The vid ends not too long after the exchange occurs. Dr. Cato and her companion exit the bar and the informant fails to capture a good view of the man's face.
The waifish cop silences the digital screen and I request the digivid player. It's compact, handheld, and about the size of early cellular phones. She gives it to me without hesitation once it's disconnected from the digital screen.
I return upstairs to Dr. Cato's bedroom. Sophia has not wrapped up the interrogation yet. Dr. Cato could probably speak for days about her endeavors on behalf of SAFE; most people off the Purge enjoy talking as if revved up from sipping an illegal drink called Alacrity. The drink speeds up the chemical processes inside the brain while boosting a person with a shot of raw energy for multiple hours.
"So, you won't tell me anything about your rebel friends?" Sophia is asking when I arrive.
Dr. Cato shakes her head. "You won't get anything out of me. I will never betray my associates."
"Very well then. The prosecutors at your trial will—"
"Sophia," I silence my partner, stepping into the room.
Sophia looks up at me with uncaring eyes. Dr. Cato's eyes find me as well. The dog's out of the sack now, or whatever the old pointless saying is.
Dr. Cato studies me for a moment, curious about my sudden interruption. She's also suspicious of me, but glad that I'm here. Her features soften at the sight of me. She looks almost . . . relieved, I suppose, to see me once again.
"William," Dr. Cato whispers in disbelief.
I ignore her. Calling my name means nothing to me.
"I knew you would be here," she states softly. "I knew they would send you. I'm sorry that you have to see me like this but you would have learned the truth eventually."
And there it is—the reason why I noticed her feelings of shame earlier. She's sorry that she believes she let me down somehow by her actions. Logically, I don't understand why she would break the law if she feels terrible afterwards. I also don't understand why she's sorry. But it's not in me to concern myself with trivial matters.
Dr. Cato smiles. "You were always so intelligent, my dear child."
She's trying to bait me but it won't work. I will not feel sympathy for her. When I look upon her face, I see another lawbreaker who deserves rehabilitation. In prison, scientists will study her like a test subject to break her willpower. She will receive a more concentrated dose of the Purge until the drug starts to affect her behavior eventually. She will be forced to perform manual labor jobs for ten to twelve hours a day. When she's not being studied or working, she will stare at the white walls of her cell. The walls are colorless, just like she should be.
"What were you doing in a bar two days ago with an unknown companion?" I ask her calmly.
She smirks. "What? No hello for your old lady?" She shakes her head. "I should have expected as much. You're just like your father and every other fool who lives and dies under the guidance of the Purge."
"You handed your companion a blank envelope, secured by a digital cipher," I try again. "What was inside of that envelope?"
Dr. Cato laughs, a harsh sound full of what I suspect is mirth. "Information vital to the success of SAFE in the upcoming war."
"There will be no war," I retort simply.
"There will be," Dr. Cato is confident. "I hope that in the end you will fight for the proper side, William. I love you and I want you by my side when we storm the Bastille."
I note the reference to the opening event of the French Revolution, because I studied the important wars and conflicts in history extensively during my training. The Bastille is symbolic in the eyes of SAFE members, as it represents the Core. The radicals long to infiltrate the Core's defenses and put a bullet through the head of the Chancellor.
I also notice what she said before that. It means nothing, except that the last person who loved me ended up incarcerated.
"What was the information?" I question her.
"Information that will change everything."
Cryptic. Not willing to give straight answers. There's no need to interrogate her anymore. Not at least until she's back to depending upon the Purge, however long it takes.
"Let's wrap this up, Sophia," I tell my partner. "Dr. Cato won't betray anything to us."
I turn to sweep out of the room and allow Sophia to close with a few more official inquiries. It's time for me to grant Olivia Cruz her interview. But before Sophia can say anything, Dr. Cato speaks again. "What do you know about the Catalyst, William?"
I face her again and respond automatically with common knowledge. "It's the energy source for the Grid."
