by Jeremy Flagg
He didn’t address her, or even acknowledge that she spoke other than stopping his movements. Scars ran along the side of his face, spidering outward across his neck and probably worse along his chest. He hardly resembled the young guard she remembered from two years ago, but she did remember.
“Corrections Officer Simmons,” she said quietly. Those words got a reaction. He spun about, staring at her, the cybernetics in his eyes analyzing her body language. Twenty-Seven wondered if he still had the ability to access the network, to find her face in a sea of mugshots and social media profiles.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“No,” she said honestly. No, he had no idea who she was. At best, he might recall the fight in the yard. Twenty-Seven was certain the only thing he remembered about that day was the moment the military offered him a place amongst their ranks.
“You know me?” The tone of voice turned from curious to accusatory. Sims probably tried to recall dozens of missions and if she had been there, the computer attached to his neck pulling every memory at once. Twenty-Seven heard they could do that; not memories before they were installed, but everything after that was catalogued.
“You were a new guard at the detention center. I was waiting for transport to the Outlands. There wa…”
“The stabbing,” he recalled. “You were there.”
It was the first time she encountered somebody, anybody from the time before she changed. In a prison, surrounded by violent women waiting for sentencing or worse yet, to be dumped in the Outlands where they’d die, he was the only one who might recall a scared, battered housewife.
“Twenty-Seven.” No move to shake hands, no movement period. They awkwardly stared at each other, unsure of how to proceed.
“I was recruited that day, after one of the women shanked a C.O.”
“He deserved it. The man was vile,” she said without remorse.
“He didn’t deserve to die.”
“He raped inmates. Shackled women so they couldn’t resist. They feared having their brains splattered across a wall in a storage room. He got off easy, if you ask me. Twisty should have let him bleed out.”
Sims didn’t reply. The expression on his face had a hint of boyish innocence. If it weren’t for the scars littering his skin, he might have been handsome. Now, at best, he’d be described as rugged. Twenty-Seven bet most people looked away, scared to confront him.
“I remember you,” he said.
“That woman long since died.”
“As did Simmons.” He gestured to his neck. “A frag grenade, the metal shredded my upper body. I was dead for thirty-two seconds.”
“Maybe we should name you Thirty-Two?”
He rolled his eyes. “Sims is good enough.”
Sims held himself erect, stiff, more intentional than even a Marine should be. He averted his gaze, staring through the half-frosted glass door into the VIP lounge. Inside, the General, Ariel, and Jasmine met, a tense conversation she was happy to avoid. His finger hooked inside his utility belt, his thumb rubbing against a flashlight attached near his kidney.
I make him nervous, she thought.
She let out a slight laugh. Sims grew even more rigid, each muscle tense as he slid his hand to the gun resting on his hip. With more firepower on him than she’d seen in the last week, he could still be afraid of a woman past her prime.
“Why nervous, Simmons?”
“I’m not ner—”
“I’m old enough to smell a lie.” She tapped the side of her nose; the simple humorous gesture disarmed the Marine. He let out a breath.
“Not many people alive these days knew me before…”
“The military? The enhancements? The scars? The Paladins? Stop me if I’m getting close.”
“All of that. Other than my mom, you might be the first person since I joined.”
She nodded in agreement. “I understand. You’re the first for me.”
He let the conversation die and resumed pacing. His anxiety didn’t hang as heavily in the air now. Now he seemed to pace more for something to do than to get rid of energy.
“You’re a good man,” she blurted out.
“How do you know what kind of man I am?”
Most of her life she picked the wrong kind. Her penchant for men who treated her like an object, property to own, started long before her former husband. She had never picked a good one, but she knew the difference between them.
“I know bad men. That day in the yard, I could overhear you both speaking. Your partner was a bad man, the definition of a bad man. You wanted nothing to do with him. I might even say you were an idealist then. Changing the world one day at a time?”
“I used to think that,” he confessed. “I stopped trying to save the world. Now…” He let out a long sigh. “Now, I’m trying to make it out alive.”
