"Hands up," I repeat as firm as I can while remaining on the proper side of the law.
Finally, Donovan thrusts his arms into the air. "Cuff him," I tell my assault team member. He proceeds to do so and Donovan allows him to without a fight. He's not as hostile as I anticipated, although he's definitely disturbed and delusional.
While Donovan is apprehended, my eyes shift towards the boy called Caleb. He stands there, unfeeling, his face expressionless. For a fleeting moment, he reminds me of myself at that age, only in reverse. His father is leaving him and not the other way around, not like how I left my father behind. I joined the agency while Caleb's father will join other criminals in prison. The scenarios are different but essentially the same too. I never returned to my family like Donovan will never return to his. My life changed that day I left home and Donovan's life will change. So will Caleb's.
He glances at me and I look away. Less than two minutes until the Purge.
I feel Caleb's empty eyes upon me as we escort Donovan from the room, burning my skin. The latter feeds instructions to his son, who he leaves in charge of his warehouse. Then, we're gone. The moment we're outside and I return to the embrace of the Purge, my burning flesh cools at once.
Chapter Thirteen
Charlotte
Currently Listening To: "Apathy" by Paige Armstrong
It takes me a few days to get used to being in school and not expecting cops to come looking for me. And as far as clothes are concerned, I don't think I'll ever get used to the dull colors.
Since I torched about seventy percent of my wardrobe, I have to borrow clothes from Lilly and Abigail that are suitable to wear in public now. Abigail's clothes are little tight but I manage. Lily's clothes are tighter, hugging me in places that accentuate curves I never knew I had. I have to be careful when selecting something from Lilly's closet. I don't want to get into trouble for putting myself out there as "eye candy" to a bunch of people who wouldn't view me in that light anyways.
I sit in the library, blending in with other teenagers as far as attire is concerned. I may look like them on the outside now but internally, I'm still the same Charlotte. Just a tad bit angrier since I've lost my unique style. So in retaliation, I pour a little bit of flair into my outfits as best I can.
I'm currently wearing a dark gray hoodie that Abigail gave me because she felt sorry about the new law. I dyed a portion of the hoodie to create black and gray stripes since I refuse to wear solid colored tops. I squeezed the lower half of my body into a pair of black skinny jeans I borrow from Lilly. They're about as provocative as I can present myself without facing jail time.
The jeans are very form fitting so I pray that I don't split a seam while sitting at a table alone. I'm studying for a biology test that I desperately need to pass in a few hours. My grade is starting to slip and if I don't pull it up soon, I will add a second subject to my remedial class.
I skipped lunch to study and I'm starving. Fortunately, I found some old soy nuts in one of the pockets of Lilly's jeans. When no one's looking, I sneak a couple of them into my mouth, breaking the no eating or drinking policy. The nuts are a little hard but surprisingly filling. I hope these little guys can hold me over until dinner.
The library's quiet like all libraries should be. I sit in the dead center, with desks and an enclosure of shelves covered in digital readers of varying sizes and colors surrounding me. Eerie green light radiates from the ornate desk lamps and a rickety ladder leans precariously against a nearby wall. A crystal chandelier glimmers overhead, its pale yellow glow outshined by the light from the desk lamps.
I'm trying to recall everything that I know about vectors when someone joins me at my table.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" The person whispers to me.
I'm taken aback by the question. Lifting my eyes up from my digital notes, I regard her with a vacant stare. She stands there and waits for my response, her arms full of digital readers. It takes me a moment to recognize her because she no longer has bright, purple hair. This is the girl from my remedial history class, one of the members of Free Spirits—if the group remains active.
"Sure," I tell her. I don't really want any company but she's one of the few people who understand what I'm going through right now.
She collapses into the chair opposite of me and drops her readers onto the tabletop. I courteously rearrange my belongings to give her more room. Then, I gawk at her. I can't help it. I've never seen her look so . . . plain . . . before. I guess she could say the same thing about me.
Instead of violet, her hair is strawberry blonde now. Whenever she shifts in her seat and the light strikes her head at different angles, I can't tell if her locks are more red than golden. I notice for the first time that her eyes are a soft green, the color of jade, but they sparkle. It is then I realize that she's like me. She has freed herself from the Purge.
She catches me staring and I hastily return my gaze to my studies. "It's okay," she speaks to me in a low voice. "I hate my natural hair color and I expect you're wondering why it's no longer purple. Can't be too safe with the new law, you know?"
I nod once. "I'm sorry—"
"Don't worry about it," she cuts me off. "The Free Spirits don't blame you for what happened. It was bound to occur sooner or later." She pauses. "My name's Emmalie Rosenthal by the way. You can call me Emma. I never had the chance to formally introduce myself. But I know who you are, Charlotte Tatum. You have a lot of secret admirers here at school."
"I do?" I never dreamed I could be popular by any stretch of the imagination. The popular kids in books tend to follow the same patterns of insensitivity, superficiality, and cruelty. Even after thirteen years on the Purge, I don't believe I possess any of those unbearable qualities.
"Yes. And we all know about your messenger efforts for . . . you know."
