Type X

by M. A. Phipps

  Moving his body close to mine, he takes hold of my arm. His grip is uncomfortable, but I don’t struggle against it.

  “You’re trying to push me away.” His tone is biting and accusatory, but he’s right.

  I am trying to push him away.

  I’m not good for him. So long as I still have this collar around my neck, the people nearest to me will always be at risk—which ultimately means I will be a danger to them forever. Without the collar, the control ends, and I can’t allow that. With it, I’m a threat, and I can’t allow that either.

  I might not fully remember my life before I became this monster, but I don’t need those memories to know that I want to keep Ezra safe. Try as I might to ignore it, the desire to protect him is programmed into me, running through every inch of my body like blood. I fought against it before, but I can’t deny it any longer. Not when so much is at risk if I do.

  “Enough!” Quinn shouts. In a swift movement, he pulls a handgun from his belt, and the slide clicks into place when he aims it at my face. “You’re coming with me.”

  Ezra’s arm stretches out in front of my chest. With a rough push, he forces me behind him, acting as my shield.

  “Lower your weapon,” he growls.

  A rush of dread floods my body when Quinn pushes the barrel of the gun against his head.

  Enough, I tell myself.

  Lifting my hand, I pinch Ezra’s shoulder. He looks back at me in shock, and his eyes widen when my lips form a consoling smile.

  “It’s all right,” I whisper.

  I step out from behind him. I can tell that he wants to fight me on this—that he doesn’t agree with me—but for whatever reason, he decides not to argue.

  For once, he’s finally listening.

  We tail Quinn through the compound, following like submissive prisoners—minus the restraints. Then again, I’m sure he knows how pointless they are by now.

  Within minutes, we arrive back at my home for the foreseeable future. Quinn pulls open the door to my cell, signaling for me to enter with a violent jerk of his head. Although he must be aware that these walls have no power to hold me, I take a step forward anyway, ready to comply. At the last second, something about him holds me back.

  I scrutinize his face, feeling that distant sense of recognition again. More than ever before, I’m certain that I know him.

  Clearing his throat, he raises his gun. I don’t feel threatened by the weapon, but I make a show of pretending I am to make this easier on everyone involved.

  I head back into the cell without complaint or delay.

  “Wynter.”

  My body freezes at the sound of Ezra’s voice. Peering back over my shoulder, I find him standing in the doorway. His expression is solemn, and his eyes are fixed on the floor as if he’s trying to find the courage to look at me. To face me.

  When he speaks, the words spill out in a stifled breath. “I wish things didn’t have to be this way.”

  It occurs to me how inconsiderate I’ve been. How unfairly I’ve acted when I should’ve tried to understand what this must be like for him.

  My fingers twitch as I lift my arm, but Quinn’s glare stops me from moving any more than that. Pursing my lips, I try to ignore his presence for the moment.

  Locking my eyes on Ezra, I coax him to look at me.

  “The people here know what I am,” I remind him. “I don’t blame them for wanting to keep me locked up.”

  “But you’re not a threat to them. We both know that.”

  I don’t respond, mainly because I don’t feel as certain of that as he does. After all, I still remember what Dr. Richter said to me—back when I was still in the hands of the DSD.

  “If you can’t do the job, I will do it for you.”

  The threat behind his words torments me even now, reminding me of the very real vulnerability surrounding my condition. I may be in control, thanks to the metal shackle around my neck, but that doesn’t mean I’m not dangerous—a hard truth, which Ezra is refusing to comprehend. He’s blinded.

  By love.

  By denial.

  Maybe by both.

  “Nolan will be the one to decide that,” Quinn says.

  Ezra and I both look at him. I take the finality of the ex-Enforcer’s tone to mean that visiting hours are over, but as I take a step back, Ezra reaches through the doorway. His hand takes hold of mine, and the warmth of his skin sends an electric current racing through my body.

  “No matter what happens, I won’t lose you again.” His words are a promise—an oath reaffirmed by his determined gaze.

  I press my fingers against his.

  Deep down, I find myself hoping he doesn’t have to.

  Intruding on this moment, Quinn moves forward to separate us.

  “Time’s up.”

  My eyes never leave Ezra’s even as our hands are forced apart. As the door closes between us, I never look away, even though I’m haunted by his expression. His countenance closely mimics the one materializing in my head, overtaking everything until I’m aware of little else.

  I see his face.

  I hear his voice.

  “I’m sorry, Wynter.”

  As a tear trails down his cheek, the image crumbles, falling to my feet in a mess of disjointed memories. Breathing in, a sudden apprehension takes hold of me. Blinking it away, I meet Ezra’s gaze, watching his eyes glisten and feeling the stab of every emotion crossing his face as the slab of steel moves to cut us off from each other.

  We may stand on opposite sides of a doorway, but right now we may as well be standing on opposite ends of the world.

  The concrete wall is cold against my back. I hug my knees to my chest, keeping my eyes glued to the camera in the far corner of the room. The red light on its side blinks in timed repetition, flashing in short bursts that last a second or so each. It’s a sign, I’m sure of it.

