The Reformation

by Garggie Talukdar

  Stel noted that compared to the rest of them, the blonde was quite dressed up, though the gun fastened to the thin belt on her dress that didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the outfit, made Stel realize that whatever was going on, was real. Whoever these people were, no matter how smiley or pretty, they were still a threat to Stel.

  Fey rolled her eyes. “Just because you’re the big boss, doesn’t mean that you can be the only exasperated one.”

  “And 15 points to Downcley for wordplay!” announced Z, the same time Celine called out: “I’m not the big boss.”

  Agent Downcley—or Fey—rolled her eyes yet again. “5 minutes is all I need.”

  “Then you better tell Kurata-Tormont to hurry up. Or this is off,” Celine quickly gave Stel a somewhat apologetic half-smile. “Sorry about her.”

  Fey looked as if she was about to spew out a dozen insults, and Z looked amused but at the same time wondering if he should interfere. But it wasn’t his voice that rang out.

  “Girls, cut it.” Stel looked up, shocked by the sudden voice by her right side. It was Blond Guy, looking as bored as ever. But how did he get there? —Stel didn’t hear his footsteps.

  “God, January,” Z jumped at the sudden presence of Blond Guy—January—his hand on his chest. “Do you have to creep everywhere?”

  January ignored him, looking straight at Stel. “Let’s get to it, shall we? We’re The Strategists, working for King Jaxcon. And right now, His Majesty is in need of your services.”

  Stel blinked. What the actual hell did these people take her for? Why would the king choose her?

  “What? Why would he nee-”

  “Could you ask slightly more creative questions?”

  Stel scoffed at January’s disbelieving tone of voice. “Oh, sorry. Hold on Blondie,” cue clenched jaw from January and huge grin from Celine, “I got to get out my list of creative questions to ask when being kidnapped by—what even are you guys?”

  “I just explained what we are, literally a minute ago.”

  “Don’t tell me that you’re The Strategists. So? Who the hell are you? Some stalker wannabe database? With guns?” she added, giving a quick glance of the weapon in its holster on Fey’s belt, remembering the situation she was in earlier that day.

  “Stalkers-R-Us. Join, and get a complementary pack of 3 tape recordings, complete with a travel-sized gun,” Z quipped.

  Stel looked up at the girls desperately. “Please tell me he’s joking.”

  “Of course, he is. We come with a pamphlet too. Extra tape if you take the membership. Obviously,” Celine said, and Z smirked beside her.

  “The pamphlet is no joking matter, Hollingsworth,” he quipped, and Stel would have laughed if she wasn’t so genuinely concerned for her life.

  “Jokes are great and all, but would you please get to the point, and let me know why the hell I’m here with my wrists bound?”

  “Well, we’re working against the Immortales-” Fey started, but Stel didn’t wait to hear her out.

  “What?”

  Fey let out a little frustrated sigh. “The Immortales. You know, residing on Elix? Well, we had a spy in the palace, and now she’s dead.”

  “You mean Immortales are real?”

  “Yes. This spy was a direct communicator with the leader of the Immortales, General Kessia. So-”

  “Immortales exist?” Stel breathily asked again, not registering any of the information Fey was spewing back at her.

  “You really aren’t getting this are you?” Fey said, sounding confused. Stel shook her head, and Celine piped up from behind the brunette.

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll give you all the information about them, but they do exist. And they’re a constant threat to us. But if you listen to Fey, you’ll find just where you came in, in all of this.”

  “Thanks, Celine. We had a spy in our base, one reporting directly to General Kessia. Unfortunately, during confrontation, she killed herself. But we have this shot of sending in someone to impersonate her. Someone to infiltrate the documents of Elix, so we can gain some sort of advantage, seeing as Kessia knows every bit of the files of Earth. And we found that you’re a dead ringer for the spy,” Fey said coolly.

  “Whoa,” Stel breathed. “Hold on—did you just-?”

  “Yeah. We need you to be our Arleyene Crawford.”

