by M. A. Phipps
It takes less than five minutes to find the nearest stairs, and once we reach the top, more extensive corridors stand before us. The layout is strange, so different from the other stately buildings I’ve been in. Whereas most other constructions are comprised of metal and glass, this one seems to consist predominately of wood. It’s a material not often seen anymore, although I’m not sure why. Maybe because metal and glass are proven to last longer, or maybe because the State doesn’t like any reminders of the old world.
“Yo, Ez,” Jenner says after another ten minutes of walking. “Did this Bilken guy say where he wanted to meet us exactly?”
“No. All he said was to meet him here and that the door downstairs would open at 12:47. I imagine, though, that if we find his office, we find him.”
Jenner looks skeptical.
“I don’t know, man,” he murmurs. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
My heart sinks. If Jenner, of all people, can no longer remain positive about the situation, then what hope do I have?
It’s as if reality has abruptly come to meet me head on, forcing me to come to terms with my fears once again. I look at Jenner whose eyes meet mine, but I don’t voice my mutual feelings of trepidation.
“Tell you what,” Ezra says, halting in the middle of the hallway. “We’ll cover more ground if we split up. Jenner, you and Rai take that side. Wynter and I will take this side. Call us if you find anything.”
I want to ask if he really thinks that splitting up is a good idea, but neither Rai nor Jenner question his judgment. They nod their heads in agreement and move out, doing exactly as they’re told.
A feeling of dread overtakes me as I watch them walk away from us. My fears from before come creeping back, and I silently beg the world, or fate, or whatever might have a hand in deciding our futures that this won’t be the last time I see them.
A familiar warmth wraps around my shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze. I look over at Ezra standing beside me.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready,” I breathe.
We search a few rooms but find nothing. No people. No clues. Just empty offices. I follow him along the length of the corridor, my eyes and my mind peeled for any suspicious activity.
I see nothing.
I sense nothing.
As we near the end of the hallway, Ezra stops short. I nearly walk right into his back, and I stumble over my feet in an attempt to correct my balance.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, using the wall to steady myself.
He points to a gold plate fixed on the door in front of us. I follow his finger until my eyes land upon the letters engraved in the metal.
“This is it,” he murmurs.
My heart falters, skipping a few beats. I stare at the door, aware that two possible futures await us from here. Either we’ll meet Bilken, and he’ll turn out to be exactly what he promised, or we’ll meet something else.
Ezra unhooks his communicator from his belt, bringing it close to his lips.
“We found something,” he says into it. “We’re going to check it out.”
His eyes fix on mine, and I know we’ll at least face this together, regardless of what’s waiting for us on the other side of this door.
Not that long ago, Ezra was nothing more to me than a man I saw in a vision.
But now . . .
Rai’s muffled voice distracts me.
Her words are intermingled with static. “Ezra, don’t do anything stupid—”
He cuts her off by disconnecting, and then places the communicator back on his belt. He cocks his gun, his eyes landing on mine once again.
“Remember,” he whispers urgently. “Stay behind me.”
I nod, and my heart begins to race as he pushes open the door.
THE DOOR CREAKS OPEN. EZRA steps over the threshold with his gun pointed ahead of him while I follow behind, staying close just like I promised.
An opaque darkness fills the office, and I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears as my eyes scan the shadows. Our flashlights reflect off a large glass desk standing in the middle of the room, and the beams bounce off the walls, revealing the surrounding emptiness. No one is here.
We’re all alone.
We advance cautiously, uncertain of what may lie around every corner. I creep along behind Ezra, our footsteps muffled by a white carpet spanning the length of this office as well as two adjoining spaces. Extravagant archways lead into the other areas, which utilize the same decor as the room we’re in now.
In a way, this place seems like some sort of parallel universe. The wood features we saw throughout the rest of the building continue in the foundations here—except they’re accented with the familiar, clean-cut look of metal and glass.
It’s like a strange combination of two worlds. One, the world I grew up in, and the other, the old world that no longer exists.
The unusual nature of the room distracts me from our reason for being here. The lure of curiosity pulls me to the nearest wall, and I walk alongside it, my eyes drawn to the glass shelves perfectly arranged in their wooden casing. Hundreds of volumes of old books stare back at me, as well as a number of objects I’ve never encountered.
It’s all so alien to me, and as I run my fingertips across the edge of the shelves, I can’t help but feel an overwhelming anger within every fiber of my being. There’s so much contradiction—so much hypocrisy—in this room that it makes me sick. Why are members of the State allowed these items when ownership by normal people is strictly forbidden? Why are they allowed them so freely when such possession by anyone else would be seen as a crime?
A crime punishable by death, no less.
A terrible nausea flips my stomach, and it takes everything I have to fight against the rage coursing through me. Despite all that I’ve been through, both past and present, it hadn’t actually occurred to me how much I despise the State until now. And it all boils down to injustice.
