Anarchy Chained: Alpha Thomas

by JA Huss

  I become—whoever. I become the person they expect to see.

  At seven seconds I’m pulling the door open, at eight seconds I’m walking down a dimly lit hallway as it closes behind me. At nine seconds I am Sadie again. But it doesn’t matter. These people don’t know I’m supposed to be the laundry truck driver. They’re not even looking at me as my recovery timer counts up the seconds I will need to make a new trip.

  It’s a small power. I’ll admit that. It’s fleeting. Nine seconds is not enough time to do much, but I have perfected my art. I can do so much with nine seconds. I can create havoc with nine seconds. I can become a dead child in a mother’s eyes. I can become the husband they lost in the war. I can become a celebrity. I never become a celebrity or any of those other things. The point is to go unnoticed. Getting people to notice me defeats the purpose.

  I essentially become invisible. Hidden in plain sight.

  No one but me can pull this off en masse.

  The bright red path in my vision screen leads me to a locker room as an alarm sounds off in the building. I punch in the code to enter, find the place empty—my handlers taking care of me now with that fake emergency—and go to locker number 818 where there is a gray uniform waiting for me. I pull the loose top on over my existing uniform, then drag the extra-large pants up my legs. Looking down at my chest I see a name tag. I am Phil now. There’s a picture of him inside the locker. Him and his wife. Poor woman. Her husband is probably dead. Well—I chuckle—she’s probably dead too.

  I slam the locker shut and follow the lighted path out of the room and into a stairwell, climbing to the fifth floor, home to one escaped Prodigy child called Thomas Brooks.

  I access his personal file to get familiar with him. His power is… well, that’s interesting.

  My feet are still climbing up the stairs as I read.

  Thomas Brooks—Level Ten Mentalist. Level Ten Aggressionist. Level Ten Manipulist. Level Ten Capturist. Use extreme caution. Non-lethal intervention advised at all times.

  It’s a unique combination, but it all adds up to one thing. Mind thief. Mentalist combined with capturist means he can steal memories, especially from people who die in his vicinity. Aggressionist combined with manipulist means he can force people to do things against their will.

  All together these things mean that unless he’s drugged, he’s always the one in control.

  My vision screen has a flashing red caution sign next to his name, and there’s a yellow tag attached to it which reads: Active.

  Well, he won’t be active for long. My hand unconsciously pats the outline of a syringe in my pocket underneath my asylum uniform. I have what I need to deactivate him.

  When I get to the fifth floor, I enter the hallway. People are insanely—no pun intended—busy because of the blaring alarm Prodigy triggered to help me get in the building, and take no notice of me. So I don’t even have to bother with a trip. There’s a nurse’s station along the far end of the hallway, but there’s no way to get into that computer, so I head to my left, push through another door, and try for one of the empty offices.

  The third one on the right is unlocked when I turn the knob, so I slip in, close the door behind me, and take a seat at the desk just as a passcode flashes on my vision screen.

  I type it in, get access to the database, then go looking for my target.

  There he is. Thomas Brooks, level three, room seven, solitary housing.

  Level three, though. That’s not what I have on my screen—my vision screen updates, changing level five to level three.

  Hmmm. They don’t usually get this stuff wrong.

  I shrug as I stand, then head back out. The chaos is dying down now that people realize the alarm was a bug in the system, so I have to throw a trip, make my face and body look like poor Phil, to get past a few people and back into the stairwell. It only lasts a few seconds, so recovery is a non-issue by the time I’m back on track.

  Level three is empty.

  It’s also very… prison-like. Nothing at all like level five. There’s no nurse’s station, for one. And there’s no tile on the floor. Just bare concrete. The rooms look more like cells. Small, high windows. Slots in the doors for… what? Food? Yes, definitely more like a prison.

  I walk cautiously along the corridor until I get to the one door with no window.

  Number seven.

  And it’s open.

  Empty.

  What the fuck? I type out to my handlers. There’s a little camera in my iris that shoots footage back to them, so they see what I’m seeing.

  Check the computer.

  What computer?

  End of the hall, turn left. Second door on the right. Code to get in…

  It lists the sequence to enter that door.

  I punch it in, ready to throw a trip if anyone’s in there—even though I have no idea who I should become if that happens—and push it open.

  Dark and empty. Just the faint light from a sleeping screen off to the left.

  I take a look behind me, checking for people, then slip inside and close the door.

  How do I get in? I type.

  What is presumably a password flashes across my vision.

  I take a seat, type it in, gain access, then go searching for Brooks.

  Sixth floor, it says. Dr. Yasmine Bates’ office. Room six-nineteen. Scheduled for… It doesn’t say what he’s scheduled for. It says, ‘Classified.’

  Hold, is Prodigy’s reply.

  I wait, nervously looking over my shoulder at the door. If anyone comes in I will fail. I don’t have a face to trip into. Not one that will have security clearance to get into this room. Phil was presumably a low-level employee, a janitor or something. And there are no pictures in here to steal a face. I tap my fingers on the desktop, forcing myself not to start counting seconds.

  And then they’re back.

  Abort mission and return to Prodigy.

