False Sight

by Dan Krokos

  The girl who lived before me was part of a team, and now I’m part of that team. The closest description of us would be supersoldiers. We’re the deadliest people on earth. We can create fear in others just by using our minds. Our brains burn so hot, we have to take medicine to keep our memories intact.

  The people who created us, who we’re cloned from, have bad plans for us. We’re still trying to figure out what those plans are.

  We trashed our creators’ lab and melted the whole thing down. The creators had hoped to make more of us—clone after clone—with the same skills and knowledge. I’m proof of that.

  We found a memory inside a machine the creators built to store our personalities. The memory was put there by my creator, Mrs. North. Through Mrs. North’s eyes, I saw her meeting with the Original Miranda—oh, yeah, turns out my creator is just a clone too. In the memory, Mrs. North asked to see the Original’s new secret weapon. All she knew was that the weapons were monsters—monsters with a name she was afraid to say or even think. Monsters to be used in some kind of worldwide attack, working alongside us. The ones who will conquer the world, Mrs. North had said in place of a name. Hard to get clearer than that, while still giving us exactly no idea of what we’re up against.

  For now, feeling normal isn’t realistic, but sometimes, for a second or two, I forget I’m not really a person. I try not to let it happen too often, because when reality crashes back, it’s in the form of a lead chain around my neck.

  I dance with Peter in the gym for most of the evening, through the fast and slow songs.

  My fingers are clasped behind his neck, and his hands are on my hips. His eyes are too blue to be real. Like blue glass lit from within. I miss his hair. It used to be long enough to curl at his neck, but now it’s short and bristly, as black as his eyes are blue.

  We don’t talk much, which is nice. Peter doesn’t have to fill any voids. There are no awkward silences with him. We just dance, and I breathe him in and feel his pulse on my cheek when I lay my head alongside his neck. In this moment I feel normal.

  We’re in a sea of our slow-spinning classmates. Every few revolutions I see Rhys dancing with some girl I don’t recognize. He smiles at me with a vertical worry line between his eyebrows. His dancing partner doesn’t know he murdered his teammates in the forest one calm summer day. I doubt she’d dance so close if she did.

  I’m wondering where Noah and Sequel are when Noah appears on my right. He barges between me and Peter, shattering the calm.

  “Cutting in!” Noah says with this big awkward smile. He slips into Peter’s place so fast, my hands are still in the air. “Place this hand here,” Noah says, putting one on his shoulder. “And this one here.” He holds my other hand in his and keeps a good amount of space between us, unlike all the other dancers.

  I can’t tell if I’m more angry or embarrassed. Peter doesn’t mention my past with Noah, ever, and whenever these situations come up, I’m the one who’s painfully aware. I catch Peter’s eyes but he rolls them, dismissing the situation. He knows Noah isn’t a threat.

  “What if I don’t want to dance with you?” I say. My palms are sweaty and they shouldn’t be. I have no reason to be nervous. But suddenly I can’t meet his eyes.

  “Nonsense, all the ladies want to dance with me.” To Peter, he says, “Chaste enough?” They smell the same, like the one bottle of sample cologne I saw on the bathroom counter at home.

  I’m still frozen, refusing to dance. Peter might pretend he’s fine with it, but he has to be a little upset. Just a little.

  “Chaste enough,” Peter says. “Watch your hands.” I catch him staring at the back of Noah’s head for a half second. Anger under his skin; he does care.

  “All right then,” Noah says to Peter. “Sequel is lonely now. Go help.” He spins me away, and Peter melds into the crowd.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he says to me with a happy grin. I’m always startled to see a smile on any of us. Nothing weighs Noah down. I find myself smiling back before I can stop.

  “Hey, obnoxious,” I say. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should pull away.

  The smile droops into a mock sad face. “Aww, am I? Surprised Pete didn’t try to crush my head.”

  “He knows you’re not a threat,” I say. “And maybe your little secret isn’t so secret. You ever think of that?”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Of what secret do you speak?”

  I just stare at him.

  He blinks slowly, defeated. “All right, you got me. Yes, I like her. Is that weird? Of course it’s weird.” Now he won’t meet my eyes.

