Awoken (The Lucidites Book 1)

by Sarah Noffke

  “Fine,” I huff as I disembark from the elevator and make my way to the main hall. I’ve never ventured past that area, but know workers often carry food in from a set of doors in the back of the large room. I head there now.

  “Miss?” a lady says, startling me as soon as I pass through the doors and into a food waiting station. “Can I help you with something?” She’s busy sweeping the floors in gray scrubs. What’s up with the bland uniforms in this place?

  “I was just looking for some water.” The words spill out of my mouth too quickly, rehearsed.

  A wrinkle marking the space between her eyes creases. “Wasn’t there some in your room? I’m certain your room has already been stocked, Ms. Stark.”

  She knows who I am? How is that? I’d never seen the people who clean my room, but I’m hardly ever there.

  “It was. Thank you.” I smile. “But I was down this way and just hoping to get some while here.”

  She pauses and straightens, her annoyance forgotten. “Of course,” she says. “I’ll just go and retrieve some water from the kitchen staff. I’ll be back in a few.” The woman pivots and strides around the waiting station to the kitchen prep area from where sounds emanate.

  “Well?” I whisper.

  “Interesting,” George says in a quiet tone.

  “Like how?” I urge, searching the space for others who could be listening to me talk to myself.

  “You caught her off guard when you arrived, making her annoyed,” he says.

  “I already knew that.” I almost laugh.

  “Well, maybe you don’t know that all her emotions are overwhelmed by a single one that runs deep inside her. If I’m reading this right then it’s coloring all her feelings, like a pair of tinted sunglasses.”

  “That sounds major,” I whisper.

  “In this case it is,” George says, just as the woman rounds the corner.

  “Here you are,” she says, handing me a glass of water complete with ice cubes and a slice of lemon and cucumber. “Just the way you like, according to the kitchen staff.”

  I blush as I take the glass. “What do you mean?”

  “Which part?” the lady asks swiftly.

  “How do they know how I like my water?”

  A stray piece of brown hair falls into the woman’s eyes. She blows to try and corral it back, but it doesn’t work. With an irritated expression she tucks it behind her ear. “They know everything about your dietary preferences, just like I know what clothes you wear most often and how tidy you keep your room. It’s our job to know you and how to assist your needs.”

  I suck in a surprised breath. “Oh.”

  “Is there anything else I can bring you?” the maid asks, looking curt.

  “No, and thank you.”

  It’s only once I’ve exited and ducked into a small abandoned room that I say anything to George. “So…?”

  “Hmmm….” George muses.

  I remain quiet, taking in my dull surroundings.

  “This maid you encountered, she wasn’t an easy read, but I’m confident I did it successfully.”

  “Was your initial reading correct? About the major emotion that affects her perceptions?”

  “Yes,” George breathes. “I think so.”

  “Well, are you going to tell me?” I question, hoping I’m keeping my voice down low enough not to attract attention from anyone in the hallway.

  “It’s pain. This woman is suffering very much.”

  “Oh.” I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this answer seems rather simple.

  “It masks all her emotions, to the extent that it perpetuates itself.” I listen to George’s breath over the radio and await his next words. I sense he’s processing. A few seconds later he says, “She’s in a vicious victim cycle. And in her case, this overwhelming emotion is so significant that it’s created a blockage. This pain has blocked her sixth sense.”

  “You got all that from that brief encounter? Are you sure you’re reading her right?”

  “Yes and yes,” he says with conviction.

  “Then that’s awful,” I say.

  “I agree,” he says.

  “George?”

  “Yes,” he replies.

  “Do you ever wish you could do something for someone, like this woman? Do you ever wish you could help them with their problems? Their pain?”

  There’s a long pause, but I urge myself not to be the one to interrupt it.

  “No, not usually,” George finally says, a graveness to his voice. “There’s been a time or two, but it’s never really been my place.”

  “I kind of thought you might say that.”

  “Still, at times, other people’s emotions do weigh on me. That’s when I have to remind myself that ‘the great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.’”

  I sink into a more intimate space all at once. Those words were written by someone with whom I’m not just familiar, but rather obsessed. “Lord Byron,” I whisper.

  “Yes,” George says, a delicate smile in his voice. “His words always pick me up when I lose my own.”

  A switch flips in my head and I want him to keep talking. I want to hear more of his words which weave together perfectly creating symmetry in my asymmetrical world. However, George remains quiet.

  “So now we know the sensor works,” I say.

  “Yes,” George says. “It works.”

  “That’s good news.” I try to inject enthusiasm in my voice.

  “Yes.”

  Another silence follows.

  “Okay,” I say as I make my way to the elevator. “I’m ringing off. I’ll meet back up with you to debrief in just a few.”

  “I look forward to it,” George says in a low voice.

  ♦

  The stainless steel walls, which used to feel cold and sterile when I first arrived at the Institute, now have a comforting warmth. Even the clinical smell of the hallways somehow is soothing. It must be the cleaning chemicals they use, masked by a citrus perfume. Whatever it is it’s slowly taking over the mossy lake water I used to associate with home.

