“Would that be so bad?” Loken asked, giving a platform to his inner voice.
For the first time, Jeremy looked sincerely baffled. “Yeah. It would be, and I can name plenty of people that would agree with me. Danika, Ian, Eloy—”
Loken cut him off. “So, I should want to live because others want me to live?”
“That’s not what I meant, but it’s always good to remember those that value us.”
A snort escaped before Loken could stop it. “I’ve known you all for a few mere months.”
“A few months doesn't have the same meaning to you, is what you’re saying? Well, even if you really are nine hundred, for humans, a lot can happen in a few months.”
Yes. A lot had happened, hadn’t it? Humans fluttered about in a hurry, whether it was because they were so short-lived or because it was hard-wired into them Loken couldn’t say. He toyed with Jeremy’s words that he had nothing left to lose. Yes, I do. Access to sanctuary. If they cast him out, if he had to start over again, could he? Loken didn't think he had the will left within him.
“Why? Why do you care?” Loken couldn't understand it, so it had to be a trick. Some manipulation, some game.
Jeremy didn't look offended. “Honestly? Ian. I've been friends with him for years, and I've never seen him more distraught than when you went missing. And, mind you, I knew him before the accident.” Jeremy smiled. “He couldn't stop telling me how you helped him improve his leg, how you enchanted his audio system to play What's New Pussycats until he finally caved and got some sleep, and how you glued googly eyes to his kitchen appliances.”
Fleeting humor sparked in his chest at the memory. Loken had almost forgotten the mischief he'd managed while bored in Nolan’s home. “Some of them talk,” he mumbled, satisfied with the explanation. “It seemed appropriate.”
Jeremy let his unnecessary self-defense go uncommented on. “Like I said before, Ian isn't the only one rooting for you.”
Perhaps, Loken thought. But will they be once they know everything?
The uncertainty he'd been shouldering for years—multiplied when he'd discovered his heritage—had become increasingly more difficult to bear. Loken was out ideas, out of options. Was trying Jeremy’s suggestion really more awful than death? No, it wasn't, but he was tired of trying.
(Give up. It's what you're best at. No one needs you.)
Unable to shoulder the uncertainty any longer, he said, “I’ll tell my story but once.” And when you all decide you’re done harboring a monster, I know not where I’ll go. “Gather those that would like to hear it.”
Jeremy nodded. “Let me check you over first. Alright?”
Loken conceded (or, rather, he didn't verbalize a denial) and watched as Jeremy unwrapped his arms. They looked little better than he remembered, and was that string knitting his flesh together? How barbaric.
“They’re healing slowly,” Jeremy noted. “I take it that’ll change with your magic returned?”
“Once it’s recharged, yes.”
After cleaning and rewrapping Loken’s arms, Jeremy checked his head and jaw (which ached worse than it had before). “Everything is healing well, but I would still suggest a mild painkiller.”
Loken tensed, distrust whispering through his mind. “Is that what you've dosed me with?”
“We've been giving you a mild sedative and a painkiller. I think we can stop the sedative, but how is your pain level?”
“I don't need it, and I certainly don't recall consenting to be a test subject,” he said heatedly. “Couldn't help yourself, could you? For all your talk of ‘humane treatment,’ I'm not human, hm?”
Jeremy’s patience was flawless. “When someone tries to commit suicide, and the authorities get involved, they're committed voluntarily or involuntarily to a mental facility equipped to help them. We can't do that in this instance, but we’re doing what we can to be fair to you.”
As if to prove his point, he pulled keys from his pocket and walked over to unlock the cuffs around Loken’s wrists.
His heart hammered—wrestling with the idea of overpowering Jeremy and liberating the keys. He could escape. He could—
What was the point? His survival instincts screamed at him to seek freedom, but why would he when he had nowhere to go? If he wanted to, he could restart, but he didn't.
Jeremy stood up, seemingly unaware of the danger he'd nearly been in. “I know this is difficult, but I need to ask you one more question: do you still feel you might be better off dead?”
