Dangerous, huh? We shall see.
VI: Darts and the Doctor
Sunday, March 16, 2065; 10:45 a.m.
First person
“Just one more… There,” Nate says.
I feel the sling on my left arm loosen, and my arm is finally free. I shake the rest of the sling off before Nate can grab it—partly to check the strength of the arm and partly to annoy him. No blood seeps from underneath the tan bandage covering my arm, and no pain comes from any movement. There is a small tingling sensation, but the arm is strong.
“Okay, now all that’s left is to take that wrapping off and check the wound,” Nate says. He picks up the sling from off the floor and places it on the lab table next to me. Whatever.
Although I’ve only been in Nate’s lab room for less than ten minutes, I already want to leave. Actually, I never really wanted to come, but if it meant the arm sling coming off then it’s not a bad deal. I’m one step closer to getting the hell out of here.
“So are you always this quiet?” Nate asks, digging through a drawer for scissors or something.
I can only assume he’s talking to me since we are the only two in the room. Moton was here earlier, but something about a thunder issue called him away. The last eight minutes since Moton left have been filled with Nate’s doctor language and awkward silences. If he knew that I had heard the majority of the argument last night, he’d probably prefer silence, too.
“I take that as a yes,” he says.
He pulls out a small pair of scissors and snips the wrapping. I try to help, but he tells me to sit still as he slowly...unbearably slowly… unravels the bandage.
“Am I done now?” I ask. I slide off the table.
“No! Just hang on a minute longer,” Nate says.
I sigh and hop back onto the lab table. He couldn’t drag this out any longer if he tried.
“Let me take a look at this scar. Could you turn that way for me?” he says.
I glance the other way as he leans his face close to my shoulder. He places one hand on my back and presses his fingers lightly on the opposite side of my shoulder. My heart quickens, and my skin under his fingers starts to tingle like before.
“Why did you save us?” Nate says.
Me… save them? I nearly got them killed. I think the better question is why they saved me.
“Still nothing,” he says. His fingers press a little deeper on my shoulder, and I feel like the bullet re-pierces my skin. I wince.
“Sorry,” he says. He takes his hands away. “There’s a pocket of blood or fluid trapped where the bullet was—it looks like an infection. Your body is already fighting it off, but an antibiotic solution would relieve any pain and speed the healing process. That means I need to give you a shot, are you okay with that?”
I nod but don’t look at him. I hate needles, but since I almost blew-up Nate’s hand the last time I saw him holding a syringe, he doesn’t seem that excited to give me a shot either. He grabs his crutches and hobbles to the back of his lab to prepare the shot.
“Did I scare you—the last time you were here, or back when we found you under that bridge? If I did, I wasn’t trying to. We’re here to help you, and that’s all. I just… I feel like I can’t help you if you’re afraid of me, or any of us here at Kenyon,” Nate says.
I turn and stare at his back while he puts the shot together and talks. He’s not wearing the blue lab coat, although there’s a very in-your-face sign saying “ALL WORKERS ARE REQUIRED TO WEAR A LAB COAT AND GOGGLES AT ALL TIMES.” Is he not wearing it for me? More likely he’s not wearing it because he’s still on crutches.
He can’t be more than a year older than me, but he is already a doctor? Maybe I shouldn’t call him that, or maybe he’s still training to be one. But his youth and accomplishments are not the biggest mystery about him. His desire to help me and stand up for me… that I don’t get. I’ve never felt so tied to anyone who has saved my life.
He hobbles back with the syringe in his hand, so I keep my eyes glued to his forehead.
“Okay, this will sting,” he says.
I watch his face as he inserts the needle into my arm and covers it with a four-leaf-clover Band-Aid. At least it’s not pink. His crystal-blue eyes could cut my skin open, and a deep crease in his skin forms between them.
“There, it should be good now,” he says.
He looks up at me, and the crease between his eyes disappears. I want to jump down from the lab table and get out of here, but there’s some mystery still that keeps my eyes where they are.