“What changed?” For the first time in this conversation, she pitied the Paladin. Did he know his purpose in life?
Did she? For a while it had been surviving. When she joined the refugees in Troy, it had been to protect others. Now she ran scared individuals across the border to give them a chance at normal. Each day she fought to make the world a brighter place, but lately, she found the darkness rose from the shadows.
“Gentile,” he said without explanation. Jasmine Gentile. The renegade Marine, a woman who stopped taking orders to follow her heart. A commanding officer breaking ranks for a noble cause would have definitely shaken her beliefs.
“She has that ability.” Sims didn’t flinch as she stood. His fingers didn’t twitch as she turned to look through the glass door. Inside, an animated discussion took place between Ariel and the General.
“She saves people. All people.”
“Semper Fi,” he said while they watched.
“Oorah,” Twenty-Seven said, drawing a chuckle from him.
“Why were you in the detention center?”
“I shot a man through the heart.” She ignored him as he turned his head, eyes wide, drilling holes into her.
“Oorah,” she said again.
* * * * *
What had once been a waiting room for the elite had been transformed into a war room. Benches and comfortable reclining chairs were pushed against the wall to make room for a massive table with a glass top. Jasmine recognized the table, its hundreds of displays feeding a constant stream of information to techs in the room who reported tirelessly to the General. Now, the hi-tech display showed a low-tech street view of Chicago.
The dozen techs necessary to relay the information and coordinates were absent, sent from the room. Jasmine watched the General as he stalked back and forth, not pacing, but slowly building momentum in his expressions to where she thought he might explode.
Ariel hadn’t said a word as the Paladins escorted them in. Their demeanor had changed the moment the General showed, less reckless, more timid. Did they not agree with his plan to bring hostages? Jasmine had to wonder if the war had taken such a toll that even the most loyal questioned the choices of their superiors. It would make sense of any regular recruit, but the Paladins, they’d as soon end their lives as turn on a commanding officer.
All except for me, she thought.
“Why—” Jasmine stiffened. Without realizing it, she stood at attention. Once a Marine, always a Marine.
The General growled, his lips pulled back. The snow-white stubble along the sides of his face softened his appearance. The narrow eyes and bit of spit launched from his mouth. His clenched jaw removed the word soft. Jasmine hid the fear in her stomach, the urge to jump back and yelp, but hairs along her arms stood on end, reminding her just how terrified she had been by this man.
As he returned to pacing, Ariel stood patiently, waiting for him to break the ice. While neither paid Jasmine any attention, she let her mind drift to the metal washer found on the floor during their escort to the lounge. Even as she'd fetched it from the dingy carpet, she understood the metal would be soft, unable to save her from bullets. A
gainst this man, she was thankful to have any edge, regardless of the pain tearing through her body as her powers activated. She held steady as her skin mutated. A bit of confidence returned.
“What”—he spun about at her voice, growling—“the fuck do you want with us?”
The General stormed toward her, his face filled with rage like she had never witnessed. He had been the epitome of calm and collected, or at least that’s what she remembered. In the middle of thumping forward, he froze. Jasmine recognized the telltale drifting hair of Ariel’s abilities. It had been the first sign the woman was aware of either of them.
“She asked you a question,” Ariel said calmly.
“I should have her executed for going AWOL.”
“I can squeeze your heart until the blood slows in your body and you either go unconscious or into cardiac arrest. Either way, we leave this room.”
The General didn’t laugh, but Jasmine recognized the smug satisfaction on his face. “Or I signal for them to flood the room with gas.” He waved both of his hands in front of him, a bit of humanity returning to his expression. “Ariel…”
“Jonah,” she replied quietly. “Are you in there?”
Jasmine never heard a person speak his name aloud. As Ariel glided to the General, she reached out, her hand caressing his cheek. It was hard to believe this man was trembling as a middle-aged woman laid hands on his body. Jasmine couldn’t wipe away the memory of his voice whispering in her ear, threatening to sever her spine from her brain.
