Mr. Christenson nodded to his guards and they, once again, moved the cage, placing the angel against the wall for everyone to see.
“We will discuss him after the meeting,” Mr. Christenson assured us. “Now,” he nodded to Danielle Markus, “we can start the actual meeting.”
Mrs. Markus, who had been standing quietly to the side, smiled at Mr. Christenson. She stepped back up to the podium, which was also being returned to its rightful place.
“Alright, everyone, try to focus. I know that Mr. Christenson’s gift will be distracting, but let’s do our best to get through the meeting efficiently,” she chuckled. “If you will all open your computers and insert the USBs, we will begin.”
I opened my computer absent-mindedly and the screen immediately came to life. Very shortly after inserting the drive, a program launched itself, showing a quick opening sequence for the Commission before settling on a pie graph.
I blinked stupidly, not sure how I was supposed to understand what the numbers meant. I looked at my mother and father, but they were both studying the graph. I turned back, reading the graph and realizing that it had something to do with the population distribution in the regions and how those people were represented throughout Central and by their particular representatives.
“Clark!” a voice snapped loudly. Many people jumped, startled. I turned to see Clark’s head whirl to look at Mr. Christenson. “Come here,” Mr. Christenson ordered, sounding angry, even though his voice was quiet. Clark stood nervously. Most in the Commission turned their attention back to their computers. I continued watching Clark as he fidgeted, his eyes on the ground as he stood in front of Mr. Christenson.
Mr. Christenson spoke quietly, his shaded eyes making Clark even more nervous. Clark nodded. Mr. Christenson took Clark’s chin and forced him to look up. He held Clark still, even as the younger man tried to retreat, eventually turning only his eyes away.
He nodded again and Mr. Christenson released him.
Clark hurried back to his seat. When he was nearly at his table, I looked at Mr. Christenson, who was staring right at me.
My blood halted in my veins. I felt the power of his eyes behind the glasses and a part of me became extremely curious about what his eyes looked like. He held my gaze, hypnotizing me, making it impossible to turn away.
I noticed nothing else.
It was only him.
I felt the instinct to run. There was something else behind the frightening façade of the Commission of the People. What sort of gift was another person, regardless of that person having wings—particularly in this day and age? And, for that matter, why was everyone here okay with it? What was it about Dana Christenson that had everyone eager to accept what he was doing even when it went against everything we believed about human rights?
Mr. Christenson seemed to see the process of my thoughts because he smiled and the action sent fear through me so quickly, I knew I had to get away as soon as possible.
The sudden appearance of Clark at my side broke me out of my staring contest with Mr. Christenson. I jumped and turned to him when he started speaking. “Relax,” Clark said with a weak smile. “I’ve just been sent over here to be sure you understand what we’re talking about.”
“Oh, t-thanks,” I stuttered.
Mrs. Markus continued at the podium, her enhanced voice still not enough to break through my clouded thoughts.
Even though Clark had broken me out of my trance, I could still feel Mr. Christenson’s eyes on me. I looked at Mrs. Markus, who was explaining something about the graph, and braced myself to glance at Mr. Christenson, trying to make the action look casual, though I dared not to look for long, worried about being trapped in his power once again.
I spared a quick glance. He was still looking straight at me.
I shifted uncomfortably and Clark noticed.
“Just focus on the screen…” he advised.
I looked at the computer screen, trying to focus on what Danielle Markus was saying at the head of the room or what Clark was saying beside me, but I could still feel Mr. Christenson’s eyes. I had to close my eyes and take a deep breath through my nose to keep myself from screaming for a reason I could not comprehend. I thought about his eyes, the angel in the cage, and the overwhelming sense of fear that was overpowering all of my senses.
Mrs. Markus kept on talking and Mr. Christenson kept on staring.
In this absent-minded and uncomfortable manner, I passed the rest of the meeting, trying to focus, though I had been rendered incapable of comprehension.
