by Sarah Noffke
“Right,” I mouth.
I know my emotions are intense. If they were a three-year-old they would have spattered paint all over the room and thrown a tantrum up and down the hallway. For a moment I consider yanking off the adjuster and having some privacy. I decide that at the current moment I don’t care enough. George and I are so far gone at this point and apparently Aiden and I are too. It really doesn’t matter who knows how I feel right now. Besides, George can pick up on emotions, but he doesn’t always know the reasons behind them.
“I couldn’t help but notice you’ve only run seven miles,” George says, starting up his treadmill. “Slow day?”
I stop my iPod, slow my treadmill, and stare at him with contempt as my feet hit roughly on the conveyer belt. “Yes, it’s been a slow day. I set up a lemonade stand on the first level and hardly anyone came to buy anything. I’m just so upset about my failure,” I say, glancing at my heart rate. 184.
“Sugar,” he says revving up his machine until he’s running.
“What?”
“Did you try putting sugar in your lemonade?” he asks.
“Ha. Nah, I’ll try that next time. I thought people would give me a handout for my efforts and winning smile.” I stop my treadmill and stumble off, my legs wobbly from the sudden stop of motion.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” he says between breaths. “If I knew you were there I would have patronized your stand.”
“Yeah, that’s funny, because you knew I was here and you showed up.” I eye him suspiciously.
“Roya,” George says, slowing his treadmill, “I can feel emotions, but I don’t always know whose they are.”
“You’re going to tell me you don’t recognize my emotions when you feel them?” I snap at him, my anger rising to the surface for the first time all week.
George takes his towel and wipes it over his dry brow. He hasn’t run long or hard enough to sweat yet.
“Look,” he finally says, “if you need someone to talk to then I could be that person.”
“Really, George? Because I don’t think you’re the most qualified person for me to disclose myself to. The last time I checked you were on the hunt for information, and if I had my choice then you’d know a whole lot less than you already do.”
He focuses on the adjuster hanging loosely around my neck. His eyes drift up to mine. “You have to give me another chance.”
“Not right now I don’t.”
“How much longer are you going to be mad at me?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, will you let me know when you do?”
“Unfortunately, I won’t have to do that. You’ll know,” I say and stride off.
Chapter Four
The stainless steel door is cold under my knuckles when I knock. Nervous tension constricts my chest. I eye the hallway, hoping Aiden doesn’t materialize with his glasses and smile. Lucky for me, and probably Aiden too, Shuman answers after a few seconds.
“Follow me,” she says and strides down a hallway.
Good morning to you too.
I follow Shuman through a dark corridor. The walls are lined with wires and ports. I track them the best I can, but they twist away before I can figure out where they lead. Shuman guides me past a main conference room with a table. A few strangers glance up at me with curious expressions.
The next room resembles a darkened dentist’s office. A dozen or so stations are arranged with reclining chairs. In each of the seats, leaning back and looking quite relaxed, is a person—eyes closed, ears covered.
“These are news reporters,” Shuman says as we walk along the row of chairs. “They are seeking newsworthy stories.” A light over their heads bathes them in blue. “This set-up—chair, light, and audio—is all crafted to foster a higher state of awareness. This is one of the many strategies we employ to make reporters universal observers.”
I nod, pretending this all makes perfect sense.
“When they gather information of use to us,” Shuman continues, “it is recorded at one of the computer stations nearby. Then the information is checked against other reports for contradictions, and once deemed accurate it is posted onto the Lucidites’ internet feed.”
“So, do these reporters just lie down and hope to find some event of interest?” I ask.
Shuman spins, facing me abruptly. “That would be a clumsy approach at best. Hope is never a part of the equation. Faith maybe, but that is a discussion of semantics. These news reporters are disciplined in the art of focus.” She folds her arms tightly across her chest. “There is much training that takes place before someone can become a news reporter. They have to know how to focus, upon what to focus, and if something is newsworthy. I have spent decades perfecting the strategy for training our news reporters.”
Decades? Shuman doesn’t look old enough to have worked here for decades.
She pivots and strides away. I follow. We enter a hallway again, with windows looking into dark purplish rooms. I peer through to find women and men lying on cots and seemingly in hypnotic states. Samara is one of the initiates in the room. A peaceful expression coats her face. Her long, whitish blonde hair sprays out along the cot.
“Here these participants are in the final stages of investigative reporting orientation,” Shuman continues. “We expect our investigative reporters to focus on specific stories to uncover more details about newsworthy events. If they awake with information of use then they pass this part of orientation.”
“But I thought that news reporters picked up on events,” I state blankly.
“These people are not clairvoyant, therefore they are investigative reporters. I rely on individuals with skills like yours to discover new reports. Other types are expected to investigate them for authenticity.”
She strides down the hallway to another window. Three women lie on cots. They’re bathed in the blue, purplish light which illuminates most of the department.
“These are news reporters. Here we ask the trainee to find something of usefulness to the Institute and record it. This is the last task that a news reporter must pass before moving to the floor.” She points to the area that resembles the dentist office.