  The song ends. I give his hand a squeeze. “It’s okay, Noah. I want you to be happy.” I put as much sincerity as I can in my voice. Because it should be okay. No reason for it not to be. Sure, it’s hard looking at him without remembering the kiss under the water, which saved my life. And the first night he told me he loved me. My past with him is a mixture of real and false memories, and sometimes it’s hard to tell them apart.

  All I have to do is remember I’m not that girl and it becomes easier. I’m not the girl he loved. He doesn’t know that, though. I’d tell him so it could be easy for him too, but the circumstances of the first Miranda’s death would destroy him. Noah stole her memories to keep her safe, because he loved her. And all it did was get her killed.

  Even now I feel what the girl before me felt, all alone in that alley. Rain pounded down, soaking her. Something punched her chest—it felt exactly like that, a punch. She fell on rough wet concrete. Then the blood was pumping out of her. She still didn’t get it. The rain under her felt hot, that’s all. I guess our brains tell us lies when death is near. Because the pain wasn’t a punch, and the hot water wasn’t rain. A sniper’s bullet had blown a hole through the center of her chest.

  She died not knowing who she was.

  I close my eyes and step back.

  “What’s wrong?” he says.

  Microphone feedback squeals across the gym. A few hundred people wince and groan. Someone screams dramatically and someone laughs too loudly.

  “I’m fine,” I say, trying to smile. The hand on my waist moves to my shoulder, almost to my neck.

  “Don’t—” he begins.

  The DJ’s voice scratches over the speakers. “I don’t normally do this, but…we have a special request tonight. This is going out from Mrs. North to Nina. Mommy misses you.”

  I pull away from Noah like he shoved me. Laughter echoes around us. His face mirrors my own—open mouth, wide eyes. It doesn’t make sense. Mrs. North is dead. And if she isn’t, she wouldn’t be dedicating a song to someone named Nina.

  Noah’s face changes from shock to doubt. “Did he…?”

  I nod. “He did.”

  It’s quite possible a student with the last name North goes to this school. And it’s possible her mom just requested a song for her. Nina is why I don’t freak out completely; I don’t know a Nina.

  It has to be a coincidence.

  It can’t be a coincidence.

  The new song starts up. The laughter fades and the dancing resumes.

  I replay the words in my head.

  Mrs. North to Nina.

  Mommy misses you.

  “What does it mean?” I say. My blood pounds off time with the music, two separate songs clashing in my ears.

  Believing in coincidences is not something any of us can afford. So that would mean the creators found us. But it doesn’t explain a weird DJ request. Unless they’re trying to unnerve us or flush us out.

  Noah shakes his head. “This isn’t right.” He spins a slow circle; I follow his gaze, checking the double door exits on every wall. No commotion, no abnormal movement besides awkward dancing.

  Next I stand on tiptoe and scan the crowd, searching for the rest of our team.

  “Where is everyone?” Noah says.

  The song has a fast beat, and bodies are bobbing and swaying through our field of vision. My mind is still caught on Nina. It could be some kind of
code. For what, I don’t know. And the phrase Mommy misses you was deliberate too, like a code.

  “There!” Noah says, pointing toward the DJ’s booth in the corner, where the top of Sequel’s head is visible.

  I follow the path Noah carves through the crowd. We stop in front of the booth.

  Sequel faces away from us, head down. Peter stands a few feet away, like he’s afraid to get closer. Rhys is moving toward us, trying to slip around a mass of dancers.

  “She just shut down,” Peter says, yelling over the music. “After the request she just walked away from me. I found her like this.”

  No one speaks. The DJ is looking at something on his cell phone. Peter points at him, and Rhys nods, then tries to push through a wall of dancers. When I look back, the DJ is already gone.

  “You okay?” I say.

  “I’m fine,” Sequel says, still facing away from me. I don’t relax.

  Peter says, “I’ll help Rhys trap the DJ. We need to leave, now.”

  Before I can say splitting up isn’t a good idea, Peter is gone.

