Shane looked at him quizzically.
“My name is Ray, but my real last name isn't Cassidy. It's Elliot.” Comprehension dawned on Shane's face, and Ray nodded. “Yeah. That Ray Elliot. I killed Fairmont. If they can trust me with a few caveats, I'm pretty sure you'll be a breeze.”
James Shane looked at their faces, again searching for something. After a long quiet, he finally gave a slow nod. “If you do what you say you will, I'm in. All the way. You can even use whatever lie detectors you were talking about before on me, if you want.”
Ray grinned. “Oh, they were planning on it.”
Kit
Kit took the next day off. It was the first time since joining the OSA, and the feeling was a little like skipping school as a child. The move was necessary, as they were short on time. There was no way to avoid Robinson knowing James Shane had been caught, which meant he would have transfer orders within a few days. Not that Kit had any intention of sending James anywhere if she could help it, but the situation did create a narrow window for the next phase of their plan.
Paranoid and certain there were at least casual observers looking for flags on her bank account, Kit had made it a point to withdraw cash from time to time over the previous four months. Though any plans she had for obtaining information from the NSA facility Waid had found were vague at best, there were few situations that couldn't be helped by a large wad of cash.
Now that things were in sharper focus, Kit needed time to put together everything she might need. This involved trips to a hardware store, two home improvement centers, a sewing and fabric outlet, and an enormous sporting goods retailer. By mid-morning, her trunk was full and the spillover had to be thrown into the back seat.
When she returned home, Peep goggled at the mountain of purchases and helped her haul it up the stairs. She had taken a day off as well, though The Bean was still open. Assistant managers made the world go round.
“What the hell do you need all this stuff for, anyway?” Peep gasped as they put down the last load. “You must have five hundred zip ties here. All sorts of sports pads...you know what? I don't want to know.”
Kit gave her roommate and friend a sunny smile. “That's a great idea. Want me to make lunch?”
“Absolutely not,” Peep said quickly. “I like my kitchen the way I like my hair, by which I mean not on fire. Here, take a beer, go sit down, and I'll make something.”
She took the beer thankfully. “I can just make a sandwich or something,” Kit said. “You work at a restaurant all day. I don't want you to feel like you have to cook for me.”
Peep snorted. “I own a restaurant,” Peep corrected. “Well, a cafe, anyway. That's an important difference. I leave most of the cooking to other people. Besides, I like cooking. Always have. There's something deeply satisfying about making a meal someone enjoys and appreciates.”
“Substitute for sex,” Kit mused.
Peep's head whipped around, eyebrows trying to crawl into her hairline.
“That's what one of my psych professors said once, back in college,” Kit clarified. “She did this entire module on platonic relationships. According to her, cooking is one way to cement a relationship. Sex is considered a need, with some exceptions, and so is eating. So it ends up being a substitute. By satisfying a basic human need, you're locking the other person's subconscious into seeing you as important.”
“I've never heard that before,” Peep said, appreciation clear in her tone. “Makes sense. I wonder if it works with providing shelter, too?”
Kit shrugged. “Build me a house and I'm pretty sure I'd have your babies.” Peep laughed. “I don't know if the theory is popular or accepted, to be honest. I took two psychology courses, but it was for the credits. I didn't have much interest in the subject outside of my GPA.”
“I've been thinking of going back to school,” Peep said from the kitchen, the sound of pots and pans rattling in the background.
“Why?” Kit asked. “You've got all that insurance money. You're loaded. Not to mention owning a popular business. Why would you bother?”
“I like learning,” Peep said, her voice slightly muffled. “I don't want a degree, just to take whatever classes interest me. When I was younger I told myself I'd do that if I ever had the means. You seem pretty surprised for someone who went to college herself.”
Kit took a sip of beer, her mind drifting back. Not to any specific memory of school—which now seemed to have happened to a different person—but to the general sense of how she felt during that time.
“School was always hard for me,” Kit explained, pushing away the storm cloud in her brain. “Not the work. I enjoyed that. It was the people. Getting along with the other students was torture. While I was there, I wanted nothing more than to be left in peace so I could do my work. Once I left it felt like a boulder was lifted off my chest.”
The conversation died, though it wasn't an awkward or painful death. Peep called out for Kit to hang on, the sizzle of something wet kissing a hot pan making it hard to hear anything else.
That was fine with her. Kit took the time to start sorting through all the things she'd purchased, going so far as to crank up her speed to get the job done faster. There were three sets of everything, all the bits of clothing carefully sized. Separating the gear was the easy part. By the time she was done creating the trio of bundles waiting to be used, Peep was finished with their meal. She came into the living room with a large serving tray in hand, the smell of pasta and various sauces preceding her in a delicious cloud.
“Here we go,” Peep said as she placed the tray on the coffee table. “There should be enough here.”
Getting used to Kit's need for a monstrous number of calories hadn't been too difficult; Peep just cooked enough food for four or five people whenever she decided to make a meal. Peep took the blue plate, one of the dishes she had owned before Kit moved in, while Kit loaded the green plate—one she had brought with her—with enough food to kill a lesser woman.