“If these participants rouse with information that is of use to the Institute or a Lucidite then they will continue with us.” Shuman stares through the glass, her hands clasped behind her back.
“So, you want me to start training?” I ask, turning to Shuman.
With a quick shake of her head, Shuman leads me through a door at the end of the hallway. I squint from the sudden bright light in this new area. It’s another conference-type room, but the light has a gold tone to it. Shuman takes a seat at the table and indicates I should sit opposite of her.
“I could never ask the person who challenged Zhuang to go through my training practices,” Shuman says, her hands steepled in front of her. “This would be an insult. You have already been tested in multiple respects and proven yourself in extraordinary ways. Furthermore, it would be an insult to the Institute that chose you for the challenge.”
“I don’t think it would be an insult. Wouldn’t the news reporters be offended if I worked alongside them without having to pass any tests?”
“You sacrificed yourself to protect every person in this Institute. So no, I do not think any of them would be the least bit offended.”
“I appreciate what you’re saying, but I don’t want special treatment.”
“Then stay in your room.”
I blink, startled.
“It is no good for me to delude you into thinking that you are average or that you are going to assimilate into this culture the same as everyone else,” Shuman says, her tone rough. “You did not enter this Institute under normal circumstances and the ones that kept you here mark an incredible event in the Lucidites’ past. The battle between you and Zhuang is the single most frequented event in our history.”
My mouth drops. “What? How do you know that?”
She
tilts her head. “It is my job to know that.”
The idea that Lucidites have dream traveled to watch Zhuang pummel me to bits is jarring. I never thought that our battle would be like a trending video on YouTube.
“O-kay. Soooo, you don’t want me to pass a test, I get that. But I don’t know how to news report. I do need to be trained.”
Shuman shakes her head. “No, you do not.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she holds up her hand, silencing me. “I believe you possess the skill and intuition to successfully news report. What you lack is confidence. What you need is to prove to yourself that you are worthy of the position.”
Reading Faulkner right now sounds a million times better than what I’ve just gotten myself into. Tension constricts my thoughts as I await Shuman’s next words. She’s appraising me, making me self-conscious of my every nonverbal behavior.
“In a minute I am going to leave you alone in this room. This will give you the opportunity to use your clairvoyance to pick up on one newsworthy event. It must be important, unreported, and verifiable. If you do not have something to report to me within the hour then we can agree that news reporting is not the right fit for you. If you do succeed in this challenge, then I will expect you to start work on the floor with the other news reporters tomorrow morning.” She stands, looking down at me, her cheekbones even more pronounced from the gold light overhead. “If this is agreeable to you then stay here. If not then show yourself out.” Shuman strides away. At the doorway, she flips a switch and the gold light is replaced with the bluish purple. “Call me at any time to make your report and I will return,” she says, and leaves.
What in the messed up world that is the Institute have I gotten myself into? This is my chance to prove myself. To take on a new challenge, one that will distract me from my sad love life. But I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do.
Defeated, I lay my head on my hands resting on the table and try to breathe deeply. It isn’t so bad if I fail this test and nothing comes of it. I can always go back to sitting in my room. There’s also the chance I can find Trey and ask him to assign me to a project. I have to admit, though, that I was relieved when Shuman offered me this opportunity. Truthfully, seeking Trey out was never something I wanted to do. It had to do with my ego, which feels like it’s currently being caged and shocked with a cattle prod.
My anxiety is no good to me, so I push it to the corner of my mind, just how Shuman taught me to do. I clear the blackboard of my mind and allow myself to float in and out of consciousness. This lucid meditation has become second nature for me at this point. And I know that the benefits I’ve garnered from it are worth every second of focus. The practice has kept me sane when I was losing it, guided me when I was lost, and given me courage when I thought I’d die.
In my mind’s eye I see a flash of red, so bright, so unsettling. Blood. It trickles down a man’s chin. He flicks it away with an arrogant jerk. My vision suddenly blurs, but I still hear everything perfectly, even the unsteady breathing of the battered man. “Is that all you’ve got?” he says.
A cackle answers his taunt. “Umm…More?” a girl says, her voice high-pitched, sing-song, cloaked in a French accent. “Is ’at what you vant?”
“What I want is to be left alone. Could you manage that?” the man answers.
“It appears I cannot,” the girl says, like she’s kissing each word. “I’m certain I can’t be happy unlez you’re dead. And I really do deserve to be happy, don’t you zink? You still vant me to be happy, don’t you?” she says, in one big, flowing breath. The cackle again. It hurts my ears.
Then all noise fades and my vision returns. The blade racing to the man’s chest is already stained with blood. His blood. But he won’t escape this assault. I know it. I know it with such certainty. The same as I know the man. I’d never forget that voice. That accent.
My eyes bolt open. “It’s Ren!” I scream. “It’s Ren! He’s in trouble! She’s going to kill him! You’ve got to help him!” I hear myself say. I can’t believe the words are coming from my mouth.
