The Xtra- Volume One

by Oliver Willis

"Madden Blanc."

  The Overseer at the front of the small group speaks. His voice is slightly distorted electronically. Even their advanced technology has to deal with traveling across billions of miles of space. This shouldn't even be able to work at all.

  But it does. It is a constant reminder of the scale of The Overseers' world and that Earth barely fits in. Except it has something they need.

  "Who is she?" he asks.

  There's no time for pleasantries or any of the other wasteful, pretentious niceties. Especially not with this group.

  "We are assessing," the lead Overseer replies.

  Blanc tries to hide it but he is incredulous. Despite the relatively monotone inflection and sparse verbiage from the Overseer, this is the first he has ever seen a hint of uncertainty from them. For years they have been a conduit of information, technology, resources, and more. Now they're simply assessing?

  Bullshit, he thinks.

  "Assessing? That's the best you can do?"

  "It is our way."

  "But she's the thing, the person you've been looking for, right?"

  "We believe so. The manifestation isn't what we expected. The age is incorrect. There are many factors that are completely illogical."

  "After all the years of the great plan and the 'methodical' search we've engaged in, we now have this x-factor?"

  "It would appear so."

  Blanc rolls his eyes. He feels duped for letting them lead him around by the nose for so long.

  "Can your people do what she can?"

  The Overseer hesitates. Blanc has never seen them in this unsettled a situation. It was subtle. Nuanced. But the tone of years and years of interaction, no matter how limited, stood in stark contrast to this moment, right now.

  "No. The abilities she exhibits were unforeseen. Despite this, we believe Danmoc is the solution."

  Danmoc? This is serious.

  "That bad?"

  To even consider Danmoc meant that in their own limited, stilted way, The Overseers were afraid. It frightens Blanc a little bit too. He is loath to admit it. He has tried for decades to purge fear, to rid himself of emotions associated with weakness and vulnerability.

  Acknowledging the existence of these things is the beginning of trouble, from his perspective. But Danmoc? Wow.

  He has wanted to use it for years. He followed The Overseers' blueprint and never broached the topic of activation. Blanc knew the day would come but didn't think it would be like this.

  "Danmoc is capable of neutralization," The Overseer says. "It is our consensus. The logical approach."

  Blanc nods and the transmission ends. He knows a door has been opened that cannot be closed.

  Danmoc.

  Certainly, it would restore the pecking order to what Blanc is comfortable with. The world isn't built for this woman to be on top, especially not one that looks like her. It was unnatural, even less natural than Danmoc.

  Blanc is still not happy about how things are. Where he stands with The Overseers. Their lack of preparation for this emergence. The way they still act, despite their huge mistake, like he is unworthy of their attention.

  It all bothers him. Contingencies have to be made. Danmoc has to be activated and the status quo reset. Then after that, when this woman is off the board and he has a moment, the order can be fixed.

  Madden Blanc will be on top, where he's supposed to be.

  Chapter 47

  Every minute in Taylor Nguyen's apartment is like my eyes are under a dayglo assault. It's like an extension of her personality, but much, much more. It is as if she took the brightest, most showy colors in the world, put them in a gigantic blender, then splashed the resulting color mix everywhere.

  And put sparkles on top of it.

  It's very different from my dad's place and it's calm neatness, and a lifetime away from my apartment. Even after a year, my place doesn't look like I've even unpacked. Not a single thing on the walls, no flair. Even my bed and TV look "generic".

  Taylor's spot by contrast looks like the set of an MTV show as experienced by someone on an intense acid trip.

  But it is comforting, in the way that something familiar – no matter how outwardly bizarre – can feel that way in the middle of a strange experience.

  And I'm definitely having one of those. Strange powers. Flying. Aliens. Mom. DNA weapons? It's all too much. I just wanted to lie down in my bed and sleep it off after I left Dad (he begged me to stay but I really need some routine and that means back to D.C.).