Chicken fettuccine piled next to ricotta-stuffed ziti in hand, Kit sat back from her purchases and set to.
“You said something about leaving college before,” Peep said, a note of caution in her voice. “I don't think you've ever told me what happened.”
Kit paused in the middle of shoveling food into her mouth at inhuman speed, then grunted. “No, I haven't.”
“It's okay if you don't want to talk about it,” Peep said. “I was just curious.”
Kit barely tasted the plate of food. There was no pushiness in Peep. No ulterior motive. Where Kit was—outside of work—usually quiet and introverted, Peep was expressive and social. She had been popular in school and maintained contact with the friends she had who hadn't died in Fairmont. Part of what made their friendship work was Peep's acceptance of Kit for who she was. Unlike Kit's parents, Peep never tried to get her to act outside her nature. Never attempted to put her in social situations she was uncomfortable with. Didn't tell her to lighten up or talk more when Kit fell quiet.
She accepted Kit wholly. Sure, they had similar tastes in movies and books, both enjoyed marathon gaming sessions and getting drunk enough to dance. Those things certainly helped solidify their friendship. But it was that easy acceptance that Kit had every right to enjoy solitude and to keep to herself—to be herself—that made it all possible.
Kit cleared the plate, just short of licking it clean, and set it to the side. Peep was still working on her meal.
Beginning to work on one of the more tricky projects she needed finished by the evening, Kit cleared her throat.
“If you want to know,” she began, “I'll tell you.”
Peep was surprised and clearly pleased, but seemed afraid of breaking the silence, as if that might risk Kit changing her mind. Instead she took a bite and bobbed her head.
Kit told her.
“There's no great mystery to it,” Kit began. “For most Next, it's usually a variation on the same story. One day they're normal people, maybe with a
few odd happenings they wrote off, and then something happens. For a lot of fliers, it's suddenly hovering during a moment where they need to jump or reach a high place. Sometimes they've fallen and their power only kicks in to protect them.”
She opened a package containing an expensive scientific scale. “Statistically, flying is the most common power. People with advanced physical powers are less common. People like me, who have high levels of function across every bodily system, are rare.”
Kit put batteries in the scale, then opened several smaller containers. “With physical Next, it's almost always something getting broken. A doorknob, a steering wheel, generally something people hold in their hands. Less often you see a kid with a broken arm where his mom grabbed him, trying to keep him from falling or getting hit by a car. Super strength is tricky.”
She began to pour out the contents of the containers into empty plastic bags, carefully weighing and measuring. “For me, it was during a dorm party. My roommate at the time was a good fit; she was always busy with class or work, and when she was in she was sleeping or studying. We both liked quiet.”
The scene was still vivid in her mind, even years later. Kit liked to think this was a product of the improved function of her brain granted by her abilities, but deep down she thought it was one of those memories no one could forget.
“Kayla, my roommate, was asleep at the time. How she managed it with music playing down the hall and pot smoke drifting under the door, I don't know. I was working on a paper for a basic computer science class, and getting frustrated. I took the class thinking I'd get an easy A, but turns out I'm shit at programming languages. I was determined to get it done, though, mostly because I was even more stubborn back then.”
The plastic bags began to make a neat row, each filled to about a fifth of its capacity. “Someone slammed into our door. People were yelling in the hallway. It was the usual stuff, drunken kids going on about some dumbass thing or another. When the door rattled a second time, I decided to go out and at least go through the motions of asking them to keep it down.”
Here, she paused. It had been a long time since she had taken this memory out and turned it over. The vague guilt she had once felt because of that night had vanished, to her mild surprise, erased by maturity and experience giving her a certainty she had done the right thing.
“There wasn't anyone in the hall when I stepped out. I could hear a bunch of people in the lounge, so I went that way. There were people dancing, several couples making out, pretty much what you'd expect. I tried to get their attention, but between the music and the rest, I didn't have much luck.”
Her eyes grew hard. “That was when it happened. All of a sudden the music was way too loud, the lights too bright. Smells hit me like a whiff of ammonia, too overwhelming to handle. I thought I was having a stroke or something. My heart started pounding, and I stumbled back. I put my hand on the wall to hold myself up and did some calming exercises my dad taught me when I was younger and prone to anxiety.”
“What happened?” Peep asked in a quiet voice. It was only when she spoke that Kit realized she had fallen silent for a while.
“I closed my eyes,” Kit continued. “Tried to limit the input as much as possible. It was like trying to tune out a rock concert happening in your head. I focused on the voices, letting the music become a background buzz. That was when I heard it; a strange grinding noise. It was bizarre, like nothing I'd ever heard before. I knew it was coming from the small kitchen attached to the lounge, and I stumbled toward it. Just as I got there, I saw a guy sweeping powder off the counter and into a cup. He handed it to a girl sitting at the table—they were the only ones in the room—and she was so drunk she could barely hold the drink.”
