The Experiment (Book 2): Making Friends

by Micah B. Edwards

  Brian pops in at some point in the process, and I’m glad to see that he’s doing better than me. He’s got a mild concussion and some nice bruising, too, and he shows off the bandages covering the second-degree burns on his forearms from where the flaming duct tape clung to him and burned through his shirt. But nothing’s broken, and he seems pretty chipper about the whole process.

  “I can’t believe I got you tangled up in this,” I apologize, and Brian laughs.

  “All you did was meet me for coffee, man! It’s not like you asked me to go drive you out to find those guys or anything, you know?”

  I glare at Brian and cut my eyes at Peterson. I’m glad that Brian’s able to joke about this, but I’d really prefer it if he not get the police officer thinking about the last time he and Brian met. That was in the middle of a lightning-damaged city street, where Brian had just driven me out to find the stormraiser in an attempt to stop her. I’m about to try to convince Peterson that I’m not dangerous and I know what I’m doing, and putting his mind on someone who flooded the city for weeks is not going to do me any favors.

  Brian takes the hint and switches to more innocuous chatter, then ducks out when a doctor comes back in with my X-ray results. Peterson continues to wait stolidly, and eventually I’m all bandaged, stitched and pain-killed, and we’re alone in a hospital room.

  Peterson closes the door. “Mr. Everton. What did you want to tell me?”

  Everything. Nothing. This is still a terrible idea, but I haven’t got a better one. And someone on the police force has to know about Vince’s body double trick, or they’ll never look at him for any of these crimes. So where do I start?

  “You’ve been right about me all along. I’ve got — I get — weird powers.”

  “Powers.”

  “Yeah, I — look, do you have a piece of paper?”

  I hobble to the bathroom and, at my direction, Peterson crumbles up a wad of toilet paper in the sink. I gesture, and it bursts into flames. I hasten to turn on the taps and put it out before it can set off the smoke alarm.

  Peterson, to his credit, barely flinches. He asks, “Can you do that again?”

  “As many times as you want.”

  “I’d like to set up a camera to–”

  “No! No cameras. And no other witnesses, either. I don’t want people knowing I can do this.”

  “What are you afraid of, Mr. Everton?”

  I laugh, then wince at the pain in my ribs. “Afraid of? I’m afraid of being locked up to be someone’s science experiment. I’m afraid of being used. I’m afraid of being singled out, avoided, hated, feared.”

  The drugs are making me expansive, so I press on, “I get a nemesis with these powers, do you know that? I could control magnetism before, and Regina tried to kill me for it. Not even for having the power, really. She just hated me really personally. She tried to bring an entire museum down on my head, and I never did anything to her.

  “And now I’ve got Vince, and he’s kidnapping my friends and trying to make me teach him pyrokinesis! And I don’t know how to do that, and I sure don’t want to, and I don’t know how many bodies he’s in or if I’ve even met the real one yet.”

  “The real one?” asks Peterson, and I realize I’ve skipped a few steps in the explanation.

  “Right. So, Vince Amano, I think he’s my nemesis. This time, for this power, I mean. But the nemesis gets powers, too. Like Regina, remember? You locked her up for it, for a little while. But she was right. She could control the rain and the lightning. She wasn’t wrong.”

  “And Vince?” prompts Peterson, getting me back on track.

  “Yeah, Vince. Vince has copies. Of himself, I mean. There were three there today at the warehouse, and maybe a fourth who was keeping lookout. And if you had one at the police station that’s five, and the one who hit me with the car is six, because you were right and that was my fault and it was Vince in the car, or at least a Vince.”

  “Mr. Everton –”

  “Check dental records or something if you don’t believe me!” I suddenly realize I’ve been shouting for the last couple of sentences, and I make an effort to calm down. My heart is beating rapidly.

  “Dan. I believe you.”

  “Oh. Okay. Good.” I sit down on the bed again, my head swimming slightly. I’m not sure I’m really making my case as a stable and non-dangerous individual, but if Peterson believes me, at least that’s something.

