Arcane

by Elle Park

  As soon as he vanishes from our immediate sight, I flick my gaze toward Nolan. He's currently choking on his own laughter, his mouth stretched wide and his eyes glistening with humor. To his credit, he is trying to be as quiet as he can, but the occasional snort only makes it that much harder for him to shut himself up.

  Miraculously, he manages to get a hold of himself right when the two step out, clearing his throat for good measure. The man, just like the one from before, walks out hastily with his eyes trained on the floor. When the door shuts with a quiet thud, Axel finally decides to question our presence.

  "What are you two doing here?" he asks, crossing his arms. "Emptying another cartridge?"

  "Nope," Nolan replies, guiding me into the newly vacant booth. "Just dropping off some goods."

  Like last time, he grabs my hand and stamps it into the back wall, only letting go once the wooden panels break apart and the hidden compartment comes to light.

  "As you can see, my dear sweets," he smiles, placing the two flash drives into the opened vault, "this church is one of our drop-points."

  I silently nod as it seals shut, still not entirely adjusted to his change in demeanor. It's not that the Nolan right now is unfamiliar to me—he's actually the Nolan I'm most familiar with—but after having witnessed his vulnerable state—albeit, only for a few short minutes—this facade of his feels somewhat... off. It's as if the clothes he loved to wear has shrunk in the wash, thwarting his efforts as he tries to move the way he's used to moving.

  And he doesn't seem to notice that they're ripping apart at the seams.

  "So, are you two leaving now?" Axel asks, tapping his foot with agitated vigor.

  "Why? You want us to keep you company?"

  He scoffs. "Yeah, right. Like I would—"

  "All right, then," Nolan shrugs, "see ya—"

  "Okay, fine," he rolls his eyes, "if you guys are that desperate to stay here, I won't go out of my way to kick you out."

  "Thanks, buddy, but we should actually get going—"

  "Wait," he shouts, his eyes almost pleading as he nears us, forcing out a distressed laugh. "I have a spare minute or two. I guess I could tell you some old Kane tales... Let's see—oh," he nods frantically, "one time, I was chained—" He abruptly clears his throat as an elderly woman enters the church. "Mrs. Murphy," he greets, smiling politely.

  "Hello, dear," she says, hobbling toward him. "I just thought I'd come and drop off a casserole. I know how much you neglect your own needs to tend to ours," she scolds, passing him a foil-covered dish.

  "You're too kind, Mrs. Murphy, but I—"

  "Well, we must be on our way," Nolan cuts in, ignoring the holes Axel's burning into the side of his face. "Father Kane, Mrs. Murphy." Nolan nods a goodbye to each of them, a hand on my back as we leave the building.

  Instead of calling for another Zinger, we immediately start walking in the direction of his house, neither of us feeling the need to verbally agree on our choice of transport. Normally, he would have whined about his legs being tired—regardless of how short a walk it is—but it seems he needs something other than his rambling mouth to distract himself.

  Our steady steps are actually quite loud, because even in the boisterous city that is New York, we're trapped inside our own little bubble—and if it doesn't pop soon, I'm afraid we might suffocate.

  "You can probably understand why I demoted myself to hunting voraks," he blurts, breaking the silence that ensued since we left the church. "It feels better to destroy monsters than people."

  "Is there a difference?"

  His eyes don't leave his moving feet, yet he appears to be acutely aware of his surroundings. "I'd hate to imagine a world where there isn't," he says, further slowing his pace, as if giving himself time to sort through his thoughts. "Being in The Union has its perks, though," he muses. "I have a say in major decisions—and when it comes to deciding if we should bring down a plane or orchestrate an epidemic, every vote counts."

  "Would they really do that?" I shake my head before the question fully leaves my mouth. "Why would they do that?"

  "They already have—the Zola virus, for example."

  The Zola virus was first reported a few years ago, and everyone was going crazy because it seemingly came out of nowhere—though, it was definitely a good time for those in the hand sanitizer business. Fortunately, the outbreak was contained within a matter of months, but that was months too late for the thousands that died.

  "It's rare, but there have been times when we've had... droughts," he says, chewing on that last word with uncertainty. "We get our blood from several sources—blood banks, clients, prisoners—and thanks to velmons, we don't need much—a pint of blood can produce about thirty flasks. But if there's a sudden, significant rise in our population, it affects our system of supply and demand." He sighs. "Mass killings are a last resort—I don't even consider it an option—but it's also a sort of cheat-key."

  "Cheat-key?"

  He nods, sparing me a quick glance before looking away again. "We created the virus, so obviously, we had the vaccine from the start."

  I don't say anything as I wait for him to elaborate.

  "Well, it only took us weeks to get what we needed, but we—Prime Pharmaceuticals, as far as the world is concerned—gave the government time to realize that they didn't have what they needed," he says, slipping his hands into his pockets.

  "Of course, the biggest pharmaceutical company in the world belongs to The Corporation," I say dryly. "I'm surprised you guys haven't found the cure to cancer."

  "Who says we haven't?"

  Okay, now that doesn't surprise me.