“Answer me one question, please,” he says. “When we were fighting those men back when we first found you by the bridge, you shouldn’t have been able to fight them, but your powers kept you going. It was almost like… like they had taken over. But then you turned to me, and you almost—the energy almost attacked me, too. And you stopped it… Why?”
I hesitate. How could he be so perceptive, see all the destruction I could cause with my nuclear abilities, and witness my own struggle to contain it? Someone with that much perception is valuable, not always to be trusted, and above all: dangerous.
“Why don’t you say anything?” he says.
“Does the silence scare you?” I respond.
“Only when there’s something that needs to be said,” he says.
The door opens, and Marissa and Zoë walk in.
“Hi guys!” Marissa says.
She and her big smile skip over to us. Nate steps back from me, and I slide off the lab table. Zoë stays by the door, arms folded but slightly smiling.
Between the two girls, I feel severely underdressed. Zoë wears a pair of tight, black-leather pants with a sharp blue shirt that matches her eyes. Marissa is more dressed-up; she is wearing a pair of white jeggings and a colorful blouse. The oversized jeans and Cleveland Browns shirt Marissa let me borrow make me look too thin. I do need to gain some weight, though; being on the run for twenty-two months doesn’t nurture the healthiest of bodies, even for a body manufactured to a fixed agile state.
“Are you guys ready?” Marissa asks.
“Ready for what?” I ask.
“We have a surprise for you, Annika, and all the Metanites are supposed to be there—right Nate?”
A surprise? Probably the Metanites’ attempt to show me that they “are dangerous, too.” We’ll see.
“Almost everyone,” he says.
“Is it my sweater?” I ask.
“Not quite, but your sweater is where we are taking you, so kind-a! So come-on,” she says. She grabs my hand and drags me out the door with her and Zoë. “Nate, are you coming?”
“I’ll catch-up,” he says.
“Okay, let’s go,” Zoë says.
We walk toward the circle of elevators in the middle of the lab-hospital floor. Once inside the elevator I wait for either Zoë or Marissa to enter a floor level into the Bleu screen, but neither move.
“So what floor?” I ask.
Zoë and Marissa smile at each other, but still don’t move.
“This isn’t our elevator,” Zoë says.
She reaches up to the speaker that sits just above the Bleu screen and pushes the entire box into the elevator wall. We hear a click, and the wall behind us slides open and reveals a large, hexagonal elevator with doors on all sides that connect to the ordinary elevators.
Holy shit, I think to myself. I should run for it—get out before they’ve trapped me, and I have to fight my way out—but I follow the girls into the secret elevator. The floor and walls are gray and sleek like the surface of a mirror and reflect our figures with a tinge of gray. The ceiling of the elevator is different: it’s white, tiled, and holds a flat speaker in the center.
“Careful. Don’t touch the walls,” Marissa says.
Zoë steps toward a wall and flattens her hand against it. A red line scans every wall from the top, through Zoë’s hand, to the floor, and disappearing under our feet.
“Zoë Mencken,” says an artificial voice f
rom the speaker.
A list of glowing numbers 1 through 99 along with the letters “M” and “B” appear on the wall where Zoë’s had was. They glow a sharp orange and seem to pop off the wall. Zoë taps the orange letter “M”, the letter amplifies, glows red, and all the numbers and letters fade back into the wall. The secret elevator “dings” and descends at an increasing rate, plummeting us stories below Kenyon.
“Welcome to the Base,” Marissa says.
The elevator comes to a gradual stop. The walls become transparent, two of which open up to the most incredible room I have ever seen.
Spanning the size of two football fields, this twenty-first century training room outshines all the awe-inspiring architecture and technology of Kenyon. The elevator sits in the center of the enormous space, elevated a few steps above the floor of the room. The transparent walls offer a panoramic view of the whole room, and I take it all in.
The floors, the walls, and the high ceiling are dark titanium. Ropes, bars, and monkey bars hang from the ceiling; some of the various ropes reach down to a thick matt on the floor. A slender girl with bronze skin and a dark, bouncing fro leaps from rope to bar to rope high above the cushioned floor.