‘No’ was the right answer because it was his ticket out of the restraints and out of the small, barren room. Loken had promised honesty, but no one would know if he lied. He toyed with what to say until he finally said, “No. I think everyone and I would be better off.” Because if they wanted the truth, they could have the complete, appalling truth.
It didn’t invoke the reaction Loken was expecting. Jeremy only nodded. “Thank you for your honest. Can I get you something to eat?”
“Pass,” Loken sneered. He was in no mood to eat. Not with his stomach twisting itself to knots.
With a sigh, Jeremy headed to the door with his bag. “I’ll let everyone know you want to talk to us, but try to rest for now.”
Alone without any idea of how long it would take to gather everyone, the waiting game began. Exhausted though he was, he was too anxious to sleep. Regret boiled inside of his gut. Why had he told Jeremy those things? Giving voice to his internal affliction had been a mistake, and now that he had time to reflect, he wished he’d remained silent.
The door opened, and he tensed.
Raaum slipped inside, very much alone. Her clothes were casual, compared to her usual attire. That, combined with how quickly she’d arrived, had him surmising that she had already been on site. Why? Didn’t she have work? When he finally glanced away from her carefully crafted neutrality, he saw she was carrying a smoothie...and a Jell-O cup.
‘I’m not hungry’ was on the tip of his tongue, but he found he was less willing to argue with Raaum than the others. Perhaps that’s why she’d personally undertaken the mission.
After expressing his opinion by casting his eyes to the ceiling, he accepted the smoothie with a green hand that still looked foreign. The reminder made his skin crawl with disgust and anticipation. Wasn't she going to ask about his appearance now that he could answer?
Grasping the glass hurt more than anticipated, but he didn’t let his pain show. It seemed ridiculous to gripe about wounds he’d inflicted upon himself. Despite the unease in his stomach, he sipped the smoothie, recognizing Danika’s handiwork. She loved putting bananas in every smoothie she made, and once she discovered his love for strawberries, she’d introduced him to the combination.
The memory of better days, seemingly so far away, and the anxiety of being stared at made the smoothie harder to swallow. Hoping to distract Raaum from his losing battle with his appetite, he tossed out an inquiry. “Was it you that discovered my name?”
Raaum didn't appear to be in the conversing mood. The look she gave him was almost hostile. “Yeah, and I'm sure you already figured out where I overheard it.”
He had, and that mission seemed so long ago. “Then, why indulge my alias?”
“I think the better question is why have an alias at all? The only answer is that you're running from someone, but why would you expect to be recognized on Earth?”
In retrospect, Loken realized the name change had been a chance to reinvent himself. Crafting a new identity started with a new name, and Lyall Locke was a far cry from Lailoken of Rellaeria. Lyall had been prone to honesty and heroic deeds, a dedicated member of ALPHA and a decent friend. Lailoken had been none of those things.
Loken didn't answer and blatantly changed the direction of their conversation. “Now that you know my name, why not tell me yours?”
Raaum tilted her head and cocked a brow. “You mean you haven't hacked my file to get it? That's surprising.” Then, as if it mattered nothing to her, s
he said, “My birth certificate says Remyah Raaum, but most of ALPHA knows me as Regalia.”
The longer she stared, the more he wanted to hide his green and blue form, as if the damage could be undone. “An alias?” he asked.
“A codename, I guess you could say.”
Though he wondered how that had come about, he was too distracted to inquire, having reached the threshold for his anxiety. Where they both going to pretend not to notice the obvious?
He couldn't take it anymore. “Aren't you going to ask me about…?” He trailed off, unable to speak it, but his quick glance at his scale-coated skin likely gave her a clue.
“I take it this has something to do with what you want to tell us all.”
Again, he couldn't speak, so he nodded.
Raaum gave him an unexpectedly soft look. “You don't have to, you know. It's your business. We already knew you were an extraterrestrial. Having scales, feathers, or gills doesn't change a thing. You're still you.”
Didn't matter? Of course it mattered! At least, it did to him. Was that so wrong?