  "Anyway," he continues, "in the end, we got everything we wanted—hundreds of thousands of fresh flasks, enough organs to keep business booming for years, and a nice bonus of a little over one billion dollars."

  Out of all the things I could say or ask, I go with, "Organs?"

  "They're one of the most popular things we traffic," he replies easily.

  "But they're only viable if used within hours," I point out.

  He arches a brow. "You underestimate us, Kaia."

  We both stay quiet for the rest of the walk, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Except, I'm not doing so much thinking as I am observing.

  Why Nolan seems to feel guilty for something he's not even responsible for, I'm not sure. But there's something about the crease between his brows and the glaze clouding his eyes that causes me to blurt something very impulsive and unlike me.

  "It was before you had a vote."

  He doesn't respond, and I don't know if I ever expected him to. Instead, he nods—whether it's at me or to himself... well, it doesn't matter. The small motion tells me that he at least heard what I said and took it for the poor attempt of consolation that I never intended to make.

  When we finally reach the front steps of the house, I feel a sudden urge to prolong our conversation, even for just a few seconds.

  "So, does it get any worse?"

  I almost roll my eyes at myself for not thinking of a better question—one that wouldn't steer us right back to the topic I just barely got us out of. But Nolan simply scoffs, shaking his head as if remembering an inside joke.

  "You have no idea."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  DAY AFTER DAY, it's job after job, and since I can't do any of them myself, I'm forced to accompany Nolan as he does them for me. It's a ruse that I don't know how long we'll be able to keep up—not just because of my own discomfort of having to rely on someone so heavily, but because I know he's not nearly as fine as he pretends to be.

  I've learned that The Corporation doesn't discriminate when it comes to prospective clients and their requests—just as long as they can pay for it, of course. It's a global business that has, so far, had us visit most of North America, as well as cities in both Central Europe and Eastern Asia, where we're expected to do a wide variety of things to a wide variety of people. To date, we've dealt with a handful of whistle
-blowers, destroyed the credibility of some unfortunate witnesses, sabotaged a few political careers, and even got the ball rolling for a justice of the Supreme Court to be replaced. And while some of those jobs gave both myself and Nolan a certain level of satisfaction—burning down the green house that shelters wealthy criminals is especially pleasing—the rest have affected us for reasons that aren't entirely the same.

  Neither of us enjoy ruining people's lives, but that's not the only baggage to come with this field of work. My problem is that I'm not even doing any of the actual work. I'm used to helping myself, and part of that is getting others to help me—not because I can't do things on my own, but because I don't have to. However, in this arrangement, Nolan is forced to do my job because I literally can't.

  It's not an issue of pride that is suffocating me, though. The sight of Nolan looking so raw and vulnerable, and the fact that I'm the one responsible for it is what's driving me crazy.

  The pain that clouds his eyes is different from the kind he inflicts on others. It's not something that can simply heal with time—rather, it's an extension of him that he may not ever be able to part with. And the weight on my chest only grows the more he acts as if he didn't just go through his own personal hell, one so deep and unfathomable that not even flames can reach.

  Our latest job is here in the city. The target is a sixteen-year-old girl who was at the wrong place at the wrong time, and saw something she wasn't supposed to see—what that something is, exactly, I'm not sure. We're never given the specifics on anyone. Each text I receive contains just enough information for us to know what needs to be done—nothing more, nothing less. According to my handler, Lee, she and her friends should already be at Striker's Lane by now, which is why Nolan and I are here, too.

  Technically, we could have targeted her during several other times or places: on her route to and from school, while she walks her dog, or even on her way to church—whether she owns a dog or goes to church is beside the point. We've had the opportunity to approach her yesterday, and we'll still have it tomorrow and the day after. The reason why this location—especially on a Saturday afternoon—is more convenient, is because it's guaranteed to form a crowd once the show starts.

  Unlike most bowling alleys, this one is not a dark room disrupted by neon bulbs and tubes and glow-in-the-dark shoes. With the glaring lights reflecting off the smooth, polished floor, it's actually a little too bright in here—but that's a good thing for us, as the clips later filmed will be that much clearer. It also helps us find a specific teenage girl from the plethora of others surrounding us.

  When I catch sight of the face I've only seen through my phone, I nudge Nolan's arm, instantly gaining his attention. "There," I say, just loud enough for him to hear over the many voices and crashing pins. "By the counter."

  Dark, corkscrew hair, pale, freckled skin, and the nose of an aristocrat—it's definitely her.

  She and, whom I'm assuming are her two friends, are standing in a line to the small restaurant at the back of the room. Most of the bar stools are occupied, the tables are filled, and not a single one of the booths are empty. It's busy today, which means, in a matter of minutes, almost everyone here will be the proud owners of a new viral video.

  The objective is to make her appear, ideally, mentally unstable, but at the very least, questionable. Nolan can't make her go from completely fine to on-the-ground-screaming-for-help in two seconds flat, otherwise people will think she's having a legitimate medical emergency, and an ambulance will whisk her away before we can really accomplish anything.