On one side of the room is a set of four screens, each the size of a billboard and each showing a different image: a view of downtown Cleveland, a camera-view of the entrance to Kenyon, someone’s file, and a long and complex set of numbers. The screens are slightly angled in a semi-circle around a chair and large Bleu-screen control table. A girl with short black hair sits in front of the screen; her fingers dance along it, tapping various buttons and dials and changing the image on the billboard screens.
To the left of the billboard screens is a large, round table with black, cushioned chairs. In the middle of the table is a bold, black letter “M” which could be for either Moton or the Metanites, I guess. A couple refrigerators, cupboards of food and paper dishes, and a microwave line the wall behind the table.
On the opposite side of the room, there’s a large space the size of half a professional soccer field. Various obstacles and moving objects are arranged throughout the space as teenaged boys throw small beanbags—or just shoot energy, fireballs, etc—at targets scattering through the obstacle course. Elijah is among the boys and shoots a fireball at a target hanging from the ceiling. The other guys cheer when the target catches on fire.
Most importantly, there’s no clear way to get out of here. The elevator is the only option, but I can’t access it. If these teenagers so choose, this could be my prison.
“We’re here!” Marissa shouts, stepping out of the elevator and walking down the steps to the floor.
The teenagers all glance up. When they see me, they pause for a moment, then everyone makes their way toward the elevator. Even the trapeze-girl slides down a rope and makes her way over.
I step down a couple steps, but I’m too anxious to join them. I have to show control though—show them that I’m not afraid of them or whatever skit they put on to convince me how dangerous they are. The elevator closes and shoots up and away. My stomach drops.
They’re not out to get you, I tell myself. They won’t trap you down here because this is their space, and they don’t want you in it. Just be tough, and don’t let them make you nervous. They’re just teenagers… just like me.
No, not like you, the voice in my head says.
“Metanites, Marissa says, “this is Annika. Annika, meet the Metanites.”
“Hey,” I say, and instantly regret it.
Four of the seven teenagers respond with hellos and forced smiles—more generous than I had expected. I recognize a few of them. Elijah and Abraham are here, and they both smiled and said hello. Lazzer—white, spikey hair—is here, and he didn’t smile at all at me. The only other one that smiled was a short Japanese girl who was sitting in front of the billboard screens.
As a whole they’re not exactly what I expected: they look like normal teenagers, for the most part. If they had worn those silver uniforms instead of casual clothes then they might have looked more dangerous.
“Now I know Annika met some of you already, so here’s the ones you haven’t met,” Marissa says.
No one moves or says anything until Marissa coughs and glares at the teenager wearing sunglasses. He’s also wearing a thick tank top over a vibrant Under Armour shirt.
“Oh,” he says. He clears his voice and steps toward me. “I’m Xander.”
He holds his hand out and winks at me. Ew. I smile though and make sure to squeeze his hand harder than him.
“Izzi,” says the bronze-skinned girl who was swinging from the ceiling. Even with one word her thick English accent is noticeable. She doesn’t move toward me at all, outdoing all of Zoë’s protests against me in a single second.
“I’m Nickel,” says a larger, tall teenager. I’m assuming he’s the one whose skin turns steel, like it did when they found me under the bridge.
“And I’m Kiaria,” says the short girl. She smiles through her eyes, even though her bangs are a week away from getting in their way.
I smile back and say, “Nice to meet you all.”
“Great, so…” Marissa starts to say, but a low thud echoes from behind us.
I turn around, and the elevator doors slide open, revealing Nate. He hobbles out of the elevator, still using his crutches.
“Sorry I’m late,” Nate says.
“Nate!” everyone yells. Elijah and Lazzer run past me and hoist Nate up onto their shoulders.
“Whoa! Hey! Stop—Eli!” Nate yells. The crutches fall down the stairs, and the boys surround Nate and carry him down to the arena where all the obstacles and targets are stationed.