Raaum reached out to take the smoothie he'd barely consumed, and placed the Jello-O cup near him. “It’ll be awhile until everyone can get here. Sleep and eat that when you wake up.”
When he tried to speak, she cut him off.
“Loken, I’ve seen your appetite. You can handle one Jell-O cup.”
“Mmm. Are you calling me fat?” The jest slipped out, the defense mechanism so easy to fall back on.
Raaum didn’t look impressed.
“I don’t suppose I can have my tablet back? I doubt I’ll be getting much sleep.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got the good stuff.” She pulled a syringe from her pocket. “Jeremy said you—”
Her voice trailed off, getting further and further away when his eyes locked onto the syringe. He could still feel it—the needle in his neck as Maganti’s man pumped him full of a sedative so powerful he’d lost consciousness within seconds.
Raaum noticed his reaction and pocketed the syringe. “Loken?”
A chill of anxiety swept through him, as if someone had poured ice water over his head. He couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe? He was trembling and too engrossed in terror to be mortified.
Raaum was speaking, first to him, and then she was shouting at the door. It opened, and Jeremy entered. Nolan and Danika lingered in the threshold.
Too many.
There were too many eyes upon him. He couldn’t remember why he didn’t want to be stared at, but he didn’t.
Shrinking back into the bed didn’t help. The healer kept approaching, bag in hand. Loken’s arms hurt, muscles weak from underuse, but he lashed out. The healer stumbled back, but before Loken could continue, arms wrestled him to the bed. If he hadn’t been weakened, if his magic had been at full strength, he’d be free. He could run, he could escape from the prying eyes and the suffocating walls.
Someone must have attached weights to his eyelids because he couldn’t hold them open any longer. His muscles went slack mid thought, and he slept.
White hot agony ripped through him. He tried to scream, but his jaw was wired shut. Clenching his fists, his knuckles brushed the cold, familiar metal of the table he was bolted to.
Lestat’s voice, mocking and constant, grew closer...but when he came into view, Loken saw it was not Lestat above him. It was Sanjay, frowning down at him if he were a stranger.
‘Help me!’ he wanted to scream.
Sanjay only stared, expression curling with disgust. “No. That is not my brother. My brother is not a monster.”
He turned away, abandoning Loken to his fate at the hands of a madman.
Lestat caressed his head, deceivingly gentle, and then plunged a knife into his stomach.
Loken jerked awake, still writhing from the knife in his memory. Or had it been a nightmare? Yes. A nightmare. Sanjay hadn't been there. Had he?
His sharp movements tugged against the restraints around his wrists, which had apparently been restored. Despite that, he felt…at peace. Not a single ache or pain or worry afflicted him.
Opening both eyes was too difficult, so he squinted around the room with one. A bag hung from a metal pole near the bed, and when he followed the tube from the bag, he found it went into his arm.
They were drugging him.
Loken was certain he would have been outraged if it hadn't felt so lovely. Be offended later, his mind suggested. Taking that wonderful advice to heart, he closed his eyes and slept.
The sounds of tinkering roused him, but it was too difficult to open his eyes.
“...Isn’t waking.”
“...Adjusted the dosage. He’ll...”
Why weren’t they speaking in complete sentences?
Why was he drifting in and out? Every time he almost grasped consciousness, it slipped through his fingers, so he stopped trying.
“Hour ago. ...soon. If not...lower the dose again.”
The healer. Loken could recognize the healer’s voice now, even through the fog obscuring his mind. The effects felt milder than before.
Though he tried to wake, tried to listen to the conversation, he drifted...until, finally, he didn't.
A tired hum escaped his throat as he struggled to open his eyes.
“Lailoken?”
He didn’t recognize the voice that prodded him, and a rush of anxiety coursed through him. His eyes snapped open, and a stranger came into view. Tension coiled his muscles, making him clench his hands into fists. He’d intended to test his restraints, to see how he might escape this unknown man, but seeing Jeremy standing beside him gave Loken pause.