  We've moved off to the side and a safe distance away—as in, far enough to avoid the spotlight that's about to shine down on an unsuspecting girl and burn down her foreseeable future—but close enough to have a clear view of Nolan's ministrations.

  He starts off easy with a small attack on the nape of her neck. The smile on her face barely falters as she swats at the offending area, brushing it off as a random but ordinary tingle. Her cheek is next, then the other. It looks like someone's slapping her double-handed, the imaginary force knocking her head slightly off balance. She's frowning now, and her eyes are frantic as they search those of her friends. The two girls appear just as much, if not more, confused, and they're starting to scan the room to see if anyone's watching what's sure to be a spectacle.

  The chatter in the air has become stunted and unnatural, hushed whispers filling in the gaps. Fingers are pointing, chins are jerking, and phones are being angled and maneuvered to prevent the girl with a loose screw from going out of frame. Nolan has escalated in terms of both severity and range—I can tell by the way her hands are flying from one spot to another, gripping and clutching until her skin turns into an angry red, as if she's trying to physically extract the pain from her flesh.

  Whatever footage has been obtained is probably all over the Internet by now, and it should be enough to significantly damage her credibility. I can tell Nolan is following my line of thought by the way she slumps against the floor, exhaustion dragging at her features. But the cameras haven't stopped rolling—and they're no longer aiming at her.

  "Uh-oh," Nolan mutters before hastily typing something into his phone.

  Coming from him, that uh-oh sounds more foreboding than an abrupt clap of thunder on an otherwise sunny day.

  No one is bothering to whisper anymore. People are gasping and squealing, and many are jumping onto chairs and tables as if there are mice running around. I don't understand what has suddenly gotten into everyone, but it only takes a short minute for things to make sense.

  The floor is wet—and not in the freshly-mopped sort of way, but drenched. Cold water is freely sloshing around, lapping at our ankles and licking its way up our calves. Looking at the girl as she slowly sits up, her eyes dazed and bewildered and unable to see the reason for this chaos, I can tell that she's the one doing all of this—though, she doesn't know that. I can only imagine what this scene would look like on video, but fortunately, everyone is too busy trying to keep their clothes dry to do much else. And we have until they flip out their phones again to think of a plan—which really isn't long at all.

  When Nolan climbs on top of one of the few free chairs, I assume it's because he wants to blend in. Then he motions for me to do the same. "I'm guessing you forgot what your orb does," he says, casually.

  My orb.

  The only way I would experience this flood is if my barrier weren't in place, and if that's the case, then this is no longer a matter of our minds playing tricks on us.

  "This is real, isn't it?"

  Pipes are bursting from the ceiling, wild streams of water spraying every which way, and every piece of furniture we used to evade the water is now just getting us that much closer to it. Those either brave or stupid enough to expose their phones to potential damage begin filming the unexpected disaster, voices rising to talk over each other.

  "Sorry, kid."

  A man has appeared out of nowhere and is currently smiling at me as if we're already acquainted—which isn't impossible, considering the obvious badge on his belt. Although I remember meeting some of Jack's coworkers on the day of his funeral, there's nothing about the person in front of me that feels familiar.

  Judging by the short, thinning hair at the top of his wide, slightly wrinkled forehead, he seems to be around his mid-to-late forties. His skin is clear and rosy, and though he doesn't exactly seem fit, he does appear to be in relatively good shape for his age. And as he lifts his arm to scratch the side of his neck, his worn leather jacket moves just enough for me to catch sight of his holstered gun.

  Definitely a cop—just not one I know.

  "Didn't see you there—thought Nolan was on his own," he says, his raspy voice making him sound younger than he looks. "I'm Otto," he offers me his hand, which I warily shake, "glad to see you're alive."

  A flooded bowling alley is hardly a death trap, but I dismiss his odd choice of words so I can instead focus on Nolan—the boy whom, for a moment, due to
the unusual absence of his incessant rambling, I somehow forgot all about.

  Evidently, that's not the only thing I've forgotten.

  Although I had a feeling something was off, I couldn't put my finger on just what that was—until now. Looking around the room, I can see that everyone is still exactly as they were a second ago; standing on chairs and crouching on tables, phones held in front of them, their mouths hanging open—but for some unexplainable reason, they continue to stay exactly how they are.

  Literally.

  No one moves an inch. They don't turn their heads, they don't shuffle their feet, and even their tongues sit frozen on the cusp of a word not spoken. It's as if they've become statues made of flesh and bone, and though their eyes are blinking in a steady rhythm, they remain vacant and unseeing.

  If not for Nolan's very obvious movements, I would have thought time itself had stopped.

  He's currently zig-zagging between the booths and tables, pausing at each one to fumble with the phones that are held out on display. He even goes so far as to dig through bags and pockets, going through every device he can find—how he manages to unlock them, though, I've yet to figure out.

  I'm not sure if it's because I've recovered my shield or not, but the pressure of the water has dwindled down to steady trickles. And while the entire room is still very much a shallow pool, at least we are no longer being attacked by a dysfunctional family of pipes and faucets.

  The air is nearly silent, save for Nolan's loud humming—a collaboration with the man beside me—and the heavy sloshing as he wades his way toward us.