by Elle Park
I can hear a muted rumble getting nearer, and there's a slight vibration tickling the soles of my feet and traveling up my spine. Just as I register a beam of light off in the distance, it's already standing before us in the form of a sleek, black tube. There are no designs or markings—there aren't even any windows—and, really, it looks more like a long, gigantic bullet than it does a traditional train.
"Right, on we get," Nolan says, leading me to a wide opening where a door must have been.
The inside is spotless. The floors match the crisp white walls, the waxy surface causing my shoes to squeak every few steps. A row of black leather seats stretch across either side, broken only to make space for the doors. The usual staples built into most modes of public transport—poles, handles, maps—aren't visible, but there is a small screen hanging from the ceiling, currently flashing two words in bright blue letters: Bridgeport, Connecticut.
Not even a minute passes before the tube comes to a halt, the door automatically sliding open. However, no one steps in, and we don't step out. It takes a few stops—each only seconds apart—for me to realize that we've gone through five states in less than five minutes. When we make it to Portland, Maine, someone else finally enters the train, taking a seat in the row across from us. I don't have much time to study him though, as all three of us stand at the next stop.
Central Station.
There are people everywhere, scattering around like a city of ants. This place is huge—several times larger than the inside of Nolan's house, which I didn't even think was possible. It's as if we're in an open-plan tower. Wide sets of stairs are built strategically to spiral through every one of the exposed floors, with each level supporting two railways. The stairs are white and gold, and the steps are moving rapidly—like an amped up escalator. No one seems to be standing still, the trains coming and going at a speed that doesn't require more than a minute of waiting time. Judging by the matte black flooring and milky white walls, whoever designed the interior clearly didn't have a budget—though, if it's coming from The Corporation's funds, I suppose that's a given.
A few blinks is the time it takes for us to move from the bottom of the stairs to the third level. Clearly, this station is accessible for both daemons and maevons—and perhaps velmons, too, though I have no way of identifying them—as the constant flow of people is occasionally disrupted by those popping from one spot to another, unfamiliar faces suddenly appearing and disappearing out of thin air.
The trains are identical, inside and out. This time, though, we're not the only passengers. It's far from crowded, but still moderately filled with a diverse group of individuals, making this whole thing feel a bit more normal. People continue to rush in and out as we pass through Dublin, Belfast, Glasgow and, finally, London.
At least, that's what the screen says.
I can't be too sure yet, because as far as I can tell, we're back in the underground terminal of The Liberty. Everything from the layout, to the colors and materials of the walls and floor, are the same. The elevator is also exactly where it should be, and I head toward it without Nolan having to drag me.
When we enter the main lobby, the familiar set of leather, glass and marble do nothing to quell my increasing suspicion that this is all just one big prank—a very real possibility, considering it's Nolan I'm dealing with here. It's only when I hear the British accent behind the front desk that I'm able to release the breath I wasn't aware I was holding. I think I was supposed to feel relieved, but the weak exhale comes out more as a defeated sigh—what I'm surrendering to, though, I'm not sure.
Contrary to stereotypical English weather, the sky outside is surprisingly clear, and while the crisp air wastes no time to bite at my cheeks, I find myself welcoming the refreshing chill. Accustomed to the hustle and bustle back home, the background noise of heavy traffic, scuttling footsteps, and people talking into their phones is almost comforting—not just because of the familiarity, but more the reminder of how big this city is, buzzing with millions of strangers who are too busy living their own lives to pause and scrutinize mine.
"Called a Zinger," Nolan says from beside me.
True to his word, a cab identical to the ones we used in New York pulls up to the curb.
"Did you order it before we left?" I ask dryly, surprised at how quickly it arrived.
"It's the official car service that The Liberty uses, so there's always a lot of them waiting on standby," he explains, shrugging. "Plus, it belongs to The Corporation."
Of course, it does.
Once we slide in, Nolan immediately acquaints himself with our driver, Michael. They chat about food, British celebrities, politics and the weather. Nolan has also taken it upon himself to act as my tour guide—with Michael chiming in at every other block or so—and spends the ride spouting information that we both know I'm not really listening to. Being as thick-skinned as he is, though, my lack of attentiveness doesn't bother him in the slightest.
It becomes easier to ignore him when I lower the window a bit, allowing the breeze to tumble through my hair and hum into the shell of my ears. Due to the congested roads, we're forced to drive at a leisurely pace and indulge in the view of London's impressive architecture. After making our way through and around several streets and corners, our pace slows even further until—either finally or all too soon—we reach our stop.
The building stands four stories tall, made of bricks that must have once been a fresh red but, like drying blood on cooling skin, have dulled to a rusty brown. Chips and splinters further betray its age, contrasting with the clean white trim that borders the door and windows. I can almost smell the paint as we cross the threshold, lingering for just a few short breaths before a squeaky thud resounds from behind me, effectively trapping me in a dim, stuffy box that's lit only by a single light-bulb. Any further access is denied by a glass door—that is, until Nolan produces a mysterious key coated in a smooth matte black.
"Universal key," he says, not bothering to elaborate—not that it's needed.