  But that was a bust. My apartment building was a mad house. Broadcast trucks and people lined up for as far as the eye can see. As soon as I flew close enough to see what was going on, every camera was on me.

  I should have checked my phone, then I'd have known the big story was me.

  Still feels strange to say.

  In a panic, I flew here, to Taylor's. She let me crash last night and I don't think I've ever slept so hard. When I woke up, I thought it had all been a dream.

  But then I checked my phone notifications and my filled-beyond-capacity voicemail account (An interview? On TV? No way.) and that pleasant thought quickly evaporated.

  It was real.

  I'm drinking a cup of coffee and not feeling a damned thing from it. There's no buzz, at all. I guess this is another great side effect of my new normal. I'm invulnerable to caffeine.

  Taylor's pacing in the kitchen, her bare feet slapping against the tile as she walks in a repeated circle. She's tapping at her tooth with a fingernail, a nervous tic she's always had. She does it when she's feeling stressed and overwhelmed, which doesn’t happen too often.

  She's tapping it a lot right now.

  I stare at the cup of coffee, as if I can will it to do something. That has no effect and I'm just sitting here in silence. Maybe the time will just make this wash away.

  "Can we talk about it?" Taylor asks.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  It's a loaded question, right? "It" is a lot of things right now. "It" changes who I am and how I see the world. "It" is thousands of people invading my home and why I'm in a rich girl's Barbie Dream House of an apartment, even though she's my best friend.

  "I'm serious, Carla," she continues. "I can't do the quiet and brooding thing like you do. I don't even know how you can do it under normal circumstances, let alone now."

  "What do you want me to say?"

  "I don't know. Just say something. Anything. That stuff you said your dad told you is nutso. Do you believe him?"

  "Of course I do. He wouldn't lie to me, definitely not about something like this."

  "I agree. He's like you. Levelheaded, grounded. Boring? And it's insane. It's insane and what you can do is insane and – you're just sitting there. Like everything is normal."

  "It's not normal. I don't feel anything from this coffee. It's strong stuff, but nothing."

  "Oh God, you have coffee powers."

  It's such an absurd statement, I laugh. And she laughs too. It feels comfortingly normal, considering everything else in our world at the moment.

  "Maybe I do."

  "I like when you smile. See? There's already some good coming out of all of this. Also the part where you saved my life. That was pretty cool. Thanks for that."

  I look down at the cup. I don't like the attention, even from her.

  "Yeah," I quietly reply.

  "Argh!" Taylor yells, loudly. The kind of yell you make in an apartment where your such a high-dollar tenant that nobody makes a noise complaint about you.

  "Oh my God, what?" I ask.

  "You stepped in front of a bullet for me. It hit you and got smushed into nothing. And your take on it is 'yeah.'"

  "I don't know what you want me to say. You would do the same for me. It's done, it happened, it's over with."

  "But you didn't know you would survive, did you?"

  "No," I admit. I'm trying not to think about it. Because it's a haze of mashed-up thoughts every time I run through the sequence of events in
my mind. Trying to protect Taylor, the surge of adrenaline, the way my body felt—different from that moment on.

  All of it happened at once, and I just can't process it. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  The last time I felt this overwhelmed was when Mom slipped away.

  It's not a feeling I like.

  "But you did it anyway," she says, and leans over to hug me. She's sweet. For all her faults and over-excitement and the rest of it, she's a good influence to have around me when things are out of control.

  "So what do we do now?" She asks as she pulls away.

  "Now?"

  "Yeah. This is a thing now. You're a thing. What do we do?"

  "We wait until they get bored, move on to the next big thing, like they always do."

  She looks at me like you'd look at a wounded puppy. Or a kid who gets every answer in class wrong. Extremely wrong.

  "You're so smart. I'd even argue that you're a genius," she says. "But sometimes you can be such a dummy."

  "Rude."