Shorter than average, the man’s most striking appearance was his dark complexion. His skin was like the color of earth after a downpour, but it was his eyes that truly caught Loken’s attention. Not their cypress color but the unsettling, guileless warmth deep within them. A penetrating gaze matched with a small smile. Silver hair and stubble gave Loken an indication that he must be well-aged, but he didn’t appear elderly.
“Lailoken? My name is Dr. Harvey Partridge. I’m a licensed psychologist, and I’ve been asked here today by a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Nolan.”
Nolan had called in a mindhealer, and either Harvey Partridge had come in a hurry or he simply didn’t believe in formal attire. Danika would refer to his raiment as ‘business casual.’
Jeremy fiddled with the IV bag before offering a reassuring smile. “Dr. Partridge wanted to speak with you before you see anyone else.” When Loken only stared back at him, Jeremy said, “I’ll leave you both to it,” and departed.
That left Loken with only one target for his rage.
To his credit, the mindhealer didn’t seem perturbed. “Shall we start?” Dr. Partridge took a seat in a chair near the head of the bed, hands clasped on his lap. “Doctor Valdes told me that you—”
“Oh?” Loken snarled, interrupting him. “What of the fabled doctor-patient confidentiality?”
Dr. Partridge waited, exuding patience. “There is an ethical responsibility to report patients that are a danger to themselves or others. It was of his opinion you fit that description. I'm here to assess how true that is and to help you to the best of my ability.”
Loken laughed, near hysteria. He laughed at the absurdity of it all; he laughed because if he didn't, he was certain he'd break. Or was it too late? “Help me? You don't know me!” he said incredulously.
Dr. Partridge tilted his head. “I don't need to know you in order to want to help you.”
Loken scoffed, making clear his opinion on that. “Ridiculous.”
“Can you tell me why you feel that way?”
As far as questions went, it was fairly simple. Not personal. “Because no one helps someone just because they can. There's always motivations, always something they want.”
“Hm.” Dr. Partridge made a thoughtful sound. “True. Most actions have a motivation behind them, but not every motivation is self-serving or manipulative. Ofte
n times people give to the less fortunate for the reward of knowing they’re helping someone in need.”
“More often their motivations are selfish,” Loken sneered. “If Nolan has called in a mindhealer, it’s only because he needs something from me.” The inventor needed Loken to improve his technology, to understand teleportation. It made perfect sense. Why waste such an asset?
“Has this been your experience in the past?”
“With Nolan?” he asked quizzically, brows furrowed.
“With anyone.”
Loken bristled, realizing he’d walked into a trap. Partridge was trying to make him comfortable to get him to talk. Well, it wouldn’t work. Tugging at the restraints on his wrists, he carefully growled. “No. I’ve lived a blissfully mundane life, free of negativity. I haven’t the faintest idea why Nolan called you here, but as you can see, I am not mad. I do not need a mindhealer.”
“Mindhealer. That’s your term for a psychologist? A therapist?”
It dawned on Loken that he was not in his Evoir skin. There was no way Partridge could mistake him for anything other than what he was, yet he acted as if Loken were nothing more than an ordinary human.
When Loken didn’t answer, Partridge asked, “Can you tell me how old you are?”
Brows knitted, Loken asked, “Why?”
“It will help me get a better understanding of you.”
Loken doubted it but answered honestly, just to see the inevitable shock. “Nine hundred forty three Earth years. Roughly.”
No shock came. “And what is the average lifespan of your kind?”
I have no fucking clue, he wanted to say. Instead, he tried to recall if he'd ever learned it in his studies. It was comparable to the Evoir, wasn't it? Deciding it was best to go with what he knew, he gave the Evoir average. “Roughly five thousand years, give or take a century or two. Though, many have lived to six thousand.”
Partridge looked thoughtful. “Humans live an average of eighty, give or take. There are those that live to a hundred.”
Loken knew that much. “Not much of an improvement really,” he said with as much contempt as he could muster. As if humans were as trivial as their lives were short.
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