  The shiny walls and blue carpeted halls are becoming a part of me, although I’d never admit this to anyone. I don’t want to say I belong here with the Lucidites, mostly because I don’t think I’ll be staying much longer. Actually, I’m pretty certain I won’t be a resident of earth much longer. The constant uneasiness in my stomach rumbles slowly, as if the lion has managed to chew through another bar. I draw in a long deep breath and with its contents I hum to myself thinking that this will make me lighter. That’s what happy people in movies do, right? They hum. Destitute people don’t hum. Those headed to the guillotine don’t hum. That would be absurd.

  After my long walk through the corridor accompanied by the nervous rambling in my head, I step into the elevator. Another place I’ve strangely grown attached to. I used to travel to school in a van. Now my travels are all in this silver compartment. Bouncing between the levels of the Institute is almost like moving between worlds. Each time the silver doors slide open I find myself stirring uncomfortably under a new experience.

  Nervous excitement stirs in my chest as I recap my afternoon with George in my mind. I tap the button for the second level, thinking of how his reassuring presence has given the team a new confidence. We worked well together before, but when George fully joined us a missing chain in our armor forged into place. His input into the emotional fabric of each of our missions is the piece we needed. Now when we move through the streets of Amsterdam, Tokyo, or Manhattan we’re fully prepared on all levels. Before, we could access the thoughts around us, control the objects, know the future, and protect ourselves. But we never knew the emotional landscape. George’s narrations at each destination bring color. They make those cities come alive. Where before they were two-dimensional obstacle courses, now they’re three-dimensional terrains, alive with people and expectations and desires. Never before had I realized how the world is dictated by our
desires rather than our thoughts. The prior puts the latter in motion.

  The doors of the elevator start to close just as a voice pleads, “Hey, would you hold that please?”

  I tap the button and Aiden clumsily rushes in, trying to balance a keyboard, speakers, a bundle of wires, and a stack of books. I reach out and grab the speakers before they tumble over the side of his arm.

  “Thanks.” Aiden grins. He pulls up a knee to add an extra support to the load.

  “Why is it every time I see you, you’ve got your hands full?” I say.

  “’Cause I know that’s the best way to get your attention.” He pouts with a sly expression.

  I laugh. “That’s one way, for sure.”

  “Though I wish I didn’t have my hands full right now.”

  Blood rushes to my face. “Why’s that?”

  He gives me one long look and then lowers his voice. “I’m looking forward to picking up where we left off the last time I saw you.”

  The image of Aiden’s hands on my shoulders and his eyes holding mine zips into my mind. I’ve thought about that moment dozens of times. Constantly I punish myself for wondering what would have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted. I’ve been trying to avoid it, but my affection for him is undeniable…unfortunately, the timing is all wrong.

  “Do you always flirt with girls who are about to die? ’Cause you should know right now, if you’re trying to get in my will, I don’t have one.”

  He laughs. The keyboard slips a bit from his grip. “Actually, I never flirt with girls. Just you.”

  My heart hammers in my chest.

  “Oh, and you’re not going to die,” he adds.

  I turn the speakers over in my hand, pretending to inspect them. “So, what do you use this for? Is it to increase the gamma rays on some device thingy you’re working on?”

  “I use it to listen to music.” He gives me a wolfish grin. “And please note that in all instances, it’s better to decrease gamma rays. They’re kind of deadly.”

  “I see. Well, that’s why you’re the Head Scientist.”

  The elevator teeters at my level before the doors bounce open.

  “I need you to stop by my lab tomorrow. I’ve got to go over some devices with you. They could prove helpful. And I have a present for you.” He winks.

  Blood rushes to my face, and my eyes seize the floor in front of me. “Okay, I’ll come by between sessions,” I say.

  Feeling rushed I wedge the speakers between the books and Aiden’s chin. “You got this?” I ask, allowing myself to connect momentarily with his blue eyes. Instantly, I’m trapped by their allure. Step back, Roya. Get off this elevator now.

  “For sure,” he says confidently.

  Without another look I walk away, wishing for the heat in my chest to dissipate as quickly as it arrived. Just as the elevator doors close I hear a loud crash from inside. I laugh easily.

  I’m whistling and half giggling when a voice breaks into my head. “Hey, Roya.”

  Oh shit.

  “Yeah,” I say tentatively.

  There’s a pause, but I still hear George breathing.

  “Never mind,” he states sharply. “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  “Uhhh…all right.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Embarrassment unravels in my stomach. How could I forget to turn off the monitor? George has obviously sensed my emotions for Aiden. But why does that matter? There’s nothing between George and me, and who knows what’s going on with the Head Scientist. I have no right to get swept up in any of this right now.

  ♦

  George is different when we meet up a few minutes later. It’s infuriating. He hardly makes eye contact with me as he puts the equipment away.

  “So what did you want to tell me?” I ask.

  He turns and looks at me, dissecting me, his eyes hot and sharp. Opening his mouth, he goes to say something but then shakes his head.

