Pawn: The Pawn Duet, Book Two

by Frazier, T. M.

  I say nothing because my mind is racing with this new idea. Mickey left, but not because she chose revenge over me, but because she loves me.

  This changes everything.

  “Someone finally crushed that stony heart of yours,” Thorne says, perching on the desk next to me.

  I take a deep, shaky breath and muster a half smile with my hand clenched over my chest. “Sure as fuck feels that way,” I admit, and it’s a surprising relief to admit a weakness I’ve always tried to hide from the rest of the world.

  A new plan forms. One that will take every trustworthy person I know and a lot of fucking patience.

  It’s a plan that will see this shit through. And I’ll kill every one of those fuckers if I have to, but I’m bringing Mickey back here with me where she belongs.

  Home.

  6

  Mickey

  Horror films or zombie movies where people are hacked to bits and guts are strewn about like lawn decorations, are meant to provoke a reaction of disgust and fear within the viewer. But after a subject watches hundreds of those same kinds of violent movies, the same feelings they felt while watching the first are a mere flicker of what they were, becoming muted. The viewer now desensitized to the violent graphic images playing out in detail on the screen before them.

  This doesn’t just apply to movies. It applies to real life as well. When one hundred subjects living in high crime neighborhoods were given a survey about their level of fear, surprise, and adrenaline provoking circumstances, seventy percent of those subjects reported not even jumping in surprise or feeling fear-induced adrenaline rushes when hearing gunshots.

  I grew up listening to the hate-filled words of The Fourth Reich every summer for two months. While I never ever thought what the Reich was preaching was right, I never remember a specific moment when I stepped outside of my scientific over-analytic mind and thought, “This is wrong.” It was assumed. At least, I thought it was. I thought the fact that they were wrong was the one constant the entire psychological experiment was based on.

  Or was I just desensitized to the teachings, and over time, it’s the same as witnessing violence every day and the gunshots just stopped being scary?

  But knowing that Papa was a founding member, was there even an experiment at all or was that part of his lie? Do the notes and findings he spoke about writing even exist? And if they do exist, where would I find them? He had an office here at The Reich, next to Darius’s in a large outer building behind the warehouse. Maybe, if I could break in and find them, I could answer a lot of questions behind his reasoning for any of this because being a founder of a racist hate group doesn’t make logical sense and my dad was nothing if not logical.

  Or did I never really know him at all?

  I’m standing in the cafeteria/gym area that serves as the Reich’s meeting room. Percy is beside me while Darius stands behind a pulpit on the small stage, preaching to his followers. A twisted deacon spewing lies that his followers are eating up like eager mice feasting on dumpster scraps.

  I tune out his voice and focus on my feet. Usually, I listen and observe and make mental notes to write in my notebook, the one I hide below the false bottom of my dresser drawer, at a later time, but today, my heart can’t take it.

  It isn’t until the meeting is over that I finally tune in. The crowd chants loudly after Darius with their hands in the air, the Nazi salute. The slogans aren’t even original. They’re derived from the Ku Klux Klan. Even their brand of racism isn’t original.

  Make America white again! The purity, the power! From blood and bone! Love it or leave it! America first! White pride!

  I’m disgusted with myself when it’s all over, feeling dirty for even being in the same room as the words that fill it. I feel something else, too, something I’ve never felt before because I’ve always thought of myself as one of the good guys, in this for the science of it all, but the feeling tugs at my heart, and when I stand to leave the room, I stop and take a deep breath. Guilt. What I’m feeling is pure guilt.

  “Michaela,” Darius calls over to me.

  “Yeah?” I ask, turning around.

  “Your next assignment is recruitment. Bring someone to the barbecue tomorrow.”

  I swallow hard. “No problem,” I answer confidently while I’m screaming on the inside. It’s bad enough that I’ve sat idly by and allowed this hatred to continue for the sake of knowledge, but now I’m being forced to drag another poor soul into this hell?

  Remember your sister.

  “Good. Make sure that you do,” Darius says, sounding very much like a warning. He leaves the safety of his pulpit and heads out the back door toward his office.

  When the crowd clears, I wait until the last person is gone and then step out into the empty hallway to do a mental self-check. It’s something that victims of brainwashing are taught to do after they experience something that might trigger feelings that aren’t their own or bring back memories of their experience under the thumb of those manipulating them. It’s part of the deprogramming process, but I’ve always used it in order to avoid the actual programming.

  How am I feeling?

  Well, I feel like the rug has been pulled out from under me. I feel like a failure. I feel like Darius’s popularity and that of the Reich is flourishing while I’m falling, mid-flail with my arms spinning in the air in a pointless attempt to keep myself from crashing ass-first to the ground.

  I feel like for someone who knows so much, it turns out that I know nothing at all.

  Like what I’ve been focusing on, the science of it all, doesn’t matter anymore. But what does?

  Love matters.

  My sister matters.

  Pike matters.

  I look around the now empty room and take in the walls that house all the lies that make up what the Fourth Reich stands for.

  It’s funny, you know, if you can find humor in racism and what not, that from a psychology standpoint, most people join groups like this not to join a community of shared values. They adapt the values of the group in which they perceive they will find acceptance. While the group itself, by its very definition, is anti-acceptance.