  “What?” I say, then type it with my mind, since they can’t hear me. What?

  You will abort mission immediately and return to Prodigy for storage.

  Motherfuckers. I was just getting excited about this shit.

  The chair slides underneath me as I stand and make for the door. I open it, peek out, then type, Send me a face to steal in case I’m seen. Assholes. I can’t use any of the faces from before. Those people clearly do not belong on this floor.

  A picture flashes on my vision screen and I memorize it, slipping back out into the corridor at the same time.

  I go back the way I came, looking around. A face appears in a window, the man’s hand slapping against the shatterproof glass. I do not jump or scream. But he definitely makes my heart skip a beat.

  This hallway is creepy as fuck.

  A loud buzzer blares and the doorway leading to the stairs opens. I trip into the face Prodigy sent, but the woman scowls at me when it… fucking fails to take.

  What the hell?

  “Who are you?” she demands. “What are you doing on this floor?”

  Abort, abort, abort, my vision screen is flashing.

  No shit, assholes. I am aborting.

  Three things happen, almost all at once. First, the woman leans into her shoulder, clearly about to speak into a radio. Second, I move forward with speed, reacting out of instinct now. Third, she says, “We—”

  But she doesn’t get any farther than that because I’ve snapped her neck.

  Her body slumps to the floor as her radio squeaks static, then words. “Say again, Mona?”

  I’m Mona now. I grab her face, tuck it away in my memory for later, and enter the stairs.

  Footsteps below me. Running up.

  Shit.

  My stupid screen is still flashing, Abort, abort, abort.

  “Mona?” someone calls.

  I am frozen in place. I cannot call back. I cannot capture voices. So I’ll have to wait until they reach me, or risk going down to meet them, in order to start a new trip. And even then—fuck—it hits me then.
My trip didn’t work. What the hell?

  But I’m saved again by another blaring alarm. I pray that it does the job, since we just used that tactic a few minutes ago.

  “Forget Mona,” another voice says, one floor below me. “We’ve got a riot on three.”

  Their footsteps recede, going down again. I take my chances and go up to the top floor just as more people enter the stairwell down below.

  What’s happening? I type.

  You were told to abort.

  I am aborting! But if you want me to get out of here unseen, then I have to take the long way back.

  Proceed to the garage level.

  Fuck them, I decide. I’m on six. But there has to be another stairwell. Probably on the other side of the building. I have Mona’s face now. I can be her on my way out. If I can manage to get a clear path. And—I don’t want to think about this part, because it unsettles me—if I can make the trip work.

  What the hell happened back there? It was like… I was… normal. I don’t want to be normal. I do not do normal. I am Sadie Scott, the best motherfucking illusionist this world has ever seen.

  I like it that way.

  I open the door for the sixth floor and peek out. It’s quiet and silent. I slip out, walk casually, Mona’s face at the ready so I can throw a trip. But then I see the room I’m almost looking for. Six-nineteen. Dr. Yasmine Bates.

  Inside that room is my objective, Thomas Brooks.

  CHAPTER FIVE - THOMAS

  It’s not being strapped to a table that starts the panic. It’s not the injection, or the way reality begins to expand almost instantaneously as the burning liquid makes its way up my arm towards my heart. It’s not even the second alarm. I can only see a slice of reality through the nearly shut lids of my eyes, but everyone in this room ignores that alarm.

  It’s the memories that come flooding back as they open me up. Not my body, but my mind.

  Panic for me has unique consequences. And these people have no idea what they’ve started.

  “Thomas,” Yasmine says. Her voice is far away and echo-y. I can’t see her, but I can feel her. Smell her. Sense her in other ways too. There is a spongy aura surrounding her body. Everyone’s body. But all I see is hers, because she is closest to me. “Can you hear me?”

  I have known Yasmine since we were small. She was probably my best friend at one time. My only friend for a long time. Her hair was always dark—unless she was standing in front of a window and the sunlight could catch the ends and highlight her head in gold. And it was always long. She was a lot like Molly, I think. Except Molly is a lot younger. She wasn’t even born yet when I knew Yasmine.

  “Can you hear me?” she repeats.

  It’s dangerous to answer her. I remember this much. Especially under the drugs. She’s a level eight mentalist. Not a ten, like me. But she is a level ten manipulist. And a level ten capturist.

  She can steal minds under the right conditions.

  She’s wrong if she thinks this is “right conditions,” but I don’t tell her that.

  “Thomas,” she tries again.

  My very first memory was in my nursery. I was four, maybe. Five, at the most. It doesn’t help to describe the nursery, because the nursery was perfect. Everything was new and high-quality. A finely polished sleigh bed, sized for a small child, with bright white linens, soft pillows and blankets, and stuffed animals.

  There were toys to engage my mind and a rocking chair that reminded me of the nurse who cared for me. There was a large mobile in front of the window, just above where I would lay my head at night. It was a flock of flying birds. They would swing and bob on their wire tethers, each one weighted slightly differently to simulate natural behavior. If birds flying in a perpetual circle are considered natural.

  “Do I have to dose you again?” Yasmine asks in the now.