  A reminder that the people here are watching my every move.

  A number of scenarios ramble through my head as I try to determine the best course of action. It would be easy enough to break out of this room. The only threat beyond these walls are Nolan’s men, and their little toy guns don’t frighten me. Still, the thought of escape doesn’t sit well in my gut. Getting free of the compound is one thing, but it’s the after that concerns me. I have nowhere to go. Where else could I go?

  Back to the DSD, a small voice mutters in the back of my brain.

  I almost laugh at the thought.

  Releasing a strained breath, I shake my head, focusing on the other issue.

  Ezra.

  There’s still so much that I don’t understand. So many questions that need answering. The bits and pieces resurfacing and reviving the remnants of the humanity I had thought were lost for good are enough to make me second guess any notion of leaving. I can’t run away. Not yet.

  Not without discovering the truth.

  Shifting my body, I rise to my feet. My eyes remain fixed on the camera, never once looking away as I pad across the floor. My strut is confident and determined, even though my heart is racing.

  Keeping my back tall, I stop just short of where the walls intersect in the corner. Every muscle in my body stiffens as a wave of doubt washes over me. For a long moment, I do nothing but stare up at that blinking light, considering every aspect of what I’m about to do.

  Inhaling a deep breath, I announce my intentions in a loud, clear voice. “I want to speak to Rodrick Nolan.”

  A grim uncertainty sets in, but I keep my eyes locked in position while trying to remain as still and unthreatening as possible. After what feels like a lifetime of waiting, I hear the sound of muffled voices on the other side of the door. I spin on my heel when the steel screeches open.

  Quinn enters the room first, bearing the same distrusting expression I’ve come to expect from him by now. He aims his gun at me in warning, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Nolan crosses the threshold behind him, and I can tell he’s taken aback by
my request from the way he looks at me. He almost seems excited about the idea.

  Another trait that reminds me far too much of Dr. Richter.

  After an aggressive charge forward, Quinn stops in front of me. His eyes connect with mine, and the hatred within them is as noticeable as ever. He nods his head toward the chair positioned in the center of the room.

  “Sit down,” he barks.

  A large hand takes hold of his shoulder, silencing the animalistic growl building in his throat.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Nolan counters.

  His trusting sentiment disturbs me, reminding me of the faux niceties I was shown at the DSD. None of it was real, so why should this be any different? It’s just another ruse to gain my trust, nothing more. But I won’t fall for it.

  Not this time.

  Keeping my movements to a minimum, I choose to play nice and return to the chair, even going so far as to allow the ex-Enforcer to secure restraints around my wrists and ankles. As he kneels on the floor in front of me, I observe a hint of pleasure in his gaze. Strangely enough, I can also sense something else. Something that resembles fear.

  I scrutinize his face. Once again, I’m unable to ignore the odd familiarity I find there. That I keep finding there. The recognition runs through me like a flush of heat, assuring me that I’ve seen him before.

  However, the image of the individual I have in my head is far different from the man in front of me. He’s distant and callous now, but in my memory, he’s one thing and one thing only.

  Afraid.

  Registering the difference is all it takes, and like a light turning on in my head, I remember where I know him from.

  “You,” I whisper. “I know you.”

  His eyes dart to mine, and for a brief instant, I see the young Enforcer on the helicopter. The frightened way he looked at me. The terrified uncertainty when he glanced at my collar.

  I remember it all so clearly.

  His reluctance.

  His apprehension.

  Stumbling to his feet, he takes a cautious step back. His fingers tighten around the base of the gun, and as he stares at me, I wonder if he intends to use it this time.

  We both jump when Nolan slams a second chair on the floor in front of me. Settling himself on the seat, he calls over his shoulder in a sharp, commanding voice. “Leave us.”

  Quinn casts a final heated glare in my direction. I have no clue what he’s thinking, but the frustration he’s feeling carries over into his distorted expression. The silent screams of anger I imagine running through his head reveal themselves in the twisted grimace warping his lips.

  Regardless, he says nothing. Instead, he does as he’s told without question, a trademark of the obedient soldier he used to be.

  My eyes follow his retreating figure as the metal door slams shut between us.

  I glance back at Nolan, who sighs as he stretches out his arms in front of his chest. A few of his joints readjust with a loud crack, and I hear another deep breath emerge from his lungs as the seconds tick by without either of us speaking.

  As if reading my thoughts, he addresses my unspoken question. “The methods the State uses aren’t to everyone’s taste. As a result of that, many have defected quite recently.”

  Defected?

  I don’t know why I’m surprised. After all, Nolan himself has admitted to having a contact within the State. It just never occurred to me that such betrayal could be widespread—at least not to the extent he’s implying. I learned growing up that people are either devoted to the State or they’re against it, simple as that. It’s black and white with no gray area or room for argument.

  Suddenly, I find myself thinking of my mother and her loyalties.

  There was definitely no gray area there.

  I swallow. My words rush up my throat like regurgitated food.

  “And what methods would you be referring to exactly?”

  Nolan examines my face as he considers my question. The entire time, a smile plays at the corners of his lips, hinting that I might already know the answer.