  Noah edges around Sequel and leans over, peering up into her face. “What’s wrong?” he says.

  I put a hand on Sequel’s shoulder, and everything changes.

  My feet are off the ground. It takes a full second to realize what happened—she spun in a blur and delivered a palm strike to my sternum. The stunned feeling fades, replaced by the no-breath feeling. None. My back hits the floor and I slide away from Sequel, tripping people with my shoulders. They cry out and thump against the gym floor around me. Through tear-blurred eyes, I see Noah crumpled against the wall, blood smeared on his lips and under his nose.

  Helpful hands grab me under the arms and lift me up. People ask me questions but it’s just background noise. Air comes in hot thimbles; I can’t take a full breath. Sequel studies me with narrowed eyes, like she’s wondering how I got all the way over here. Because this is a mistake. She reacted badly, that’s all.

  No one dances on this side of the gym, but the music still plays. Everyone, everyone is the same, the singer sings.

  Then I smell it. There is no mistake.

  The scent of roses.

  “No!” I extend my hand, palm out, like I can push the psychic energy away, or back into Sequel’s brain. But nothing can stop her. This is what all of us were designed to do—terrify people until they can’t function, until they go insane.

  The panic catches. First the students around me go rigid. A girl’s scream pierces the music. People react in different ways to the energy. Someone falls hard; I feel a thump through the floor. Some don’t do anything at all, frozen in time. Everyone perks up as if some important announcement has come over the PA. The rose scent thickens. I step forward as Noah is getting to his feet, preparing to lunge. Sequel spins hard and tight, leg rising, and kicks Noah in the chest. He slams into the wall again.

  The scent is choking now. I can feel her fear-waves lapping at my brain. “Sequel!” I say. “Miranda!” A last-ditch effort to wake her from whatever spell she’s under. The waves have no effect on me, but I feel them. She isn’t stopping. Her eyes are screwed shut, nose crinkled. That’s it. I charge forward—

  As everyone loses their sanity completely.

  Feet pound, like they did during the pep rally a few days ago. Shoulders and elbows and knees slam into me, carrying me away from Sequel like a tide. A shoulder spins me to the ground, someone steps on my ribs, and a girl’s heel stabs at my kidney. I can’t breathe again.

  Students groan and yell out as they bottleneck at the exits behind me. The only way to help them is to stop Sequel. I pull myself into a ball as more feet kick my spine and shoulders. My skin throbs at each impact point. Another heel catches the strap on my dress and tears it. I place both hands flat on the floor and push myself upright with all my strength, sticking my elbows out to block the crowd. I keep my eyes off their stricken faces. Soon their fear will turn to pure madness—no thought—unless I make her stop.

  I surge forward as Sequel pushes through a side exit. I almost go after her alone, but Noah staggers to his feet again, reaching for me with one hand.

  I grab his outstretched fingers and pull him along. “Come on!”

  “What’s wrong with her?” he says, blood dripping from his nose.

  We push through double doors into the cafeteria. They slam shut behind us, but I can still hear the stampede—a thumping bass from the music and feet. I imagine broken bones and trampled bodies, things I saw on the streets of Cleveland last summer, just twelve miles north of us. All because we decided to play at a normal life. Our classmates are paying the price.

  “Mir!” Noah says, pulling up short. Sequel watches us from the other end of the cafeteria, where the main hallway begins. Her face is completely blank and emotionless…until her mouth drops open and her eyes go wide.

  “Don’t follow me! Don’t follow—”

  She cuts off midsentence, then shakes her head as if to clear it. The shock on her face is replaced with a close-lipped smile I’ve never seen her make before.

  Then she’s gone. I kick off my shoes in two steps. The red heels skitter over the tile. Noah loosens his striped tie and pulls it over his head. A memory belonging to the Miranda before me surfaces, one of Sifu Phil telling us neckties are a good way to get strangled.

  Noah and I reach the end of the cafeteria in time to see Sequel disappear down an adjacent hallway.