  “You’re insane! I’ll be killed! From all the rumours of what the Immortales are… I can’t go there and be one of them! That is of course, assuming you guys are telling the truths and aren’t some high-end privileged people experimenting with drugs to try and get a kick out of life,” Stel sputtered, chest heaving as she tried to process all this information. Stel Hathaway was equipped to handle many situations. This, was not one of them.

  “Pretend to be one of them,” Fey corrected. “I know your life is at stake, and I know just how much we can lose. I would go myself if I could get through. I can’t. I tried, but now you’re our only hope,” she reasoned.

  “And we most definitely are not privileged,” Blond-Guy snarled from beside her, his words holding enough bite to make Stel question what past was behind those words and make Stel know that she shouldn’t ask.

  Deciding to go with the benefit of the doubt (she was tied up; there weren’t many options) “Where’s the king, if this is his project?”

  Fey winced, “Little problem with that. Jax doesn’t know that we’re doing this.”

  “So why the hell would I?” Stel’s voice was almost a yell, and she saw the liquid brown of Fey’s eyes harden into an armour that Stel knew that the older girl spent time on building.

  “Look, I can apologize and offer you a reward at the end of this. And you will get a reward, or whatever the hell you want, by the end of this.” The image of Fallon lit up in Stel’s mind, but she kept her mouth shut. She was sensing a but, coming her way. “But you have to get that we mean business.”

  “Fey-” Z said, but Fey raised her hand.

  “Don’t, Z.”

  “What’s happening?” Stel asked, her voice much meeker than what she intended to come out of her mouth. She was looking desperately between Jan and Fey and Celine and Z. They were all sharing a look that she didn’t like. “What?”

  “Well, we’ve given you extremely classified information, Miss Hathaway,” Fey started, and Stel decided that whenever Fey spoke, it usually meant bad news for the tied-up girl herself. “You can’t go telling people such serious news every day, so in order to maintain the highest form of secrecy, I have to offer you two options. One, you can accept and sign a full disclosure agreement under the punishment of death, or you can walk away, under the condition that your memory gets erased.”

  “What?” Stel felt the words release from her lips with a surprising amount of exclamation.

  January, who Stel didn’t even notice go, came back into the room, rolling in a machine that was causing a sinking feeling in Stel’s gut. He gave it a shove, which Stel noted would take more strength than it looked that Jan possessed, hurdling the machine towards Stel.

  “It’s simple. You either agree, or you go into this machine that will erase all of your memory.”

  “But I have a sister! She can’t take care of herself on her own.”

  “Well, that’s a shame isn’t it? Orphans are constantly living out there by themselves anyway. What makes her so special, huh?” Fey asked, chin raised defiantly. Stel noticed that something shifted in Jan’s face; for a second he lost grip on his stone-cold façade, and for a second, something warm flicked across his features.

  “She’s suffering from Scorchen.”

  Z paled. Celine’s eyes widened. Fey’s façade slipped. January was looking at Stel incredulously. “What?” the cold blond asked, grey eyes narrowed.

  “I checked this morning, no signs of it on me,” she hurriedly explained, realizing that this information could get her killed. If she was suffering from Scorchen, or was a carrier, then she could kill them.

  It was Z, thi
s time, who spoke up. “How long has your sister had it?”

  “A year, at most.”

  Z ran his hand through his curly hair, cursing.

  “But I said I’m showing no immediate signs,” she protested.

  “No immediate signs. Symptoms could take days, weeks, to manifest. You might have grown some sort of immunity, but we can’t risk you being a carrier. Celine, get out,” Z barked out.

  “No! Are you kidding me? I’m fine Z, I can stay-” Suddenly, Celine dropped to her knees, coughs racking her body, collapsing in on itself. She was wheezing and sputtering, dark red splattering the ground beneath her.

  Stel had seen this before. Apparently, the others had not, as all of their mouths were open.

  Slowly, Celine managed to get to her feet, pushing off any offered help from Z or Fey. Shaking, she looked at January, eyes ablaze, tears threatening to spill over. Whether they were of sadness or anger, Stel didn’t know.