“Zoë, help me!” Nate yells, smiling.
“Hey guys, put him down. Don’t break him!” she shouts.
“Break him?” Lazzer responds.
Zoë and the girls run after them. Marissa takes my hand and pulls me over toward the group.
Everyone stops at the edge of the arena. Nickel grabs a tall stool from the arena, and Elijah and Lazzer sit Nate down on it.
“What is wrong with you guys?” Nate says, but he doesn’t stop smiling. He looks at me and smiles brighter. I catch myself smiling and turn away.
“We missed you, man! You’ve been hiding out in the hospital all week,” Nickel says.
Nickel is huge… I mean, he’s just a machine. He’s taller than the rest—well, maybe not Abraham—and the heaviest. But he is not overweight; muscles coat his thick body, muscles that could be closer to metal than human flesh. Marissa had mentioned him before… something about his skin transforming into whatever metal or material he touches…steel, copper, bronze… The way he walks and stands, too, is like someone presses a button and he goes, on command, with a certain purpose, with and without fluidity. But his face, his eyes in particular, are as soft and as fragile as a stray kitten.
“Thanks, Nick,” Nate says to him.
“Dude, can you still fly?” Abraham asks. “Because it’s still not too late to drop out of the tournament.”
Abraham, the total opposite of Nickel when it comes to appearance though just as tall, is Mr. Personality as Marissa calls him. He uses his super-human flexibility to reach his arm around the others and mess-up Nate’s hair.
“Moton said I shouldn’t… but,” Nate says. Everyone laughs. “Where’s Kono?”
“She’s not coming,” Izzi says.
Shocking.
“Nice,” Nate says, glancing my way. “So what destructive, senseless thing are you guys doing today?”
Inviting me to their base, I think to myself.
“Darts,” Lazzer says. Everyone who didn’t smile when introducing themselves to me smiles now. So this must be the “dangerous” skit they have planned for me. I can’t wait.
“Darts, of course,” Nate says.
“Yeah, Elijah just got a new high score: forty-five hundred points,” Xander says.
“And five hundred style points,” Abra
ham adds.
Elijah shrugs. “Yeah, it was pretty sick.”
“Oh, shut it,” Zoë says. “No one says ‘sick’ anymore, and I saw you had two lucky shots.”
“Are you kidding? I set the arena on fire, babe!”
“Sure, sure.”
“Okay, then beat it.”
“That score?”
“You chicken?” Elijah teases, winking at her.
Zoë smiles. “X, start the arena.”
The Metanites “ohhh” and giggle as Zoë steps out into the arena.
“This is going to be good,” Marissa whisper in my ear.
Xander hits the red button, and suddenly the arena comes alive. The floor shifts and surges; the red-and-white, circular targets rotate and swing; and the obstacles throughout the arena turn and slide in all directions. Zoë leaps around the arena with an easy confidence. She fires light-blue photons of electric energy at the targets, striking bull’s eye almost every time.
From the corner of my eye I catch Izzi staring at me. She whispers something to Xander. He smiles and glances over at me.
“Oh!” Abraham says.
My attention returns to the arena, and I watch Zoë nail a particularly tricky shot: striking bull’s eye while back-flipping off a rolling barrel. After taking five impressive shots, Zoë gives us a bow and struts back toward us while the Metanites clap and salute her. Xander hits the red button again, and the arena dies.
If this is their “dangerous” skit, then I’m impressed. Not scared, but just impressed.
“How about that shooting?” Zoë says to Elijah.
“Eh, eight out of ten. Maybe eight-and-a-half,” he says, arms folded across his chest.
“Yeah, sorry Zoë. He beat you by five hundred,” Xander says.
Elijah and Zoë go back and forth until Kiaria and Abraham decide that Elijah wins the high score but Zoë wins with style points.
“You want to have a go at it?” Xander asks. It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me.
“Me?” I say. Is he serious?
“Yeah, go for it.”
The Nancy Experiment Page 6