  “Be careful,” Noah says between breaths. I think he’s saying it for both of us. Because this is wrong. Chasing Sequel is wrong. I feel pulled in two directions—half of me wants to go back and get the others, because we have no idea what we’re dealing with. I’m wearing a silky red dress and Noah sports a black dress shirt and pants. But if I go back, it might take too long to find them, and leaving Noah to pursue Sequel alone is not an option. We slow until our footsteps are just whispers on the rough carpet.

  We round the corner into the next hallway. A door up ahead sighs shut, then clicks. The hallway stretches past it for the length of the school, lit only in intervals. Sequel couldn’t hide in the sectors of darkness; I’d be able to see her outline against the light.

  Noah touches my shoulder. “Go back,” he whispers. “Grab everyone else. I’ll watch the door.”

  “What if she comes out?”

  “She won’t.”

  “What if she does?”

  “Miranda, she won’t. It’s Sequel.”

  “You go.”

  We stare at each other for a few seconds. We know each other well enough to know neither is going to budge.

  He sighs. “Then I go in first.”

  “No objections here.” Only because it’s a compromise, and because Sequel likes Noah more than she likes me. He opens the door and plunges into the darkness and I’m a step behind him. My fingers brush the wall until I feel the little nub of the light switch. I hear a wet thunk, and then a splash, like someone kicked over a can of paint. The fluorescents hiss to life in the ceiling, revealing a science lab. Black worktables are covered in scales and beakers and unlit Bunsen burners.

  Noah stands still in front of me. A jagged splash of red at his feet.

  My eyes ache as they adjust to the light. The air is gone from my lungs and I’m frozen in the doorway, wondering what the red on the floor means.

  Sequel sits on the second table in front of us, a sword resting across her lap. The blade is red and wet along its length. She looks at me like a robot. No soul. Wait, there—a spark behind her eyes as they narrow. It’s almost familiar.

  “You can say good-bye,” she says. “I’ll wait.”

  Noah turns around and his foot slips in the blood and he falls against the first table. It’s solid, stacked with drawers holding more lab equipment. Noah’s right hand clutches his throat. His throat and chin are wet and red. He slumps down and I fall with him, on my knees, in his blood.

  “Let me see, let me see.” I’m outside myself, hovering over us both. It’s a movie now.
It’s not real.

  I peel his fingers back gently and see. A single cut. So deep. His blood pumps out in a rhythm. I clamp my palm over it and feel his blood surging out in a warm, hard jet. His eyes are wet with tears. I can’t even lie to him. I can’t tell him it’s okay. My right hand shakes. I place it over my left, where the blood runs between my fingers. “Oh, Noah…” Say something else. Say something important. Show him he isn’t alone, that he never was.

  “Sorry, Mir.” His voice is a choked whisper, almost too quiet to hear. He coughs once, and blood flecks my face. Hot pinpricks on my cheeks.

  “No no. Don’t be sorry.”

  He turns his head left, then right. He’s trying to shake his head, but it doesn’t look right. I unclench my hand and press it to his cheek. It won’t stop shaking.

  “Is it really you?” he says, quiet and slow.

  It takes me a second before I realize what he’s asking. Is it really me? He had his suspicions then, that I wasn’t the girl whose life he erased.

  “It’s me. It’s me.”

  I don’t even have to think about it. I can’t tell him the truth. Not now. It would change nothing.

  “You forgive me?”

  “Yes.” I forgive him on behalf of the girl who came before.

  His blood is foamy red and he’s asking for forgiveness. That’s what he cares about right now. At the end. Because this is the end. A strange sound comes out of my throat. I don’t want to cry. I want to see clearly, and I want to hear him, hear everything he says and imprint it in my mind. Remember it for as long as I live.

  “It was wrong,” he says.

  “No.”

  “I just loved you so much,” he says. His eyes are lidded. His face is bloodless. His words sting and make me feel unworthy. Because I’m not the girl he loved. His words don’t belong to me.

  “I know. I loved you too.”

  “Still do? You can lie.”

  “Yes.” And I do love him. Maybe I always did. It took the end to bring it out of me. I love Peter, but I love Noah. Without Noah, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be growing in a tank, forgotten, waiting to be sold as a weapon. “Not lying,” I say.