled over, his hands covering the blasting pain that was ripping up his sensitive Kin ears. He shut his eyes to block out the bright light. There was an echo in his head that wouldn’t go away, a hollow booming sound that gave birth to a splitting headache, just there in the newly raw spot at back of his head. Laying flat on the ground, he fell, and his hands flew outward as he desperately tried to catch himself.
The darkness was filled with the sounds of not one, but many explosions going off around him. Boom, BOOM, boomBOOM! They made their own stuttering rhythm that vied with his racing heart to see which would beat longer. A big hand gripped his little one securely. Then the strength that had carried him all along became the weakness that pulled him down. When he tried to get up, the body on top of his was so heavy that he had to crawl his way out from under it. The back of his shirt was all wet with something that had started warm but quickly cooled. He knew that it was better not to look back at...there was emptiness there. He kept moving. Behind him, weakness collapsed in on itself and became a deep hole that would swallow its own child’s strength.
The boy crawled away from that dangerous place.
He opened his ey
es and lifted himself into a sitting position, leaning on the wall behind him. He looked around slowly, noticing that the long empty hall was open on one end and had a half burnt door hanging on one hinge at the other end. It isn’t good to have to defend on two fronts.
He could feel the vibrations of feet running in the room behind him and could hear distant voices. He closed his eyes, lifting up his knees and dipping his head between them. The adrenaline was still rushing through him, but he knew it would soon drain away, so he readied himself for it, breathing steadily.
The voices were calling, getting louder, closer. He tilted his head to the side, an eye on the archway, so he was watching when the woman stepped in...not an aggressive posture, high center of balance, no visible weapons…
She turned her head and said something to the others in the courtyard. He shifted slightly when she moved toward him, which caused her to slow down and then stop before she got to him. She said something, but it was muffled and the words were jumbled. He blinked slowly. Behind her, two more appeared...one weapon each, but holstered, one with good balance and movement, but twenty pounds lighter than him, the other was no threat...and then one came around the corner with a mask.
The boy didn’t like masks, especially black ones. He slid his hand over one of the sheaths on his pant leg.
There was more mumbling, and then everyone left but the masked one.
He felt his energy seeping away, and his arms started to shake. In a situation like this, when your body was in danger of failing you, it was better to move in while you could. He pivoted, pulling out his favorite. The smell of oil. The feeling of muscles stretching, his weight shifting. A piece of drywall being crushed under his knee.
He knew he had to be sharp. The masks were strong, stronger than he was. They had taken him easily before. Twice.
He frowned, because something wasn’t right about this mask. It didn’t move like it was supposed to. He hesitated, evaluating.
The mask took two slow steps, stopped, and then raised its hands and ripped off its own head. The boy blinked. That wasn’t what they did. They never took those off. They never showed their faces, because masks didn’t have faces. A face was a person.
That particular face...that face made him dizzy. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing on them with his sleeve.
When he opened his eyes, Heron stood there, raising his hands. He was talking slowly, “...reaction to the explosion as well as some psych…”
“Heron,” Scythe interrupted.
“Yes?”
“Help me up, will you?”
“I’m recommending a few more minutes, at least, before you try to get up.”
“Okay. That sounds good. You can put your helmet back on now.” Scythe put his raging head back between his knees. “Good call, by the way.”
“Ah, yes. It seemed like the…” his voice was blurred by the helmet…“right thing to do at the time.”
“I guess I was a little confused there for a minute.”
“Yes, very common after a traumatic event like that. It seems that your basic reactions weigh heavily on the side of ‘fight’ as opposed to ‘flight,’ ” he commented.
Scythe barked a short laugh, which he regretted immediately, “Ahh shit, I need something for this headache.”
“I’ll see what they have. Rest a bit more.”
“Will do. See if you can figure out who needs to make the report for this and send them over.”
When Heron returned with the small glass of water and two pills, Scythe was finishing up a very abbreviated dictated report of the interview, ending with the subject’s suicide. Kreg was furiously logging the information, nodding his head when he was ready for the next piece of information.
Scythe said, “Thank you,” and, after examining the medicine, swallowed them with the water. Then he continued to Kreg, “I don’t know exactly how Irving was able to detonate, but I believe it may have been a programmed action.”
“What, like hypnotism?” Kreg asked, clearly skeptical.
“Something like that. He didn’t even know how he was going to do it. I think there was a…”
“That is crazy scary. He was like a...I don’t even know what...some kind of mindless bomb?”
Scythe made sure not to shake his aching head when he said, “I don’t really know, but the detonating device could been done by remote...something on his body, like in his mouth...or maybe it was on the vest itself, maybe inside one of the sheaths that held the plastic. You’ll have to get your investigation team to determine that.” He took another gulp of the orange juice and a bite of the sandwich they had brought him.