  “You believe that Vince Amano has cloned himself for the purpose of committing robberies while maintaining an alibi. You further believe that those clones kidnapped Mr. King and assaulted you, with the goal of learning your power of starting fires with your mind. And you believe that he is intent on killing you, because he is your nemesis.”

  Maybe it’s his quiet, straightforward delivery, or maybe it’s just having it all laid out together like that, but it sounds totally insane when he says it. “Yeah, but it’s true! Look, I’ll show you the fire thing –”

  Peterson waves me back down. “Unfortunately, Mr. Everton, as I said, I believe you. Absurd and impossible as that sounds, it fits the available facts we have, and explains a few that no other explanation satisfactorily covers. Most recent among these is that we recovered Mr. King’s phone at the warehouse, and Mr. Amano’s fingerprints are on it. You and Mr. King — Brian — both claim that he has the ability to be in multiple places at once, and I’m disgusted to say that that seems like it might well be the case.”

  Relief hits me like a wave. “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, I’m not going to write any of this down for the report. That’s a quick trip to see the psychiatrist. So you don’t have to worry about gaining any extra attention just yet.”

  Another wave of relief. I should have told Peterson months ago. This is going incredibly well. I really couldn’t have asked for it to turn out any better, in fact.

  Suddenly, a thought strikes me, and so what Peterson sees is me using my right hand to pinch the web of skin between my left thumb and forefinger. Then I frown and flick myself in the right side, which causes me to abruptly sit up very straight, hissing and biting my lip in pain.

  I describe this from his perspective so that you can get the full impact of the answer to his very reasonable question, “What are you doing?”

  “Well,” I tell him, “I, um, thought you were taking this sort of too well, and I thought that with the drugs and head trauma and all, I might be dreaming it. So I pinched my nerve, but it didn’t really hurt, but I thought that might be because of the pain-killers so to confirm that I was asleep, I flicked myself in a broken rib. And, um, I wasn’t asleep.”

  I’ve never seen Peterson break into a grin before. I’ve seen him smile, but not in this genuine, unplanned, spontaneous way. He shakes his head at me.

  “You have a novel approach to things, Dan.”

  “Yeah, um, well. I try.”

  After a moment, Peterson stands up. “I’m going to have more questions for you later. For now, let’s free up this room.” He opens the door and I follow him into the hallway, where we immediately run into Dr. Simmons.

  “Dan! You look terrible.”

  “I don’t feel great either, Doc.”

  “And this is another altercation, not a result of your — ah, condition?”

  “Yeah, it’s not directly from my ‘condition,’ no. Officer Peterson and I were just talking about that. Officer Peterson, Doc Simmons.”

  The two shake hands while the doc looks Peterson over critically. “Are you not still keeping this under wraps, then?”

  “It’s still under wraps! I’m just expanding the wrap a little, I guess.”

  Doc Simmons hmphs noncommittally. “See if you can keep him out of these altercations,” she says to Peterson.

  “I intend to,” he replies.

  The conversation done, Simmons dismisses us and strides off down the hall. Peterson and I head on toward the front doors.

  “Do you need a ride home?”<
br />
  “Oh man, yes, please. I was not looking forward to catching the bus like this.”

  When I haul my aching body out of Peterson’s car at my house, I suddenly have a bit of déjà vu, thinking about the last time this happened right after my first superpower hit. This time, though, instead of telling me not to leave town, Peterson just says, “I’ll give you a call soon. Try to stay out of trouble until then.” Which is a fairly similar message, actually, but a lot less ominous.

  Inside, I gingerly seat myself on the couch and get my phone out to text Matt. “Emergency resolved. Sorry again. I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  I catch a glimpse of my face reflected on the screen of my phone and add, “Can I work grill? Front counter’s probably not the best idea.”