  Back at the university, there is a word we had for these people.

  Idiots.

  I find myself in a long, narrow hallway covered with framed photos, plaques, and other Fourth Reich memorabilia. It’s their entire history laid out in an elaborate collage.

  Someone has Pinterest.

  The history of hatred.

  That’s what I’m going to call this hallway. The place where The Fourth Reich has proudly mounted their perceived accomplishments and felonies for their fellow members to see. Their version of trophies displayed in a glass case. Blue ribbons for the most closed-minded.

  A lot of the frames contain clippings from newspapers. Articles about the Reich showing up at peaceful rallies to instigate riots. To enrage the already enraged. The included pictures are mostly of white, caped men yelling in the faces of equally determined darker skinned faces, guilty only of wanting their voices to be heard and hoping the Reich would sit back and allow them to speak.

  There are other articles, too. Sickening acts of violence against people of color framed here as proud admission of responsibility.

  My stomach churns, but I force myself to keep reading. To know their motivations so I can use it against them.

  Each article, picture, flag, or quote is more sickening than the last.

  At one end of the long hall hang black and white photos that as you get further down morph into faded color then brighten towards the end.

  The white capes. The groups of men women and children all giving the Nazi salute to the camera.

  The phrase FOURTEEN WORDS is painted in script at the top of the wall. The first slogan of many lining the hallway. I know what it means. I’ve heard it a lot over the years, but I’ve always looked at it and at their propaganda with a scientific mind. Words spoken by, essentially, mentally ill people. I’ve tried t
o analyze why they feel this way and what their chemical makeup looks like under a microscope and the crowds’ responses to certain trigger words, but I’ve never stopped and really thought about the words themselves. What they mean. “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.” That’s what ‘fourteen words’ means. Fourteen sickening fucking words. SWP follows it. Supreme white power.

  I hold my stomach as I move on, and as I do, the images only grow more terrifying. I knew all of this was wrong, but did I really feel it? Did I ever feel the empathy for the targets of their hatred like I should have? If I did, I don’t remember.

  Fuck. I’m just like my father. Cold and unfeeling.

  Which makes sense now because you have to be cold and unfeeling to regard the majority of the world’s population as inferior to yourself. As nothing more than rats in the street.

  The end of the hall is decorated in flags. The confederate flags I was once told were a symbol of southern pride, I now realize are symbols of the losing side of the civil war. It’s akin to hanging a swastika, which, I look up, is hanging directly above it.

  My knees are weak as I reach the end of the hall. All of the things I used to think were just symbols of ignorance are not just a result of a lack of knowledge or information. Just the opposite. They had all of the knowledge. All of the information. All of the history. The Reich simply chooses to see things as they want to see them. They choose to hate.

  I stagger back from the hall, the trophies hanging there, showing their history of hate blurs then becomes clear. Clearer than they’ve ever been.

  These things used to not be a factor for me. These terrible things that used to be okay with me for the sake of science aren’t fucking okay anymore.

  They should burn along with the rest of this fucking place, and not just because I’m seeking revenge. Revenge is still coming but pales in comparison to the now bigger and much more painful picture laid out for me in fucking collage-style.

  I cannot fight The Reich just for my own selfish purposes anymore. My family’s murders are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to how many lives they’ve ruined. How many innocent people they’ve terrorized. How many children they’ve turned into monsters,

  Children like Percy.

  My war has a bigger meaning. A bigger purpose.

  And that purpose isn’t just revenge. It’s humanity.

  The world is a blur around me as I rush through the compound and into my room. I close the door and lean my back against it. With my eyes shut, I release a long exhale. “You’ll find her. She’ll be okay,” I whisper to myself. “You can do this. You just need a plan.”

  “Talking to yourself is a common symptom of schizophrenia,” a voice suddenly muses. “At least, that’s what I learned in prison.”

  My eyes snap open to find Percy, sitting on my bed with his back to me. His white tank top stretched over his back, his head bowed.

  “It can also be a sign of high-functioning cognitive behavior,” I reply on instinct. “Why are you in my room?” I shift from one foot to the other, then correct myself, straightening my shoulders and taking the stance of someone who isn’t guilty of anything.

  Percy spins around to face me, and my eyes immediately drop to what he’s holding on his lap. A book. No, a journal. My body grows cold. No. It can’t be…

  But it is.

  Percy is holding my journal.

  7

  Mickey

  Every word I’ve ever written about the Reich is in Percy’s hands. Every analysis I’ve made about its members, about Darius.

  About him.

  “Where did you get that?” I ask, looking to the dresser. The drawer I keep it in is open, the false bottom hanging haphazardly over the side.

  He ignores my question because the answer is obvious. He found it right where I put it. “This has all been some sort of experiment to you?” Percy slams the journal shut.

  I jump, startled. “It’s…it’s not what you think,” I stammer, trying to figure out what to say and find the words to use that are somehow going to get me out of this alive. I study his body language. His tight jaw and dark beady eyes tell me that he’s either excited or fucking pissed, and considering what he’s just read, I’m going with the latter.