  “I forget,” he lies. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “George.” I step toward him, trying to decipher the odd expression he’s wearing. I want to see him soft and thoughtful again, the way I know him when we’re training. The way he is most of the time lately. Every now and then, though, this demon crawls into him making him angry with a passive aggression I can’t battle.

  He takes one deliberate step back, putting what feels like a mile between us. “I’ve got to go and catch up on some other work,” George says matter-of-factly.

  I turn in the direction of the wall and pretend to put away equipment. I clench my eyelids shut. “Sure,” I say. “See you later.” I listen to him rustle behind me, standing in place. And then all I hear are his slowly retreating steps.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Since my conversation with Joseph, I’ve been trying to wrap my brain around the peacock in my dreams. I’m getting nowhere with it. There isn’t a single part of me that wants to endorse the idea that my spirit animal is some flashy bird. However, I’ve combed through my dream journal and found that Joseph might be correct: peacock imagery shows up in most of my recent dreams. I go back to my room and grab my dream journal. I also grab the chocolate Bob and Steve sent.

  Shuman’s office is supposedly next to Ren’s. I knock and stand there awkwardly. The door slides open. Shuman’s amethyst eyes stare at me, puzzled. “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “Yes, I have some questions,” I say, feigning confidence.

  She turns at once and strides back into the darkened office. “Come in then.”

  A floor lamp with a round paper shade in the corner gives off a dim light. From that I make out a painting of a wolf hanging over a large desk in the corner. Shuman takes a seat in a brown leather armchair and points for me to sit in an adjacent one. There’s a large dream catcher on the main wall. It’s purple and has five fluffy white feathers dangling from it.

  I sit tensely on the edge of the seat, holding my journal in my hand. Remembering the chocolate, I set it down on the wooden coffee table beside the chairs. “Here, I don’t know if you like chocolate, but I brought this for you.” I stop, trying to find the right words. “It’s to show my appreciation for your help.”

  “Thank you,” Shuman says with her fingertips steepled.

  “Look, I’m here because Joseph seems to think my spirit animal is a peacock. He’s right that it shows up multiple times in my dreams, but…” I stare down at my dream journal, a wave of insecurity sweeps over me.

  “But you do not approve of it,” she says.

  “Well,” I begin, “peacocks are beautiful and all, but I don’t understand their usefulness.”

  “Everything is about perspective, Roya,” Shuman says thickly. Bob and Steve put something similar in their first letter.

  She stares at me impassively.

  “Okay. Thanks for your time.” I stand, irritated, wishing I hadn’t come.

  “In Greek mythology a goddess by the name of Hera placed eyes on the feathers of the peacock to symbolize that they could see all,” Shuman says as if she’s reading out of a book.

  I freeze, staring at her flat expression.

  She continues, “The Buddhists believe the bird represents openness. The Hindus associate this bird with good fortune. It may also interest you to know that the peacock can eat poison without becoming ill or dying. For this reason the bird represents incorruptibility.”

  Gradually I push back until the chair is pressed against my calves. Then I sit. “Yes, that does shift my perspective a bit.”

  “I thought it might,” Shuman says.

  “So how will my spirit animal help me?” I ask.

  “These things are not for me to know. You won’t even know until the animal comes to assist you.”

  I should have known this would be Shuman’s answer. Why had I brought her a gift? She hadn’t really helped me. Mostly she’d thrown riddles and lies at me.

  “Why don’t you like me?” The question tumbles out of my mouth.

  Shuman doesn’t budge, she
just holds my gaze and takes her time before responding. “Why would you think I do not like you?”

  I hold up a finger and begin counting off the reasons. “You’ve been cold since we met. You bold-faced lied about me being the ‘chosen one.’ And you conveniently forgot to tell me my body was going to die if I didn’t act fast once I arrived at the Institute.” I will myself to stay focused on her intense gaze.

  “I do not prove myself to appease others. That is for the lavish and wasteful. For this reason you view me as cold. It is not the first time I have heard it.” She pauses. “I will admit I had my doubts about you. However, when you chose the bracelet as your protective charm I knew you were the person to face Zhuang. My people have their own forecast on this situation. The shaman of my tribe told me the Lucidites would be saved by the girl who wore the bracelet. I believe this might be you.”

  She laces her fingers together and sits with a peculiar expression, like that of a cat’s, seeming to know more about me than I’d like, but less than they pretended.

  “To answer your other question,” she says, “I believe you would not have come if you thought you had to contend. You were hesitant when you thought you were the chosen one. What if I told you that you were one of fifty chosen possibilities?”

  “That’s still deceitful,” I say. The room remains silent. I finally ask, “Why didn’t you tell me my body would die if I didn’t autogenerate? Why leave out this important detail?”

  Something flickers across her eyes. It’s tiny, like a spark. “I had my reasons for leaving this out.”

  So she did do it on purpose. My insides flare with disgust. “And they were?”

  “Roya, asking questions has consequences. Maybe you should not ask them so freely.”

  I squint at her. Like speaking to someone hard of hearing I say, “Why did you leave out those details?! And why does it sound like you’re meddling in my life?!”