“What the fuck?” Jasmine lashed out. If she attempted to see him as a man, it’d rob her of the anger overriding her fear. “What the fuck do you want with us, Jonah?” Even as she said it, she feared he would reveal another method of setting off the explosive still wedged in her neck.
“Reports mentioned Children being smuggled across the border. I expected to find your friends, the teleporter and the lightning man. I don’t give two shits about the Children. Let them flee to Canada. I’ve been coordinating a war effort, setting up shop in the Dust Bowl as if it’s the North American Occupation. I figured you had something to do with that botched assassination attempt at the White House.”
“Botched?”
“You think I couldn't hear you about to trade Cecilia to that spoiled brat pack?”
Jasmine’s jaw opened, stretching as the reality set in. Somebody skillfully sent a large-caliber round through the side of the president’s head. A sniper, upward of two miles away, far beyond even Vanessa’s reach, had pulled the trigger. She knew plenty of snipers who could make the shot, but only one the General utilized for such high-profile missions.
“Murdock,” she whispered.
The General nodded. “President Joyce could not be allowed to live.”
“She was a puppet, you moron. We were never there to kill her. She wasn’t even on our radar. We were there to stop the Warden.”
“Davis.”
Ariel flinched. The General stopped his verbal assault, reaching out to take her hand. Jasmine knew almost nothing about Ariel’s past, but somewhere, before she turned freedom fighter, before he became the General, their paths crossed. The mention of the Warden’s first host body started to reveal pieces of a greater puzzle.
“You knew the Warden?”
Jasmine watched as Ariel dropped her head and turned away. The General, Jonah, stepped in between them. His chest puffed out, taller than her by nearly a foot. He gave a slight nod. “We both knew him. He’s—” he looked over his shoulder to the mentalist. “He’s her foster father.”
“Whoa,” Jasmine yelled. “Back up a moment, don’t you think it was worth mentioning your father tried to murder me? Us? All of us?”
Ariel’s feet hovered inches from the ground, a sign of distress, nerves, or anger. Jasmine feared which.
“No. Mark Davis, the man who raised me and helped me master my abilities, died in 1996. At a dinner table where his biological family gathered, along with myself and Arturo. His colleague at the research facility, Ivan Volkov, murdered him. You never met Mark. You may have talked to somebody wearing his flesh, but Mark died that day. All that remained in that husk of a body was Ivan.”
“Ivan’s a telepath,” Jasmine said. “He’s a Child too.”
“A Child?” Ariel sounded shocked.
“Sorry to tell you, but Conthan tore Mark’s heart out of his chest. He shot Ivan between the eyes. The real Ivan.”
“Cecilia knew about the experiments,” Jonah added. “She knew about Ivan the entire time. The woman was an enemy of the state. I feared she was in bed with Davis, collecting Children for an army.”
Ariel’s expression deepened. “President Joyce assigned Volkov to the Facility. She knew something. I never had enough evidence to decide if she was under his control or—”
“No, she knew. It was of her own free will. I assumed with Davis dead, everything was finally laid to rest.” Jonah turned to Ariel. He didn’t try to close the distance between them. “The day—” he pointed at Jasmine. “The day you went in to stop the escape and the guards stopped firing, it was him.”
Ariel rested a hand on Jonah’s shoulder. “Ivan Volkov is and has always been at the root of Eleanor Valentine’s predictions.”
“The psychic? What the hell does she have to do with this? Is this why she tried kill President Joyce.”
Jasmine laughed. The absurdity of it. The complex tapestry of their entire lives, each fiber snaking closer to one another. Eleanor tries to kill the president. Her letters bring together the Nighthawks. They lead Jasmine to Chicago, where she meets the only woman who knew the Warden before he created the prison. Now, standing in front of her former superior, she discovers he knew the Warden before he rose to power, and In fact paved the way for him to take over the country.