  Even with her limited view, tied to a chair, Stel could follow January’s gaze to the right elbow of Celine’s shirt, the material stained crimson. “You won’t replace me, January. I’d rather die,” Celine spat, then turning on her heel sharply, left. January just stared at where the blonde used to be.

  “What the hell just happened?” Stel almost yelled, scared and shocked and just wanting to snap her captors out of their daze.

  “I don’t know,” was Z’s quiet reply.

  “Jax knew,” Jan stated, with equally as quiet of a tone. Stel inferred that Jax was King Jaxcon, but she still had no idea what was going on.

  “Why did she just cough up blood?” Stel asked, panicking at the situation she was in. “That’s a symptom of Scorchen, isn’t it?”

  “Z! You said she was cured,” Fey said, mouth ajar, staring at the crimson on the marble tile.

  “And she is. She’s- I don’t know. Just continue this, okay? We’ll get everything else sorted out soon enough.” And with another shake of his head, Z turned away, not daring to look at the blood or Stel as she made her decision.

  Decision. Stel stopped thinking about Celine for a moment, just to realize what choice she was facing. Lose all memory or put herself in a suicide mission. Both ways would get her killed. Both ways would strip Fallon of her only remaining family, and Stel couldn’t do that. Hold out for a little longer, Hathaway. You’re strong. You can do this. Stel gave another glance towards the crimson on the floor—just like the stains at home—and fought back a growing lump in her throat, trying for a confident smile.

  “What kind of reward are we talking about here?”

  Forty-Four

  “LET him bleed,” she snarled, her retreating boots the last thing he saw before the metal door clanged shut behind her.

  He stiffly rotated his head, groaning in pain. How did King Jaxcon Gallagher get into such a deep mess?

  Jax had no idea where he was, or what he did to get himself into this predicament. He was just going to the board meeting when his car got turned over and- Paris Avelapoulos.

  Emitting another groan, Jax pulled himself towards the wall that wasn’t too far from reach, propping himself against it. Liquid pain coursed through his veins, throbbing throughout his beaten body, blood running from the cuts biting raggedly down the delicate skin of his forearm. He coughed, the musty air muggy and thick, clogging his trachea. His eyes darted down to his forearm, and he bit back a wince at the ragged skin. Killer King. The words were cut into his skin, blood bubbling on the jagged edges of the letters, glaring accusingly up at him.

  Killer King.

  Slowly, adrenaline was replaced by pure pain, and Jax felt the searing agony throb throughout his sore body. His lips were dry and cracked, and he suspected, split; but he couldn’t even wet his lips, because his mouth was completely parched. His eye was likely a flattering shade of black and blue from a mean hook from one of the rebel’s left fist. But overall, it was the exhaustion that was slowing his every movement.

  Paris Avelapoulos. Jax let out a crackled chuckle, almost inaudible. As they all took turns using his as their personal punching bag, Jax didn't register much else other than blinding agony, but he had caught enough words to make sense of what was happening. They were all enraged at his treatment of the Razed, how inattentive he was to it all. When in reality, they were the only reasons that Jax couldn't have been at a meeting during which Jax could have completely changed the Razed; a meeting that could have spurred a new age on NNR. Paris Avelapoulos.

  The past always came back to bite Jax in the ass.

  The door flung again, and Jax contemplated hitting his head against the wall behind him hard enough to knock himself out. Maybe then, they wouldn't do anything; after all, what fun was an unconscious king? —you couldn't hear his screams of pain then.

  But Jax didn't have much time to do anything as the latch opened, metal clanging as the door groaned open. “Please, don’t-”

  “Pulverize your brains after cracking open your skull?” Jax’s eyes flew open. Although the girl’s voice was similar to Paris’—even though it had the same accent—it wasn’t. Which meant that he maybe had a chance. “We’ll see rígas. First, we’ll have a chat.”

  Eyes coming into focus, Jax saw that the girl was close to his age, maybe a little younger. She had high cheekbones, and an angular face, dark hair, and eyes that remarkably resembled Paris’. Except while Paris’ eyes were merciless, hers were weary, though she didn’t look any more forgiving than any of the other rebels Jax had encountered over the past however-long-he-had-been-kept-here.