A dark look spreads across Dr. Cato's face. "It's more than that," she tells me. "It's the driving force behind Project Lightning."
Her last two words don't strike a chord with me. Project Lightning? Must be one of her latest research projects, a project she won't be allowed to finish.
"What's Project Lightning?" I dare to ask, although I know she won't feed me anything pertinent.
"You want to know about the project?" Dr. Cato informs me. "Then, why don't you ask your beloved Chancellor? His office provides the primary source of funding."
"The Chancellor's office provides money for everything in Paradise," I remind her in case she has forgotten. Then, I walk away.
"Goodbye, William," Dr. Cato finds it difficult to say.
I will be called to testify during her trials but after that, she'll probably never see me ever again. Prisoners are not allowed visitors, except those authorized by the government and those visitors usually include only psychoanalysts.
I leave her bedroom without a backward glance. I retrace my steps back towards the stairs and bypass my old room without taking one last look inside. Today, Sophia and I arrested another criminal but once Olivia Cruz gets wind of the complete story, Dr. Cato won't just be another criminal to the SAFE rebels. She will be a warning against instigating a war against the government, a war that the rebels can't win no matter how hopeful they feel. The Chancellor's personal armada—the Amber Army—will put the revolutionaries down with ease. Just like they did during the uprising in the north over fifteen years ago.
Never before has an agent arrested a member of his or her immediate family. Parents and siblings of agents have always upheld the laws. Their faith in the Purge has always been stalwart, until Dr. Cato shattered the perfect record.
And I will make an example out of her. This will be an unprecedented day, one that will break the resolve of those standing against the government once and for all.
Chapter Five, Part One
Charlotte
Currently Listening To: "Invisible" by Disciple
Somehow, and I don't know how because my mind is numb with fear and disbelief, but somehow, I make it home in one piece.
I enter the two-story Solid Digital Projection home that I share with my father and my younger sister, Abigail. Scarlett used to live here before her arrest and I suppose my mother did too before she died. I'm not sure though because my father never likes to talk about her and my parents weren't married.
In modern-day cities, especially a digital island like Paradise, mostly everything except for people is a Solid Digital Projection, or SDP. After World War III, the SDP technology from Paradise helped to rebuild and replace cities and towns heavily damaged by bombings. SDPs are images of objects generated by computerized emitters. These images have mass, volume, and depth similar to the real source they emulate. Anything can be a SDP—a motorcycle, a road, a building, or an entire neighborhood. These projections give a false sense of reality, mimicking objects of the past while integrating futuristic technology. They are true representations of circular history at work and emblems of nostalgic progress.
Digital cities are magnificent marvels to behold. Beautiful pigments of color leap from the projections to find comfort in the eyes of beholders. Reds sparkle like the finest rubies. Blues twinkle like sapphire crystals. And purples gleam like amethyst jewels. I appreciate the bright colors of
vehicles and buildings because my assignments typically send me to monochromatic places, devoid of SDPs. The plus side of the dim lighting is that I don't have to wear sunglasses whenever I'm in a digital area, because somehow the sunlight reflects differently off of SDPs. I'm no scientist so I can't explain this phenomenon; however, I know enough to know that I hate wearing sunglasses. They always leave tan lines on the bridge of my nose.
My house is dark and quiet as I limp inside. Abigail is still at school and my father is upstairs resting.
I'm bruised, bloodied, and battered. I also have trouble breathing at the moment, since I held my breath for a very long time underwater. My throat is dry and parched. I'm super thirsty, even though I spent the past half an hour in the Utopia River, the cleanest source of freshwater to ever exist. In addition to powering the Grid, that's another thing that the Catalyst does. The energy supplied by the Catalyst purifies all bodies of water associated with the island, even the Atlantic Ocean to a certain degree. The Catalyst powers some kind of advanced hydroelectrically generated filter. Again, I am no science buff, so that's about all of my knowledge concerning that particular subject.