“Okay, that’s enough. I can fill in the rest myself. Will tell Captain Reave about your recommendations about a post on the hypnotist-man, would be nice to have more on him, but I guess it is better than nothing.” He paused uncomfortably, “I’ll need to log this guy’s presence.” He nodded at a still helmeted Heron. “Name?”
Scythe said, “No name. You can put that he is a member of my team. That will suffice.”
Kreg nodded.
Scythe looked up at Heron, “We’re headed out then. We are already very late as it is.”
He stood up, pleased that his body obeyed, if somewhat stiffly; he felt weak and not a little tired, but he nodded nevertheless at Heron and moved determinedly down the hall. He made himself scan the courtyard as they passed, despite his revulsion. He knew that there was a good chance he was going to need that memory when he faced a certain someone in the near future.
Even though he was assured that no one had had an opportunity to approach his motorcycle, Scythe examined it meticulously, along with his helmet and all their gear. When he was satisfied, they climbed on and rode through the gates and onto the road. Heron, this time knowing what to expect, bent his head and held on tightly as the motorcycle began to fly over the pavement.
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“You’re later than we expected,” Ian said, getting up and walking up to the bike. Mercy followed behind him.
Scythe pulled off his helmet and nodded his head, “Yeah.” He could barely keep his eyes open after riding for so many hours. Normally, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but his sleep patterns had been irregular for over a week and the day’s stress had taken its toll as well.
Ian, reaching out and taking the helmet, commented, “Wow, you look like hell. Food?”
“Yeah, thanks,” was all he thought he could manage, but he took a deep breath and tried to gather some strength anyway. He pulled back his shoulders, straightened up on the seat and turned his head to see how the young doctor was managing.
Heron grimaced as he peeled himself off the motorcycle seat. “Very...very sore...need ice packs...and drugs.” His legs could barely support him, but he started walking around anyway, stretching as many muscles as he could.
Mercy peered closely at Scythe and said, “What’s the matter? Something happened.”
“Later, han-na,” he said, getting off the bike and taking his own time to stretch out. He rubbed his face and then reached up to scratch his scalp.
Scythe had huffed out a grateful, heavy sigh when he saw the truck stopped at the fueling depot. He had been hoping to catch them before much longer, given the speeds he was pushing on his motorcycle. They were far enough out of the active terrorist area that they were less concerned with attacks on their vehicle. That meant that he and Heron could ride more comfortably in the truck. Scythe was planning to take a short stint in the truck to get some much needed sleep and save for later the discussion about what he had learned from his interview with Irving.
Before any of that though, he needed to lay into something with carbs and protein.
Ian brought the two of them the same meal everyone else was eating: a large mug of hot tomato soup and a cheese sandwich. Within a few minutes, he went back for seconds. Once their vehicles were sufficiently fueled and charged, and after arranging with Temper to take a turn on the motorcycle, the team hit the road again
. Mercy had rummaged through the storage bins until she found a few sleeping bags, which Scythe and Heron took immediate advantage of, not blinking an eye at the cramped space on the floor. Within minutes, the soothing movement of the truck rolling along the road had put them both to sleep.
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Scythe opened his eyes, awoken by the pressure of power building up very close to him. He turned his head and found Ian sitting above him in the dark. Mercy lay beside her father on the bench, her head resting on a makeshift pillow in his lap. His arm lay casually over her, holding onto her hand, but his body and face were stiff with tension. Ian was looking down at him with an expression that told Scythe that what they feared had finally come to pass. Next to him, energy whirled, growing stronger by the second.
When Ian sent him a ribbon, Scythe asked, What if you wake her?
He mentally shook his head, and Scythe could feel his dread along with the acceptance that experience had taught him. It won’t matter. It can’t be stopped. Besides, the vision will wake her anyway.
Scythe slowly turned his head, noting that Heron had moved up to the bench sometime while he was sleeping and was leaning against the side of the truck, his feet stretched out and his head bent at an awkward angle. Temper, having traded off with Orin, was laying with her back to them across the bench opposite Ian. Summer was driving the truck, and Jin was riding with her, with Steven just behind them in the com space.
Are they asleep? Ian asked him.
Not Heron, though he is trying.
Scythe heard Ian’s stray thought: It won’t matter, anyway.
Mercy’s power began to grow at a faster rate, and Scythe marveled again at how strong it was. It swirled around her, as if she lay in the center of a tornado. It was gaining in intensity by the second, until it began to irritate his senses. Heron twitched, but didn’t look up.
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