  "I'm serious. Carla. This isn't something everyone will just move on from. This isn't a celebrity sex tape or a president tweeting. This is bigger."

  She leans back against the kitchen counter and looks up. "Way bigger."

  "I don't understand."

  "Carla, you're a superhero. You stop bullets. You're strong as hell. You fly. You can fly!"

  "Girl, are you high? Did you use all that money your dad earned and waste it on a giant brick of weed? Because you sound high as hell right now."

  She sneers.

  "If either of us sounds high right now, it's you. You like facts, like, a lot. Well I just gave you the facts, whether you like them or not. As the first person to be saved by SuperCarla, I have to tell you: You're a superhero."

  "Girl."

  "People need help. You can help."

  I think about what my Mom and Dad have told me throughout my entire life. How I need to try and be the best and to help other people once I get there. I tried, within reason, to do that. In my own way. Quietly. I help to bring people the news, do my little part to make the public aware of corruption and crime.

  But I was never prepared for something like this, and it feels uncomfortable – to put it lightly – to have crazy, kooky, dayglo Taylor sounding like the voice of reason. I wanted her to pick up some of my good habits, to be more logical than emotional.

  And she is. I've created a monster and now I'm its first victim.

  "I see your wheels turning," Taylor says. "I see that big brain of yours spinning around in that head. You know I'm right."

  I sigh.

  "I didn't say that."

  "But you're thinking it."

  I feel like she's reading my mind and I don't like it.

  "This will all blow over. They'll move on. They have to."

  "Millions of people saw what you did, Carla. Probably billions."

  "Thanks to you."

  "Well, I was first." She pauses to bask in her self-congratulations. "But I wasn't the only one. This was going to get out. We all saw it. This isn't the dark ages where you'd have to send the alien sighting over teletype or fax."

  She keeps making sense. I hate that. It makes me uncomfortable.

  Taylor folds her arms and stares at me. I've rarely seen her this serious in all the years I've known her. This is an occasion as rare as an eclipse. Maybe even rarer.

  "People need help. Like you helped me. They need help every day and a lot of the time, the police, firemen, the ambulance – it's just too late or it isn't enough. I know you. You couldn't sleep at night knowing you could do something to help."

  I look down, conceding the point to her, silently and reluctantly.

  "You're going to help," she says. "I know it. We're going to help."

  "SuperCarla is a dumb name."

  "We'll work on it."

  Chapter 48

  Devon can feel his knees quiver as he nervously walks into the electronics store with the group of boys. He is a fifteen-year-old in a group of similarly aged kids. They are laughing and joking with each other, checking out the gadgets and latest gear.

  Devon loves this kind of stuff. He loves having cutting edge toys, fine-tuning them, tweaking them, getting them to interact.

  But right now, he's unable to enjoy walking through the aisles of the big box store, fiddling with the merchandise like he usually does, either on his own or with his parents.

  Because today Devon isn't in the store as a gearhead kid. He's part of a heist.

  It wasn't his idea. It was Armin. The oldest kid in the group, seventeen, but closer to eighteen. The group of boys usually just wasted their time, idling around, talking about girls, playing games, getting high, just drifting through until the next moment of forced responsibility.

  But Armin had declared that he was bored, and that the crew needed to do something to break up the monotony. The guys rarely opposed Armin and his ideas. It was nothing formal, things had just evolved that way. In their pack, he was the alpha leader and nobody questioned it.

  He was taller and more muscular than the rest, who were all in various stages of puberty. All on the verge of being men, but not quite there yet. Armin is the closest, in their minds, to a "man".

  So why not follow his lead, right?

  Devon has second thoughts. He considered ditching. He could have just walked home, grunted a couple words to his mom, and thrown himself down in his bedroom in front of his video game system.

  But he hadn't done that.

  Instead here he was, walking through the store, identifying which pieces of merchandise they should grab. He likes to think of himself as independent, willing to go his own way and let the chips fall wherever.