Jasmine had to laugh for fear of crying. “Ivan, the man who possessed her stepfather, the man who is currently possessing the president, he is the darkness Valentine warned us about.”
“How?” Jonah seemed perplexed. He was the first person Jasmine had met in quite some time who didn’t know about Eleanor’s determination to reach beyond the grave.
“Eleanor brought us together,” Jasmine said.
Ariel nodded in agreement. “She’s the reason Davis took the job.”
“Eleanor P. Valentine’s every action has been leading to this,” Jasmine said.
“To what?” Jonah asked, raising his eyebrow at his former Marine. His thunder, the anger he held tightly, seemed replaced with concern. The expression on his face wasn’t quite fear; he hadn’t displayed that emotion, even if he could. But there was a bit of worry.
“War.”
* * * * *
Dwayne stopped at the sight of the blood-soaked man. Streaks of blackened goo smeared his face, leaving little of his white skin shining through. The man moved with purpose, speedily closing the distance between them.
“Where—Oh God, the smell.”
The man slowed as he closed in. Dwayne buckled over, gasping for breath, exacerbating the problem. He held his hand beneath his nose, sparks passing between two fingers, the smell of burning ozone a delight in comparison to whatever muck wafted off the man.
“You’re Dwayne,” he said, stopping only a few feet away. He started to reach out his hand, but then yanked it back, keeping his arms close to his sides.
Dwayne lowered his own hand, concentrating on his nostrils. With some effort, bits of electricity pushed from one side of his nose to the other. Despite the need to sneeze, he preferred watering eyes over the smell drenching the room in its sick sweetness.
“I…” He decided to nod.
“I need to warn you, what he—” The blood along the man's cheeks flaked as he spoke. “What we saw, it’s not going to leave him soon.”
“What happened?”
He shook his head. “I need to see Ned and Azacca. Something is about to happen, something big. We’re going to need you. We’re going to need Conthan. Go be his rock.”
&n
bsp; “Who are you?”
“They call me Preacher.”
Dwayne waited for more information, but discovered Ned’s ability to withhold information was contagious. Even past the snap of lightning on , the smell of death started to push into his nostrils. Dwayne started to pass, but Preacher held up a hand.
“It’s the least I can do,” he said. Dwayne tried to hide his disgust as the man patted him on the shoulder. He left a stain of red and small red flecks of dried… He decided it was best to not think about it.
Preacher continued walking. The humans gathered along the narrow space held their noses, the sound of retching following his light trot down the hallway. Despite being painted by unmentionable fluids, Dwayne had a sense of the man, something stoic, perhaps even a bit wise. In seconds, he found himself attributing to Preacher the same feelings Vanessa conjured.
Perhaps he knew her in another life.
* * * * *
Water splashed out of pipes dangling from the ceiling, with small levers to turn the shower on and off. Instead of drains, a trough circled the open showers, a moat of water being carried off somewhere beyond the room. After living in an abandoned hotel and a house with no hot water, Dwayne found himself surprised at the steam.
Leaning against a cement pillar in the middle of the room, Conthan hid his face, letting the water rush down his back. Dwayne watched the black bits turn red as they washed down his body. Unlike the man Dwayne passed on the way to the shower, Conthan had more skin visible than grime. For some reason, that reassured Dwayne.
Dwayne took a seat on a rickety chair holding a towel, making sure his boots stayed clear of the water. Even from this distance, he could tell by the shaking of Conthan’s body that he was crying. Dwayne’s chest ached as he watched. All he wanted to do was wrap his arms around the younger man, assure him it would be alright.
He couldn’t find the words. With so much blood covering Conthan, words didn’t have the ability to fix the break.
Dwayne cursed his powers. He had the ability to hurl bolts of lightning from his chest, but he couldn’t… Dwayne held up his hand, staring at his fingers. By tightening his chest, he tensed the muscles in his arm. Nothing. It had been long enough since discharging, there should be a plethora of electricity at his call.