Emma must be well connected to know about my role as a Messenger for SAFE.
"Are you or . . . ." And I let my words hangs there. We seem to have started a form of communication where the other comprehends unfinished sentences.
"My parents," she replies, cottoning on to the meaning behind my question rather quickly. Her parents are SAFE rebels. That explains why she's familiar with my job, why she delivered the change of location for my meeting with the Entity. I must have performed a task for her parents at some point of my career.
"Why haven't you?"
"Age. You?"
"My family."
Emma nods. "Makes sense," she mutters, as she starts to peruse one of her readers. "How long have you been without it?"
"Two years," I answer automatically. It feels great to share a few of my secrets with her. "What about you?"
"Nine months and I haven't had any unusual cravings or morning sickness." She winks at me.
It takes me an entire minute to comprehend her joke. One of the few times I can recall ever paying attention in class was during a lecture for a course called life development. Basically, it's what health class used to be. At any rate, I learned some pretty disturbing facts about pregnancies prior to the advent of extensive scientific tampering. I won't go into any of the gory details but it's safe to say that I note the witty connection Emma makes between the length of time she's been Purge free and pregnancies.
I should return to the science crap in front of me but I can't now that I have Emma in front of me. Now that I know we're similar people, I think I might have made a second friend other than Lilly. I'm curious about something, so I have to ask, "So, the group?"
"A bunch of us decided to follow your lead. It was our way of expressing ourselves without the legal ramifications. We would meet occasionally as a study group. I came up with the name. We wanted to include you but we knew you were busy."
"How many?"
"Twenty-five. If you ever require our assistance, we'll help in any way that we can." She looks around fleetingly, before reaching into her slate gray dress. She removes her balled fist and slides something discreetly across the table
. I hastily accept a tiny slip of paper from her. "Don't look at it now. Later."
I do as I'm told, stuffing the paper into the same pocket as the packet of nuts.
"Are you going on the field trip?" She questions me, the second time one of her inquires have me taken aback.
"Field trip?" I'm baffled. I don't know anything about that.
"I see you're studying biology, so I'm assumed you knew. It's open to all students taking biology courses this semester. I'm going. I don't expected many other students to go though. Everyone has been the BioLife at least once in some way and—"
"Wait. Did you say BioLife?"
"Affirmative. Next Wednesday. About twenty students have signed up so far and most of them are a part of my special 'study group'. Others students aren't interested in learning more about how children are produced, I suppose." She winks again.
Once again, BioLife enters the picture yet again. I briefly reflect on Emerson's dead body and my subsequent escape before shaking the images from my mind. I wonder if Emma knows about the delivery I was supposed to make there. One thing is certain though: I will not be attending this field trip, as much as I would like to go with Emma and the other members of the Free Spirits. What happened at BioLife still haunts me tremendously.
"Are you going to sign up?" Emma wants to know. She asks it casually, but with indifference. The librarian hovers nearby, observing all of the students with watchful, but uninterested eyes. She reminds me of a vulture.
I shake my head. "I can't."
"Why?"
I want to tell her the reason but the librarian stands too close now. So in response to her question, I turn my eyes towards the bird-like woman perched against a bookshelf. Emma takes the hint and glances to her left. She sees the librarian eyeing us and she understands.
We have nothing more to say to each other while the librarian stands so close to us. I finally return to my biology notes. On the outside, I look like everyone else, uncaring or unfeeling. But on the inside, I care about a lot of things—my family, passing this stupid exam, whether or not the cops will figure out that I was in Emerson's suite the day he was murdered, and helping Lilly crack open the digital cipher on the mysterious package. But most of all, right now I care that I finally had a conversation with Emma, even though it was in cryptic whispers. And that makes me feel wonderful and hopeful that I'll be able to survive school without going crazy, because I know that there are others like me here—others who care.
Chapter Fourteen
Liam
Project Lightning.
It's all I'm thinking about as I lie in bed trying to sleep. I'm consumed with figuring out how it fits into the greater picture of the investigation. The Purge prevents me from punching the nearest wall in frustration.
The effect the gas has of me has admittedly weakened as of late. I don't know why and it worries me. Not tremendously. Not enough that I will react unfavorably. But the notion is still there buried beneath everything else, biding its time. Waiting. If I don't solve Emerson's murder case soon, then I'm unsure if I can keep my qualms hidden. If I uncover them, then what? What is it like to feel complete anxiety? What's it like to experience fear? I don't know, nor do I want to know. I am free of anxiety. I am fearless. Or am I? Everyday's an internal struggle, a war within.
I consider the main difference between a rebel and myself because we absolutely have nothing in common. It's pointless for me to even think about this but my body requires something to occupy the time until I'm able to drift off into repose.
The rebels, the ones who have eluded capture so far, struggle externally to conceal emotions from everyone else. They keep their faces as blank as possible when they long to grin or frown or cry. I, and others like me who are dedicated to the ideals of the Core, make great efforts to suppress our emotions on the inside. We don't allow them to make it to the point when they are out of control. We never tread the line between inner and outer conflict. With the Purge, we have no reason to mask ourselves.