  The reality is: Devon is a follower, and he's going along with these boys into what is obviously a danger zone.

  "How about this one?" It's Markus. He's one of the smaller kids in the group. He's short and almost small enough that the other boys considered keeping him out of their crew. He just barely made it in. "It's high-def."

  "So what?" Devon asks. "It's too big to carry, fool. You got a truck to drive in here with?"

  Devon likes Markus but it feels a little good to put him down a bit. It's a little taste of power. Sort of like the way Armin treats the rest of them. He gets it.

  "I guess," Markus says, his voice faltering a little bit. He's eager to please the other boys but it always seems like he's a few steps behind them, scurrying to catch up. It can be frustrating and exasperating, just trying to get accepted.

  "This one." It is another kid, Eric. He's the same age as Devon and his voice has already changed. It's deeper, more authoritative. He doesn't sound like a little kid anymore.

  Devon hates his own voice.

  Eric is pointing out some portable speakers, the most expensive of the selection on the store's shelves. They're light, and quite a few of them can be carried at one time.

  Markus takes the cue and loads himself up, following the older boy's instructions. Eric does the same with some GPS units and smart watches.

  Devon walks ahead and notices that there's a stack of laptop boxes, and unlike the rest of the computers on display, aren't under lock and key. Score.

  He bends down and picks them up. A little feeling nags him.

  Don't do it. Drop it. Go home. Talk to Mom. It's okay.

  But he thinks about what the boys will say. What Armin will say. He'll never be able to hang with them again. He'll be back where he was months ago when he started school: On his own, without a tribe. Just a target for everyone to pick on and look down upon.

  If he just takes this stuff, he can still belong. It's worth the risk.

  He gets back up, laptops in hand. Just have to make it through the next few minutes and everything will be cool. In fact, things will be better.

  Armin walks up to their group, a mean smile on his face. His face looks like it has seen too much life. He is thin and lean and doesn't have the baby fat still on his cheeks that Devon a
nd some of the other boys do.

  He looks at the gear they've picked up and nods in approval.

  "When we sell it, half the money goes to me. This was my idea."

  None of the boys says a thing in protest. Armin said it, so it's true. Why fight it?

  "What are you taking?" Markus asks.

  They are all thinking it, noticing that Armin's hands are empty. They just weren't stupid enough to say it. Devon thinks about how he didn't even question the disparity until just now.

  "Good point, little man," Armin replies. The statement is filled with condescension and derision. In just a few words Armin has reminded Markus that he's the low man on the totem pole, and that he's the smallest of them all. It is quickly devastating in its effectiveness and it comes so naturally to the older boy.

  Armin reaches into his jacket, and with one smooth move pulls it out.

  For a split-second, Devon can't believe what he's seeing. The other boys gasp, almost in unison.

  Armin is holding a Glock handgun in his right hand. It is scratched up and scuffed and has definitely seen better days. Still, it is unmistakably a gun and in good enough condition to inflict damage.

  Damn, Devon thinks. He is both terrified and also excited. He can feel his adrenalin pumping. If he had stayed home and played games, he wouldn't be a part of any of this.

  He's glad he came. He's part of something.

  Chapter 49

  Armin turns around from the boys and walks toward the checkout counter at the front of the store.

  He points the gun at the clerk, a freckle-faced redheaded girl around his age.

  "Give me all the money, now," Armin orders her.

  The girl's jaw drops open and she begins to shake.

  "Now," he orders her. "Now."

  She reaches down to the cash register, trying to steady her hands as she presses the buttons to open the drawer.

  The machine buzzes and the drawer stubbornly remains shut.

  "Open it," Armin orders.

  "I'm trying. I'm trying. I'm just—"

  "Open it."

  She presses the sequence again and there's more buzzing. Her forehead is sweaty, even though the store is cool. She is a wreck. She is very aware of the weapon pointed at her head and it is unnerving.