I hear movement right before Shuman enters. One-way glass sits to the right of the door. I was being watched.
Shuman strides over to me. “What did you see?”
“I saw Ren. He’s been attacked. Tortured. By a girl…with a French accent.” Each word sounds wrong in my mouth. But I know what I saw; I stand by it. My breath has escaped me now. I pause to catch it, to understand what I’ve witnessed. “I’m not sure what’s going on with him. I didn’t see his attacker. I only heard her.”
Shuman nods her head once and exits, leaving me to sit enveloped by my own confusion. Maybe all those solitary hours have caused me to lose my mind. I’ve always had a crazy imagination and now my own lust for Ren’s demise has literally gone to my head. What’s going to happen when Shuman comes back and tells me that I’m dead wrong about my premonition? One thing is for sure, my ego will be branded with the word “LOSER.”
And still it gets me that in this flash I saw Ren—my nemesis at the Institute. He’s the last person on earth I would save if I had a chance. If the vision was real, then whatever was happening was undoubtedly something he deserved, had brought on himself. If that girl is real, then he’d probably done something corrupt to her. I don’t even want to imagine the awful torment the people in Ren’s personal life suffer.
Ten nerve-wracking minutes later the door to the room slides open and Shuman materializes again. She takes hurried strides in my direction and settles into the chair across from me. Her eyes meet mine with hesitation, then focus back on the table. My nerves hum with a dangerous capacity.
“Everyone at the Institute owes you a huge debt of gratitude for this report, especially Ren,” Shuman says. “You have saved his life. Without a doubt he would have been dead, if it was not for what you just saw. The strange thing is that none of my news reporters picked up on this event. You were expected to see something new to pass the test, but not something of this magnitude.” There’s a pause while she gives me a cautious glance. “The news reporters really should have seen this, but they did not…you did.”
I stare at her for a long time trying to register what she’s said. “Wait,” I say, leaning forward. “Ren was actually in trouble? I interpreted what I thought I saw accurately? And no one else saw this? Why?”
Shuman settles back in her chair. “Yes, you saved Ren’s life. Thanks to you, Lucidites were able to rescue him and bring him back to the Institute.”
Wow! That was fast.
“Who attacked Ren?”
“That is not of importance at the moment,” Shuman says at once.
I know from her previous answers to these questions that this means she knows the answer but isn’t going to tell me. If she didn’t know the answer then that’s what she’d say, instead of deferring the conversation.
“I am not sure why you saw this when no one else did. However, numerous events are missed every day and that is why I am always looking for different news reporters to add to the group. More eyes mean we can know more.”
Of course that makes sense. I take a skeptical glance at Shuman. There’s something else. Something she isn’t saying. I sense it. But she doesn’t speak.
Silence sits between us for a while. It makes me think. Think about what she said. About my confidence. About me having to prove it to myself.
For a long moment I think over this situation. There’s definitely something about the Panther room that enhances my clairvoyance. Shuman’s right that if Joseph were here I’d probably be even stronger. I can feel that power coursing through my veins now. I close my eyes and let it vibrate in me, enjoying the feeling. I don’t even care that Shuman is staring at me with my eyes closed. When I open them my head is already shaking. I’m hooked on this feeling and want to do this again.
I swallow and look up at her. “I’d be happy to start tomorrow,” I say.
Her hands are clasped on the table. Except for a tiny squee
ze of her fingers, there are no other indications of satisfaction. Not a smile or an expression in her eyes. “Okay,” she says finally.
Chapter Five
“I passed!” Samara squeals when I sit down at dinner.
“Oh, that’s wonderful!”
Relieved and excited for Samara, I tell her I also accepted a position as a news reporter, which I wasn’t going to disclose if she’d failed. Another enthusiastic yelp of delight follows.
“Usually testing and training takes between six months and a year,” Samara says, stirring her soup. “It’s unheard of for someone to start with the news reporters after only a couple of weeks, or a day, in your case.”
“Yeah, it’s good to know there’s some perks associated with risking our lives to fight Zhuang.” I laugh morbidly.
Although I’m probably breaching some confidentiality agreement, I share my vision of Ren with her. Sue me. “When Shuman confirmed it was actually Ren and I’d saved his life, I’d never experienced a bigger rush,” I explain, feeling the excitement all over again.
“Really? Even when you defeated Zhuang? You didn’t get a huge rush then?” she questions.
“For starters, we don’t know I did defeat Zhuang. And secondly, I was kind of dying at the time. That kind of thing kills any rush.”
She laughs. “So you don’t know what exactly happened to Ren?” she asks under her breath.
I shake my head. “No, Shuman wouldn’t tell me anything. And I don’t know how much of the vision came to pass. He might not have even been assaulted when they rescued him. It’s so hard for me to know since the timing of my visions is either a few seconds or several minutes before something is going to actually occur. I just know he was in imminent danger.”
“That’s really bizarre. I mean, Ren is supposedly pretty powerful. What kind of person could take him down? And why? It’s scary to think something is out there attacking people like Ren. Makes me nervous.”