  “All this time,” he says, standing from the bed. The ferocity of his hard gaze causes my spine to grow rigid. He shakes his head and smirks. “Right under my fucking nose.” He rubs his palms over the stubble on his head. “It’s all been a fucking lie. You. This was all for research? To discover what makes us tick? It’s been a fucking game to you!” A thick, blue vein pulses in his throat, giving a heartbeat to the swastika tattoo covering his Adam’s Apple.

  “You’re judging me?” I laugh, even though it’s not the haha kind of funny. But there’s no denying it now. I can’t hide from my words, my confession written in my own clear legible handwriting.

  His chest heaves. He balls his fists. “Answer me! Has this all been a fucking game to you?”

  “No,” I say. “Games are fun. None of this has been fun.”

  “I thought…” He looks to the ceiling, then back to me. “I thought you were my friend. We’ve known each other since we were kids. You betrayed me.” There’s a hurt in his words that I never expected to hear. Not from Percy, not ever.

  “How did you ever think that we were friends? We were pushed together by our fathers. We never had a conversation that wasn’t about the Reich.” I wave my hands in the air wildly, feeling every bit as frustrated as I do afraid. “You don’t even know me.”

  “But, you know me, right?” He stalks toward the window and rests his hands on the sill. “A true sociopath, exhibiting all of the traits in which a sociopath is classically defined. Those behaviors have flourished under the lamp lights provided by the perfect breeding ground, courtesy of the environmental and social factors found within The Fourth Reich,” he recites, throwing my words back at me. “So, Michaela, you ask a lot of questions in that book of yours. You’ve made a lot of observations, but tell me, what is it that you’ve actually learned? Tell me what you’ve discovered during your time here observing us. Observing me. Did you find out the reasons we hate?” Disgust rolls off of his lips when he emphasizes the title of my research.

  He turns from the window and stalks toward me, stopping in the middle of the room, pinning me in place with his dark glare.

  I swallow hard, but I don’t back down. If I’m going to die it’s going to be with the truth on my lips.

  “No more lies,” Percy grates. “Tell me what you’ve learned.”

  I straighten my shoulders. “I’ve learned that hate is a disease like any other human affliction, but deadlier. I’ve learned that kindness is the only cure, but it’s rejected by your kind and not even considered an option.”

  “And why is that?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

  I hold his gaze and return it with a fiery one of my own. “You reject the concept of kindness and love because hate is an easier option. It’s more constant. Love is hard. It fluctuates. It’s erratic and unreliable. It takes work you are all too fucking lazy to put in because you’re too busy living your life as fucking monsters.”

  “That doesn’t sound very educational. Are those the exact words you’re going to use in your paper?”

  I don’t answer because there will never be a finished paper. Not anymore.

  “And you think Pike is better than me?”

  My eyes widen.

  “Yeah, I know about the two of you, but I’ve already told you I suspected as much. Don’t deny it. I know Pike. You’d be dead otherwise.” He flexes his knuckles. “You don’t think that he’s taken a life out of anger? Because if you think the answer is no, you’d be wrong. He has. What makes one monster different from another?” He tilts his head like he’s not just asking this as a rhetorical question, but as if he actually wants to know the answer.

  So, I tell him.

  “Love isn’t per
fect, and neither is Pike. But, at least, his anger is productive. It fuels the actions that he carries out in defense of his business, and to protect those he’s loyal to. It’s not misplaced, like yours, or a product of believing in a truth that isn’t based in logic or fact. His violence may not be right either, but it’s validated. It’s a reaction. And unlike you, he doesn’t provoke. His goals aren’t to cause chaos or hurt innocent people. He doesn’t act out of ignorance or blatant racism. You want to know what the difference is between monsters? One lurks in the dark and only comes out when necessary; the other puts on a costume and parades about like they’re in some kind of pageant, putting on a show for the world to see. To fear. But then again, it probably makes it a lot easier to hate people if you make them hate you first.”

  Percy searches my eyes, for what I’m not exactly sure. Maybe, he’s just seeing me for the first time for who and what I really am. In his eyes, a traitor. I hold my breath, waiting for a blow, a decision, a death sentence to be dealt.

  I’m surprised when he steps away instead. “So, little Michaela Lovejoy finally decided to grow some balls,” he muses.

  “What are you going to do to me?” I ask, my chest heaving my muscles clenched in fear.

  “Oh Mickey,” he chuckles, before suddenly stepping back. He tosses my notebook on the bed and smiles, opening his arms wide. “I’m going to join you.”

  “Join me?” I ask, rubbing my wrists. “Join me in what?” I ask, swallowing hard. This is the end. I’ve been found out. There will be no going back from this moment.

  “You know what.” Percy spins around the room, arms stretched out, pointing to the walls and then the ceiling. He smirks. “In bringing it all down.”

  In every prank show, there’s a moment where the person being pranked stands there silent and stunned, unsure of what exactly is going on, how to proceed, what’s real and what’s not.

  That’s the moment I’m living in. I have no idea how I got to it or what really just happened. Did Percy just ask to join me in taking down the Fourth Reich?