When the long two hours had passed and it was nearing midnight, the meeting was called to a close and people took their USBs from the laptops before gathering their belongings. I noticed that Mr. Christenson, though he was known as the leader of the Commission of the People, had not spoken up through the whole meeting. He had stood to the side, shifting his weight eagerly from his left foot to his right, as a child would when bored, or an animal would when being restrained from chasing something.
What worried me most was that he had his eyes on me the whole time. I tried to tell myself that I was being paranoid, that there was no reason for him to be staring at me and no way for me to tell the direction of his eyes from behind the glasses. But I could feel his gaze and it made my hair stand on end and my stomach turn.
When I had placed the USB in my bag, as everyone else had, I turned to Clark and smiled weakly.
“Thanks…” I managed to whisper.
“You’re welcome,” he nodded. I could tell that he knew I had not been paying attention through the entire meeting. He looked Mr. Christenson, who was still watching me. I dared not to look, but I knew all the same.
“Be careful, Lily,” Clark whispered. “Please…be careful.” He grabbed his chair and moved back to his table, his head low.
I was about to break down crying.
My father stood, followed by my mother, so I got out of my chair as well. My father shook Mr. Lloyd’s hand with a tired smile. My mother also shook his hand, and then they both turned to me.
“Come on, Lily,” they whispered urgently. I desperately needed to get out of the basement and felt my heart sink when I realized they were walking to meet with Mr. Christenson.
Everyone had gathered around the angel in the cage. I was reminded of the cages at shoddy zoos, where many people gathered to gawk at dangerous animals. It seemed cruel when it was animals. With this teenage boy, the spectacle was horrific.
When my family got to that side of the room, the others in the Commission let us through. I tried to keep my head down, but I noticed the amazed and jealous glares of the others.
We stood in front of the cage and stared at the young man within.
He looked at us, understanding that we were his new owners. My stomach turned at thought of us being owners of another human, even if that other human had wings. At such close proximity, I could see shackles on his wings.
As I looked over the beautiful young man, I realized that the wings were exceptionally heavy, which explained the strength I saw in his chest and shoulders and why he rested the wings on the cage floor.
He was beautiful. His skin was pale and without flaw. His bright blue eyes scanned us carefully. I was breathless as our eyes met. I was starting to doubt that the boy was human at all. He was too beautiful to be anything but an angel. His eyes remained locked with mine, allowing me to become lost in the blue depths. I felt my knees go weak. His eyes were so beautiful, so deep…
“He is quite the specimen, isn’t he?” a cold voice said beside me. I whirled around to the tall form of Mr. Christenson. I shivered. His entire presence was far too intense to handle up close and it made me feel sick and frightened. I stared into the glasses, seeing my wide-eyed expression in the reflection. “Do you like him?”
“…we will enjoy him immensely,” my father said slowly. I could barely hear him. “But…forgive us, Mr. Christenson, we have so many questions…”
“I know you do,” he sa
id. He turned to the angel, breaking his hold on me temporarily. “First of all, I will explain to you the rules about him and how he is to be treated. Then, I will answer your questions surrounding his origins.”
Mr. Christenson stepped even closer to the cage. The leader of the Commission of the People shared a silent stare with the angel before smiling and reaching a hand into the cage.
“Stand up, Mykail,” he whispered in a hypnotic voice. The angel shifted and reached forward, hesitantly taking the offered hand and standing. He was tall but his wings were even taller, folded at his sides, the longer feathers dragging on the ground.
“I don’t understand, Mr. Christenson,” one woman said in the crowd. “He is a perfect specimen. Why are you not repeating this experiment?”
“It was far too much work. It was an expensive experiment I did on a kick of inspiration,” Mr. Christenson shrugged. I blinked. The angel was an experiment he just…decided to do one day? How was he even able to do that?
Mr. Christenson turned to my family to see their similar, confused reaction.