I pass through the plainly decorated sitting room, with its uncomfortable SDP furniture and digital screen that's miniscule compared to others I have seen inside the homes of richer families. I slowly ascend the stairs. I'm careful not to alert my father to my presence, as I don't want him to know that I'm home just yet. If he saw me in my current state, then I would have to tell him about my secret life as a Messenger. So far, I have convinced him that I work as a courier, which is similar to my true job so I don't feel like I'm lying to him a hundred percent. My father has been through enough already that I don't need to add to his pain. It would devastate him if he found out that I worked for SAFE, although he would probably be a bit proud as well. My father hates the government more so than the next SAFE man or woman. He feels that the Chancellor and his minions are somehow responsible for his disease. I agree with him, which is why I try to keep him and Abigail off of the Purge.
I retreat to my bedroom at the end of the hall, the one I used to share with Scarlett before she was sent to prison. My father's bedroom door is closed so I know that he's asleep.
Nothing in my room reminds me that Scarlett was ever here. My father couldn't bear it when she taken away from us so he moved all of her stuff into storage. Everything in here belongs to me alone. Digital readers containing my schoolbooks clutter my desktop, along with a few sheets of loose-leaf paper, a couple of spiral notebooks, and a half a dozen pens. Clothes are everywhere, covering the floor almost like carpet. Clothes are also draped across my desk chair and the foot of my bed. My closet door is wide open, displaying even more clothes. And the color purple stands out most in my room—my favorite color—as evident by the color of the walls, my comforter, and my goose-necked desk lamp.
I march straight into the bathroom that connects my room with Abigail's, stepping around piles of clothes. I drop my wet purse into the bathtub for the time being and I strip off the bloody dress and my special scarf in here, so that the wet blood will be easier to clean up on tiled floor. I wash up and rip off the prosthetic nose. Then, I change into a new outfit suitable for casual wear around the house—a t-shirt and shorts so that I can access my wounds.
Speaking of my wounds, I tear open the medicine cabinet above the sink and search for something to tend to the cuts and scratches I received during my escape from BioLife. I find bandages but I have no peroxide. Sighing and grunting in pain and struggling to breathe properly, I tiptoe back downstairs. I enter the tiny kitchen, which is barely large enough to fit a stove, refrigerator, sink, and a couple of cabinets. I raid my father's hidden stash of smuggled alcohol, concealed beneath a portion of removable tiles. The alcohol helps him deaden his pain nowadays. I don't necessarily like my father's drinking habits but the liquor seems to improve his health sometimes.
Beneath a couple of tall bottles of moonshine, I find something that will work. After removing the dusty bottle from the cache (while praying that the loud clinking of glass doesn't wake my father) I study the label caked with grime. It's Rachmaninoff vodka. 80 proof. Perfect.
I head back up to the bathroom and I use the vodka to clean my wounds as best I can. Alcohol is not the best choice for cleaning wounds. It burns worse than fire and it's practically ineffective as a germicide, since I can't submerge my entire arms and legs into a bottle with an opening the size of a quarter. Nonetheless, it disinfects my cuts enough that I'm no longer worried about infections. I bandage a few of the deeper gashes, which are luckily concealed in places where neither my father nor my sister can see them.
Continuing to clean up my mess from earlier, I yank off the blonde wig and stuff it along with the bloody dress into a trash bag. Sorry Lilly, I think bitterly, but you won't be getting this stuff back. The only things salvageable are the shoes but even they are filthy and sodden with water. I wonder if Lilly will be upset with me when I tell her what happened to her dress. I don't think she'll be too mad, considering I almost died, but I know she'll most likely feel slightly dejected. Lilly adores clothes, especially the expensive kind, and the dress was one of her favorites. I owe her something in return but the problem is I can't afford anything that can replace the dress in value. Maybe I can procure a few pieces of artwork for her or something.
I have to get rid of all evidence that I was ever inside of that suite at BioLife. I have the perfect place—my secret hidey-hole—but I'm not up for the journey there right now. Not while seeing Noah Emerson's dead body lying still on the floor remains fresh on my mind. So, I stuff the trash bag beneath my bed until I am able to take it to my secret place.
