by M. A. Phipps
A woman’s voice calls my name.
A loud gasp flies from my lips. The straps of the harness tighten around my chest, holding me in place when I jerk forward. Labored breaths fill the air around me as my heart begins to race. Beads of sweat dot my forehead and upper lip.
Despite the unsettled bout of nerves wreaking havoc on my system, I’m aware of the concerned expressions hiding beneath the Enforcers’ helmets. They exchange glances—clearly unsure what to make of my outburst.
Taking a deep breath, I cast my eyes around the cargo hold. Spotting movement, they land on one of the Enforcers. Specifically, on his gun, which has been repositioned to face me.
A lump blocks my throat as I blink in quick, nervous bursts. A voice in the back of my head is screaming for me to compose myself, but an unrelenting bewilderment suppresses it. What’s even worse is the familiarity revolving around each cryptic image that lingers in my brain. It torments me, causing my distress to re-emerge.
Calm down, I tell myself. You have to calm down.
My lips suck in a sharp lungful of air, and yet, I feel breathless as if I’ve just been punched in the stomach. I try to move, but everything is still—slowed to the point where time appears to have frozen altogether. The sounds cease until even my breaths are nothing more than faint echoes lost in the background of consciousness. A sudden image in my head blinds me.
My heart clenches.
My eyes widen.
I watch in horror as the gloved hand slackens, dropping the iron-cased ball to our feet. The impact resounds in my ears as it bounces twice across the floor.
Clink.
Clink.
All at once, the universe reconfigures itself, and time shifts to double speed in a bid to return us to the present. My movements seem sluggish as my head turns toward the loading ramp. Panic rushes through my veins, but it hardens into ice, weighing me down into my seat. My fingers fumble with the straps of my harness, desperate to unfasten them in an attempt to prevent what’s about to happen, but my body is leaden.
I reach out, even though there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I saw it too late.
Now everyone here will die.
“Grenade!” I begin to scream.
The explosion tears through the back of the helicopter before my warning has the chance to prepare anyone for the outcome.
A loud ringing clouds my ears as the straps break apart. A cry of pain breaches my lips as my body slams hard into the metal wall opposite from where I was just sitting. Red emergency lights cast an eerie glow through the cargo hold.
My fingers grip the nearest seat, using what strength I still possess to keep myself from slipping. The air forms a sort of vacuum, making it difficult to breathe as it devours everything around me, sucking whatever it can grab hold of through the newly formed hole.
My eyes blur as my vision doubles, and vomit rises in my throat as the helicopter loses control. Loud sirens blare through the damaged interior as we descend in a fiery spiral toward the ground.
Unsure what else to do, I hoist my body into the seat and strap myself in, preparing for the inevitable likelihood that this won’t end well. My fingers grip at the sides as I clamp my eyes shut.
A wave of panic tears through my brain because, for the first time in years, I don’t know what to do. I should’ve seen this coming sooner. My job is to look out for attacks and prevent them, not sit back as they happen right in front of me. Above all, I feel confusion. How did this even happen? There’s no way this was an accident—State-issued grenades are designed to avoid any chance of misfiring, so that leaves only one possible outcome.
One of the Enforcers set it off on purpose.
Instead of wasting my time trying to comprehend the motive behind this attack, I focus on how I can stop us from crashing. I’ve never had to use my powers for this sort of thing before. Can I even do it? Should I even attempt to? If I don’t and we crash, if I don’t and I die, the State will no longer have their weapon.
That alone is worth the cost of a few lives, isn’t it? Then I would no longer have to be this monster. I wouldn’t be forced to submit to Dr. Richter and help the State in this pointless war.
Then, I would finally be free.
My eyes remain closed as I submit to my chosen fate, willing it to happen quickly. The pressure increases as we spin out of control.
I do nothing to stop it.
The alarm continues to sound, and the red lighting that accompanies it shines through my eyelids, reminding me of the blood I saw in my head earlier. The thought of it throws me.
What about answers? Don’t you want to know? I ask myself. Don’t you want your memory back?
I consider these questions. Of course, I want them back, but I want something else even more.
Answers.
Memories.
They’re a small price to pay for freedom.
Not like this, I answer.
Not like this.
A calming warmth envelops my body, making me feel at peace. My eyelids twitch as I sense the approaching moment zooming toward me. I shift forward, ready to embrace it. However, through the chaos, the blaring alarm, and the unavoidable death that awaits the others who have managed to survive the explosion—I hear the one thing I could’ve never anticipated.
“Wynter.”
My eyes dart open when I hear my name, the sound of it clear despite the deafening funnel of air.
Squinting through my blinding shock, I peer up to see an Enforcer positioned in front of me. His face is hidden behind his helmet, but I’m able to recognize him as the soldier who turned his weapon on me before.
I stare at him, taken aback by the familiar tone of his voice and impossible ability to stand while the vortex rips at everything around us. Unaffected by the intense pressure, he takes a step toward me. I only vaguely register the magnetic clang of his boots.