“This is Mykail,” Mr. Christenson introduced us to him. “He’s a pretty quiet one, so he shouldn’t annoy you too much, but I will warn you that sometimes he has tantrums about the shackles.” He reached back to the wings and gently touched the sharp edges that would have sliced into his skin if he tried to fly. “However, I cannot stress the importance that these stay on,” Dana growled. “His wings are very strong, and he can fly. We don’t want him to escape.”
The angel turned to Mr. Christenson. There was no mistaking the hatred in Mykail’s eyes. Mr. Christenson chuckled. “Although, he does tend to stare. If that bothers you, just blindfold him. Don’t be afraid to discipline him, should he do anything unwanted.”
My father was about to ask a question, but Mr. Christenson held up his hand.
“We will transport him to your home and be sure you have the proper facility to contain him. I will pay for all the modification costs. However, I must tell you now,” Mr. Christenson’s tone turned serious, “he is never to leave the confines of your home. He cannot go outside at all. Not to the backyard, not on the roof, nowhere outside.” Mr. Christenson looked between all of us. “Tell me you understand.”
“We understand,” we whispered, mostly frightened by the cold tone in his voice.
“Excellent,” he smiled. He turned to everyone else, silent, reading the feeling of the crowd. He threw his hands up in the air and chuckled.
“Alright, alright,” he said. “You can look at him a while longer. I will take the Sandovers into the back and you can all study him to your heart’s content.” He released Mykail’s hand and the angel stepped back, once again sitting down and letting his wings rest on the floor of the cage.
“I shouldn’t have to say this, but I know someone will try it otherwise. Don’t stick your hands in this cage. He is not yours. Deal with it.” Mr. Christenson turned back to us. “Very well. We will go to my office and then I will give you a tour of the Enterprises lab.”
He walked past us, gently brushing my arm as he moved, which caused my hair to stand on end. We followed, but stopped when Mr. Christenson was approached by Mrs. Markus and Clark.
“Are you in further need of us?” Mrs. Markus asked with a smile.
“I’m always in need of you,” Mr. Christenson said with a strangely playful, yet sultry, tone. I blinked, confused. I was particularly confused when Mrs. Markus blushed and smiled shyly, looking at her feet. Clark also looked down, a shiver running through his body. I wanted to study their reactions more, but Mr. Christenson started walking, so we all fell in step behind him, walking to the door next to the stage. The stationed guard bowed his head when Mr. Christenson turned to him.
“Leave him there for five more minutes and then tell everyone to leave,” Mr. Christenson ordered. “Then take Mykail back to his cell.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has Sean returned?”
“He just called in. He is on his way,” the guard answered.
“Excellent,” Mr. Christenson smiled. He continued walking and we followed him down a hallway and around a corner. There were several large, ornately designed wooden doors down the dark, long hallway. As we passed, I noticed that seemingly random doors had name plates. We reached the end of the hallway, taking the door to our left. The opening door startled the guard on the other side. He reached for his gun, but relaxed when he saw Mr. Christenson.
“Good evening, sir.”
Mr. Christenson did not acknowledge him. There was yet another hallway that had one door at the end of it and a bend to the right. Mr. Christenson turned the corner and led us down a short hallway to the final door.
I was already lost.
When we entered the last door, we were in the large office of the leader of the Commission of the People. Mr. Christenson’s office was dark and full of heavy-looking, intricately designed wooden furniture. His immense desk had papers scattered across its surface. The bookshelves around the room were lined with large books on law and history. There was a table to one side of the room with six chairs and more papers scattered on its surface.
“Over here…” Mr. Christenson said quietly to himself, swerving to the table as if he had forgotten the layout of his own office. I looked at Clark, who looked back at me, his eyes apologetic. Mr. Christenson led us to his table and grabbed a large file as we crowded around him.
He flipped through the file silently. We barely caught glimpses of photos and notes scribbled on typed reports. He finally found a folded piece of paper and pulled it from the folder.