  - Chapter Fourteen -

  Work sucks. Which is, for once, a specific complaint about my day, and not just a general observation about the world in general. I’ve actually been quite enjoying my job at Børger overall, despite its wage-slave nature. I don’t think I’ve found my calling at the grill of a fast food chain or anything, but it’s really been pretty tolerable, even the days with B-Rock.

  This, naturally, is one of those days, because that’s just the way the universe is organized. I know I’m going to have to deal with B-Rock’s comments all day, but I console myself on the walk to work with the knowledge that at least I won’t have to face Matt after I literally ran out on him yesterday. It’s a small comfort, but I’ll take what I can get.

  So when I arrive at work, it’s a bit of an unpleasant shock to hear Matt’s voice call out, “Dan? Can I see you for a minute before you get ready?”

  I sigh. No little mercies today.

  I trudge into Matt’s tiny office, ready to face the music. His eyes widen when he sees me. “Good grief, Dan!”

  My nose is covered in a bandage to help keep the swelling down, but this does nothing to hide the two black eyes I have or the large bruise emerging from my hairline and running down one cheek. I gesture at my face and say, “It looks worse than it is,” but since the hand I use to point has the pinkie in a splint, I don’t know that that really helps.

  I stand there for an awkward pause while Matt visibly shifts the tone of the speech he was about to deliver.

  “Dan,” he starts out, “Are you in trouble? Do you owe money?”

  I laugh, which makes my nose and my ribs hurt. “Not even student loans. Don’t worry about this.”

  “I can’t not worry about it, Dan, not if it’s something that’s going to cause you to declare a family emergency and split in the middle of your shift.”

  Man, that was a good segue. He’s still sounding concerned, while also managing to give me the “If you keep this up, you’re fired” speech. It’s like that thing where your parents tell you that they’re not mad, just disappointed. It’s a pretty impressive trick for a kid a half-dozen years younger than me.

  “Matt, I’m super sorry about that. I really don’t think it’s going to happen again, though. The problem’s all fixed.” That’s a pretty gigantic overstatement, but Brian’s obviously going to be on the lookout from now on, so Vince won’t be able to get the drop on him. My folks live out of town, and I really don’t have anyone else around that I’d be worried about. I’m building kind of a rapport with Doc Simmons, but I can’t imagine being concerned for her. If anything, I’d be concerned for Vince. She’d stick a syringe in him and bleed him dry to find out how he worked.

  Honestly, the only other person I can think of who might be hurt to get to me is Matt. I’m absolutely not bringing him in on the whole story, but I can give him enough to be on guard, I think.

  “Hey, though, you know that guy the cops sent you a picture of yesterday morning?”

  “Dan, is this relevant?”

  “Yeah, no, it’s sort of what happened yesterday. He — guys working for him came after my, my family.”

  Matt’s eyebrows shoot up, and I continue quickly, “Just watch your back, okay? This guy’s crazy. Keep an eye out for him.”

  Matt shakes his head slowly, trying to decide if he believes me or not. “I — check, Dan.” He gives his head a more vigorous shake and gets back on track.

  “I’m sorry to do this to you, but I’m putting a written reprimand in your folder. If you’d like to explain the extenuating circumstances, you’re welcome to type that up and I’ll attach it as a note.”

  “No, I mean, this is only a problem if it happens a bunch, right? I like working here, and I’m not planning on making it a habit of this. It’s all good.”

  “Okay. Go ahead and clock in, Dan.”

  - - -

  B-Rock, of course, does what he can to needle me all day long. It starts right after Matt leaves, not too long after I get to the grill. The first chance he has to come back there, he says, “So, someone had to talk to the manager, eh? I heard you ditched mid-shift yesterday.”

  I’m trying to focus on the grill and ignore him, but he comes around to my side and sees my face. He lets out a low whistle. “Wow! Did your boyfriend beat you up?”

  “Har har,” I say, pretending to be engrossed in the burgers in front of me. B-Rock wanders off, laughing at his own wit.