  Shrugging his shoulders, he says, “The way they conduct warfare, for one.”

  My eyes fix on the door as I wonder what horrors drove away the man on the other side. I remember him on the helicopter, just as I remember the agitation in his gaze. He was terrified, that much was clear. In spite of that, I had the distinct impression that he was loyal to the State. Potential recruits had to be to become an Enforcer. The preliminary checks before entry into the program made sure of that.

  So, what could he have seen that was bad enough to make him leave? To make him turn his back on the very system he once fought for?

  It doesn’t take long for me to grasp the deeper meaning behind Nolan’s words.

  “You mean me.”

  He doesn’t confirm my suspicions, but then again, he doesn’t have to. The look in his eyes is more than enough to tell me I’ve hit the nail on the head.

  Lifting his chin, he repositions himself on the seat, staring down his nose at me as he folds his hands in his lap.

  “What is it you wished to talk about?” he asks, sidestepping my accusation.

  Clenching my jaw, I inhale a steadying breath.

  Straight to the point, I remind myself.

  “I want you to tell me how you knew my father.”

  The smile on his face widens, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. “I should’ve known you’d be eavesdropping.”

  The way he says this makes it seem as if he’s proud—the way a parent might commend a child if we lived in a different world.

  When I don’t say anything, he clears his throat. “Your father and I go way back,” he answers.

  “Specifically?” I press.

  His fingers rub across the stubble on his cheeks, concealing the lower half of his face. Still, I’m able to see the hesitation behind them.

  What isn’t he telling me?

  Leaning forward, the words tumble from his lips. “Freston and I were the founding members of PHOENIX. This organization only exists because of him.”

  My eyes widen. “T-That’s not possible,” I stammer, trying to make sense of the numbers flashing through my brain. “That would mean the State’s—”

  “Barely thirty years old, yes,” he says, finishing my sentence.

  The shock hits me hard, confusing my already jumbled memories. It’s always been common knowledge that PHOENIX was born around the same time as the State. With one came the other—they went together like twins. The State was never shy about admitting that fact since it provided the basis for the fear that kept the populace under their thumb. Complete authority through the power of oppression.

  But thirty years? That would mean there are plenty of people still alive today who not only witnessed the State’s rise to power but who were also citizens of the old world. People who saw what society and life were like before the State took over.

  How can that be? How is that even possible? How would the State have been able to suppress this information and keep the younger generations from knowing about it? What power did they use to erase history from the eyes that were there to see it?

  My thoughts work in circles, trying to understand this notion, but only one of the explanations in my head finds form.

  “Tunnels . . .” I whisper.

  Of course. Why didn’t I see it sooner?

  My father hid his illegal possessions in the tunnels and underground compounds beneath the city. When I was a child, it never occurred to me to wonder how he was able to conceal something as conspicuous as a piano. Now that I know his origins—now that I know of his involvement with PHOENIX—I realize how much deeper his crimes really went.

  I try to wrack my brain, but I can’t visualize the place he used to take me to. It was our special secret, but the setting never mattered to me. It was the bond of sharing something with him that was ours and ours alone that left its everlasting mark on my heart.

  “Your father was a goo
d man,” Nolan reminisces, intruding on my reflection. “He might’ve cast aside our mission, but I still considered him my friend. I was sorry to hear about what happened to him.”

  The memory of my father’s bloodied face threatens to invade my mind. I work to extinguish the images surfacing in my head, trying my best to focus on Nolan and everything he’s said.

  My father created PHOENIX. This entire rebellion was his idea, apparently. Yet, according to Nolan, something made him leave. What was it? What possible reason could he have had to abandon what others have died to protect?

  Perhaps my father and I are more similar than I thought. We both turned our backs on the people who needed us most, and while I’m aware of my supposed motives for doing so, his aren’t as clear to me. I wonder if it caused a panic when he left. Did PHOENIX have to relocate out of fear that he might report them to the State like Ezra said they felt they had to do because of me?

  But he didn’t. I know that. His heart was stuck in the old world, so he would’ve never betrayed something that was so deeply rooted in it. Why else would he have risked exposing me to everything he did? He never gave up hope that the world could change. After all, I saw it there, glistening behind the sadness. So, what changed?

  Why did he stop fighting?

  Nolan’s gentle smile is consoling, but just like with Dr. Richter, the expression seems forced.

  “I understand this must be difficult to process, but I’d like to talk about you right now. If that’s all right.” He chooses his words carefully, turning the conversation in the direction he wants it to go with a mastered subtlety while making it seem as if he’s doing me a favor.

  “What about me?” I ask.

  His eyes narrow, exposing the doubt behind his curiosity. “When you were with us before, what made you leave? What made you go back to the DSD?”

  For a long while, I don’t answer.

  My teeth bite along the inside of my cheek as I deliberate over what to tell him. Nothing comes to me. Even when I contemplate offering the truth, the specific memories that coincide with it remain lost in the muddled depths of my subconscious, clinging to their stubbornness when I urge them to resurface. It’s ironic, considering that period of my life is responsible for everything that’s happened since.