What happened back then, I never even considered that it might be wrong. It was simply the way things were. A reality not to be questioned.
But now . . . seeing this . . .
“I don’t think anyone’s here,” Ezra says suddenly.
I blink, a loud gasp escaping my lips as I turn to face him. I watch as he does another sweep of the office, but just as we’ve already discovered, no one else is here.
The whole building seems to be deserted, so what does this mean? If the offer contained within the transmission was genuine, then where’s our contact? Where’s Wren Bilken? There’s also the other possibility. If this is a trap, where are the Enforcers, or whoever would’ve been sent to kill or detain us?
Ezra walks over to the glass desk, and unsure what else to do, I follow behind him. I stand at his side as he sits down in the accompanying leather-lined chair and runs both of his hands across the computerized surface. The screen comes to life, flickering brightly in the dark room.
I hear his fingers tap a few times against the glass, but it's not long before I lose focus on whatever it is he’s looking for. Instead, I find myself captivated by the circular object standing in one corner of the desktop. It’s a moderately sized ball with a pole running through it, elevated by a base to allow it to spin. Small shapes protrude unevenly across the exterior with lines of elegant script printed across them. I only recognize one of the names. The rest are unfamiliar to me.
My eyes trail across its surface, trying to form a name for this miniature representation of our planet. After a short while, a single word echoes through my head—a distant reminder digging its way out of the recesses of my memory.
A globe. I hear the word in my father's voice.
It’s strange, but I never thought to question the rest of the world until now. It’s almost alarming to realize the power that the State has over us, only allowing its citizens to be educated on what it considers appropriate. It determines what we learn and what we don't, turning us into mindless followers with no way to survive without the
system they've put in place. I realize now how little I truly understand.
I know nothing of the world outside this country.
I know nothing of the world outside this city.
I, along with everyone else, only know what the State tells us.
I stare at the globe, troubled by the daunting comprehension hanging over me. It’s a thing of beauty—something no longer seen nowadays, just like the many other objects present in this room. I had never even seen one until now.
With a slight push, my hand forces it to turn. My eyes follow the rotations, one after another. Hypnotized. All the while, I hear Ezra’s fingers repeatedly tapping in the background.
His voice is the only sound that manages to penetrate my thoughts.
“What’s this?” he asks.
I blink a few times and shake my head, shifting my attention back where it belongs. I wander over to the other side of the desk. Leaning down, I gaze over his shoulder at the illuminated screen. I’m not entirely sure what we’re looking at, but sprawled across the top are two words printed in large red letters.
“Project W. A. R.,” Ezra murmurs.
His fingertips tap again, flicking through the attached files. My eyes dart across the screen, taking in a few disjointed sentences here and there. From what I can understand, they seem to be memos or notes left by a doctor.
Some lines stand out to me more than others.
My mouth suddenly feels dry.
I try to swallow, but all of the saliva in my mouth seems to have evaporated.
My heart begins to pound quickly.
Too quickly.
My eyes widen in horror. My lips part, preparing to scream, but no sound exits my lungs. I try to reach forward to destroy these files before Ezra can read another word, but I can’t seem to remember how to move. I’m completely motionless, unable to do anything except stand back and relive a part of my life that never should’ve happened. A time that Ezra will now witness.
My time at the DSD.
He continues to read through the notes, seemingly unaware of the panic attack crippling my body. It’s only when the screen changes that his hand stops moving.
Now, instead of documents, we’re looking at pictures. First, we see an unflattering mugshot from before the testing started—back when I still looked fully healthy. Then the images progress until they’re no longer just of me, but of the countless experiments I was forced to endure. Video footage is available as well.
My breathing becomes labored, and I want nothing more than to run from this room. I can’t bear it. I don’t want to see it.
I don’t want him to see it.
“My god . . .” I hear him whisper.
I can feel him looking up at me, but I refuse to meet his gaze. How can I, when he’s seen the vulnerable state I was in? When he’s seen evidence of the one thing that I desperately wish I could forget?
My lungs take in a shaking breath. “It’s initials,” I finally say to him, only just realizing it for myself. “Project W. A. R.” I pause, inhaling again slowly. “W . . . A . . . R . . . Wynter Arabelle Reeves.”
I risk a glance down at him, and his horrified expression twists my already aching heart to near breaking point. My lips tremble when I try to speak, but my voice fails me. I’m physically incapable of putting words to the traumatic imprisonment I was subjected to.
Thankfully, Ezra doesn’t seem to need an explanation. He can clearly grasp what happened without asking me for details.
Still, his silence says so much more than words ever could.
“Why is this here?” he asks after a long, drawn-out moment.
I shake my head because, in truth, I don’t know. Why is this here? It certainly doesn’t bode well for the success of this mission.
This has to be a trap. Why else would Wren Bilken have this information on me? And if this is a trap, why are these files even here in the first place?