The air is still and quiet, and I don't know if it's because of what we came here to do, or if it's the simple fact that we're intruders, but I feel as though I'm sneaking around a sleeping house, every creak of the stairs causing me to flinch in fear of being caught. It doesn't help that Nolan is practically stomping for attention, a fine whistle squeezing through his pursed lips.
On the third floor now, we make our way to the second last suite on the left, the thin carpet doing little to muffle our footsteps. Not bothering to press his ear to the door, he uses the black key without a moment's hesitation.
"Who are you people?" A man is standing in an awkward, crouched position, as if he froze while getting up from the couch. "Get out before I call the police," he stutters, his voice coming out weaker than probably intended.
"Come on, mate," Nolan pouts, bringing a hand to his chest, "is that any way to greet a friend?"
This is not going to be good.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MY MIND GOES to the picture in my phone and, more specifically, the man in it. I'm trying to match him to the person whose apartment we just broke into, and while there is a resemblance of features, it's a little hard to believe they're one and the same.
His hair looks as if it hasn't been washed or brushed in a while, and the once warm, brown eyes are now sunken and balancing on dark, puffy bags. Even the pillows of his cheeks have deflated into two shallow dents.
The stress of whatever he knows about his employer has clearly gotten to him. I can't be sure as to how long he's been living like this, but it seems he's been enacting the definition of living to the bare minimum. Although I don't have much evidence to go off, the crochet throw draped across his couch and the rubber gloves hanging over his sink give the impression that he's someone who prefers things clean and neat.
At least, he used to be.
I'm assuming his home doesn't quite meet his standards at the moment. Styrofoam containers and cardboard boxes litter the r
oom, scattered over the floor and coffee table. Some have the lids open, and what looks like days-old food remain nearly untouched. His apparent lack of appetite is visible in the loose fit of his wrinkled button-up, his slacks held in position with a leather belt screwed to its tightest length.
"What do you want? Just," he swallows, "just take what you want and leave."
"Funny you should say that, Harry. I—"
"How do you know my name?" His pale skin is now ghastly, and I can imagine the cold sweat trickling down his scalp and beneath the collar of his shirt.
"Look, I'm sure you want to get back to your dinner," Nolan scrunches his nose as he directs a glance at the many, many leftovers, "so I'll get straight to the point," he says, crouching down to inspect a few framed photographs. "I'm going to need everything you have on your employer, Harry."
Now I really can see his sweat—and he's all too aware of it. Using the back of his shaking fist, he hastily dabs at his dribbling forehead. "What do you mean? I don't know what you're talking about," he says, looking at anything but us.
Nolan chuckles, leaning against the shelf he was just perusing. "I'm all for games, buddy, but unfortunately for me, her boss isn't," he says, pointing at me before shrugging in a what-can-you-do gesture. "And unfortunately for you, your boss isn't, either."
"I-I swear, I don't have anything. You've got the wrong p-person!"
Sighing heavily, Nolan meets my gaze. "All right, sweets, do your thing."
"What thing?" I ask, genuinely taken aback by the sudden change in direction.
"Your thing," he says, mirroring my arched brows. When it becomes clear I have no idea what he's talking about, he groans, palming his face. "Damn it. I forgot you can't do the thing."
Knitting his fingers together at the base of his nape, he uses the cramped space to pace back and forth, knocking over a few containers in the process. Harry and I watch as he mumbles to himself, both of us wary of what he might do next. Then, all too abruptly, he stops. Rolling his shoulders and shaking out his hands, he exhales a quick breath of air before training determined blue eyes onto the terrified man.
"I don't want to do what I'm about to do, Harry, but if you don't give us what we need, I'll be left with no choice," he finally says.
"This is a misunderstanding! I don't have any—ow!"
For a second, the fear in Harry's eyes dim to make room for pain and confusion. Scowling, he rubs at a spot on his arm, the area concentrated enough to indicate a small attack. He doesn't register that this is Nolan's doing, though—not that any normal person would.
"Clock's ticking, Harriet, which means it's only a matter of hours before your not-so-secret meeting."
He gulps, and the sound is loud enough for us to hear the pocket of air being forced down his windpipes. "How do you know about that?"
"We're not going to stop you from going."
"You're not?" Harry croaks, his voice coming out as little more than a squeak. It's interesting to see the array of emotions taking control of his face, his limbs, his posture. Surprise, relief, suspicion. Jumping eyebrows, sagging shoulders, narrowed eyes.
"Nope—but you're going to have to go empty-handed."
"I-I can't do that."
"If it's retaliation you're worried about, I can guarantee nothing will happen to you if you cooperate."
"No," he says, shaking his head. "No. What they're doing is wrong. Thousands are dead because of us." I can see his agitation growing exponentially. The tremor in his fingers is still there, but it's more from anger than fear. The blood that drained from his face earlier is now back with a vengeance, boiling so close to the surface of his skin that I'm almost worried it will begin spurting from his pores. His voice is stronger and louder, but unstable in a foreboding way that can result in no good for any of us. "I can't—I can't let them—"
"I'm sorry, Harry."
Like a bird with broken wings, he drops.