I find myself removing a slip of paper from one of the drawers on my nightstand. I glance at the clock while doing so. It's midnight, the witching hour people used to call it, a time of night when something sinister usually occurs. I don't believe in such superstitions but something sinister is playing upon my mind right now, compelling me to dwell on trivial matters.
By the moonlight slithering into my bedroom, I peruse my Dr. Cato's writing, the first time I've looked at it since her arrest. I can't fathom why I kept this but it's a prime example about how the revolutionaries "feel", and advances my mental thesis concerning internal and external emotional strife.
I reread several lines and find myself analyzing them.
I mimic others for a living—real people, not characters so that's the difference between a movie star and myself. Mimicry—the trait in which caterpillars and butterflies employ for survival. Earlier in the prose, letter, or whatever this is, Dr. Cato mentions she is a caterpillar and then proceeds to make other references to the insect. The comparison is logical despite the disagreeable context. Masking her emotions is how she blended in with society, transforming her true self into a false representation of what is supposed to be right.
Each time, I immerse myself fully into preparing for the same role. There is a script but I don't learn most of it until I arrive on set. I also have to do everything in one take so that there's no room for errors. If I miss a line or make any other small mistake, the entire movie is ruined. There are no reshoots because the government won't allow it. Here, she likens herself to an actress. The term "actor" itself is derived from a Greek word meaning "interpreter". Actors interpret dramatized characters, where she interpreted real people. Mimicry was her method and there was no room for errors. But eventually, she slipped up and made a fatal error, one that landed her in prison.
Her error was presenting a package to a shadowy figure. What was in that envelope and how is it connected to Project Lightning? Dr. Cato wouldn't have mentioned that to me if it weren't essential to everything. Perhaps Project Lightning was the reason for her "awakening" as she called it.
I toss the page in my hands aside and summon forth every rich detail about the day I visited that northern ruins facility with my father. I watch the images play out before my mind's eye, jumbled but cohesive just the same. Nothing about that visit produces any satisfactory results, other than marking the first time Project Lightning was mentioned around me.
I climb out of bed suddenly and resort to the Internet for answers. I microwave a snack while I wait to access the agency's server. It's frozen macaroni and cheese. If I had a favorite food, this would be it.
"You now have access to the network, Agent Cato," the cool, female voice greets me. "Choose a path of navigation."
"Intelligence database," I speak clearly, pulling my bowl of food out of the microwave. It's hot so I allow it to cool on the countertop next to the stove.
"One moment."
I walk over to the couch and sit down before the viewscreen. The database loads and I make my request, "Pull any files concerning Project Lightning."
The computer sifts through the database quickly, flashing various digital files across the screen in rapid succession. I wait, the computer taking a little longer than usual to find something on Project Lightning. Then, I receive an error message, followed by—
"All files concerning Project Lightning are classified and heavily encrypted."
"Override the encryption," I say at once. "Code 55-2R7."
The computer does as it's told. More flashes that remind me of the glitches in the BioLife recordings, before a second error message.
"It's appears that an override is ineffective," the computer tells me.
"Who authorized the encryption?"
"Programmers within the Core."
The government doesn't want many people to know about Project Lightning, not even White Agents. Why the secrecy? Our leaders might hide the goings on inside of the Core but everything else o
n the island is normally common knowledge. Billboards, the media, word of mouth, every piece of news is released to the public—unless the government doesn't deem it necessary for the public to know. Like with the second assassination on a Parliament representative. The government only conceals information to maintain perfection.
"Urgent vid call coming through," the computer alerts me without warning.
"Caller?"
"Senior Agent Jackson Ramos with the White Agency."
"Patch him through."
The viewscreen erases my computer desktop and replaces it with an image of Ramos sitting before the desk in his office back at HQ. He looks the same as always—apathetic.
"Agent Cato, you're awake." It's not a question; it's a statement. Obviously I'm awake or I wouldn't be able to converse with him.
"Sir." I address him simply.
"We have found Emerson's killer." He gets straight to the point and reveals the reason for his late-night phone call.
His words are unexpected, like dreams I don't care to have.
"On what evidence?"
"That's irrelevant," Ramos tells me. "I'm sending you her personal file right now."
Ramos disappears from the screen. A moment later, a file pops up, displaying information that scanners can provide from vectors and fingerprints. I read the information—her name, date of birth, etc.—but it's not until I view a picture of her that I realize that I know this girl.
"We're sending in a team to apprehend her at her residence right now," Ramos' voice still emanates from the viewscreen although I can no longer since his rugged visage. "They will await your arrival before going in."
Disbelief strikes me like a chord, the second time I've experienced such incredulity on a large scale in less than a week. The first occurred when I was sent to arrest Dr. Cato—my mother. Now, this girl. I can't believe it. I never suspected she was capable of something like this. Maybe that's why she intrigued me, because I knew deep down inside that she was a criminal although I didn't want to admit it. I was blinded by the notion that she could have made a brilliant White Agent. I obviously misread her.
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