Suddenly, the realization hits me.
Was this planted here for us to find it?
That can’t be the case, surely. Why would they go through so much trouble? They had no way of knowing I’d even be here. As far as the State is concerned, or at least Wren Bilken, the only people on this mission would’ve been members of PHOENIX. Besides, even if this report was planted here, why would they want PHOENIX to see it?
A sinking feeling burrows in the pit of my stomach. Shrugging it off, I lean forward and swipe my hand across the desktop, eager for answers.
I scroll through the notes and images, but I don’t stop to look at them. Ezra sits still, watching without speaking a single word. I can tell that he’s wondering what I’m looking for. Trouble is, even I don’t know. I figure I’ll know when I see it.
Note after note. Image after image. Until—
My breath catches in my lungs, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that this is what I’ve been searching for.
My heart rate increases as I read the military order, the weight of the world seeming to rest on every word. Certainly, I’m not understanding this correctly because, from what I can make out, the order requests the use of Project W. A. R. in the planning of assaults on neighboring countries.
How would that even work?
I’m not a weapon . . .
I gasp, finally seeing the truth. I’m almost tempted to slap myself for not seeing it sooner. After all, I’m aware of the sort of power I’ll eventually possess. So, while I might not be a weapon now, I will be in the future.
A fresh surge of anger rushes through me. They knew all along. He knew. Richter knew what I would become—what my powers would grow into. Which not only means he lied to me when I was being held at the DSD, but that he’s known this whole time what I was actually intended for.
I clench my fists as my eyes continue to scan through the order. It goes on to request my use for the premeditated protection of the State from outside attacks. That much makes sense, I suppose, since that simply boils down to using my visions.
Assuming they ever cooperate.
I grumble under my breath before taking a step back from the desk. I notice Ezra glance between me and the screen, clearly not understanding what’s written there to the extent that I do.
Letting out a heavy sigh, I meet his questioning gaze.
“The State’s planning on waging war against the rest of the world.” As the words breach my lips, I hear the absurdity of each syllable lingering in my ears. I shake my head. “What purpose could that possibly serve?” I ask him.
“Complete control and domination,” he answers. “They think they have the tool to achieve it, and it seems like they’re willing to use it.”
He hunches over the desk and flicks through the files once again, probably searching for clues that will help us determine why we’re here. Meanwhile, I begin to walk across the room, wanting to put as much distance between the horrible memories and myself as possible.
I return to the book-lined shelves, my fingers retracing the scattered instruments until I pass one of the small rooms veering off from the side of the office. Something large and black catches my eye, leading me to walk through the arch without a second thought as to what I'm doing. Ezra calls my name, but I ignore him.
Unlike the office, this room is comprised almost entirely of glass—of tiny mirrors to be exact. They tile the walls up to the domed ceiling, where a crystal chandelier hangs above me. I see hundreds of myself reflected in each glass fragment, as well as in the surface of the black piano.
I’m surprised to see this particular item more than any of the others. Whereas the ones in the office were small and could easily be tucked away, something like this isn’t owned with the intention of being hidden. This is a display. An object to be bragged about and shown off proudly. An object that promotes individuality and creativity. The very reason they were made illegal in the first place.
After all, what better way to oppress a population than to take away anything that makes them different from each other?
/> I run my fingers along the ivory keys, much as I did all those years ago. I was only young then, so I didn’t understand the consequences.
Not like I do now.
My father was a lover of history and of all things that promoted the very creativity that was illegal to pursue. He would collect banned items and store them in a secret place that no one else knew about, all for the sake of knowledge.
It was for that reason he was executed.
I was the only person he ever shared that secret with. And in exchange for my silence, he would teach me about the books and other objects he found—like the piano in front of me. That secret became the very core of our relationship, and it made our bond different from any relationship I’ve encountered since.
But, like all good things, it could never last. My mother discovered the truth and did her duty to the State by reporting his activities.
Her own husband.
On that level, I’m almost surprised she didn’t report me too, regardless of the fact that I was only young at the time. I suppose she felt the blame was down to my father. Maybe if none of that had ever happened, she wouldn’t have given me up to the DSD like she did. Maybe she would’ve protected me the way a mother should.
My eyes swell with tears as I gaze down at the piano. It’s like a physical embodiment of my father laid out in front of me, and I’m amazed to find that I can still remember the melody he once taught me how to play. The melancholy rhythm—the way the music became a part of my soul.
My fingers stroke the keys, reminiscing, and as they do, it’s as if I’m seeing him again now.
I’m surrounded by a dreamlike sensation. I see him teaching me this very song. I hear his voice telling me to follow his fingers and to feel the music as it flows through me. I feel his kindness and warmth.
The only human connection I ever experienced before I found PHOENIX.
We continue to play—my father in the past and me in the present. We play side by side, the music growing in intensity with every note. However, as the music grows, the vision changes.