  “Water,” he rasped out before his pride could stop him.

  She looked darkly at him, eyebrows arched, but she slung the small flask that was over her shoulder off, offering it to Jax, crouched so she was at his level.

  Jax knew that he could take her out with one well-positioned hit, but he also knew that he was in no shape to fight. If something were to go wrong, he was likely to end up back against the wall, cursing his stars, with even more injuries. “Not much, but it’s not like you should drink much right now either. You might throw up if you did.”

  “Why are you helping me?” Jax asked, taking the flask, grimacing as he worked open the tightly sealed container holding his treasure of blue gold.

  “Whoever said I was?” she asked back, standing again, brandishing a small knife. “Maybe I’m here to finish the job.”

  “Judging from the condition of this place,” Jax started, taking a small sip of water, and fighting back a sigh as he felt a trickle of the liquid against the back of his throat, “I would say that you wouldn’t be giving drinkable water, no matter how little, to prisoners you were about to kill. So I say that you are here to help me.”

  “The king of the world is smarter than he lets on.”

  Jax ignored that comment temporarily, instead pushing the flask further and further, until he was absolutely sure there was not a drop left inside. “The king of the world has lived past a week of coronation,” he finally said. “That should say something about intelligence. You’re related to Paris.”

  While the sentence could be a question, it was said with the finality of a fact. Jax knew she was related to Paris; whether it was through observations or pure instinct. Either way, the girl’s eyebrows skyrocketed.

  “Athen Avelapoulos,” she introduced herself, taking a few steps back, holding her knife out. “I’m Paris’ younger sister. How did you know?”

  “Similar visages. And I really didn’t—shots in the dark are kind of my specialty,” Athen didn’t make a move to step any closer, though she lowered the knife slightly. “So, Athen-”

  “Athe.”

  “Athe,” Jax conceded. “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you helping me?”

  That was, of course, assuming that she was here to help him, but Jax figured he honestly didn’t have much to lose.

  “Stand,” she ordered, and Jax wearily did, wincing at the action. He really just wanted to collapse and sleep, but Athe didn’t seem like
someone who would appreciate the gesture, so he sucked up his pain and glared at her. “Turn.”

  He made no move to do so.

  “You know, for someone getting help with their only chance of escape, you certainly make it hard for someone to help.”

  “Someone being the younger sister of a rebel leader who had previously attempted my life and just tortured me, is armed, and whose intentions I do not know,” Jax corrected, not backing down.

  “You aren’t getting a weapon. And if you want me to help, then you will have to let me blindfold you and bind you. You’ll have to appear to be my prisoner.”

  “And I’m supposed to trust you?” Jax asked.

  “Whether you trust me or not, is up to you. But whether you want to live or not—that’s something that can only be decided if you come with me or remain in this cell until you bleed out.”

  Jax turned, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’ll have to bind those too,” Athe reminded him as a rough cloth was placed over his head.

  Jax quickly moved his hands around, and after confirming that he had the pocketknife he always kept with him deep in his lining of his pockets, he drew his hands out and turned so Athe could tie them. “I want my hands in front of me.”

  “No negotiations,” Athe snarled, but Jax didn’t budge. While Athe could be right about anything else being non-negotiable if he wanted the slightest chance of survival, where his hands were bound would make absolutely no difference to her or her people. It was just her stubbornness and unwillingness to let Jax have his way, that needed Jax to have his hands behind his back. But it was those exact same things in Jax that made him stand stoically in front of her.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” he reminded her, with more cheek than anyone in his position had the right to be using.

  “Really?” Athe asked bitingly, tightly binding his wrists in front of his body.

  “Really,” he snarled back, never feeling as aggressive as he did in that moment.

  “Funny, seeing as I’m the one with a blade to your throat,” she hissed in his ear, turning him around to dig a knife into his throat, dragging a thin line of blood. He swallowed, the slight twinge of pain at the newly inflicted injury doing nothing to distract him through the agony that his body was already facing.