Once he unfolded it and laid it flat on the table I saw it was a detailed blueprint of our house. My eyes went wide as I scanned the notes. “Master Bedroom: Thomas & Karen.” “Guest room 1: Empty.” “Guest room 2: Mykail?” “Guest Suite: Lily.”
I looked at Mr. Christenson, who was smiling at me.
“Is this correct?”
“How do you know what room I’m in?” I hissed, my voice weak.
“I don’t,” he said simply, though his tone suggested that he really did know. “I merely assumed that a young woman would prefer a room with a larger space and bathroom.” He smiled that chilling, white smile.
“This is correct,” my mother said slowly.
“Is this where you want us to put him?” my father asked, motioning to Mykail’s supposed room.
“This one will suffice,” Mr. Christenson nodded. “According to the measurements, he will have just enough space. I wouldn’t want to make a greater imposition.” Mr. Christenson looked over the blueprint. “We will construct special barred grates over the windows and where the doors are. You will be able to close the door outside of the bars, that way you can hide him if you have company. I will have my men there on Wednesday. They should finish construction by Saturday, and Sunday I will bring him to you.”
“This is all very generous, Mr. Christenson—”
“Please, call me Dana. There is no need for formalities,” he interrupted my father.
“Oh, well…thank you, Dana, for this wonderful gift. It is very generous,” my father continued.
“You’re welcome,” Dana smiled. “Now,” he would not let my father continue, “there are a few other things that we need to discuss about Mykail that are a little more sensitive. This will also be reviewed with you when I bring him next Sunday, so that you understand the kind of care he will need.”
“Before you continue with that, Dana,” my mother said bravely, “does he really need to be caged?”
“When you are not with him, absolutely,” Dana nodded strongly. “And the bars must be specially engineered to stand up to the strength of his wings.”
“I thought the shackles kept him from flapping his wings,” I blinked, making the mistake of looking at Dana directly.
“That’s correct,” Dana nodded. “However, he does not need the full range of his wings to cause damage.” Dana glanced at my parents and then back to me. “Do not m
ake the mistake of thinking that Mykail is human. If you make one mistake with him, he can hurt you. He is dangerous.”
Like you? Why aren’t you caged? I thought bitterly.
Dana folded the blueprint and placed it back in the folder before pulling out another folder. “This is all the information you will ever need on Mykail,” he said, opening the folder and handing my father a USB drive. “This is your copy.”
My father hesitated momentarily before taking the flash drive.
Dana leafed through the papers in the folder swiftly. I wondered how he could see anything while wearing his dark glasses.
He pulled out a sheet of paper with three pictures of Mykail: one straight on, one from the back, and a profile picture, all with his wings spread.
“He has six tracers in his body, the same type used to track dogs and cats but a little bigger. This way, we’ll be able to pinpoint his exact location at all times. Keep this in mind if something should happen. There is one in each ankle, each wrist, and one in the major joint of each wing,” he pointed to the places in the pictures as he spoke. “Up here,” he pointed to the joint at the top of the wings, “he has his disciplinary chips. If ever he misbehaves, you will use these to punish him.”
“Punish him?” we echoed.
“It’s just like owning any other pet,” Dana said with a smile. “You wouldn’t let a dog who has made a mess in the living room go unpunished, would you?”
We stared at him. How could this man draw distinctions like that, where another human being was put on the same level as a pet?
“When I bring him to you, I will give you all a clicker to activate the discipline mechanism.”
“What will it do to him?” my mother asked nervously. “Will it really hurt him?”
“Oh, yes,” Dana nodded enthusiastically. “It will be excruciatingly painful.” He smiled. “It causes an electric pulse to temporarily paralyze his wings and cause muscle spasms in his back.”
“That sounds cruel…” I murmured.
“How else do you think he will learn?” Dana challenged. “Pain is the best way to teach an animal the limits of the rules.” He rustled through some more papers.
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