Chapter Five, Part Two
Charlotte
I'm still trembling from what I saw earlier and what happened afterwards. I collapse onto my bed and try to wrap my head around everything. I know that the cops don't know who I am but I'm still afraid that they will come for me soon. Maybe I'm being paranoid but I fear for my safety and the safety of my family more so than ever before. I've had some dangerous mission as a Messenger but never like this last one. No one ended up dead—usually—and I was never a suspect fleeing from a crime scene.
All I used to be was a trouble free Messenger and now, I have finally found myself in a tight pickle. I tremble once more when I consider the gravity of the situation. If the cops ever learned that I was inside of Emerson's suite, then I will face the death penalty for killing a government official. The power was out when I entered, so there's no proof on camera if I murdered him or not. And why was the freaking power cut? It doesn't make sense, unless the real killer used it somehow as a way to kill Emerson and blame someone else for it.
I think about the real Ava Suarez then, as the cops at the clinic will be convinced that she was there instead of me. I feel horrible for impersonating her, as she will most likely take the rap for Emerson's murder. But hopefully, and I'm out of hope right now, but hopefully, she'll be able to explain to the authorities that she received a call from the clinic. The call was a fake of course, but maybe it'll be enough, if she can prove it, to get her off the hook. I don't want her thrown in jail because of me.
My mind tells me it's doubtful that Suarez will be able to convince the cops. Now, an innocent woman will be imprisoned because of me.
I'm tempted to turn myself in but I'm innocent too. I only visited BioLife to deliver a package to Emerson, and not to be implemented in his murder. Someone else killed him but why? Could it be a simple coincidence that Emerson was killed right before I was supposed to give him something from the Entity? Or are the two scenarios connected somehow?
My thoughts shift to the unknown contents inside the envelope, perking up my curiosity in a twisted fashion. I slide from my bed and return to the bathroom. Abigail should be home soon so I need to hurry if I want to avoid being caught and having to lie to a twelve-year-old.
I snatch up the wet purse out of the bathtub and clear out all of th
e damaged content inside. Then, I rip open the bottom portion of the purse. Before I went to BioLife, I tore up the bottom of my purse and hid the envelope underneath the fabric. I did a crappy job of restitching but it was enough to keep the cops at the checkpoint from finding the concealed envelope. They really needed to invest in scanners but I'm glad they hadn't yet. It's easier to smuggle stuff in and out of places when scanners are not involved. Scanners can locate traces of DNA and fingerprints left behind on objects, using a digital technology that is able to see remnants of vectors left behind by humans. Every person has an invisible vector, or electrical, field that surrounds his or her body. Each vector is unique and defines who we are. Scanners help cops and agents catch criminals faster. Scanners also have x-ray-like vision, so one would have been able to detect the envelope inside of my purse.
I'm surprised though that the guard hadn't noticed the loose and frayed threads beneath all the clutter of makeup and other girlie essentials. I pull out the envelope carefully. It's drenched as expected. I was eager to get away from the cops pursuing me that I never considered that I could ruin the envelope's content by diving into the river. Now, I'm considering it and it's not good. The Entity's anger can be severe if I damaged whatever I was supposed to deliver to Emerson, even if it was at the expense of my own life. I heard that the Entity does not tolerate failure. Emerson's dead body was a complication but I didn't fail the assignment per se. Now, if the Entity wants me to get the package to someone else and I damaged it—that's failure.
I wonder if I should try to contact the Entity now or wait for him to come to me. Eventually he will. Emerson's death will be all over the news soon enough. I decide I need to get in touch with the Entity somehow as soon as possible. Before giving me this assignment, he always employed middlemen to track me down. I'm associated with a few of them because we cross paths from time to time. Locating one shouldn't be too difficult . . . if I'm willing to brave venturing outside of my house again. Which currently, I'm not.
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