Kit grimaced. “That son of a bitch actually helped her. He steadied her hand. Even now I can see how careful he was about it, how gentle his hands were as he guided the cup toward her lips. That's what set me off, the idea that this motherfucker had the capacity to drug this girl and could be so measured about it.”
Peep was rapt, her food completely forgotten.
Kit took a sip of beer. “Like I said, a lot of physical Next don't realize they've gotten stronger until they break something. It wasn't that way for me. Oh, I wasn't anything close to what I am now. My body had only begun to change. But I felt it. This rush of energy moved through my veins, made me feel like I could crush a car with my bare hands. I yelled at the guy, told him to put the cup down. He almost jumped out of his skin, not realizing I was there.
“He turns around and I see he's pretty sloshed himself, enough that he can't compute that I caught him red-handed. Instead of scurrying off with his tail between his legs, he gets in my face. I never got the chance to accuse him, because a few seconds later he pokes me in the chest with several fingers.”
Peep flinched, making a face. Someone had done the same thing to Kit a few months before, at a bar. It hadn't ended well.
“This fucker was a a foot or more taller than me, had to weigh two twenty at least. I broke those fingers like dry sticks, then threw him out of the kitchen. Literally threw him, I mean. He sailed for ten feet or so, screaming the whole way, then landed and bounced down the hall.”
Kit smiled. “Someone called campus police—not the jerk I hurt, he wasn't so wasted he'd incriminate himself—and things got interesting from there. I told the officer what happened, he took the cup and its contents for testing, and they shut down the party. The next day I went to my local OSA office for testing.”
“Wow,” Peep said. “You just decided to quit school after that?”
“Not exactly,” Kit said with a shake of her head. “The local office only had limited testing capabilities compared with larger offices and facilities. The agents knew my powers were uncommon, so they sent me to have more detailed examinations done. I was suspended from school during that time, both because of my pending tests and because I'd assaulted another student, so I didn't have much else to do. I waited for the results of the second test, but when I got them it wasn't a phone call. Robinson himself showed up at my dorm and offered me training for Helix.”
Peep's eyebrows shot up. “He recruited you personally?”
“Yeah,” Kit said, careful to keep her tone pleasant. “That was a big part of the reason I took the offer. The guy went out of his way to make me feel appreciated. Special.”
And that night, Kit would find out if the loyalty she had given Robinson was deserved. She hoped the man had nothing to do with the destruction of Fairmont, but there was little hope in her heart.
Ray
Ray closed the door to his quarters and engaged the locks before turning to face his visitors.
James Shane stood next to Waid, both men looking slightly uncomfortable. This could have been due to the situation—James being a recently captured criminal—though Ray thought it had to do with the intense anger he had been (barely) controlling for the last hour. All through the quiet removal of the prisoner from his cell, using Waid to fool security measures, he had seethed.
“Let's go,” Ray said tersely. “You know where we're heading?”
James nodded, pointing his chin at Waid. “He showed me a bunch of satellite images. I can get us close.”
“And you're sure you can take both of us at the same time?” Waid asked nervously.
“For the tenth time, yes,” James said. “It's all about mass. You two don't push my limit.”
With that James stepped forward and put hands on Ray and Waid. The world did a cartwheel, everything tasted purple for a second, and then they were standing in the darkened lot behind The Bean, staring at a metal door. Ray took a breath and steadied himself, then gently tapped a knuckle on the door.
Meanwhile, Waid vomited noisily.
“Nice,” Ray said. “Please don't do that again when you get where you're going.”
Footsteps inside grew louder, followed by the clank of locks moving and a bar being set aside. The door opened to reveal Archer's niece, Peep, wh
o gave Ray a beatific smile.
“You're looking handsome as ever,” Peep said to him.
“Still super gay,” Ray replied with a smile of his own. “Can we come in?”
Waid had recovered with supernatural speed, peering with interest at the woman jokingly flirting with Ray. “I'm straight,” he said weakly. Everyone paused. Peep definitely wasn't holding back a laugh. That would have been unladylike and rude, Ray thought.
In the apartment they found Kit, who was just finishing pulling on a boot. She looked up at them as they entered, and for a moment Ray forgot why he was so angry.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Ray blurted out.
Kit smiled. “I'd have thought your first question would be to ask why you aren't going with us.”
Damn, she was perceptive. Ray shrugged uncomfortably. “You're the boss. It's your call.”
Kit glanced at Waid. “Are we secure?”
Waid's face went slack, though his eyes darted around madly. “Yeah,” he said after a few seconds. “No one is watching or listening to us electronically.”
Kit raised an eyebrow at Ray, who sighed. He brought up his Surge vision and looked for disturbances showing the presence of a remote viewer or any other Next ability. “Nothing,” he said. “We're solid.”
“It's not because I'm the boss,” Kit said. “This has nothing to do with work and you know it. You're not going—hell Archer's not going—because we want to minimize risk. James and Waid have to be there, and so do I. Besides, if you end up disappearing, Kovacs is going to start getting suspicious. We've already pulled you away a bunch of times recently. We can't rock to boat too much.”
The Next Chronicle (Book 2): Damage Page 13