My eyes examine his shadowed figure, locking on his left hand where the pin from the grenade hangs off his finger. The air fails to reach my lungs as my brain searches for a memory to help me make sense of this moment. Nothing reveals itself except further confusion, and I don’t have time to use my power to find out his motives or who he is. My fate from this point on is unknown, and his every footstep is a countdown to an end I’m unprepared for.
My lips part to speak, but before I can utter a single word, he raises his gun and pulls the trigger.
A sharp pain hammers against the inside of my head as my body fights to regain consciousness. At first, the bright light is so intense that I shy away from its excruciating glare. Regardless of my resistance, it continues to reach for me, stroking the skin on my face until I have no choice but to give in.
Without hesitation, I open my eyes, but for a long while, my sight remains crippled. My vision is fuzzy as if everything is covered with an opaque film, and what I can make out looks strange and distorted. Still, in spite of my temporary impairment, I’m able to register the square box of a room that surrounds me. Concrete walls and a reinforced steel door cage me in while a surveillance camera watches me from the top left corner.
I breathe in, tasting the stale air as the smell of it hits my nostrils. It’s not pleasant by any means, but it is familiar.
It takes less than a minute for me to realize I’m underground. The thought makes me feel somewhat claustrophobic, although I’m at a loss for why. I’m not even sure how I recognize this place. Perhaps it’s just the heaviness of the stagnant air affecting me.
A constricting sensation tightens around my lungs, almost as if something large is sitting on my chest. I take another deep breath as I blink several times and wince as my brain pulses in savage thuds against my skull. My fingers twitch as my hand lifts, but when I try to move, nothing happens.
My eyes flick with a cautious glance toward my lap, and a knot twists my stomach when I see the thick metal shackles around my wrists and ankles—holding me to a chair in the middle of an otherwise empty room.
I pull against t
he restraints, but as to be expected, they don’t budge.
An exasperated sigh trickles in a loud breath from my lips.
I don’t have the energy for this.
My head snaps up when the steel door screeches open. A middle-aged man stands in the unobstructed entryway, gazing at me with a curious expression sprawled across his weathered face. It reminds me of how Dr. Richter once looked at me—back when I first arrived at the DSD.
I stare at him, searching for motives. For answers.
For anything that will explain where I am and what they want with me.
A subtle smile pulls at his lips. I should be alarmed by it. Instead, I find it calming as the expression reignites that vague feeling of familiarity.
Before I can comprehend the muddled thoughts clouding my brain, a younger man charges headfirst into the room. His feet plod in angry steps across the floor, closing the distance between us until he’s standing in front of me. With a suspicious glance at his hands, I regard the chair and sizable gun in his grip. When I look up at his face, something inside of me responds—giving off a very clear impression of recognition.
He releases the chair, dropping it with an ear-splitting thud against the concrete. Taking a step back, he meets my gaze, and as our eyes connect, a single menacing look reveals his distrust. I can practically feel it like a fire against my skin.
Cocking an eyebrow, I redirect my attention to the middle-aged man. He approaches the empty chair now, seemingly unaware what I’m capable of. If he does know, he must have a death wish. Either that or he doesn’t realize how easy it would be for me to kill him, with or without the restraints.
He dismisses his subordinate with a wave of his hand. I feel the younger man’s disapproving stare but keep my eyes trained ahead, evading his heated gaze. The door closes behind him with a deafening clang.
A number of minutes pass in silence. The older man watches me, but I remain mute—determined not to make the first move.
Crossing one leg over the other and straightening in his seat, he finally breaks the hush. His gruff voice cuts through the silence like a knife.
“Hello, Wynter. My name is Rodrick Nolan.”
A blank stare crosses my face. This is usually the part where I would be expected to introduce myself, but considering he already knows my name, I fail to see the point.
He clears his throat. “We’ve met before. Do you remember?”
I maintain a neutral expression, keeping my lips sealed together, even though I’m screaming on the inside. The feeling of madness that has threatened to consume me time and again rises up once more, wrapping around my throat to suffocate me.
My eyes trace over his features. There’s a warmth to his tanned, wrinkled face and the wild facial hair covering his cheeks in pale blond, almost white, tufts. Still, I can’t escape the fact that he reminds me of Dr. Richter.
I avoid his question, instead asking one of my own.
“Where am I?” I breathe.
“A safe place.” His tone is non-threatening.
I tilt my head, narrowing my gaze as I try to determine the unspoken reason behind why he brought me here.
Wherever here is.
“You’ll forgive me for feeling a bit shocked right now,” I grumble, “but maybe you can tell me how I’m still alive.”
I can sense his heart rate quicken as he leans forward in his seat. Resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasp together in a firm, intertwined lock. His thin lips downturn as his expression becomes drawn.
“You’ve been extracted.”
The words resound in my ears, and my eyes widen as a number of images explode inside my brain. I see the helicopter. The explosion. The red lights flashing around me, so reminiscent of blood.
It all happened so quickly that I couldn’t do anything to stop it.
The man’s voice prattles on, becoming nothing more than an indistinct sound in the backdrop of my thoughts.
Extracted . . .
What the hell does that even mean?