  She can give me more, but I can’t be responsible for what happens if she does.

  The memory of the nursery is always where things start. Something pretty bad happened in there. And when you’re four or five, pretty bad can mean a whole plethora of things that have no real consequence whatsoever.

  But that’s not how this memory shakes out because this isn’t a real memory. Oh, the nursery was real. The nurse too. All the things in there. But this… what’s happening to me right now… this is a trigger.

  Oh, no. Yasmine is not going to like this at all.

  If I had better control of my facial muscles I’d smile. Give her a little peek. A little jolt. A little glimpse into what’s coming.

  A chance to escape, maybe. I have never actually hated her. I just… dislike her a lot. Still, I’d let her get away if she could manage it. I’m loyal like that, even though she doesn’t deserve it. She helped me once. We were friends. But then they took her away and she never came back.

  She’s not paying enough attention right now. She thinks she’s got me. She thinks she’s the one in control. She thinks a whole lot of things that aren’t really happening.

  And why is that?

  I’ll tell you. If you can keep a secret, I’ll let you in.

  “Come closer.” I don’t mean to speak, but the whisper comes out anyway. This is the part I can’t control. But you understand, right? You’re me, so you must.

  “What is it?” Yasmine asks, leaning in. Closer. Then closer still.

  “You’re not,” I whisper. Again, not meaning to.

  “I’m not what?” she asks.

  I don’t think Yasmine hates me either. I think she’s just… one of those women. The controlling types. As least she thinks she is. But no matter how many straps are holding me down to this table, and no matter how many syringes she empties into my bloodstream… she will never control me. I made sure of it.

  “Aggressive enough.” There. I said it. A small, weak chuckle escapes my lips. She’s a level two aggressionist, which means she cannot really force people to do things against their will.

  “Fuck you,” she whispers back. Her lips are so close to my cheek I can feel her breath.

  She hates that. The reminder that they never finished her. They left her incomplete. “I would’ve killed you,” I growl, my voice clear and strong now. “When I killed all the others, you know.”

  “Fuck you,” she says again.

  “But only to put you out of your misery.” His—my—laughter bursts forth.

  “Give him another dose,” Yasmine barks to her team. “We’ll see who’s aggressive enough.”

  See, this is her whole problem. She still lives in the nursery. She still thinks she’s one of the favorites. She still buys into the lies they weaved into our tiny minds—day after day. Until the days turned into months and the months turned into years.

  I’m sure plenty of people think Yasmine Bates is aggressive. But that’s not what I’m talking about and she knows it. I’m talking about the modifications they did to us. The manipulations they subjected us to when we were small. Before we left that nursery we were complete and she was missing something. Something I had plenty of.

  Aggression.

  Not aggression, as in the desire to fight. But aggression as in the ability to hurt. Not with my hands, but my mind.

  I told you. I told you there’s anarchy up there. I told you it’s inside me. I told you this over and over and over and over and—

  “That’s the second dose,” one of her helpers says.

  “Gimme more.” I laugh. “Gimme all of it. I can take it. I can take it and you know it. Nothing you do to me will ever change who you aren’t.”

  Level ten aggressionist is part of what I am. Just one tiny part, really. But it makes all the difference and Yasmine knows this. She sees what I can do. She sees what I’m capable of. And she knows she can’t compete.

  She’s just missing something.

  Her soft hand touches my throat and when I force my eyes open to see my little sliver of reality, she’s baring her teeth at me.

  “If only you had fangs, darling, then you could
suck it out of me like a leech.”

  She squeezes my windpipe. Chokes me. I’d still be laughing if she wasn’t cutting off my airway.

  I mentally push against her spongy aura, testing things out.

  Not yet. Not quite. But almost.

  I don’t want to do it. I’ve taken great care of the past fifteen years to keep it in check. But then fucking Case had to go shoot me with that poison.

  You want to kill him for that.

  No. I correct the voice inside me. I want to kill someone for that, but it’s not Case. He didn’t do this to me. He didn’t turn me into this fucking freak show. He didn’t strap me down as a child and force me to change.

  “You’re wrong, Mr. Brooks,” Yasmine seethes into my ear. “So, so very wrong.” But I’m not. And when she barks, “Give him another one,” I know this for certain.

  This is it, Thomas. This is the end of you. One more syringe will be enough. One more syringe will trigger it. One more goddamned syringe and I will finally be free because I’ll be dead.

  “Do it.” But this time it’s not out loud. That anarchy chained up in my head knows better than to beg. It knows she will get suspicious and put a stop to it. It knows I will die quietly instead of the way it was always planned.

  So she doesn’t hear my warning.

  I feel the push in my vein. I feel the burn travel up my arm. I feel it entering the right atrium of my heart. And then a contraction. Thump. It’s in. Thump. It’s out. Thump, thump. Into the lungs. Back to the heart. Thump, thump. That quick… everything has changed.

  Her aura is no longer spongy. It’s a wall. And walls can be knocked down. Walls are breakable. Walls are meant to be broken.

  My eyes open. I see the operating room light. Yasmine off to my right, still partially bending over, her hand still on my throat in a gesture of aggression she knows she can’t use against me.