There's nothing graceful about the fall, either. With a yelp, he hits the back of his thigh against the arm of the couch, then bumps his knee into the corner of the wooden table, all before tackling himself to the floor. The pitiful tumble might have been funny had it been a different person in a different scenario, but I know that what I'm witnessing isn't just a clumsy accident.
"What's happening to me?" He's writhing on the ground, his body curling into itself in a protective stance. Arms are folding, and hands are clutching. Veins are throbbing and threatening to burst. I know the bruises he's seeing and the pain he's feeling—and that none of it is real. "I d-don't understand. H-help me!" He grinds his teeth, gasping between words.
Nolan hasn't moved an inch. His arms are crossed, and he's trying to close in on himself, but I catch his troubled—almost tormented—gaze. It's as if he's stuck, unable to look away from the struggling human just a few feet away. "We can help each other, Harold. This will all stop as soon as you give us what we came for."
I can see the man warring with himself. He wants to be the hero, maybe even a martyr. But another invisible attack is all it takes for self preservation to kick in. "On top of the bedroom door... You'll need a chair."
"You mind getting it while I keep our friend some company?" Nolan says over his shoulder, not meeting my eyes.
In lieu of a verbal response, I offer a quick nod before grabbing one of two chairs from the kitchen, dragging it toward the only visible hallway. After getting a good view of his cozy bathroom, I turn to the single remaining door. The wooden panel is light and thin, and I push it open until the knob hits the wall, making sure it will stay still against the impact of the chair. With the new advantage in height, it doesn't take long to find what I'm looking for.
Just a few inches from the inner corner, there's a quarter-sized hole drilled into the top of the door. It's not deep—only a couple centimeters, give or take—and inside, I feel something small and plastic. A crook of my finger is all it takes to slide it up and out of the secret compartment, and when I do, I can see that it's a flash drive—silver, and about the size of my thumbnail. Palming it, I leave the chair where it is and drop the tiny device into Nolan's waiting hand.
"Great," he says, pocketing it after a two-second inspection. "Now, just one more thing: do you have a copy, Harry?"
"No," the man immediately answers.
"Let me rephrase—where is the copy?"
"...Under the bed, bottom right corner."
"I've got to say, much less creative," Nolan says, clearly disappointed that there isn't a secret vault in the wall.
Resisting the urge to sigh, I head back to the open room without waiting for Nolan's request to do so. Not wanting to lie down on a stranger's carpet, I crouch down as low as I can, groping the surface beneath the bed. A flimsy stick of clear tape is holding the drive in place, and it offers no resistance as I peel it off.
"Thank you, my lady," Nolan says, pinching the chip from my grasp. "I hate to cut our date short, Harry, but I have a pup back home waiting to feed me." With an arm around my shoulders, he leads us to the front door. "Maybe we can go out for tea the next time I'm around, yeah? Cheers, mate."
And with that, we leave behind the man lying prone on the cold, hardwood floor, panting in a puddle of his own sweat. I think it will be a while before I can forget the way his eyes fluttered shut in defeat, the furrow of his brows and the weights on his lips exposing his inner turmoil. It was all too easy to see the disappointment—disgust, even—directed at himself, hating the fact that he surrendered to something as superficial as pain.
No, I don't think I'll ever forget.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
SOMETHING IS DIFFERENT when we begin our trip back home. The air between us is charged with what I can only describe as awkward, and even his commentary comes out sounding forced. Today was the second time I saw him use his orb, and it was also the second time I caught a glimpse of the boy beneath the facade. For a guy who loves to show himself off, it feels strange and almost wrong to watch him shut down, as if
he was forced to confess his deepest, darkest secret, and is waiting for everyone to shame him for it.
His vulnerability was loud and obvious. I know that he, like any other person, is hiding something—and I, like any other person would, want to know what it is. Usually, extorting information comes easy to me. A gentle, reassuring touch, a meaningful look, and a careful selection of words is all it takes for people to open up and confuse me for their lifelong friend or therapist. But for some reason, I can't bring myself to manipulate Nolan like that. It would feel... wrong. I think.
I wish I could blame my strange mood on the fact that we're back inside Axel's church, but I've never been one to consciously deceive myself.
At first glance, I assume the building is empty, but before I can ask Nolan why we're here, two people step out of the booths. A middle-aged man with a slick comb-over shakes hands with the fake priest, muttering a few hushed words before leaving with his face bowed in shadows.
"How's it going, Axe?" Nolan greets, back to playing his jovial self.
Axel snaps his head toward us, his calm, neutral face instantly developing a scowl. "You know damn well how it's going," he snaps, aggressively tugging at his ginger hair. "I'm stuck here all day, listening to confessions from near saints. I mean, the worst thing they can come up with is adultery—need I say more? I swear to God, sometimes I just want to—" At the sound of the door creaking open, his heated rant comes to an immediate halt, a pleasant smile replacing the frown that I swore could've carved permanent marks into his skin. "Ah, Mr. Jones, go on in ahead. I'll be right with you." Once the overweight, balding man disappears inside a booth, Axel directs a silent look to Nolan that can only be interpreted as either "this is what I deal with" or "kill me now"—probably both—before entering the adjacent stall with visibly slumped shoulders.