Shaking my head, I try to focus on what he’s saying, but it takes a great deal of concentration to hear. I only manage to pick up on one piece of his rambling speech.
“We’ve been working for quite some time to get you away from the State, and the opportunity finally presented itself.”
My eyes dart up. “And what opportunity was that?”
Reeling back in his seat, his expression suggests that he’s surprised by my question. “To rescue you, of course.”
A sarcastic huff erupts from my throat. “You call murdering at least two dozen Enforcers and nearly killing me in the process a rescue?”
“I understand our method might’ve been a bit extreme,” he admits, “but please understand. Getting to you was a real challenge, considering your level of security.”
I think of the Enforcers. Not only the ones who were taken away in the explosion but the ones who had more than likely met their demise in the crash.
How many people will continue to die because of me?
An involuntary sneer disfigures my lips, and I’m overcome with the urge to laugh. This man’s planning. All those deaths. Doesn’t he even realize how futile this is?
“If you know so much about my security level, then you must know the lengths the DSD will go to. You’re foolish if you think rescuing me was a good idea,” I murmur.
As he relaxes back into his seat, an amused smile twists his face. “If you’re referring to that little collar of yours, you can put your mind at ease. It’s been taken care of.”
A chill of dread crosses my skin.
“What do you mean, it’s been taken care of . . . ?” I whisper.
The idea of strangers tampering with the device my powers have become reliant on frightens me so much I can’t even put it into words. I react to his every breath, fearing his impending answer.
“I mean that we’ve dislocated the tracker,” he says. “From what I can tell, they never put one back in your wrist. So, unless you have another chip implanted elsewhere, the State won’t be able to find you.”
A tremor rocks my body. “Do you have any idea what you could’ve done?”
He lets out a loud, somewhat agitated sigh. “Nearly twenty-four hours have passed without incident. I think we would know by now if control was an issue.”
My eyes widen in response to his words. How much do these people know about me? Enough, obviously, to grasp the inner workings of my collar. Still, none of this makes sense.
A few moments pass without either of us speaking.
“Who’s we?” I finally manage.
The man—Rodrick Nolan—looks back at me in confusion.
“You keep saying we,” I clarify. “Who exactly are you referring to?”
A cracked fingernail scratches against the whiskers on his chin. “Well, I believe you’re already acquainted with the man who got you out. An old friend of yours by the name of Jenner Rhodes.”
My last moments of consciousness before waking up here return to the forefront of my brain. I remember the Enforcer who stood in front of me. The one who said my name while chaos devoured everything else around us.
“You mean the one who shot me,” I correct him.
A flash of hesitation ignites in his eyes. He nods his head, feigning embarrassment, although it’s easy to see that the expression is forced.
“The bullets were replaced with tranquilizer darts.” He falters, taking a deep breath. “Believe me when I say that we never intended to harm you.”
The silence returns like a fog, crowding the empty room. Nolan’s chest rises and falls, and my body is unmoving as I wonder what he must think of me. If the extraction was intended to be a rescue, he obviously isn’t working with the DSD. And yet, one question remains.
Does he see me as a human being?
Or am I only here to be used just as I was by the State?
My eyes squeeze shut, and frustration courses in a venomous rush through my veins. I’m growing tired
of my disjointed memories and being treated like nothing more than a pawn in some game. I’m so used to Dr. Richter at this point that I’m not even sure if I can believe what Nolan says. It may be a trick—a ploy intended to gain my trust.
I think back to those final few minutes in the helicopter. I imagine the Enforcer standing in front of me and the voice that spoke my name.
If my rescuer is an old friend . . . then why can’t I remember?
Dropping my eyes, I stare at the floor, attempting to gather my conflicting thoughts. After a moment, I glance back up. My eyes fix on the man in front of me, searching his face for answers.
“You’re not with the State.”
“No,” he agrees. “I’m not.”
Suspicion arises within me. It’s common knowledge that everyone is either with the State or they choose to support it out of fear. Those who don’t fall into another group. If he’s not with the State, then there’s only one option left.
PHOENIX.
Our heads turn at the same moment when the sound of raised voices penetrates the door. I stare at the slab of steel, willing myself to make out the jumbled, overlapping words.
Less than ten seconds later, the door bangs open—revealing the commotion on the other side. All the air rushes from my lungs when I see the man standing in the doorway.
Blond hair.
Hazel eyes.
Disbelief grips my entire being as I’m brought face-to-face with the image in my head. I’ve been exposed to it so many times now that, for a moment, I doubt what I’m seeing.
The man, on the other hand, has gone ashen with shock. His eyes widen, and although he doesn’t speak, I can tell from his expression what he must be feeling. The relief on his face is extreme and apparent, suggesting he’s never been happier to see anyone in his life. At the same time, it’s reserved—almost as if he’s worried that none of this is real.
Nolan jumps to his feet, putting himself between us. “This isn’t the time—”
The man ignores him and moves into the room, taking a step forward without any noticeable concern for his own safety. I watch him, taken aback by the flustered emotion in his gaze. It latches onto my very soul, growing in intensity as he reaches out to touch me.