  This is pretty much the pattern for the entire day. B-Rock will cook up something that he thinks can get under my skin, meander by and deliver the line, then head back to the register to continue the cycle. I try to ignore it by pretending that he’s Jabba the Hut, which actually does help. It’s pretty funny to envision him squeezing down the narrow aisles in the Børger kitchen, then leaning over me to say, “Ha nuu so va, coh ra se ma, Dan? Haaa hah hah hah!”

  After a while, B-Rock evidently notices that his barbs have stopped finding their target. He ups his game by punctuating his next drive-by insult with a faux-friendly clap on the shoulder. On another day, I might have let it go, but today in addition to being irritating, it also jars my broken ribs, and I spin around in fury.

  “Keep your meathooks off of me, B-Rock!” I snarl, waving a greasy spatula at him. It’s not particularly menacing, but it’s what I was holding at the time. He backs up a step, hands up in mock surrender.

  “Whoa, didn’t know it was your time of the month, Danielle. Put the tissues away. I’m minding my own business over here.” He lumbers off, laughing about “meathooks.” I’m about to shout something snappy and probably ill-advised at him, when a wisp of smoke from one of B-Rock’s shoes catches my eye. He hasn’t noticed, but I can see a long strand connecting the sole to the floor where the rubber has melted.

  I take several deep breaths and focus hard on calming down. This is not the way I want to escalate the situation. I’m not positive exactly what rule it violates, but I’m pretty certain that setting your coworkers on fire is against the Børger attitude, at the very least. Strangely, the training videos didn’t cover that. They covered stealing, so it’s not like they made a blanket assumption that I was going to follow laws. I guess you can’t cover every eventuality. Which is too bad; you could do a pretty great “Now, that was the wrong way to handle the situation!” video about murdering your coworkers.

  Even without knowing how close he came to getting a hotfoot, B-Rock seems to have figured out that he’s pushed me about as far as he can for the day, as that’s our last encounter. I put in the rest of my hours and clock out. As I retrieve my phone from the break room, I see that I have texts from an unknown number. They read:

  You don’t seem real clear on “don’t do anything stupid”

  hope you’re protected

  So apparently Vince copied my number out of Brian’s phone when he had it. I assume this is meant to be intimidating, but honestly I’m just sort of exasperated by it. The guy’s robbed me at gunpoint, run me over with a car, kidnapped my friend and beaten us both badly enough to put us in the hospital — and now he’s harassing me by text? That seems like a giant step backwards.

  I’m not saying that I respected the guy before, but I held a measure of fear for him. He was
monstrous. This is just petty, and sort of embarrassing.

  On the walk home, I picture Vince sitting on a bus somewhere, scowling furiously at his phone as he texts impotent threats at me. I smile at his imagined rage. It’s not exactly great vengeance; he’s tried to kill me, and I’ve made him vaguely angry. But it’s something, at least. And he’s clearly knocked back on his heels, because if there were anything he could do to me right now, he’d be doing it.

  So goes my thought process as I enter my house. I throw my nametag on the kitchen table, pour myself a Coke and head downstairs to kick back, lounge on my couch and eat my Børger Bøx. Which is why it’s a fairly unpleasant surprise to come down the short flight of stairs and discover that the couch is already occupied.

  “Dan, you disgusting lump,” says Vince. “I thought it was about time we met.”

  - Chapter Fifteen -

  You know the phrase “like a deer in headlights”? First of all, I’ve never actually seen a deer in headlights that seemed unable to move. I’ve seen them on the side of the road, but sometimes they stare, and sometimes they run away. They don’t seem particularly transfixed. So I think it might be an old wives’ tale.

  Whether it is or not, though, I’m definitely the proverbial deer in headlights. The only reason I don’t drop my glass of soda on the floor is that every one of my muscles completely locks up in surprise. I freeze in the doorway to my own den, while Vince smiles viciously from my couch, completely in control of the situation.